by Elaine Viets
Mrs. Fitzhammer was unhurt but mad as hell. Her late husband’s 1983 Lincoln did not have a scratch on it until Joe clipped it. Mrs. Fitzhammer was so angry at this desecration of her husband’s memory that she returned to her car and retrieved the foam box containing the remains of her early-bird special. Joe was hit with potatoes lyonnaise, half a grouper filet, broccoli florets, and a buttered Pepperidge Farm roll, then beaten with the box.
Mrs. Fitzhammer did not stop until the police arrived on the scene. She was delighted when Joe was arrested. She wanted the police to handcuff him, despite the broken wrist.
Brittney saw the Ferrari chase on TV. She was arrested later that evening at the Miami airport, boarding a flight for Rio. Brittney had always admired Brazil. It had such innovative plastic surgeons. Brittney might have made it to Rio, if she hadn’t taken time to pack twenty-two pieces of Fendi luggage, including a cat carrier.
Detective Karen Grace called Helen to tell her about Brittney’s arrest. “What happened to the cat?” Helen said.
“I’m trying to figure out what to do with Thumbs,” Detective Grace said. “Brittney doesn’t have any family. I can’t take him home. My cat would throw a fit. I’ll probably take him to the Humane Society.”
“I’ll take him,” Helen said.
“What if Brittney wants her cat back?”
“Then I’ll give him back.” But Helen was sure Brittney would not be free for a long time.
Helen did not allow Thumbs to roam free, but she did walk him on a leash by the pool every night. Since pets were not allowed at the Coronado, Margery now had to ignore Pete and Thumbs. The cat and the parrot ignored each other when Thumbs went for his nightly stroll by the pool.
He’d been at the Coronado for a week when the six-toed cat was bitten by a spider. His huge paw swelled to twice its size. Peggy drove Helen and Thumbs to the emergency animal hospital. Helen had always thought that small animal doctors looked rather like small animals. But Dr. Richard Petton looked like a shaggy Mel Gibson.
Helen was impressed with the way Dr. Rich gently handled the hurt, angry cat. “Easy, big guy, we’re just trying to find out what’s wrong here,” he said, as he examined the grossly swollen paw. When Thumbs lashed out, the vet deftly dodged the slashing claws. Helen noticed Dr. Rich was not wearing a wedding ring but that did not always mean anything in South Florida.
Dr. Rich called the next day to check on Thumbs’ progress. That’s when he asked Helen out to dinner for Saturday night.
“We’ll go Dutch,” Helen said warily.
“No, my treat,” he said. “I asked you out.”
Rich and Helen had a lovely dinner and a walk on the moonlit beach. They talked and talked, until he kissed her in the silvery light by the soft ocean. The evening went so well, Helen asked him out Wednesday night—her treat. That one went even better. They had another date for tonight.
“So how was your evening with Dr. Rich?” Sarah asked. They were at Jaxson’s Ice Cream Parlor in Dania. Helen had won the bet and was about to claim her prize, a hot fudge sundae. Sarah swore it was nirvana on a spoon. Sarah was wearing something turquoise and gauzy that set off her curly brown hair. On her wrist was a silver bracelet with an oval turquoise stone. Sarah had plump, pretty hands, and her jewelry showed them off.
“We’re going out again tonight,” Helen said.
“And this is your second date?”
“Third,” Helen said. She thought of Rich’s kisses, and a pleasant little sizzle zapped all other thoughts.
“Earth to Helen,” Sarah said.
Helen blushed and quickly changed the subject. “So this place has been around awhile?”
“Since 1956. That’s ancient for South Florida. They make their own ice cream.” The walls were an appealing jumble of old license plates, odd gadgets, and antique ads. Helen watched the man behind the counter put the finishing touches on her hot fudge sundae. He was huge, and his skin was as dark and lustrous as the hot fudge he ladled out. Good. Helen did not trust a thin man in an ice-cream parlor.
A waitress in a candy-striped outfit brought the towering creations. Each was topped with a thunderhead of whipped cream and had a side dish of extra hot fudge.
“I’ll never eat all this,” Helen said.
