The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  “I’ll note it in your file,” Helen said. Then, before she could stop herself, she added, “By the way, you can make a donation in Brenda’s name to the cancer society.”

  “Why would I do that?” Blythe said, and hung up.

  Helen was about to tell Jessica about Blythe’s heartless reaction. Then she heard her desk mate deep in a whispered argument on her phone.

  “What do you mean the city inspector didn’t approve the new air conditioner?” Jessica said. There was a long pause. “My fault! It’s not my fault that the contractor didn’t use tie-down straps that could withstand hurricane-force winds.”

  Jessica began shaking her head and slapping the desktop. “No, I am not staying home to deal with the problem. It’s your turn. You take off work for a change. I’ve had—”

  Helen slipped down the hall to let Jessica argue with her husband in privacy.

  I need some air, she thought. The club walls are closing in on me.

  The only place staff was allowed to linger was the loading dock. It wasn’t a garden spot, but it was outside. Well, sort of. Helen could see a slice of green lawn and tennis court over the Dumpsters.

  Helen had barely cracked the door to the loading dock when she heard Xaviera, arguing with her blond surfer boyfriend. The two were facing each other, red-faced and rigid with anger.

  “When are you getting that promotion, Steven?” Xaviera said. “I’m not getting any younger. I want a house. I want a baby.” Helen could hear her desperation.

  “I’m doing everything I can,” Steven said. “I’m in line next for a promotion at the club. I’ve also applied for a job with the Lauderdale police. It’s more money and better benefits. But I won’t hear anything for a while.”

  “How long?” Xaviera stamped her foot. “I’m tired of waiting.”

  “Why don’t you try for a promotion for a change?” Steven said, raising his voice and shaking his streaked blond hair. “There’s a slot open in the club billing office.”

  “I will,” Xaviera said. “But if I get it, I’ll have to work longer hours.”

  “Maybe it’s a good idea if we don’t see so much of each other,” Steven said. “At least we’ll fight less.”

  Xaviera wheeled away and threw open the door with such fury she nearly hit Helen in the face. She didn’t notice Helen as she pushed past, leaving a trail of perfume and hurt feelings. Xaviera’s heels tapped her anger all the way down the hall.

  Oh, boy, Helen thought. This is going to be one of those days. No point hanging around outside. The air is toxic. She went into the restroom, splashed cold water on her face and headed back to her desk. Her phone was ringing.

  “Do you know who I am?” the caller screamed.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Helen said, as she looked up the woman’s club number. But I’m starting to forget who I am, she thought.

  By two o’clock, Helen felt like she’d been beaten by pros. There were no visible marks, but she hurt all over. She popped two Tylenol and broke out an energy bar. She ate her snack at her desk, with pleasure—or as much pleasure as she could get from something that tasted like sawdust and dried cranberries. Brenda wouldn’t be lurking nearby, making her throw it away.

  Except Brenda was there. Her restless, angry spirit seemed to fill the room. Helen’s eyes were once more drawn to that sealed door.

  The mahogany door to customer care swung open and Marshall Noote marched in with O’Shaughnessy, the Golden Palms detective who’d interviewed Helen before. Once again, she was struck by the resemblance between the two men. O’Shaughnessy could have been his thick-necked son.

  “Uh-oh,” Jessica said. “Trouble.”

  “I need to see Helen Hawthorne,” Noote said.

  Helen’s heart was pounding. They’re going to arrest me, she thought. Did they find Rob? Or is this for Brenda’s murder?

  “We have a few more questions,” Noote said. His smile showed teeth like yellowed tombstones.

  “Do I need to call my attorney?” Helen said. Her attorney. What a joke. She could afford maybe an hour of Gabe Accomac’s time. That wasn’t enough to fly him in from New York.

  “Of course not,” O’Shaughnessy said. He gave her a boyish smile. It was nicer than Noote’s. Helen wondered if he practiced in front of the mirror. “This is a friendly chat. Just to clear up a few minor points. We don’t have to go to the police station.”

  “We can use my office in security.” Noote beamed like a proud father.

