by Elaine Viets
The announcer looked strained from having to deliver one solemn statement after another. Helen caught the last part of his sentence. She thought he said, “Mrs. Barclay was the owner of the Davis Family Dollar department stores mascot.”
“Was?” Helen said.
On the screen there was a clip of the labradoodle pup frolicking on behalf of the store, then a formal photo of Willoughby.
“That’s Barkley’s owner! She owns the kidnapped dog,” Helen said as everyone gathered around the set. Even Margery came out of the kitchen, holding half a mangled orange.
“Mrs. Barclay was found dead in her yard by a neighbor about six this morning,” the announcer said. “At first police believed that Mrs. Barclay had been killed by a falling tree branch, but now her death is being investigated as a homicide.”
“Oh, Lord,” Margery said.
“Very sad. She was so young,” Elsie said in her fluttery voice. “And now she’s dead.”
Thank God, Helen thought, but she didn’t blurt that out. She felt a sudden selfish surge of relief.
“There won’t be any lawsuit,” Helen said. “My troubles are over.”
“Wrong,” Margery said. “Your troubles have just begun. You’re now the chief suspect.”
CHAPTER 18
Lulu wore a gold Lurex turtleneck and gold nail polish. “Now that the hurricane is over, you’re putting on the dog, Miss Lulu,” Helen said.
The low-slung hound strutted around the store as if she were at a cocktail party, greeting her guests. The customers did everything but worship Lulu. They definitely bowed down to her.
“What a sweet doggie-woggie,” a twenty-something brunette said. She had a jaunty ponytail and a white halter that said TROUBLE. Helen thought Lulu should add that item to her wardrobe.
Ms. Trouble got down on her knees to scratch Lulu. “You are the cootest doggie,” she said.
She sounded like she was possessed by the ghost of Elmer Fudd. Why did people talk to dogs that way? Helen stayed on the other side of the room, restocking the shelves. Baby talk made her throw up. Helen wouldn’t admit it, but she felt sad and sour after her fight with Phil. It didn’t help that she knew she was wrong.
The boutique bell rang and a man with florid white hair and a forceful gut entered the shop. “Hew-wo, widdle doggie,” he said.
Helen froze. She recognized that voice. She peered out from behind a stack of dog-food sacks. Ted Brogers, pet detective, was cooing to Lulu. “Aren’t you a booful li’l girl?”
Lulu lapped it up. She pranced for the red-faced detective, showing off her gold manicure. Helen decided to slip into the stockroom. Suddenly the golden girl turned and planted herself in front of Helen, blocking her escape. Lulu’s gold clothes and nail polish glittered and winked at her.
You gave me up, you gold-plated bitch, Helen thought.
Lulu wagged her treacherous tail.
Where the heck was Jeff? Helen needed him here. Jonathon and Todd were busy grooming dogs. They couldn’t hear anything over the screaming hair dryers.
Helen put on an uneasy smile for Detective Brogers and tried for chitchat. “I see you survived the hurricane,” she said.
“I did,” he said. “But someone else didn’t. Another dog lover.”
“Willoughby Barclay is dead,” Helen said, then added quickly, “I saw it on TV.”
“She isn’t dead,” Brogers said. “She was murdered. It was brutal. Mrs. Barclay was a nice woman. She didn’t deserve to die that way.”
“It’s very sad,” Helen said. “But I didn’t realize you did homicides. I thought you handled lost-dog cases.” The words seemed to run out of her mouth, the way roaches scurried out of a kitchen when you flipped on the light. Nice move, Helen told herself. Always insult a cop.
Detective Brogers puffed out his chest with self-importance. “I investigate major crimes. Barkley is a valuable dog. Now her owner is a homicide victim. It’s still the same case.”
Helen could see Ms. Trouble, the ponytailed brunette, sidle in closer to listen. She was one aisle away, pretending to study the needlepoint beagle pillows.
“The victim had words with you shortly before her murder,” Brogers said. “Mrs. Barclay accused you of giving her dog to her estranged husband. She was going to sue you sideways unless you found that dog by the end of this week.”
“She was going to sue the store,” Helen said.
