The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  Desiree grabbed Helen’s hand and pulled her away from Margery. “I must talk with you. After the show,” she said in a tense whisper. “Someplace where the people here won’t go.”

  “There’s Lester’s Diner,” Helen said. “But I’m with a friend. She’s my ride. Can Margery come with us?”

  “No, I want to talk to you about my mother’s death,” Desiree said. Her eyes had a frantic, feral look. “It’s important. Don’t worry. I’ll take you home. Meet me in the lobby after the show.” She vanished through the backstage curtains.

  “What was that all about?” Margery said.

  “Desiree wants to meet with me and talk about Kiki. She wants someplace where the theatergoers don’t usually go. I suggested Lester’s Diner.”

  “You’re asking a woman worth thirty million dollars to go to Lester’s?” Margery said.

  “It will be a new experience for her.”

  “That’s for sure,” Margery said. “Well, I don’t mind. I like Lester’s pancakes.”

  “She doesn’t want you there. She wants to talk to me alone. She insisted and I said yes. She might tell me something useful.”

  “I don’t like this,” Margery said. “Let me follow you. I won’t even come in. I’ll sit in the parking lot. I can keep an eye on you through Lester’s plateglass windows.”

  “No! Desiree will see your car and get suspicious.” Margery drove a white Cadillac the size of a sunporch. It was hard to miss. “She’ll bring me home. She’s not going to hurt me, Margery. She knows I’m telling you where we’re going. Her request is a little weird, but she’s perfectly safe.”

  “Helen, that woman scares me,” Margery said.

  “She scares me, too. But she might know who killed her mother.”

  “Probably just has to look in the mirror,” Margery said.

  “Do you really believe that?” Helen said.

  “I believe she is one sick chick. I don’t like this,” Margery said. “If you’re not home by midnight, I’m calling the police.”

  “Good,” Helen said. “That’s exactly what I want.”

  Chapter 16

  Everything about Lester’s Diner was huge: the gray booths piped in red, the plateglass windows, even the coffee cups. They held fourteen ounces of java and looked like soup bowls with handles.

  The china was thicker than an alderman’s head. Helen loved the diner’s shiny metal and neon. It was bright, noisy, and reassuring.

  Helen needed its cheerful comfort after the trip there. They drove through stop-and-go tourist traffic. The conversation was also stop-and-go: strained chatter punctuated by awkward silences. Desiree drove a black BMW, a modest car by her mother’s standards. Luke sat in front, drained by his performance.

  Helen tried to praise Luke’s acting, but he cut her off in midcompliment. “I was okay,” he said. “I don’t think that audience cared much about Shakespeare.”

  “You were better than okay,” Helen said. “You were the real thing. It was a privilege to watch you.”

  Luke shrugged. He seemed to need her praise and despise it at the same time. “The rest of the cast was first-rate,” Helen said. “Especially the woman who played Edward’s queen.”

  “Oh, you mean Donna Sue,” Desiree said. “She works for my father. She’s a secretary.” Dismissed.

  Helen filed that information away. She now had an in at Brendan’s law firm. After that, all three gave up trying to say anything.

  Helen wondered why the heiress wanted to talk to her. She’d never known a rich woman who cared what a poor one thought.

  Helen was grateful when they finally pulled into Lester’s lot. Heads turned when Luke walked into the diner. The man had star power. No one noticed his tiny, chinless bride.

  Luke seemed attentive to Desiree, but Helen couldn’t tell if it was true love or a good act. His new bride clung to Luke. When his cell phone rang, which was every three minutes, he had to pry her fingers off his arm to check the number.

  “Is this place real?” Desiree asked Helen.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is it one of those new diners made to look old?”

  “No, Lester’s has been around since 1967.”

  “It’s a hoot,” Desiree said.

  The hostess showed them to a booth the size of a motel room. Their waitress called them honey, poured coffee, and took their orders. Luke drank his coffee black. He asked for a salad with lemon juice and a hamburger with no bun—the diet of an actor facing the camera.