“Wanna bet?” Sarah said. “And since we’re discussing betting, I should say congratulations. You were right. I was wrong. Brittney killed Christina.”
“Didn’t your carjacking investigation go anywhere?”
“It hit a dead end, pardon the pun. What do you hear from the police?”
“Not much more than you’re reading in the paper,” Helen said. “You know Joe’s going to testify against Brittney.”
“I thought they had such a hot romance.”
“They did. But now Joe is looking at a long date in the federal pen for illegal immigrant smuggling. He decided to save his one true love—himself.
“By the way, Joe claims Christina took those pictures of Brittney whacking her fiancé with a champagne bottle, so I guessed right. Joe told the police that she stood on the deck and kept shooting photos while Brittney bashed the guy. Christina bragged to Joe about how she didn’t flinch, despite the blood.”
Sarah winced. “That’s cold.”
“I think it runs in her family.”
“How’s the store?”
“Not good,” Helen said. “With Christina’s murder, plus Joe’s illegal immigrant and drug mess, we’re up to our hem-lines in law enforcement. You never know when some cop or federal agent will walk in.”
“That must make the boyfriends of Juliana’s regulars nervous,” Sarah said.
“Sales are way down. Ever since Venetia’s child-sex scandal broke, we haven’t had any serious customers, just sightseers in flip-flops. Did you hear the press conference Venetia’s lawyer gave? He said she did those terrible things because she was on Christina’s pills.”
“Ouch,” Sarah said. “Look, I don’t want to make you feel worse, but do you listen to the Crazy Cracker Morning Show? He called Juliana’s the Little Dress Shop of Horrors. Said it had a real exclusive clientele. Only murderers, child molesters, and pill poppers were allowed through the green door.”
“We can’t survive that kind of publicity. Juliana’s is done for,” Helen said.
“I saw Tara on TV a couple of times, but you’ve never been interviewed. How did you avoid that?”
“It wasn’t easy. The reporters were camped in front of Juliana’s for a week. Each morning, I went inside wearing dark glasses and a headscarf and carrying a bag of cleaning supplies. I told the reporters: ‘No spik English.’ ”
“And they believed you?”
“Sure. I have dark hair.”
“I love it. How’s your job search going?”
“It’s not. I can’t find a thing. It doesn’t help when I tell them where I work.”
“Helen, I don’t want to nag, but I can get you a good job at a decent company.”
Helen couldn’t accept Sarah’s generous offer. She had to stay out of corporate computers. Rob would find her.
“The cat DNA test results came back yesterday,” she said, switching subjects with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Sarah, deep into her hot fudge, did not seem to notice.
“The tests proved the cat hair found on Christina’s body, the cat hair in her penthouse, and the cat at Brittney’s home were the same animal. Sunnysea Beach is taking credit for the whole thing. They’re bragging about their pioneering investigative techniques.”
“But it was your idea,” Sarah said.
“I don’t care. They’re picking up the bill for the DNA test. Two tests, actually, since I got the first round of cat DNA without a warrant. They want a second test that will stand up in court.”
“That is good news.”
You don’t know how good, Helen thought. She’d planned to pay for that DNA test out of the twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for finding Christina’s killer. But she could not claim the money. Th
e merchants association insisted on media interviews, including USA Today. Helen could not risk nationwide publicity. Her ex, Rob, or the court might find her. So she turned down the reward. It was the price she had to pay to stay in South Florida.
Helen could not suppress a sigh as she thought of the lost money.
“See, I thought you’d like Jaxson’s,” Sarah said. She thought Helen was sighing in delight over her sundae. Helen realized she was scraping the last of the fudge out of the side dish. She’d eaten the whole thing.
“That was a terrific lunch,” Helen said. “I’m glad we skipped the sandwiches and went straight for the sundaes. No point wasting good stomach space on ordinary food. Now I have to go back to work. Just drop me off at Federal Highway and Broward. I need the walk.”
It was nearly one o’clock on a sunny winter afternoon. Flowers bloomed. Palm trees rustled like taffeta dresses. Passersby looked trim and chic. Even the signs in the store windows were attractive. Especially the one in the window of Page Turners bookstore. It said, “HELP WANTED. Immediate openings for booksellers.”