“Oh, no,” Brogers said. “She was suing the store, but she told me she was also suing you personally. You handed that dog to her husband. You were flirting with him. Trying to catch yourself a rich husband? I heard about your behavior in the store.”
“You heard wrong,” Helen said coldly. “That man is a creepy little bottom-feeler.” Where the heck was Jeff? Helen wondered. Why didn’t Brogers ask to talk to him?
“That’s your story now, but I know for a fact Mrs. Barclay was furious with you. She could have ruined you.”
“No! You don’t understand,” Helen said. “The last time I talked with Willoughby, she was happy with me. I discovered her husband dug his alibi out of the trash. A cleaning woman at the mall saw Francis Barclay rooting through a trash can at Sawgrass Mills Mall. That’s where he got the receipt for the Golden Calf. I called Willoughby and told her. It was a big break in the case. She was going to call you. Didn’t she?”
“No,” Brogers said. “I don’t know anything about this. Did this so-called witness actually see Mr. Barclay with a receipt from that restaurant?”
“No, but—”
“Do you have the witness’s address and phone number?”
“No, but—”
“Do you even know her name?”
“No, but—”
“Do you know where you were between four and six the night of the hurricane?”
Helen stopped, startled. Detective Brogers was asking for her alibi. “Yes,” she said. “I was here at the store. Locked in a cage.” Helen told him the story. It sounded stupid, even to her. Ms. Trouble leaned in so hard to listen, she nearly snagged her ponytail on a shelf.
“Can you prove you were at the store during that time?” Brogers asked.
“Three people drove over here to rescue me when I didn’t come home,” Helen said. “The owner, Jeff Barker, showed up with my landlady, Margery Flax, and my boyfriend, Phil. They got here about six fifteen. They saw me trapped in that cage. It was padlocked.”
“All that proves is that you were in a cage when they arrived,” the detective said. “You had time to murder the victim, run back to the store, and lock yourself in for an alibi.”
“That’s crazy,” Helen said.
“Is it?” said the detective. “Why would anyone bother locking you in a cage? That’s even crazier.”
“It wasn’t crazy at all. The prowler”—Helen thought of the figure in the rustling rain slicker as a man, even though it could have been a woman—“could have killed me, but he didn’t. He wanted me locked up, alive and alone.”
“You’re the person who benefited most from the victim’s death,” Detective Brogers said.
Jeff benefited more than I did, Helen wanted to say. He has money and a business. It took all her strength not to shout that at Brogers, but she wouldn’t sell out her boss. Jeff had been good to her. But where was he? She needed him. He’d know what to say. Soothing words were his specialty.
“What about her husband, Francis?” Helen’s voice was shrill. Ms. Trouble jumped back, alarmed by Helen’s raised voice.
“He was fighting the issue in court. He didn’t have to kill his wife. He was using lawyers for his weapons,” Brogers said. “Mr. Barclay had a good chance of winning, too, according to his attorneys. All he had to do was sit tight and he’d get the dog back—or half of it—and Barkley makes enough money for two.”
“But he stole that dog,” Helen said.
“You’d better watch what you say. I personally searched Mr. Barclay’s condo and never saw any sign of a dog. But I did see Mrs. Barclay blami
ng you for giving her dog to a kidnapper. She was going to sue you for carelessness. She said so right in this store.”
“She didn’t mean it!” Helen said.
“She sounded serious to me,” Brogers said. “You don’t look like the sort of person who can afford lawyers, Miss Hawthorne. But you don’t have to worry about that now, do you? With Mrs. Barclay dead, the lawsuit went away. Very convenient.”
“You think I killed Willoughby? That’s nuts,” Helen said.
“Is it? Like I said, it doesn’t sound as crazy as your cage story. I’ll be back, Miss Hawthorne. You can count on it.”
Ms. Trouble backed up, then leaped over Lulu in her dash for the door. Her ponytail bobbed like a racehorse’s tail. Ms. Trouble was running from Helen, the hurricane killer. Lulu followed Detective Brogers to the door, her tail wagging.
Helen couldn’t move. Now she knew who was in that rustling rain slicker—Willoughby’s killer. He’d locked Helen in that cage for a reason. He wanted her to take the blame.
