Final Sail

Also by Elaine Viets

Dead-End Job Mystery Series

Shop till You Drop

Murder Between the Covers

Dying to Call You

Just Murdered

Murder Unleashed

Murder with Reservations

Clubbed to Death

Killer Cuts

Half-Price Homicide

Pumped for Murder

Josie Marcus, Mystery Shopper Series

Dying in Style

High Heels Are Murder

Accessory to Murder

Murder with All the Trimmings

The Fashion Hound Murders

An Uplifting Murder

Death on a Platter

A DEAD-END JOB MYSTERY

Elaine Viets

For Victoria,

who really should kill

people—on paper.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Final Sail would have been totally at sea without the help of Victoria Allman. She’s a yacht chef who writes as well as she cooks. Many of the meals aboard the fictional Belted Earl came from Victoria’s two cooking memoirs: Sea Fare: A Chef’s Journey Across the Ocean and SEAsoned: A Chef’s Journey with her Captain (NorLightsPress). The recipes are fabulous.

Victoria’s captain is also her husband, Captain Patrick Allman. His help was invaluable. Gina Soacat, the yacht’s head stewardess, taught me the finer points of yacht cleaning, including running the vacuum cleaner in the tracks.

One mystery still remains: Victoria, Captain Patrick and Gina would not reveal their yacht’s owners.

A very special thanks must go to my editor, Sandra Harding, for her insights and her patience, and to the ever-helpful Elizabeth Bistrow at NAL. Writers love to complain about copy editors, but this one saved my hide. Thank you!

My agent, David Hendin, gave excellent advice, and my husband, Don Crinklaw, is my first reader and best critic.

Old salt and sailboater Barry Talley steered me across the treacherous Gulf Stream and mystery writer Marcia Talley provided photos and other information about the Bahamas.

I am deeply grateful to my friend and former newspaper editor Dick Richmond for his help.

Tom Adair, a retired forensic scientist, helped with the forensics. Enjoy his blog at forensics4fiction.wordpress.com. Mystery writer Joanna Campbell Slan told me how the rich really advertise for household help. Sue Schlueter gave wardrobe advice for my yacht-goers.

Mary Lynn Reed, when she isn’t providing Phil with fake references, is a real friend. Valerie Cannata gave me her name for my TV reporter. Nancie Hays let me turn her into a lawyer.

Suzanne Schoomer is a fine chef who generously lent her name in return for a large donation to a worthy cause.

The real Margery Flax is much younger but just as crafty as the fictional Margery—and both love purple. She does wish the Coronado landlady drove a hotter car, but it’s a Florida law that anyone over age seventy must drive a large white car.

Helen still works those dead-end jobs, but now that she and Phil have their own private eye agency, she takes them to solve cases. Private investigator William Simon gave invaluable information about this business. Detective R. C. White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired), is also working on his PI license. He gave me the benefit of his insights and information.

Rick McMahan, ATF special agent and one heck of a writer, helped. MarySue Carl and author Eileen Dreyer assisted with hospital procedure. Fort Lauderdale attorney Vladimira Libansky, Esq., helped with the legal issues. Luci Zahray, internationally known poison expert, uses her powers only for good—and to help mystery writers like me.

Like the song says, I get by with a little help from my friends. They include Karen Grace, who spent many hours discussing these characters and their motivation, Alan Portman, Molly Portman, Doris Ann Norris, Kay Gordy, Jack Klobnak, Robert Levine and Janet Smith. Mary Alice Gorman gave me promotional advice. I can’t forget supersaleswoman Carole Wantz, who could sell beer at a temperance meeting.

Boynton Beach librarian Anne Watts lent me her six-toed cat, Thumbs, for this series. Once again, I am grateful to all the librarians who helped with this book, especially the staff of the St. Louis Public Library and Broward County Library. Librarians are the original search engines.

I’m grateful to the booksellers who recommend my novels to their customers.

To the sources who can’t be named, I appreciate your legal, medical and tax information.

Thank you, blog sisters. I rely on the advice and encouragement of the wise women in the Femmes Fatales (www.femmesfatales.typepad.com). You’ll enjoy what they have to say, too. Stop by our blog.

Finally, any errors are my own. You can tell me about them, or better yet, tell me you enjoyed this novel, at eviets@aol.com.

CHAPTER 1

“That woman is murdering my father,” Violet Zerling said. “We’re sitting here while he’s dying. And you—you’re letting her get away with it.”

Violet Zerling jabbed an accusing finger at attorney Nancie Hays. Violet was no delicate flower. She was twice the size of the slender lawyer and obviously upset.

Nancie wasn’t intimidated by the large woman. The lawyer was barely five feet tall, a hundred pounds and thirty years old, but tough and adept at handling difficult people. She had faced down—and successfully sued—a slipshod homicide detective and the small South Florida city that employed him. She’d fought to keep an innocent woman out of jail. Now she didn’t back away from Violet.

Nancie was all business, and so was her office. The carpet was a practical dark blue. Her plain white desk was piled with papers and folders. A workstation with a black computer, printer and fax machine was within rolling distance of her desk. Seated next to the workstation were the two partners of Coronado Investigations, Helen Hawthorne and Phil Sagemont. Nancie had called in the husband-and-wife PI team to help her new client.

Helen felt sorry for Violet, sitting rigidly in the lime green client chair. Her beige pantsuit was the same color as her short hair. The unflattering cut and drab color turned her face into a lump of dough.

Violet’s clothes and shoes said she had money and spent it badly. Despite her sturdy build, she seemed helpless. Helen thought Violet could be pretty. Why did she work to make herself unattractive?

I’m not here to solve that mystery, Helen told herself. We have to save a man’s life.

Nancie did not humor her client. “Violet, we’ve discussed this before,” she said, her voice sharp. “Your father did not leave any medical directives or sign a living will. In fact, he doesn’t have any will at all. Your stepmother—”

“That witch is not my mother,” Violet said. “She is Daddy’s second wife. She married my father for his money and now she’s killing him. She wants his ten million dollars. He’ll be dead soon, unless you do something. I need to save Daddy. Please. Before it’s too late.”

Violet burst into noisy tears. Helen had seen women turn weeping into an art form, shedding dainty droplets as if they were Swarovski crystals. Violet’s tears seemed torn from her heart. Helen would bet her PI license those tears were genuine.

Nancie, Helen and Phil waited out the tear storm until Violet sat sniffling in the client chair. Then Phil handed her his pocket handkerchief. Helen loved her husband for that old-fashioned courtesy.

Violet liked it, too. She dabbed at her reddened eyes, then thanked Phil. “You don’t meet many gentlemen these days,” she said. “I’ll have this laundered and return it to you.”

“Keep it,” Phil said. “That’s why I carry one.”

Violet stuffed Phil’s handkerchief into a leather purse as beige and shapeless as its owner. The ugly bag was well made. It would probably last forever. Unfortunately.

“May I ask a question?” Phil asked.

Violet nodded.

“How does the rest of your family feel about your fight to keep your father alive?”

“There is no one else,” Violet said. “I’m an only child. Daddy is the last of the Zerling family. He doesn’t even have distant cousins.”

“And you’re not married, I take it?” Phil asked.

“I’m divorced,” Violet said. “My husband married me for my money and the marriage was not happy.” She looked down at her smooth, well-shaped hands. They belonged to a woman who did not work for a living.

“I might as well tell you,” Violet said. “You and Helen are detectives. You’ll find the whole sordid story of my divorce on the Internet. My marriage was miserable. My ex-husband drank and beat me. I had no idea he was like that when I fell in love with him. I was only twenty-one. Daddy opposed the marriage, but I had a trust fund from my grandmother, and I was determined to marry. My ex slapped me around on our honeymoon, and the marriage went downhill from there.

“I tried to hide the bruises, but I couldn’t fool Daddy. He knew why I wore heavy makeup and long sleeves in August. He never said ‘I told you so.’ But he was there for me. It took me more than a year to walk away from my marriage. After my ex put me in the hospital, I got the courage to leave him.

“He wouldn’t let go of his meal ticket without a fight. He accused me of living a wild life. We were tabloid material for months. I couldn’t have made it without Daddy. I changed my name back to Zerling after the divorce.

“My family’s money never brought me happiness. I can’t trust my judgment about men. I’ve set aside that phase of my life.”

“Oh!” Helen said. She was a new bride and couldn’t imagine life without love, though her first husband had been a disaster.

“It’s better that way,” Violet said. “I can’t make any more mistakes.”

Now Helen understood Violet’s dowdy appearance. It hid a badly wounded woman.

“We aren’t here to talk about me,” Violet said. “I have to save my father.”

“Violet, I wish I could do more,” Nancie said. “Legally, Blossom is Arthur’s next of kin. He’s being given the best possible care, but he had a heart attack and he’s in a coma.”

“No! He was poisoned,” Violet said. “She did it. That’s why he’s in a coma.”

“There’s no proof,” Nancie said. “Your father’s housekeeper, Frances, accused Blossom of poisoning Mr. Zerling. Fran took two samples to the police. They were analyzed. The so-called poison turned out to be harmless spices, turmeric and cumin.”

“Fran was right to be suspicious,” Violet said. “That woman never even scrambled an egg. Suddenly, she decided to fix Daddy a spicy curry dinner. A meat-and-potatoes man like Daddy, eating curry. Guess what? He got deathly ill after he ate it. Fran said she made a big pot of curry, but there wasn’t a crumb left. That woman dumped it down the disposal.”

“After her husband took sick?” Nancie asked. “You couldn’t expect her to eat it.”

“It disappeared before Daddy was sick.”

“Blossom ate the same meal as your father,” Nancie said.

“She poisoned Daddy’s dinner,” Violet said. “That’s what I told the police. They didn’t listen.”

“They can’t,” Nancie said. “Not after Fran. The doctors said he had a heart attack. They didn’t see any symptoms of poison.”

“They didn’t look. That woman’s got a boyfriend,” Violet said. “She left Daddy’s house to meet a man. Fran saw her.”

“Fran never actually saw Blossom with a man,” Nancie said.

“That woman left at midnight,” Violet said.

“She could have been going for a drive,” Nancie said.

“Dressed in a short skirt and a low-cut blouse?” Violet asked. “Fran reported that woman’s suspicious behavior to the police. Blossom fired my father’s housekeeper. Threw poor Fran out of her home.”

“Can you blame her?” Nancie asked. “Let’s look at the facts: Mr. Zerling has a heart condition. He uses nitroglycerin pills. He also took Viagra. That’s not recommended for a man with his health issues. I’m surprised his doctor prescribed it.”

“He didn’t,” Violet said. “His Fort Lauderdale doctor refused. Daddy got the blue pills from India. That woman told him he was a stud and he believed her.”

“It’s not illegal to encourage your husband to take Viagra,” Nancie said.

“You didn’t see the way she flaunted herself at him,” Violet said. “I did. Daddy was taking twice the recommended dose. I know he’ll pull through if I take care of him. Daddy is a fighter.”

“What else could you do for him?” Nancie asked. “The doctors are doing everything they can. They say there’s almost no chance of recovery. According to Blossom, your father said, ‘If anything happens to me, pull the plug. I don’t want to be a vegetable.’ She wants him to die with dignity. Your father is an old man who’s had a massive heart attack.”

“He’s only eighty-four,” Violet said. “That’s not old, not in our family. His father, my grandpapa, lived to be ninety-seven. His mother passed away at a hundred and two. Daddy could go on for another ten, twenty years if he hadn’t married that woman. She murdered him.”

“Mr. Zerling is still alive,” Nancie said gently.

“Not for long,” Violet said. “He’s on a ventilator. My father is unconscious, wrapped like a mummy in tubes and wires. That machine makes the most horrible sound. I tried to see Daddy in the ICU, but that woman won’t let me in his room. She says I give off bad vibes.”

Helen saw tears welling up in Violet’s eyes again.

“That’s her right,” Nancie said. “Unfortunately, the law is on Blossom’s side. The judge denied your petition for guardianship.”

“If I may interrupt,” Phil said, “I find it hard to believe that a businessman like your father didn’t have a will or a medical directive.”

“Daddy hated lawyers,” Violet said. “After my divorce, he set up a trust to run his companies if anything happened to him, and settled half his personal wealth on me. Then he made even more money. Daddy said he’d make a will when he was old.”

“But he was eighty-four,” Phil said.

“That’s not as strange as it sounds, Phil,” the lawyer said. “Even smart people aren’t rational about wills. They’re afraid if they sign one, they’re signing their death warrant. They put it off until it’s too late. Mr. Zerling is an amazing man, but he is old.”

“Daddy is strong,” Violet said. “He will get better.”

He will recover—he won’t. Helen rode that same seesaw during her mother’s last illness. Her heart couldn’t accept what her mind knew.

Nancie turned toward Violet and her voice softened. “Violet, dear, I know this is hard for you to hear, but you must prepare yourself for the worst. Your father may not recover.”

From the depths of her beige purse, Violet pulled out a photo of a white-haired man on a glossy black stallion and handed it to Helen. She saw a square-jawed older man with a straight back and strong hands gripping the reins. He looked fit and muscular. Helen handed the photo to Phil.

“Look at him! Is this the photo of a man who would give up?” Violet’s eyes burned with fanatic fire and her pale skin was tinged with pink. For a moment, Helen got a glimpse of the vital woman she could be.

“That’s my father on his eighty-fourth birthday, three months before he met her,” Violet said. “He barely looks sixty. Blossom has reduced him to a thing on a machine. Soon Daddy will be nothing at all. He’ll be dead and she’ll have his millions and spend them on her boyfriend.”

“Violet,” Nancie soothed, “you must be careful what you say. That statement is actionable.”

“I’m saying it to you in your office,” Violet said. “These detectives work for you, right?”

“Yes,” Nancie said. “When Helen and Phil work for my firm, their investigation is protected by attorney-client privilege. Also, under Florida law, client communications with private investigators are protected. They can lose their licenses if they breach confidentiality.”

“Good,” Violet said. “That means I’m doubly protected. I want to prove she’s killing Daddy. Then I can be in charge of his care.”

“Violet,” Nancie said, “your father may not live long enough for that to happen.”

“If you can’t save my father, I want her in jail for murder. I have the money to get what I want.

“His millions may kill my father,” she said. “I want my money to save him.”

CHAPTER 2

“I have the money to get what I want.”

Violet’s sentence sounded sweet to Helen: Nancie’s new client had just handed their struggling PI agency an unlimited expense account. Her reasons sounded noble: She wanted to save her father.

But Helen also detected discordant notes: Violet had used “I” twice, plus “money” and “want.” She’d packed a lot of ego into nine short words. She’d mentioned her father’s millions and her own money.

If Violet solved her problems by throwing money at them, she could give Helen and Phil’s newborn agency a healthy cash infusion.

But that sentence also signaled Violet could be difficult, demanding and determined to get her way. She was so eaten with hatred that she could not say her stepmother’s name. It was an unnerving pattern. Violet didn’t mention her ex-husband’s name, either. She’d erased the man, if not the damage he did to her.

Violet was in the grip of powerful emotions. Her desire for revenge could hinder their investigation.

You’ve spent years in retail, Helen told herself. This isn’t the first difficult person you’ve had to handle. Phil has enough charm for both of us, and Nancie stood up to a whole city and got her way. We can handle one rich, wounded client.

“I know how we can get that woman,” Violet said.

Phil caught Helen’s eye and raised an eyebrow at that we. He knew that was client code for you.

Nancie leaned forward in her desk and gave Violet a gunslinger’s stare. “We’ll be happy to consider any ideas you might have,” she said. “But I am in charge of any inquiry, and Coronado Investigations works with me. We will not do anything illegal or unethical.”

Violet sat back slightly, as if the force of Nancie’s statement made her retreat. She fumbled with her purse strap while she carefully chose her words and softened her voice. “I’m worried that woman will try to kill my father in the hospital,” she said. “She could smother him with a pillow or pull the plug on the ventilator. Then Daddy will never get a chance to recover.” A fat tear escaped and slid down her pale cheek.

Nancie seemed to suppress a sigh. Very slowly, as if she were explaining a complex subject to a small child, she said, “There’s no evidence your father is receiving improper treatment—or that he’s been poisoned. We need facts. All we have is his housekeeper’s bungled attempt to get Blossom arrested and an imaginary boyfriend.”

“He’s real,” Violet said. “She’s cheating on Daddy. My father needs protection, and I can’t be there to help him. That woman won’t let me into his ICU room, but she’d have to let in Daddy’s spiritual adviser.”

“Your father has a minister?” Helen asked.

“Yes,” Violet said. “You.”

Her words detonated a deafening silence. Violet rushed to fill it. “Daddy wasn’t religious. I don’t think he’s been in a church since Mama was buried. But that woman has been with Daddy such a short time she doesn’t know if he has a Baptist minister or a Buddhist monk.”

Phil said the name Violet couldn’t bring herself to pronounce. “Is Blossom from Fort Lauderdale?”

“That woman says she’s from California,” Violet said, “but who knows? Her maiden name—though I doubt she’s been one for years—is supposed to be Blossom Mae. We had dinner together after she and Daddy came home from the cruise. It was awkward. Watching my father slobber over her almost made me lose my dinner.”

Violet suddenly seemed aware of how bitter she must sound. “I guess you think I have issues with my father remarrying. I don’t. I want Daddy to be happy. But she’s pure evil.”

More tears trickled from her reddened eyes. Violet fished Phil’s handkerchief out of her purse and blotted her eyes, but she couldn’t stop weeping. Helen felt sorry for her. Violet seemed sincerely worried about her ailing father. But was she right about Blossom?

“I tried to get her to talk about herself,” Violet said. “Everyone likes to do that. She wouldn’t. All that woman would say was she grew up in San Diego and she went to work for the cruise line. I couldn’t pry another fact out of her, which I thought was fishy. I know she’s hiding something. She wouldn’t even tell me what year she graduated from high school.”

“Maybe she’s hiding her age,” Phil said.

“Then that’s all she’s hiding,” Violet said. “She definitely flaunted her goodies. Daddy’s eyes crossed when she leaned over to pass the cream. I’m guessing she’s about thirty-five. Her name is flaky enough that she could be from Moonbeam Land. Daddy is a sucker for flower names. Mother’s name was Honeysuckle and my name is Violet. He calls that woman his Little Flower.”

Violet snorted. “Little Flower, my eye. Clinging Vine is more like it. She’s wrapped herself around Daddy and hung on tight. Now she’s strangling the life out of him.

“That woman came from nowhere. She never mentions her family. I don’t know if her parents are alive or if she has brothers or sisters. All I know is she was a masseuse on a cruise ship and met Daddy while he was on a world cruise.

“Heaven knows what kind of massage she gave him. Daddy said it was a full-body massage.” Violet rolled her eyes. “Full body, indeed. She threw her body at him. I thought that cruise line was respectable.”

“‘Full body’ is a type of therapeutic massage,” Phil said.

Violet looked like she’d swallowed something sour and continued. “Daddy called me from the cruise ship and said he was marrying her. He’d only known that woman for two weeks. I told him she was after his money.”

“You said that before you even met her?” Helen said.

“It wasn’t tactful, I know,” Violet said. “I probably made things worse. Daddy said he was old enough to know his own mind and I’d never seen her, so how could I criticize her?

“I wanted to fly in for the wedding, but he said there wasn’t time. They were marrying on the beach the next day, when their ship reached the Maldives. Those are islands off the coast of India.”

Nancie and the two detectives nodded like bobblehead dolls.

“That woman had signed a contract to work for the cruise line for a whole year. Daddy bought it out and paid to have a substitute massage therapist flown in at the next port of call. They spent their honeymoon on the ship where she’d been an employee.

“They were only home three weeks when Daddy had that ‘heart attack.’”

Helen could hear the quotation marks around those words.

“He was popping Viagra like candy. The last time I saw Daddy, he was swaggering around like a teenager. He bragged that they hadn’t left the house in four days and made it clear they’d spent it in bed.”

“Wow!” Phil said. “That’s pretty impressive.”

