Final Sail

All were there with one purpose—to celebrate real Mexican food.

Helen saw yellow taco trucks with red awnings on one side of the lot and a yellow brick building on the other. A sign promised ROASTED CORN.

Diners picked their drinks out of white plastic coolers and bellied up to the trucks to put in their orders and pay. Phil parked the Jeep in the back of the crowded lot and said, “I know what I want. What can I get you?”

“A chicken burrito,” Helen said. “And guacamole.”

“You want a beer?” he asked, poking through a cooler.

“Water,” Helen said. “We have to meet the captain at seven thirty tomorrow morning.”

“Quick! That couple is leaving the picnic table at the end of the lot,” Phil said. “Snag it.”

The young Latino couple was still gathering their trash when Helen claimed the table. She watched Phil juggle two brimming paper plates, a bottle of water, a beer and an aluminum container with a white paper bag on top. Once the food was safely on the table, Phil pulled a wad of paper napkins from his pocket.

“You’re good enough to serve on the high seas,” Helen said.

Her chicken burrito was as big as a rolled hand towel and crammed with white meat. Phil’s was the same size, but oozing brown gravy. He happily bit into it.

“What did you get?” she asked.

“Lengua,” he said. “That’s a tongue burrito.”

She shuddered.

“It’s seriously good,” he said, taking a swig of beer. “Tastes like delicately flavored, slightly chewy beef.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Helen said.

He took the lid off the aluminum container. Thick chunks of ripe avocado were covered with drifts of queso blanco—white cheese. He dug into it with a tortilla chip from the grease-spattered bag. “Try this guacamole,” he said. “It’s like avocado fudge.”

“It’s like avocado cream with cilantro,” Helen said. “Tell me how Blossom killed Zack before I fall into a Mexican-food stupor.”

“Zack’s last meal wasn’t nearly as good as this one,” Phil said. “This time, I was disguised as Rasta Man. The couple drove to the restaurant I showed you. I followed Blossom in my rental car. Zack got there first and took a table outside. They ordered tacos, salsa and chips. Blossom fussed over Zack, dipping tortilla chips into the salsa and feeding him. He loved it. He drank beer and she had margaritas.

“He excused himself to use the men’s room. While he was gone, Blossom asked for more chips and salsa. When the salsa came, she sprinkled something on it from a little bottle. I thought it was extra hot sauce. The table had a rack of hot sauce bottles. I watched her put the bottle in her purse and figured she was stealing it.”

“When Zack came back, she kept kissing him and feeding him chips and salsa. He’d eaten most of the salsa and she was snuggled up to him.”

“Quite a change from the furious woman in the Deerfield Beach bar,” Helen said.

“She seemed in love with Zack,” Phil said. “That’s where I made my mistake.

“Zack was pretty drunk by now. He put his arms around her and said, ‘Baby, I know it’s too soon, but I love you. I can’t live without you. I don’t want to rush you, but I want to marry you. I’ve known you since San Diego. You’re smart and ambitious. I’ll do anything for you. I already have. I helped you get your new identity. I followed you here and then I stayed away because you asked me, though it nearly killed me. I love you. I need you. You can pick the date, but please say yes.’

“She hesitated a bit, then batted her eyelashes and said, ‘Yes, but on one condition.’

“‘Name it,’” he said.

“‘I’ll marry you after a year’s mourning for Arthur,’ she said. ‘Will you wait for me?’

“Zack was all over her then, kissing and saying she’d made him the happiest man in Florida. He ordered more drinks. They kissed and toasted and talked about where they’d hold the ceremony. Blossom said she wanted to get married on the beach.”

“Again?” Helen said. “Her beach marriage to Arthur didn’t work out so well for the groom.”

“I doubt if Zack was thinking of Arthur,” Phil said. “He was sloshed. Blossom asked if he could make it home alone. Zack said he was fine. He knew which roads to take to avoid the cops.”

“Blossom paid the bill and walked Zack to his car. He kissed her good night so hard he practically dented the car. She waved good-bye. I followed her back home.”

“Two days later, I read a brief item in the Sun-Sentinel about a Zachary Crinlund of West Hills who was taken to the hospital at two a.m. with seizures and vomiting. He’d called 911 from his apartment. Zack lapsed into a coma and did not regain consciousness. The news said Zack’s death was probably food poisoning. I think she poisoned him. That wasn’t hot sauce Blossom sprinkled in his salsa. I watched her kill him.”

“With the help of the suicide tree?” Helen asked.

“Different symptoms,” Phil said. “I’m going to keep looking for that poison, too.”

“In a fifteen-thousand-square-foot house?” Helen said. “That’s impossible. You’re also searching for the seed of the suicide tree, and you haven’t found that, either.”

“It’s there,” he said. “Both those poisons are. I know it. Whatever she’s using, she won’t throw them away.”

“I don’t understand why she’d keep them. That’s stupid,” Helen said.

“Murder has been easy for her,” Phil said, “and she’s gotten away with it twice—at least that’s what she thinks. Killing anyone who gets in her way is becoming a habit. She murdered poor old Arthur for his money. She killed Zack when he tried to pressure her into marriage. Now I bet she’s setting her sights on Violet, who hired a tough lawyer. She’s going to try to make friends with Violet.”

“It won’t work,” Helen said. “Arthur’s daughter can’t stand her. Violet can’t even say her stepmother’s name.”

“Blossom is a convincing actress,” Phil said. “When I watched her, I thought she was in love with Zack. We need to be careful. If she makes any overtures to our client about burying the hatchet, we can’t let Violet become her friend.”

“That should be easy,” Helen said. “We’ll clue in Nancie, her lawyer. Do you want to meet with both of them?”

“Not yet,” Phil said. “Zack lived in West Hills. That’s Detective McNamara Dorsey’s territory. Right now Zack’s death isn’t officially a murder. I’m hoping to give Detective Mac those poisons. I’m searching the Zerling house a few rooms at a time. I’ve done the pool house, two guest rooms and three baths. Tomorrow, I search the breakfast room and the kitchen.”

“Be careful, Phil,” Helen said. “Don’t eat anything Blossom gives you.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I bring my lunch. But she keeps asking me to have a manhattan with her. I keep telling her I’m a beer drinker.” He emptied his bottle.

“Maybe she needs a condolence visit from her spiritual adviser,” Helen said.

“Just what I was thinking,” Phil said. “But it’s not quite time to call in Reverend Hawthorne.”

“It is time to take her home,” Helen said. “And we won’t get back to the Coronado before one in the morning. Don’t forget our early appointment with the captain.”

The drive home seemed faster and the other drivers crazier—or drunker. Phil let a pushy Mustang pass him and kept well out of the way of a speeding BMW.

“We’re going seventy and that Beemer passed us like we’re standing still,” Helen said.

“He can have the road,” Phil said, and put his arm around her. “I’ve got you.”

