by Elaine Viets
“Where was that?”
“The Grimsby home in Stately Palms.”
The house with the dead body, Helen thought. She wished Brogers would stop. She was too frightened to think straight.
“When did you return?” he asked.
“About four thirty.” After I found the murdered woman, destroyed evidence, and left the scene of the crime, she thought. Helen could feel herself flushing.
“Did you ask for any ID when the husband picked up the dog?”
“Why would I? He was the dog’s owner.”
“You didn’t check the computer for Mrs. Barclay’s message?”
“There was no message,” Helen said. “It would have popped up on the screen when I rang up the grooming fee.”
“Unless you erased it,” Ted Brogers said. His eyes grew suddenly hard. “How much do you make an hour, Miz Haggard?”
Helen didn’t tell him that her name was Hawthorne. “Six dollars and seventy cents,” she said.
“Francis didn’t offer you a little bonus to keep the dog in a safe place, maybe give the wife a scare?”
“I would never do that,” she said.
“Then you should be more careful who you give your dogs to.”
“I—” Helen started to say, then stopped herself. She couldn’t afford to argue with Brogers. “I will,” she finished. She was furious and frightened.
Helen hung around outside the stockroom while Brogers questioned Todd and Jonathon. A curtain divided the room from the boutique, and she could hear everything. The two groomers knew nothing about Barkley’s disappearance. They’d been working on the dogs in the back room. They both denied taking any call from Willoughby instructing the shop not to give the dog to her husband. Brogers gave them both his card and said, “Call me if you remember anything useful.”
Jeff trotted in next, running his fingers through his thick brown hair. He looked so worried, Helen was afraid he might tear it out. Helen knew he blamed himself for Barkley’s disappearance.
At first Brogers sounded as if he couldn’t decide whether to treat Jeff as a Wakefield business owner or a potential dognapping conspirator. But Brogers knew who stuffed his pay envelope. He turned on the charm for Jeff. “Francis called and asked me if he could pick up the dog early. But that’s not unusual,” Jeff said.
“Of course not,” Brogers said. The detective even slapped Jeff on the back as they walked out to the front of the store, where Willoughby was waiting.
“This sounds like a marital misunderstanding,” the detective told Willoughby. “Don’t you worry now. I’ll drop by Francis’s place and have a little talk with him.”
Willoughby gave him another grateful smile and Helen another glare. Detective Brogers escorted Barkley’s owner to her car, as if he expected attackers to be lurking in the lot. Helen and Jeff watched Willoughby walk across the parking lot, her pink purse swinging at her side.
“She’s going to sue,” Jeff said.
“How can she?” Helen said. “You didn’t know she was in a custody fight with Francis. She should have given you the instructions about her dog in writing.”
“It won’t make any difference,” Jeff said. “This has been my nightmare. I’ve been afraid something like this would happen, and now it has—and with our most high-profile pup. Willoughby will sue. Her kind always do. The publicity will kill my store. I’ll lose everything I worked for.”
Publicity? Oh, Lord, Jeff was right. This story was made for the media. Hour after hour, they would run clips from Barkley’s commercials. Helen’s name would be all over the TV. She was the idiot who’d handed over the priceless pup.
That would be the end of her life in Florida. Helen’s ex-husband would find her, and so would the court. She could see herself in handcuffs, heading for St. Louis. She hoped the police would cuff her hands in front, not in back. The trip would be more comfortable that way.
There had to be some way to hold back the flood of publicity, before they all drowned.
“Why don’t you talk to Willoughby? Tell her you need time to find the dog. Ask her for mercy,” Helen said.
“There is no mercy in that woman,” Jeff said.
CHAPTER 6
Friends help you move. Real friends help you move the body. Helen had seen that on a T-shirt once. She wasn’t sure if Margery Flax would help her hide a body. But Helen could tell her landlady that she’d found a dead woman.
