The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  “Sure there is,” Peggy said. “I buy lottery tickets. My plan is to win big and buy me a good man.”

  Peggy’s sad laughter followed Helen all the way to her apartment. As she passed her neighbor Phil’s door, she was surrounded by a thick sinsemilla smog. The invisible pothead was burning some fine weed tonight.

  Lucky Phil, she thought. He could fire up his dreams whenever he wanted.

  Chapter 11

  Margery never said “I told you so.” Helen’s landlady simply turned up at her door Sunday afternoon with a plate of fudge.

  “Here,” she said. “Chocolate cures almost everything.”

  “Even stupidity?” Helen said. She bit into a thick dark square. It was bitter chocolate. “Mmmm. My favorite.”

  Margery’s violet shorts were the color of the evening sky. Her red toenail polish was a tropical sunset. Her kind, shrewd old eyes seemed to see straight into Helen.

  “Welcome to South Florida, land of deadbeats, drunks, and druggies,” Margery said, helping herself to a piece of fudge. “Most of the single men down here are some other woman’s mistake. The trick is not to make them your mistake.”

  “I should have listened to you,” Helen said. “I didn’t believe anyone could be so cheap. Cal stole the waitress’s tip. That’s disgusting.”

  “Canadians are stingy tippers. You’ve heard the local joke: What’s the difference between a canoe and a Canadian?”

  Helen shook her head.

  “A canoe tips,” Margery said.

  Helen tried to laugh but she couldn’t. Nothing seemed funny right now.

  Margery turned serious. “You’re a nice person, Helen. I worry about you. This isn’t the Midwest. In South Florida, everyone is running from somebody or something: bad weather, bad debts, a bad life, a bad spouse. Or they’ve done something bad.

  “Nobody has roots here. In the Midwest, if you don’t know a guy, you can make a few phone calls and find out about him. Down here, women hire private detectives to do background checks. Too often, they find out they are about to marry a deadbeat dad, a bisexual, or a man in trouble with the law. I know you’re running from something, too. I suspect some man hurt you. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

  “The Midwest doesn’t have a lock on morality,” Helen said, thinking of her ex.

  “I know,” Margery said, reaching for more fudge. “But there you can find out about the bad operators a little sooner.”

  I didn’t, Helen thought. She changed the subject abruptly. “What can you tell me about my next door neighbor, Phil the invisible pothead?”

  “He’s not invisible,” Margery said. “I see him all the time.”

  “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him,” Helen said.

  “Well, he’s the last of the real hippies. He’s a little older than you. Has a long gray ponytail and interesting T-shirts. Always pays his rent on time. He’s a real Eric Clapton fan.”

  “He is? I never hear any music,” Helen said.

  “He uses headphones. Phil is very considerate. But he’s not a good man for you, dear. And while we’re on the subject of men, no one from St. Louis has been asking for you. I would call you at work if anyone came snooping around. I keep an eye on your place.”

  Helen had confided to Margery only that she was afraid of her ex-husband, who might come looking for her. She didn’t say why. Helen did not mention the court.

  “Thank you. And thanks for the chocolate,” Helen said. “It’s just what I needed. I’ll bring your plate back tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry about Cal,” Margery said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you.”

  Kindness and chocolate helped Helen get over her bad date. But there was no cure for her unquiet conscience. Desiree, the bride in the body bag, tormented her all night.

  On Monday, she went back to where Desiree’s death had been plotted. What if Niki came in? What would Helen say to her? She dreaded her first day in charge, but Juliana’s ran smoothly. Only regulars stopped by, so Helen did not have to worry about barring anyone from walking though the green door.

  On her lunch hour, she found a good job prospect. Helen talked with the manager and made an appointment for an interview with the store owner after work. She left Juliana’s that evening excited and hopeful.

  She was interviewing for a sales associate’s job at a Las Olas shop two blocks west of Juliana’s. Helen liked everything about it. Pam Marshall, the owner, was a stylish woman in her early fifties, with laugh lines and eye crinkles. She was easy with her age and herself.