Helen felt safe, despite the drunken drivers. “What does ‘Tacos al Carbon’ mean in Spanish?” she asked.

“I think it means the meat is grilled over hot coals,” Phil said. “A few years ago, Mexican-Americans got a chuckle over a big chain that sold ‘tacos del carbon.’ That translated as ‘tacos made of carbon.’ Another disaster was when Chevy advertised their Novas in Mexico and South America and the cars didn’t sell. Detroit didn’t realize that no va meant ‘doesn’t go’ in Spanish.”

Phil suddenly swung the Jeep into the slow lane.

“Yeow!” Helen said. “That red Chevy Corvette is sure going—way over the speed limit.”

Phil eased up on the gas and the Chevy streaked past them. Helen was relieved when they reached the Coronado.

In the moonlight, the apartment complex was a pale monument to Florida’s midcentury past. All the lights were out, and they tiptoed past Margery’s apartment. Helen stifled a shriek when she saw a tall figure step out from behind a palm tree.

It was their landlady in a purple silk robe and a small cloud of cigarette smoke.

“I’m enjoying the night,” Margery said. “I see you two finally got out of bed. Where did you go? The taco truck in Palm Beach?”

“So much for privacy,” Phil said.

CHAPTER 35

Helen heard Captain Josiah Swingle knock on the door of Coronado Investigations at precisely seven thirty the next morning. Something was different.

He was punctual as usual. But this time his knock was a polite, almost timid tap.

When Phil answered the door, Helen saw the captain’s sandy hair and sunburned face. But under his crisp white uniform, Josiah’s shoulders were bowed.

This wasn’t the same man Helen had said good-bye to at Port Everglades. Now Josiah carried a heavy burden.

Helen felt her stomach drop. Please, she thought, let me be wrong.

The captain greeted Helen and Phil, then sat in the yellow client chair. They took their black leather-and-chrome chairs opposite him. Josiah hesitated, then said, “You were right, Helen. Louise is dead.”

Helen reared back as if she’d been slapped. “No!” she said. She knew it was true, but she didn’t want it to be.

“Some Bahamian fishermen found her body yesterday,” he said. “She was wearing her uniform, including her Belted Earl polo shirt. The Bahamian authorities made a tentative identification and Louise’s dental records confirmed it.

“I’d been expecting bad news since I got back from immigration yesterday. Her boyfriend, Warren, was waiting for her at the marina. He asked me where she was and I knew then that she’d never made it home. I checked with the dockmaster at the Miami Beach Marina. They didn’t have a fishing charter called Aces High. The Bahamian officials confirmed they could not locate the charter.”

“Mira killed her,” Helen whispered.

“That’s my guess,” Josiah said.

“But there’s no way to prove it,” she said. “At least Mira will go to prison for smuggling.”

“There may still be a way to convict her for murder, too,” Josiah said. “A barrette with blond hair in it was found in Louise’s back pocket.”

“Then they may have the killer’s DNA,” Phil said.

“It’s being tested now,” the captain said.

Helen grabbed the arms of her chair as if she needed to hold something solid. “Poor Louise,” she said. “I’d hoped she’d gone over the side unconscious. But she died alone in those wild waves, without any hope of rescue.”

“She was determined to get her killer,” the captain said. “She spent her last few moments buttoning her killer’s hair and barrette into her pocket.”

I hope they were only a few moments, Helen thought. In her mind, she heard the howling wind and felt the water slam the ship.

“Do you know what the chances were of her body being found?” Josiah asked.

That’s when Helen started crying. I won’t indulge in dramatics, she told herself. I knew her less than a day. But Louise complained about her job and I felt the same way, too. She was only twenty-three. Tears are unprofessional. They won’t help her.

The harder Helen tried not to cry, the more she wept. Phil handed her his handkerchief and squeezed her hand. Helen mopped her eyes. Finally, her tears stopped.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t apologize,” Josiah said. “You should cry for her. Louise was a brave woman who died a terrible death. Now she deserves justice.”

“I may be able to help,” Helen said. “Was that barrette two-toned silver and about four inches long?”

“Yes. How did you know?” the captain said.

“Because Mira wore one and I admired it. She told me she bought it online at Head Games. The brand is Ficcare and the barrette costs about forty bucks.”

Josiah pulled out a small notebook and wrote down the details. “Good,” he said. “If she bought it online, there should be a credit card record. That will help the investigators. This is all my fault. I should have known.”

“You should have known what?” Helen said. “That Mira was a killer? We had a nice girlie talk about hair. She helped me with the laundry and bawled me out for putting a wet bucket on a marble floor. I didn’t have a clue she was a smuggler, much less a murderer.”

“But still—” Josiah began.

“What?” Phil asked. “You didn’t read Mira’s mind? You think killers are easy to spot, Captain? The police don’t. People get away with murder because they don’t look like killers.”

Josiah refused to take that excuse. “If I’d listened to Helen—”

“You still couldn’t have saved Louise,” Helen said. “Unless you saw her fall overboard, she didn’t have a chance.”

“But I could have prepared her father,” Josiah said. “Louise is his only daughter. He’s a widower and lives in Kansas City, Missouri. He didn’t want her to work on the yacht, but she wanted adventure before she settled down. I had to break the news to him, then ask for her dental records. I’ve never heard a man cry like that before, and I hope I never do again. It was like I ripped out his heart.”

“You did,” Phil said. “And he’ll never get over it.”

The captain seemed to find comfort in Phil’s blunt statement. He sat back in his chair and looked a little less tense.

“There is no way to tell a family their child is murdered,” Phil said. “My first case was a young girl who ran off to South Beach and became a coke whore. I had to tell her father his daughter had OD’d. You don’t get over it, ever. But you do learn to live with it.

“You didn’t kill Louise. She’s dead because Mira killed her.”

“Is Mira going to be prosecuted in the Bahamas?” Helen asked.

“She’s already in custody here for smuggling,” the captain said. “The crime took place on a ship registered in the United States and was probably committed somewhere between Florida and the Bahamas. It will be treated as a U.S. crime.”

“When is the funeral?” Helen asked.

“It will be in Kansas City as soon as her body is sent home,” the captain said. “Her father made it clear he wants nothing to do with Fort Lauderdale. We’ll hold a memorial service for her later.”

He sighed, stood up and said, “Thank you, Helen, for catching Mira. At least she’s no longer on my ship. I want my bill. Here’s your stewardess pay.”

Josiah didn’t bother looking over Coronado Investigations’ carefully itemized bill. He simply wrote a check for the full amount. Helen didn’t charge him for the broken china cup. She figured she did more damage. She’d also dyed the crew polos pink.

Josiah shook hands with Helen and Phil. They stood at the door and watched his bowed back as he left the Coronado.

“I wonder how long he’s going to carry that weight,” Helen asked.

“A long time,” Phil said. “He’s a good man.”

