The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  Once again she underestimated the distance. Fifteen minutes later she reached the bridge, gasping for breath. She clung to the railing and looked down over the edge at the wide port. All she saw were cruise ships.

  Damn! The big yachts must be in the marinas on the other side. Helen darted through the screaming, honking bridge traffic and narrowly missed getting sideswiped by a scooter. “Are you nuts, lady?” the rider screamed.

  “Yes!” Helen shouted.

  When she got to the middle of the causeway, she saw it was actually two spans, with a gap in between. She’d have to go back down to the bottom and climb up the other side.

  There was nothing to do but run. At last Helen was across the wide, white lanes. Her clothes were soaked with sweat and she was gasping like a beached fish. She clutched the railing and looked over the side of the bridge.

  Marcella’s yacht was there. The Brandy Alexander was almost as big as a cruise ship, and a lot better looking. It was sleek white with black glass. The decks were draped with garlands of flowers and white ribbons.

  Helen stared at the yacht. There was too much space between the dock and the water. No, wait. The ship was moving away from the dock. It was leaving Port Everglades. It was going to sail under the bridge and be gone forever.

  She could see a man and a woman on board, dressed in white and toasting each other with champagne.

  “Rob!” Helen screamed. “Rob! Come back! Stop!”

  She shouted and waved and called Rob’s name, but he only saw the woman in white.

  The yacht was sailing under the bridge. They were far below her, but Helen could see her ex-husband wore an ice-cream suit, a white tie and a white rose in his lapel. Margery was right. He did have a potbelly and he was developing a small bald spot. His new bride had unnaturally dark hair, bright makeup and a formfitting white lace suit.

  “Rob!” Helen shrieked, and her throat felt like it would burst.

  Rob toasted his new bride and looked into Marcella’s eyes. He would never see Helen again.

  “Rob!” Helen cried once more, but now her voice was a useless croak. She had screamed herself hoarse. Rob hadn’t heard her.

  She ran down to the end of the bridge and over to the other side, more slowly this time, knowing she could never stop him now. She watched the yacht disappear into the pink glow of the sunset. Then the dark ocean swallowed it.

  She knew she was watching her ex-husband go to his death. She knew she couldn’t stop him. She’d tried to save him. She really had. Whatever happened to Rob, Helen had a clear conscience.

  She wondered if Margery had arranged that, too.

  EPILOGUE

  MISSOURI MAN KILLED IN BOATING ACCIDENT NEAR ST. THOMAS

  Helen dropped her morning coffee when she saw the headline in the newspaper, and the milky brown liquid splashed across the Coronado pool deck.

  She’d been getting up early to read the paper before work. For three weeks she had checked every drowning, heart attack and boating accident in the Caribbean, trying to reassure herself that Rob was safe. Helen kept seeing her ex sail into the sunset with his serial-killer wife, oblivious to her warnings.

  Helen had never felt so hopeless, or so useless. She didn’t even tell Phil that Rob had married Marcella. She didn’t know how he would react.

  Helen read the headline again, in case she’d made a mistake. Her hands were shaking so badly the newspaper crackled. Rob was dead. She knew it. She didn’t have to read the rest of the story. The Black Widow had struck less than a month after her sixth marriage. Rob hadn’t lasted as long as the dim-witted bodybuilder.

  How did Marcella get away with murder this time? Helen didn’t want to know. Yes, she did. The answer was right in front of her. She forced herself to read the story. It was such a small tragedy, only three paragraphs.

  “A 26-year-old Joplin, Mo., man drowned when his sailboat collided with a speedboat,” the story began.

  Helen stopped reading. It wasn’t Rob. Some other man had died. Nobody would mistake Rob for a twenty-six-year-old, even if Marcella bought him the best trainer and tailor in the Caribbean. Besides, Rob was from St. Louis.

  She sank back in her chaise and closed her eyes, dizzy with relief.

  “The son of a bitch is safe,” Margery said. “Some other poor slob died in the Virgin Islands. Too bad.”

  Her landlady materialized by the pool like a purple-clad genie.