Violet seared him with an angry look. “She was wearing nothing but a negligee at four in the afternoon.”

Phil started to say something, then stopped himself.

Violet rushed into the silence. “That’s why you could get into Daddy’s hospital room, Helen. You could say you were his minister. She never bothered learning anything about him except he had a big bank account. If you went to the hospital, you could sit in the ICU and watch over him. I want you to be his bodyguard at night. That’s when I worry most about Daddy, when there isn’t much activity in the hospital. If you were there, she couldn’t harm him.”

“But I’m not a minister,” Helen said.

“You could be,” Phil said. “Our landlady, Margery, is a minister in the Universal Life Church. You can get ordained online for free.”

Helen glared at her husband. She didn’t like being rushed into this.

“Is that church legal?” Violet asked.

“I sure hope so,” Phil said. “Margery married us.”

“The ordination is legal,” Nancie said, “as long as Helen uses her real name.”

“Let’s do it now,” Violet said. “Helen could get ordained by your office computer.”

“Wait a minute,” Helen said. “Even if I do get ordained, why would Blossom let me in to see Mr. Zerling? She’s kept you away from your own father.”

“Because she wants everyone to think she’s a sweet, concerned wifey,” Violet said. “She’s painted me as a jealous, possessive daughter.”

And you helped with that portrait, Helen thought.

“That woman bribes the hospital staff,” Violet said. “She doesn’t give them money, but she brings in gourmet sandwiches and pizza. There’s always a huge hundred-dollar box of Godiva chocolate at the nurses’ station. They love her. The nurses don’t like me because I’m too proud to buy friends.”

Too bad, Helen thought. We’re going to cost a lot more than chocolates and sandwiches.

“Now will you get ordained?” Violet asked. “Please?”

Helen was a lapsed Catholic. A casual ordination made her feel uneasy. “What about Phil?” she asked. “He could be a minister.”

“I have other plans for him,” Violet said.

“Perhaps you’d care to share them with us,” Nancie said, her words sharp and clipped. “Please remember Helen and Phil will take no action without my approval. Now, let’s hear your idea for Phil.”

“He could be that woman’s estate manager,” Violet said. “She’s advertising for one in the newspaper. That’s what she’s calling the job: estate manager. Have you ever heard anything so pretentious?”

“How big is the estate?” Phil asked.

“It isn’t an estate,” Violet said. “It’s a comfortable house with eight bedrooms and twelve bathrooms. It does need looking after. Daddy had Fran. What that woman wants is a houseman, or a handyman, or even a caretaker. Those are the right terms. But she’s new rich, so she inflated the title to estate manager.”

“Would I have to keep the books?” Phil asked.

“No,” Violet said. “Daddy has an accountant. You’ll deal with the household staff, the pool service, the lawn service, the security service and various repair people. You’ll have to make sure the property is well maintained.”

“I could do that,” Phil said. “Am I qualified?”

Helen bristled as she watched Violet run her eyes up and down Phil’s body. Violet lingered over his broad shoulders and stopped at his striking silver hair, which Phil had pulled into a ponytail.

“Oh, you’re qualified,” Violet said, laughing too loudly. “You’ve got everything she’ll want. Right between your legs.”

“That’s enough, Violet,” Nancie said. “That’s sexual harassment and I won’t permit it in my office.”

“Phil is married,” Helen said. “To me.”

“I’m not that kind of guy,” Phil said, and attempted a laugh, but he was embarrassed.

So was Violet. She’d turned a blotchy red. “I apologize,” she said. “I was out of line. I’ve been upset since Daddy got sick. I hope you’ll forgive my coarse remark. I meant the job as estate manager would get you into my father’s house. Then you can find out who is that woman’s boyfriend and get the evidence to prove she’s trying to murder Daddy.

“She is killing him,” Violet said. “You have to believe me. I’ll spend every nickel I have to prove it.”

CHAPTER 3

The Reverend Helen Hawthorne had been a minister for three minutes, and she didn’t like it. Helen believed women had the right to perform pastoral duties. Now the click of a mouse on a lawyer’s computer made her a minister. She could baptize, bury and legally marry couples in all fifty states.

It didn’t feel right. The power to preside over life’s major milestones should be given in a solemn ceremony, she thought. Being a minister was a sacred duty, even to the nonreligious Helen.

Nancie and Violet applauded when the online ordination was complete, but Helen didn’t feel like celebrating.

“You’ll have an e-mail verification in twenty-four hours,” Nancie said. “I’ll forward it.”

“Congratulations, Reverend,” Phil said, and kissed her cheek.

“May I speak to my partner in private, please?” Helen asked.

“Use the conference room next door,” Nancie said.

Helen dragged Phil into the room, yanked two tall gold-upholstered chairs away from the oak table and said, “Sit.”

Phil sat. He looked puzzled. Helen sat across from her husband.

“Did I say something wrong?” Phil asked.

“Yes,” Helen said. “Don’t ever volunteer me for something again without asking. I’m your partner in our agency. You trapped me into that farce of an ordination.”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” Phil said.

“You could have asked,” Helen said. “And for the record, I do care. Being a minister is a serious business, even to someone like me.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil said. “I thought it was part of going undercover. I’m working as a fake estate manager for Blossom and you’ll guard Mr. Zerling as a minister. Your ordination gives your cover authenticity.”

“Point taken,” Helen said.

“Something else is wrong,” Phil said. “What is it?”

Helen stared down the long expanse of polished oak and tried to find the right words. She wondered if the frugal Nancie had bought the overgrown dining set with the stiff, gold-plush cushions secondhand and recycled it for her conference room. Its ornate style was so different from the lawyer’s own practical office.

Phil interrupted her thoughts. “Helen, we left Nancie and Violet waiting on us. What else is wrong?”

“I don’t like this,” Helen said.

“This what? This case? This client? Do you think Violet is lying?”

“No, I think she’s telling the truth,” Helen said. “As she sees it. I also think she has a knack for making trouble for herself. She insulted her father’s bride before she even met the woman.”

“When a much younger woman marries a very old man, the main attraction is usually his money,” Phil said.

“I know that,” Helen said. “But not always. Sometimes a woman is attracted to qualities that transcend age—a man’s vitality and creativity. Violet never bothered finding out. She branded Blossom a gold digger and treated her father as a randy old fool. I suspect if she’d been a little nicer to those ICU nurses, they might have let Violet see her father.”

“The hospital has rules,” Phil said. “Blossom left those instructions, and the nurses have to follow them.”

“A busy nurse could look the other way if Violet wanted to visit her father,” Helen said. “They could convince themselves they were being compassionate. But none of them did. I’m betting Violet has ticked them off, too.”

“It’s true she won’t even say Blossom’s name,” Phil said. “She radiates anger.”

“I’d be angry, too, if I thought someone was killing my father,” Helen said. “But I’d try to control my feelings better.”

“Really?” Phil said. “I seem to remember that you attacked your first husband’s Land Cruiser with a crowbar, Ms. Cool.”

“I surprised Rob while he was having sex with our next-door neighbor,” Helen said. “That was different.”

“If you say so,” Phil said. “Dying in the saddle is a good way to go. At least old Arthur will die happy.”

“And before his time, if Violet is right,” Helen said. “Do you think Blossom poisoned him?”

“Can’t tell,” Phil said. “Blossom’s sudden urge to cook sounds strange. And she might have a lover. We’re certainly not getting the full picture from the daughter, and the housekeeper messed things up further. At least we work for an ethical lawyer. Nancie won’t treat Violet like a cash cow, milking the woman until her money runs dry. She must think Violet has some credibility or she wouldn’t have called us.

“Let’s take the case and investigate further,” he said. “You can check out Blossom when you’re at the hospital and get a feel for what she’s like. I’ll find out more about her if I get the job as estate manager. I’ll also do a background check on her.”

“I can interview the housekeeper,” Helen said. “Maybe she saw something useful.”

“It’s pretty clear she never saw exotic spices before,” Phil said. “I’ll tail Blossom and find out if she’s meeting a boyfriend.” He held up his right hand. “And I solemnly swear I’ll consult you first on all major decisions for our agency.”

“Deal,” Helen said, and kissed Phil.

“Are you going to wear a Roman collar to the hospital, Your Holiness?” Phil asked. “That would look hot.”

“That’s overdoing it,” Helen said. “I’ll go ahead with this investigation and see if we turn up anything. I don’t want to be mercenary, but Violet is willing to pay.”

“We’re supposed to be mercenary,” Phil said. “We’re running a business. Violet is racking up more billable hours in Nancie’s office while we talk.”

“Then let’s rejoin them,” Helen said.

As she entered Nancie’s doorway, she heard the lawyer say, “Yes, they are new, Violet. They’ve been in business only a few months. But Phil was a private investigator with a multinational agency for many years. I have absolute confidence in Coronado Investigations. I’ve worked with them before and—hi, Phil and Helen. I was telling Violet about your qualifications. I hope you’re taking her case.”

“We’re ready to start,” Helen said. “When do you want me at the hospital?”

“Five o’clock tomorrow,” Violet said. Her tears had dried, but her face was still red and blotchy. “Some of Daddy’s friends are keeping watch for me in shifts. I told them I’d have someone in place by tomorrow evening.”

“I could start sooner,” Helen said.

“No, they love Daddy and they”—her voice wobbled—“want a chance to say good-bye.”

“Do they think Blossom poisoned your father?” Helen asked.

“They’re staying neutral,” Violet said. “They want to sit with their old friend and they don’t believe he’ll recover.” She rushed through that sentence before her voice broke. “Bob, one of Daddy’s partners, has the last shift tonight. Will you wear a Roman collar?”

“I discussed that with Phil,” Helen said. “It’s best to keep it simple. I’ll wear a plain gray suit, black pumps and a small silver cross. I can carry my mother’s Bible.”

“Helen, what will you do if that woman tries to hurt my father?” Violet asked.

“I’ll ask her firmly and loudly what she’s doing,” Helen said. “I’ll yell if I have to. We’ll be in the ICU. There will be staff all around. I’m not afraid of some little blond trophy.”

“She’s not blond,” Violet said. “She’s a brunette with rather extravagant hair. That woman is definitely not little. She’s nearly your height—about five feet ten—and she does yoga and Pilates. I think she’s too thin, but Daddy calls her willowy. I doubt she’ll cause you any trouble, Helen. Sneaking up on a sick, helpless man is more her style.”

“I’d like to talk to the housekeeper as soon as possible,” Helen said. “How do I reach her?”

“Fran is moving into a condo in Coconut Creek,” Violet said. “I’ll call her now.”

Violet found her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “Hello, Fran, it’s me. I’ve hired a detective for Daddy… . Would you be willing to talk to her today? Good. Her name is Helen Hawthorne… . I’m sure she understands.”

Violet punched END and said, “She’ll see you at four o’clock, but she says her condo is still a mess.” She smiled. “Fran has her professional pride.” She wrote on a small pad and said, “This is her address and cell phone number. Then you’ll report to the hospital tomorrow and stay with Daddy until he’s well enough to come home.”

“Violet,” Nancie said, drawing out her name. “Remember what I said. You realize there are extra charges if Helen is on duty more than twelve hours at a time in your father’s room?”

“I told you I don’t care about money,” Violet said. “I want to save Daddy.” Her voice cracked into sobs. Helen felt sorry for the distraught daughter.

“Phil, will you call that woman and apply for that ridiculous estate-manager job this afternoon?” Violet said. “My friend Mary Lynn Reed will give you a good reference. Here’s the information about Mary Lynn’s property for your job interview.” She pulled an envelope from her massive purse and handed it to Phil.

“What am I looking for if I get hired?” he asked.

“Evidence of murder.”

“Attempted murder,” Nancie corrected.

“How do you think Blossom killed—uh, attempted to kill your father?” Phil asked.

Violet didn’t hesitate. “Poison,” she said. “Fran says she poisoned him. She’s no expert on spices—she thought cumin and turmeric were poison—but she’s smart. Fran recognized that woman’s behavior was suspicious. She just picked the wrong things off the counter. Poison is a woman’s weapon.”

“Not always,” Phil said. “I’ve known women to shoot, stab and strangle.”

“You don’t know that woman,” Violet said. “She’s sly. She knows how to ingratiate herself. Somehow she flattered her way into my father’s life on that cruise ship.”

Even a smart man can have a weakness for a beautiful woman, Helen thought. Especially if he’s a lonely widower. Why can’t Violet see that?

“That woman has sailed to India and Asia,” Violet said, “places famous for exotic poisons. I think she brought some home. So does Fran.”

“Poison isn’t always from the exotic East,” Phil said. “I could find enough at Home Depot to wipe out half of Lauderdale. Blossom could kill your father with his own medication, like giving him too much blood thinner.”

“My father doesn’t take blood thinner,” Violet said. Her voice softened into a plea. “Fran knows that woman poisoned Daddy. So do I. We want you to work at her house and find the evidence. We think she used a poison that doesn’t show up on normal tests. That’s why the doctors can’t find it.”

“Violet, if Blossom used something from your father’s medicine cabinet, there may be no way to trace it,” Nancie said.

“If Daddy should die, I want that poison found during the autopsy,” Violet said, her voice rising.

“There won’t be an autopsy if your father dies,” Nancie said.

“And why not?” Violet was standing now.

“Because if he dies, he’ll be in a hospital under a doctor’s care,” Nancie said. “The law says there is no need for an autopsy. Autopsies are expensive.”

“I can pay for one,” Violet said.

“You still can’t do it,” Nancie said. “Blossom is next of kin. She’ll have to give permission, unless there is compelling evidence of a homicide.”

“That’s what I’m paying these investigators to find,” Violet said.

CHAPTER 4

Frances Murphy Sneed was proud of her new condo, a corner unit overlooking a lake. She answered her door in a white polyester uniform. “Come in, Helen,” she said. “Don’t mind the uniform. It’s still good, even if I don’t work anymore.”

Helen wondered if the housekeeper with the crinkly gray hair had lost her identity as well as her job. “Thanks for seeing me, Mrs. Sneed,” she said.

“Call me Fran. Anything for Mr. Z. I need a cigarette and coffee. What about you: coffee, water, Coke?”

“Coffee’s fine,” Helen said.

Fran was a plump, comfortable woman. Helen guessed her age at sixty-something. From her work-worn hands, she could tell they’d been hard years.

The housekeeper’s condo building could fit inside the Zerling mansion, but it was light, airy and livable. Helen followed Fran into a beige-tiled kitchen with cardboard boxes piled in a corner. She poured two mugs of coffee and told Helen, “Sugar and creamer’s on the counter.”

Helen carried her coffee carefully across the living room’s pale blue carpet. Fran patted a pillowy white sofa wrapped in thick plastic as if it were a pet.

“Delivered this afternoon,” she said. “I had a furnished apartment at Mr. Z.’s. When that witch Blossom fired me, I wanted to rent a furnished place, but Miss Violet wouldn’t hear of it. She bought me this condo.”

“Violet bought this?” Helen asked. And never mentioned it, she thought. She gave the woman points for her secret kindness.

“And the furniture,” Fran said. “That girl has a good heart, like her parents.”

Fran slid open the doors to a screened-in porch with white wicker. “This is my favorite room,” she said. “It’s the only table until my new kitchen set arrives. Let’s have our coffee out here.”

Fran sat down with a small, tired sigh and lit a filter-tip cigarette. Golden sun slanted through the green trees by the lake. Graceful white birds foraged in the lush grass.

“It’s like a painting,” Helen said.

Fran looked pleased. “Some condos, like Oak Hill, don’t have an oak or a hill. But White Egret has real egrets.”

She sipped her coffee, then asked, “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about Blossom and Mr. Zerling,” Helen said.

Fran’s faded blue eyes hardened with dislike. “She killed Mr. Z. Not a doubt in my mind. I worked for the Zerlings for thirty years. I ran the place and did the cooking. Nothing fancy, just good home cooking—fried chicken, steaks, chops.

“Violet’s mother hired me, and no finer lady walked this earth. Mr. Z. was lonely after she died. He said everything reminded him of Honeysuckle and he needed a change of scene. That’s why he took that cursed cruise.

“He called me all the way from India and said he was getting married. I was happy for him. But when I saw his bride, my mouth dropped open. She was fifty years younger than him. He was crazy about her. She acted like she was in love, but that’s what it was—an act. She’d flinch sometimes when he touched her. Poor Mr. Z. never noticed.

“Blossom tries to act like a lady, but she makes little slips.”

“Like what?” Helen asked.

“I fixed salmon steaks for dinner and she didn’t know what a fish fork was. Drinks her tea with her pinkie extended. Pretends to be fancy when she’s common as dirt.

“Blossom wanted rid of me from day one. She complained about my cooking. Said it was fattening. ‘I need vegetables,’ she says. So I made a pot of green beans with new potatoes and a nice ham bone. ‘The beans are overdone,’ she says. ‘I like them al dente.’ That’s half-raw. It ain’t healthy.

“One night I brought a crown roast into the dining room and Mr. Z.’s face lit up. I was going back for the baked potatoes and sour cream and chives, when she whispered, ‘If I keep eating like this, I’ll be as fat as Fran.’

“That hurt my feelings. I’m no size two, but I’m strong and healthy.”

Helen tried not to stare at Fran’s swollen ankles and the purple veins worming through her legs.

“Mr. Z. shushed Blossom. After dinner, he dropped by the kitchen for a cookie and slipped me a hundred dollars. ‘Buy yourself a little treat, Fran,’ he says. That’s the kind of man he is.

“Blossom kept on about my cooking until Mr. Z. let her get rabbit food special-delivered from some chef. But he still wanted me to cook for him. She never went into the kitchen, not even to make tea.

“That’s why I got suspicious when Blossom said she was cooking Mr. Z. a special dinner. ‘I’m making chicken curry,’ she says. ‘Arthur likes spicy food.’”

“‘Since when?’ I says. Mr. Z. let me speak my mind, though I tried not to take advantage of it.

“She says, ‘Since our cruise. That’s where Arthur discovered curry.’ She turns to Mr. Z. and says, ‘You like it spicy, don’t you, sweetie?’ She gives him a goopy look and he grins at her like he doesn’t have a brain in his head.

“The next day she took over my kitchen and shooed me out, except when she couldn’t find a pot for the rice. The kitchen counter was covered with strange stuff she’d bought herself. A bunch of leaves she called coriander. It looked like parsley and I saw no harm in that. I recognized the bay leaves, garlic, cinnamon, poppy seeds, gingerroot and cayenne powder. But there were two other powders I never saw before: one yellow-green and the other one orange.

“I asked straight out what they were. ‘Spices,’ she says. I didn’t trust her. I snuck a pinch each in a Baggie, just in case. That was my mistake. I should have thrown it all out. I’d still be fired, but Mr. Z. would be healthy. But I let her serve that foreign slop and now he’s dying.”

“Was any curry left over?” Helen said.

“No,” Fran said. “That’s suspicious, too. She made a big potful. After dinner, she cleaned the pot and washed both their plates, then left the rest for me to clean up.

“Mr. Z. took sick during the night and she called 911. The next day I went to the police with those Baggies and—” Fran stopped, her face pink. “Made a fool of myself. But that curry was poisoned.”

“You still think that?” Helen asked.

“I know it. I saved the wrong part, that’s all. I’ll tell you something else, too.” Fran leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Blossom has herself a boyfriend.”

“Did you see him?” Helen asked.

“No, but I saw her going out at midnight all dressed up. She wasn’t wearing her regular rich-lady clothes. She had on a skintight skirt and a blouse cut to her navel. She was clickety-clacking across the drive to her car when she set off the security lights. That woke me up. I saw her plain as day, dolled up and wearing false eyelashes. She never dressed like that around Mr. Z.

“I mentioned it when I brought her morning tea. She says real casual-like, ‘Oh, yes, I couldn’t sleep. I went for a drive.’ She was dressed for a man, not a midnight drive.”

“Did Blossom ever call a man from the house?” Helen asked.

“No,” Fran said. “I’d hear her ordering things from stores and talking to Mr. Z.’s friends when they called. She didn’t have any friends of her own.