Still, it took two glasses of wine before Helen got up the nerve—and it took nerve to drink that much box wine. Margery bought the stuff at the Winn-Dixie supermarket. The wine didn’t have a vintage year. It had an expiration date. It didn’t claim any connection to a grape. WHITE WINE was all the cardboard box said. It had a spigot for easy guzzling. But it was cold, wet, and had alcohol in it, and right now that was what she needed.
By the second glass, Helen was nicely numb. She and Margery were sitting out by the pool at the Coronado Tropic Apartments on a warm September evening. The two-story white stucco building rose like an iceberg above a sea of palm trees. The window air conditioners rattled their night song. The sunset-streaked pool glowed pink, like the inside of a seashell. Usually Helen found that romantic. Tonight it gave her the creeps. She kept seeing Tammie’s pool and her dead body.
“So you found the Yorkie’s owner out by the pool,” Margery said, “and she was definitely naked and dead.”
“Real dead.” Helen took a gulp of wine and waited for its woozy warmth before she continued. “There were flies crawling on her legs. The scissors were driven deep into her chest. It was awful, even if there wasn’t much blood.”
“The scissors probably plugged it up,” Margery said. “Must have been a shock finding her like that. Did you have to sit down before you called the police?”
“I didn’t sit. I ran. I took Tammie’s bathrobe, wiped down the door with it, picked up the Yorkie, and took off.”
“That was dumb,” Margery said. “Cops are like dogs. They chase whatever runs.”
It’s true, Helen thought. They came after me when I fled St. Louis. My sister said the police questioned her about where I might go, but Kathy didn’t know. How could she? I didn’t know, either, until I got here.
For months Helen had zigzagged wildly around the country before she ended up in South Florida. Helen had never wanted to live in Fort Lauderdale. She didn’t have the fond memories of childhood vacations that lured so many people to settle in Florida. But it turned out to be the perfect place for her. Florida accepted everyone from snowbirds to serial killers. Local etiquette said you never asked anyone where they were from and you never questioned anything they said about their past. Maybe the old guy with the six grandchildren and the marinara sauce bubbling on his stove really had been an accountant up in New Jersey, just like he said. It wasn’t polite—or healthy—to pry.
Helen wondered how Margery got her view of the police. Her landlady didn’t look like the seventy-six-year-olds Helen knew in St. Louis—not in her tie-dyed shorts and gauzy purple top. Helen wished she had Margery’s straw huaraches. Her face was wrinkled as a flophouse sheet, but Margery had style. She lit a Marlboro and puffed on it like an actress in a forties movie, while she considered Helen’s dilemma.
“You panicked and ran. It’s understandable, but the police are going to find you,” Margery said. Smoke curled around her like wisps from a sacrifice. She looked like an ancient priestess predicting the future. In Helen’s case, the news was bad.
“I don’t think so,” Helen said. “I was careful. I wiped everything down. Anyway, no one notices me. I’m a servant.”
“Are you kidding? How did you get to Tammie’s house? You don’t have a car.”
Helen couldn’t afford one with the money she made in her dead-end job. Somewhere in Kansas, she’d traded in her nearly new Lexus for what turned out to be a junker in disguise. If Helen ever got back that way, she’d pay that used-car salesman a little visit. She’d like to give him a free alignment. Or maybe not. Whe
n the heap died in Fort Lauderdale, she’d found Margery and the Coronado. The crook did her a favor.
“Were you driving that pink pimpmobile?” Margery said.
“It’s the Pupmobile,” Helen said.
“I was right the first time. Even a blind man can see that thing.” Margery tapped her cigarette on the edge of the chaise. Helen watched the glowing embers blow in the breeze like tiny fireflies.
“Someone had to see you at Tammie’s house, and that someone will tell the cops. Make it easy on yourself. Call the police right now. I haven’t seen the story on the TV news yet. You’ve still got a chance. If you let them know before they find it out from somewhere else, it will look a lot better. Tell them you were afraid and you ran. They’ll give you a lecture and let you go.”
“I don’t like talking to the police,” Helen said. What if her picture was on some yellowing “Be on the lookout for” bulletin at the station? She didn’t think she was important enough for a national search, but she didn’t know and she didn’t want to take the chance. Cops had sharp eyes and long memories.
