The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  But Helen knew she needed more than pampering to feel better. She was weighted down with dread. Margery was right: Helen should have told the police about finding Tammie’s body. She should have never destroyed that evidence. Tammie’s killer was getting away with murder, and Helen had helped him. She was sure it was a man—Tammie’s husband, Kent. She remembered his hulking form filling the grooming-room door. He was at the salon that day. He could have stolen Jonathon’s scissors.

  Four aspirins later, Helen’s headache was still pounding. Helen had to grit her teeth to wait on a twenty-something blonde with fake boobs and a belly shirt that showed her flat stomach. On her finger was a diamond the size of a Chicken McNugget. On her arm was a white fluff muffin. At her side was a fifty-something man, barking orders.

  A trophy wife, Helen decided, with a demanding husband. He was a generic businessman with a seventy-dollar haircut, a gray suit, and bulldog jowls.

  “Come on,” the man said. “Let’s go. How much more of my money can you spend in here?”

  Mr. Charm, Helen thought. He’d just reminded his wife who had the bucks.

  “Now, sweetie, remember what you promised,” Mrs. Trophy said softly, as she covered the counter with five hundred dollars’ worth of dog statues, Christmas ornaments, and needlepoint pillows, all immortalizing her silent white bichon.

  “And remember what you promised,” the husband said. “You better get that ass into bed as soon as we get home.”

  The guy wasn’t housebroken, Helen thought.

  “This dog saved my life, you know what I mean?” the woman whispered to Helen, as she hugged the fluffy little bichon. “He’s a great dog. He goes where I want and never says anything.”

  “Come on,” her husband barked. “I want to go. Now.”

  “Just let me buy this leash,” Mrs. Trophy said. “It’s for special occasions.” She quickly piled a rhinestone leash, a candy-striped pet caddy, and two designer food bowls with a matching stand on the counter. Another five hundred dollars in a single sweep.

  Was the money worth it? Helen wondered as she rang up the woman’s purchases. In my old St. Louis life, I could have spent a thousand dollars on trifles, just like Mrs. Trophy. All I had to do was shut my eyes to my unfaithful husband. But I couldn’t.

  Helen studied the stress lines around the woman’s frantic eyes and frightened mouth. I worry about paying my rent, but I still don’t think I’d trade places with you, she thought.

  Her husband stood at the store door. “Get your ass out here. Now,” he said. He stalked outside, slamming the door. The bell jangled. The blonde grabbed her shopping bags and trotted after her man, clutching her white dog. The black-eyed bichon was silent as a ghost.

  Helen wiped down the door after she left, as if she could erase the woman’s desperation.

  “What is it about useless little women and their useless little dogs?” Helen said.

  “You’re in a mood today,” Jeff said. “You need to understand the difference between little-dog and big-dog people. Little dogs are babies. Big dogs are adults. They’re buddies. You can have a beer and watch a movie with a big dog.

  “Little dogs stay babies twelve or fourteen years. You can pick them up and carry them. You can hold them in your arms. They won’t grow up and turn into teenagers. They don’t go off to college. They stay babies until the day they die—and then you carry them to the vet for the final time.”

  Helen shuddered. “What about us cat people?”

  “You are another breed altogether.” Jeff, tactful as ever, would say no more.

  Shortly before noon, a small woman in a smart black suit clattered in on Gucci heels. She was about sixty, with the delicate bones of the overdieted. She carried a matching Gucci pet caddy.

  “I’m Mrs. Mellman,” she said. “Jeff called me about the abandoned Yorkie. I said it was too soon for me to adopt another dog. My Yorkie, Gucci, has only been dead two months. But Jeff said my Prince had come, and I couldn’t be in mourning when another doggie needed me.”

  “He does, Mrs. Mellman,” Helen said. “Can you hear him?”

  Prince let loose another heartrending howl.

  “He’s so sad,” Mrs. Mellman said.

  “Not for long,” Helen said. “I’ll get him for you.”

  Todd had brushed the Yorkie’s coat and put in a fresh blue bow. “Now he’s ready for his new home,” the handsome young groomer said. He gave the dog a kiss on the nose.

  Helen thanked him. She noticed that Todd had reclaimed his prized spot in the grooming room. There was no sign of the temperamental star, Jonathon.

