by Elaine Viets
“Harold told her a lot of things that weren’t true,” Kitty said.
“He’s cheating on her, isn’t he?” Helen said.
“Everyone knows it but Gillian,” Kitty said. “It’s the old story. The blind, stupid, trusting wife is always the last to know.” Kitty threw her notebook so hard on her desk, the teddy bear bounced off and fell on the floor.
Helen picked up the bounced bear. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” Kitty said. “As soon as I can find five thousand dollars for my kids’ tuition, I’ll be better. If you could catch Brenda’s killer before my next meeting with Mr. Ironton, I’d be just ducky. He seems to hold me personally responsible for her death.”
Her boss seemed so small and hurt, Helen was tempted to hug her.
Kitty daubed her damp eyes with a tissue, careful to avoid smearing her makeup. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I shouldn’t go on like this. It’s unprofessional. Run along and answer the phones. I hear them ringing. Solange is on a rampage, and the phones will set her off.”
Helen worked the phones, managing to avoid the notorious complainers. Solange returned from her meeting with Mr. Ironton looking like a bomb-blast survivor. Her red hair hung in lank hunks like cheap yarn and she had a run in her stocking.
“Ladies and Cam,” she said, standing in the middle of the room. “Get off the phones now. I need to speak with you.”
Jessica was taking guest pass information. Solange glared at her until she hung up.
“I said get off the phone immediately,” Solange said. “I meant it, Jessica.”
“But the club member wanted—” Jessica began.
“I don’t care,” Solange snapped. “When I talk, you should have the courtesy to listen.”
Everyone in the office kept silent, even Xaviera. Solange was usually too lazy to get this angry. The customer care phones rang and rang, but no one answered them. Helen knew the club members would be furious. For once, they had a good reason.
“I want that Winderstine file. Now,” Solange said. “Cam, you’re going to reorganize the file room until it’s found.”
“Me?” Cam said. “Why me?”
“Because I said so.” Solange’s voice was dangerous.
“I have allergies,” Cam said. “It’s dusty in there. I’ll have an asthma attack.”
“Take your inhaler,” Solange said. “The faster you find that missing file, the quicker you can leave the file room.”
“But it will take months to go through all those files,” Cam said.
“Then you’d better get started.”
Solange turned on her heel and shut her office door. Cam left gripping his puffer and his bottle of hand sanitizer, muttering to himself. The big pudgy man shambled away like an angry bear.
Xaviera raised her eyebrows, but still didn’t dare speak.
Helen started retrieving missed messages and soothing irate club members. The next time she checked the clock, it was after noon. Enough time on other people’s problems, Helen decided. Time to help myself. I promised Phil I’d look into Dr. Dell’s affairs, pardon the pun.
She checked the dead doctor’s file, looking for the woman who got the day of relaxation that led to the surgeon’s eternal rest.
The doctor’s staffer was named Mandy. According to the customer profile she filled out, she lived in Pembroke Pines, had “raven” hair with no split ends and fair skin with a “T-zone problem.” Mandy was five-feet-six, weighed ninety-seven pounds and was twenty-three years old.
Shame on your hairy hide, Dr. Dell, Helen thought, chasing a woman thirty-five years younger.
Helen called the doctor’s office and asked to speak to Mandy.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “Mandy’s not here.”
Must be in mourning for the late doctor, Helen thought.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered her,” Helen said. “I know you’ve had a death in your office. When Mandy returns, could you have her call me? I have a refund check. She overpaid her bill by a hundred dollars.”
“Mandy’s not coming back,” the receptionist said. “She’s on her honeymoon.”
“She’s married?” Helen tried to keep the surprise out of her voice.
“And on the Queen Mary 2. How cool is that? The cruise must be a gift from her parents, because Dave’s a hottie, but he doesn’t have two nickels. Oops. My bad. Do I sound jealous? Guess I am. Some girls get all the luck and all the men. And now you want to give her money, too.”
