by Elaine Viets
“What’s in that paper bag on the back seat?” Helen asked.
“Our last resort,” Margery said. “Do you have everything?”
Helen patted her fanny pack. “Yep. Q-tips in a plastic bag. Small Ziplocs for the sample.”
“Let’s go,” Margery said.
Bridge Harbour looked different again tonight. Now it was not only rich but powerful. The tall gray royal palms looked like dinosaur legs, ready to crush them. The security guards waited at the canal bridges like spiders, poised to trap them. Helen felt the fear snakes crawling in her stomach. She could lose her job for stalking a Juliana’s customer. If Helen was arrested and her name got in the papers, she might as well move. She’d never get hired by anyone, anywhere.
Margery drove slowly by Brittney’s house. “The red Porsche is gone, and the house lights are off except for one in the back. I think she’s gone,” Helen said.
“Then let’s go to work,” Margery said. “I’ll drop you off and drive slowly around the subdivision. I’ll be back shortly.”
Helen took a deep breath, then picked up the peacock feather and stuffed three catnip toys in her pocket. She walked over to the wrought-iron gate and crouched down in the flower bed. It was filled with sharp white rocks and spiky green plants with sawtoothed leaves. A lizard ran out of the flower bed, and Helen jumped. A spiky plant left a long scratch on her hand. Helen wondered if the cops could get her DNA from the blood on the white rocks.
“Here, Thumbs,” she called, in a hoarse whisper.
Nothing.
“Thumbies,” she called. “Here, Thumbs. Here, boy.” Was that a rustling in the bushes?
Helen stuck the peacock feather through the gate and waggled it around. A white blur shot out from the bushes and nailed the peacock feather, leaving it twisted and broken.
“Thumbs!” Helen said.
“Mrrr,” the cat said, switching his gray tail. In the security lights, he looked more like a stuffed toy than ever, except for those enormous six-toed feet. They belonged on a lion, not a cat.
“Look what I’ve got for you.” Helen held up the catnip toy, just outside the gate.
Thumbs whipped a paw through the gate and snagged the toy from her hand before she knew what happened. Now she had another long, bloody scratch. Thumbs had the toy inside the gate, where she couldn’t reach him.
“Thumbs,” she pleaded. “Thumbs, come here.”
The cat ignored her, as only a cat can. Thumbs was fascinated with the toy. He sniffed at it and batted it across the driveway. Then the dignified cat began leaping like a kitten. He ran around the driveway like a crazed hockey player, swatting the catnip toy with his paw, falling over it, doing back flips. She’d never seen a cat behave like that. Catnip was not a mellow high.
Thumbs jumped, ran, and rolled with the catnip toy, while Helen begged him to come back. Finally, he gave the toy one massive swipe and knocked it into the ornamental pool. He sat by the pool and stared sadly at his drowned plaything.
“Thumbs,” Helen said, holding up another catnip toy. “I’ve got another one. Here, boy.”
Finally, she had his attention. Thumbs raced over to the gate and tried to swipe the toy from her hand.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Helen said. “This time you are coming out here.”
She held the cat toy two feet from the gate. Thumbs slid through a wrought-iron curlicue. She wasn’t sure how a big cat could get through such a small opening. When he was on the other side, Helen grabbed him.
“Gotcha!” she said.
She was nearly blinded by the spotlight in her eyes.
“Would you come away from there, please,” a voice said.
Oh, oh. She’d been caught. Where was Margery? Helen hung onto Thumbs. She was not letting go of this cat, not after all the trouble she’d had catching him.
“May I see some identification, ma’am?” the voice said. It was not a question. It was a command. “Do you live in the area?”
“No,” Helen said. “I’m . . .”
More lights in her eyes, this time from another car. A door slammed and she saw Margery get out.
“Oh, good,” Margery said. “You found Thumbs. That’s our lost cat,” she explained to the security guard. Margery reached into the bag in the back seat and pulled out a paper. “We’ve put up these flyers all over Lauderdale. One of our neighbors called and said she’d spotted Thumbs all the way over here.”
