The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  If Brittney couldn’t have Steve’s love, she wanted his money. Steve had not changed his will yet. If she killed him, she would inherit everything.

  Christina offered to help Brittney with Steve’s murder. She was on the Hatteras on that final cruise. She also took the incriminating photos. When Brittney inherited Steve’s money, Christina began blackmailing her. Just a few “loans” at first, but then Christina’s greed grew until Brittney killed her.

  The prosecution said Christina insisted that Brittney deliver the blackmail payments to her penthouse after work on Saturdays. The front desk records showed Brittney usually visited Christina once a month.

  The last time, Brittney came prepared. She buttoned the maid’s shapeless uniform over her dress and put a big plastic trash can in the battered gray car. Then she wheeled the trash can in the service entrance at One Ocean Palm Towers, right past the Hispanic staff on their smoking break. No one challenged her.

  Brittney took the service elevator to the penthouse, took off the maid’s uniform, and left it and the wheeled trash can in the fire stairwell.

  Once inside, Brittney found some excuse to get Christina in the guest bathroom and clobbered her with a heavy jar of bath salts.

  Brittney wiped up most of the blood, but enough seeped into the white tile grout that the police suspected murder. When they found bits of bone and brain matter, their suspicions were confirmed. Brittney may have worn a housekeeper’s uniform, but she did not clean like a pro.

  Brittney hauled Christina’s body out of the condo in the wheeled trash can. The Hispanic staff who hung out back remembered that the pretty blond maid struggled to get the heavy trash can into that old gray car. They helped her tie the trunk with twine. That night, Joe put the body in a barrel and dumped it into Biscayne Bay. It was supposed to look like a mob hit.

  It didn’t. But Brittney still might have gotten away with murder if she hadn’t taken that cat. She thought she’d cleaned the penthouse thoroughly of any trace of Thumbs, but she never found the grooming brush deep in the cabinet. That brush and one rooted hair on Christina’s body were enough to turn the investigation toward her.

  Brittney had to fight DNA from three separate sources. There was the cat DNA, which proved she had the victim’s cat. Also, a crumpled tissue was found in the guest bathroom wastebasket. Brittney had blown her nose and left her own DNA at the scene. On the same tissue were small amounts of Christina’s blood. The police found Christina’s blood and hair in a wheeled trash can at Brittney’s home and in the battered gray car.

  Still, the reporters thought Brittney would not be convicted. “A Kleenex, a cat hair, and three people who barely speak English isn’t much of a case,” one of the pundits said. Joe testified, too, as part of a deal for a reduced sentence, but he was dismissed as a “lying goombah.”

  Most reporters secretly felt Brittany would go free because she was so beautiful. The men on the jury could not stop staring at her. They could not take their eyes off her lovely face.

  But to everyone’s surprise—except Helen’s—Brittney was found guilty.

  The foreman told reporters why the jury voted to convict her: Brittney showed no emotion throughout the trial.

  Murder Between the Covers

  For booksellers everywhere:

  Your job is harder than it looks.

  Your influence is greater than you’ll ever know.

  Acknowledgments

  Page Turners and its staff are purely imaginary. No such bookstore ever existed. But I worked at the Barnes & Noble in Hollywood, Florida, for a year to learn the business. I want to thank manager Pam Marshall and her staff for their help and kindness.

  Thanks also to Joanne Sinchuk at south Florida’s largest independent mystery bookstore, Murder on the Beach in Delray Beach, for her book-world expertise. And to bookseller John Spera for his support.

  All writers thank their spouse, their agent, and their editor. But I could not write this book without my beloved husband, Don Crinklaw, my pitbull agent, David Hendin, and my enthusiastic editor, Genny Ostertag. Thanks also to the New American Library copy editors and production staff, who were so careful.

  So many people helped with this book. I hope I didn’t leave anyone out.

  Thanks to my loyal friends Valerie Cannata, Colby Cox, Diane Earhart, Jinny Gender, Karen Grace, Kay Gordy, Debbie Henson, Marilyn Koehr, and Janet Smith for their advice and encouragement.