“She fired me after she found out I went to the police. Next time I saw Mr. Z., he was in the ICU in a coma. I sneaked in when his partner Mr. Roger sat with him. One look and I knew Mr. Z. was dying, but I can’t say that to Miss Violet.”

“She believes he’ll recover,” Helen said.

“She hasn’t lived as long as I have,” Fran said.

She finished her coffee, then said, “Here’s something else about Blossom. She won’t let anyone clean her dressing room. Cleans it herself. There’s something in that room she doesn’t want me to see.”

“Did you search it?” Helen asked.

“Too afraid,” Fran said. “She was looking to can me. Now she has.”

The housekeeper was quiet now, as if she’d exhausted the subject and herself.

Helen thanked Fran and drove home. She parked the Igloo in front of the Coronado Tropic Apartments, pausing briefly to admire the building’s sweeping Art Moderne curves in the fading light. The Coronado was built in 1949, when their landlady was a bride.

Helen and Phil rented half the units in the L-shaped apartment building. Their Coronado Investigations office was upstairs in apartment 2C. They lived downstairs in an odd arrangement: After their marriage, Helen and Phil kept their same small apartments next door to each other. They slept mostly at Phil’s.

Helen thought slipping into Phil’s bedroom to spend the night made their legal love feel illicit. But Phil sometimes retreated to his place to play loud music and Helen occasionally read alone in her apartment. Her cat, Thumbs, didn’t mind the arrangement as long as he was fed.

The palm trees in the courtyard rustled like old-fashioned petticoats. Helen heard laughter and found Phil, Margery and their neighbors Peggy and Pete sitting by the pool for the nightly sunset salute, a Coronado tradition.

Their landlady wore a filmy lavender caftan and a swirl of cigarette smoke. A stylish seventy-six, Margery wore her gray hair in a swingy bob and her wrinkles as marks of distinction.

She raised her glass of white wine and said, “You look tired, Your Holiness. Take a pew. Have a drink.” She poured Helen a cold glass from a box labeled “White Wine.” Even the grapes in the photo looked plastic.

“Hi, Helen,” said Peggy, a redhead with a dramatic nose. Her little black dress skimmed her figure and showcased her pale good looks.

“Hello!” said Pete. The Quaker parrot had emerald green feathers and a sober gray head. He was perched on Peggy’s shoulder.

“Hi,” Helen said. “You’re dressed up for a poolside party, Peggy.”

“I’m going to dinner with Danny,” Peggy said. “Phil said you were ordained today. Congratulations. Should I call you Reverend Hawthorne?”

“No,” Helen said. “I was ordained in the line of duty and it doesn’t feel quite right.”

“You’ll make a better minister than most seminary graduates,” Peggy said. “We’re also celebrating your agency’s two new jobs.”

“Just one,” Helen said. “Phil is working undercover as an estate manager.”

“Not yet,” Phil said. “The lady is talking to me tomorrow afternoon. If I don’t get hired, we’ll have to rethink this investigation. Meanwhile, I found us another job when I stopped at a restaurant on Seventeenth Street. I had a burger at the bar and got talking to a yacht captain at the next seat.”

“A lot of yacht crews hang out in that area,” Peggy said.

“Turns out the captain is looking for a detective. His name is Josiah Swingle.”

“Josiah sounds like a good name for a sea captain,” Helen said.

“He’s from an old New England family,” Phil said. “Josiah captains a luxury yacht docked on the New River. Says the owners mostly cruise the Caribbean. On the last trip they went to Atlantis in the Bahamas.”

“The fancy hotel and casino on Paradise Island?” Peggy asked.

“That’s the one,” Phil said.

“I’ve seen the photos,” Helen said. “Atlantis looks gorgeous.”

“You may get to see it in person,” Phil said. “The captain is worried there’s a smuggler aboard his yacht and wants to hire a detective to find him. It has to be a woman. You can work it.”

He added quickly, “If you want, Helen. I said we’d only take the job if you approve.”

“How will I watch our client’s father?” Helen asked.

“I don’t think he’s long for this world,” Phil said. “But if he lasts, Margery can babysit him.”

“I’m a minister, too, you know.” Margery grinned and exhaled an unholy amount of smoke.

“Tell me about this yacht,” Helen said.

“The captain says it’s got a cool sky lounge, a Jacuzzi and a dining room big enough for a dozen people. You’ll be one of the crew.”

“Doing what?” Helen asked.

“You’ll find out tomorrow morning at seven thirty,” Phil said. “That’s when the captain will be in our office. This job comes with an awesome ocean view.”

CHAPTER 5

Josiah Swingle was born to be a yacht captain—at least Helen thought so.

He had the right build: a compact muscular body with strong arms. A white polo shirt set off his broad chest nicely.

Josiah had the right look, too: neatly trimmed sandy hair and the sun-reddened complexion of a fair-skinned man. Helen liked the sun wrinkles around his eyes.

He was the right size. Josiah was about five feet nine. That made him tall enough to command, but not so tall he’d perpetually bump his head in the ship’s low-ceilinged passageways, or whatever sailors called them.

Josiah had an air of calm confidence. I wouldn’t follow you into hell, Captain, Helen thought. But I’d obey your orders if the ship was in trouble. And I’d expect you to get us out of it.

Josiah had knocked firmly on the door of Coronado Investigations the next morning. Helen checked the office clock and was impressed by his punctuality: seven thirty on the dot.

Phil opened the door to their office, 2C, upstairs and across the courtyard from their apartments.

“Morning, Captain,” Phil said. “This is my partner and my wife, Helen Hawthorne.”

The captain shook hands with both Phil and Helen, another point in his favor. She liked his firm handshake and calloused hands. They belonged to someone who worked hard.

Josiah surveyed the Coronado office and nodded approval. “This is how a detective agency should look,” he said. “It’s a working office, not some decorator’s showcase.”

Almost right, Captain, Helen thought. Those gunmetal gray desks and file cabinets have been battered by years of work—but not our work. We bought them used.

Phil beamed when Josiah admired his framed poster of Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade, her husband’s tribute to the romance of their trade. Then Josiah sat down in the yellow client chair, ready to tell his story. Helen and Phil sat across from him in their black and chrome chairs.

Josiah’s voice was low, but distinct. “I captain a 143-foot motor yacht called the Belted Earl,” he said.

“Interesting name,” Helen said. “Is the owner British royalty?”

“No, an American with a sense of humor,” Josiah said. “Before I tell you the family’s name, I need you to promise that you’ll keep it confidential, even if you don’t take my case.”

“You have our word,” Phil said. “Unless you’re doing something illegal that we’re required to report.”

“I’m not,” the captain said. “I’m trying to catch someone breaking the law. That’s why I need detectives. This is my first job as captain and I don’t want to lose it. I like the owner and the ship. Word can’t get around that there’s trouble aboard the Belted Earl.”

“We understand,” Helen said, wondering who owned the yacht: a movie star? A superathlete? A rocker or rapper? Maybe an A-list comedian?

“The yacht is owned by a man from Chicago,” Josiah said. “Earl Grantham Briggs.”

“I never heard of him,” Helen said. She tried not to sound disappointed.

“Most people haven’t,” the captain said, “and Earl likes it that way. Mr. Briggs is well-off and he knows money attracts trouble.”

“Where did his money come from?” Phil asked.

“Something smart and simple,” Josiah said. “He invented a heavy-duty belt for a lawn mower. Every time a riding mower needs a new one, Earl gets a chunk of change. He enjoys his yacht and makes sure it has the best of everything. He spent more than a million dollars upgrading the sound system.”

“That’s astonishing,” Helen said.

“Not in his world,” the captain said. “Earl has money, but he’s a quiet guy. He’s sixty-two and married to Beth, a former fashion model. She’s younger than Earl and very attractive. They have no kids, unless you count Mitzi, Beth’s miniature white poodle. Beth treats that dog like a child—even pushes it around in a stroller.”

Helen had seen women wheeling their dogs around the Fort Lauderdale malls. She felt sorry for them, but this was no time to discuss canine child substitutes.

“Earl and Beth enjoy entertaining,” the captain said. “They live in a perpetual party, and some of their friends are, uh, well, flamboyant. The Briggses entertain at their co-op on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago and their villa in Tuscany. Their yacht is a floating mansion with marble floors, art glass and custom-built oak cabinets.”

“They live well,” Helen said.

“Comfortable, for their society. The ship is relatively small by yachting standards. It’s not some five-hundred-foot tub that can’t turn around in the Lauderdale yacht basin. It has two fourteen-foot tenders, a Yamaha cruiser, WaveRunners and the usual toys. But it doesn’t have a submarine or a helicopter.”

Poor Beth and Earl, Helen thought. Phil caught her eye and she swallowed her snarky comment.

“We cruise mostly to the Bahamas and other Caribbean islands,” Josiah said. “Earl and his friends like to gamble, especially at Atlantis. The wife, not so much. She and some of the lady guests power-shop instead.

“The ship usually has a crew of ten. We lost one crew member on the last trip. Our new stewardess took off with a dude she met at Atlantis. Earl didn’t want me to call a Lauderdale crew agency and have one flown to the Bahamas. He said it was only a thirteen-hour trip back. The other two stewardesses could pick up the slack and I could hire someone when we reached port.”

“I wasn’t happy about sailing shorthanded, but he’s the owner. When we left the Bahamas, I was worried about the wind. It wasn’t dangerous, but it would make the trip uncomfortable. Earl didn’t want to wait for it to die down. He wants to go when he wants to go. So we left.

“Before we passed Chub Cay in the Berry Islands, I did a walk-around to make sure everything was secure. I left the first mate on the bridge watching out for other boats. I went past the bosun’s locker and heard something sliding around inside. That’s where we store the cleaning equipment, the shammies and deck cleaners, along with the rope, fenders and hooks. I opened the locker and saw a gray tackle box behind some rope, sliding around the deck. It hadn’t been stowed properly. The box was plastic and didn’t look like one of ours. I popped it open.”

The captain shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “At first, I couldn’t believe it. The tackle box was filled with emeralds.”

“Real ones?” Phil said.

“Real good ones. The bigger ones, about the size of postage stamps, were stored in the tray. The smaller ones were tossed in the lower compartment. About two hands full.”

“Rough stones or cut?” Phil asked.

“Cut,” Josiah said.

“Somebody knows what they’re doing,” Phil said. “Emeralds can have major flaws that only show up during cutting. Get one of those and a gemstone goes from priceless to worthless.”

“I’m no expert,” Josiah said, “but these looked like the fine emeralds I’ve seen displayed in the jewelry shops at Atlantis. The colors ranged from blue-green to deep green.”

“Any other gemstones in the box?” Phil asked.

“Just emeralds,” Josiah said.

“How do you know a yacht guest didn’t stash the box in the bosun’s locker?” Phil asked.

“If any guests were in that area, we’d know it,” the captain said. “We keep track of them and the staff stays in touch by radio. A crew member would have reported it, asked if the guest needed help and steered the person back to the salon or stateroom or other guest area. Besides, the crew carried on the guests’ luggage and nobody had a cheap one-tray tackle box. Our guests have expensive luggage.”

“So who uses the bosun’s locker?” Phil asked.

“The whole crew has access to it, but mainly the guys use it. Yacht work is divided into old-school his-and-her duties. Men do the outside work, including washing the boat every day. The engineer changes the zillion filters and handles the air-conditioning and other mechanical problems. Women do the serving and cleaning. They’re called stewardesses. We do have a woman chef.

“I should have confiscated the emeralds, but I wanted to catch the smuggler and get rid of him. We had a rough crossing over the Gulf Stream. The guests and owners were seasick and stayed in their staterooms. Most of the crew was seasick, too, but the two stewardesses had to work anyway, cleaning up after the guests and serving them soup and ginger ale.”

“The next time I checked the locker, the emeralds were gone. I did a quiet search of the crew cabins and found nothing. The smuggler has to be a crew member. The guests and owners were too seasick to remove that box. Only the crew was moving around during the time it disappeared.”

“Who do you suspect?” Phil asked.

“Three people,” the captain said. “The chef, the chief stewardess or the first engineer.”

“How long have you known them?”

“I took command of the ship in February,” Josiah said. “The other crew was already in place. They’ve been with the yacht for at least three years. That’s a long time in this business. They were hired through reliable crew agencies. The crew work hard and don’t cause trouble.”

“How old are they?” Phil asked.

“The first engineer is thirty. The chef is twenty-eight and the chief stewardess is twenty-nine.”

“Any money problems?” Helen asked. “Major changes in their lives? Late twenties is when people may decide to settle down.”

“Not that I know,” the captain said. “We’re paid well for our work. No one’s been talking about getting married or wanting to quit.”

“What about drugs or gambling?” Phil asked.

“I don’t allow drugs on board,” the captain said. “That’s a firing offense and they know it. Even the owners’ friends aren’t users. Nobody has any gambling debts that I know about. But I don’t go drinking with the crew.”

“Where do you think the smuggler sells the emeralds?” Helen asked.

“Miami or New York,” he said. “I’ve been on guard for drugs. I never expected emeralds. I shouldn’t be surprised. The Bahamas are a smugglers’ paradise.”

“Where are the emeralds coming from?” Phil asked. “Colombia?”

“That would make the most sense. I want this person found fast. If the yacht’s boarded by the Coast Guard or searched by the island authorities, it could be impounded.”

“Why would you be searched or boarded?” Phil asked.

“Lots of reasons. Somebody has a bite against the smuggler. Somebody wants a bigger cut. Anything happens and I lose my license and my reputation.”

“But you didn’t do anything,” Helen said.

“Makes no difference,” Josiah said. “I’m in charge. It’s my ship and my responsibility. I want to hire you, Helen, to be the new stewardess. Have you had any experience working in a hotel or as a housekeeper?”

“I was a hotel maid at a tourist hotel here,” Helen said. “I cleaned twenty-eight rooms, seventeen toilets and the honeymoon Jacuzzi each day.”

“Good,” he said. “You have a passport, right?”

“Just got it,” Helen said. She didn’t add that she had a passport, a credit card and a driver’s license since she’d cleared up her troubles with the court. Helen had some things in her past that had to stay buried.

“The owner wants to cruise to Atlantis again,” Josiah said. “We’ll have the same crew. When you work with them, you’ll hear things that I never will.”

“When do you sail?” Helen asked.

“In two days,” the captain said.

“Good,” Helen said. “I’ll be ready by then.”

I’ll spend the next two days trapped in a sad domestic drama, she thought. Then I can pursue a smuggler on a luxury yacht.

Helen could almost taste the sea air—and the adventure.

CHAPTER 6

Stranahan Medical Center was built in the 1950s as a small community hospital. When air-conditioning made the brutal Sun Belt summers endurable, the hospital spread like the tumors it claimed to cure. Stranahan’s main hospital, in downtown Lauderdale, now sprawls over six city blocks and sends its tentacles into the surrounding neighborhoods, turning pleasant family bungalows into cramped Stranahan doctors’ offices. Four more Stranahan hospitals have spread to the city’s richer suburbs.

The medical center is named after Fort Lauderdale settler Frank Stranahan. Its billboards proclaim STRANAHAN—PIONEERING MEDICINE! and feature white-coated, white-skinned male doctors.

The medical center never mentions that Frank Stranahan committed suicide during the Depression, after he lost his money when a real estate deal went sour.

Helen thought poor Frank’s death foretold Fort Lauderdale’s future. Residents continue to try to survive the city’s real estate boom and bust cycles.

Helen parked her white PT Cruiser in the hospital garage, adjusted her prim gray suit and checked that her silver First Communion cross was visible at her neck. Then she picked up her mother’s well-worn Bible and her black video-camera purse and clip-clopped across the pedestrian bridge into the hospital in her sensible heels.

Helen was greeted by a blast of cold air, a medicinal odor and a bored security guard.

“I’m a minister,” she said. “I was told that Mr. Arthur Zerling is gravely ill in the ICU.” On the drive to the hospital, she had carefully chosen her words so she told only the truth. Helen couldn’t bring herself to say that Arthur was in her congregation.

The guard yawned, snapped Helen’s photo and issued an ID badge for Rev. Helen Hawthorne.

“The ICU is on the second floor,” the guard said. “Take the elevator and follow the signs.”

Helen was packed into the elevator with a harried mother and her crying baby, two skinny teenage boys who kept elbowing each other, a staffer in scrubs balancing a container of soup and a large soda, and a worried older woman carrying an African violet. Helen was grateful she had to endure the scents of soup, unchanged diaper, teenage feet and cloying perfume for only one floor.

She dashed out of the elevator and into the ICU. A short, sturdy nurse barred her way. Once again Helen recited, “I’m a minister. I understand that Mr. Arthur Zerling is gravely ill.”

“His wife is with him in Room Two,” the nurse said. “I’ll ask her if you can see him.”

The nurse bustled off on her mission, leaving Helen to get her first look at the couple together. She switched on the video camera in the shoulder strap of her purse and pointed it toward the ICU room. The light was so low, she guessed the Zerlings would be recorded in black and white instead of color.

Helen was shocked by the dramatic change in Arthur Zerling. The vital, vigorous old man photographed on horseback was gone. Arthur had shrunk to a skin-covered skeleton with limp rags of white hair plastered to his skull. Tubes and wires snaked out of his wizened body. A pole hung with six IV bags stood by his bedside like a tree bearing exotic fruit.

Blossom Zerling was reading a Vogue magazine beside her dying husband. She held the magazine on her lap. She’d slipped one arm through the tangle of plastic tubing to hold Arthur’s clawlike hand.

If she was playing a dutiful wife, Helen gave her points for that tender gesture.

When the nurse hurried into the room, Blossom let go of her husband’s hand, gave it a soft pat and greeted the nurse with the smile of someone who expected to be liked. She stood up, towering over the nurse by some six inches. Her crisp white blouse and Escada jeans were well tailored but not tight. Blossom wore her long, glossy brown hair brushed back from her face. Pink lipstick seemed to be her only makeup. She looked like the girl next door—if she lived in an eight-bedroom home.

Prickly, plain Violet was up against a formidable adversary, Helen thought, if Blossom was faking concern for Arthur Zerling.

Blossom tucked the magazine into her pricey Birkin bag and walked briskly out to Helen. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. Her words were softly pleasant and carefully enunciated. “Nurse Abbott says you’re Reverend Hawthorne.”

“You can call me Helen.”

“I’m Blossom Zerling. I know we’ve just met, but could I ask you a favor? Would you sit with Arthur for a little while, please? I live nearby on Hendin Island. I’ve been here at the hospital since six o’clock this morning.”

Eleven hours in that room, Helen thought, then felt a flash of panic. “What if your husband takes a sudden turn for the worse while you’re gone?”

Blossom looked toward her husband’s still form. Helen thought Arthur looked like one of those creepy wax saints in glass cases in old churches.

“The doctor said he could be that way for another day, or a week, or even months,” Blossom said. “His daughter—do you know Violet?”

“Yes,” Helen said. “I’ve met her.”

Blossom sighed. “May I speak to you in confidence, as a minister?”

Something stirred uneasily in Helen. This wasn’t right. She was hired to prove that Blossom was a killer and now the woman wanted spiritual counseling. She nodded yes, unable to say the treacherous word.

“Let’s sit in Arthur’s room a minute,” Blossom said.

Helen took the big turquoise visitor’s chair and put her purse on the windowsill, where the video camera had a clear view of Arthur. Blossom sat on the edge of a small, spindly chair out of camera range. The microphone would still pick up her voice. The blinds were drawn, but Helen could make out Blossom’s earnest face.

“I know I can’t be a stepmother to Violet,” she said. “I wouldn’t even try. It would be an insult to her own mother. Besides, I’m young enough to be her daughter. I try to get along with her, but she’s been hostile from the day Arthur announced we were getting married. I’ve tried to understand. I invited her to dinner when we came back from our honeymoon. Violet acted like a spoiled child. She accused me of marrying her father for his money.