  Pam’s store sold clothes Helen would wear, if she could afford them. Helen saw actual size twelves, even fourteens and sixteens. She liked that, too. She liked sitting in Pam’s comfortably cluttered office, drinking fresh coffee with her. She liked the pay best of all: seven fifty an hour. Already, Helen was calculating what she would do with the extra money.

  “So when can you start?” Pam asked, taking another sip of her sugar-laced coffee.

  Yes! Helen thought, I’ve got it. “I’d have to give my current employer two weeks’ notice.”

  “Good,” Pam said. “I like employees who play fair.”

  “And—” Helen hesitated, searching for the right words. “I have to be paid in cash only. I don’t want to be on the books.”

  “What about your FICA and taxes?” Pam said.

  “If I don’t exist, then you don’t have to worry about them,” Helen said.

  Pam leaned forward and looked Helen in the eye. “I’m supposed to cheat the government so you can have a few extra bucks a week? I’m not a chiseler, Helen. I’m a business woman. And I’m surprised at you.”

  Pam put her coffee cup down and stood up. The interview was over. Helen slunk away, scalded with shame. This is what she’d become, a petty cheat. Just like her ex.

  She headed for her apartment at the Coronado like a wounded animal crawling to its cave. Once inside, she had to get out. The room seemed too small to contain her misery.

  If she went out by the pool, she might run into Cal. So what? she decided. If she couldn’t face herself, she could at least face a tip-swiper. Cal was not going to keep her away from her favorite place. Helen put on some shorts, squared her shoulders, and marched out, taking her newspaper with her. She could always hide behind the job ads if things got sticky with Cal.

  Margery had kept her word. Peggy and Pete were by the pool, but Cal did not come out that evening. He stayed in his apartment and cooked up bushels of broccoli and brussels sprouts. Cal not only came from the English-speaking part of Canada, but the English-cooking part. He loved overcooked vegetables.

  “After all, they are cheap,” Peggy reminded Helen.

  “And obnoxious,” Helen said.

  The stink of boiled broccoli nearly overpowered Phil’s pot smoke. Maybe Cal would become as invisible as Phil. Helen suspected he was avoiding her deliberately. She thought Cal would hide inside and live on broccoli until he turned green to avoid paying for their Catfish Dewey’s dinner.

  Helen picked up her paper and studied the want ads. Marine biologist. Meat cutter. Mechanic. More skills she didn’t have.

  “So how is the job search going?” Peggy asked.

  “It’s not,” Helen said.

  “You’re too picky,” Peggy said. “I can find you two high-paying jobs in no time. Give me those ads.”

  She took the paper from Helen and started reading. Pete sat on her shoulder and studied the ads, too. Or maybe he wondered why someone was holding his cage liner. Either way, the quizzical green bird made Helen laugh.

  “Here’s one,” Peggy said. “ ‘Dancer/escort—Twelve hundred dollars a day. Cash guaranteed. Easy entertainment. ’ Can you dance?”

  “Me? My family’s German. Unless it’s a tune with a tuba in it, I can’t dance.”

  “Hawthorne is German?” Peggy said.

  That was a stupid slip, Helen thought. “No, Hawthorne is my married name,” she lied. To distract Peggy she said, “What�
�s the other job choice?”

  “Wrestling. The ad says, ‘We need athletic females of all types and sizes. Earn one hundred dollars an hour. No experience necessary.’ ”

  Helen pretended to consider the ad. “Where would I wrestle at?”

  “The big question is what you would wrestle in.”

  “In?” Helen echoed.

  “Want-ad wrestling is generally done in something: JellO, mud, Karo syrup. For some reason, the guys at the clubs get off on that. They also get to spray you with whipped cream, but that’s extra.

  “Of course this wrestling gig could be porn. Then you’d be wrestling in something else—a dirty movie.”

  “For a hundred bucks an hour? And no residuals?” Helen said.

  “Hmm,” Peggy said. “Wrestling could be hard on your back. How’s your health insurance?”

  “Don’t have any,” Helen said, happy to tell the truth for once.

  “Then you need to buy some lottery tickets,” Peggy said, and was back on her favorite subject. “The lottery is up to forty-two million. I’ve got a new system for winning. I’ve read the interviews. The big winners use family birthdays for their numbers. Those numbers must be lucky. I’m using my mother’s birthday and Pete’s.”