“Who does?” Margery said. “I don’t like talking to the cops, either.”
Seventy-six-year-old women never said that in St. Louis, Helen thought.
“Listen, I know a criminal lawyer—there’s a redundancy for you—named Colby Cox.” Margery took a lung-busting pull on her cigarette. “Colby’s a good old girl, and she owes me a favor. I’ll get her to go with you when you talk to the police.”
Does your lawyer friend know anything about extradition to another state? Helen wanted to ask, but she didn’t have the courage. Margery didn’t know her whole story. No one did but her sister, Kathy. Even Helen’s mother didn’t know where she lived now. Helen couldn’t trust Dolores not to rat out her own daughter to Rob, her ex-husband.
Margery knew Helen was avoiding her ex. Helen had given her the impression, without actually saying it, that Rob had beaten her and she’d run from him. She’d never mentioned the part about the court being after her. Helen didn’t know how much her landlady had figured out.
“I’ll be fine, Margery,” Helen said. “I had a reason to be at Tammie’s house. I was delivering a dog, remember?”
“How long were you there?” Margery asked.
“I don’t know, maybe five or ten minutes,” Helen said. Margery’s questions made her uneasy. She took another sip of wine. This time it brought her no comfort, no welcome rush of warmth. She had a sick, sour feeling in her stomach.
“It only takes a few seconds to stick scissors in Tammie’s chest,” Margery said. She was relentless. If her landlady interrogated her like this, what would the police be like? Helen knew she’d fold and confess everything.
“Why would I kill her?” Helen said.
“The cops will find a reason,” Margery said. “They’ll go after you for sure. If they catch you lying, they’ll be really pissed. They’ll throw you in jail for the hell of it. You need help. If you won’t use Colby, why don’t you call Phil? He’s a trained investigator.”
Phil. The man next door had turned into Helen’s dream lover. She felt a warm rush when she thought of him, and it wasn’t from the wine. She’d seen Phil three nights ago. All night.
“He’s in Washington,” Helen said.
“Is he working undercover again?” Margery asked.
Helen remembered what they’d done between his black silk sheets and blushed. She hoped Margery couldn’t see her face in the gathering dusk.
“No,” Helen said. “It’s a business trip.”
“Then you need to call him. He has the law-enforcement contacts. He can help you.”
“I can help myself,” Helen said. She had her pride. She wasn’t going to run whining to Phil. “I’m not one of those weak women who has to ask a man for help.”
“Strong women know their limitations,” Margery said. She stubbed out the cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray, but said nothing more. Her silence sounded like an accusation.
Helen was glad when she heard a rustling near the bougainvillea. Another Coronado resident was walking toward them. It was Peggy, with Pete the parrot on her shoulder. Peggy was as slender and elegant as a wading bird, with a splendid beak of a nose and a crest of red hair. Pete, her green Quaker parrot, was a tad on the tubby side. Peggy had him on a diet. Instead of the cashews he craved, the little bird sat on Peggy’s shoulder and resentfully crunched a celery stick. Margery had a no-pets policy, so Helen politely ignored Pete.
“Did you see the news?” Peggy said. “There’s a category-three hurricane due to land in two days. It’s supposed to be headed straight for South Florida. They think it might hit Lauderdale hard this time.”
The evening sky was a glorious show of peach and hot pink. It looked peaceful as a painting. A light breeze stirred the palm trees.
“I can’t believe a major storm is coming,” Helen said. “It’s so quiet.”
“Hear that?” Peggy said. “Someone believes the weathercasters.” The ominous sound carried on the evening air—hammers pounding on plywood. Floridians had started boarding up their homes.
“I know there’s a hurricane coming,” Margery said. “I can see it in my dancing tree. It’s my storm indicator. Look at it, over by the pool gate.”
All the Coronado trees were bending in the breeze. But one palm tree was whipping around in weird circles.