  “If we use the security office, I’ll definitely want my lawyer,” Helen said. She was bluffing, but she didn’t want to sit in Noote’s office. It was his territory, and to her, it was the same as the police station.

  “Let’s find a nice quiet conference room,” O’Shaughnessy said.

  “Do you want me to call Margery?” Jessica whispered. She looked worried.

  “Couldn’t hurt,” Helen said.

  “I hope it will help,” Jessica said, squeezing Helen’s hand. “Good luck.”

  Helen followed Noote and O’Shaughnessy to the same room where the detective had interviewed her about Brenda. There was something dismal about an unused conference room, with its bare tables and dusty chandeliers. A half-filled coffee cup with a drowned cigarette was sitting on the table. Helen’s stomach turned.

  Noote and O’Shaughnessy took seats on one side of the table. Helen was on the other. The message was clear. Noote considered himself on the side of the Golden Palms police.

  “Where were you at eight Monday morning?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  “Is that the day Brenda died?” Helen said. “I was stuck in a traffic jam on I-95. I told you that last time.”

  “Did you have anyone with you who can verify that?” the detective said.

  “I ride to work alone. You can check the accident reports. It was near Ives Dairy Road. Besides, you know what time I arrived. The camera at the employee gate was working.”

  “The camera showed us when you went through the employee gate,” O’Shaughnessy said. “But that might not be when you arrived at the club. You could have heard about the traffic jam on the radio.”

  “But I didn’t,” Helen said. This friendly chat was turning decidedly unfriendly. “What are you really asking, detective?”

  “Do you play golf, Miss Hawthorne?”

  “Me? No. I hate golf.”

  “Did you ever touch the victim’s golf club?”

  Helen started to say no. Then she remembered that stupid swing she’d taken in Brenda’s office, when she’d whacked the chair. They must have found her prints on the club. No point lying.

  “Once,” she said. “Brenda kept her clubs in the office and I took a practice swing.”

  “When?” O’Shaughnessy said. “Was she in her office at the time? Did she give you permission to use her clubs?”

  “No,” Helen said. “It was Sunday.” She left out “the day before she died.” “I was alone in the office. I saw her clubs and wondered what they felt like. I took a swing.”

  “So you have time to work on your golf swing at the office?” O’Shaughnessy said.

  Noote sat across from her and stared. Was he going to make a report that she was a goof-off, as well as a murder suspect?

  The more Helen said, the worse she sounded. Taking a swing with Brenda’s seven iron had seemed harmless at the time. How could it land her in such deep trouble?

  “No, I just wanted to see what her clubs felt like,” Helen said.

  “Why use her seven iron?”

  “It seemed like a lucky number,” Helen said.

  “It wasn’t for Brenda,” O’Shaughnessy said. "What were you doing in her office? Your desk isn’t there.”

  “I was looking for guest passes,” Helen said. “Brenda had rearranged the supply cabinet. I was running low and couldn’t find them.”

  “The passes weren’t hidden in the victim’s golf bag,” O’Shaughnessy said.

  “I also checked her desk,” Helen said.

  “W
e know you did,” O’Shaughnessy said. "We found your prints there, too. Now, would you care to tell us what you were really looking for in Brenda’s desk?”

  “Guest passes,” Helen lied.

  “Are you sticking with that story?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “That’s all, Miss Hawthorne,” O’Shaughnessy said.

  But Helen knew it wasn’t.

  “Am I free to go?” she asked.

  “For now,” O’Shaughnessy said. This time, his smile wasn’t warm or friendly. “Don’t leave the area.”

  Helen looked at her watch. She was off at four today, and it was three fifty-five.

  “I’ll drive Miss Hawthorne to the employee lot in the golf cart,” Marshall Noote said.

  “I can walk,” she said. “Besides, I have to clock out at customer care.”

  “I’ll wait,” Noote said. “There’s a killer loose on the club grounds. I wouldn’t want you hurt.”

  They drove in the striped cart in silence. Jessica waited for Helen at the customer care door. “You’re back. Are you OK?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Helen said.