  “Awwwk!” Pete said.

  “Do you think parrot birthdays count the same as human ones?” Helen said.

  “Pete’s family. He’s closer to me than anyone.”

  There was a flash of purple, and Margery the landlady charged past the bougainvillea, frightening Pete into a squawking fit that everyone ignored. Helen had never seen her so brilliantly dressed. Margery’s evening shorts were deep orchid, her toenails tangerine, and she was wearing purple sandals that ended in big bows at her slender ankles. Helen wished she had the courage to wear shoes like that.

  Margery sat down in the chaise longue next to Helen. “Wait till you see who’s moving into 2C, girls,” she said. “Have I got a treat for you.”

  “Who?” Helen and Peggy said, sounding like a pair of owls.

  With that, the jungle of poolside palms parted, and out stepped Tarzan in gym shorts. Helen expected him to uproot the palms with his bare hands.

  Long black hair tumbled past his tanned shoulders. His high Slavic cheekbones gave an interesting slant to his cobalt blue eyes. He was six feet tall and strong, but without the gnarled gym muscles Helen hated. This manly vision was wearing the smallest pair of red shorts the law allowed, with an interesting bulge in front.

  “He looks like Fabio,” Peggy whispered. “Only better.”

  Helen could feel the sexual electricity surge across the Coronado lawn. The heavy, humid air seemed about to explode. The fabulous half-naked hunk was heading straight for them. He strode over the grass, an almost unclad colossus. Oiled muscles rippled in his mighty thighs. Helen thought of statues of the winged god, Mercury. Helen thought of things the nuns in St. Louis said were occasions of sin.

  “Oh, my,” Helen said.

  The manly vision stopped in front of Margery’s chaise longue. He bent down, exposing tempting tanned crescents of muscled buttock, and gave Margery a chaste kiss on the cheek. She blushed.

  “Thank you for everything,” he said, looking deep into Margery’s eyes. His voice was a caress. He produced a business card from God knows where. “If you ever need me for anything, anything at all, just call this number.” The godlike figure disappeared back into the palm jungle.

  “Oh, my,” Peggy breathed. “I know what I need.”

  “This is a setup,” Helen said, hoping to recover her wits. “He’s a Chippendale. You paid him.”

  “He’s paying me,” Margery said, smugly. “He’s the new renter in 2C. I made him some of my fudge. Naturally, he was grateful.”

  “Is he mortal? Does he have a name?” Peggy said.

  “Daniel Dayson.” Margery pronounced it the way some women would say Matt Damon or Russell Crowe. “He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and I’m working on my eighth decade of guy watching.”

  “Is Daniel straight?” Helen said. It was a sad fact in South Florida that the best bodies usually belonged to gay men.

  “That boy has plenty of lady friends, but he needs the right woman,” Margery said.

  “That’s me,” Helen said, but she knew it was hopeless. She was too ordinary for a man who looked like that.

  “He’s got to be a male model. Or an exotic dancer,” Peggy said.

  “Wrong,” Margery said. “He’s a fire equipment inspector.”

  “He’s hot enough to inspect my equipment any time,” Peggy said, and the three women launched into a deplorable series of jokes involving fire hoses and heat.

  When they finished, Helen’s stomach hurt from laughing. Her brain sizzled with suppressed desire. “I think I’m more impressed by his steady job than his eye-popping physique,” she said.

  “I’m not,” Peggy said. “Although I admit a man with a job is a rarity down here. But oh, lord, the way that man moves . . .”

  “Squaaak!” Pete the parrot said, hopping back and forth on her shoulder.

  “Shut up,” Peggy said absently, brushing the bird aside. Pete sat in stunned silence. It was the first time she’d ever talked to Pete like that.

  Chapter 12

  Desiree was dead.

  Helen could forget that for half an hour or even half a day. Then she’d see a young woman with blonde hair tumbling down her back or hear a newscaster’s solemn voice, and it would come rushing back. Once again, she’d see that shocking news story. First, the bride-to-be in her black dress, then in her black body bag.

