by Elaine Viets
“She said, ‘Well, if it isn’t Pinkie, begging for one more time.’ Then she laughed. She wouldn’t stop laughing. She said, ‘Can I get you a drink? How about a pink ribbon?’ She kept laughing and saying, ‘Pinkie. Pinkie.’ I wanted to make her stop. I stuck the scissors right in her chest. It was over in one quick motion.”
“Except it wasn’t,” Helen said.
“No,” Todd said.
The day was perfectly still. The two boats were still towing the stately sailboat. They’d reached a tricky turn. They were trying to steer the huge boat into a smaller canal. Helen thought the sailboat was going to crack up on the dock as it rounded the corner.
Todd was still talking. “When I killed her, part of me went dead. Now I can’t run away and I can’t stay. I can’t sleep anymore. I keep seeing her. I miss her. I love her, even after all she did to me. I hear her laughing at me, calling me Pinkie. I’m ruined for escort work. I’m not . . . I can’t . . . I can’t get it up with my ladies. I’m useless. My life is over.”
The sailboat slid closer to the dock, while the people on deck screamed and scrambled for ropes and poles. Helen watched, fascinated by the prospect of the elegant disaster.
When she looked back, Todd had one leg over the balcony.
“Todd, what are you doing?” Helen said. Panic made her voice shrill.
“I’m going to end it. I can’t live without her.”
“She’s not worth dying for, Todd.”
“Life is not worth living without her.”
“Please, Todd, think what you’re doing. If you turn yourself in, the police will work something out. You’re young. You’ve had a hard life and a cruel beginning. A jury will be kind to you. You won’t serve long, even if you are convicted.”
Helen was pleading now. She’d talked Francis out of killing himself. She could stop Todd. She had to stop him. She couldn’t have his death on her conscience.
“Everyone will know,” Todd said. “Not just the whole school—the whole world. They’ll all laugh at me, like she did.”
“Todd, no!”
But he was over the balcony rail. Helen made a wild grab for him and nearly went over herself. She caught his Cartier watch by the band. Now he hung by it, seven stories above the docks. Todd looked at her, confusion on his face. He tried to claw for the railing, but he missed. The leather watchband broke, and he fell with a short, surprised shriek.
Then there was silence. The silence seemed to go on endlessly, for the rest of Helen’s life.
She heard her heart pounding. Another pounding was even louder. “Helen! Are you in there? Todd! Helen! What’s wrong? Open the door or I’ll break it down.” It was Phil.
She was still holding Todd’s Cartier watch. It sparkled in the sun. She saw the minute hand move.
CHAPTER 31
“He jumped,” Helen said.
Her words were like a bludgeon. Phil actually flinched.
He pushed his way inside Todd’s condo. “Are you OK?” he said, then answered his own question. “No, you’re not.”
Helen felt like she was standing behind a wall of glass. There was nothing scenic about it. It was a dead place, devoid of all sensation. She could see Phil and talk to him, but she couldn’t feel anything. She had trouble forming sentences. Each word was like a lead weight. She dropped her purse twice and stumbled over nothing.
“Let’s get out of here,” Phil said.
“Prints,” Helen said. “My prints may be on the railing.” She was ashamed that her mind worked that way, but she’d lived on the run too long.
“Women’s prints are going to be all over this apartment,” he said. “You worked with Todd. If the police mention it, you can say you dropped by last night and admired the view.”
Phil hustled Helen out of Todd’s apartment, stopping to wipe down the doorbell, the only part she’d touched. “With any luck,” he said, “the building manager will leave his prints all over this door.”
He pushed her toward the fire stairs. Helen ran down seven flights of steps. She landed at the bottom, panting and rubber legged. Phil followed behind.
No one seemed to notice them. Helen and Phil saw a man in a suit get off the elevator, but he was busy juggling his morning coffee and his briefcase. A woman walking her beagle waved as if she knew them. They waved back. A lean jogger stared straight ahead, seeing only her goal of physical perfection.