“It’s true I knew Arthur had money,” Blossom said. “It’s no secret that I met him while I was working on a cruise ship. All the passengers were comfortably off. There is an age difference, but I never think of Arthur as old. As least, I didn’t until he had his heart attack. He is—was—such an active man. He loves life. He loves me. He loves Violet, though she’s …”

Blossom toyed with the zipper on her Birkin bag. “She’s difficult. And furious at her father for marrying me. Arthur and Violet had a terrible fight during our homecoming dinner, and she left before dessert. They made up later, but she’s never pretended to like me.

“When Arthur had his heart attack, Violet wanted to take over his care. She marched in here and accused me of killing her father. Right in the ICU. She screamed so loud, the nurses had to ask her to leave. As security escorted her out, Violet shouted that she would get a lawyer and take me to court. There was no reasoning with her. Well, she filed a petition for guardianship, but it was denied. The doctors said I’ve done everything to ensure he has the best possible care.

“Look at my husband,” Blossom said. Her voice trembled as if she was on the verge of tears.

Helen could see Arthur was a sad ruin. His ravaged frame made a pathetic mound in the hospital bed. His thin arms were bruised from needle sticks and his hands were crisscrossed with tape for the IV lines.

“You knew my husband when he was healthy,” Blossom said.

Again, Helen’s lie made her feel uneasy. She’d never seen Arthur Zerling except in a photograph.

“Arthur has lived life to the fullest,” Blossom said. “He wouldn’t want to be a mindless thing kept alive by machines. He told me. I don’t want that for him, either. Violet loves her father, but she needs to let go and accept that there is no hope.”

“You’re right,” Helen said. “Violet does love her father. She wants to say good-bye to him. Please let her.”

For a moment, Helen thought she saw something hard and feral flicker in Blossom’s eyes. Then it was gone, if it was even there.

“I can’t,” Blossom said. “Violet made such a scene last time, it upset her father. Arthur became restless and thrashed around. He can’t communicate, but she disturbed him. You could feel her hatred for me when Violet walked into this room. It was like another person … like a demon. That sounds fanciful, I know, but it took two nurses to calm Arthur, and the doctor had to order a shot so he could rest. Ask Nurse Abbott.”

“I wish you would consider this,” Helen said. “It would mean a lot.”

“So does Arthur’s peace of mind,” Blossom said. “I’m sure this isn’t the first difficult family situation you’ve encountered. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to slip out while Arthur is resting comfortably. I want to freshen up and eat food that doesn’t come from a hospital cafeteria. I won’t be gone long. Here’s my cell phone number if there’s any change in Arthur’s condition. The nurses have it, too. You don’t have to do anything but sit with him. Please? I don’t know anyone in Florida.”

“I’ll do it,” Helen said. She wondered what Blossom would think if she knew Arthur’s daughter was paying her to be in that room.

“Thank you so much,” Blossom said. “Do you have any questions?”

Lots, Helen thought, but she only asked one. “I thought Mr. Zerling would be on a ventilator. Did the doctor remove it?”

“No, I asked that Arthur be taken off that horrible thing,” Blossom said. “I want him to be comfortable.”

CHAPTER 7

Arthur Zerling looked like a corpse in a hospital gown. His scrawny chest barely moved. Helen thought the machines attached to him seemed more alive. They beeped softly and produced squiggly lines and colorful numbers on multiple monitors.

She was grateful he was still breathing. She had kept the final vigil by her mother’s deathbed. In a crisis, those machines would flash, screech and summon a medical army. Then Helen would be sent packing.

She could hardly believe this shriveled man had incited such strong passions. Arthur had courted death with a potent cocktail of vanity and Viagra to love his beautiful wife. Was he an old fool or a man grasping at a last chance for a full life?

His daughter, Violet, seethed with jealousy and hatred after her father’s marriage. She believed her father would get well if she took over his care. Helen didn’t. She was no expert, but Arthur looked nearly dead. She agreed with Blossom: Arthur would not recover.

And Blossom—what about her? How could a young woman have sex with this wreck? Helen thought of her own honeymoon with Phil and tried not to imagine this bag of bones in her bed. Was Blossom really attracted by Arthur’s strength and vitality—or to the possibility that she would soon be his wealthy widow?

Arthur, you are a man of mystery, Helen thought. But she was here as his minister as well as his bodyguard. She had to pray for Arthur Zerling. She paged to the back of her mother’s Catholic Bible and found the section on the seven sacraments: Baptism, Confirmation, Confession, Marriage—that one got Arthur into this mess.

She skipped over Holy Communion, averted her eyes when she saw Holy Orders and riffled through more pages until she found the Sacrament of the Sick.

“Formerly known as the Last Sacrament or Extreme Unction,” Helen read. “The priest anoints the suffering person with olive oil.”

I don’t have any olive oil, she thought. But it is a heart-healthy oil. Maybe I could find some in the hospital cafeteria. Helen derailed that train of thought, disgusted with herself. She wasn’t a priest and she sure didn’t feel like a minister. She was here to pray for the sick man. Anyone could do that. She didn’t need olive oil.

Helen read, “The Sacrament of the Sick commends those who are ill to the suffering and glorified Lord, that he may raise them up and save them.”

She took Arthur’s limp hand and tried to pray: “God, please save Arthur, if that’s possible. Or give him a peaceful death and forgive his sins, if he has any. Of course he has sins. Forgive mine, too, while you’re at it.”

That wasn’t a good prayer. It was too much about her and not enough about him. Helen tried again.

“Please let Violet, his daughter, feel her father’s love. Make the hatred that torments her go away. Comfort his wife—unless, of course, she killed him. Then give her the justice she deserves.”

Still not a satisfactory prayer, but at least it was about Arthur. What a fraud I am, Helen thought. I can’t even pray properly.

Arthur’s hand twitched and then was still. The machines continued their monotonous missions while Helen searched for a better prayer. She finally settled on the Our Father. That was comfort food for the Christian soul, she decided. She recited the timeless prayer. Duty done, she pulled an Agatha Christie paperback out of her surveillance purse to read an old favorite, The Body in the Library.

She found her own comfort in Miss Marple’s observations about the evil in everyday life. She enjoyed the old woman’s gentle rebuke to the police that most people “are far too trusting for this wicked world.”

The ding of the elevator and the hiss of the medical machinery blended into a soothing background symphony.

Just as Miss Marple was unmasking the killers at the seaside resort, Helen was startled by a loud announcement from a stern female voice. “Visiting hours will be over in five minutes at eight o’clock,” the voice said. “Please turn in your ID badges at the front desk. Good night.”

Was it really going on eight o’clock?

She stood up and stretched. The tall-backed turquoise visitor’s chair failed to give the comfort it had promised. Helen felt like she’d been sitting on a stone. And where was Blossom? She’d been gone almost three hours, long enough for a hot shower and a meal.

Helen walked to the nurses’ station. Nurse Abbott was still on duty, making notes in a thick chart. Helen studied the woman. Her short graying hair gave the nurse a mature, serious look. She had an air of competence and confidence that made Helen want to trust her. But should she? She remembered Miss Marple’s warning as if the old woman had been knitting in Arthur’s room.

Nurse Abbott reached into a box of Godiva chocolate the size of a silverware chest. Helen remembered Violet saying that Blossom had bribed the nurses with a lavish assortment. Helen estimated the box held more than a hundred pieces of light, dark and white chocolate. Her stomach growled loudly.

Nurse Abbott looked up and asked, “May I help you, Reverend?”

“Just taking a break,” Helen said. “I thought Blossom would be back by now.”

The nurse unwrapped a dark chocolate and bit into it. Helen watched the caramel ooze out. Her favorite. There was another loud rumble from Helen’s stomach.

Nurse Abbott ignored it. “That poor thing needs a little time away,” she said. “She sat with her husband for eleven hours straight. Caretakers must take care of themselves, too. If you need a short break, I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Zerling.”

“I would like a cup of coffee,” Helen said. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

She ran down the stairs to the courtyard. The concrete was littered with cigarette butts and the air was thick with stale smoke. Most of the smokers wore hospital scrubs. Didn’t the staff know cigarettes caused cancer?

Helen fished out her cell phone and found a message from Phil. He was practically crowing. “You’re speaking to an estate manager,” he said. “Blossom hired me. It’s six thirty. I start work at nine tomorrow morning. I’ll stop for dinner before I go home. See you when I see you. I love you.”

Poor wilted Blossom went home and found enough energy to interview a new estate manager? She’d hired Phil an hour and a half ago. Helen wondered if her hot, silver-haired man had given Blossom a new interest in life—and frisky ideas.

Surely not. But where was she? Blossom had had enough time to eat, shower, even take a nap.

Helen called Phil’s cell phone. No answer. She left a message that she was still sitting with Arthur Zerling and waiting for Blossom to return to the hospital. Next she called Nancie and gave her report.

“Did the wife let you in his room?” the lawyer asked.

“Blossom couldn’t wait to get out of the ICU,” Helen said. “Not that I blame her. She’d been sitting with Arthur since six this morning. She said she needed a shower and food. She ran home and hired Phil.”

“I know,” Nancie said. “He already checked in. How does Arthur look?”

“Bad,” Helen said. “And our client didn’t tell us everything.”

“They never do,” Nancie said. “What do I need to know?”

“Violet made such a scene in the ICU that security had to escort her out. She accused Blossom of murdering her father.”

“Terrific,” Nancie said. “Blossom could sue our client for slander if she decides to go after Violet.”

“She’ll probably win,” Helen said. “Blossom has looks and charm.”

“Any more bad news?” Nancie asked.

“I’m no doctor, but Arthur looks like he hasn’t much time left. If I hadn’t seen that photo, I wouldn’t believe it was the same man. Blossom said the doctors told her Arthur could die any time now. She had him taken off the ventilator.”

“Like I said, that’s her right as next of kin,” Nancie said.

“Arthur is still breathing on his own, but who knows how long he’ll last,” Helen said.

“I’d better tell Violet,” Nancie said. “If the wife’s not there, she might be able to get in and see her father one last time.”

“Don’t get her hopes up,” Helen said. “The nurse on duty doesn’t like Violet.”

The hospital cafeteria was closed. Helen had a cup of vending machine coffee and a sandwich made with stale bread, gray meat and soapy-tasting cheese. By eight thirty, she was back in the ICU. There was still no sign of Blossom.

“No change in Mr. Zerling,” Nurse Abbott said briskly. Helen saw a golden mound of candy wrappers by her computer. She longed for a chocolate to take away the taste of her awful meal.

Helen settled into the iron embrace of the visitor’s chair and took out her paperback. Miss Marple would have to get her through the night. At eight fifty-five, Helen heard a woman shout, “Please! You have to let me in. I must see my father before it’s too late.” She recognized Violet Zerling’s tearful plea and ran out to see her client arguing with Nurse Abbott.

The two sturdy women stood nose to nose. Violet looked like she was wearing a sackcloth pantsuit. She couldn’t get around the roadblock in scrubs.

“I have my orders, Ms. Zerling,” Nurse Abbott said. “You are not allowed to see Mr. Zerling.”

“But he’s dying,” Violet cried. “I want to see my daddy before he dies. I want to say good-bye.”

Helen stepped between them. Violet backed off. Nurse Abbott didn’t move.

“Please, Nurse, I’m asking as the family minister. Is there any way Violet can visit her father to say good-bye?”

“Orders are orders and she’s not allowed,” Nurse Abbott said. She seemed to savor her power as much as the chocolate.

“You can’t refuse this request,” Helen said.

“I can and I will,” Nurse Abbott said. “This woman disturbed the whole floor last time. She’s banned from the ICU.”

“She’s Arthur’s only child,” Helen said.

“She’s hardly a child,” Nurse Abbott said, and glared at the large woman.

“At least call Mrs. Zerling and ask if she’ll change her mind,” Helen said. “Please.” She watched the nurse punch in the number for Blossom’s cell.

“No answer,” Nurse Abbott said, not bothering to hide her triumph.

“How do I even know you called her?” Violet said.

“Then you try,” Nurse Abbott said.

Helen took out her phone, punched in Blossom’s cell number and heard, “This is Blossom Zerling. Please leave a message.”

“Voice mail,” she reported.

“This is Helen Hawthorne,” she said into her phone. “Violet is at the ICU with me and she wants to say good-bye to her father. I’ll stay with her in the room. Please, in the name of charity, let Violet say good-bye to Arthur.”

“Told you,” the nurse said, her voice triumphant. “Do you want to see Mrs. Zerling’s written orders? I have them.”

Violet opened her mouth, but Helen cut her off. “That’s not necessary.”

“None of this is necessary,” Nurse Abbott said. “I have critically ill patients to care for. I’m going to do you one more favor, Ms. Zerling. I won’t call security if you leave now.”

Violet erupted into quiet tears. Helen put her arm around the weeping woman and led her out of the ICU toward the elevator.

“I wanted to say good-bye,” Violet said, sniffling and blinking back more tears. “I wanted Daddy to know I love him.”

“He already knows,” Helen said. She pressed the elevator button for Violet. “I have to go back to the ICU. You go home and rest. I’ll keep you posted.”

Nurse Abbott tried to justify herself as Helen passed her desk. “I really couldn’t let her in,” she said, popping another chocolate into her mouth. “I’d lose my job.”

Helen didn’t answer. She sat down in the visitor’s chair and took out her book. At nine seventeen, she heard Arthur’s breathing change dramatically. First it was deeper and faster—then it stopped altogether and started up again. Helen’s mother had sounded that way before she died. Arthur’s room was alive with beeping and shrieking alarms. Helen ran for Nurse Abbott, but she’d already called “Code Blue.”

“In the hall,” she commanded, shoving Helen out of her way. Staff flooded into Arthur’s room. Someone issued terse commands. The privacy blinds on Arthur’s window snapped shut, blocking Helen’s view.

Helen called Blossom’s cell phone. Still no answer. “Your husband has taken a turn for the worse,” Helen said. “Please hurry.”

With that, Helen heard footsteps running down the hall and Blossom came flying through the ICU door.

“What’s wrong?” she said, fast and frantic. “Why aren’t you with Arthur?”

“I tried to reach you,” Helen said.

“I was caught in traffic on I-95,” Blossom said. “There was a terrible accident. What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid the news isn’t good,” Helen said, trying to prepare her.

Nurse Abbott came out of the room, looking shell-shocked. She took Blossom’s arm and started to lead her to the family lounge. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Zerling. Your husband—”

Blossom screamed before the nurse finished her sentence.

CHAPTER 8

Blossom’s scream stopped abruptly, as if someone had hit a switch. Helen found the sudden silence shocking. Blossom swayed slightly, then suddenly pitched forward.

Nurse Abbott caught the new widow before she hit the floor and held her in a strong grip. Blossom’s head drooped and her face was lily-white.

“Nice catch,” Helen said.

“Years of practice,” the nurse said. “I’m good at spotting when they’re going to drop.”

Helen realized her comment wasn’t very clerical and tried to make amends for her insensitivity with a concerned question. “Is Blossom okay?”

“I think so. Low blood sugar and stress, most likely,” the nurse said. “I’ll check her vitals. Grab that wheelchair there and we’ll take her to the family lounge. If something’s really wrong, we can wheel her straight to the ER.”

Nurse Abbott gently lowered Blossom into the chair and rolled her toward the lounge.

Helen thought its mournful shades of mauve and gray were the perfect place to take a new widow. The blaring TV added to the depressing atmosphere. Helen found the remote and turned down the volume.

Blossom started to come around as they entered the lounge. She shook her head, then ran her fingers through her long brown hair and sighed.

“Welcome back,” Nurse Abbott said, helping her onto a mauve couch.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” Blossom said. “I know you’re busy.”

“Your husband just passed away,” Nurse Abbott said. “You don’t have to apologize for being human.” She pulled a flat hospital pillow and a thin blanket from a cabinet and settled the woman comfortably on the couch. Then she checked Blossom’s pulse and blood pressure.

“Both normal,” she reported. “How do you feel now?”

“Fine,” Blossom said. “No, I’m not fine. I feel terrible. Arthur’s dead. I should have been with him when it happened.” A single tear slid down her cheek. Her face looked like it had been dusted with flour. “Because of me, my poor husband died alone.”

“He wasn’t alone,” Helen said. “I was with him. Arthur had a peaceful passing.”

She remembered Nurse Abbott pushing her out of the way and the staff running into Arthur’s room and wondered if that was true.

“He didn’t feel any pain,” Nurse Abbott said. “He wouldn’t have known if you were there.”

“But I know,” Blossom said. “I failed my husband in his final moments.”

“Nonsense,” Nurse Abbott said. “You need some food.”

Blossom wept quietly. Helen handed her a fistful of tissues from a box on the side table, then patted Blossom’s cold hand. The silence stretched between them. Helen wished she could say something comforting but couldn’t find the right words.

She was relieved when Nurse Abbott rushed in with two packs of graham crackers and a cold container of orange juice. “Drink the orange juice,” she commanded. “It will help your blood sugar. Would you like a sandwich?”

“No, thanks,” Blossom said, and started weeping again. “I ate dinner. How could I eat when Arthur was dying?”

“You have to keep up your strength,” Nurse Abbott said. “Life goes on.”

“Can I say good-bye to Arthur now?” Blossom asked.

“We’re getting him tidied up,” Nurse Abbott said.

“Was he”—Blossom hesitated—“hurt?”

“Not at all,” Nurse Abbott said. “But we want to disconnect the IV lines and monitors and clean him up a little. As soon as he’s ready, you can be with him.”

“Thank you,” Blossom said. “You’ve been so good to me—to us.” Her voice wobbled.

“Just doing my job,” Nurse Abbott said. “Reverend, if you’ll stay with Blossom, I have to get back to my patients.”

She marched briskly out of the lounge, leaving Helen and Blossom in the gloomy room with the television. A screaming red BREAKING NEWS banner interrupted the ten o’clock local newscast. An aerial view of a massive traffic jam on I-95 appeared on the screen. An overturned tractor-trailer sprawled across the highway. Flames were devouring the cab as firefighters sprayed it.

“There it is,” Blossom said. “That’s the accident that kept me away from Arthur.”

She reached for the clicker on the coffee table and turned up the sound. The announcer said, “The driver of the truck escaped injury. But the highway remains blocked from Sunrise to Commercial Boulevard. The Broward County Sheriff’s Office urges drivers to seek another route until the highway is cleared. We’ll bring you more live updates on News Channel …”

Blossom turned down the TV and said, “If only there hadn’t been that accident. I was stuck for over an hour, frantic to get back to the hospital. I tried to get around the cars by driving in the breakdown lane, but the police wouldn’t let me. They forced me back in line.” Her voice seemed to fade away.

“You need to keep eating,” Helen reminded her. “Nurse’s orders.”

“Right,” Blossom said, absently. She crunched on a graham cracker, then said, “Finally, the traffic moved enough so I could get off at an exit, but then I had to drive through downtown and that took more time.”

She finished the graham cracker and struggled to open the orange juice container with shaking fingers. Helen gently took the juice from her, peeled back the foil top and handed it to her. Blossom sipped daintily.

“You did the right thing,” Helen said. “Arthur wouldn’t have wanted you to get in an accident.” She was enjoying passing out platitudes. They seemed to work when Nurse Abbott said them.

“You think so?” Blossom said, sniffling.

“Absolutely,” Helen said.

“You’ve been so good to me,” Blossom said. “Would you conduct Arthur’s funeral? I know he’d want that.”

“I’d be honored,” Helen said as she felt another stab of guilt. Arthur didn’t want Helen. He’d never met her.

“I’ll have to find out when the hospital will release Arthur’s—” Blossom teared up, then made an effort to steady her voice. “Will release Arthur.”

“Do you know where he will be buried?” Helen asked.

“Yes. My husband was so thoughtful,” Blossom said. “Arthur told me he bought a funeral plan when his first wife died. I can’t remember her name. I’m so upset.”

“Honeysuckle,” Helen said.

“That’s right,” Blossom said. “He wanted to be buried next to Honeysuckle. He asked me if I’d mind. Wasn’t that sweet? I told him that was fine. She had him longer than I did and she is the mother of his child. Did you conduct Honeysuckle’s funeral service?”

