Just Murdered

Chapter 24

Helen walked home from work in the soft twilight. Fort Lauderdale was preparing for its nightly party. Musicians were setting up in the Las Olas restaurants. Sunburned tourists were ordering pitchers of margaritas. Cruise ship passengers wandered aimlessly through the shops.

Everyone had vacation smiles except Helen. She felt tired and sad. There’d been too many emotional scenes at the bridal shop today. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She didn’t know why she was crying—and then she did.

She missed Phil. She could see him now, that lean muscular body and those blue denim eyes. She missed his sardonic comments and his sharp intelligence. But most of all, she missed his love. She needed their champagne nights to survive the drudgery of her dead-end job.

With Phil, the Coronado seemed delightfully eccentric. Tonight the place looked seedy. Rust trails dripped from the window air conditioners. The sidewalk was cracked. The purple bougainvillea had dead spots, even after Margery’s pruning.

Helen also missed the comfort of her friends. She wanted to sit out by the pool and sip wine with Peggy and Margery, but both their apartments were dark.

But she wouldn’t go running to Phil. Not as long as his awful ex, Kendra, the Kentucky Songbird, was living with him. Maybe someday Helen could find the courage to forgive him. But not with Kendra gloating in the background. The woman had seen her naked. It was too much to bear.

Helen saw a light on at Phil’s place. Should she peek through his miniblinds?

Why not? She had no pride left after popping up in her black panties.

She crouched down and looked through the slats. Phil’s living room was the same welter of Kendra’s clothes, cereal bowls, and coffee cups. Helen’s stomach turned when she saw a brush bristling with red hair on an open pizza box. A red lace bra sprawled on the sofa.

The woman was shameless.

Phil’s bedroom door was shut. Was he locked in there with the braless Kendra? Or had they gone out together?

Helen wanted to knock on Phil’s door. She wanted to knock in his head. She didn’t do either. She marched home head down and ran into a solid wall of muscle.

It was Detective Bill McIntyre. His crooked-nosed partner, Janet Smith, was standing next to him on Helen’s doorstep. Helen’s heart started thumping when she saw them.

“Can we talk with you?” McIntyre said.

No! Helen started to shout. But she was afraid to say that. “Come in,” she said, hoping she sounded natural.

She unlocked her door. The two detectives followed her. Detective Smith prowled the two-room apartment, picking up knickknacks and putting them down. Helen wanted to tell her to stop, but she didn’t. She was starting to sweat.

Detective McIntyre sat on the turquoise couch. His muscular frame dwarfed its spindly fifties design. Thumbs, her traitorous cat, jumped into his lap.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Helen said.

“No thanks,” both detectives said.

A bad sign, Helen thought. Cops did not like to drink with suspects. She perched on the edge of the Barcalounger.

“You don’t have a phone,” Detective McIntyre said. He ran his huge hand through Thumbs’s soft fur. The cat purred loudly. Detective Smith was examining a flea-market vase as if it were museum-quality Meissen.

“I hate phones,” Helen said.

“No credit cards, either.” He scratched Thumbs’s ears. The faithless cat rolled over in flagrant feline delight and presented his belly.

“I’m trying to live within my means,” Helen said.

“And no bank account.”

“I don’t trust banks. Is that a crime?” Helen tried to say it boldly, but her voice quavered.

“No. But it is a crime to interfere with a homicide investigation and threaten a potential witness. Jason said you’d threatened him.”

“I threatened him? He threatened me. Ask his neighbor. She heard the whole thing.”

“He told us what he’d overheard the night of the rehearsal. Jason says you had a fight with the victim.”

Helen didn’t like Detective McIntyre’s tone. “I told you that.”

“Only after we heard it from another source.”

“I forgot. I was tired.” Helen sounded defensive.

“You also forgot to mention that you threatened to kill Kiki. Jason said you shouted, ‘Don’t you threaten me, lady. If I lose this job, you’re a dead woman.’ ”

“That’s a lie.” Helen leaped off the Barcalounger, red with rage. “I never said any such thing.”

That lying scum. Helen wanted to wring Jason’s neck. Then she saw Detectives Smith and McIntyre staring at her. She’d certainly showed her temper. Helen settled back on the Barcalounger and tried to answer more calmly. “You must have noticed I didn’t lose my job.”

“Kiki didn’t have time to complain. She was dead before the shop opened on Saturday,” Detective McIntyre said.

“Jason is lying,” Helen said. “Are you going to take the word of a drug dealer?”

“I’m not worried about someone who deals a little recreational Ecstasy,” McIntyre said. “I have a murder to solve. You’ve got no business messing in this investigation. I’m making it my business to find out why you’re so interested. Good-bye, Ms. Hawthorne.”

Detective McIntyre put down her cat and brushed the hair off his trousers, then walked out. Detective Smith followed. This time she was the silent partner.

Helen sank down on the couch, which was still warm from McIntyre’s bulky body. Thumbs bumped her hand, hoping for another scratch, but she didn’t respond.

Why would Jason go to the police? It was a risky move for a drug dealer. Helen must have hit a nerve, but she didn’t know what it was. She couldn’t ask him. Not after the police warned her away.

Did Jason panic because she noticed the bandage on his wrist? The police would have seen that, too. Was it something she said—or he said?

Maybe Jason didn’t go to the police. Maybe the cops caught him dealing, and he traded lies to avoid an arrest. That made more sense.

Now the two detectives were investigating her. How did they find out her financial information? Did they do a credit check? Was that legal?

Helen didn’t know. She did know that the two detectives were smart. They would find out who she really was fast enough. Helen had to act soon or she’d be back in front of that wizened old judge in St. Louis. She could hear her mother, the new Mrs. Lawn Boy Larry, weeping. She could see her greedy ex-husband reaching for her money.