He glanced at the clock on their office wall. “It’s eight oh three. Time to change into my Cabana Boy suit and work for Blossom.”

Helen and Phil walked hand in hand across the Coronado courtyard on a cool April morning. They waved at Margery, who was skimming dead leaves out of the pool with a long-handled net.

“You’re a great detective,” Helen said. “Solve this mystery for me, Phil: How did Margery know we went to the taco truck last night?”

“Because we talked about it on the way to the Jeep,” Phil said.

“Oh,” Helen said. “That was no big deal.”

“Once I told you, the mystery is gone,” Phil said.

Thumbs greeted Helen at the door. “So I’m forgiven, am I?” she said. “Took you long enough.” The cat flopped down on the floor and she scratched his thick fur.

While Phil dressed, Helen brewed more coffee. She took a cup into the bedroom and asked, “What will you do if you find one of the poisons at Blossom’s?”

“Call you. That triggers the next phase of the investigation,” he said.

“You can’t call me from Blossom’s house,” Helen asked. “You’re not supposed to know Arthur’s minister. What if someone overhears you? You don’t trust cell phones.”

“I’ll call you on my cell phone and pretend to order a new pool filter cartridge,” Phil said. “Then you can meet me at the post office on Las Olas.”

“The cute one with the blue awning?” she asked.

“That’s the one. The whole neighborhood goes there. I can return a broken air conditioner part.”

“I’ll be home all day,” Helen said, “catching up on my sleep and waiting for your call.”

“There’s no guarantee I’ll find any poison today,” Phil said. “I still have dozens of rooms to search.”

“I have confidence in you,” she said, and kissed him good-bye.

It felt good to be in her own bed. Thumbs curled up next to Helen and they both fell asleep. She had no idea where she was when she answered her ringing cell phone.

“This is Phil Sagemont,” he said, his voice impersonal. “Do you carry Intex type B pool filter cartridges?”

“Huh?” Helen said, still foggy with sleep.

“This is Phil,” he said, emphasizing his name. “Mrs. Zerling’s estate manager. Do you have Intex B pool filter cartridges?”

Now Helen was awake enough to remember his code. “I’m supposed to meet you at the post office, right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Phil said. “I prefer the post office, not FedEx.”

“See you there in twenty minutes,” Helen said.

When she ran into the little post office, Phil was at the counter, mailing a flat-rate box. He turned and said, “Helen! Good to see you.”

“It’s been too long,” she said. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“Got time for a short stroll?” he asked.

The post office was in Helen’s favorite section of Las Olas, the part she thought had personality. Helen and Phil strolled past the old Floridian diner, where locals and tourists ate huge lunches. At an outside table, a brown pup sat at his owner’s feet, accepting pats and praise.

“I know how Blossom killed her boyfriend,” Phil said. “I found the poison under the kitchen sink: a jug of water with ten cigarettes in it.”

“Why is that poison?” Helen asked.

“I think she made nicotine tea. Just add hot water to cigarettes and it creates a lethal brew. Seven drops are enough to kill a man.”

“Does Blossom smoke?” Helen asked.

“No, but she can buy cigarettes. She left a four-ounce bottle of Angostura bitters on the kitchen sink. I unscrewed the cap and sniffed it. There was a definite tobacco odor. The bottle looks like the one I thought held hot sauce.”

“So you think she put nicotine tea in Zack’s salsa?”

“It would be easy,” Phil said, “especially by the third or fourth beer.”

“Why would she keep it in the kitchen?” Helen asked.

“She fired the housekeeper,” Phil said, “and she has her meals delivered. No one else uses the kitchen. I have an idea how we can trap her, but I’ll need your spiritual guidance, Reverend Hawthorne.”

“At your service,” Helen said.

“It’s two o’clock. I want you to make a condolence call to the new widow about four this afternoon. That’s when she has a perfect manhattan. She told me to go buy more Angostura bitters. She’s been after me to make her a drink. So far, all I’ve made are excuses.

“When you’re there, she’ll suggest we have drinks. You ask for your usual white wine. I’ll start making her a manhattan and tell her I didn’t have to buy the bitters—I found a nearly full bottle on the kitchen sink.

“Then we’ll see how she reacts when I pick up that little bottle of nicotine tea and pour it in her drink. Reverend Hawthorne will be there as a witness. I’ve tipped our friend Detective Mac Dorsey that we may have more information about that food poisoning case.”

“Both of us working on the side of the angels,” Helen said.

CHAPTER 36

Lightning flashes of panic streaked through Helen as she turned into Blossom’s driveway. She and Phil were playing with fire. Worse—with a clever killer who used silent poisons. One misstep and Helen would be a widow.

This time, she had no trouble finding the Zerling mansion. Helen recognized the surreal sprawl of pink stucco towering over the tall ficus hedge. She parked the Igloo, gathered her courage and smoothed her prim gray suit. She was the Reverend Helen Hawthorne on a pastoral visit, pattering across the pink pavers in her sensible heels.

The valet and the black wreath from Arthur’s funeral reception were gone. Today, Blossom answered the massive arched door.

Helen had to force herself not to react to the new widow’s outfit. Her lacy black top clung like a cobweb and her red silk pants were tighter than a tourniquet. Red and black. Death and blood. The warning colors of a deadly spider that killed its mate. Blossom didn’t bother toning down her extravagant beauty at home. Her hair hung long, thick and free, and her false eyelashes fluttered like trapped moths.

“Reverend Hawthorne, what a nice surprise,” Blossom said, and showed a blood-rimmed smile.

“Call me Helen, please. I wanted to see how you were doing. I should have called first, but—”

“No, I’m glad you stopped by,” Blossom said. “I’ve been meaning to call you. I need your help. Come have a drink. You do drink, don’t you?”

“Definitely,” Helen said. She followed Blossom through the gloomy corridors to a room that looked like a British club in Masterpiece Theatre. It was crammed with leather wing chairs, tufted hassocks and small, fussy tables. An inlaid table supported by eight husky, half-clad nymphs dominated the room. The nymphs held up the one spot of color: a pretty vase with a coy shepherdess and an ardent shepherd.

“What a charming vase,” Helen said.

“Thank you. That’s a porcelain potpourri vase,” she said. “The shepherdess is French. Sevres. I love how she flirts with the shepherd.”

Blossom gently lifted the gold-trimmed slotted cover. “Inhale,” she said.

Could you inhale a poison and die? Helen decided to chance it. She took a deep breath and hoped it wasn’t her last. “Heavenly,” she said.

“Glad you like it,” Blossom said. “It’s lavender from Provence, cinnamon, sandalwood and more.”

Behind the table, a magnificent rosewood bar sprawled along one wall, carved with lush nymphs, busty mermaids and other boozy dreams. The mirrored back bar glittered with cut-glass decanters and liquor bottles.