It worked. Helen had no alibi for the crucial time of Willoughby’s murder. She was sure the cop didn’t believe her story about the cage. She hardly believed it herself.
But who killed Willoughby? Was it her husband, Francis, or someone else? Margery was right: Willoughby’s death made everything twice as bad. This wasn’t about a missing dog anymore. She was in the middle of another murder. Her only break was that Tammie’s murder had been pushed out of the news by the hurricane. So far, the detectives in the two separate investigations hadn’t made the connection that the two rich dead women had been customers at this store. Worse, both had had screaming battles here before they were killed. And Helen was involved.
But so was Jonathon. Helen remembered what Elsie had told her at the hurricane party. Maybe she could find some tactful way to ask him. “Hey, Jonathon, that woman you’re accused of killing—did you know her back in Tampa when she was Wanda and you were someone else? And by the way, did you blind a show dog?”
Jeff came through the front door, smiling. His teeth were white as sugar cubes. His thick dark hair hung down over one eye, giving him a sultry look. Had Jeff been flirting with someone in the parking lot?
“Hi,” he said. “Anything happen while I was gone?”
“Nothing much,” Helen said. “A cop accused me of murdering Willoughby, but that’s all.”
“Is that a joke?” Jeff asked.
Helen told him the whole story. Jeff rubbed his head and groaned. “And Brogers was harassing you in front of our customers?”
“Oh, yeah,” Helen said. “He all but accused me of murder. The good news is there was only one person in the store: a brunette about twenty-five with a ponytail and a halter top that said, ‘Trouble.’ ”
Jeff groaned louder. “That isn’t good at all,” he said. “That’s Genevra, the biggest gossip in Lauderdale. The whole town will know by tonight. We’re going to have the TV cameras here yet. I’ll be ruined. Can this day get any worse?”
It could, and it did.
Half an hour later, two men in suits entered the shop. One was short and stocky. The other was tall and lean with a face like raw hamburger. Lulu pattered up to them. The all-too-solid homicide detective Crayton bent down to scratch Lulu’s ears. The gangly man beside him scratched his own ears. That would be Detective McGoogan. The Stately Palms detectives waited a minute. Then four uniformed police officers, three men and a woman, came through the boutique door.
The color drained from Jeff’s face. “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. Helen noticed he couldn’t quite keep his voice steady.
“You have a groomer here by the name of Jonathon?” Detective Crayton said.
“Yes, he’s working in the back,” Jeff said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
The detectives and four officers marched toward the grooming room. “Wait!” Jeff said. “You can’t disturb him. Please. I’ll—”
The police brushed past Jeff as if he weren’t there. He followed them into the grooming room, wringing his hands.
Jonathon was clipping a collie with a thick, handsome coat. Jonathon’s own coat was equally stunning. His avocado disco suit with the plunging neckline was made of some shiny material that changed to gold. The effect was dazzling with his hair.
The collie stood absolutely still while Jonathon expertly snipped around its back legs. Dog and groomer looked up when the police crowded into the room.
“Are you Jonathon, also known as Bertram Reginald Falkner?” Detective Crayton asked.
“I am,” Jonathon said. He was holding his ten-inch grooming scissors. They seemed menacing.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Tamara Grimsby. You have the right to remain silent—”
Crayton recited law enforcement’s familiar chant while the uniformed police officers took the scissors from Jonathon, patted him down, and cuffed him. The collie whimpered. So did Jeff.
“You’re going after Jonathon because he’s gay,” Jeff said. “Jonathon! Don’t worry. I’ll call my lawyer right away.”
“Save your money,” Detective Crayton said. “Unless you like men who kill women.”
Helen was stunned. She should have expected this, but seeing Jonathon in handcuffs was frightening. A weird, silly thought bubbled up in her brain: The silver handcuffs didn’t go with the gold in his disco suit, but she caught herself before she blurted it out. The exotic Jonathon looked smaller now, sad and shaken. The cops were wrong. They had to be.
“Jonathon didn’t kill anyone,” Helen said. “He—” She felt the two remaining police officers on either side of her. They seemed too close, even in this small room. Suddenly they both clamped down on her arms.
