Just Murdered

Chapter 26

Click click. Click click.

Helen heard the footsteps behind her.

Click click.

She looked over her shoulder and saw a tiny blonde in sky-high heels and a flirty skirt. The streetlights revealed she wasn’t as young as she first seemed.

Like Kiki.

The same lights drained the color from the woman’s face and painted her with spectral shadows. The wind brought her perfume—hothouse roses.

Helen knew it wasn’t Kiki. She was dead and buried in a rose-covered coffin.

“I thought you’d died,” a tinkly voice said.

Helen jumped.

“Sorry.” That was a deep baritone. “I had trouble parking the car.” A big man loped up beside the little blonde.

“Couldn’t you just pick it up and drop it in a parking spot?”

The man laughed at her outrageous flattery and the couple walked down the street arm in arm.

What the hell is the matter with me? Helen thought. Of course I saw Kiki. Fort Lauderdale has a hundred Kikis. Palm Beach has a thousand. When one dies, a dozen more take her place.

But how many had daughters like Desiree?

Desiree told Helen she didn’t care who killed her mother. Desiree planted murderous thoughts in men’s minds. Rod said that, but Helen had seen Desiree do it at the bridal salon with Chauncey. “You could pray for her to die, Chauncey,” she’d said, soft and insinuating as Eden’s snake. “She’s left you a hundred thousand in her will.”

Then Helen had an idea so monstrous it stopped her dead. What if Rod was telling the truth, but not the whole truth? Suppose Desiree had whispered her bad-angel advice to Rod in the Rolls—and he took it? Once her mother was dead, Desiree would reward the man who set her free. Did Rod really work for a limo company or did he own that shiny new Hummer? It would be the perfect present for a cooperative chauffeur.

The wind was picking up. A soda bottle clattered down the street. Something ghostly white drifted past Helen’s head. She ducked, her heart beating wildly.

It was a plastic grocery bag.

This had to stop. Are you a woman or a wimp? she asked herself.

Helen squared her shoulders and charged down the sidewalk. Strolling couples stepped out of her way. Las Olas’s perpetual winter-season revels were in full swing at this hour. Tourists wallowed in the warm night, knowing their less fortunate friends were freezing up north.

A red-faced drunk with brassy blond hair thrust himself in her path. “Hey, baby, wanna meet a real man?”

“Yes, I do. So beat it,” Helen said.

“Hey, that’s not nice,” he whined. But he backed away.

“Whoa, dude, what a ball breaker,” said his sidekick, who had a loud shirt and a louder voice.

Yes, I am, Helen thought. And it feels good. It feels better than fainting at the sight of a plastic bag. No one alive or dead is following me. I have nothing to fear. I’m bigger than most muggers.

As she turned off Las Olas, away from its bright lights, Helen saw something move in the dark foliage near the sidewalk.

“Hello?” she said. “Anyone there?”

No sound. The rose of Sharon bush shook, but not from the rising wind. Something was in there. Helen swatted the bush with her purse. A skinny striped cat streaked out and disappeared into the night.

Face your fear and it runs away.

Helen was secretly relieved when she finally saw the Coronado, its white walls glowing like a phantom ship in the darkness. The only light was from Phil’s apartment. Once again, she saw Kendra’s red lace bra on the couch and heard her passionate moans from his bedroom.

There’s your real fear. You’re not scared of subtropical spooks and assassins. You’re afraid you’ve lost the man you love. She felt a painful twinge of sadness, then a healing flash of anger.

Helen picked her way up the cracked sidewalk, hoping she wouldn’t encounter Phil tonight. She wished the Coronado wasn’t so dark. Even the pool lights were off. Peggy and her boyfriend must be having a late-night water frolic. Helen felt a stab of envy. If Phil hadn’t fallen for his trampy ex, they could be enjoying the night, too.

I’m such a lousy judge of men, Helen thought. Her eyes filled with tears. Then she saw a subtle shift in the shadows by the pool. Someone was there.

She made her way cautiously across the lawn toward the pool, hoping she wouldn’t stumble over the sprinklers. The yard was so dark. If she heard splashing in the pool, she’d back away. She didn’t want to catch Peggy and her policeman in flagrante.

But there was no sound. Even the eternally rustling palms were still. Wait! There it was. Someone was definitely by the pool.

“Peggy?” she called. “Is that you?”

No answer.