Phil was behind the bar, as they’d planned. With his silver white hair and white uniform, Helen thought he looked like a ghost in that cave of a room. Her heart was cold with fear. Suddenly, the plan they’d hatched together seemed foolish. She was glad the dark velvet curtains shut out the light. She didn’t want Blossom to see her face when Helen was introduced to her own husband.

“This is my man, Phil Sagemont,” Blossom said.

Helen felt her hackles rise at that possessive “my man.” She politely extended her hand and said, “I’m Helen Hawthorne.”

“She’s a minister,” Blossom said. “She conducted Arthur’s service.” She leaned forward and gave Phil a good view of her firm breasts. He stared. Helen wanted to kick him.

He tore his eyes away from the temptation and said, “I’m Phil, Mrs. Zerling’s estate manager.” His handshake was firm and dry. He slyly winked at her. Helen didn’t smile back.

“I thought we could talk in here,” Blossom said. “What would you like? Phil can make our drinks.”

So now he’s a bartender and an estate manager? Helen thought.

“White wine with a splash of soda,” she said. She was too keyed up to drink a glass of wine. The alcohol would go to her head.

“Would you like ice with your spritzer?” Phil asked. “The wine is already chilled.”

Helen saw the cold mound of cubes in the heavy cut-glass ice bucket on the bar, next to an old-fashioned seltzer bottle. “No, thanks,” she said.

Phil took a tall glass from a shelf under the bar and began building Helen’s drink. Blossom sat in a brown leather wing chair near the table and Helen took the chair next to it. The air-conditioned leather felt smooth and cool, but she had too much at stake to relax.

“Cashews?” Blossom handed Helen a silver dish.

Could you tamper with cashews? she wondered. “No, thanks.” Helen abandoned them on a small, pointless table.

“Would you like a snack?” Blossom asked. “A sandwich?”

“Not hungry,” Helen said. Those were the first honest words she’d spoken since her arrival. “I’m glad you don’t mind me dropping in like this.”

The prompt worked. “I needed to talk to you. As you know, Arthur died without a will,” Blossom said, “and my lawyer says I’m entitled to his entire estate. I don’t need all ten million and I don’t want his daughter to be an enemy. Arthur wouldn’t like that. Violet is well-fixed, but I want to offer her a settlement of two million dollars.”

The same going-away present you offered your dead lover, Helen thought.

“Well, what do you think?” Blossom asked. She congratulated herself with a smug smile.

“Very generous,” Helen said. “But why do you need me?”

“I want you to be the go-between,” Blossom said. “Violet doesn’t like me. She won’t even talk to me.”

“You both have lawyers,” Helen said. “Surely they could negotiate this.”

“Lawyers are so cold and formal,” Blossom said. “I know Violet won’t be my friend, but I’d like her to hate me a little less. There would be something in it for you, too. What do you need—a church van? A chapel? A vacation for yourself, so you can serve your flock better?”

Blossom might have been the devil herself, tempting Helen to forget her duties, weaving her into the plot to get rid of Violet. The widow was relaxed, almost languid, as she tried to buy Helen’s soul.

“I can’t take your money,” Helen said, “but I will pass on your message and make sure Violet understands your offer.”

Every last treacherous detail, she thought.

Phil brought Helen’s drink on a scalloped silver tray and set it down on a linen cocktail napkin. “I’m ready to make you that perfect manhattan, Mrs. Zerling. I have all the ingredients—sweet vermouth, dry vermouth and bourbon.”

“I hope you bought the Angostura bitters like I asked,” Blossom said.

“Didn’t have to,” Phil said. “I found a nearly full bottle on the kitchen sink. We can use it. See?” He held up a bottle.

“No!” Blossom said, sitting straight up in her chair. She forced a smile and said, “I mean, I don’t want a perfect manhattan after all.”

“Sure you do,” Phil said, and smiled. “You’ve asked for one nearly every night, and I’ve always said no. Well, tonight’s the night. My manhattans are perfection on the rocks. It’s all in the wrist.” He waved the Angostura bottle at her. “A dash of these bitters and you won’t be the same woman.”

He’s overdoing it, Helen thought.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you want my manhattan?” he asked. “I promise it will be good.” He raised one eyebrow. He seemed confident and shy at the same time.

Helen had a hard time resisting Phil when he looked at her like that. Blossom was made of stronger stuff.

“I’d like one, but you’ve refused me so often, I’ve gotten used to making my own,” she said. “I’ll mix two manhattans, if you’ll drink one with me. We’ll try your recipe another day. You go out to the kitchen and get me the maraschino cherries. They’re in the fridge.”

She playfully shooed him out of the room, as if he were a bad boy. Helen sat frozen in her cold leather chair. She’s going to kill my husband right in front of me, she thought.

Blossom stood up in a swirl of dark hair and red lipstick. Her clingy black and red clothes screamed a warning: The most beautiful predators were also the deadliest.

Helen picked up her drink and tried to follow Blossom to the bar.

“No, you sit there and relax, Helen,” she said. “I’ll make these in a jiffy and sit back down.”

She doesn’t want me to see her make those drinks, Helen thought. She watched in the mirror, never taking her eyes off Blossom. The woman could ruin Helen’s life with one move.

Blossom took out two glasses. “Some people use off-brand liquor, but I like the best to make the best,” she said. She added a healthy jigger of Knob Creek to each glass, then a half ounce of Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth and dry vermouth.

All that’s missing are the bitters, Helen thought. She watched Blossom add a dash of Angostura to one glass—and not to the other. She set the manhattan without the Angostura near the ice bucket.

“Now, where is Phil with those cherries?” she asked.

“Is the kitchen far away?” Helen asked.

“On the other side of the house,” she said. “He’s sure taking his time.”

Blossom picked up the glass without the dash of Angostura.

“You left the bitters out of your drink,” Helen said, heading for the bar.

“I don’t want them,” Blossom said.

“But that’s what makes a manhattan,” Helen said. “Here. Let me add a splash.” She reached for the small bottle.

“No!” Blossom said.

“I don’t know why you don’t want it,” Helen said. “It’s the key to everything. Just a little?”

“Stay away from me with that stuff,” Blossom said. Her eyes were wild, her dark hair stood straight out and one false eyelash fluttered loose. Her cobwebby top caught on the edge of the bar and tore. Blossom didn’t notice. The woman who’d killed two people was falling apart. She was terrified of a four-ounce bottle, the weapon that had murdered her lover.

Helen decided to help her unravel. “Can’t imagine why you’re so upset,” she said. “What harm can a drop do?”

She unscrewed the cap. Blossom picked up the seltzer bottle and held it in front of her like a shield.

“I said stop it,” she screamed, her voice frantic. “Stop it now!”

“What? Are you going to shoot me with that thing, like a Three Stooges movie?” Helen asked.

“Yes,” Blossom said, and hit Helen in the face with a jet of seltzer.