  “Because a man died—or because Rob didn’t?” Helen’s voice sounded harsher than she intended. Things had been cool between her and Margery since Helen’s frantic dash to the port on the night of Rob’s wedding.

  “Rob is the right name for that man,” Margery said. “He stole your common sense. When are you going to quit checking for news of his death? Has it ever occurred to you that it might not make the papers? Maybe Marcella will push him overboard some night and sail on.”

  “The crew would talk,” Helen said.

  “Marcella can buy a lot of silence,” Margery said. “Of course, the couple could live happily ever after. You couldn’t stand that, could you? What are you really looking for in that newspaper? Which would upset you more: knowing Rob was dead—or alive?”

  Helen slammed down the paper and glared at her landlady. Margery had a smug smile and a lit cigarette. Helen wanted to slap that smile off her face. She was tired of Margery’s know-it-all attitude. She wished her landlady would wear some other color besides purple. The woman looked like a walking bruise.

  “Margery the fixer,” Helen said. “You wrap up lives in neat little packages and hand them back as gifts. You even fixed my guilt, in case Rob got himself murdered. Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t want your present? I can take care of my own life, thank you.”

  “Must be scary now that your ex-husband is gone.” Margery took a long draw on her cigarette. “Twice gone. He’s remarried and out of the country. Changes everything, doesn’t it? Now you’ll have to think about what to do with that silver-haired hunk next door. Are you going to marry him, or let some smarter woman run off with him? He won’t stay on the shelf forever, you know.”

  Margery sat down on the edge of Helen’s chaise. Helen flapped her hands and waved away the cigarette smoke. She was in no mood for a lecture with carcinogenic side effects.

  Margery ignored her. “What about the rest of your life, Helen? Are you going to get yourself a decent job? Buy a phone and quit borrowing mine? Get a bank account and run up credit card debt like a normal American? You can even get a driver’s license and own a car. This is your chance to join the grown-up world, Helen. Rob’s gone for good. It’s over.”

  “No, it’s not,” Helen said. “Rob is harder to kill than a sewer rat. He’ll be back.”

  “A rat and a black widow spider. I’ll put my money on the spider,” Margery said. “And, yes, I arranged the whole thing. So sue me. I saw a chance for you to quit wasting your life. Don’t bother thanking me.”

  “For what?” Helen said defiantly. But deep inside, Helen was glad Rob was gone. Her life had been blighted by her fear of discovery and his relentless greed. Before she went on the run in South Florida, she’d had to live in self-inflicted blindness. She’d worked so hard not to see Rob’s infidelities. Now Helen was tired. But she was also angry. The anger won.

  “I’m supposed to thank you for making me run across town like a half-wit? I should thank you for letting me shriek my lungs out on that bridge? Sure, I’ll thank you—when we can ice-skate on Las Olas in August.”

  “Have you finished screaming like a fishwife?” Margery said. “You never answered my question. When you read that paper, are you hoping Rob is dead or alive?”

  Helen remembered her heart-pounding fear when she saw the news story. “I want him alive. So I can kill him myself.”

  “You had your chance and blew it,” Margery said.

  “I did, didn’t I?” Helen said. The absurdity finally hit her. A giggle escaped her. Then she started laughing. Margery joined her. They l
aughed so hard they woke up Phil. He stepped out of his apartment wearing only his jeans, a sight that struck Helen silent. A bare-chested Phil was no laughing matter. He looked like a sun god with his silver hair and bronze skin, only not so frightening. The friendly sun god next door.

  “Tell me again you’re sorry Rob is gone,” Margery said under her breath.

  “What’s so funny, you two?” Phil said.

  “We were celebrating,” Helen said. “Rob is married.”

  “To the Black Widow? Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Phil said.

  “You aren’t worried he’ll die?” Helen said.

  “We’re all going to die,” Phil said. “I can’t think of a pair that deserves to live together more.”

  “But you were upset when you saw him with Marcella,” Helen said.

  “I was surprised. Now that I’ve had time to think it over, I’ve decided it’s better she marry Rob than some innocent.”

  “Awwwk!” Pete said, and Peggy floated over to the pool area with her green sidekick. The loss of Glenn and her money had given her a remote, ethereal air. She looked like a princess in a tower.