  Desiree wanted a three-egg omelet, pancakes, extra-crisp bacon, and a side of sausage. She added enough cream to turn her coffee beige, then three packets of sugar.

  “I wanted to thank you for your help when—” Desiree stopped and took a deep breath. “When my mother was found. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”

  Luke patted her hand on cue.

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said.

  “I didn’t get to tell Mother good-bye,” Desiree said. “We didn’t part on good terms. I’m learning to forgive her and bury my resentment.”

  Helen flashed on Kiki’s rose-covered coffin. You buried something, she thought. But it was a knife in your mother’s back.

  The waitress arrived with platters of food, most of them for Desiree. Helen caught Luke staring longingly at the crispy bacon. He didn’t look at his wife with the same hunger. Desiree poured an astonishing amount of syrup on her pancakes. The woman craved sweetness.

  Helen pushed her single egg around on her plate, too nervous to eat.

  “An actor friend used to work at that bookstore with you,” Luke said. “He said you solved a murder.”

  “He was wrong,” Helen said. “I didn’t do anything.” She didn’t want any connection with that mess.

  “We need your help.” Luke batted those long lashes and handed her a card with the couple’s phone number on it. “The police aren’t doing enough about Desiree’s mother. We thought you might know something.”

  Helen knew he wouldn’t pay her for that knowledge. Luke was a user.

  “You’re probably closer to the investigation than I am,” Helen said. “Who do you think killed Mrs. Shenrad?”

  “Well, I don’t want to say anything bad about another actor, but Jason’s behavior at the funeral was unacceptable.”

  “He was disgusting,” Desiree burst out. “He cornered me at the funeral and said it was Mother’s last wish that I give him twenty thousand dollars. Can you believe that?” Helen knew the bride was upset. She’d quit eating.

  “I can believe anything about Jason,” Helen said. “Did you tell the police?”

  “No, it was too embarrassing.”

  Embarrassing? Why would that be embarrassing? Unless lover boy’s request was blackmail. Maybe Jason had photos of the naked philanthropist getting a big contribution.

  Would Jason blackmail Desiree at her mother’s funeral? Well, the guy would have sex in a church.

  Luke’s phone rang again. He checked the number and said, “Excuse me. My agent in California. I have to take this one.” He headed outside. Desiree went back to her abandoned plate. Her bacon crunched like bones.

  This was Helen’s chance to get some information from Desiree. “It must be exciting to have your husband in a major movie,” Helen said. “I don’t know why your mother objected in the first place.”

  “I think my marriage made Mother feel old and frightened. She tried to get control any way she could.”

  Helen wondered if that soothing theory came from a shrink.

  “It’s so terribly sad that our last day together was that dreadful wedding rehearsal.” Desiree paused at this solemn thought, then attacked her bacon again. “I was humiliated by Mother’s behavior. How would you like that to be your last memory of your mother?”

  Helen had enough trouble thinking about her mother and Lawn Boy Larry. She wondered if he wore that flat cap to bed.

  “You’re not your mother,” Helen said. “You’re not responsible for
her behavior.”

  Desiree dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Was the bride so beaten down she needed a shop clerk’s good opinion? Or was she an actor, too? Helen studied the dark circles under Desiree’s eyes. The left one was slightly smeared. Desiree had enhanced her grief with makeup.

  Luke was still pacing the parking lot and talking on the phone.

  “Desiree, do you really think Jason killed your mother?”

  “I don’t know.” Desiree shifted uneasily and looked around for her husband. She was lying, Helen thought.

  “Is there anyone else you think might be the murderer?”

  “Yes,” Desiree’s eyes turned flat and mean. “Millicent.”

  “My boss? You think Millicent is a murderer?” Helen started to laugh, then saw Desiree was serious.

  Helen waited while Desiree slit three sausages. “Millicent placed that awful ad. I know she did. It was revenge. She was furious when Mother forgot her checkbook. Millicent stormed over to the rehearsal dinner.”