Helen went straight in and asked for the manager. Gayle was small and blonde and dressed in black, like a Juliana’s regular, but she wore Doc Martens, a shoe that never trod Juliana’s carpet.
Helen breathed in the smell of hardbacks and reveled in their colorful covers. She saw a sign announcing that Burt Plank would be signing there Saturday. A real bestselling mystery writer. No more empty-headed bimbos. Helen knew she would like it here. Then she remembered what the other manager said on her first interview at Page Turners.
“Will I have to clean toilets?” Helen said.
“Not if you work days,” Gayle said.
Helen could live with that, especially after Gayle went upstairs to talk to the owner about her special circumstances. She was back in ten minutes.
“He says he can pay you six seventy an hour in cash,” Gayle said. “That’s twenty cents less than our other booksellers make, but he says it’s really more because there are no taxes and withholding.” Gayle looked like she did not believe this. Helen said the money was fine. She wanted out of Juliana’s.
“When can you start? I’d like to begin training you today,” Gayle said.
“Let me make a phone call. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Helen felt no loyalty to Mr. Roget, not after he’d docked her pay for the champagne. Dead-end job workers were powerless. They were yelled at by customers and abused by cheap bosses. Their hours were changed without notice. They were fired for no reason.
They had only one weapon, and Helen was about to use it. She marched into Juliana’s. “Tara,” she said. “I’m calling Mr. Roget. You’ll want to be here for this.”
Tara waited expectantly, rocking from one dainty foot to the other, while Mr. Roget’s secretary found their employer. Finally, he came on the line.
“I’m quitting,” Helen said. Tara’s eyebrows shot straight into her hair. She could hear Mr. Roget sputtering and protesting.
“When? Right now. What? You’ll give me a dollar-an-hour raise? No, thank you. Don’t worry about sending me this week’s pay. I’ll take the money out of the till before I leave. I’ll also take the money you docked me for the champagne. I know you weren’t serious. You couldn’t possibly be that cheap.”
Tara let out an audible snort.
“Stealing? I don’t think so. But you can report me if you wish, Mr. Roget. Of course, you’d have to explain our unusual financial arrangement.
“You want to speak to Tara? She’s right here, Mr. Roget.”
Helen handed the phone to Tara, who listened for a moment and said, “No way. I’m outta here, Old Tightwad. Get someone else to work for your miserable money.”
Tara hung up the phone, laughing. “Free at last,” she said.
Helen paid Tara her wages out of the till, then took the money she was owed, but not a penny more. She balanced the cash drawer and put it in the safe, turned off the lights, and turned on the alarm.
As she was locking the door, a skinny woman wearing a Harley T-shirt and missing two teeth rang Juliana’s doorbell. Two weeks ago, she would never have dared.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re closed,” Helen said. Then she shut the green door for the last time.
Epilogue
Juliana’s never reopened after Helen shut the green door.
The store is now a wood-fired pizza restaurant. The pizza place kept the painting of the notorious Juliana, bought at the Episcopalian rummage sale. The red-lipped, hard-eyed Juliana looks down disdainfully on chicken-and-artichoke pizza. The green door has been painted tomato red.
Helen still has Thumbs. Brittney wanted Maria to care for the cat. If Brittney had arranged for her slave-maid to have the proper papers, she might have had her wish. But Maria did not have a green card. She was too busy worrying about the INS to concern herself with a cat.
Helen is still dating Dr. Rich, although she is no longer sure whose turn it is to pay for dinner.
“Is this serious?” her landlady, Margery, asked Helen one evening as they sat by the Coronado pool.
Helen thought of their last night together and smiled. “It’s too early to tell,” she said. “But I may have found the one single man in South Florida who’s not a deadbeat, a drunk, or a druggie.”
“We’ll see,” Margery said. She still had not forgiven the male species for Daniel, the divinely handsome con man, not even when she read that he’d be going to prison for his frauds.