  Ed Seelig at Silver Strings Music told me what a Clapton fan would have in his home.

  Mark at Safetyman SCBA and Safety Equipment gave me SCBA information.

  Terri Magri advised me about dreads.

  Thanks to Bob Brown at Truly Nolen’s Hollywood, Florida, office. Bob drives one of those funny yellow mouse cars. I nearly drove him crazy asking questions. Thanks also to Truly Nolen’s Darryl Graves, fumigator and man of infinite patience, who let me follow him around while he tented a building. Leon A. Johnson, roof man, performs amazing feats of strength on Florida rooftops, and Brandon A. McFarley clamps the sides of tented buildings.

  Thanks to Detective RC White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired), who answered countless questions on police interrogations and procedures. Captain Kim Spadaro, commander of the Broward County Main Jail Facility, and Deputy Deanne Paul gave me a tour of the Broward County Jail. Thanks also to author and police officer Robin Burcell, who wrote Deadly Legacy. Any procedure mistakes are mine, not theirs.

  Jerry Sanford, author of Miami Heat and federal prosecutor for the northern district of Florida, answered many complicated legal questions.

  Thanks to public relations expert Jack Klobnak, and to my bookseller friend, Carole Wantz, who could sell ice-boxes in the Arctic Circle. Special thanks to Anne Watts and Sarah Watts-Casinger, who are owned by Thumbs the cat.

  Chapter 1

  “Helen, where the hell are you?” The creep used the intercom, so everyone heard.

  “I’m in the back, stripping,” she said. Now they all heard her reply.

  “I don’t care what you’re doing, get out here,” he said. “Now.”

  Helen Hawthorne quit stripping and wished she could start ripping. She wanted to rip out the black heart of Page Turner III with her bare hands.

  He knew where she was. He also knew she couldn’t complain when he played his little games. He was Page Turner, literary light and owner of Page Turners, the book chain with his name. Page was a multimillionaire, but not because of the three bookstores. The real family fortune came from mundane moneymakers such as pancake houses and muffler shops.

  Page ran the bookstores because he had the same name as the founder. That was all Page had in common with his book-loving grandfather. The current Page Turner couldn’t sell a book to a boatload of bibliophiles.

  Helen flung open the stockroom door, expecting to see Page. Instead she collided with Mr. Davies, the store’s oldest inhabitant. Mr. Davies showed up every morning at nine, when the store opened, and stayed until it closed at midnight. He brought two peanut-butter sandwiches, one for lunch and one for dinner, and drank the free ice water in the café. All day long he read books. He bought one paperback a month, when his Social Security check arrived.

  Helen liked him. He was as much a fixture as the shelves and chairs.

  Mr. Davies was a small gray squirrel of a man, with big yellow teeth and inquisitive brown eyes. Now those eyes were bright with disappointment.

  “You’re dressed,” the old man said.

  “Of course I’m dressed,” Helen said. “What did you think I was doing in there?”

  “Stripping,” he said hopefully.

  “I was stripping the covers off paperbacks,” she said.

  Mr. Davies was more shocked than if she’d been stark naked. “That’s terrible, a pretty girl like you mutilating books,” he said.

  “I agree, sir,” Helen said.

  Mr. Davies scurried off to his favorite reading chair, holding his book protectively, as if Helen might strip it, too.


  Helen couldn’t tell Mr. Davies why she’d been stripping. She’d been dealing with yet another of Page’s mistakes. He’d bagged Jann Hickory Munn, the hot fiction writer, to sign at Page Turners on his national tour. But Page did no advertising, so six people had come to Munn’s signing. Page was stuck with cases of books.

  The unsold hardcovers were sent back. But most publishers didn’t want paperbacks returned. The shipping would cost more than the books. Instead their covers were stripped and counted like scalps. The author paid for Page’s miscalculation in lost royalties. Someone else always paid for Page’s mistakes.

  Page stood in the middle of the store, arms folded across his chest. He looked more like a boxer than a bookstore owner. A boxer gone to seed. Too many nights spent drinking with best-selling authors had transformed Page’s barrel chest into a beer belly. His chiseled chin was buried in fat. His Roman nose was red and veined. But he still had wavy blond hair, and at six feet, he was a commanding figure.