The security guard read the homemade flyer like it was a court document. Helen could see the headline: “LOST!!!!! GRAY AND WHITE CAT WITH BIG FEET! ANSWERS TO THE NAME THUMBS. REWARD!”
Thumbs was starting to squirm. If he escaped, she’d never catch him. If he scratched her, she’d lose another pint of blood.
“Pardon me, sir,” Helen said, “but Thumbs has been missing for a full day, and he needs his medicine. He has a bad mouth infection.”
The guard backed away from the diseased animal. Margery pulled a bag of cat treats from her purse and said, “Here, I’ll give him this and you give him his medicated swab.”
When Thumbs opened his mouth, Helen ran the Q-tip inside his cheek, then quickly pulled it out. Margery popped a treat in the cat’s mouth before he could protest. Helen stuck the swab in a Ziploc bag. The guard watched them.
“We really need to get him home now,” Margery said.
The security guard walked them to Margery’s car. “Glad you found your cat, ladies,” he said.
“Not as glad as we are,” Helen said. Margery elbowed her to shut up.
Margery drove to the end of the street and out of Bridge Harbour. Then she turned around and went back to Brittney’s house.
Helen hopped out and dumped Thumbs over the fence. He looked up at her. He didn’t want to go back to the ice palace, and he was wearing a fur coat.
“You’re a good guy,” Helen said. “But you’ve got to stay here if you’re going to help us.”
As she ran for Margery’s car, she saw Thumbs padding toward the house. It could be her imagination, but he seemed dejected.
“Thumbs is such a nice animal. I hate to leave him,” Helen said.
Margery swatted at the white cat hair swirling through her car like a snowstorm.
“Are you kidding?” she said. “We brought most of him with us.”
Chapter 35
“Are you going to sit up all night watching a Q-tip full of cat slobber?” Margery asked. “It’s three a.m. Your lights are still on. You should be in bed.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to it,” Helen said. “It’s my freedom from Detective Dwight Hansel. It’s also twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“I’ll babysit the Q-tip while you sleep. I’ll even fill out the FedEx form.”
Helen’s landlady was wearing her purple chenille robe and red curlers. Margery’s toes were a vibrant red. Somehow, this made her look trustworthy.
Helen was tired. She’d spent the night staring at the Q-tip, as if it would self-destruct.
“I guess I can do that,” Helen said.
“I don’t know why you didn’t just drop it in the FedEx box this evening. Then it would be safe.”
But would it? Helen worried that the heat would ruin the DNA sample, even though she knew that was ridiculous. The police got DNA off soda straws that had been sitting in alleys. She watched Law & Order and CSI. She knew her forensics.
Still, Helen worried. What if a car ran into the FedEx box? Or it got hit by lightning? Or vandals started a fire? She knew all these possibilities were incredibly remote. She also knew she would hang onto the cat DNA until five-forty-five Thursday night.
Then she would walk over to the parking lot behind the bank, drop the envelope in the FedEx box, and wait until the driver picked it up at six p.m. After that, it would be out of her hands until the test results were ready in two or three weeks.
At nine the next morning, she stopped by Margery’s for the FedEx package. She noticed that Margery had used her own credit card number for
the billing.
“I’ll reimburse you,” Helen said.
“Forget it,” Margery said. “Wednesday night was the most fun I’ve had in years, which should tell you something about my life.”
Helen spent a miserable Thursday looking at the clock every fifteen minutes. The hands moved so slowly, she was sure it was broken, so she kept calling Time & Temperature.
At noon, she called Sarah. “The cat DNA goes off to the lab today,” she said. “Then I’ll have my proof that Brittney did it.”
“You’re too late,” Sarah said. “I’ve already found the pattern that will nail Niki. Do you know there have been three carjackings in the last two years where the grieving spouse remarried quickly? We’re talking less than six months.”
“So they were a little hasty. So what?”
“Those hits were made to look like carjackings,” Sarah said. “Someone was yearning to be free. And in one case, witnesses saw a gray Toyota Camry leave the scene.”
“Shouldn’t be too many of those in South Florida,” Helen said.