  Desiree was dead. Desiree was dead. As Helen walked home from work Tuesday night, her feet pounded that rhythm into the pavement.

  Helen went dragging into her small, stuffy apartment and threw herself on the lumpy bed, not even bothering to change out of her suit. Her feet hurt. Her head hurt. She felt old and fat and tired. But most of all, she felt discouraged. She’d wasted another lunch hour looking for work. Christina was due back in three days, and Helen still did not have another job. She would never escape Juliana’s. She would never get away from her guilt.

  Desiree was dead. Desiree was dead. The words pounded in Helen’s head until it felt like the whole room was beating to the rhythm.

  Then Helen realized the whole room was beating to the rhythm. Her landlady was pounding on the door and calling her name. That woman had quite an arm on her. What was wrong now? Did Margery want to raise the rent? Helen straightened her rumpled suit, pushed her hair back, and opened the door.

  Margery looked like an exotic orchid in a swirling lavender-print shorts set. Her toes were painted fuchsia. In her hand was a glass plate with one perfect chocolate-dipped strawberry.

  “Thought this might cheer you up,” Margery said. “You look like forty miles of bad road. You’re too young and pretty to be so hangdog.”

  Margery was smart, Helen thought. Her landlady had seen the slump of Helen’s shoulders as she came up the sidewalk and knew something was wrong. Rather than probe with nosy questions, Margery plied her with chocolate. It almost worked. For a minute, Helen thought of telling her about Desiree’s death. But then she hesitated, and the impulse was lost. Helen had kept silent for so long, she had lost the ability to confide.

  Like all good liars, Helen knew enough to tell part of the truth when possible. So she said, “Work’s getting me down, Margery. I feel like a lumberjack around those women at Juliana’s.”

  Margery snorted so hard it hurt Helen’s sinuses. “You don’t want to look like one of those helpless Barbie dolls, do you?”

  “It’s not how they look. It’s how they make me feel. So Midwestern. So out of it. They’re so fashionable. They’re so South Beach.”

  “Helen,” Margery said. “Those women are not real South Beach. They’re only wanna-bes. That’s why Juliana’s has to keep people out. Because they’re afraid. On South Beach, the doors are wide open. Everyone can walk in and succeed—or fall flat o
n her face.”

  “No,” Helen protested. “Christina belongs. She goes to all the clubs. She knows the South Beach nightlife. She’s seen at all the hot places: Mynt. Pearl. Kiss. Rain. Crobar. She goes to dinner at The Forge. She’s been to B.E.D. with four women and one man.”

  “I don’t care about her sex life,” Margery said.

  “No. B.E.D. is the name of the club. It costs about a thousand dollars to get a good bed, at least that’s what Christina said, but you sit on these big beds, see, and—”

  “The guys get to say, ‘I went to B.E.D. with four women last night.’ Real sophisticated.” Margery sniffed. Helen was grateful she didn’t snort.

  “I guess that sounds silly. But Christina was at Bash the night Leonardo DiCaprio danced topless.”

  “That’s what she says. Maybe she just read about it in Ocean Drive magazine. But I’ll tell you this much, Helen, even if she was there—she may remember Leonardo, but he won’t remember her. You don’t need to know the names of the clubs. Half of them will be out of business by next week. Don’t let Christina intimidate you. If she was really South Beach, she’d be in South Beach, not Fort Lauderdale.

  “Eat your strawberry. You’ll feel better,” Margery commanded. “I’ve gotta go.”

  And she was gone, leaving Helen with one perfect strawberry. Helen ate it in tiny bites, making it last as long as possible. On any other night, it would have cheered her up. But not tonight. Tonight she had to live with Desiree’s death. Tonight, she also had to live with her past.

  As the evening sun sank lower, so did Helen’s spirits. In another hour, she would have to get out the cell phone she only used once a month and call her family. Helen dreaded her mother’s tears. Not even the call afterward to her beloved sister, Kathy, would make things better.

  It was almost seven o’clock. Time for the call home. Helen locked the doors, closed the blinds, and opened the door to the closet with the water heater. She pulled out the suitcase and rummaged through the old-lady underwear until she found the cell phone and a piece of pink cellophane from a gift basket.