  “I need you to ring,” Page said to Helen like a lord granting a boon to a peasant. The book buyers didn’t know Page could not work his own cash registers. They were too complicated for him. Page retired to his quiet, comfortable office lined with his grandfather’s priceless first editions.

  Helen faced the horde of impatient customers. Another bookseller, Brad, was already ringing, but the line of customers was almost out the door.

  “Next, please,” Helen called as she opened her register.

  The man who stepped forward was talking on his cell phone. He could have been a young Elvis with his thick black hair, heavy-lidded eyes, and sexy sneer. His black silk shirt showed a hint of tanned chest and no gold chains. Tight jeans. Narrow hips. Strong hands. Helen checked for a wedding ring. Nothing. How had this one stayed on the shelf?

  The Hunk snapped his cell phone shut, another point in his favor. Some customers talked on the phone while Helen rang them up.

  He threw two paperbacks on the counter. One had a cracked spine and curled cover. The other was crisp and new. “I’m exchanging this,” he said, pointing to the sad specimen, “for this.” Sexy voice, too. Soft, caressing, polite. He was a sweet talker, all right.

  The Hunk plunked down the new Burt Plank thriller, and smiled like a man who always got his way. He would this time. Most stores would not take that battered book back, but Page Turners had a liberal return policy. The Hunk started to take the new Plank thriller and walk away. Helen grabbed it.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I need to ring this up as an exchange and get a manager’s approval.”

  “Why? They’re both the same price.”

  Because Page Turner’s pet computer nerd developed an overcomplicated system, Helen thought.

  “Because we have a computerized inventory system,” Helen said.

  “This is ridiculous,” the Hunk said, and suddenly his caress had claws.

  He was right. It was ridiculous. Page Turners required more signatures for a simple book return than a bank loan.

  “I can’t believe this,” he said. “What’s taking you so long, lady?” He slapped his hand on the counter. Helen jumped. Her fingers slipped on the computer keys.

  DENIED, the computer said.

  Helen had typed in the wrong transaction number. She’d have to start all over again, retyping the ten-digit transaction number, five-digit store number, and six-digit date.

  “Just give me my book,” the Hunk said, reaching for the Burt Plank thriller.

  “I can’t do that, sir,” she said, sliding it under the counter. Finally she typed in all the numbers.

  “I hope you’re done now,” he sneered, and this time it didn’t look sexy at all. He did not look like the young Elvis anymore. He was mean and arrogant.

  “Not quite,” she said. “I still need the manager’s approval.” She paged Gayle.

  “For a freakin’ paperback?” the Hunk said.

  Helen looked nervously at the line. It was even longer. All those paying customers were kept waiting because of another half-witted Page Turner policy.

  “I want my book!” the Hunk screamed.

  Helen’s face was hot with embarrassment. The other customers in line shifted uneasily. A few glared. She didn’t blame them. She was new and slow. The store policy was old and stupid. It was a fatal combination.

  Behind the Hunk, an elegant blonde in a blue sundress crossed her arms and said, “People like him should not be let out to ruin the day for the rest of us.” The blonde was angry, but not at Helen.

  A short woman with a majestic bosom and a New York accent said loudly, “Rude people stink.”

  “I am so tired of public rudeness,” a pale gray-haired woman agreed. She had the soft voice of an NPR announcer, but the Hunk heard her and turned the color of raw liver. He didn’t look nearly so pretty in that color. Helen understood now why he had that ringless hand.

  By the time Gayle the manager ran up and typed in the approval code, every customer in line had condemned the Hunk. He took his book and left without another word. The bookstore customers had held their own antirude rebellion.

  The elegant blonde handed Helen a Paris Review to ring up. “Don’t let him upset you, dear. You’re doing a good job,” she said.

  Helen had never felt so good about a dead-end job. Page Turner III was a jerk, and she wished she made more than six seventy an hour. But the customers could be surprisingly kind, the booksellers were fun, and she loved books. Work would be perfect, if someone would just murder Page.