Helen looked at Mandy’s address in the club files. “So are they going to live at her place in Pembroke Pines?” she asked.
“No, they’re moving into Dave’s home in Hollywood. I think her townhouse in Pembroke is cuter, but Dave owns the house off Johnson Street.”
“I’ll send the check there,” Helen said.
So much for Mandy in mourning, Helen thought as she hung up the phone. The doctor wasn’t in the ground before she married a hot younger man.
“Ta-da!” a loud voice announced.
Helen looked up. Cam was triumphantly bearing a fat file through the office. Solange came running out.
“I found it,” Cam said. “I have the missing Winderstine file.” He held it over his head like a trophy. Helen saw the coffee ring on the file folder, in the same place as the file that had been hidden in Brenda’s desk.
“Where was it?” Solange said.
“On the bottom of the file drawer,” Cam said. “It had slipped under the other files, so you couldn’t see it. Do I get a reward?”
“You certainly do,” Solange said. “You’re the only one in this office smart enough to find that file. How would you like to take your girlfriend out to dinner?”
“Can I take my mom instead?” Cam asked.
Xaviera rolled her eyes.
“You can take whomever you want,” Solange said. “I have a gift certificate to Ruth’s Chris Steak House.”
“That’s funny,” Jessica whispered to Helen. “I checked that file drawer when I searched the room, and looked under the other files. I know I did. The Winderstine file wasn’t there.”
Helen knew she did, too. That coffee-ringed file had been on Brenda’s desk, then disappeared after her murder. Now Cam found it. How did it get back in the file room?
Was it really there? What if Cam had hidden it somewhere in the building and produced it now? His timely discovery saved him from months in a dusty file room.
Cam had recently bought an expensive condo—way too expensive for an eleven-dollar-an-hour clerk. Where did he get the money? Was he selling club information to Rob?
What if Brenda had discovered the missing file in Cam’s desk on one of her snooping missions? Cam was the only person in the office with a locked drawer. But supervisors had keys to all the locks.
Cam could have come in early and killed Brenda. He’d been making up the time he’d taken off for his condo closing in the mornings.
Cam knew the club, its back roads and passages. He’d worked a variety of scut jobs before he’d landed a cushy place in customer care. He could find ways in—and out—of the club that weren’t under the watchful eye of the employee gate camera.
Cam hated Brenda. He’d wanted to dance on her grave.
Did he kill her? He had a good reason. Brenda would have ruined his career at the club with that file. She loved destroying people.
But why would he kill Rob, the source of his money?
“People, listen up, since I have you all here together,” Solange said. “We’re getting new uniforms in customer care.”
“What color?” Xaviera asked.
“Black pants and jackets with white T-shirts,” Solange said.
“Boring,” Xaviera said. “This is South Florida. Haven’t they ever heard of tropical colors?”
Solange ignored her. “The good news is the T-shirts won’t need to be starched and ironed. You can wash them at home. You won’t be at the mercy of the employee laundry for your shirts anymore.”
The staff cheered at that news.
“However,” Solange quieted the cheers with a glare, “the uniforms still have to be dry-cleaned. Please make your appointment for a uniform fitting today. The new uniforms will be ready in two weeks. In order to receive them, you must turn in your old uniform, including your five shirts or blouses. If we do not have your complete uniform, you will be charged for the missing pieces.”
“What?” Jessica said.
“That’s not fair,” Cam said. “The employee laundry lost one of my uniform shirts.”
“I’m missing a blouse,” Jessica said. “I’m not paying thirty bucks to replace it. I didn’t lose it.”
“I have one gone, too,” Jackie said. “I can’t afford that kind of money.”
“I didn’t make the rules.” Solange waved their protests away like annoying flies. “Deal with it, people. I need a manicure. If there’s a crisis, call me on my cell.”
The grumbling continued long after she left. Cam pouted and refused to answer his phone. Even laid-back Jessica slammed papers around on her desk. Two angry red spots stood out on her pale cheeks.