Phil and Helen had slipped into the stream of traffic on Federal Highway by the time the first police car roared by, lights flashing, sirens screaming. Phil drove with one hand and rubbed Helen’s neck with the other, then pulled her closer. She was rigid but unresisting.
“Why did he do it?” she said. “Why did Todd kill himself? He didn’t have to confess to anything. He knew that. He was street-smart. Even if he said he killed Tammie, it was his word against mine. He could deny it later. Instead, he jumped. Why?”
“Because he wanted to,” Phil said. “He wanted to confess and he wanted to die. He loved Tammie and he couldn’t live without her. He must have been planning to kill himself for a long time. You were simply the excuse.”
“But Tammie was worthless.”
“Not to him,” Phil said.
Helen wanted to cry, but she was sealed behind the glass wall, dry and lifeless as a museum exhibit. The only emotion that reached her was fear. Terrifying questions would suddenly jump out at her, like assassins in a dark alley.
“Phil, what if the police find my fingerprints on Todd’s skin?”
“Fingerprints on skin are rare,” he said. “They don’t happen in real life nearly as often as they do on CSI. Did Todd scratch you?”
She checked her wrists and hands. “No. I’m clean.”
“Then you’re safe. There’s no skin under his nails. The medical examiner will see there was no sign of a struggle. He probably won’t look for prints on Todd’s skin.”
Helen felt better for about thirty seconds, until another worry leaped out at her. “What if the neighbors heard you pounding on the door and told the police?”
“What neighbors?” Phil said. “Did you check out the windows when we drove past that building? Half those condos are shuttered. Their snowbird owners won’t be down until December.”
A third fear attacked her. “What if they find my fingerprints on top of Todd’s where he went over the railing?”
“Then we’re fucked,” he said.
Oddly, that answer calmed her. Phil pulled the Jeep into the Coronado parking lot. Helen said very formally, “I can never thank you enough, Phil. But I want to be alone now.”
Phil, white faced and strained, seemed relieved to be away from her.
Helen didn’t go to her apartment. She walked to a pay phone on Las Olas to call in sick at the Pampered Pet. Jeff answered the phone. She could tell by his voice that he hadn’t heard about Todd.
“I’m so sorry you’re sick,” he said. His sympathy nearly brought tears to her eyes, except she couldn’t cry. “There’s a nasty cold going around. My Bill had it last week. Eat lots of chicken soup and call me in the morning.”
Helen walked back home, still protected by her wall of glass. The life around her looked like a museum exhibit. A wise old hound sniffed the red flowers around a tree, then lifted his leg. A woman with a yellow shopping bag got out of a cab. A businessman talked importantly into his cell phone. Ordinary people. Nice people. People who never drove a young man to his death, never watched his beautiful body fall seven stories, never saw it lying broken on the ground. Helen didn’t deserve to be out in the sunshine with normal humans.
Helen went home, locked her apartment door and closed the blinds. She sat in her Barcalounger, rocking back and forth. Thumbs seemed to sense her distress. The big-pawed cat jumped in her lap. The sight of his solemn round head comforted her. She dozed, but her dreams were tormented. She saw Todd reaching for the railing.
About noon Margery knocked on Helen’s door and woke her up. “Phone call from your boss,” her
landlady said with a smile, and handed Helen her cell phone. Phil hadn’t told Margery what had happened or she wouldn’t be grinning like that. “Just bring it back when you’re finished.”
“Helen? It’s Jeff.” She heard his horror and distress in those three words. “Todd’s dead. The police think he killed himself.”
“They do? I mean, he did?” Helen said.
Jeff was too upset to notice her slip. His voice was heavy with tears. “Todd killed Tammie. That beautiful boy killed her and now he’s killed himself. The police found unfinished suicide notes in his condo. They say every time he wrote, ‘I killed her,’ he’d put the letter down, then he’d start another. The cops said there must have been fifty of them. This morning, about eight o’clock, he jumped off his balcony. A woman walking her dog found his body.”
“He wrote suicide notes?” Helen said. Why didn’t she feel relieved? Those notes were her absolution.