“That was before I knew Arthur,” Helen said, truthfully.

“He bought the plan at the Dignity Forever Funeral Home on Federal Highway. The one with the white columns.”

Helen thought all Fort Lauderdale funeral homes had white columns, but she nodded.

“Then you’ll do it?” Blossom said. “Please?”

“On one condition,” Helen said. “Violet must be allowed to attend her father’s funeral.”

“But—” Blossom started to object.

“I will not be a party to a family feud,” Helen said. “I know you and Violet have had your differences, but you must set them aside for Arthur’s sake. Violet can be difficult. I won’t deny that. But I think she can help you.”

“Help me how?” Was there a slightly surly sound in Blossom’s voice—or did grief give it an edge? Helen couldn’t tell.

“Arthur Zerling was a successful man,” Helen said. “He lived in Fort Lauderdale all his life. Do you know how to contact all his friends, family and business associates?”

“I have his address book,” Blossom said.

“But do you know which ones are family and which are friends? Do you know his colleagues and his staff?” Helen asked.

“No,” Blossom said.

“Violet will,” Helen said. “We can put her to work contacting them.”

“She’s impossible!” Blossom said. “We can’t be together two minutes before she starts a fight.”

“You won’t have to deal with her,” Helen said. “You won’t even see her. She can make the calls from my office.”

Blossom took a deep breath and blotted her eyes. “Okay, I’ll do what you want. But what if she makes a scene at Arthur’s funeral? You can’t believe how she carried on here in the ICU.”

“I will personally guarantee her good behavior,” Helen said. “I’ll watch her myself.”

“How can you?” Blossom asked. “You’ll be conducting the service.”

Blossom was right. Helen knew asking Phil to accompany Violet was out of the question. The Reverend Hawthorne wasn’t supposed to know Mrs. Zerling’s new estate manager. And Blossom wasn’t supposed to know Coronado Investigations was hired to prove she’d murdered her husband. Helen needed someone strong to keep Violet in line, but she couldn’t insult their client by hiring a muscle head in a black suit.

Then she thought of the perfect solution: someone strong who could look dignified and blend in as an ordinary mourner. Helen thought her idea was inspired.

“I’ll make sure she attends the funeral with a family friend, Margery Flax,” Helen said.

“Is this Flax woman a bodyguard?” Blossom asked.

“Better,” Helen said. “And far more forceful.”

CHAPTER 9

Arthur Zerling was buried under white flowers. His polished dark wood casket was heaped with washed-out lilies, waxy camellias and rubbery roses. The sweet sickly scent of the hothouse blooms made the Reverend Helen Hawthorne slightly dizzy. The newly minted minister prayed she wouldn’t pass out. This was her first time presiding at a funeral. She wanted Arthur to have the solemnity he deserved.

Helen steadied herself at the funeral home podium and surveyed the mourners. The room’s candy-box colors—pink walls and spindly gold chairs—were overwhelmed by the dark tide of mourners.

Arthur’s wife and his daughter sat on opposite sides of the aisle. Blossom looked like a noir widow in a black high-collared suit and dramatic wide-brimmed hat. Helen thought she needed a cigarette holder to complete the outfit.

Violet was upholstered in some shiny, lumpy black material. Her heavy black veil couldn’t hide her glare. She aimed it with laserlike intensity at the woman she’d accused of killing her father. Margery sat at Violet’s side, her face half-hidden by the glamorous swoop of her lavender hat. She rested one purple-gloved hand lightly on Violet’s arm, as if she was comforting Arthur’s grieving daughter. Helen knew Margery’s hand would clamp down if Violet acted on her hostility.

She wished Phil were there, but Blossom didn’t want her new estate manager attending the funeral. His job was to prepare the funeral reception. Phil would deal with the caterers, bartenders, valet service and florists while Helen handled the funeral.

Helen gave Violet credit. After Blossom agreed to let her attend her father’s funeral, she worked hard to give Arthur a proper service. She still refused to speak to Blossom. Instead, Nancie had to act as mediator. The lawyer conveyed Violet’s information to Blossom’s attorney, who passed it on to the widow. Helen couldn’t begin to calculate what this diplomacy-at-a-distance cost, but it kept the peace.

Violet had done a good job of assembling Arthur’s friends and colleagues at the Dignity Forever Funeral Home. They filled every gilded chair in the massive room, lined the walls and spilled into the hall. Most were white-haired men and women. Helen saw a sprinkling of sun-blasted workingmen. Helen remembered the photo of the vital Arthur on horseback and wondered if they were ranch hands.

She recognized Fran. The housekeeper’s gray curls were topped with a small, flat black hat. She’d tucked herself in the back where Blossom couldn’t see her. Fran was not going to risk a scene at her beloved Mr. Z.’s funeral.

Helen scanned the crowed for the troublemaking Uncle Billy. Violet had warned her about him. “Uncle Billy is not my father’s brother,” she’d explained. “He is Daddy’s best friend. The uncle title is honorary. He and my father were in college together and he introduced Daddy to my mother. Uncle Billy drinks too much. I know he’ll have a snootful and say something embarrassing at Daddy’s funeral.”

“Can we sort of not invite him?” Helen had asked.

“He’ll barge in anyway, and make a bigger scene,” Violet had said. “I don’t know if I can stand it, between that woman and Uncle Billy.”

“I’ll keep him under control,” Helen said.

“You can’t,” Violet said, sounding hopeless. “Nobody can.”

Helen prayed that Uncle Billy would stay away and quietly blessed the dead man for requesting a closed casket. She’d dreaded seeing Arthur’s wasted body in an open coffin.

She opened the service with the Our Father, a prayer Violet and Blossom had both approved, then launched into a short speech.

“Arthur Zerling was one of those rare businesspeople who cared about his family, his friends and his colleagues,” she said. “You’ve had the pleasure of knowing him longer than I have. Mrs. Zerling has asked that you share your memories of Arthur today. She will begin with hers.”

Helen sat next to the podium where she could watch Violet. Arthur’s daughter had already refused to talk about her father. “I loved Daddy,” she said. “But I don’t think I could say anything without crying.”

Blossom rose gracefully, took the podium’s microphone and said, “I knew my husband for less than a year. Arthur was kind, loving, generous—”

Violet made some sort of sound—a sniffle? A snort?

Helen wasn’t sure what it was, but she saw Margery’s gloved hand grip Violet’s wrist. Blossom did not seem to notice. She continued smoothly, “I thought that fate, which brought us together, would allow us more time. But that was not to be. I—” She stopped, dabbed her eyes with a black lace handkerchief and said, “I am too sad to say any more. But your memories of Arthur will be a comfort to me.”

The widow glided softly back to her seat. Helen wondered if she should sympathize or applaud that speech. Where the heck did she get a black lace handkerchief?

Two sober-suited businessmen followed Blossom. Bob, a portly man with a face like a slab of rare roast beef, praised Arthur’s integrity.

Roger, the second one, said, “I agree with Bob. Arthur was a man of integrity in the boardroom—and on the golf course, where even the best men are tempted to cheat. Arthur played by the rules. You’ve seen those hospital billboards that say, ‘Outlive your golf foursome.’ Well, I’ve outlived my golfing partner of twenty years. I’ll miss you, buddy.” He slapped the casket as if it were Arthur’s back. The waxy flowers trembled.

As Roger sat down, a man in an ill-fitting brown suit, white shirt and striped polyester tie nervously took the microphone. At first, he mumbled, but his voice grew stronger as he spoke. “Name’s Jack,” he said. “I worked for Mr. Zerling for fifteen years.”

Jack looked nervously at the crowd, gulped twice and said, “When my missus got cancer, I was having trouble making the co-pays. I was going to sell the house to raise money for her treatment, when the cancer doctor’s office called and said not to worry about those payments. Mr. Zerling had paid for her treatment. My wife is alive today because of him. Thank you, Mr. Zerling, for saving my Leann.”

Jack sat down next to a thin woman in a ruffled black dress with a purple silk rose at the neck. She patted his hand.

Helen felt a flutter of panic when she saw a dark-haired man push his way up front. This had to be Uncle Billy, the man Violet had warned her about. Uncle Billy looked exactly the way Violet had described him. He was five eight with suspiciously black hair, a self-important manner, a potbelly and a perpetual smile, even at a funeral.

He was still elbowing his way to the podium. Blossom seemed oblivious to the approaching disruption. Violet leaned forward in her seat, tensed for trouble. Helen caught Margery’s eye, and the landlady gave a single nod. She was ready.

Violet had predicted that Uncle Billy would “wear something awful like mustard golf pants or an orange plaid jacket.”

She was right. His red Hawaiian shirt was a riot of blue parrots. His shirt matched the grog blossoms on his nose. Lime green shorts exposed knobby knees and varicose veins. Uncle Billy’s outrageous outfit seemed to shout at the somber funeral-goers.

He grabbed the microphone and hung on to the podium as if he were seasick. Helen could smell the alcohol fumes from where she sat.

The microphone gave a shrill blast of feedback. He waited it out, then said, “I never thought I’d see old Art lying down on the job.” Uncle Billy grinned and paused for laughter. The stony silence would have stopped a more sensitive—or sober—person. He steamrollered ahead.

“When Art called me from India and said he was getting married, I told him, ‘Go for it.’ I’d introduced him to Honeysuckle at Florida State. He loved her. We all knew that. He took care of her when she was sick. I told him, ‘Art, Honeysuckle has been gone for two years now. Life goes on.’

“When he got back from that cruise, I saw the new Mrs. Zerling. I had no idea Art had bagged a looker. He had to pop Viagra like popcorn to keep her happy.”

Helen heard gasps from the audience. Blossom sat frozen. Violet started to get out of her chair, but Margery held her back.

Helen stepped forward to pry the microphone from Uncle Billy’s hand before he said anything worse, but he was too quick.

He gave a hideous grin, then said, “Art died riding a great little filly. No man could ask for more.”

“Thank you, Billy,” Helen said, pushing him toward the aisle.

Bob and Roger, Arthur’s friends and partners, stepped forward and escorted Uncle Billy back down the aisle as if he were a felon. They shoved him into a seat, then stood next to him.

Most of the mourners were shocked into silence, but Helen heard a few gasps. Blossom looked as if she’d been turned to stone.

Helen ended the service with Psalm 90 and the hopeful words: “‘Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil. Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their children.’”

Margery had a comforting arm around Violet. The big woman leaned against Helen’s landlady. Blossom seemed oblivious to anything but her own grief.

“Mr. Zerling will be buried at Evergreen Cemetery,” Helen said. “The service is private. Mrs. Arthur Zerling hopes to see you all at her home for the reception.”

The pallbearers advanced to carry Arthur Zerling to the hearse, as the undertakers dismantled the quivering mound of flowers. Blossom followed the casket out of the room, head bowed. The mourners filed out behind her.

Helen followed them, Margery and Violet at her side. The funeral director steered them toward the waiting limousine. Helen collapsed gratefully into her dark leather seat and closed her eyes. Her head ached from the strain and the raw emotions.

Margery and Violet slid onto the bench seat across from her and the door closed with a quiet click. “What did I tell you?” Violet said. “I knew Uncle Billy would pull one of his stunts.”

“Helen handled him beautifully,” Margery said.

“And that woman—”

“Was on her best behavior,” Margery said.

“My daddy’s dead,” Violet said, her voice filled with wonder. “He’s not coming back. I knew he was dead, but I really felt it at the funeral when I saw his casket.”

“That’s how grief works sometimes,” Margery said, patting Violet’s hand.

“It hurts,” Violet said. “I miss him so much. It’s like a physical pain.”

“It may take a while,” Margery said. “But you’ll start remembering all the good things you did together. Then his loss won’t hurt so much.”

“It will stop hurting when that woman is in jail for Daddy’s murder,” Violet said.

CHAPTER 10

Arthur Zerling’s polished casket was slowly lowered into the yawning grave by a machine. Instead of a hymn sung by the mourners, the machine hummed softly while Helen read a verse from Saint Paul. She wondered how many times his Epistle to the Philippians had been read at a burial in Evergreen Cemetery.

“Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true,” she read, “whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

Violet kept her head bowed. Helen hoped she was remembering her father, but suspected she was plotting revenge against Blossom. Arthur’s widow also kept her head bowed, but tension radiated from her slender form.

A stone angel watched from a nearby grave, wings folded in sorrow. Arthur would rest under a cool shade tree, next to his first wife, Honeysuckle. Helen hoped that Fort Lauderdale’s oldest cemetery would not see one more family feud.

“Please grant Arthur Zerling eternal rest,” she said. The casket mechanism stopped. “Give him peace.”

Deliver us from the two warring women at his grave, Helen thought.

Violet stayed calm, though her hands were clenched and her body was rigid in its shiny black cocoon. Margery stood resolutely at Violet’s side, poised to prevent a fight. Arthur’s surviving golf partners lined up beside Violet’s purple-clad guard.

Across the gulf of the open grave was Blossom, the grateful ranch hand and his rescued wife, Leann. The woman Arthur had helped save sniffled into a tissue. The housekeeper was not at the burial, but Helen had no doubt Fran was mourning the loss of her employer.

Four dark-suited undertakers stood discreetly behind lichen-covered tombstones. They had strict orders to head off Uncle Billy if he barged into the burial service. Helen didn’t think they’d have to look hard to spot him. Billy’s shirt was loud enough to wake the dead.

The funeral director handed Blossom a single white rose. She delicately tossed it into the grave. The rose landed soundlessly on the shiny casket lid. Next, the funeral director solemnly presented Violet with a sheaf of flowers the size of a shrub. Helen studied the tendrils escaping from the ribbon-wrapped bundle and realized this was a huge bouquet of honeysuckle and violets.

Violet would never be accused of subtlety.

She dropped the flowers into the grave. The heavy bouquet landed with a graceless thud, smothering Blossom’s single rose.

Helen thought if Violet could have fallen on Blossom and squashed her, she would have. Margery must have felt the same way. She laid a restraining hand lightly on Violet’s arm after the bouquet toss.

“We will conclude the burial service with the Twenty-third Psalm,” Helen said. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want… .”

As she recited the comforting words, another, secret burial in her hometown of St. Louis flashed through her mind. Helen couldn’t block out that awful scene. Death stared her in the face, reminding her of her own sins.

Helen knew that obsession, greed and blazing hatred led to misery and untimely death, but she couldn’t tell anyone, not even Margery or Phil. An innocent person’s future depended on her silence.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,” Helen read. “He leadeth me beside the still waters.”

For seventeen years, Helen had been a well-paid executive on the corporate fast track. She’d lived in suburban St. Louis and thought she had a happy marriage. Her husband, Rob, was looking for work, but couldn’t find a job equal to his talents. Then she came home early from her office and caught Rob cavorting naked with their neighbor. Blinded by rage, Helen had smashed her husband’s beloved SUV to smithereens, then filed for divorce.

“He restoreth my soul,” Helen read. “He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

There was nothing right—or righteous—about the divorce judge’s decision. As Helen expected, he split the house between Helen and Rob, even though she’d bought it. But then the judge awarded half of Helen’s future income to the unfaithful louse. Helen had tossed her wedding ring into the turbulent Mississippi River and taken off in a crazy-mad journey around the country until her car died in Fort Lauderdale. She wound up living at the Coronado Tropic Apartments, with Margery as her landlady.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

Helen found comfort in her friendships at the Coronado while she lived as a fugitive from the court and worked low-paying jobs to stay off the law’s radar. But Rob pursued her relentlessly, determined to get his money. She figured if her ex ever caught up with her, he wouldn’t be interested in her miserable income. She’d underestimated Rob’s greed.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” Helen read. “Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

When Rob sailed off with a wealthy widow, Helen thought he was gone from her life. But the widow threw Rob overboard with a million-dollar good-bye gift. Rob ran through that money and tracked Helen down at her sister Kathy’s house in St. Louis, where he de-manded the money the court had ordered her to pay. When Helen refused, Rob had grabbed her arm and twisted it. Helen’s ten-year-old nephew, Tommy Junior, saw Rob threatening his aunt and swung his ball bat so hard, the boy knocked out Rob. The dazed Rob had refused treatment, then died suddenly.

Helen was grateful that Tommy had been sent to his room after he hit Uncle Rob. The boy had no idea he’d accidentally killed the man.

Helen had wanted to go to the police and take the blame for Rob’s death, but Kathy refused. She feared Tommy would confess that he’d whacked Uncle Rob and the boy’s life would be blighted. Instead, Helen and Kathy had wrapped Rob’s body in plastic and buried him in the gravel for the foundation of the church basement. The next morning, concrete was poured over his unmarked grave.

No one looked for the missing Rob, which Helen thought said a lot about her ex-husband. But someone had seen the secret burial. So far, this person had blackmailed Helen and Kathy for fifteen thousand dollars. Helen expected more demands for cash.

She tried to live with the burden of Rob’s death. She tried to pretend the awful incident had never happened. She’d married Phil and they’d started Coronado Investigations. The two private eyes were paid to uncover other people’s secrets.

Helen had to keep hers buried. She couldn’t share her guilty secret at the expense of her nephew’s future.

She longed to tell Violet and Blossom the damage that hate and greed caused. But she couldn’t say a word. She could only pray that Rob’s body was never found.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” Helen said. “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

“Amen,” chorused the mourners.

“That was lovely,” Blossom said, patting Helen’s hand. Helen studied the widow’s pale face under the glamorous hat for signs of guilt. She saw only weariness, lightly touched with makeup. “You will come back to the house for the reception, won’t you?”

“I have another appointment at three o’clock,” Helen said.

“Then you’ll have a couple of hours,” Blossom said. “I’d like to ask you for a favor. Would you sort through Arthur’s things? I want to give them away.”

“Today?” Helen said, struggling to hide her surprise.

“As soon as possible,” Blossom said.

“I know you must think it’s too soon. I’m not getting rid of Arthur’s things because I don’t love him. It’s because I loved him too much. They’re a constant, painful reminder of my loss. I’m hoping you’ll take them to a charity for me. Arthur has some lovely clothes. They won’t do any good sitting in his dressing room.”

Helen couldn’t believe her good fortune: Blossom was letting her search Arthur’s personal possessions. She also didn’t believe the widow’s excuses. She couldn’t wait another day to get rid of her husband.

“I’m sure you’ll find something useful,” Blossom said.

“I certainly hope so,” Helen said.

CHAPTER 11

Was that a house or a hotel? The Zerling mansion was a monster even in a millionaires’ ghetto like Hendin Island. Helen hoped she was pulling into the right driveway. The wrong choice could land her in hot water. The rich regarded lost strangers as potential burglars and were quick to call the cops.

Blossom’s directions had sounded simple. “Turn right onto Hendin Island Road,” she’d said. “There’s only one road on the island. We’re the fourth house on the left with the big ficus hedge.”

But all the Hendin Island mansions had towering ficus hedges. Ficus never got that big in Helen’s hometown of St. Louis. In the Midwest, they were scrawny houseplants struggling to survive in uncaring offices and drafty apartments.

Burly Florida ficus grew into impenetrable hedges that had to be trimmed with chain saws. The fourth house on the left had twelve-foot hedges cut into sharp angles. Helen counted the houses twice, then decided that one had to be the Zerling mansion.

It was barely noon, but Helen felt like she’d spent an eternity with the Zerling women.

After Arthur’s burial, the limo had driven Helen, Margery and Violet back to the funeral home parking lot.

Once they were inside the limo again, Violet’s control snapped. She unleashed a bitter stream of invective against Blossom. “She didn’t even invite me to my father’s funeral reception,” she’d said. “Not that I’d go. I don’t want to be in the same room with that woman.”

That’s when Margery lit up a Marlboro.

“Please, Margery. Do you have to smoke that in here?” Violet asked.

“Let’s make a deal,” Margery said. “We’ll agree that you hate Blossom and I’ll put out my cigarette.”

She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and Violet sat slumped in silence. Helen sighed with relief when the limo stopped in the parking lot. She climbed into the Igloo and headed to Arthur Zerling’s funeral reception.