Helen coughed and staggered back, wiping seltzer off her face. “You’re upset,” she said. “You’ve been under a strain because of Arthur’s illness. But that’s no way to treat your minister.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Blossom howled.

There was no pretending now. This was a fight. Blossom waved the bottle of dry vermouth at Helen’s head.

“Put that down,” Helen said.

“Get out,” Blossom said, and swung it at Helen. The bottle clipped her shoulder and landed on the leather chair, spilling out onto the seat. The fumes choked Helen, but she grabbed the cut-glass ice bucket and heaved it at Blossom.

She ducked, and the ice bucket hit the potpourri vase. It shattered, spilling its fragrant leaves and seeds on the tabletop. Helen heard something roll across the table and land softly on the thick carpet. She saw something brown and round. A ball? A wheel? A seed? It was rolling toward them on the carpet.

Blossom set down the sweet vermouth bottle, distracted by the moving brownish object.

Now Helen saw it clearly. It was a fat round seed. Blossom wrapped her hand around it as Helen whacked her on the head with the bottle of Knob Creek.

Blossom collapsed on the floor, still clutching the seed in her hand. Helen stomped Blossom’s hand and she let go of it.

Helen picked up the seed. She was drenched with seltzer, stank of booze and was so bruised she could hardly move her arm.

Blossom did not move at all.

Phil strolled in with the jar of cherries, blinking in the dim liquor-scented chaos.

“Did I miss something?” he asked.

CHAPTER 37

Helen stared at the shattered shepherdess and wondered if Coronado Investigations’ insurance covered Sevres smashed in the line of duty. She was still dazed from her unexpected battle with Blossom. Where was Arthur’s widow?

Facedown on the rug, not moving. Not good, Helen thought.

Phil was still holding the jar of cherries and laughing like a loon. “You mean it worked?” he said. “The bluff worked?”

“What bluff?” Helen said. “What’s so funny?”

“Blossom actually believed you were pouring poison in her manhattan,” Phil said. He couldn’t stop laughing.

Helen was angry—and wet. Water dripped off her seltzered hair. She brushed her drenched bangs out of her eyes and said, “I would have, too. Dumped it right in her drink.”

“Still wouldn’t have poisoned her,” Phil said.

She didn’t like his smirk. “That’s the bottle on the bar,” she said.

Four ounces of nicotine tea had created a path of destruction through the forest of tables and chairs and the jungle ropes of braid and tassels: The seltzer bottle was stranded on the floor. The dry vermouth bottle had glugged itself empty on the chair. The cut-glass ice bucket had gouged deep furrows in the inlaid tabletop as it skidded sideways and splintered the shepherdess. Two useless tables were toppled.

Helen’s wine spritzer and the cashews had survived unharmed. So had the two manhattans.

“There is no poison in that Angostura bottle,” Phil said, pointing to it. “I bought those bitters and pretended that was the poison bottle. I wasn’t going to risk my life—or yours—playing with something deadly. The real poison bottle is still on the kitchen counter and the nicotine tea is in the jar under the sink. That bottle is safe as lemonade.” His mouth tilted upward in a quirky smile.

Helen wanted to slap it off his face. Anger arced through her. “Phil Sagemont, I can’t believe you let me think Blossom was poisoning your drink,” she said. The fight left her with an adrenaline overload and she unleashed it. “And what were you doing staring at her breasts?”

“I was undercover,” Phil said.

“Well, they weren’t!” Helen flounced behind the rosewood bar and reached for the phone. “I’m calling 911. Blossom hasn’t moved. She needs an ambulance.”

“Good Lord, she’s not dead, is she?” he asked. “I’d better check.”

Blossom was still sprawled on the dark carpet, a study in scarlet, jet-black and corpse white. Phil knelt down next to the fallen widow and lifted an eyelid. “She’s out cold, but she’s breathing.” He searched her scalp for a wound. “That’s quite a lump on her head.”

“They don’t call it Knob Creek bourbon for nothing,” Helen said. “I may have hurt her hand, too, when I stepped on it.”

Phil winced. “Remind me not to upset you,” he said.

“Too late,” she said.

Phil finally realized she was in no mood for jokes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly, I am. When Blossom wakes up, she’s going to accuse you of attacking her. The crime-scene techs should find enough evidence to support your story.”

Blossom whimpered softly.

“Let’s hope this is the seed from the suicide tree,” Helen said. She set it on the bar. “We should get the police here.”

“Let me make quick calls to Detective Mac Dorsey, our lawyer and Valerie Cannata,” he said. “Mac may need a warrant for that poison bottle.”

Helen handed him the phone.

“Her number’s in my cell phone,” he said. “Mac promised she’d wait for my call.”

She did. Helen heard Phil give his report, quick and professional. Then his voice changed. He was explaining, then pleading. Finally, he said, “So it’s okay? I’ll see you here,” and hit END.

“Something wrong?” Helen asked.

“Mac is just being cautious,” he said. “She wanted to know how I found the nicotine tea and the poisoned bitters. She was afraid I’d been breaking and entering. She forgot I’m the estate manager here. Then she asked if I was working undercover for the police or the DA.

“Once I convinced her I wasn’t a government agent, she said this was a lawful search. I have to show the investigating cops I found evidence in two murders. They can’t even open that kitchen cabinet. I have to point and say, ‘Lookie here, Officers.’”

“Why is Mac carrying on?” Helen asked. “She knows us.”

“She also knows the laws about illegal searches,” Phil said. “They’re tricky. She doesn’t want this evidence thrown out. Mac’s on her way. Zack is her case, but this isn’t her jurisdiction. We’re in Hendin Island’s.”

Helen groaned. “Detective Richard McNally.”

“She knows him,” Phil said. “They get along fine.”

“He knows me,” Helen said. “We don’t.”

“We’ll have our lawyer here for protection,” he said. “We’ll need Nancie when the police question us. After I call her, I’ll give Valerie a ring. We promised her a scoop.”

“Don’t call Valerie,” Helen said. “The police will check your cell phone. You can explain the calls to Detective Mac and our lawyer, but the cops will be furious if you call a reporter to a crime scene.”

“I’ll ask Nancie to call Valerie,” Phil said. “Here goes. I hope our lawyer is easier than the detective.”

She wasn’t.

Once again Phil delivered his report, calm and professional. Then he grew increasingly upset. “She what! You have to get her permission? In writing? How long will that take? Okay, okay, I understand it’s the law. Does she have to come here, too? Good. Yes, I promise. Helen will, too. Please, hurry. And don’t forget Valerie.” He hung up and sighed.

“What was that all about?” Helen asked.

“I should have known this,” Phil said. “We’d discussed it in Nancie’s office. Our PI work is privileged under Florida law. We need Violet’s permission to tell the cops, or we can lose our license for breaking client confidentiality.”

“Violet won’t stop us, will she?” Helen asked.