“I can’t believe this,” Jessica said. “Everyone knows the employee laundry is hopeless. They lose our things all the time. Now we’ll have to pay for their mistakes.”
“Do you still have your laundry ticket? Maybe you can prove the blouse is lost,” Helen said.
“Maybe,” Jessica said. “But don’t bet on it.”
“They took my laundry ticket when they looked for my missing shirt. They lost that, too,” Cam said. “I can’t even prove I took the shirt to the laundry.”
“Inexcusable,” Jackie said.
“Criminally careless,” Jessica said.
Careless, definitely. The employee laundry was notoriously bad.
Criminal? That was another question.
Helen definitely thought this lost shirt was a crime.
But was it lost in the laundry? Or did Cam throw it away because it was covered with Brenda’s blood?
CHAPTER 21
Helen’s last call of the day was the worst. Phil phoned her at the Superior Club, something he rarely did. As soon as she heard his voice, she knew the news was bad.
“What’s wrong?” Helen said.
“The body on the beach wasn’t Rob’s,” Phil said. "The dental records didn’t match. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Who was the dead man?” Helen asked.
“Nobody knows,” Phil said. “His description doesn’t match any other missing person. He could be an illegal immigrant, a drifter or homeless. He could be some tourist down here alone. The body was so battered by the waves it’s hard to tell much, and he wasn’t wearing any clothes or jewelry. They don’t even know how he died.”
“No clothes, no name and no identity,” Helen said. “What a lonely death.”
“They may still find out who he is,” Phil said. “Someone who knew him could come forward. How are you feeling? I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear.”
“Relieved and disappointed at the same time,” Helen said. “I want it to be over. I want to be rid of Marcella. Now I have to call her and tell her the news.”
“Margery will call for you,” Phil said.
“And the Black Widow will tell Margery to call me. Margery isn’t my errand girl. I’ll make my own calls.”
“I’m here if you need me,” Phil said. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m glad the dead man wasn’t Rob. You don’t need the police interested in you right now.”
“Or any other time,” Helen said. “Thanks. I’ll call Marcella.”
Helen didn’t feel nearly as brave once she hung up the phone. She didn’t want to call Marcella and be drawn once more into her lonely world of power and money.
Might as well get it over with, she thought. My phone won’t dial itself. She took a deep breath and called Marcella.
“I have news,” Helen said.
“The dead man on the beach wasn’t Rob,” Marcella said.
“Then you already know,” Helen said. Good, she thought. Now I won’t have to meet with her.
“I still want to meet with you,” Marcella said.
Damn.
“I get off work in fifteen minutes,” Helen said. “I’ll stop by the yacht club on my way home.”
“Do that,” Marcella said, and hung up.
Helen put her head down on her desk. Her heart was beating wildly and her hands were shaking. She had to get away from the Black Widow. The woman had said three sentences and Helen felt ice forming on her bones. Helen had convinced herself Marcella was evil, and she couldn’t shake that feeling.
“Are you OK?” Jessica asked. They were the last two people working in the customer care office at this hour.
“It’s been a rough day,” Helen said. And I have to meet with a serial husband killer, she thought.
“Tell me about it,” Jessica said. She sipped her tea and made a face. “Yuck. It’s cold.” She dropped the tea bag in the trash, then emptied the dregs in the waste can, something else Brenda never permitted.
Helen watched, fascinated by the quick, efficient movements of the actress’s thin fingers. Jessica’s smallest gesture was photogenic.
“I keep looking at all the club members and wondering which one is the killer,” Jessica said. “I rush up front when I see them at the counter. I don’t want them angry at me.”
“Do you really think the killer is a club member?” Helen said.
“Of course,” Jessica said. “Who else could it be?”
Helen said nothing.
“You think it’s one of us?” Jessica said. “After all the time you’ve spent in this office? Thanks a lot, Helen.”
“I don’t think it’s you, Jessica.”
Jessica flung her arms wide, to take in the whole office. “Then who? Jackie?” She laughed theatrically.