The mansion wasn’t even marked with a house number. That was the only discreet thing about the frantic swarm of turrets, towers and arched colonnades, painted face-powder pink and topped with red barrel tile. It was Spanish mission style on steroids.

The sumptuous black wreath on the dark, arched door was the only sign there was a funeral reception at the home. Helen left the Igloo with the valet. A uniformed Hispanic maid opened the massive door before Helen could knock. She heard string music and subdued conversation drifting from the back of the house.

She followed the maid’s bobbing white apron bow through dimly lit rooms and corridors to Arthur’s reception, grateful she had a guide. The Zerling home could have been a set for Sunset Boulevard. Rooms and corridors were crammed with mahogany chairs upholstered in dark fabric, faded dull brown tapestries and twisted candlesticks. Silk fringe, fat tassels and swags of braid clung to lampshades, cushions and couches. Bulbous gold frames gripped dark oil paintings.

Thick Oriental carpets smothered Helen’s footsteps. Velvet curtains shut out the subtropical sun. The curtains were looped with ropes of braid and hung with tassels like golden fruit.

Helen could not imagine herself relaxing on those braided, tasseled velvet sofas with a book and a glass of wine. She’d be searching the shadows for serial killers. She felt the weight of the home’s heavy fabric and dark furniture, as if money was a burden. She itched to open the windows and let in the light.

When she turned the last corner, she was nearly blinded by the sunlight. The reception was in a stark glass annex that led to a pool the size of an inland sea. The funeral reception could have been an exclusive gallery showing. The crowd was subdued, mostly seventy and over, and spoke in murmurs. The harsh light revealed thinning hair, wrinkles and tight, face-lifted skin. She scanned the faces but saw no sign of Phil.

Servers circulated with trays of champagne and mineral water. Hungry mourners lined up at cloth-draped tables along the east wall for a buffet. A chef cut thick bloody slices off a round of roast beef. Another carved a roast turkey and a pink ham. There were mounded platters of fruit, vegetables and shiny glazed pastries. A whole table was devoted to a tower of oysters, shrimp and lobster tails crowned by a silver bowl of caviar.

The cloying scent of waxy white flowers overpowered the luscious food.

A black-clad string quartet sawed delicately on their instruments. In an alcove, a slide show flashed on a tall screen. Helen paused to watch Arthur’s life unfold in photographs: first, as a curly-haired baby cradled in his mother’s arms. She gazed at her son as if he were a newborn god. Next as a sturdy toddler on a rocking horse, then a serious young scholar in a blazer and tie. The photos of Arthur’s school years ended with an exuberant college graduate throwing his mortarboard into the air.

Helen thought young Arthur was movie-star handsome. He played tennis in a white polo shirt that displayed his tanned arms, stood on the deck of a yacht, his hair tousled by a sea breeze, and rode a brown stallion with a white blaze. He donned a business suit and gradually aged into a strong, snowy-haired man. Helen saw the photo Violet had shown her of the white-haired Arthur on the black horse. That was followed by Arthur and Blossom at their wedding. He wore a well-tailored navy jacket. Blossom was a sophisticated bride in strapless white satin clutching a huge white bouquet of roses and orchids. The new bride and groom kissed with the setting sun as a dramatic backdrop. The next photo showed the couple at home, lounging by the same pool sparkling outside the reception room. Blossom held Arthur’s hand and smiled into his eyes. Then the slide show started again with chubby baby Arthur held by his proud mother.

Arthur’s life was bookended by adoring women. Helen noticed that photos of Violet and Honeysuckle Zerling were conspicuously absent. Blossom may have let Arthur sleep beside his first wife in the prepaid cemetery plot, but she wouldn’t acknowledge the woman and her daughter were part of Arthur’s life.

“Helen!” Blossom called, and sailed over. The chic black hat was gone and the widow had freshened her lipstick. Her black suit accented her creamy skin.

“Would you like a drink? How about some food?” Blossom asked.

“No, thanks,” Helen said. “I have to leave for an appointment at three o’clock. Do you still want me to sort through Arthur’s belongings?”

“You’d be doing me a huge favor,” Blossom said. “Let me take you to his dressing room.”

She ducked through a service door near the alcove and said, “We’re going up the back stairs. Otherwise, people will keep stopping us to talk.”

The gray-carpeted service stairs opened onto another long, gloomy corridor. Arthur and Blossom’s bedroom looked suitable for the procreation of a dynasty. The four-poster bed had columns like tree trunks. The floor was cushioned by a dark Oriental rug the size of a small country. Maroon curtains blocked the light. Everything was festooned with tassels, even the key to the mahogany secretary.

Helen wondered if Blossom wore tasseled bras.

“This really isn’t my style,” Blossom said. “I was planning to redecorate after Arthur and I settled in.” Her voice quavered. Then she steadied it and said, “Arthur’s dressing room is this way.”

Helen followed her through a master bath the size of her Coronado apartment. The bathtub was encased in shining mahogany. Next to it was a marble Jacuzzi. The commode was tucked behind another door.

Arthur’s dressing room was a man cave with dark wood, brass fittings and forest green walls. Neckties and suits were arranged on motorized carousels. Dress shirts were displayed by color on wooden hangers. Polo shirts were folded on shelves. Two shelves were devoted to cowboy hats, including a white Stetson with a crocodile band.

Six shelves held well-shined shoes from wing tips to cowboy boots. Only Arthur’s deck shoes were comfortably scuffed and battered. Helen noticed a bronze statue on a chest of drawers—a beautifully rendered cowboy on a bucking horse. She checked the signature at the base and saw a name she recognized: St. Louis artist Charles Russell. That dressing room decoration was worth at least six figures.

On another chest of drawers was a photo of the bridal Blossom with her white bouquet.

“Arthur’s cuff links, watches and other jewelry are in these cases,” Blossom said, patting the tall chest under the Russell bronze.

Helen opened the top drawer and saw four watches on velvet. From her years in retail, she guessed she was looking at more than a hundred thousand dollars in timepieces.

“These are good quality,” Helen said. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep them or give them as mementos to Arthur’s friends?”

“No, give them to charity,” Blossom said. “I would appreciate a receipt for taxes. Please take them away today.”

Blossom paused, then said, “Arthur’s clothes and things could help people if they went to a charity. I’d like them put to good use. I know Arthur would, too.”

“Any particular charity?” Helen asked.

“No, I’m new to Lauderdale,” Blossom said. “You’re a minister. You must know some good ones.”

Helen eyed the floor-to-ceiling rows and racks of clothes and shoes. “There’s a lot for me to carry,” she said.

“I’ll send my man,” Blossom said. “He’s taking a break in the kitchen. I had him get packing boxes. He can carry them out for you. His name is Phil.”

“Good,” Helen said. Phil and I can search this room together, she thought.

“May I make a donation to your church?” Blossom asked.

“No, thank you,” Helen said. “I’m happy to do this for Arthur.” And I’m already paid by his daughter, she thought. The ethics of this situation made her a bit queasy.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Blossom said. “I have to get back to my guests.” She held out her exquisitely manicured hand and shook Helen’s. “Thank you for your help,” she said. “I know you’ve had a long day. Please find a good home for Arthur’s clothes.”

Blossom paused, then said, “I don’t want you to think I’m getting rid of Arthur.”

Helen said nothing.

Blossom kept talking. “Every time I walk by this room, I seem to see him. Not the smart, strong man I first met, but the dying Arthur. I don’t want to think of him that way. I don’t want to face what I lost one more day.”

Face what you lost—or what you did? Helen wondered.

CHAPTER 12

Helen could see Blossom’s dressing room on the other side of the bedroom. Arthur’s wife had barred the housekeeper from that room. Now Fran was fired and Arthur was dead and Blossom boldly left the door open.

It was an invitation to snoop. That’s what Helen was, and she knew it: a paid snoop. A professional investigator. I really shouldn’t do this, she thought. I’ve just buried the owner of this house.

Who may have been killed by his wife. Helen quickly tossed aside her few reservations, like a stripper’s flimsy costume. She stalked across the half acre of posh rug and stood in the doorway to Blossom’s dressing room.

I could get caught, she told herself. But I don’t expect Blossom back soon. She has her duties at Arthur’s funeral reception.

Helen slipped into Blossom’s dressing room. It was as organized as Arthur’s, but definitely feminine. Helen caught the scent of some light, spicy perfume. The walls were a flattering pale peach and the well-lit full-length mirror was slimming. The only art was a gold-framed photo of Blossom as a bride carrying that lush white bouquet.

Helen would love to have these finely crafted shelves in pale, golden wood. She’d like to have the clothes and shoes to fill them.

Well, some of the clothes. There seemed to be two Blossoms: the sedate wife that Helen knew and a sexy woman who wore daringly cut clothes in come-hither colors—red, sapphire blue and vibrant emerald green. Helen had never seen that side of Blossom, and she examined a carousel of gaudy evening dresses.

Cocktail dresses and long gowns glittered with sequins, rhinestones and bugle beads. As the dresses whirled slowly around, Helen saw flirty ruffles and frisky feathers.

Each dress was protected by a clear plastic zipped bag. They must look spectacular on Blossom’s well-toned figure. A red velvet number with a plunging front and back looked like the fabled “gownless evening strap” worn by a Hollywood starlet.

When did Blossom wear clothes like these with her elderly husband? And where? Certainly not at any soiree given by the staid silver hairs downstairs.

Helen slowly watched the dresses on the carousel until she came to a section of subdued silver and black gowns. Some were strapless, others had long sleeves, but all were elegant and tasteful. These were suitable for Arthur’s friends. So were the two racks of black, gray and pale peach suits.

Blossom’s casual clothes showed the same split personality: risqué halter tops with deep-cut necklines and V-cut backs. Blouses with sexy lace-up fronts, provocative corset styles and wisps of leopard prints with barely enough spots to cover the vital spots.

Club clothes, never meant for daylight. They contrasted oddly with schoolmarmish tailored skirts, pants and clamdiggers from Tory Burch, Brooks Brothers and Talbots, designed for a rich man’s wife.

Blossom’s shoes ranged from modest ballerina flats to an outrageous pair of purple cage sandals with six-inch stiletto heels. How did she walk in those? Helen wondered. She picked up the heel for a closer look. The strappy purple shoe weighed at least three pounds and the skinny heels looked lethal.

“Drop that weapon now,” said a voice behind her.

Helen jumped and the heel went flying across the peach carpet. She turned and saw her husband leaning against the doorframe, laughing.

“Phil!” she said. “I ought to stab you with that stiletto.”

“What are you doing in Blossom’s dressing room?” he said. “She could catch you poking around in her things.”

“She’s busy,” Helen said. “Why are you wearing white shorts and a blue polo shirt instead of your jeans?”

“The lady of the house gave me this uniform,” Phil said. He did a model’s turn in the dressing room.

“Shows off your buns nicely, Cabana Boy,” Helen said. “Where did she send you to buy that outfit?”

“She didn’t,” Phil said. “She guessed my size and had it waiting for me.”

“She’s been observing you closely,” Helen said. “When did she have time to run to the store and buy uniforms? She hired you the night her husband died.”

“Maybe she missed being at Arthur’s deathbed because she was uniform shopping,” Phil said.

“Maybe our client should suspect her stepmother,” Helen said. “Blossom said she was caught in the traffic from that accident on I-95.”

“Which isn’t on the way to the hospital,” Phil said. “But it is the fastest way to several malls. If Violet and Fran are right and Blossom poisoned Arthur, we’ve got a hell of a job. I checked out the place this morning while helping set up the reception. Besides the eight bedrooms and twelve baths, there are two dining rooms, a six-car garage and a pool house. I lost track of the halls, sitting rooms and living rooms.”

“Find any poison?”

“Lots,” Phil said. “Enough rat poison in the garage to kill everyone on Hendin Island.”

“They have rats?”

“In a big old house on the water? Sure. But I don’t think Arthur showed symptoms of that kind of poisoning. Where do I start?”

“Here,” Helen said. “The room Blossom wouldn’t let Fran enter. The housekeeper said Blossom was hiding something.”

“Then let’s find it,” Phil said. “You look through the clothes. I’ll check the drawers. Hurry. In case she comes back.”

Helen poked through the pockets and felt the hems of Blossom’s clothes. Phil searched the drawers, prying through sheer scarves and flimsy lingerie, probing behind and underneath the drawers. Phil looked in the air-conditioning vents. Helen crawled along the molding, feeling for hiding places. She tried to pull up the carpet, but it stayed securely nailed to the floor.

“Nothing,” Helen said. “Maybe she’s already used the poison.”

“If it existed anywhere but in the mind of her housekeeper,” Phil said.

“Maybe she was hiding those outré outfits,” Helen said. “Some of these clothes are costumes. How do we find the real Blossom? Aren’t you doing a background check on her?”

“I’ve been too busy working here,” Phil said. “I should have asked. How was Arthur’s funeral?”

“I got through it,” Helen said, and shrugged. “Had a slight problem with a drunken uncle. Violet was well behaved, except for an outburst against her stepmother in the limo after the burial, and nobody but Margery and me heard that. Violet doesn’t have Blossom’s charm, but we shouldn’t discount what she says.”

“She’s not getting a discount,” Phil said. “She’s paying full price.” He kissed Helen slowly, backing her against a chest of drawers while he unbuttoned her blouse. Helen kissed him back, then pushed him away.

“Not here,” she said, buttoning her blouse again. “What if Blossom finds her minister and her estate manager in a steamy embrace? We’re not supposed to know each other.”

“We’re not getting a chance to know each other,” Phil said. “You leave tomorrow on the yacht and I won’t see you for a week.”

“Then let’s hurry and pack Arthur’s things,” Helen said, “so we can be together tonight. I have to tour the yacht at three.” She thought that sentence sounded romantic.

She led the way to Arthur’s dressing room. A foot-high stack of flat boxes and packing supplies was piled on the carpet.

Phil unfolded a box and taped the bottom while Helen pulled suits off hangers.

“These look handmade,” she said. “Amazing details. Even the cuff buttons have real buttonholes. They aren’t stuck on the sleeves for show. The fabrics are gorgeous.” She lined the box with tissue paper, folded each suit neatly and packed it between more paper while Phil taped a second box.

“Blossom said I could choose the charity,” Helen said. “What about a homeless shelter?” She labeled the first box “Men’s Suits” and Phil taped it shut while she filled the second.

“Many shelters don’t take clothes,” Phil said. “They’re swamped with cast-off clothes. Florida has lots of old people and their clothes are donated when they die.”

“Too bad,” Helen said. “The city could have homeless men in hand-tailored suits and Turnbull & Asser shirts. Look at this.” She held up a shirt with a white collar and pale pink pinstripes.

“Good way to get the homeless hassled by the police,” Phil said. “Why don’t we give the clothes to Out of the Closet? They’re a chain of thrift stores. The proceeds help people with AIDS.”

Six boxes later, the suits and shirts were packed and Phil was emptying Arthur’s underwear drawers.

“Was Arthur a boxers or briefs man?” Helen asked.

“Boxers.” Phil held up a pair of dark blue boxers and read the label: “Hanro Fishbone cotton boxers.”

“He had good taste for an old guy,” Helen said.

“Or a young one,” Phil said.

“Those boxers sell for about seventy-five dollars each,” Helen said.

“I just packed a thousand dollars’ worth of men’s underwear,” Phil said. “They didn’t feel like plain old tightie whities. On to the socks.”

Phil opened a narrow drawer and whistled. “Look at these. Paisley, striped and tartan. Socks with clocks.”

“Beautiful,” Helen said. “Your socks are so plain. You either wear black or white.”

“Reflects my view of the world,” Phil said. “They’re easier to pair if I stick to two colors. Matching up these patterns would make me dizzy.”

“I doubt Arthur did his own laundry,” Helen said. “Did he make his money or inherit it?”

“Blossom told me this is his childhood home, so I guess he came from big bucks and made more,” Phil said. “Hey, look what’s under these paisley socks.”

He lifted out a wedding photo in a mother-of-pearl frame. The groom was a twenty-something Arthur Zerling. The bride wore white satin with shoulder pads and carried a bouquet of honeysuckle.

“I’ll bet she’s Violet’s mother,” Helen said. “Honeysuckle was a pretty thing. She and Arthur made a handsome couple. I wonder why Arthur hid that wedding picture. Did he still love his first wife—or regret his second marriage?”

“Honeysuckle was a major part of his life,” Phil said. “Maybe he didn’t want to hurt Blossom’s feelings by displaying his first wife’s photo.”

Helen opened the top drawer of watches. “They’re all at two o’clock,” she said. “Someone kept these old-fashioned watches wound. Look, Phil, this platinum Rolex Oyster is engraved on the back. It says: To my love on our first anniversary. We have all the time in the world—HZ. That’s so sweet. HZ has to be Honeysuckle. I’m giving this watch to Violet. She should have this memento of her parents.”

“Does Blossom know you’re doing that?” Phil asked, packing more socks into the box.

“She said I could dispose of the watches any way I wished,” Helen said.

“Really?” Phil lifted one eyebrow.

“She never said I couldn’t give that watch to Violet.”

“But you didn’t ask, did you?” Phil said.

“No.” Helen’s eyes shifted away.

“Because you were afraid she’d say no,” Phil said.

“I can’t predict what she’d say,” Helen said, and looked her husband straight in the eye.

“Ever study the spirit versus the letter of the law, Reverend?” Phil asked.

“Didn’t have time,” Helen said. “I was ordained in the click of a mouse.”

“If you give Violet that watch,” he said, “what will you do when she runs and shows it to Blossom?”

“Violet’s not getting the watch until this case is closed,” Helen said. “If we prove Blossom killed her father, it will be her parting gift.”

“And if we don’t?” Phil asked.

“Then it’s a consolation prize,” Helen said.

CHAPTER 13

“Ahoy!” Helen called, as she stood at the back of the yacht. Was that the right way to hail a ship’s crew?

From the rear, the Belted Earl was about thirty feet wide and looked like a triple stack of elegant porches. The lowest deck was tea-colored teak with rattan furniture upholstered in the colors of the Caribbean Sea: light blue, azure, turquoise and navy. A clear plastic railing was a shield against the workaday world.

Half a dozen white yachts were anchored at the concrete dock on a branch of the New River, protected by an open metal-roofed shed. Helen saw uniformed staffers polishing brightwork and carrying cases and crates aboard. She thought the sleek Belted Earl made the other yachts look tubby.

“Hello? Anybody home?” she tried again.

The deck doors burst open and a slim blonde in white shorts and a polo shirt waved and said, “Hi! Are you Helen?”

She flashed a cheerleader’s smile, ran lightly down the gangplank and held out her hand. “I’m Mira, chief stewardess of the Belted Earl. I’ll show you where you’ll be working and sleeping—if you get any time to sleep. We cruise at nine tomorrow night and the captain will see you at seven thirty.”

Mira had small, doll-like features and a muscular, compact body. Her blond hair was pulled back with a two-toned silver barrette. Helen followed her along the narrow teak deck until Mira opened a door. Helen stepped over the raised threshold into a kitchen bigger than her own.

“The galley is the chef’s domain,” Mira said. “Suzanne cooks for the owners and crew. We eat well.”

“She must have a terrific view from this window when you’re at sea,” Helen said.

“She’s so busy, I doubt if Suzanne has much time to admire the view,” Mira said. “When we’re in port, you can see the crew washing the boat next door. They’re pretty scenic.” She winked. “And single.”

“I’ve got one, thanks.” Helen had removed her wedding ring for this assignment. Her finger felt naked without it.

“Just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t look at the menu,” Mira said.

She giggled, then turned serious. “This is the dining room and wet bar. The main salon is beyond the oak divider.”

Helen liked this floating mansion better than the gloomy barrel-tiled monstrosity on Hendin Island. The yacht’s rooms were comfortably roomy, not dark, intimidating caves. They were brightened by big windows and warm honey-colored wood.

“Beautiful wood,” she said.

“Custom-carved oak,” Mira said. “You’ll dust and polish it twice a day.”

Now Helen noticed the room was unnaturally dust free. “I guess I’ll vacuum this carpet, too,” she said.