“Hell, no. Violet will demand we tell the cops. The hard part will be keeping her away from here. Nancie promises she’ll do it, but she wants Violet’s permission in writing.”

“I sure hope Violet’s at home now,” Helen said.

“Me, too,” Phil said. “Nancie insists neither one of us talk to the cops unless she’s with us. The police will probably split us up. We have to tell them that we want to help, but we will only talk with our attorney present.”

Blossom moaned like something in a midnight churchyard.

“You took the words right out of my mouth, Blossom,” Helen said.

“Is she coming around yet?” Phil whispered.

“Not quite,” Helen said. “But soon.”

“Brace yourself,” Phil said. “I’m calling 911.”

Helen found her wine spritzer and downed the whole drink. She needed fortification.

“Better eat those cashews, too,” Phil said. “It’s five o’clock. We’ll be here until midnight, at least.”

Helen was still munching when a wave of blue uniforms washed through the mansion. She and Phil were immediately isolated in separate rooms. Both recited Nancie’s canned speech: “Yes, Officer, I want to cooperate, but I need my lawyer.”

Both received Miranda cautions. Helen took comfort in the words the police officer recited: “You have the right to an attorney and to have one here with you during questioning, now or in the future.”

Come on, Nancie, she prayed.

Detective Mac Dorsey arrived next. She’d been promoted to detective partly because of a case Helen and Phil had worked—and her colleague had bungled. Mac was a strong, sturdy woman. Since her promotion, she’d developed a knack for finding well-tailored pantsuits in resale shops.

She saw Phil first. “I’d love to talk to you, Detective Dorsey,” Phil said. He didn’t dare call her Mac in public. “But I have to wait for our attorney, Nancie Hays.”

“Maybe Helen has more sense,” Dorsey said, and stalked off to the sitting room where Helen was counting the tassels on the furniture, lampshades and curtains.

“Come on, Helen,” Dorsey said. “You know me.”

“I know the law, too,” Helen said. “We can’t talk until the lawyer gets our client’s permission. She’ll be here as fast as she can. Meanwhile, the crime-scene folks have lots to do.”

Detective Richard NcNally was next. Detective McNally’s sedate dark suit, white shirt and tie looked weirdly out of place in South Florida, land of sartorial outrage. McNally was even more unhappy with Phil than Detective Dorsey. His face turned the same shade of puce as his tie while Phil recited his speech.

“Hays can’t be two places at once,” McNally said.

“I’m willing to wait while she’s with Helen. Then she can be present during my questioning.”

“That could take all night,” McNally said.

“I have nowhere to go and I’m being paid by the hour,” Phil said. He smiled. McNally didn’t smile back.

The detective had better luck with Helen. Actually, he had better timing.

She had counted forty-seven tassels and was estimating the yards of fringe on the chairs and lampshades when McNally interrupted her.

“Well, well,” he said. “Ms. Helen Hawthorne. Again. This is like a family reunion.”

The Addams family, Helen wanted to say. We’ve got the right decor. She congratulated herself for keeping her mouth shut.

Nancie Hays heard his remark as she flew through the sitting room door. The little whirlwind in a suit set the fringe flapping.

“Sarcasm is unprofessional, Detective,” the attorney said, crisply. “Ms. Hawthorne and Mr. Sagemont are aware this is a serious matter and they are willing to cooperate with the police. They have the right to an attorney and I insist on being present during their questioning. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll chat briefly with my client.”

All night and a good part of the morning, Helen and Phil explained why they were at the Zerling mansion, why they thought Blossom was a killer, how she murdered first Arthur and then Zack. The police knew ten million good reasons for Arthur’s murder. Phil supplied the rationale for Blossom getting rid of her greedy boyfriend.

The couple repeated their stories again and again, while their lawyer stood by in her dark-framed glasses like an owl in a brown suit.

Shortly after the first wave of police arrived, Blossom woke up. She was read her Miranda rights, and waived them. She claimed Helen attacked her. An ambulance took her to the ER.

Police officers sniffed the Angostura bitters bottle on the kitchen counter and detected a definite odor of nicotine. Phil pointed out the soggy cigarette butts floating in a jar under the sink. One cop gagged.

Even though the doctors believed food poisoning had killed Zack, samples of his blood and urine had been saved in case of criminal or civil liability. There was enough for further tests.

The brown seedlike object was bagged as evidence and sent to an expert for identification.

By eight thirty in the morning, Helen looked like she’d crawled out of the wreckage of an F5 tornado. Her eyes were red, her suit was torn and her shoulder was bruised.

She felt terrific.

Detective Richard McNally had applied for a court order to exhume the body of Arthur Zerling.

CHAPTER 38

Helen squinted at the glaring sun as she and Phil tottered out of the Zerling mansion. Nancie Hays marched beside them with a gunslinger’s swagger.

The morning air felt cool and fresh. Helen did not. “I need coffee,” she said.

“And you’ll get it,” the lawyer said. “At my office.” Her brown suit wasn’t even wrinkled. How did she do it? Helen wondered.

“Can’t I go home and change?” she asked. “Please?”

“No,” Nancie said. “My legal services come with a high price. We have to meet with our client in half an hour.”

“But I can’t—” Phil said.

“No whining,” Nancie said. “Violet signed that release last night when we needed it. She cooperated. Now she has every right to know what happened. I’ll stop for bagels and meet you at my office.”

“I can’t face Violet without at least eight hours’ sleep,” Helen said.

“I promise you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Nancie said. “She is a changed woman.”

“I could use a pleasant surprise,” Helen said as she climbed into the Igloo. Phil followed behind her in the Jeep. They both drove carefully around the official vehicles scattered on the driveway.

Nancie’s office parking lot was empty. Helen tried to comb her hair in the rearview mirror, but her bruised shoulder ached when she raised her arm.

Forget it, she decided. Violet should see I’ve been in a battle. Phil parked next to her, jumped out with surprising energy and opened her car door. Helen gingerly unfolded herself from the Igloo and leaned against his shoulder.

“It’s over,” she said.

“Almost,” he said, rocking her in his arms. “I think that’s Violet’s Saturn parking under the palm tree.”

Helen turned and stared. “That can’t be our client getting out of it,” she said.

This woman was fifteen pounds slimmer and more toned than the Violet they knew. Her hair was chic and the new color gave her skin a rosy glow. Either that, or Violet had had makeup lessons since they’d last seen her.

She didn’t walk like Violet, either. She strode confidently toward them. “Phil? Helen?” she asked. “Are you okay? You look a little rocky this morning.”

“I’ve been beat up by Blossom, then spent the night with the police,” Helen said. “You look terrific. What’s your secret?”

“Thanks,” Violet said. “I was too upset to eat after Daddy died. I lost ten pounds and decided to keep losing weight. Now I’m working out at the gym four days a week. I feel so much better.”

“But your hair is different and your clothes are new,” Helen said.