  “OK, Prince, this is your chance,” she whispered. “Play it right, old boy, and you’ll never see Kent again. I’ll make sure you live on filet forever.”

  Helen thought the Yorkie might actually understand what she was saying. He still looked sorrowful, but he held his head a little higher. Helen carried him out to the counter.

  “Oh, you are a Prince indeed,” Mrs. Mellman said. The little dog managed a weak tail wag and a whimper. Mrs. Mellman reached for him. Prince settled regally into the crook of her arm. She patted his well-groomed coat.

  “He only eats filet, and he has to be hand-fed,” Helen said. Mrs. Mellman nodded. She would glory in Prince’s demands.

  “It’s love at first sight,” Jeff said. “See, I was right, Mrs. Mellman. Your Gucci wouldn’t want you to wall yourself away. You have too much love to give, and Prince needs you. Here are a few gifts for your new baby.” Jeff handed her a beribboned bag of toys and bonbons.

  Helen threw in a package of turkey jerky. “This is his favorite treat,” she said. “He needs at least one a day.”

  Prince stared at her with knowing eyes, but said nothing. Gratitude was for lesser animals. He was royalty.

  CHAPTER 9

  The woman wore her boredom like an expensive perfume. She seemed to issue a challenge when she walked into the Pampered Pet: Amuse me. But I know you’ll fail.

  She looked like Paris Hilton thirty years later. Her blond hair was long and dyed. Her lips were puffed with collagen. Her fake breasts bulged out of an underwire bra. Her eyes had been done and her forehead Botoxed, but nothing could remove her world-weary expression.

  Jeff pushed Helen out on the floor. “That’s Lucinda,” he said. “Go wait on her. She’s a trip.” Helen didn’t like the sly grin on his face.

  “Hi,” Helen said. “May I help you?”

  Lucinda’s eyes flicked over Helen, but she said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her clothes shrieked money. Her skimpy sundress cost more per square inch than water-front real estate. Helen saw no sign of a rich husband, not even a wedding ring. Lucinda was escorted by a respectful young man with innocent eyes and a peach-fuzz complexion.

  That’s nice, Helen thought. Her son is home from college.

  Lucinda rummaged silently through the racks of dog collars. She picked out one suitable for a junkyard dog. It was wide black leather with metal studs.

  At last Lucinda spoke. “I want a dog collar. For him.” She pointed to the young man.

  So much for sonny boy’s innocent eyes. Helen didn’t know what to say. She’d never sold a dog collar for a human. She didn’t know what size the guy wore. Dog collars were measured in inches, and she wasn’t about to ask how many inches he was.

  Jeff took over from the flummoxed Helen. “No, no, Lucinda,” he said. “Everyone buys that. You want this one.” Jeff picked out a black leather collar with chrome disks. Lucinda bought it and left without another word, her boy toy obediently loping alongside her.

  “What was that?” Helen said.

  “Lucinda is richer than God and wicked as the devil,” Jeff said. “She’s an education.”

  “Do I want to know these things?” Helen said.

  “They could come in handy.” Jeff’s words would prove prophetic, but Helen didn’t listen to him.

  After a rocky morning, the store was nearly back to normal. Jeff had jangled his nerves with thre
e monster mugs of coffee. Now he was eating comfort food: a giant pot-roast sandwich, which he hid behind the cash register when customers came in. People didn’t see it, but their dogs sniffed it out and headed straight for the counter, tails wagging. Jeff had to buy them off with cheese-and-bacon treats.

  Lulu was dressed and working the room. She sauntered through the store modeling a fake-fur coat in hot pink. Her nails were painted rose. Helen’s own winter coat was a sensible black and five years old. Her nails were chipped.

  I wish I had a dog’s life, she thought.

  Todd was in the back room, grooming and kissing his dogs. Only Jonathon was missing. Jeff had to call and cancel the star’s grooming sessions for the day. He offered to reschedule their dogs with Todd, but most of the regulars said no. They wanted Jonathon or nobody.

  “Is Jonathon OK?” Helen said.

  “He’s recovering,” Jeff said. “The police questioned him for hours yesterday. He was too exhausted to come into work. I told him to take the day off.”