“The captain said you’ve worked as a hotel maid, so you’re an experienced cleaner,” Mira said. “You know to stay in the tracks.”

“Tracks?”

“We don’t run a vacuum over the carpet every which way,” Mira said. “We vacuum the way you mow a lawn, so there aren’t random tracks.”

Mira opened a door off the main salon. “This is the on-deck head,” she said. “We have ten heads for the guests, including their stateroom baths.” This one made the Coronado bathrooms look like outhouses. The commode was a beige sculpture. The granite sink had gold fixtures. Two fluffy hand towels embroidered with THE BELTED EARL hung on a brass rack.

“The heads are cleaned after each use,” Mira said. “That will be mainly your job.”

“Every time?” Helen tried to hide her disbelief.

“Yes,” Mira said. “I’m sure you cleaned toilets at the hotel.”

“Yes,” Helen said. She doubted the men on the yacht had better aim than the hotel guests. If they missed on land, how steady would they be on a shifting ship?

“You’ll also clean the sink, the counter, the mirror, and empty the wastebasket. The toilet paper has to be folded into points after every use. It’s stowed under the sink.”

She opened the carved oak cabinet doors to show stacks of TP, towels and bars of deliciously fragrant Bvlgari soap.

“The labels on the toilet paper rolls should face out on the shelves,” Mira said. “Towels are changed every time. They’re kept folded with their labels facing the same way. Most guests use the liquid soap, but if a bar is used, we put out a fresh one.”

“Bvlgari is twenty dollars a bar,” Helen said.

“Fifteen,” Mira corrected.

“What happens to the used bar?”

“The crew gets it,” Mira said. “One of our perks. Don’t expect to load up on fancy soap. You’d be surprised how many people don’t wash their hands.”

“How do you know if a guest has used the head?” Helen was proud she’d remembered the nautical term.

“We keep in touch by radio.” Mira pulled a two-way radio off her belt. “You’ll get one, too. If I’m serving in the main salon and you’re doing laundry, I’ll radio you, ‘Guest X is coming back, used the on-deck head,’ and then you’ll clean it.

“The master stateroom and baths are forward on this deck,” she said.

Helen wanted to sink into the depths of the cushiony azure bed piled with dark blue pillows. It faced a sixty-inch television. Who’d watch TV when they had a bed like that? she wondered. She caught herself before she said anything. Mira didn’t know she was a newlywed.

“Most rich people’s homes are either fussy or gaudy,” Helen said. “I could actually live here.”

“All you need is twelve million for the yacht and another million a year to run it,” Mira said.

“I’d better start buying lottery tickets,” Helen said.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Mira said. “The crew quarters and guest rooms are on the lower deck.”

Helen was grateful they walked down an ordinary tile staircase instead of climbing a ship’s ladder. “This room is the crew mess and galley,” Mira said.

A beige wraparound booth and table took up the port side. Above it, a wall-mounted TV was tuned to the news. The dock and the yacht interior were displayed on four screens.

Across the room was a small galley. Mira opened a fridge stocked with food, soda and bottled water. “What do you drink?” she asked. “I run on Red Bull.”

“Water’s fine,” Helen said.

“We’ve got a whole shelf,” Mira said. “Help yourself. Any allergies or food you don’t like?”

“Liver,” Helen said.

“Never serve it.”

“Do you really care what I like?” Helen asked.

“When we cruise, you may work twenty hours a day. If the owners come home at four a.m., we have to be ready to serve them drinks and sandwiches or an early breakfast. It’s a demanding job. We try to keep you happy in little ways.”

Two stacked washer-dryer sets churned and hummed next to the galley. Helen noticed the washers were on the bottom and stifled a groan. She’d have to stoop to load them.

“We do laundry from six a.m. till midnight,” Mira said.

“I guess so, if you change the towels after one use,” Helen said.

Mira barged ahead. “We also do the guests’ laundry and ironing, including their underwear.”

“You iron underwear?” Helen didn’t own an iron.

“We have to stop washing and drying at twelve so the crew can sleep,” Mira said.

How am I going to find an emerald smuggler if I’m working twenty hours a day? Helen wondered. If my heart sinks any lower, I’ll need a salvage company.

“You must carry a lot of water to wash clothes eighteen hours a day,” she said.

“The yacht makes its own freshwater,” Mira said. “It pumps seawater.” She turned a metal wheel about the size of a steering wheel. “The secret passage and crew quarters are through this hatch.”

Helen followed her into a narrow, windowless hall. Mira slid open a door. “You’ll share this with Louise, the second stewardess.” The cabin was big enough for two bunks and a three-drawer cabinet. The narrow bathroom was no bigger than Helen’s, but much cleaner.

“Who cleans our rooms?” Helen asked.

“We do,” Mira said. “Some of the boys pay a stewardess to clean for them.”

The passageway grew smaller and lower. Helen bumped her head on a wheel in the ceiling.

“Ouch.” Mira winced. “Are you hurt?”

Helen shook her head no.

“You found the escape hatch,” she said. “It leads to the bosun’s locker. If there’s an emergency, that’s how we get out belowdecks.”

The bosun’s locker, Helen thought. Where the captain found the emeralds.

Mira climbed a metal ladder and twisted the hatch and Helen followed. She saw a gray-painted area the size of a toolshed with neatly stowed boat gear.

They backed down the ladder. Now the narrow passageway made a slight jog. The port side was lined with white plastic caddies and cleaning equipment. “You’ll have your own caddy. Here’s where we go through the looking glass.”

Mira opened a door to a hallway with thick beige carpet. Helen saw the other side of the door was a gold-framed mirror. “That way the guests don’t see us,” she said.

The four staterooms named for Bahamian islands—Andros, Paradise, Bimini and San Salvador—were almost as luxurious as the master suite. Mira opened a louvered door in the Bimini stateroom and said, “You’ll help unpack the guests’ luggage and put away their things.”

Helen saw enough towels in the guest baths to stock a linen store. “Do we clean these baths after every use?”

“Same routine. If the guests take a shower, we wipe down the stall, clean the bathroom, change the towels and soap. We hate people who shower more than once a day. We also restock the soda and bottled water in the guests’ fridges, labels facing out.

“The beds are turned down at night and we put on the sleeping duvet,” Mira said. “The sheets are changed every two days.”

“Good,” Helen said. “That will save a little work.”

“Not much. We iron the sheets on the bed so they look fresh. We dust the hangers and make sure they all the face the same way.”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “Dust the hangers?”

Mira shrugged. “The owners want it.”

Helen said nothing. She couldn’t. She’d not only walked through the looking glass—she’d fallen down the rabbit hole.

“You’ll see the rest tomorrow night when you start work. Wear your dress uniform. Remember, no flirting, no nail polish and no makeup.”

“Not even pink lipstick?”

“Nothing.”

Helen realized Mira’s face was makeup free. She didn’t need it with her clear skin.

“And no jewelry,” she said.

“What about your silver barrette?” Helen asked.

“That’s allowed. It keeps my hair out of my eyes, and when I serve dinner, I put my hair up in a twist.”

“Mine slips out of a barrette,” Helen said.

Mira unclipped her distinctive barrette with the slashes of smooth and frosted silver. “Try this one,” she said. “It’s a Ficcare. About forty bucks online at Head Games.”

Helen whistled.

“You’ll save the money on makeup,” Mira said. “You’re not to compete with the women on the yacht. It can cause problems with the guests. This is the serious part, so listen carefully.”

Mira locked eyes with Helen. “The guests are always right. That’s why you’re getting nearly forty thousand dollars a year for an unskilled job. You cannot make a scene. If one of the men gets handsy, let me know. Some of the women can turn nasty.”

“How nasty?” Helen asked.

“These are the wives and girlfriends of rich men. The men give these women everything—except freedom. They feel angry and helpless. The only power they have is to lash out at the stewardess. They may insult you or scream at you.”

“What do I do?” Helen asked.

“Nothing. These women live in pain and pass it on. You’re paid to take it.”

CHAPTER 14

Helen burst through the door of Coronado Investigations and found Phil frowning at his computer screen, barricaded behind a stack of foam coffee cups. His gray metal desk was awash with printouts. All signs her partner was working. But Helen was facing a week of hard labor. She felt trapped and resentful.

Phil smiled when he saw her. “How is the job with the ocean view?” he asked.

“Some view,” Helen said. “The only water I’ll see is in a toilet bowl. I’m working twenty hours a day washing clothes, scrubbing, vacuuming carpets. I have to stay in the tracks. You can wipe that smirk off your face, Phil Sagemont. Unless you want to sleep alone on our last night together.”

She paced their office in tight, angry circles.

“Come here,” he said, softly. “Sit down and talk to me.”

“I can’t sit,” Helen said. “I’d rather keep moving.”

“I’d rather hold you.” Phil caught her as she passed him, and pulled her onto his lap. She struggled briefly, then stayed there, enjoying the comfort of his strong arms. She inhaled his soothing scent of coffee and sandalwood and sighed.

“Tell me what you’ll be doing on the yacht,” Phil said, “and why you’re vacuuming in the tracks, whatever those are.”

Helen explained, detailing her duties. “Talk about pointless work. If these people were any cleaner, they’d live in plastic bubbles. How can I find a smuggler when I’m a seagoing Cinderella?”

“A well-paid Cinderella,” he said, kissing her eyelids. “I’ll be your prince.” He kissed her nose next.

Helen pushed him away. “I didn’t tell you the best part. I’m supposed to be a verbal punching bag for bimbos. I won’t take it.”

“Easy there,” Phil said. He held her tighter and rocked her slowly, kissing her neck. “It’s only for a week. When you work undercover, you’ll hear lots of things you won’t like. As long as you’re not doing anything illegal, you put up with it for the job.”

Helen’s dying anger flared up again. “You want me to be a spineless wuss?”

“No,” Phil said. “I want you to be a detective and get that smuggler. There’s nothing spineless about it. While you’ve started tracking down the smuggler, I’ve been working on Arthur Zerling’s case.”

“When did you get away from his funeral reception?” Helen asked.

“The last guest left at two o’clock. I supervised the cleanup and Blossom let me leave early, about three thirty.”

Helen realized Phil was wearing his soft blue shirt and jeans. “Where’s your Cabana Boy uniform?”

“I left it at the Zerling house.”

“Really? Did she supervise the removal?” Helen raised one eyebrow.

Phil laughed. “You’re jealous. I like that.” He kissed her again, a lingering kiss this time. “I changed in the pool house. Blossom gave me six uniforms. She offered to have the staff do my laundry, but I said I could do my own wash.”

“Anything else she offered?” Helen was still suspicious.

“No,” Phil said. “She wanted to nap. She was exhausted.”

“From what? Ordering around the staff?” Helen asked.

“Grief is exhausting,” Phil said. “So is maintaining a facade. As soon as I got to our office, I did a background check. I hit pay dirt. And I do mean dirt. Blossom is no fragile flower.”

“Was this a legal or illegal search?” Helen asked.

“Strictly legal,” Phil said.

“Like those ‘Find anyone, anytime for $29.99’ offers that pop up when I’m trolling the Net?”

“Those are a good way to throw away thirty bucks,” Phil said. “Their information is hopelessly outdated. One still has me married to Kendra, and we’ve been divorced for years. Since you’re my trainee, Grasshopper, I will tell you a secret: No reputable investigator uses those databases.”

“You found out fast,” Helen said. “I thought you’d use the old PI standby and call a buddy on the San Diego force.”

“Can’t,” he said. “The new privacy laws killed the days when a PI could call a friend of a friend for a favor. Officers who run background checks now better have good reasons. There are internal checks, as well as outsiders looking in. I don’t know any San Diego cops I’d ask to risk their jobs. I went through the databases only licensed pros can access.”

Helen shifted restlessly. “Fascinating history, Teach, but what did you learn?”

“I’m getting there.” Phil checked the wall clock. “We’re supposed to see our lawyer at seven to meet with our client. It’s six thirty. I didn’t expect you back so late. How big is that yacht? You toured it for hours.”

“I also had to get fitted for my crew uniforms. I pick those up tomorrow,” Helen said. “I want to grow old with you, but not while you’re telling this story. What did you find?”

“Violet told us Blossom Mae was from San Diego,” Phil said. “She didn’t know her birth date, but she guessed her father’s new wife was thirty-five.”

“That’s about right,” Helen said. “Blossom has a few lines around her eyes, but her neck and her hands look young.”

“I searched a ten-year window,” Phil said. “No Blossom Mae was born in San Diego between 1970 and 1985. I did find a Mildred Mae Fennimore, born in 1976, which would make her thirty-six.”

“That age works,” Helen said.

“So does the face,” Phil said. “I saw Mildred’s booking photo. She looks madder than a wet cat and her hair is dirty blond. But it’s definitely Blossom. That was her trick name. Blossom—born Mildred Mae—was arrested and charged with soliciting sexual acts from an undercover police officer.”

“She was a prostitute?” Helen asked. “Poor Violet. She said Blossom married Arthur for his money.”

“That’s not illegal,” Phil said, “or prisons would be packed with calculating cookies.”

“Calculating cookies?” Helen said. “You sound like a shamus.”

“I am one. So are you. The police raided a massage parlor called Beautiful California Girls Body Works.”

“That explains Blossom’s wardrobe,” Helen said. “Half madam and half matron. Wonder where she learned to act like a well-bred wife? Was Blossom convicted for prostitution?”

“Dirty blond Mildred Mae skipped San Diego before her court date,” Phil said, “and forfeited a thousand-dollar bail. There’s a warrant for her arrest. I think that’s when she became brunette Blossom Mae and got a job on a cruise ship giving massages.”

“Violet suspected Blossom’s magic fingers weren’t just massaging Arthur’s back,” Helen said. “Wait till she hears this. She’ll explode.”

“That’s what worries me,” Phil said. “Our client is as unstable as a grenade with the pin pulled. That’s why I wanted to make my report at the lawyer’s office: so Nancie can defuse our client.”

“Nancie’s earning her money,” Helen said.

“So are we,” Phil said.

“After you give your report, I’ll tell her about the club clothes I saw in Blossom’s closet,” Helen said. “I won’t mention that Blossom asked me to give away Arthur’s things—or that I kept a wedding picture and a watch for her.”

“Do we still want to give Arthur’s clothes away?” Phil asked. “I’d better check with Nancie.”

“I’ll freshen up while you make the call,” Helen said. “Meet you at my car in five minutes.”

Helen’s PT Cruiser crawled through the rush-hour traffic toward the lawyer’s office while the two private eyes discussed the case. “Nancie says you should donate Arthur’s clothes, except for the keepsakes,” Phil said. “She says that’s Blossom’s legal right and there’s no evidence she killed Arthur. Also, it maintains your cover.”

“Violet knew there was something wrong about her stepmother,” Helen said, “but no one believed her. Now it’s too late.”

“For Arthur,” Phil said. “But we still might stop Blossom from spending his millions.”

Helen parked next to a shiny silver Saturn. “I think that’s our client’s car,” Phil said. As they knocked on Nancie’s office door, he whispered, “Battle stations.”

Nancie was dressed for success—and client control. Her stern navy suit and no-nonsense attitude had tamed more than one unfriendly witness.

Violet was a dark mass hunched in the lime green client chair. Arthur’s death had taken its toll on his daughter. Her silk shantung suit looked expensive and uncomfortable. Sleepless nights had etched lines into her face and sorrow had stamped dark circles under her eyes.

Helen felt a pang of sympathy. Their news would make her feel worse.

Nancie peered over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. “Violet, as I told you, Coronado Investigations has found some new information,” she said. “You may find it upsetting. Before we proceed, I’m warning that you will not act on their information without my consent. If you do, I will not keep you as my client. Do you understand?”

Violet nodded. Her face shone with hope. “What is it? What did you learn? I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Phil will make his report,” Nancie said. “Then Helen. I want you to hear all the facts before we decide how to proceed. Phil?”

“Your suspicion that Blossom has a shady past was correct,” Phil said.

“I knew it!” Violet squealed, and hugged her fat beige purse like a stuffed toy.

“Violet!” Nancie said. “You promised to listen.”

“I’m sorry,” Violet said. She folded her hands like a reprimanded schoolgirl and listened until Phil finished. “That woman is nothing but a high-class hooker.”

“Not even high-class,” Phil said.

“Alleged hooker,” Nancie corrected. “Blossom hasn’t been convicted.”

“I don’t understand,” Violet said. “How did that woman get a job with a respectable cruise line?”

“The cruise line made a mistake,” Phil said. “Or didn’t vet her properly. It happens.”

“If that woman jumped bail, we can have her arrested,” Violet said. “All we have to do is call the police. We’ll see how good she looks in handcuffs.”

“That’s exactly what we’re not doing,” Nancie said. The fierce little lawyer glared at her client. “Blossom now has the money to fight these charges. Her lawyers will tell the court she has reformed and become a good wife. She’ll get a slap on the wrist—at most. If she’s hauled out to San Diego, she’ll close up her house in Fort Lauderdale. That would stall our investigation. We’ve worked hard to get Phil an inside job.”

Violet reluctantly agreed. “Have you found anything suspicious?” she asked.

“Haven’t had a chance to search the house,” he said. “I was too busy with the funeral reception. It’s not going to be easy, Violet. We don’t know what poison to look for and the house is fifteen thousand square feet.”

Helen jumped in with, “I found something. I searched Blossom’s closet while I was at the reception—the one she wouldn’t let anyone enter. She has two sets of clothes: a prim and proper wardrobe and club clothes that leave nothing to the imagination.”

“Fran’s right. There’s another man,” Violet said, her voice hard and flat.

“Maybe she wore those wild outfits for your father,” Phil said.

“No, I stopped by at four o’clock one afternoon when they first returned. Daddy was in a dressing gown with a silly look on his face and that woman was wearing a white frilly negligee. My father told me she was a lady.” Violet smothered that word with bitter sarcasm.

“You found out what she really was, Phil—a hooker. Her kind of woman needs a man. A young man. Fran saw her dressed to meet him. Follow Blossom when she leaves the house and she’ll lead you to him.”

Fran also saw poisons on the kitchen counter that turned out to be harmless spices, Helen thought. Our case is based on dislike and delusion.

Nancie was giving Violet a dose of reality. “Tailing Blossom will cost extra,” she said.

“I don’t care what it costs,” Violet said. “That woman has a lover. I know it and so does Fran. Just like I knew she was no innocent young wife. Find the man and you’ll find the poison that killed my father.”

CHAPTER 15

Phil barged into Helen’s bedroom with three bulging plastic bags.

“Retail therapy?” she asked. “I know we had a tough interview with our client tonight, but you’ve never gone in for recreational shopping.”

“I’ve been working,” he said. “While you were lolling, I bought disguises to tail our suspect.”

“Ordinary detectives get their disguises at Goodwill,” Helen said. “And I wasn’t lolling. I was packing.”

“I am no ordinary detective,” Phil said, and grinned. He dropped the bags on Helen’s blue bedspread. Thumbs, attracted by the rustling and crinkling, jumped on the bed and cautiously circled the mound of bags. The cat sniffed one, then backed away. He prodded a red bag with his big six-toed paw. It crackled invitingly. Thumbs leaped on it and a shock of wild brown hair spilled out of the bag. The cat hissed, swatted the hair and disappeared under the bed.

“What’s in there?” Helen said. “It upset Thumbs.”

“Items that will render me invisible when I follow Blossom,” Phil said.

Helen reached up and ruffled his thick silver hair. “With that hair?”

“I am a master of disguise,” Phil said. “Watch.”

He disappeared into the bathroom with the bags. Helen was packing a navy canvas carryall for her yacht cruise. She folded a pink T-shirt into the carryall while Phil slipped out of the bathroom, a vision in black dreadlocks with a red, green and yellow Rasta tam plopped on top. A neon tie-dyed shirt, red board shorts and round John Lennon sunglasses completed the ensemble.

He tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. Be happy.”

Helen put her hands over her face and moaned, “My eyes, my eyes. I may go blind.”

“You have to admit this doesn’t look like me.”