  “You are not. Is there a problem?” Jessica asked.

  “No, no. The police had a couple of questions.”

  Jessica knew Helen was lying, too.

  Helen clocked out and tried to leave by the loading dock. But Noote had anticipated that move. He was waiting for her there. She was trapped. She sat down wordlessly in the cart.

  The silence continued as they drove to the lot. It grew heavier and heavier, until Helen thought it would crush her. Noote pulled up in front of Helen’s car. It unnerved her that he knew the Toad was hers.

  She climbed out of the cart without thanking him. “Remember my message,” Noote said.

  “Stay away from me, or I’ll tell my lawyer,” Helen said.

  “Tell him this,” he said. “I think you’re lying. I think I’ll prove it.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “I have news about Rob,” Phil said, "but I don’t know if it’s good or bad.”

  “It must be bad, or you wouldn’t be getting me drunk,” Helen said.

  She was on her second glass of white wine. For the first time today, Helen felt relaxed, even mellow. Phil and Helen were sitting outside under the awning at Beachie’s Beachside Inn, a funky bar in Fort Lauderdale, eating greasy cheeseburgers and watching tourists on the wide stretch of yellow-tan sand.

  At five o’clock, the air was growing chilly. Long purple shadows stretched across the cool sand. Sunburned parents were calling to cranky children, folding beach umbrellas and shoving sandy towels into canvas bags.

  Seagulls rummaged through the fast-food wrappers in the trash cans, looking for dinner. One flew off with a limp french fry. An elegant fish hawk was diving for its dinner, plummeting straight down into the turquoise water. It brought up a struggling fish and flew high with its prize. The fish flopped and twisted so hard to escape it slipped out of the predator’s claws and fell back into the sea, dropping four stories into the water. Helen wondered if it could survive that fall.

  “Helen,” Phil said. “Are you there?”

  “Sort of,” she said. “I was watching that struggling fish and wondered if it was better to die quickly in a fall instead of getting your guts torn out by a hungry bird.”

  “I’ll take the quick fall,” Phil said.

  “I read somewhere that it doesn’t hurt when a predator kills you,” Helen said. “It hypnotizes you, so you don’t feel the pain.”

  “I bet whoever wrote that never met a real predator,” Phil said. “That fish fought hard to escape, even though it could die in the attempt.”

  Helen remembered Marcella’s flat eyes and her spinning goblets. She’d been hypnotized by a predator, and she found it terrifying. She’d do anything to escape the Black Widow.

  Helen had come home after a hard morning of verbal abuse at the Superior Club, and an even worse afternoon being interrogated by the Golden Palms police. Then there was the threat from Marshall Noote—and the knowledge that he knew she was lying.

  When she’d straggled into the Coronado, Phil had insisted that they go out. “Don’t bother dressing up,” he’d said. “Let’s sit on the beach.”

  Now she knew why. Beachie’s was a soothing spot. The soft shussh of the ocean waves calmed her. The wine and food cushioned the blow. Now Phil had to deliver the bad news. She knew what it was. She braced herself. This won’t be so bad, she thought. Rob’s death will set me free at last. I’ll finally be able to escape him and his awful wedded wife.

  “You’re making small talk because you don’t want to tell me,” Helen said. She downed her wine. “OK, I’m ready. Get it over with.”

  “A body washed up on the beach,” Phil said. “Some tourists found it early this morning.”

  Helen saw a tiny blond girl in a pink bikini run into her father’s arms. The proud father settled her on his shoulders. The little girl giggled and patted his balding head while they walked through the waves.

  “They weren’t children, I hope,” Helen said. Please, don’t let some innocent child find him.

  “No, two adults. A couple from New York was jogging on the beach.”

  “Welcome to Florida,” Helen said. “Was it Rob?” She tried to squeeze the hope out of her voice.

  “The body was too badly decomposed to tell.”

  Helen winced and wished she had more wine. Phil saw her pale face and signaled the waiter for two more drinks.

  “But they think it’s him?” she asked.