“Go ahead and laugh,” Sarah said. “You’ll eat your words. And I’ll eat a Jaxson’s hot fudge sundae.”
Helen hung up laughing, until she looked at the clock. It was twelve-oh-five. Time stood still that afternoon, while Helen paced and fussed and checked the clock. When it was five-forty, she and Tara could stand it no longer. Tara promised to lock up the store. Helen grabbed the package and ran all the way to the FedEx box. It was exactly five-forty-five when she reached it.
She was reading the FedEx airbill once more, making sure all the little boxes were checked and the spaces were filled in, when a car came squealing into the lot.
It was a red Ferrari convertible, the same color as Margery’s toenail polish. It pulled up in front of the FedEx box at an angle, almost pinning Helen to the box. She stared at the car’s flat predator’s nose. The headlights looked like evil eyes.
Another predator was driving. Joe, Christina’s ex-boyfriend, got out. He was dressed in black Hugo Boss from head to toe. He had something black in his hand, but it was not a cell phone. It was a gun. A Glock nine.
Uh-oh, Helen thought. She looked around. The lot was deserted. The bank building had no windows on this side. She was alone in the middle of the city.
“Why don’t you give me that package?” he said.
Joe thought she had his blackmail photos. All Helen had to do was explain, and he’d calm down.
“This has nothing to do with you,” Helen said. “This is DNA from Brittney’s cat. It will get her convicted. It will exonerate you. You hate Brittney.”
“She always said you were dumb,” Joe said. “Now give me that package.”
At long last, Helen understood. It was the cheater’s oldest trick: pretend to hate the one you love. Her ex, Rob, swore he hated their next-door neighbor, Sandy. Helen believed him until she found them naked together. Brittney had pretended to hate Joe, and gullible Helen had believed her, too.
“You were cheating on Christina with her best friend,” Helen said, then wished she hadn’t.
“I wasn’t cheating on her,” Joe said. He sounded stung. “I told her I wanted to drop her after Key West.”
“When you brought her that cat.”
“Don’t mention that stupid animal. I caught hell on both sides for that. Christina rammed my ass for giving it to her.”
“Reamed,” Helen said.
“Whatever,” Joe said. “Brittney did the same thing because I didn’t give it to her. She’s crazy about that cat.
“Look, I was very up-front. I told Christina I didn’t want to see her any more. That’s when she started blackmailing me. She didn’t want money, like she did with Brittney. She wanted me to marry her. I refused, and she started cooking up these crazy plots to get even. Good thing Brittney was there. She kept me inundated on those fruitcake plans.”
“You mean updated.”
“If you know what I mean, why say anything?” Joe said, waggling the Glock at her. “I’m getting tired of this. I’m trying to tell you something. Brittney thought it was OK to kill Christina because she said she kept the blackmail photos at her penthouse. But she lied to us. We didn’t find out until too late.”
“Imagine that. Christina lied to you,” Helen said. “And you were dumb enough to kill her before you had the photos.”
“I didn’t kill her. All I did was put her in the barrel and dump it in the bay. Brittney did the killing. I wanted to shoot her. Keep it simple. Brittney thought the doorman would remember me if I showed up in my red Ferrari, and she was probably right. It’s a 550 Barchetta,” he said, as if Helen should be impressed.
“Brittney said she’d handle it. She knew a way to sneak into the building that no one would notice. She borrowed this old gray beater and dressed like a maid. She carried the body out in a wheeled trash can. The dumb spics who worked there helped her put it in the car. Can you believe that? That’s what happens when you don’t speak English.”
Helen didn’t think Joe spoke it, either. This was probably not the time to say so or mention that she found his language offensive. But she had to say something, or he’d shoot her and take the package with the cat DNA.
“How did you know I found the photos?” Helen said.
“Brittney talked with Sharmayne. She said you found Christina’s photos in the store. We tried to scare you into giving them to us.”
“You made that threatening call,” Helen said.
“That’s right. But it didn’t work. Brittney set the fire, but you got out of that, too. So you’re going to give me that package, and then you’re going to tell me where those photos are.”