  “What did I miss?” Peggy said.

  “There’s a story on page 4A you ought to see,” Margery said.

  “It’s on 7A,” Helen corrected.

  “Not that one. The turnpike story. Read it out loud, Helen. Top left-hand corner. I’ll clean up that spilled coffee before it stains the concrete.”

  “The headline says, ‘Fort Lauderdale Residents Arrested in Turnpike Phone Scam.’ ” Helen’s voice trailed off as she looked at the lumpy woman frowning in the mug shot. “Holy cow, it’s Arlene. I didn’t recognize her without her big earrings and fake smile.”

  Phil and Peggy crowded in closer for a look at the paper.

  “The cops probably confiscated the earrings as lethal weapons,” Phil said.

  “Of course she’s frowning. She’s got nothing to smile about,” Margery said, as she threw a bucket of water over Helen’s spilled coffee. “You’re supposed to keep reading.”

  “It says here that Arlene the shoulder surfer and her accomplice—”

  “That’s Glenn,” Peggy said. “That’s him in the other photo. I never realized his eyes were so small. You were right, Helen. Those two were in it together.”

  “Looks like they’re facing federal charges together, too,” Helen said.

  “I wonder if I can get my twenty thousand dollars back,” Peggy said.

  “Don’t bet on it,” Margery said.

  * * *

  Peggy would never see Glenn or his money again. But the pair would get ten years in a federal prison.

  * * *

  “That was your doing, wasn’t it?” Helen said to Margery one morning, when the headlines announced Arlene and Glenn’s prison sentence.

  Margery shrugged so hard she nearly sent her grape off-the-shoulder blouse tobogganing down her chest. “Maybe. I did give the authorities Arlene’s car make and license plate number, plus a little information about her lobby hobby.”

  “Any chance Peggy will get her money back?” Helen said.

  “No. Glenn’s attorney claims that his client has no money, but I don’t think that lawyer does charity cases. I suspect Peggy’s money went for Glenn’s defense. Not that it did him any good.”

  “Poor Peggy,” Helen said.

  “Oh, she’ll have another man soon enough,” Margery said. “But she deserves a better one. Maybe this time she’ll spend her money on lottery tickets.”

  “But she always loses,” Helen said.

  “Only thirty dollars a week,” Margery said. “That’s a lot less than twenty thousand.”

  * * *

  The Full Moon survived Craig’s death. Once the killer was dead, tourists seemed to think the hotel was safe. Sybil’s two-for-one deal killed any lingering doubts.

  Even when Sybil stopped the two-for-one coupons, the hotel stayed filled. The cranky hotel owner was really sorry when Cheryl gave two weeks’ notice. She needed the hardworking maid.

  Helen cleaned rooms with Cheryl for four days before she got up the nerve to discuss the question she could ask no one else: “Why was the money stashed in room 322? I thought the robber stayed in 323.”

  “He did,” Cheryl said. “I think I know what happened. When we clean, we put the rooms of the people who have checked out ‘on the latch.’ We leave the door open with the safety latch out so we can run in and out without unlocking the door every time. There are no guests’ belongings to steal in an empty room.

  “I think the robber saw the cops pull into the lot and knew he had to run for it. He couldn’t run fast with that heavy bag. He had to stash the hundred thousand dollars someplace quick, and his room would be searched for sure. I’m guessing room 322 was on the latch, and he hid the money under the box spring. Nobody thought to search there, because the mattress pedestal looks solid. I’m sure he planned to send his accomplice back for the cash, except he got killed.”

  It made sense. And it set off a strange chain reaction. Craig courted Rhonda to get information about the hotel. After that, Helen couldn’t count all the ifs . . . If Rhonda hadn’t been murdered. If Cheryl hadn’t worked the third floor that day. If Helen hadn’t noticed the Phi Beta Kappa key on Dean’s robe, would Cheryl have recognized her old lover?

  Helen tried not to think about that. At least some good came out of Dean’s death. He’d abandoned his pregnant lover long ago. Now his death provided the money she needed for a better life.