  Hmm. Her boss didn’t mention that.

  “She threatened Mother at the restaurant. She lured her outside, away from the other guests. I saw her.”

  Oh, boy. No wonder the police questioned Millicent. “Threatened her how?” Helen asked.

  “Millicent said if she didn’t get the check by Saturday morning, she’d rip those dresses off my bridesmaids’ backs.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much of a threat,” Helen said.

  “Then she said, ‘After all I did for you, Kiki Shenrad, you are the biggest ingrate in Broward County. I could strangle you with my bare hands.’”

  “People say things like that all the time,” Helen said.

  “But the people they threaten don’t turn up dead. Mother said she’d bring the check the morning of the wedding. Then Mother told Millicent to leave the premises immediately or she’d call the police. She left after that.”

  She’d have to, Helen thought. A police report of an altercation with a prominent customer over money would ruin Millicent.

  “I could see where she might be angry. But why would Millicent kill the woman who writes the checks?”

  “Mother always paid, but she was in no hurry,” Desiree said. “She delayed as long as she could. People with means do that. It would be faster and easier for Millicent to collect the money from Mother’s estate. But I’m going to make sure she has a very hard time. And you can tell her that.”

  Desiree pushed her empty plate aside and looked out the window. “It’s Luke. He’s waving to me. He wants me to come outside. He must have good news. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “But—” Helen said.

  Desiree threw down her napkin and ran out. She wrapped herself around Luke’s waist while he talked on the phone.

  Helen paid their bill.

  If Luke’s call was good news, he didn’t share it with Helen. Nor did the couple thank her for picking up their dinner tab. Helen guessed she should be grateful they gave her a ride home.

  As she sat in silence in the Beemer, Desiree’s accusation worked its way through Helen like a slow poison. Little distrustful memories stabbed at her: Why didn’t Millicent say that Kiki would give her a big check at the wedding? She could have left a message at Margery’s.

  Because she knew Kiki was dead, an ugly little voice whispered.

  Helen could see an enraged Millicent following Kiki to the church, waiting till Jason left, then fighting over money and smothering Kiki with the dress she wouldn’t pay for.

  Unless Jason killed her.

  Or maybe it was Desiree, the little bride with the big fake bags under her eyes. Desiree had to paint on her grief. Her husband Luke was some actor—but so was his wife.

  “I turn left off Las Olas?” Desiree said.

  “Then right,” Helen said. “It’s that big white building.”

  The Beemer pulled in front of the Coronado. Helen wished that Desiree did not know where she lived.

  As she walked to her apartment, Helen saw a shadow figure on Phil’s closed blinds. The woman swayed, swung her long hair, and sang, “You can’t divorce my heart. It’s the part that will always love you.”

  Kendra.

  Was she rehearsing—or giving Phil a private performance?

  Helen slammed the door to her apartment, but she couldn’t shut out Kendra’s song. All thoughts of murder—Kiki’s murder, anyway—vanished. She was tormented by jealousy, loss, and love.

  It’s your fault, she told herself. You drove Phil away.

  Why didn’t he tell me about her? Helen’s heart cried. She paced restlessly as the rooms grew smaller. Tonight her cozy apartment seemed claustrophobic. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t sit out by the pool. She might run into Margery and Warren, or Peggy and her policeman. Everyone had a lover but her. Even Kendra. Especially Kendra.

  Helen couldn’t stand being shut up with her thoughts. Although it was midnight, she found herself walking—no, stomping—through the dark streets. Helen knew it was foolish to wander alone in the poorly lit lanes. But she couldn’t bear the laughing couples and bright lights of Las Olas. She was too angry, and though she wouldn’t admit it, too wounded.

  Her ex had betrayed her so badly, Helen swore she’d never trust a man again. Until she met Phil and learned to love him. Then Kendra showed up and wrecked Helen’s life all over again.

  She stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. Helen stopped to wipe away her tears. Damn him. Damn all men.