“That’s what the police say. You know why he killed Tammie? Because she laughed at him.”
“Uh,” Helen said. Now there was a brilliant response.
“How are you feeling?” Jeff said. “You sound terrible.”
“It’s just a cold,” Helen said.
“Well, rest up and don’t worry about coming in to work. I’m closing the store today and tomorrow. It’s better that way. No reporters will be in asking awkward questions. I’m shocked about Todd, Helen. I can’t believe it. But at least it’s over. Jonathon will be exonerated. You were right: He’s innocent. I thought that would make you feel better.”
“I feel terrific,” she said in a flat voice.
Helen snapped the phone shut, stuck it in her pocket, and walked over to Margery’s.
“Come in,” her landlady said when she heard Helen’s knock. She was punching numbers on her microwave pad. Her gray pageboy brushed her brown shoulders. Her purple top had a jaunty row of ruffles. Her purple sandals had flirty little bows.
“I’m nuking a brownie,” she said without turning around. “Want one?”
“Todd killed himself. I saw him die,” Helen said. She sounded like a zombie.
Now Margery turned and looked at her. “You’re way too calm. You’re in shock. Sit down and tell me what happened.”
“He killed Tammie. I tricked him into admitting the murder. Then he jumped off his balcony. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t. It’s all my fault.”
“What an ego you have,” Margery said. “If Todd killed himself, it was his decision. He was a murderer, a blackmailer, and a hustler. His death must have been terrible to see, but we’re well rid of him. Here, drink this coffee. It’s loaded with milk and sugar. You need it.”
Helen took a sip. She could actually taste it.
Margery put a warm square of brownie in front of her. “Eat,” she commanded. “And don’t argue.”
Helen ate. After she got the first bite down, she was surprisingly hungry. “Do you know why he killed Tammie?” she said. “Because she laughed at him. That was all.”
“All? That’s everything,” Margery said.
“I guess it was.” Helen told her landlady about Pinkie and the ribbons. Margery listened. With her wrinkled brown face, she looked like an intelligent shar-pei.
“That woman stabbed him in the heart,” Margery said. “Then he did the same thing to her.”
Helen heard the opening bars of Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville” coming from her pants.
“That’s my phone,” Margery said. “I programmed it to play Florida’s state song.”
Helen pulled the phone out of her pocket, and Todd’s watch fell out with it. Once again Helen saw Todd’s confused face, heard his short shriek, and saw him falling toward the sunlit canal. It glittered like the diamonds on his watch. Helen’s wall of glass shattered, and she was crying.
“It’s about time,” Margery said, but her voice was soft with concern. She turned off the phone and plunked down a jumbo box of tissues. Helen wept noisily, then blew her nose with airhorn honks.
“Why don’t you sit in the recliner and rest?” Margery said.
“I don’t want to sleep.” Helen was afraid of what she might see when she closed her eyes.
“I didn’t say you had to,” Margery said. “Sit down.”
The purple recliner seemed to enfold Helen in its pillowy depths. She was so tired. She woke up at six o’clock that evening, wrapped in a purple afghan. Margery had turned up the volume on the TV.
“Hi, bright eyes,” she said. “I thought you’d want to hear this.”
It was a press conference with a police spokesman.
“Is the case closed then?” a reporter asked.
“We believe that Tammie Grimsby was killed by a jealous dog groomer, who then committed suicide out of remorse. We found several partially finished suicide notes in the suspect’s home.”
“It’s over,” Helen said. “They’re not going to arrest me or make me testify.”
“There’s that ego again. It’s not about you,” Margery said. “It never was.”
A TV reporter interviewed Tammie’s widower. Kent wore a shirt with black toucans all over it. Florida mourning. Kent tried to look solemn, but Helen thought he seemed gleefully relieved.
“This groomer guy, Todd, was, like, obsessed with my wife, Tammie, after he met her at a party,” Kent said. He did not mention the party entertainment. Apparently the reporter didn’t know.
“He came to the house with all these diamonds and sh—stuff. Tammie said she didn’t want them. She threw them on the lawn. She was a married woman, you know.”
