Shop Till You Drop

Chapter 17

Another restless, sleepless night. Helen’s lumpy bed seemed to be stuffed with cabbages and bowling balls. Any attempt to find a more comfortable position set off a series of lonely squeaks.

At seven a.m., Helen gave up and got up. She told herself she was getting up an hour early because she wanted breakfast by the pool. But she knew what she really wanted: to see Daniel in his dashing blue uniform.

Helen felt guilty thinking about Daniel Dayson. Christina was missing, maybe dead, and she was carrying on a school-girl crush. But I can’t spend all my time worrying about Christina, she told herself.

A disapproving inner voice lectured her: “Didn’t Rob and Cal teach you anything? You know you have terrible taste in men.”

But Cal was a harmless mistake, the kind a woman made when she jumped back into the dating pool. She didn’t sleep with him or anything. She lost a little money, that’s all. And Rob? The pain of Rob’s betrayal seemed to be receding in the February sunshine. It was winter in St. Louis, and it was easy for her heart to stay frozen there. But South Florida was so lush and romantic and most of all, warm, that things seemed possible.

Helen dressed carefully, spending extra time on her hair and makeup. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee. It was quarter to eight when she went outside. Margery and Peggy were at the picnic table under the coconut palms.

“You look nice this morning,” Peggy said, looking up from her paper.

“He’s already left for work,” Margery said. Helen flushed. How did her landlady know?

“Daniel is always gone by seven-thirty,” Margery said. Her shorts set was covered with purple butterflies. Margery pointed to a white bakery box and a stack of paper napkins on the picnic table. “Want a chocolate croissant?”

Helen did. Peggy took another.

Peggy was dressed for her receptionist’s job in a parrot-green pantsuit. She looked like an exotic bird or Pete’s big sister. The wild parrots were screeching in the palms overhead, taunting Pete. He ignored them. Pete had no interest in his kind, just as Peggy had no interest in the male species. They were content with each other.

Peggy pointed to her morning paper. “A guy in Hallandale won the lottery,” she said. “Twenty-three million dollars. He’s thirty years old, and he’ll never have to work again. He’s going to take the whole thing in a lump sum, so he’ll get about half, something like twelve million.”

“Why would he do that?” Margery said. “Why not take the payout over thirty years? He’ll get the whole twenty-three million, plus interest. It’s more money that way. I could understand someone my age taking it in a lump, but he’s a young guy.”

“No, he did it right,” Peggy said. “All the experts say the figures work out in your favor if you take it in a lump sum and invest it. That’s how I’m going to do it when I win.”

She was serious, Helen thought. “Which lottery game do you play?” she asked.

“Lotto. It has the big jackpots.”

“How many tickets do you buy each week?” Helen said.

“Three a day. Twenty-one dollars a week.”

Helen whistled.

“That’s not much,” Peggy said. “There’s a guy who comes into the store and buys sixty dollars in tickets every week, and those are nothing but scratch-offs.”

“If you invested that money, you’d have something,” Margery said.

“If I win the lottery, I’ll really have something,” Peggy said. “Think about it. A guy right in Hallandale won twenty-three million. The good luck is getting closer. Look at the smile on that man’s face. That’s the same smile you’re going to see on mine.”

She passed Helen the paper. But Helen never got to the photo of the grinning winner. She was distracted by the headline on the opposite page: “Body of Unidentified Woman Found in Barrel in Biscayne Bay.”

The story began, “Miami Palms police are seeking information to identify the body of a woman found dead in a barrel in Biscayne Bay. The barrel was pulled from the water yesterday by . . .”

Helen could hear Peggy and Margery saying, “Helen, what’s wrong? Helen, are you OK?” but she couldn’t stop reading. The story continued:

“The woman was between thirty and forty years old, with shoulder-length blonde hair, and was wearing a black pants suit, a police spokesperson said. The deceased was described as being of slight build and about five foot three inches tall. Police said the woman is believed to have been dead about a week. The deceased died as the result of blunt trauma, sources said. Persons with information should contact . . .”

The page blurred. “Oh, my God, it’s Christina,” Helen said. “She’s dead. It’s right here in the paper.”

“Where?” Margery said, grabbing the paper. Helen pointed to the article with a shaky finger. Margery read it and said, “The dead woman was small, skinny, and blonde. That description would fit half the women in South Florida.”

But Helen was having trouble breathing. “No, it’s her. I know it. It’s horrible. She was beaten to death. That’s what ‘blunt trauma’ means. There’s a number to call. Margery, can I use your phone?”

“Sure, dear,” Margery said. The landlady put an arm around Helen’s waist and helped her to her apartment, as if Helen were an invalid. “Now, calm down. Don’t get so upset. If she’s really dead, it happened awhile ago, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Take some deep breaths. There. Feel better? You don’t know anything for sure yet. It still might be someone else. Lots of women wear black in South Florida.”

But Helen knew it was Christina. She sat down in Margery’s comforting purple recliner and had a sudden overpowering desire to fall asleep, but she knew she’d have no rest until she made that call. Her hands shook so badly, Margery had to dial the number for her.

The Miami Palms officer sounded more professional than the bored Sunnysea Beach policeman. Her name was Sweeney, she said.

Helen told Officer Sweeney about Christina not showing up for work. Sweeney asked many of the same questions as the Sunnysea missing persons officer. Helen had the same embarrassingly vague answers. How could she not know where Christina was going on vacation? she asked herself. Because Christina did not want to say. And I did not want to know.

“What was the subject wearing when you last saw her?” Sweeney asked.