“Xaviera?” She pointed an accusing finger at Xaviera’s empty desk. “If Brenda had been stabbed with a rhinestone-tipped fingernail, I’d say Xaviera was the killer.”
She waved her hand at Kitty’s empty office. “How about her? Our boss is really dangerous. She might drown them in tears.”
“I think it’s Cameron,” Helen said.
“Cam? You’re joking. That big mama’s boy? He’d never kill anyone. Dead people have too many germs. Besides, haven’t you figured out by now how lazy he is? Brenda was beaten more than fifty times. That’s too much work for Cam.”
“He started doing the worst jobs at the club,” Helen said. “He was a porter. He lugged garbage and took out used cooking oil. He scrubbed pots in the club kitchen. Those are hard, dirty jobs. He finally worked his way up to a nice desk in customer care, and Brenda tried to get him fired. She wrote a memo to Mr. Ironton ratting out Cam for buying his condo on company time.”
“Brenda lied,” Jessica said. “Solange won’t do anything, but Kitty will fix it. She’ll tell Mr. Ironton the truth.”
“Some of that accusation will stick. It always does. Cam was furious. He’d kill Brenda to save his easy job.”
“Stop this,” Jessica said. “Stop it, right now. We have to work together. It’s us against the members. We need one another to survive this awful job. I’m sick of the fighting. I’m tired of being broke. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it!”
Jessica slammed her teacup down on her desk so hard, it cracked. She threw it in the trash, picked up her purse, and walked out without another word.
The silence that followed was like the quiet after a disaster—unnatural, uneasy. Helen had no idea laid-back Jessica had so much fury in her. But she’d been under terrible pressure at work and at home. Helen remembered the stack of past-due bills and Jessica’s hissed arguments with her husband. And that list of agents who never called her for acting jobs.
Actresses were good at manufacturing fake feelings and hiding real ones.
So who was the real Jessica: the raging woman who smashed crockery? Or the ea
sygoing actress?
Helen brooded as she closed the customer care office for the night. It was dark when she left the club, and the path to the Superior yacht basin was crossed with wind-shifting shadows. The Black Widow’s yacht loomed over the dock, white as bleached bones. The windows were black and shiny as a new hearse.
Helen boarded the Brandy Alexander, her thoughts heavy with dread. Bruce materialized at the ramp to greet her. She could see the shape of his skull under his shaved head. Helen heard ghostly laughter coming from the back of the yacht. She’d heard it before, the night Margery had introduced the Black Widow to Rob.
Marcella was being courted by a new man. Rob was definitely dead to the Black Widow. She was looking for his replacement.
The new husband candidate was sitting in one of the white chairs on deck, relaxed and easy. He was about forty, with thick brown hair and a nicely weathered face. He nodded to Helen, kissed Marcella’s hand, and wished her good evening. Marcella didn’t introduce him to Helen.
The man seemed vaguely familiar, but Helen couldn’t place him. She thought he was a good choice, though—handsome, tall, but not so young he made Marcella look ridiculous.
In this light, Marcella could almost be the same age as her new man. She seemed younger and slimmer. Her makeup was softer and her hair color not so harsh.
The Black Widow needed men, Helen thought. She fed off their admiration and absorbed their vitality.
“May I offer you a drink?” Marcella was sipping a frosty margarita from a salt-rimmed glass. She must save the martinis for when she wanted to pound down the booze. Helen realized she’d never seen Marcella eat so much as a peanut. She wondered if the Black Widow was like one of those demons who couldn’t touch human food.
“Just water,” Helen said. “I have a long drive home.”
“Bruce will bring it. Let’s get down to business. Anything more on the dead man they found on the beach?”
“Nothing. They still don’t know who he is.”
“Too bad it wasn’t Rob,” Marcella said. “I’d love to see him dead.”
We have something else in common, Helen thought. She said, “I’m sure you have a good prenup. It won’t cost you much to get rid of him.”