Helen was sick with fear. I need help, she thought. I can’t do this alone. The walls in her little apartment seemed to close in on her. She couldn’t stay there like a wild thing in a trap.

Phil! He was a private eye. He’d help her. He’d already offered. Why did she throw away his note? This was no time to keep up a silly tiff over black panties and a redheaded tramp. Not when she was headed for prison. Helen would be wearing a prison jumpsuit and Kendra would have years to work her cheap wiles on Phil.

Helen ran to his apartment and pounded on the door, but Phil didn’t answer.

“Phil! Are you there?”

Helen heard something that sounded like a cat crying. Then she realized it was a woman’s low moan of pleasure.

“You son of a bitch.” Helen kicked at his door. The moans grew more intense. She saw a hefty rock in the garden nearby and thought of throwing it through his window. She decided Phil wasn’t worth the effort. She had to save herself.

Margery! Margery would help. Her landlady knew everyone and everything. She’d solve this crisis.

Margery’s place was still dark. Maybe she was napping. Helen hammered on the jalousie door until the glass rattled. She wanted Margery to appear in her purple chenille robe, grumpy and sleepy eyed.

“Margery, wake up,” Helen called. But her landlady’s apartment stayed dark.

Peggy! You’d never guess it to look at her, but the elegant redhead had been in trouble with the police before. Peggy had been led away in handcuffs from the Coronado. She knew what it felt like when the cops were after you. She’d help.

“Peggy! Are you there?” Helen beat on the door. Nothing. She stood on Peggy’s doorstep in the desperate silence.

“Peggy, help me,” Helen pleaded.

Peggy was gone, too. Even Pete wasn’t squawking.

Panic rose up in Helen like a river overflowing its banks. She was drowning in fear. What am I going to do? It’s six thirty and I’m all alone. The police are after me. Phil has two-timed me with his slutty ex-wife. My life is falling apart—

Oh, get a grip, she told herself. Millions of women have managed to live without Phil. You can, too. Concentrate on what’s important. You’re going to be arrested for murder, unless you can figure out who did it.

After all her investigating, what did she know: that Millicent and Chauncey were innocent? That the chauffeur thought he was going to be a millionaire when Kiki died? That Jason was crazed by ambition, disappointment, and drugs? That the bride’s lawyer father invited all the suspects to tamper with the crime scene? That the bride’s own behavior was also strange?

Then it all fell into place. Helen had an idea so crazy she thought it just might work. She knew who killed Kiki—and how to prove it.

The bride was the key to the murder.

The morning of the wedding, Desiree had wished she could wear her fey cobweb dress. Helen told her it was the bride’s prerogative and started to go to the closet to get it. That’s when Desiree became hysterical. She would not let Helen open that closet. She insisted on wearing her ugly crystal gown. She used her mother’s anger as an excuse, even though Kiki was not there.

After the wedding ceremony, the bride poured coffee all over the hated crystal dress—the dress her mother insisted she wear at the cathedral.

Desiree had been too afraid to open the closet door before the wedding, but not too afraid to destroy a seven-thousand-dollar dress after the ceremony.

Why?

Because Desiree knew her dead mother was in that closet. If Helen opened the door before the wedding, Desiree couldn’t marry Luke. The wedding would be canceled because of the murder.

But Desiree could ruin the crystal dress after the wedding. She knew her mother was no longer alive to punish the new Mrs. Luke Praine.

Helen the dupe dutifully opened the door, the body was discovered, and Desiree walked off with thirty million dollars and a new movie-star husband.

Helen’s reasoning wouldn’t convince the police, but maybe Desiree’s own words would. Helen rummaged in her closet for an old cassette recorder and stuck it in her purse. She would tape the bride’s confession.

A phone. She needed a phone next. Helen ran all the way to Las Olas. She stumbled over the uneven sidewalk and pitched face forward on the concrete.

Two women helped her up. “Are you okay?” the older one asked.

Of course she wasn’t okay. The police were going to arrest her for murder. Then Helen’s head cleared. “I’m fine, thanks. I just scraped my hand.”

Both women looked doubtful. Helen hurried to the nearest pay phone. A shaven-headed college student was talking on it. Why didn’t he have a cell phone like everyone else his age? Helen glared at the kid until he hung up, then punched the numbers frantically.

A woman answered. “Praine residence,” she said. Was she a maid? A housekeeper?

“May I speak to Desiree?” Please be there, Helen thought.

“Who’s calling, please?”

Should she say her name? I have no choice, Helen decided. I’m the bait.

“Helen Hawthorne.”

“Please hold.”

There was a long wait. Helen’s hands were so sweaty the phone turned slippery. What if Desiree wouldn’t talk to her? What if Desiree didn’t remember who she was? Finally, she heard a soft voice.

“This is Desiree.”

She could picture the little bride’s chinless face and intelligent eyes. She could see her, clinging frantically to her groom while he pried her hands off his arm.

“It’s Helen, from Millicent’s. I buttoned up your wedding dress.” Great. Next she’d say, I opened the closet door when your mother fell out.

“I remember you, Helen.” Desiree gave a little laugh. “We had dinner at Lester’s, remember? I told you to call if you found out anything.”

Relief flooded through Helen. Desiree just handed her the opening she needed.

“I’ve been looking into your mother’s death, like you asked me to,” Helen said. “I think I’ve found something interesting.”

“What?” Desiree said. Her breathy little voice quickened.

“I can’t tell you on the phone,” Helen said. “Is there any way I can see you?”

“Come over right now. My home is only a few blocks from your apartment. Should I send a car?”

Desiree definitely wanted to hear what Helen had to say.

“I’ll walk over. I need the exercise.”

This is perfectly safe, Helen thought. I won’t be alone in the house. Desiree’s housekeeper will be there. I can meet with the killer.