Helen lived in Daniel’s old apartment, 2C, for ten weeks while her home was repaired. Margery threw a party when Helen’s place was ready. Her apartment looked just the same, only better. The boomerang table and the Barcalounger were back in their usual places. The new bed did not squeak. Sitting on a turquoise chenille spread was a brown teddy bear with a slit in its back. This was indeed a stuffed bear. It was stuffed with a hundred dollars. Margery claimed not to know how the money got inside. Helen loved everything about her new place except the faint odor of smoke, but she only smelled it on rainy mornings.
Everyone at the Coronado attended Helen’s party except her neighbor Phil. Helen had tried to thank the invisible pothead several times, but he never answered the door. One night, she left double-stuffed Oreos and two quarts of Cherry Garcia ice cream packed in dry ice on the doorstep and yelled, “Thank you, Phil.”
The cookies and ice cream were gone in the morning.
Tara and Tiffany did not have to reveal their imperfect pasts to their boyfriends. Tara’s return to her old job-free life had one unfortunate side effect. Her neighbor, Mr. Rodriguez, suffered a mild heart attack when she stepped nude into the hot tub at three in the afternoon.
Tiffany with the bad eye job still has the same boyfriend, Burt, but she did get a new pool service.
Although the hit man who killed Desiree Easlee was never found, Niki was arrested for her murder. Under Florida law, the person who joins in a crime is as guilty as the one who pulls the trigger. Niki was charged with first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit first-degree murder.
Her husband, Jimmy the Shirt, hired the best criminal defense attorney in Fort Lauderdale. He got Niki out on bond. Jimmy put up the money. At a press conference, he said his lovely wife could not possibly be guilty of this terrible crime, and he stood behind her one hundred percent.
He was standing behind her a month later when she slipped and fell off his one-hundred-foot yacht, but, alas, he was unable to save her. The sea was rough, the night was foggy, and so was Niki after five margaritas. Her body was recovered three days later. Niki was cremated and her ashes were scattered on the beach in Belize.
Detective Dwight Hansel received a commendation for his investigation of Joe’s illegal immigrant and drug smuggling ring. He was hired by the Miami Palms police department.
Joe was tried and sentenced to twenty years in the federal penitentiary. His Ferrari 550 Barchetta was totaled, leaving only one hundred nineteen in the United St
ates. Joe’s insurance company refused to give him the full replacement price of four hundred ten thousand dollars, saying the car was not in good condition. They cited a long scratch on the hood, which was not the result of the accident, and food stains on the leather seats. The insurance check was confiscated by the federal government under the RICO racketeering laws.
Detective Karen Grace was named “Florida Law Enforcement Officer of the Year” for her innovative murder investigation using animal DNA. She was offered a job with the Broward County Sheriff’s office at a substantial increase in salary.
Brittney was charged with the murders of Christina and her fiancé, Steven. Helen was relieved that Brittney was not charged with trying to burn down her apartment and kill her. That meant Helen would not have to testify. She could continue to escape media attention.
Brittney denied everything. She hired Oliver Steinway, the same attorney Daniel used for his fire extinguisher scam.
The prosecution felt it had a good case, thanks to Detective Karen Grace. She spoke to Emmanuella, the Haitian housekeeper who worked next door to Brittney. She drove the battered gray car with the twine-tied trunk.
Emmanuella said Brittney wanted to give her fifty dollars to borrow her car and her uniform. Emmanuella said no. She had to go to her niece Merline’s wedding all the way up in Deerfield Beach, and she needed her car. Brittney threw in two hundred dollars for cab fare. It was pocket change for her, but nearly a week’s pay for Emmanuella.
The frugal Emmanuella had a cousin who worked for a limo service. He gave her a special deal, and she got a limousine cheaper than a cab. Emmanuella put the difference in her savings account and pulled up at the church in a limo bigger than the bride and groom’s. There was no question about the date. The entire family remembered when Emmanuella the housekeeper came to the wedding like a rich lady.
At the trial, the whole story of the murders came out—or at least the parts that the prosecution could piece together. It started with a man. Brittney found out her fiancé, Steve, had been planning to dump her for a blond ten years younger. The blond was named Kevin. Kevin was married then, and didn’t dare go to the funeral or to the police.