  Helen was gripped with guilt and fear. The cops had grilled Jonathon like a backyard barbecue. What would they do if they found out she’d lied? They won’t, she told herself. They were too busy questioning the wrong people, like Jonathon. She was safe. So why didn’t she feel safe?

  “How can the police go after Jonathon? Tammie’s husband killed her,” Helen said. “It’s obvious. You heard Kent. His wife was murdered, and all he cared about was whether he could use the pool. Then he wanted to kill her little dog. The man is heartless. We should tell the police.”

  “Tell them what?” Jeff said. “That Kent didn’t want his wife’s dog? Do you think Detective Crayton would want a foo-foo dog? He’d probably send Prince to the pound, too.”

  “But it makes no sense. Why would Jonathon kill Tammie? He wouldn’t murder her because she barged into the grooming room.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Jeff said. “But the police keep asking me questions about Jonathon’s missing grooming shears. The ten-inch ones. The detectives were in here this morning, before the store opened. This time they wanted to know if Jonathon had reported their loss to me.”

  “Tammie was stabbed in the chest with grooming shears,” Helen said, then quickly shut her mouth before she spilled more. What a babbling idiot I am, she thought. I’m not supposed to know that the scissors were the murder weapon—or where Tammie was stabbed. Jeff will know I saw the body.

  “That’s my guess, too,” Jeff said.

  Helen breathed a little sigh of relief. Jeff hadn’t noticed her slip.

  “Someone is trying to frame him,” Jeff said.

  “So what did you tell the police? Did Jonathon mention that he was missing his scissors?” Helen said.

  “No,” Jeff said. “But he was busy.”

  If he was busy, Helen wondered, wouldn’t he need his ten-inch scissors? But that was a question she couldn’t ask. She didn’t want to ask it. She didn’t want Jonathon to be the murderer.

  “Kent stole them,” she said. “He heard the whole fight. He was there. I saw him standing in the doorway. He could have slipped in and taken the scissors and none of us would have noticed him.”

  Jeff pulled out the pot-roast sandwich and began munching. Once again, Helen realized she’d missed lunch. Her stomach growled. Jeff didn’t notice that, either.

  “The police also asked me if he’d ever shown any violent behavior,” Jeff said, taking a big bite. The sandwich dripped warm gravy. Helen wanted to lunge over the counter and grab it. “I think the cops may have heard the stories that he killed the man in Miami.”

  “Wasn’t it self-defense?” Helen said. She couldn’t believe the theatrical Jonathon was a killer. It wasn’t his style, and Jonathon was all about style. She liked his retro disco suits and platform shoes. The world would be a dull place if all men wore Ralph Lauren and ate pot roast.

  “Yeah, but a gay guy is easier to arrest and convict,” Jeff said, taking another bite of the boundless sandwich. “How do you think a flamer like Jonathon would do with a jury?”

  Badly, Helen thought. South Florida, for all its wild ways, could turn suddenly conservative. Get a Bible-thumping jury and he’d be convicted for his ungodly lifestyle. But she didn’t say it. Jeff had enough worries.

  “The police haven’t arrested Jonathon,” Helen said. “They’re still investigating. They could be targeting the husband. The detectives have to ask Jonathon those questions. It’s their job.”

  “But are they any good at it?” Jeff said. “Stately Palms isn’t a city like Fort Lauderdale. They’re not going to hire young hotshot detectives. They’ll pick up a few tired old retirees from up north who don’t want to work too hard.”

  “You don’t know that,” Helen said. “They might have experienced detectives who got sick of the politics in some cold city.”

  “Is that how Crayton struck you—a good detective? Or that other one, McGoogan, the guy who twitched the whole time?”

  Jeff had a point. “Do you know anyone in Stately Palms who could give you some inside information about the investigation?” Helen said, steering the subject to a less worrisome area.

  “Not a soul,” Jeff said. “If it were here in Wakefield Manor, I’d know in a heartbeat. There’s the cutest sergeant on the force, and he comes in here with his rottweiler, Dixie. Buys bags of organic chow. But I don’t know anyone who can help us at Stately Palms.”