  For the next half hour Helen rang up stacks of computer manuals, romance novels, and mysteries until they blurred into one endless book. Then, suddenly, there were no more customers. They seemed to come in waves. By some silent agreement, everyone in the store would rush forward to buy books at the same time. Then they’d all leave together. The only sound now was the Muzak, sterilizing a Beatles song.

  Helen looked at the clock on the computer. Four o’clock. She was off work in thirty minutes, not a moment too soon. She only hoped the rest of the customers were reasonably normal.

  It looked like she was going to get her wish. The twenty-something woman at the counter looked like a tourist from Connecticut. She had a small sunburned nose, a short practical haircut, and baggy khaki shorts that showed knobby knees. She looked familiar, but Helen wasn’t sure why.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for books on astrology,” she said.

  “They’re in New Age, aisle twelve,” Helen said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Between Religion and Self-Improvement,” Helen said. Wasn’t religion supposed to be self-improving? she wondered. Why did they need two categories?

  “You can see it from here,” Helen said, pointing. It was polite to point in a bookstore. Besides, she couldn’t say, “It’s the aisle with all the books on the floor.” New Age attracted the biggest slobs in the store. Helen wondered why “free spirit” meant “inconsiderate.”

  The woman returned with a copy of Astrology for Dummies , which Helen thought was a wonderfully apt title. Something clicked, and Helen knew who the woman was. She’d just moved into Helen’s apartment complex. Helen hadn’t had a chance to introduce herself yet. The introduction would have to wait. Customers were lining up again.

  The woman fixed her deep brown eyes on Helen and said, “I’m psychic. I know your past.”

  Helen paled. She’d buried her past after that terrible day in court. Even her own mother didn’t know where she was now.

  “I can tell you have come a great distance,” the psychic said.

  Helen felt the fear grip her stomach and pull it inside out. She had run from St. Louis, crisscrossing the country to throw off her pursuers, before she had arrived in Fort Lauderdale.

  “You are Russian,” the psychic said.

  Helen giggled in pure relief. She was as Russian as bratwurst and sauerkraut. Her family was St. Louis German. Helen had changed her name when she ran. This woman was no more psychic than a c
ement block.

  “Not even close,” Helen said cheerfully, shoving the book in a bag.

  The woman handed Helen a card that said, MADAME MUFFY’S PSYCHIC SERVICE. HELPFUL ADVICE ON ALL AFFAIRS. TELL PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. $20 PALM READING WITH AD. GET ONE FREE QUESTION IF YOU CALL NOW!!!!!

  “Madame Muffy?” Helen said. “What kind of name is that? What sort of psychic wears a pink golf shirt?”

  “Spirits on the astral plane do not care about frivolous earthly matters,” Muffy said.

  “True. But people here have certain expectations. You need some Birkenstocks and dangly earrings.”

  “Listen, sweetie, I have a lot of business clients. They want advice on the stock market,” Madame Muffy said. “They don’t want me traipsing into their office in some weird getup. There’s a Lighthouse Point executive—I can’t give you his name because my clients are confidential—who is a million dollars richer because of me.”

  “Right.” Helen handed Muffy her book bag. Only South Florida would have a psychic called Muffy. Helen figured that was why Madame Muffy did such a rotten job predicting her past. She was too normal for the paranormal.

  “May I help the next customer?” Helen said.

  Two boys stepped up to the counter. The eight-year-old gave her a crumpled ten-dollar bill and a copy of The Adventures of Captain Underpants.

  “Another Captain Underpants fan,” Helen said. “Are you one, too?” she asked the older boy, a solemn twelve.

  He looked offended. “That stuff’s for kids.”

  “Who do you like?” Helen asked.

  “Steinbeck,” the boy said. “Ever read The Grapes of Wrath? Steinbeck rules.”

  Steinbeck rules. Helen’s heart lifted when she heard those words. This was the future talking. There were still readers, despite what the cynics said. Helen couldn’t stop thinking about the boy as she walked home on Las Olas.