  “It’s a white male fitting Rob’s description, late thirties or early forties.”

  “Rob was forty-two,” Helen said.

  “There’s still some hair on the scalp,” Phil said. “It’s similar to Rob’s color. The dead man is about Rob’s weight, though that’s hard to determine.”

  “Where did they find him?” Helen asked.

  “On the beach about three miles south of the Superior Club. If Rob died at the club and was dumped in the water, the body would drift in that direction.”

  “Do they know how he died?”

  “Not yet,” Phil said.

  Helen felt pleasantly numb. This wasn’t bad, she decided. Not bad at all. She was taking the news just fine. She felt good. Better than good. She was relieved.

  The tide was going out, and Helen could see little crabs scurrying along the wet sand. That reminded her of something, but she couldn’t remember what. The waiter appeared with more wine. Helen took another drink, and then it hit her.

  “If you’re in the ocean for a while, don’t you get eaten by things?”

  “The body has been nibbled on,” Phil said. “I don’t think you want the details.”

  “They eat the eyes first,” Helen said.

  Phil looked slightly green. “Can we change the subject?”

  Helen clutched her wine, as if Phil might take it away. “I’m not supposed to talk this way, am I? You expected me to cry, scream and faint at the news. Rob’s dead and I’m glad. He made my life hell when we were married—and it got worse when we divorced. If he provided dinner for some hungry crab, it’s the only useful thing he ever did.”

  Phil was staring at her.

  “I’ve said too much,” Helen said. “You think I’m horrible.”

  He reached for her hand. “I think you’re honest,” he said. “That’s why I love you. Only a woman with a taste for abuse would still love Rob—and you’re way too healthy for that. Rob is a bad man. I hope whatever happened to him, he can no longer hurt you.”

  “I can see why you talked me out of the crab appetizer, though,” Helen said.

  Phil choked on his drink. Helen pounded his back and gave him her water to sip, until he stopped coughing. She thought he might be laughing, but she wasn’t sure. There were tears in his eyes.

  “Why is this washed-up body bad news?” she said. “I thought we wanted to find Rob.”

  “A live Rob would b
e a lot better than a dead one,” Phil said. “If the body turns out to be his, the police will start asking you awkward questions again.”

  “Oh.” Helen felt her stomach drop and flop like that fish. “Right.” She wasn’t that drunk. She knew she was the last person seen with Rob, and they’d fought in front of witnesses.

  Ohmigod. Brenda was a hostile witness. Now she was dead, too. This was looking worse and worse. “You think the police will charge me with his murder?” she said.

  “I don’t think there’s enough evidence,” Phil said. “At least not now. But if the coppers pick you up again for questioning, promise me you won’t talk to them without a lawyer. Call Margery or call me, and we’ll find you a lawyer. I’m serious, Helen. A mistake like this could land you in prison—or worse.”

  “What’s worse than prison?” she said.

  “Florida is a death penalty state. I know you don’t like Marcella, but you can’t afford to be choosy. If she sends Gabe Accomac when you’re taken in for questioning again, tell her thanks and do whatever he says.”

  When. Not if. Phil really thought the police were going after her.

  Helen watched the waves surge in on the sand, swallowing everything in their path. She was never going to be free of Rob. Her ex-husband’s suspicious death would follow her like a slime trail.

  “How soon before they get a positive ID on the body?” she said.

  “It shouldn’t be long. It will have to be identified by dental records.”

  “I guess those are in St. Louis,” Helen said. “I think I can remember the name of our dentist, if the police need it.”

  “You won’t have to. Marcella had Rob’s dental records on board her yacht.”

  “She what!” Helen sat up so fast, she nearly overturned her wine. The beach was empty now. The tourists were gone. Their fellow drinkers had gone inside to the warm pub. “You think that’s normal?”

  “It is for rich yachters,” Phil said. “They sail all over the world. Marcella explained that they carry their medical records with them on CDs in case they need emergency work in a foreign country. She says it can be awkward tracking down important medical information in a hurry, especially on some remote island.”