“I recognize the smug look,” Helen said. “Except for that, it’s a good disguise. Where’d you get the dreads and the tam?”

Phil pulled them both off his head. The dreads were attached to the hat. “No problem, mon,” he said in a bad Jamaican accent. “All in one. They sell them in souvenir shops.”

“I’ve seen pale guys on vacation with Rasta tams and dreads,” Helen said. “I didn’t realize they were wearing wig hats.”

“It takes many beers to look this stupid,” Phil said, abandoning the accent.

“That’s good for one trip,” Helen said. “But what happens if you don’t catch Blossom the first time?”

“Wait and see,” Phil said, shutting himself back into the bathroom.

While she waited, Helen mentally inventoried the contents of her carryall: underwear, sandals, casual T-shirts and shorts, sample-sized toiletries.

“Ta-da!” Phil threw open the bathroom door. Now he sported a camo visor with a burst of wild brown hair on the crown, like a clump of dead grass. A “Guns, God and Guts” T-shirt stretched across his chest. His jeans needed a wash. Phil twirled so Helen could see the jeans’ sagging seat.

“No wonder Thumbs hissed at the hair,” Helen said. “If he sees the whole outfit, he may never come out from under the bed.”

“You don’t like Bubba?” Phil asked. “I was hoping you’d admire my new look.” He waited for a reaction.

Helen laughed.

“Laugh away. You haven’t seen Jimmy Ray,” Phil said. “He’ll be here in a moment.”

Phil shut the door while Helen zipped up the navy carryall. There would be just enough room for her uniform shorts and polo shirts.

My uniforms might be crumpled, she thought, but I’ll be ironing eighteen hours a day. I can press my own clothes, too.

The bathroom door opened again. Phil lounged in the doorway. “Wanna go to the dump and shoot rats?” he asked.

Now he wore a greasy Marlins cap with dirty-blond curls hanging down the back of his neck. He had the same saggy jeans and a smiley face T-shirt with a gray bar across the mouth. “Silence Is Golden, Duct Tape Is Silver,” the shirt read.

“What is that hairstyle?” Helen asked. “A half mullet?”

“Something fishy, darlin’,” he drawled. He gripped a tin of Skoal chewing tobacco in one hand and a Dr Pepper in the other.

“When did you start drinking Dr Pepper?” Helen asked.

“I’m recycling,” Phil said. “That’s where I spit my ’baccy juice.”

“Ew,” Helen said.

“Exactly the reaction I wanted, little lady,” he said. “Glad you appreciate my accessories.”

“There isn’t more, is there?” she asked.

“That’s how I like my women—begging for more,” he said, his fake redneck accent thickening. “You-all wait here a minute. I got another surprise.”

When the bathroom door shut, Thumbs slunk out from under the bed, looked around, then raced out of the bedroom before Phil debuted his next disguise.

This time, he had his distinctive silver hair tucked under a clean blue ball cap. He wore a fresh blue coverall that said BOB on the pocket, and carried a blue toolbox.

“What’s the problem with your air-conditioning, ma’am?” Phil asked politely.

“Nothing,” Helen said. “I am totally cool. Bob looks reliable enough to let inside my house. But how are Bob and his buddies going to tail Blossom? She must know you drive a black Jeep. You park it at her house.”

“I worked that out, too,” Phil said. “I’m having a rental car delivered to the parking lot next to the entrance of Hendin Island. It’s a medical office building. The rental stays there until I need it. If Blossom leaves the house, I run to the parking lot and follow her. With the traffic on Las Olas, it takes a while to turn out of Hendin Island Road. She won’t get far. Rental cars are anonymous. Even a great detective like me has trouble finding my own rental unless I park it by some landmark.”

“Blossom is no dummy,” Helen said. “She might catch on if the same rental keeps following her.”

“Also thought of that,” Phil said. “Once I use the rental, I exchange it for another. I have full-sized cars from Chevy Impalas to Hyundai Sonatas waiting in the wings.”

“Bob is going to drive a Chevy Impala to fix the air-conditioning?” Helen asked.

“Of course not,” Phil said. “Good catch. You’re thinking like a detective. I rented a white panel truck for Bob. The truck is in the parking lot, too. I slipped the building manager a little cash to park there and had magnetized signs made up at the copy shop for the van.”

He ducked back into the bathroom. Helen heard more rustling, then Phil returned with two plastic signs that read PALM BEACH COOL GUYS AIR-CONDITIONING SERVICE.

“Slap these on the sides, and Bob looks like the real deal,” he said. “There was an extra charge for fast service, but Violet says she doesn’t mind paying. I can keep doing this for weeks.”

“Do you think Violet and Fran are right and Blossom killed her husband, Arthur?” Helen asked.

“The more I find out about Blossom, the more I think she did,” Phil said. “At first, I discounted a lot of what Violet said as jealousy. The housekeeper may not know curry, but she knew something was off. After you discovered those wild clothes in Blossom’s dressing room, I started to think Fran did see her leaving to meet a lover. I wish I had a better idea how Blossom killed her husband.”

Helen felt uneasy. Talking about Arthur triggered her worries about her dead ex-husband and the blackmailer. Just my luck he’ll call when I’m out of the country, Helen thought.

“Where did you go?” Phil asked. “You zoned out on me.”

“Sorry,” Helen said. “Nervous about my trip. Promise me if my sister, Kathy, calls while I’m gone, you’ll contact me.”

“Hey, what brought that on? Kathy’s fine.”

“I know,” Helen said, “but a lot can go wrong. She has two little kids.” And I’m lying to you and I feel terrible that I can’t tell you, she thought.

Phil put his arms around Helen. “Hey there, are you that worried?” he asked.

She felt like a lower life-form. “It’s the yacht,” she said. “That’s a new world for me. I wish I knew more about emerald smuggling. Do you know any smugglers?”

“Me?” Phil said. “Would true-blue Bob the cool repairman know shady characters like that?”

“Certainly not,” Helen said. “But Phil the private detective would. He’d meet them in the line of duty.”

“Hm,” Phil said. “Let me think. I know bikers who beat up people for cash. I could get you a bargain rate on a hit man who’d give you up if the cops looked at him sideways. I know low-level drug dealers, a clutch of shoplifters… . Wait a minute. I forgot about Max. Max Rupert Crutchley.

“He tends to romanticize his smuggling. But I know for a fact Max was a scuba diver and a treasure hunter. Found some Spanish treasure off the Florida coast. Shipwreck-salvage treasure hunters blow through cash like coke addicts and they always need investors. A potential investor hired me to investigate Max. He wanted to make sure Max wasn’t running drugs. Max was clean and I said so. I knew he was bringing in emeralds, but I kept quiet about them.”

“Why?” Helen said.

“Didn’t like the twit who hired me. When I made a suggestion, he said, ‘We don’t pay you to think. We pay you to find out. Is he or is he not smuggling drugs?’

“‘He’s not,’ I said.

“The twit never asked about emeralds and I never mentioned them.”

“Do you think Max would talk about emerald smuggling?” Helen asked.

“After a few beers, we may have trouble shutting him up,” Phil said. “When do you have to report to the yacht?”

“Seven tomorrow night,” Helen said.

“I get off work at five,” Phil said. “I’ll call Max and see if we can have an early dinner with him tomorrow. What time do you sail?”

“The Belted Earl is a motor yacht,” Helen said. “We cruise at nine o’clock for Atlantis.”

“A moonlight cruise,” Phil said. “Romantic.”

“Just me and my scrub brush,” Helen said. “We’ll work all night, but the yacht gets into the Bahamas about ten the next morning. That way the crew can check in with immigration, run errands in port and hit the bars while the owners go to Atlantis.”

“You sound like an old salt already,” Phil said. “The crew really goes drinking after working all night and most of the day?”

“That’s what Mira said. They’re still in their twenties,” Helen said. “At forty-one, I don’t party so hearty anymore.”

“What are you packing?”

“I pick up my uniforms tomorrow,” she said. “The rest is ready.” She held up the bulging zippered bag.

“That’s all?” Phil raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“There isn’t room on board for lots of crew luggage,” she said. “I’ll bring this and carry my BlackBerry in my purse, so I can keep in touch with you. The captain said calls from the Bahamas to the U.S. are outrageous—a hundred dollars or so for a few minutes. He agreed I could put the phone charges on his bill.”

“You got that in writing, I hope?” Phil asked.

“You bet.” Helen tossed the fat carryall on the floor. “I’m following another rule for new crew: Never bring more than you can carry off in a hurry. If things go bad, I can abandon these T-shirts and sandals.”

She pulled Phil down on the bed. His cap slid off when she ran her fingers through his long hair and she tugged on the coverall’s zipper.

“Why don’t you slip out of that, Bob?” Helen said. “I’m feeling hot.”

CHAPTER 16

“Helen!” Phil called her on the phone, talking fast. “Blossom is on the move. I’m tailing her.”

“Where? What? What’s going on?” Helen had been snoozing since Phil left for the Zerling mansion this morning. Today was her last chance to relax before she started working on the yacht.

“I’m following Blossom,” Phil said. “She’s acting suspicious. She told me she was going shopping, but I thought, Why tell me? I’m the hired help. Did I wake you?”

“Never mind that. Where are you now?” Helen asked.

“Sitting behind her red Porsche at the stop sign. She’s trying to turn out of Hendin Island onto Federal Highway. She—”

An angry horn blast and screeching brakes interrupted him. Helen winced, held her breath, then asked, “Was that an accident?”

“Almost,” Phil said. “Blossom nearly got creamed trying to make a left through the traffic while talking on her cell phone. She’s still at the stop sign, but at least she put down her phone.”

“What if she looks in her rearview mirror and sees you?” Helen asked.

“She won’t recognize me,” Phil said. “I’m Jimmy Ray, driving a rented Chevy.”

“Jimmy Ray with the greasy gimme cap and half mullet?” Helen asked.

“Don’t dis Jimmy,” Phil said. “He’s doing a good job. There she goes. She made it this time. Hang on. I’m following her.”

Helen heard more honks. “Phil,” she shouted into the phone. “Be careful.”

“Can’t talk, darlin’,” he said. “Jimmy Ray is chasing Blossom.”

Helen waited for Phil to report back and paced the terrazzo floor. He was a good driver, but he was driving a strange car. Blossom sounded reckless. What if Phil got hurt trying to follow her?

Helen wandered into her living room, plumped a pillow on the turquoise Barcalounger and noticed a light layer of dust on her kidney-shaped coffee table. Cleaning could wait until she got home from the Belted Earl, she decided. She’d be dusting enough on the yacht.

Helen surveyed the midcentury antiques in her living room. She’d learned to like their colorful, playful forms. Margery had bought them when the Coronado was new. They’d aged gracefully, like the building.

She carried her empty coffee cup into the kitchen and checked the clock. Three thirty-two.

“Phil? Are you still there?” Helen said into her phone.

No answer. Phil must have left his cell phone on in the passenger seat. She heard ordinary street sounds, the soothing ocean roar of the traffic, the hiss of a bus’s brakes. Those were more reassuring than furious horns and frantic screeches. He must be safely working.

She felt Thumbs rubbing his furry head against her bare legs.

“You only love me when it’s dinnertime,” she told the cat, as she scratched his ears. He nudged her hand and patted his food bowl with his mittenlike paw. She poured him dry food and fresh water. “Phil will take care of you while I’m gone,” she said. “He’ll spoil you rotten.”

Thumbs, face down in his food, ignored her.

Helen went back to pacing. She checked the clock again. The hands were moving so slowly she wondered if it was broken. She checked her watch. No, it was only three thirty-eight.

“Phil?” she said into the phone. “Where are you?”

“Dixie Highway,” he said. “Near a grungy convenience store.”

“Doesn’t sound as upscale as Blossom’s Hendin Island home,” Helen said.

“No mansions in sight,” he said. “This strip mall has an auto-parts dealer, a thrift store and a radiator shop. Blossom just turned into the lot. I’m pulling into the pawnshop lot across the street to watch her.”

“Is she going to a Seven-Eleven?” Helen asked.

“Too high-class,” he said. “This is a nameless, paintless cinder block dump. Sells giant sodas, cigarettes, lottery tickets and chili dogs with a side of salmonella. It’s also a pickup spot for day laborers. I’ve passed it early in the morning when the contractors’ trucks arrive. The day laborers are a rough-looking crew. A sensible woman wouldn’t walk in that store alone. Hell, I’d think twice about it. It looks like a holdup waiting to happen.

“At least this part is easy. Blossom’s flashy red sports car sticks out like a sore thumb in the lot. She’s parking the Porsche by the door, next to a beat-up van with its back doors wired shut. Wait! She’s getting out.”

“She’s not going inside, is she?” Helen asked.

“She’s heading toward the door. Is that woman nuts, wearing jeans that tight? Now she’s sashayed past the door to the pay phone. She’s gripping her purse and she’s got an orange card in her hand, like a credit card. Man, that phone looks filthy. I don’t know how she can hold the receiver to her face. She’s punching in numbers. Looks like someone answered. Now she’s talking and giggling. Blossom looks like a very merry widow.”

“Can you hear her?” Helen asked.

“Not across the street,” Phil said. “Jimmy Ray can’t get too close. But I can take some pictures. She’s still talking and laughing. That’s right, Blossom, smile for the camera. Gotcha!” Helen heard the camera click.

“Oh, this is good,” Phil said. “This is major.”

“It is?” Helen said.

“Think about it,” Phil said. “Why would Blossom use a pay phone, when she has landlines in the house and a cell phone in her purse?”

“Her cell phone battery was running low?” Helen guessed.

“Then she’d make the call from home,” Phil said. “Instead, she drives to this risky place. Why?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because she doesn’t want a record of this call.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Helen said. “She’s a rich widow. She doesn’t answer to anyone.”

“She doesn’t have the money yet,” Phil said. “Arthur’s estate is still in probate and will be for months. The court likes to give creditors time to collect their debts. Anybody who watches TV knows cell phone calls are easily traced. Someone could see Blossom’s phone bills and start asking questions. She knows Arthur’s daughter is looking for trouble. Blossom doesn’t want to give Violet an opening.”

“Sounds far-fetched,” Helen said.

“It’s not,” Phil said. “Blossom is smart. With ten million dollars at stake, she’s taking no chances. She’s being extra careful until she gets Arthur’s fortune. Wait! She hung up the phone. She’s hurrying back to her car. Blossom just turned onto Dixie Highway.”

“Toward her home?” Helen asked.

“Toward downtown Lauderdale. Too early to say if she’s going back to Hendin Island or somewhere else. Gotta go.”

“Wait!” Helen said.

He must have tossed his phone on the car seat. Helen heard Phil’s car crunch over gravel. Then it seemed to be traveling on a smooth road. At least he didn’t hang up.

At last he came back on the phone. “We’re at a stoplight,” Phil said. “I’m two cars behind her.”

“Phil, what if you’re still following her when it’s time for us to meet Max?” Helen asked.

“Then you’ll have to handle dinner alone,” Phil said.

“I’d better get dressed,” Helen said.

“I’ll meet you at the restaurant,” Phil said. “The light’s changed.”

Silence.

Helen hit the speaker button and carried the phone with her into the bedroom to change into her white dress uniform. Helen pulled her skort off the hanger. She hadn’t worn that skirt-shorts combination since she was a teenager.

She was brushing her long brown hair when Phil came back on the line, talking in short, excited bursts. “Helen! She’s not going home. She’s parking! In a lot off Las Olas. Jimmy Ray is going to follow her. Wait there.”

“Where am I going?” Helen said, but Phil was gone again. Judging by the muffled sounds coming from the cell phone, he’d jammed it into his (or Jimmy Ray’s) pocket.

She buttoned her white jacket. The sleeves were perfectly tailored for her long arms.

Phil was on the phone again. Now his voice was a whisper. “She’s gone into a boutique on a side street near Las Olas. A girlie place called Grisette’s.”

“Isn’t grisette a French name for a prostitute?” Helen said.

“That’s a little harsh,” Phil said. “Grisettes are generous girls. They take no money for helping their fellow men.”

“What’s the shop look like?” Helen said.

“The clothes in the window are mostly black, but they don’t look like something a new widow would wear. Blossom is pressing a buzzer… . Now a saleswoman is letting her inside. Jimmy Ray isn’t going to try getting in there. He’ll sit at the sidewalk café across the street, get himself a nice six-dollar coffee and put it on his expense account. This could take a while. Helen, I’m hanging up. I’ll call you when she comes out.”

“Phil, it’s nearly four o’clock,” Helen said. “I have to leave in half an hour to meet Max by five.”

After Phil hung up she slipped on her deck shoes, then checked that her carryall was packed for tonight’s yacht trip. She’d take it with her. Phil could drive her to the marina and Margery or Peggy could give him a ride back to his Jeep tomorrow.

She was looking for her purse when her landline rang. It was Phil.

“Blossom has left Grisette’s,” he said. “She’s carrying a pink shopping bag. Now she’s stashing it in her Porsche. Jimmy Ray is going to follow her.”

“Is she going home?” Helen asked.

“Can’t tell,” Phil said. “Jimmy Ray is behind her. The late-afternoon traffic is slow. I think she’s heading toward A1A. Looks like she wants to drive home along the ocean.”

“Are you following her?” Helen said.

“I’m not getting stuck in that traffic with the gawking tourists. I’ll stay on Federal Highway. Jimmy Ray has to hightail it back to the medical-building parking lot and disappear. I need to transform myself into an estate manager again. You go meet Max. I’ll call you as soon as I’m free. Turn on your cell phone.”

“Be careful, Phil,” Helen said. “Don’t let her catch you.”

Helen grabbed her purse and the carryall and patted Thumbs good-bye. The April evening was pleasantly warm. Margery, Peggy and Pete the parrot had assembled early by the pool for the nightly sunset salute. Peggy wore a cool green sundress that matched Pete’s feathers. Their landlady’s purple caftan floated on the evening breeze. Her nail polish was the color of the evening sun and her cigarette was an orange beacon.

Peggy whistled when she saw Helen in her dress uniform. Margery raised her wineglass and called, “Hey, sailor, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll take a rain check,” Helen said. “I’m meeting someone for background information. Then I report to the captain. I don’t want to have alcohol on my breath the first day on the job.”

Margery sailed over, her silver earrings and bangle bracelets jingling. “Then I’ll tell you good-bye,” she said. “And be careful.”

“You worry too much,” Helen said. “I’m cruising on a luxury yacht.”

“With people rich enough to buy their way out of trouble,” Margery said. “You’re going undercover as a nobody maid. You’ll be alone on the ocean trying to catch a smuggler.

“Remember, the easiest way to get rid of a body is dumping it over the side of a ship.”

With that warning, she blew out a ferocious cloud of Marlboro smoke.

CHAPTER 17

Helen waited for Phil outside Aruba, a beachside restaurant in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. Aruba was in a cluster of small seaside restaurants and souvenir shops.

The ocean air was a soft caress. Helen heard the soothing whoosh of the waves. She looked like she belonged near the ocean in her yacht dress uniform: white skort and short white jacket with epaulets.

Phil jumped out of his black Jeep, tossed his keys to the valet and saluted Helen.

“Where do I enlist?” he said. “I love women in uniform. Do you get a gun?”

“I get a caddy loaded with spray cleaner,” she said, laughing. “I can shoot to kill—germs.”

He took her in his arms and said, “You’ve already shot me through the heart. I’ll miss you. A whole week, huh?” He unbuttoned the top button on her uniform. “Do we have time to go back and—?”

“No,” Helen said. “We don’t. We’re supposed to meet Max. What’s he look like?”

“A short older guy with gray hair,” Phil said.

“That isn’t a good description in Florida,” Helen said. “Half the men in there have gray hair.”

They scanned the gray-haired men bellied up to the bar—literally.

“No Max,” Phil said. He checked his watch. “It’s four fifty-eight. He’ll be here.”

“What happened with Blossom?” Helen asked. “Did you transform yourself back into an estate manager before she got home?”

“With minutes to spare,” Phil said. “Well, seconds. I also carried her new clothes to her bedroom.”