Helen could make out a lumpy, flour-sack figure with a tight perm, sensible shoes, and a cane. An old woman in a housedress was standing by the pool. Helen almost laughed in relief. She’d been afraid of a harmless old woman. Probably one of Margery’s friends, waiting for her to come home.

Helen walked confidently toward the pool. “May I help you, ma’am?”

“What?” a quavery voice said. “I can’t hear you.”

Helen could see the woman stumping toward her, dragging her right foot, cane in her right hand. Poor old soul.

Helen stopped. Right hand? Shouldn’t the cane be in her left hand?

That hesitation saved her life. The old woman moved forward with sudden swiftness. The heavy cane came crashing toward Helen’s head, but she ducked before it connected. The cane hit the concrete with a cracking thwak!

There was a whistling noise and the cane swung at her again. Helen reached around wildly for a weapon. She nearly fell over the hose coiled on the concrete deck, but she found the long-handled pool net.

She swung it at the old woman’s head and heard a much younger voice say, “Ouch. Shit, that hurt.”

A gray wig rolled across the concrete and into the pool. That wasn’t an old woman. It was a man. She could see his face in the dark.

She heard a click sound and the cane swiped at her chest, slicing through her shirt. It left a stinging streak on her upper arm.

What the—?

A sword cane. An actor’s prop. What had Donna Sue, the secretary-queen, told her? Actors loved sword canes. She also said swordplay killed people. Helen saw the blood welling up on her arm. He’d cut her. Helen swung at him again, and he ducked.

Her attacker was trained in the art of stage fighting. He used the heavy cane like a sword, thrusting and parrying. Helen tried to block him with the long-handled pool net.

Clang! Bang!

The sword cane connected with the pool net and the shock vibrated up her arms. She felt another stinging slash. A cut opened on her hand. Blood droplets splashed her face—her own blood.

Helen swung wildly. The net’s aluminum handle deflected the sword blows, but Helen wasn’t sure how long it would last. It was bent in the middle and slippery from her blood.

Helen had one chance to save herself. She swung the net as hard as she could and knocked her attacker off balance. He stumbled over the coiled hose and tumbled into the pool.

Got him! she thought. Then he grabbed the pool net and dragged Helen in with him.

She hit the water with a belly flop and a loud “Oof!” It was cold. The guy grabbed her and tried to pull her under. She kicked his legs. They splashed around wildly. The man was stronger than Helen, but his old-lady shoes and long-sleeved dress weighed him down in the water.

Helen grabbed the attacker’s slick, rubbery face and clawed his eye.

He pulled her hair so hard she feared it would come out by the roots.

She pushed him under water. He grabbed her little finger and bent it back. Helen screamed and brought her knee up toward his groin, but she couldn’t get much momentum in the water. She had swallowed half the pool and her eyes stung from the chlorine.

She sank her teeth into his hand and he let go of her finger. She tasted his blood this time, a savage salty triumph.

There was a blinding flash. For a moment Helen couldn’t see anything. Then her vision cleared. The pool lights were on. She saw three gun barrels pointed at her.

Margery, Peggy, and Phil were standing around the pool, guns drawn. All three looked like they’d dressed in the dark. Phil hadn’t had time to put on his shirt.

“What the hell is going on here?” Margery said.

“Don’t shoot, it’s me!” Helen said.

“Of course it’s you,” Margery said. “Who else would be sword fighting with my pool net? Who’s the other musketeer?”

“He tried to kill me. He slashed me with a sword cane.”

Helen could hear sirens screaming nearby. Her attacker made a desperate dive for the ladder on the other side.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Helen grabbed his collar and yanked him back toward her. His dress tore down the front. Its long sleeves tangled his arms and held them together like handcuffs.

Helen goggled at his naked chest. Her attacker had huge pendulous breasts with hot-pink nipples. They were foam rubber.

“Holy cow, you can buy a sagging chest,” Helen said.

“I got mine free for my birthday,” Margery said.

“Helen, you’re worse than a man,” Peggy said. “Quit looking at tits and tell us who he is.”

“You’re blocking the light,” Helen said. “I think it’s Jason, recapping his sword-fight scene from Richard the Third.”

Helen saw the blood running down her arm. She would need stitches. She’d probably have an ugly scar. She was so angry, she grabbed her assailant by his hair and dunked him once more.

“Helen! Do I have to come in there after you? Who is it?” Margery howled. The sirens howled with her. The cops were almost at the Coronado.

Helen dragged the choking, spluttering man over to the lights for a good look. She stared at his handsome actor’s face, then blinked.

“Luke!” she said. “You’re the killer.”