“You like them?” Violet smiled. A sweet smile, with none of the old tension. “Clothes and hair were never my thing. My workout instructor sent me to a new salon. Neiman Marcus has a personal shopper. That was Blossom’s secret, you know. She had the taste of a tramp, but she used a personal shopper to buy the right clothes to mix with people like Daddy.

“But I’m not going to waste time ranting about her. I’m seeing a counselor now. For”—she paused and lowered her eyes—“anger issues. I don’t like Blossom and never will, but I’m starting to realize that some of my problems were caused by me. I can be my own worst enemy.”

Blossom, Helen thought. She called her stepmother Blossom. Twice.

“But you were right,” Phil said. “Blossom did murder your father. She had a lover and she poisoned your father with something from the exotic East, just as you suspected. Now that Nancie’s here, we’ll go inside and give our report.”

Helen and Phil helped the lawyer carry in steaming cups of hot coffee, a tub of warm bagels, whipped butter, maple-honey spread and lox and cream cheese. They arranged the food on the conference room table. Helen burned her tongue on the coffee—she was that desperate for caffeine. Phil heaped a bagel with lox and cream cheese.

The little lawyer sat at the head of the long conference-dining table, savoring her triumph and a cinnamon-raisin bagel.

Violet sipped black coffee and listened to Helen and Phil. She cried softly when Phil told her about the seed of the suicide tree.

“Fran was right,” Violet said. “It was the curry. It hid the taste. I hope Blossom goes away for a long time.”

Helen heard a flash of Violet’s old anger. But it was justified.

“I think she will,” Nancie said, delicately picking a crumb off her brown suit. “Right now Blossom is in custody for the assault on Helen. But I expect further charges after Mr. Zerling’s body is exhumed and tests are conducted on samples from her lover, Zack. Any more questions?”

“A couple,” Violet said. “Why did Blossom use a different poison to kill her boyfriend?”

“I can answer that,” Phil said. “She wanted to save the suicide tree seed for you. I heard her tell Zack that it would look like you’d had a heart attack, just like your father. She said she was going to try to mend fences with you. We warned Nancie, but she didn’t contact you.”

“I might have let her, too, as part of my therapy,” Violet said.

“She was poisoning Zack while she talked about killing you,” Phil said.

“Awful woman,” Violet said. “Do you need to see a doctor, Helen, for your injuries?”

Helen started in surprise. Violet hadn’t cared about anything but vengeance last time.

“No, just a bruised shoulder,” Helen said.

“Your suit is ruined,” she said.

“I never liked it anyway,” Helen said.

“Is that it, Violet?” Nancie asked.

Violet nodded. They shook hands all around, but Nancie wouldn’t let Helen leave yet. She pulled a camera from her desk drawer. “I’m taking photos of your injuries, including that shoulder. That bruise should be nice and photogenic this morning. Take off your blouse, please.”

Helen finished the photo session yawning with fatigue. Phil swiped an onion bagel and they left.

The next two weeks passed in a blur of publicity and breaking news on the Blossom Zerling murders. Valerie Cannata seemed to have a new revelation on channel seventy-seven nearly every day. Each time, she mentioned Coronado Investigations. Helen and Phil were the stars of the six o’clock news.

First, a botanist confirmed that the oval seed in the potpourri vase was from the suicide tree, famous for its harvest of suicide and homicide in India and southern Asia, but hardly known in the West.

Next, Valerie reported that the medical examiner found traces of the exotic poison in Arthur Zerling’s body during the autopsy. The samples of Zack’s blood and urine showed evidence of nicotine poison.

Then Valerie broke the story that Blossom Zerling was charged with first-degree murder in the deaths of her husband, Arthur Zerling, and her lover, Zachary Crinlund. Now Blossom could no longer receive funds from the Zerling estate—or afford a high-priced defense team. Blossom waited for an ambitious defense lawyer to save her for no money, but the pin-striped sharks were busy rescuing other malefactors.

Blossom had to settle for a public defender with a bad haircut and a shiny suit. He saw Valerie’s story about Arthur’s kindness and contributions to the community, and advised Blossom to plead guilty to both murders and avoid the death penalty.

Helen and Phil cheered when Blossom was sentenced to life in prison.

The Zerling case ended where it began—in Nancie Hays’s neat, practical office.

The new Violet sat in the lime green client chair. She was more attractive, less angry and definitely grateful. She examined her bill, wrote a check to Coronado Investigations with a flourish, then handed Helen and Phil a bonus check of fifty thousand dollars.

“Rich people usually look for ways to reduce bills,” Helen said.

“Blossom won’t get Daddy’s estate, thanks to you,” Violet said. “You’ve made me richer—and saved my life.”

She handed Helen a pale blue envelope. “That’s for Margery Flax, the woman who accompanied me to Daddy’s funeral.”

“We’ve already paid her,” Helen said.

“She deserves a bonus for putting up with me,” Violet said.

“We have something for you,” Helen said. “Blossom asked me to go through your father’s personal effects and give them to charity. I sent them to a resale shop that benefits people with AIDS. Do you want me to see if I can get his things back?”

“No, no,” Violet said. “Daddy would be happy that his things will help people. That’s the kind of man he was.”

“We kept two personal items for you,” Helen said. She handed Violet her parents’ wedding photo in the mother-of-pearl frame and the platinum Rolex Oyster that Honeysuckle had given Arthur.

Violet’s expression softened as she read the engraving on the watch out loud. “To my love on our first anniversary. We have all the time in the world—HZ.”

“They didn’t, did they?” Violet said, wiping away a tear.

“There’s never enough time when you love each other,” Helen said.

“Well, I’m sure you have places to go,” Violet said, suddenly turning all business. She stood up and shook hands with the partners of Coronado Investigations.

It was five o’clock when Helen and Phil walked out together to the Igloo. “We’d better deposit our checks at the bank before they evaporate,” Phil said. “Then we have one more place to go.”

“Where?” Helen asked.

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

The setting sun was turning the Fort Lauderdale beach a tender pink when Phil parked the Igloo. The beachgoers were already a deeper pink. Tired, sunburned and sandy, they were folding their chairs and packing their coolers. Toddlers crying for naps clung to their mothers. Daddies gave their little girls rides on their shoulders to the family minivans.

Helen and Phil passed them as they walked at the edge of the ocean. Helen slipped off her shoes and let the warm water tickle her toes.

They walked as though they were the only ones on the beach.

“I know where we are now,” Helen said. “This is where Margery married us.”

“That’s why I wanted to come back,” Phil said. “I know you’ve been upset with me about that business with the Angostura bitters.”

“No—” Helen began, then realized she had been. “Yes,” she said. “You know me better than I know myself.” She turned to face him.

“I was wrong,” he said. “I should have told you what I planned.” He kissed her forehead.