Helen nearly choked. She was surprised that Tammie told her husband about the jewelry. Then it made perfect sense. The last piece fell into place.
Tammie had used Todd to make Kent jealous.
EPILOGUE
Helen kept Todd’s watch on her dresser, and wound it every morning. She couldn’t figure out if it was Todd or her own guilt she was trying to keep alive.
She’d been arrogant and overconfident. Because she’d talked Francis out of killing himself, Helen thought she could save Todd, too. She misunderstood the situation. Pale Francis didn’t love or hate with Todd’s intensity. Willoughby’s husband had needed a reason to live, and Helen gave it to him.
Todd had wanted to die. He’d already made up his mind. He’d written those half-finished suicide notes, hoping to summon the courage to kill himself. She’d helped him over the balcony.
It was hard for Helen to walk into the Pampered Pet her first day back. It never got any easier. She saw Todd everywhere: flirting with his ladies, carrying heavy cases for customers, kissing his dogs.
A little murder and suicide didn’t hurt the store. In fact, business was better than usual. Everyone made an excuse to stop by and say they knew Todd was guilty and Jonathon was innocent.
Jonathon was back as the flamboyant star of the Lauderdale grooming world. He wore gold lamé for his return, and marched into his private room like a monarch reclaiming his throne. He would tantalize his admirers with glimpses of his outrageous outfits. But Jonathon still refused to talk to anyone. His tantrums were forces of nature. Customers were thrilled when he unleashed his rage on them. In the midst of one techno-tantrum, Helen thought he winked at her.
Jonathon’s secret was safe. Jeff and the Pampered Pet customers never learned he was a family man living in Davie.
Other secrets were revealed after Todd’s death. Jeff finally told Helen why he was meeting Rax in the van. “He’s painting a picture of my Bill,” Jeff confessed. “I keep taking him candid photos of Bill for the portrait, but Rax wants more. He’s such a perfectionist. I haven’t told anyone but you, because I want it to be a surprise.”
The animal-loving Betty told Margery where she was the day Tammie died. She really did go to play golf at the country club. The tee time was in her friend Zelda’s name. But as the two women were heading for the country club, Zelda got a call. Her aging mother had taken a turn for the worse at a Boca Raton nur
sing home. The golf date was canceled. Zelda rushed off to see her mother. Betty stopped by Tammie’s to squeeze more money out of her. Tammie insulted her and she left. Then Lourdes the housekeeper got the call from Francis and she left. Tammie was alone at home when Todd arrived.
Perhaps if Tammie had been more polite to Betty—or more generous—Betty would have stayed longer and Tammie might be alive today.
Francis admitted that he’d locked Helen in the big cage. He’d come to the shop to kill her. Willoughby had confronted him with Helen’s find. She’d said that Helen had a witness who saw him pull that alibi receipt out of the trash. She also told her husband that Tammie was a better man than he was. Francis killed his wife in a red rage. He was lucky, at least for a while. Willoughby hadn’t called Detective Ted Brogers with Helen’s find yet.
Francis drove straight to the store to kill Helen before she went to the police with her alibi-breaking information. He was going to wait for her in the parking lot. But then he saw Todd and Jeff leave. The shop door was unlocked. When the lights went off, Francis thought it would be easy to kill Helen in the store. He could make it look like a botched robbery. Inside the pitch-black store, he realized Helen would be the perfect suspect for Willoughby’s murder. Francis left her alive and trapped in the cage.
Barkley the model pup lost her contract with the Davis Family Dollar department stores when they learned of her mistress’s lesbian love affair. The dog was ruined as a family store mascot. Her only job offers were for Internet porn sites. Francis pleaded guilty and was serving eight to ten years. He couldn’t keep the dog, anyway. He wasn’t permitted to profit from his crime.
Willoughby’s only relative, an eighty-year-old aunt with a tiny apartment, didn’t want the boisterous pup. She gave Barkley to the one person who really wanted her—Tammie’s housekeeper, Lourdes. Barkley lived happily ever after, frolicking in the yard in Hialeah.
