Dying to Call You

Chapter 26

The second time at an orgy was boring.

Helen had seen better bodies in the dressing room at Loehmann’s. Too many of the naked people here tonight had wrinkles, flab and hairy patches on their hide.

Taking off their clothes didn’t make them more interesting or improve their conversation. Just like being half-naked didn’t make Helen a better bartender.

When this is over, I’ll probably join a convent, Helen thought. My ex-husband will never find me there, and I won’t have to worry about my next meal. Except didn’t nuns have jobs now? Maybe so, but she didn’t think there were many nun-telemarketers. Or topless bartenders, for that matter.

She did feel a sizzle of excitement. But it wasn’t sex—it was stealing. God knows what would happen if she was caught prowling the Mowbry mansion. But she was going to find Laredo’s disk in that coffin.

As Helen sprinted across the park-sized lawn, she stumbled over a copulating couple. They grunted, but paid her no attention. She passed a daisy chain that included two lawyers and an insurance executive. She hoped they got mosquito bites in places they couldn’t scratch. Helen didn’t know anything about orgies, but she suspected this one would not be very shocking in New York or L.A.—or even Miami.

Broward County would put on a suburban satyricon.

She saw the Cigarette boat, tied up at the Mowbrys’ dock.

Its flames looked like a childish cartoon.

No one was near the mansion’s service door. Helen walked in as if she had every right. So far, the party goers had acted as if she were invisible. Her disguise was working.

Helen had refused to go naked this time. She couldn’t take off her shirt again, no matter how she rationalized it. Instead, she’d come up with a good way to keep her clothes on. At least, she’d thought so back at the Coronado.

Now that she was sliding along a dark corridor in the depths of the Mowbry mansion, Helen wasn’t so sure. It was midnight. Somewhere, a clock bonged twelve gloomy notes.

Black shadows stretched down the corridor. She could hear party laughter, but the sound was distorted. It sounded demonic. She was afraid the boredom underneath it would suck her bones dry.

Helen counted at least six doors on the long corridor.

About half opened onto lighted rooms. The rest were dark.

She didn’t know which looked more ominous.

It had been easy to find out when the next charity orgy was. She’d called Steve for a bartending job. “I could use you tomorrow night,” he’d said. “Wanna work? I hear you were a hit with a certain guest.”

“He was pretty cute,” Helen said. Cute? Where did that come from? What was this, high school? “But I’m booked tomorrow night.”

“Suit yourself,” Steve said, his voice like a slap. “Don’t call again unless you want to work.”

That was Steve, always ready with a threat or a putdown.

She was glad she’d never work his parties again, even if they paid obscenely well.

It was also easy to find the clothes for her disguise. Helen had a pair of beige khaki pants in her closet and sensible shoes from another dead-end job. She borrowed a khaki work shirt from Margery. It had BILLY sewn on the pocket.

She knew better than to ask her landlady who Billy was.

All she needed to complete her scam was a toolbox. She used the gray metal box she kept under the kitchen sink. No one would know it held only a hammer with a duct-taped handle, a screwdriver and rusty pliers. She added enough cash for a water-taxi ticket, so she wouldn’t have to carry her wallet. While she was rooting around in her purse, Helen found the can of oven cleaner she’d confiscated from Savannah and threw that in. She might need it for protection.

In her pocket was the envelope with the rest of Fred and Ethel’s metal slivers. They were going on a final fraudulent mission.

“What in hell’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Helen nearly dropped the toolbox. She recognized that bullying bark. It was Steve. She froze against the wall, hoping the shadows would hide her, knowing they wouldn’t.

I’m caught, she thought. He’ll see the toolbox and think I’m a jewel thief or something. I’ll spend the night getting cavity-searched at the city jail.

“I told you before,” Steve said, “Wedges and peels. Wedges and peels. We don’t use lemon slices at a service bar. The limes are wedges. The lemons are peels. Always. Only. Why can’t you get that through your thick head?”

Steve was screaming at some hapless bartender.

The door to the next room was partly open. Helen caught a glimpse of a bare-chested blonde and a red-faced Steve.

The bullied blonde cringed against a supply rack as Steve whipped her with his words. Helen felt sorry for the woman, but she had to get past that open door.

Don’t stop yelling now, she thought, as she sidled past the doorway. But Steve didn’t see her. He was too busy badgering the bartender.

Helen almost made it when her toolbox banged against the doorframe with a loud clunk.

“Who’s there?” Steve said.

Helen ducked into the next open door, one of the dark ones, and bumped against someone. “Sorry,” she whispered.

No answer. She could feel hard, pointed breasts jutting into her back. This woman was packing serious silicone.

Why didn’t she say anything? Was this another kinky game?

Steve went back to verbally beating the bartender. He’d forgotten about the noise.

Helen’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. She was in a closet. She could see brooms, mops and buckets. Her back was pressed against a strange woman’s chest. A woman who wasn’t talking. Helen was afraid to turn around, in case she knocked over something noisy. She carefully moved her hand back a few inches. She felt a leg. In black leather. It seemed lifeless and rigid.