She ran her finger lightly along the bridge of his nose. She liked his nose. Like Phil, it was both noble and slightly crooked.

“You are my partner, Helen,” he said. “My equal partner.”

He kissed first one eyelid, then the other, while she held him close.

“In work and in love,” he said. “Forever.”

And then he kissed her on the lips, the way he did the night they married.

EPILOGUE

“Well, well, this is a nice surprise,” Margery said as she read Violet’s check. “Green. My favorite color.”

“I thought it was purple,” Helen said.

“It will be,” Margery said.

The landlady bought a magnificent gold and amethyst necklace and a purple silk hostess outfit, then wore them to a party she threw by the pool. Phil barbecued chicken and ribs, and the Coronado denizens feasted and toasted one another.

“So, am I a member of Coronado Investigations?” Margery asked.

“You’re an independent contractor,” Phil said.

“Accent on independent,” Helen said.

Violet Zerling sold her father’s Fort Lauderdale mansion. “Too many sad memories,” she said. Her real estate agent introduced her to a fifty-one-year-old corporate attorney named Gordon. They dated for a year before announcing their engagement. Violet knows her fiancé isn’t marrying her for her money—Gordon is even richer than she is. She did insist that they both have wills and designated health-care surrogates. Violet and Gordon married at his Fort Lauderdale mansion and plan to live happily ever after.

Andrei, the fired first engineer on the Belted Earl, finally found work on a yacht called Threesome. That boat name is popular on porn sites and in XXX-rated movies. It is also used by some freethinking yachters. This particular Threesome was known to South Florida yachters as a perpetual party boat. Underage girls scampered about on the decks. Drugs were as abundant as boob jobs. Miraculously, the yacht was never boarded by the authorities. Competent crew regarded this Threesome as the last stop before the crazy train derailed. The owner made the crew miserable with his miserly pay and capricious changes.

Helen thought a stint on the Threesome was a fitting punishment for the Bulgarian engineer. Andrei was surrounded by lush, willing beauties who never noticed him. In the port bars, even the most naive stewardess would not go home with a man who wore a Threesome crew uniform.

Dick, the second engineer, was promoted to Andrei’s job on the Belted Earl. Captain Swingle found replacement staff through a reputable Fort Lauderdale yacht crew agency, then hired Coronado Investigations to do background checks on the new crew.

HSI agents found an empty plastic tackle box and a duffel full of grimy evening gowns in a trash can near the car belonging to Mira’s boyfriend. Kevin had parked his car in the Fort Lauderdale airport garage. Kevin said he didn’t remember Mira ever having a tackle box. Mira gave him the gowns for his theater company’s production of Rain, but the dresses were too damaged to be used as costumes. The company closed before the show’s opening night.

There was not enough evidence to charge Kevin as an accessory to Mira’s smuggling. Kevin missed his off-Broadway audition when he was detained for questioning at the airport. He went to New York three months later. He now works off Broadway—as a waiter.

Tests showed that the blond hair found in Louise’s pocket was a DNA match with Mira’s hair. Police produced Mira’s credit card receipt for a silver two-toned Ficcare barrette purchased from HeadGamesOnline.com three months before Louise’s death.

Faced with this overwhelming evidence, Mira confessed that she had seen Louise leave the bosun’s locker after the head stew hid the tackle box of smuggled emeralds in there. The next time Mira checked the locker, the box was secured with a bungee cord. Mira never knew that the captain had found the emeralds and hired Coronado Investigations. She expected Louise to accuse her and Mira didn’t want to get caught with the latest load of emeralds.

Mira saw the rough seas on the crossing as a way to end a potential problem. She lured Louise outside with a story that the boys had left a wicker sofa unsecured on the lower aft deck.

Mira got down on the deck, peered under the canvas cover and said, “The lower bungee cord snapped.”

“Where?” Louise asked, as the shifting sea slammed into the yacht and knocked her off balance. That’s when the much stronger Mira grabbed her ankles and tipped the hundred-pound Louise overboard.

Mira was charged with murder one. Her public defender reminded her that Florida is a death penalty state and Louise’s cold-blooded murder would horrify a jury. Mira accepted a plea bargain for life without possibility of parole.

Shortly after the news of Mira’s sentence, Captain Swingle held a memorial service for Louise at sunset on the Fort Lauderdale beach. Suzanne, Dick, Matt, Carl, Sam and Helen attended the service. The captain brought a dozen white roses. Suzanne set out a buffet table with appetizers that looked like the elegant, edible art Louise had served on the yacht, as well as the boys’ favorites, pigs in a blanket and pizzas. Guests sipped champagne and drank beer.

Each crew member talked about how much he or she admired Louise, and tossed a white rose into the soft silvery sea. Sam the deckhand, fortified by several brews, was the last to speak at Louise’s memorial.

He gave a less rambling version of his good girl/bad girl speech, then said, “Louise was a good girl. No, a good woman. And we were good friends. The best. She loved life and she loved the ocean and she even loved the pelicans. She said they were what pterodactyls must have looked like. I’ll miss Louise.”

Sam gently left a rose on the edge of the warm surf. Captain Swingle set the remaining flowers next to it. The tide carried the roses away as a squadron of pelicans glided above.

“Yay, Louise!” Sam shouted, waving his beer.

The crew lifted their champagne glasses in a final salute to her.

Helen watched the crew drift away after the service. She walked alone on the beach to the site where Margery had married her and Phil, and where her husband had pledged his love a second time. She had a pledge of her own to keep. Her sister, Kathy, had received the phone jack and the digital recorder that Helen sent her, and practiced daily, determined to catch the blackmailer. Kathy told Helen that she could slap the jack on the recorder in two seconds, even if Tommy Junior was teasing his little sister, and his father was asking if dinner was ready. Kathy felt prepared to record Rob, or whoever the blackmailer was.

Helen stood alone in the surf, watching the sun slip into the soft silken sea and the stars come out.

Then she said out loud, “I swear that I will trust my husband and tell him what happened to Rob. We will catch the blackmailer together. And then I hope that he will still love me.”

. . .

Phil was waiting for Helen in their office when she came home, her hair tossed by the sea breeze. “I’ve been going over the books,” he said. “Coronado Investigations is safely in the black. We could use Violet’s bonus as the down payment on a bigger place.”

“Do you want a house?” Helen asked.

“No, I like it here,” Phil said. “But you used to own a big house in St. Louis.”

“That was another life,” Helen said. “A bigger house means more work. It would mean more cleaning. I did enough on that yacht. I can’t see you pushing a lawn mower, Phil.

“We have enough room at the Coronado. If I need to be alone, I go to my apartment and shut the door. Same with you. Margery is our estate manager. If we moved, I’d miss our friends here.”

“Me, too,” he said. “What would we do without the Coronado sunset salutes?”

“I like our life,” Helen said. “And I love you.” She kissed his ear.

“I already have everything. Why would I want more?”