“Helen Hawthorne,” Detective Crayton said, “I’m taking you downtown for questioning in the murder of Tamara Grimsby. You have the right to remain silent—”
The roaring in Helen’s ears blocked out the rest of the recitation of her Miranda rights. This couldn’t be happening. Helen didn’t stay silent at all. “Jeff,” she said. “Call my landlady, Margery Flax.”
The female officer started patting her down. The male yanked Helen’s arms backward and snapped handcuffs on her wrists. That snap! sound was worse than the cage door closing on her in the dark.
Helen fought back her panic. She had to get in touch with Margery. She had to let her know what had happened.
Jeff stood there, paralyzed. Helen wasn’t sure if he’d heard her or not. “My landlady, Margery Flax,” she repeated. She was shouting now. “You have her number.”
Jeff looked at her blankly, too dazed to react.
The last thing Helen saw, as she stumbled out the door, was Todd. He was smiling slyly.
CHAPTER 19
Helen had never been handcuffed before—not even when she went after her ex-husband with a crowbar. With her hands locked behind her, Helen felt helpless, trapped, and ashamed. She hadn’t done anything wrong, except maybe lie to the police. OK, she’d wiped off her fingerprints and possibly destroyed some evidence. But she didn’t kill anyone.
Now she felt overwhelmed with guilt.
Helen kept her head down on the endless walk to the police car. Her face was hot with embarrassment. She prayed that no one coming out of the Briny Irish Pub or the hair salon saw her handcuffed between two police officers. The perp walk—wasn’t that what this hangdog procession was called? She’d always thought those people looked guilty, with their heads down and their hands cuffed. Now she was one.
It wasn’t any better inside the patrol car. All the way to the Stately Palms police headquarters, Helen wondered if the cops had discovered her real name and learned what happened in St. Louis. She hoped that Jeff had called Margery. She wished she’d followed her landlady’s advice, and Phil’s, too. Just yesterday her lover had warned her that the police would be furious if they found out Helen had lied.
Now she was dumped in the backseat of a police car behind a security screen.
“Excuse
me, Officers,” Helen said. “Do you know how long I’ll be detained?”
No answer. The two uniformed officers were silent as crash-test dummies.
Eventually Helen found out exactly how long she’d have to wait: four hours and eleven minutes. Every minute was agonizing.
The uniformed officers took Helen to a box of a room. It had a table bolted to the floor, a two-way mirror, and a couple of chairs. They uncuffed her hands from behind her back, then cuffed her right hand to a chair. It felt good to get one hand free and the other in front of her.
Stately Palms was a new community, and so was its police headquarters. Was the dark gray color on the walls and floor specially chosen by a decorator to induce fear and remorse? Helen was definitely sorry.
Her neck prickled. She thought someone was watching her through the mirror.
After the second hour, the air-conditioning went off. Helen suspected that was deliberate. The single hand-cuff chafed her wrist. It also hurt her conscience. Why should a metal bracelet make her feel so guilty?
By the third hour she was tormented by visions of her mother and the nuns from school, all weeping with shame. She could see Dolores standing in front of her. Her mother was thin and sad, wearing a luxuriant brown wig meant for a much younger woman. Dolores kept wringing her hands and asking where she had gone wrong: Didn’t she make sure Helen had a good Catholic education? Next to her mother was Sister Mary Margaret, Helen’s algebra teacher. She asked how an honor student had come to this.
Helen didn’t know. She had to go to the bathroom really bad. Her stomach growled. She’d confess to killing Nicole Simpson for a cup of coffee and a sandwich.
By the fourth hour she was squirming in her seat. Sweat ran down her neck and soaked her shirt. She was tormented by questions she couldn’t answer: What did the detectives know about her? What did they want? What were they going to do? Did they connect the murders of Tammie and Willoughby to the shop—and to her?
At six o’clock the door opened, and homicide detectives Crayton and McGoogan entered. They looked exhausted. Helen wondered if they’d been interrogating Jonathon for four straight hours. If the cops were exhausted, what did Jonathon look like? The air-conditioning came back on with a cooling burst.