Helen knew what would happen after that. She didn’t have the photos. The police did. But Brittney and Joe would not believe her. They would torture Helen until she begged them to kill her. Then Helen would go for a barrel ride in Biscayne Bay.
Helen turned and dropped the FedEx package in the slot. She had nothing to lose.
“Hey!” Joe said. “Get that out of there.”
“I can’t,” Helen said. “No one can get into that FedEx box.”
Joe pointed the gun right at her face. She was looking down the black barrel. “Then we’re going to wait right here until the driver shows up. You are going to ask for it back. And if you try anything funny, I’ll shoot you and the driver.”
The next minutes ticked by slowly. Cars passed on the street, but no one stopped. No one dropped off a last-minute package. Joe kept the Glock hidden in his jacket pocket. Helen wondered if Joe would really shoot out the pocket of a Hugo Boss suit. She looked at his face and decided he would.
At six, the FedEx truck pulled in. The driver was a muscular blond man in shorts. He had great legs. Helen would hate to see him shot.
“Ask,” Joe hissed. “And remember what I said.”
“Hi,” Helen said brightly. “I dropped my package in there, and I need to get it back. I don’t want to send it after all.”
“I’ll get it for you, ma’am, but I need to see your airbill and some identification.”
Helen reached into her purse. Joe was watching her. She saw the gun move in his pocket, a reminder that he’d shoot the driver. Helen felt around in her purse. She could not find her pepper spray.
“You’re taking a long time, honey,” Joe said. “This nice man wants to get going.”
Helen grabbed her wallet, the airbill and her house keys.
“Here,” she said to the driver.
Then she threw herself on the Ferrari. She was spreadeagled on the long, slanting hood, holding her door key pointed like a dagger over the perfect red paint job.
“My Ferrari,” Joe screamed. “Don’t hurt my car, you crazy bitch.”
“Shoot the driver and I’ll rip a strip right off the car hood,” she said. “Shoot me, and you’ll put a bullet through the engine. You’ll kill two hundred thousand dollars worth of car.”
“It’s four hundred ten thousand dollars,” he
said. “There are only one hundred twenty Barchettas in the U.S.”
The FedEx driver was edging toward the truck. She could hear him on his cell phone, “Possible domestic dispute. The guy’s got a gun.”
She touched the key to the paint job, ready to scrape it down the shiny hood.
“Don’t!” Joe howled, as if she was about to gut his first-born. “Don’t hurt it.”
“Then put the gun away, and get out of here,” Helen said.
She heard the sirens, and so did Joe. He ran for the Ferrari. He didn’t even open the door. He just jumped in. The powerful V-12 engine rumbled into life. Helen could feel it vibrating under her. She also realized she was still on the hood. Joe shifted the Ferrari into reverse, swung out into the parking lot, and Helen slid off the hood. Her key left an inch-wide gouge the whole length of the hood, down to the yellow prancing horse emblem.
“Aggghhhhh,” Joe screamed in agony, but kept driving.
The FedEx driver was yelling into the cell phone, “He’s escaping. It’s a red Ferrari. I think it’s heading west on Broward toward I-95. He’s got a gun. He’s armed and dangerous. He nearly ran over a woman.”
The driver turned to her. “Are you OK, ma’am? Do you need an ambulance?”
“No, I feel terrific,” Helen said. She remembered how her key had dug into the Ferrari and left that long brutal track down the hood. She hadn’t felt so good since she took a crowbar to Rob’s SUV.
“I can get that package for you now,” the driver said.
“No, thanks,” Helen said. “I definitely want to send it.”
Chapter 36
Joe was clocked going one hundred eighty miles an hour on I-95.
He had to slow down dramatically when he encountered a white Lincoln Continental driven by Mrs. Geraldine Fitzhammer, age seventy-six. Mrs. Fitzhammer was going forty-five in the fast lane.
Joe’s Ferrari glanced off her rear bumper and went spinning into the concrete highway divider. He suffered two broken legs, a broken wrist, and a broken collarbone in the collision. Unfortunately for Joe, he remained conscious.