  Suddenly, she was aware of footsteps behind her. Heavy footsteps, not the light click clack of heels. Someone was following her. Helen looked around the street. The bright-painted Caribbean cottages were dark. The porch lights were off. The Bahamas shutters were down. No dogs barked.

  Where was she? How many blocks had she gone?

  Helen reached in her pocket for her key ring. Her car had died, and she couldn’t afford to fix it. Now its only use was the dubious protection of a pointed car key in a stalker’s eye.

  The footsteps drew closer. She walked faster, saw a street sign, and made a quick turn toward the lights of Las Olas. They were three dark blocks away.

  “Helen!”

  She jumped. It was Phil.

  “Helen, wait up!”

  She walked faster, long-legged strides that ate up a whole sidewalk square at a time. But Phil was determined. She heard him running. Then he was beside her.

  “Helen, please! Let me talk to you.”

  Phil stepped in front of her, which was like stepping in front of a charging lioness. “Listen to me, Helen Hawthorne. I love you. I can’t live without you.”

  Then his warm lips were on hers. She felt her foolish anger dissolve.

  “I’m counting the days until Kendra’s gone,” he whispered, as he kissed her face and then her throat. She ran her fingers through his long silky hair, then down the muscles of his shoulders. He felt so strong.

  “I was wrong. I should have never let her stay with me,” Phil said. “It was the second biggest mistake of my life.”

  “What was the first?” Helen asked and was instantly sorry. Phil stopped kissing her to answer.

  “The day I married Kendra.”

  Helen wanted to go back to kissing, but she needed some answers. “How did you meet her? Kendra doesn’t seem your type.”

  “She wasn’t. But I had a long undercover assignment in Kentucky. She was the prettiest girl in town and I was lonely.”

  “So you really went undercover.”

  “I knew it was wrong when we stood at the altar,” Phil said, “but it was too late. I tried to make the marriage work, but it was hopeless. Now that she’s staying with me, it’s worse than hopeless. I’d forgotten what a slob she is. This morning, I found wet pantyhose in my shower, dirty dishes in my sink, and an open jam jar on the counter. You can’t leave food out in this climate. Now I have ants.”

  His commonplace domestic complaints gave her a little thrill.

  “I promise you that she means nothing to me,�
�� Phil said, as she let him fold her into his arms. The soft fabric of his shirt was almost like suede.

  Helen remembered that her ex-husband had said the same thing about Sandy. She kissed Phil until she smothered that memory.

  Chapter 17

  It was the morning of the lost men.

  They sat on Millicent’s gray husband couch like sailors stranded on a desert isle, dazed and bleak. Helen thought the couch cast a spell on men, sucking out their money and their hope.

  One couch castaway was in his late twenties. Mark was a lawyer who looked like he was wearing a tie even when he had on a Polo shirt. His bride, Courtney, was in butt-sprung shorts and broken-down mules. Helen wouldn’t wear that outfit to take out the trash.

  The bloom was off that rose, she thought. Helen saw the couple in twenty years, gone to seed and planted in matching recliners.

  “I haven’t given Courtney the ring yet,” Mark said. “She’s picking out the dress. I guess we have to get engaged.”

  He sounded so hopeless, Helen said, “You don’t have to. It’s not too late.”

  “I don’t have any choice,” he said.

  The bride marched out of the dressing room, flushed with triumph.

  Millicent followed with a plastic-shrouded gown. Courtney paid for the dress, then dragged her not-yet fiancé with her like a newly captured slave.

  “How do you pick out the dress before you get the ring?” Helen said when the couple left.

  Millicent was rehanging Courtney’s rejected gowns. “Are you kidding? I get brides in here who don’t have the groom yet. If a woman wants to marry, she will. She goes out and gets herself a man. Don’t believe that stuff about women waiting for the man to pop the question. In my experience, women do the picking. The smart ones let the guys think it was their idea.”

  Courtney’s quick march through the store had left a gaggle of gowns tangled on their hangers. Helen pried them apart carefully, protecting the delicate fabrics.

  “That groom sounded awfully trapped.”