The hair went up on the back of Helen’s neck. Was she in a closet with a dead body? Helen stepped back and hit something metal with her foot. It felt like... a stand.

Helen almost giggled. She was up against a department-store dummy. There’s another big dummy in here, she thought. Dead body, indeed. I should know better. A real leg doesn’t feel like that.

Helen wondered what the Mowbrys were doing with a dummy, and decided she didn’t want to know. By the time she could breathe normally, Steve and the freshly battered bartender were gone. Helen started down the hall again, keeping her toolbox away from the wall. The corridor stretched endlessly. How long was it? She’d taken shorter walks down Las Olas Boulevard. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached from tension. The toolbox weighed a thousand pounds.

Three more doors to go. She scooted past another one, then saw that the next opening wasn’t a door. It was a window. What did her mother always say? God didn’t close a door without opening a window. Helen had had a roommate like that. It was annoying.

This window was at least seven feet high and gave Helen a good view of the pool area. She leaned out the open win-dow and looked down on the party. From this height, the writhing couples in and around the pool were white and wormlike. She recognized a few. Mr. Shamrock Shorts was pawing another waitress.

Helen was relieved she didn’t see Patricia Wellneck, theme funeral planner. She wondered if Patricia had ever buried any of her surgeon husband’s mistakes. She was even happier to see no sign of the boiler-room reptile, Mr. Cavarelli.

But she did spot Phil, with his shining silver-white hair and black jacket. He was talking to the real estate dealer in the La Perla panties. Tonight, she was wearing a hot-pink thong. Ms. Realtor kept rubbing Phil’s arm like she was releasing a genie from a bottle. Phil had his hands wrapped around a beer, but he was smiling at the little—Helen heard a noise. She saw a semi-naked couple walking down the far end of the hall. The woman’s high heels clicked on the floor. The man padded alongside her barefoot.

They seemed to see only each other, but Helen wasn’t taking any chances. She streaked down the corridor and shot around the corner.

At last. There were the mahogany doors with the dancing dragons and demons. She’d reached the back room. The gold knobs gleamed in the shadows.

Helen opened the double doors. The blackness drew her in.

She saw the ebony casket, surrounded by flickering flames and white flowers. It held a pale woman in a white lace dress, with hair like a dandelion. Helen didn’t recognize her. Good. Kristi must have left town. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about that young fool.

Helen’s ordeal was almost over. Once she had her hands on Laredo’s computer disk, her job was done. She’d turn it over to Phil. He’d give it to the authorities. Helen would be free.

All she had to do was find the disk.

Helen saw something else now in the wavering light. A naked man was fingering the undead corpse’s lily bouquet.

The dandelion blonde regarded him with absolute ennui. The man had to be dead to miss it. But he did. He also didn’t see Helen. The blonde didn’t care.

Helen reached into her pocket for Fred and Ethel’s metal slivers. She moved her hand along the edge of the casket and left a trail of metal bits.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I need to check this casket. Routine maintenance.”

“What?” the guy said. “Beat it. We’re busy.”

“You’re going to be on the floor at the crucial moment, buddy, if you don’t let me fix this. See the problem?” Helen pointed to the metal. “This coffin’s coming apart. I can fix it with a simple adjustment.” She showed him the toolbox.

The blonde looked frightened—the first emotion Helen had seen on that dead-white face. Her lipstick was a bloody slash. Maybe she saw herself in a casket for real.

“Come on, sweetie, it will just take a minute.” The blonde sounded like a nanny with a balky toddler. “Help me out of here.” She thrust her lacy bosom against his bare chest. It was too much for him to resist. He did the manly thing and helped her out of the casket. The blonde rolled her eyes at Helen when his back was turned.

“Thank you,” Helen said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Nice set of tools, Billy,” leered the corpse-lover, eying Helen’s khaki chest. In this crowd, clothes were a perversion.

The dandelion blonde led her man into the blackness. She was having trouble keeping her dress on with that slit up the back.

Helen checked the coffin mattress first. It felt thin as a sofa bed. Helen hoped it was comfortable for the corpse. It would be hell to spend eternity in the guest room. She found no disk in the mattress. There were no slits in it, either.

The sides of the coffin were lined with pleated white satin.

Helen wondered if she’d be able to feel the disk through the thick fabric. She kneaded it like bread dough. She massaged the coffin innards all the way down the long side and didn’t find anything. She was about halfway around the head end when she felt something flat and square. Helen leaned over for a closer look. In the dim candlelight, she saw a slit along a pleat. She stuck her hand in and slid out a red plastic computer disk.

She had it.

Helen took a deep breath. The worst was over.

“What are you doing? What’s that in your hand?” The voice cut like a knife.

Helen slowly turned. She recognized the face from the society pages. But the outfit was new.

It was Mindy Mowbry. In skin-tight black vinyl. With a wicked whip.