“That circular movement is the first sign of a hurricane,” Margery said. “It will get worse as the storm gets closer, until that tree is doing the shimmy and the others are bent flat. I’d better clip those coconuts tomorrow. They go through windows like cannonballs.”
There was another uncomfortable silence while everyone imagined what the Coronado would look like after a hurricane. Pete the parrot moved restlessly along Peggy’s shoulder, mumbling to himself. Helen wondered if he hated his diet, or if he could feel the approaching storm. Peggy petted him with one finger until he settled down.
Margery lit another cigarette, then said, “I’ve rented apartment 2C.”
“Awwk!” Pete said. Peggy and Helen groaned.
“Which crook do you have in there now?” Peggy said.
The apartment was notorious for attracting scam artists. No matter how much Margery checked out the tenants, they were always involved in something shady.
“They’re not crooks,” she said. “I have two women. Grown-ups, in their fifties. Good, responsible tenants with references. They clean houses free for older people. They work for a foundation that benefits seniors.”
“Oh, no, not more do-gooders,” Helen said. They’d lived with a sanctimonious couple who turned out to scam mom-and-pop businesses.
“No, these two are legit,” Margery said. “I even called their organization and talked with the director. They’re paid by the foundation to clean homes for seniors. Keeps older people independent and out of the institutions.”
“Are they going to clean your house?” Helen said.
Margery bristled. “I’m not that old. I can take care of myself.”
Oops, Helen thought. I’ve stepped in it this time.
“Do they drink?” Peggy said quickly. A previous pair of teetotalers in 2C had been a real pain.
“Yes. I made sure. They like booze. They also smoke,” Margery said. “They’re not on bizarre diets and don’t belong to any cults. They dress like normal people.”
“That will make them weird down here,” Helen said.
“I mean normal for South Florida. They wear shorts to everything but funerals.”
“Sounds like you’ve finally picked some winners,” Peggy said, and Pete squawked his approval.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this pair,” Margery said. Her cell phone rang. She snapped it open and answered it.
“I should have known,” she said, smiling. “No, no problem, Phil. I don’t mind being Helen’s answering service if I get to talk to you.”
Margery grinned wickedly, and handed the phone to Helen. She s
trolled into the far reaches of the yard, away from her flirtatious landlady.
“Hi,” Phil said. His voice was flat.
“You sound tired,” Helen said.
“I am,” Phil said. “I was in meetings all day. I have to be up at four thirty tomorrow morning. I wanted to crash, but I couldn’t sleep until I told you good night.”
Helen wished he were there with her. She could feel his slightly scratchy beard on her skin, and that small tender spot at the base of his neck, and his long, soft hair. Rock-star hair, shoulder length and stark white, worn in a ponytail. It set off his startling blue eyes.
“I miss you already,” Helen said. This was no time to mention Tammie’s murder, she told herself. The man was dead tired. It would be selfish to dump her problems on him tonight.
“I love you,” Phil said.
“And I love you,” Helen said.
When he hung up, Helen was filled with regret. She should have said something. She should have told him about Tammie. She could argue that she kept quiet for Phil’s sake, but she knew better.
Her omission felt like a lie.
CHAPTER 7
Helen hated it when she got a hangover before she went to bed. She’d had two glasses of box wine on an empty stomach. Now demons pounded her head with pointed hammers and ran through her stomach in iron shoes. Her skin felt coated with chicken fat.
A mosquito stung her as Helen made her way back through the wind-shifting shrubbery to the pool, where Margery and Peggy were sitting.
Maybe she didn’t have the wine flu, she thought, as she rubbed at her bitten arm. Maybe she felt this way because she’d found a dead woman. Or she’d been dragged into a dog custody fight.
Maybe, whispered one of those iron-shod demons, it’s because you lied to the man you love.
I didn’t lie, Helen nearly shouted to no one.
Deliberately misled, whispered the little demon, and kicked her in the gut.
“Thanks for letting me talk to Phil,” Helen said, as she handed Margery her phone. “That’s the only good thing that’s happened to me today.”
“You look like forty miles of bad road. You need some food,” Margery said. “Let me fix you a sandwich.”