  I do, Helen thought. Phil would make some inquiries if I asked him. He has the law enforcement contacts. But he’s in Washington now. And I didn’t tell him about Tammie’s murder when he called last night. So what do I say now? By the way, Phil, I forgot to mention it, but I found a body.

  “I’m sure the police have a long list of suspects to check,” Helen said. She wasn’t sure at all.

  “I hope so,” Jeff said. “I hate to sound selfish, but I don’t want to be known as the grooming shop that hired a murderer.”

  “Maybe it will be good for business,” Helen said. “You know what they say, ‘No publicity is bad publicity, as long as they spell your name right.’ ”

  The phone rang. Jeff stashed his sandwich and took the call in the back room. He came back five minutes later, pale and shaken. “That was Willoughby’s attorney. Barkley is still missing. The police talked with the husband, but he denied being in the store.

  “Willoughby is going to file suit Monday. Her attorney claims his client lost a valuable dog because of our carelessness and incompetence. We’re being sued for the value of the dog, plus her lost income. She wants . . .” Jeff stopped and took a deep breath. He could hardly get the words out. “Fifty million.”

  “Dollars?” Helen said. What else would it be? Monopoly money?

  Jeff nodded. It was all he could manage. He pulled out the monster pot-roast sandwich and held it. Maybe its warm weight was comforting.

  Fifty million dollars. The sum was staggering. The suit would swallow Jeff’s store and leave him with nothing, not even a bone. Helen appreciated the fact that Jeff said “our carelessness.” He was generously sharing the blame, she thought. Jeff did take the call from the husband. But I gave that dog to Francis. At least I think it was Francis. Now a sweet little pup was facing possible destruction—and so was Jeff.

  “We might survive a killer groomer, but we can’t lose a dog,” Jeff said. Helen thought there were tears in his brown eyes. “Our customers won’t trust their precious babies to us again. This is like losing a child. When this story hits the news, I’m ruined.”

  “You mean it hasn’t yet?” Helen was surprised.

  “No. Willoughby has managed to hush it up so far. She told the Davis department stores that the dog has an upset stomach. It will buy her some time. She knows they’ll cancel her contract at the first sign of trouble. The publicity would ruin Barkley’s career. But the dog has to show up for that shoot on Monday or else. It’s only a matter of time before the story breaks. Willoughby is afraid her vengeful husband might blow the whistle. When th
e suit is splashed all over the media on Monday, I’m dead. There’s nothing I can do to stop this disaster.”

  “Sure there is,” Helen said. “You worked all morning to rescue Prince. You can figure out some way to save yourself.”

  “This is different. I don’t know how to fight this. It’s hopeless,” Jeff said. His shoulders slumped. The pot-roast sandwich sat untouched by his side.

  Helen wanted to say, If you won’t try to save yourself, I will. But that would sound silly. She said nothing. But she had a plan. She slipped into the back room and made a phone call.

  When she came back out, Lulu was on the counter, eating the pot-roast sandwich. Jeff didn’t notice.

  He was staring at his boutique as if it might disappear.

  CHAPTER 10

  The hammering was like nails being driven into a hundred coffins. It came with the hellish shriek of electric saws. The sound never stopped. People were boarding up their windows. They hoped for salvation from the hurricane. But they didn’t know if their buildings would survive. The hurricane heading for Fort Lauderdale could be the big one.

  Floridians lived in a hurricane zone. They knew someday a storm could destroy their lives. But it was like the certainty of their own deaths. It would happen someday, later.

  Now the inevitable was coming tomorrow. The TV weather maps showed the hurricane as a pulsing red blob bigger than the whole state. This mass of destruction was aimed at Florida’s Atlantic coast.

  Helen had no doubt now that a hurricane was on the way. Strangely dark clouds scudded across the sky. The air felt like warm, wet cotton pressed against her face, but there was cold under the smothering heat. She shivered. The hurricane was supposed to hit about eight o’clock tomorrow night.

  That was twenty-eight hours away. Helen had work to do if she was going to save Jeff’s shop—and herself. Any publicity on the dognapping would be fatal. Her ex-husband would find her for sure.

  After she got off work at four p.m., Helen began phase one of her plan. She headed for Willoughby Barclay’s house. She was going to throw herself on the woman’s mercy. She knew it would be a stony surface.