  Helen was relieved when Cheryl’s good-bye party finally rolled around. She helped decorate the hotel’s breakfast room with balloons and streamers. Angel came to the party in a blue dress with a lace collar. Her dark hair was like silk. Angel solemnly shook hands with her mother’s coworkers and carefully ate a piece of Denise’s double-chocolate cake. She didn’t want icing on her party dress.

  She watched her mother open the presents—sets of luggage for Cheryl and Angel, including a Barbie suitcase on pink wheels. Angel’s eyes shone when she saw that. She gripped the handle and never let go of it for the rest of the party.

  Cheryl opened her gag gift, a huge can of whipped cream, to snickers and jokes that bored Angel. The little girl started counting the Cheerios in the Plexiglas cereal bin.

  “How many did you count?” Helen asked her.

  Angel pointed to the sloping top row. “Do you think that counts as one row? Or does it turn into two when it goes downhill? Where would you stop?”

  “Here,” Helen said, pointing to a spot halfway down the cereal hill.

  “Me, too. But it’s confusing. I’m not good at math.”

  “Lots of people aren’t,” Helen said.

  “I try. It’s important to try. I try to have friends, too. But I didn’t get invited to Sarah’s party last Saturday. Everyone else went, and I had a new dress. My mom says I’ll have friends at my new school.”

  Helen swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes, you will,” she said, “and you won’t even have to try.”

  Cheryl came over then, looking almost as pretty as her daughter. When she wasn’t wearing the shapeless hotel smock, she had a trim figure.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Helen said.

  “Twenty-five pounds,” Cheryl said. “Though you’d never guess it the way I’m shoving cake in my mouth.” She hugged Helen good-bye. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Keep in touch,” Helen said. She always said that at good-bye parties, but she never expected to hear from Cheryl again.

  Helen was wrong. Two weeks later, she got a postcard from Ohio. It said, Having a wonderful time. Saw our first snowfall. Our Angel made snow angels. It was unsigned, but Helen knew who’d sent it.

  The postcard should have left Helen happy. Instead, she felt oddly restless. She prowled the Coronado grounds late at night, trying to figure out what was wrong. The moon cast silver shadows on the lawn and the palms whispered sweet promises. Helen had every reason to be content, but she
wasn’t.

  On the third night, Phil slipped out of his room and joined her aimless wandering. “Where are you going?” he said in a low voice. Sound carried at night around the Coronado pool.

  “In circles,” Helen said.

  “Literally or figuratively?”

  “Yes,” Helen said. “I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”

  “Why grow up?” Phil said. “You don’t have to. Let’s run away.”

  “Where?” Helen said.

  “Anywhere you want. I don’t start another job for four days. Where would you like to go: New York, Las Vegas, San Francisco, the Caribbean?”

  “Not the Caribbean,” Helen said.

  “Oh, right. How about the Keys? I know a secluded little hotel. I could get us a room. Throw your swimsuit in a bag and we’ll go.”

  “Sybil is shorthanded. I’d be fired.”

  “And that job would be a big loss?” Phil asked.

  “No,” Helen said. “I’m sick of working in a hotel. I want to throw my towels on someone else’s floor. I want another person to make my bed. I want room service and an ocean view.”

  “It’s three in the morning. If we leave now, we can have breakfast on the hotel patio. It overlooks the water. Leave Margery a note so she’ll feed the cat.”

  “She hates cats,” Helen said.

  “She’ll make an exception for Thumbs. Come on, Helen.” Phil held out his hand.

  Should she stay or should she go? Helen knew if she refused, she’d be accepting a new life of drudgery.

  Man or mop? It was no contest. “To hell with the job,” she said. “Let Sybil fire me.”

  It was eight o’clock when they pulled into the little hotel on the Gulf side of the Keys. The sun was bright in a china blue sky. Purple hammocks with deep pillows swayed between the palm trees. The water was a stunning turquoise.

  Phil unlocked the door to a suite overlooking the water. “It’s all ours. Nothing to do for four days.”

  “Nothing?” she said.

  “Nothing we can say on a postcard to Mom.” He grinned wickedly. “What do you think of the room?”

  Helen looked at the white wicker four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting, the charming rocker with the looping arms, and the seashell mirror. The walls were the same turquoise as the water.