“A black pantsuit with a long slinky jacket,” Helen said.

“Do you know the brand name?”

“Ferragamo,” Helen said. “I’m sure it was a Ferragamo. It was new.”

Officer Sweeney tried to keep her voice neutral, but Helen thought she heard a heightened interest. She asked Helen several questions about the suit’s details, down to the buttons.

“They were black with a gold center,” Helen said. “Very distinctive.”

“Would you be able to identify them?”

“Definitely,” Helen said.

Then Officer Sweeney asked if Christina had any distinguishing physical characteristics, “something that could help us with the identification.”

What made Christina different from any other underfed blonde in South Florida? Helen wondered.

“Well, she had her lips injected with collagen.”

“OK,” Sweeney said, and Helen knew that was no help. Everyone got their lips enlarged these days.

“And, wait, she just had some biopolymer injections in her face. The illegal ones. Something went wrong, and her right cheek is very swollen. It’s really big, about the size of a grapefruit half.”

“Um, that’s not going to help us in, uh, under the current circumstances,” Sweeney said, and Helen’s stomach lurched. She realized that elegant Christina was gone forever. Did the dead Christina know she looked like something in a horror movie now? How she would hate that. Was that part of her punishment? Good lord, I sound like my mother, Helen thought, and made herself listen to Sweeney again.

“. . . We’re trying to make an ID on the body,” she heard Sweeney say. “Would you know the name of her dentist?”

“I’m not sure she has one,” Helen said. “She told me once that she was afraid of dentists.”

“What about any surgical procedures? Any recent biopsies? Any blood she was stockpiling prior to a planned surgery?”

“She’s pretty healthy,” Helen said. “I don’t think she’s ever had any operations, except for breast implants. But I guess they don’t count. Everyone around here has those, right?”

“Actually, that’s very helpful,” Sweeney said. “Silicone implants have serial numbers.”

Then Helen blurted, “That’s awful! Her fake boobs are the only way to tell if it’s the real Christina.”

“I can’t believe I said that to the police,” Helen groaned.

“You were in shock,” Margery said. “Drink this hot tea.”

“What time is it?” Helen said. “I have to open the store.”

“It’s nine o’clock. Are you sure you’re well enough to go to work?” Margery said.

“Don’t fuss,” Helen said. “Work will do me good.” She stood up. She still felt wobbly, but she was OK.

“Peggy will drive you there,” Margery said. “And don’t argue.”

Helen did not. She was grateful for both women’s help. She hoped work would keep her mind off the horror of Christina’s death.

At Juliana’s, Helen opened a box of silk dresses, wrinkled and crammed too tightly into the box. She tried not to think of Christina, her battered body jammed into a barrel. Was she still alive when the barrel was dumped in the bay?

Helen called the florist and complained that the flowers looked funereal. “Send something cheerful,” she said. But the funeral Helen was thinking about was Christina’s. It would have to be closed casket. I’m burying her too soon. The police don’t know. It may not be Christina.

Everything reminded her of Christina. Helen knew Christina had done wicked things, but that’s not how she remembered her. Helen saw her sitting on the silk-satin loveseats, laughing with her regulars. She saw Christina finding the perfect dress for a desperate woman, convincing her it was designed to make a man as lovesick as she was. With Christina’s magic, it often did.

Helen saw Christina, slim and elegant, in her exquisite clothes. Then she saw her on an autopsy table, wearing a white sheet and a toe tag.

That’s when Helen picked up the phone and called Tara. She could not be alone at Juliana’s any more. Tara was eager to return to work.

“I’m sorry about Christina not coming back. I hope it’s not serious.”

“Nobody knows,” Helen said. She would not mention the newspaper article unless she had to. That would make it too real. “Do you know where Christina was going on vacation?”

“It’s funny,” Tara said, “but she went out of her way to avoid talking about it. I figured it was her business and didn’t press her. I’m sorry you want me back because there’s trouble, but I can’t wait to get out of here.”

Helen had not mentioned the fake robbery. The subject seemed to have barbed wire around it. Now Tara was whispering into the phone. “Paulie’s smothering me. I swear I can’t go to the john without him tagging along. He means well, but I’m going crazy. I’ll tell him my shrink recommends I go back to work as part of my recovery. And I know! I’ll say the cops have a twenty-four-hour guard on Juliana’s. You’ll back me up on that, right? I’ll be in Monday.”

“Terrific,” Helen said. “I need you.”

And she did. All morning long, customers came in and bought clothes as if someone had shredded their wardrobes with garden shears. Everyone asked after Christina. Some brought her little gifts, which Helen put away for when Christina returned. (If she returned.) I don’t know for sure the dead woman is Christina, Helen told herself. (But she is.) The ID hasn’t been confirmed yet. (But it will be.)

That afternoon, two Miami Palms homicide detectives showed up at Juliana’s. They looked like they’d been auditioning for Miami Vice. Did anyone still wear pink sport jackets and two-day stubble? The men even looked like Crockett and Tubbs. She wondered which one lived on the sailboat.

“Do you recognize this purse?” Crockett asked her. He pulled out a brown paper evidence bag. Inside was the vintage gold mesh purse with the diamonds on the clasp. The one Christina had showed Helen the day she left for vacation. Helen looked at it and felt the floor slide away. She grabbed onto the counter to keep from falling.

“Where did you get it?” she said. “Did you find it in her home? Or her car? Pawn shop, that’s where you got it. Someone stole it and . . .”

Helen was babbling. She knew it, and the detectives knew it, too. They looked at her with the professional sadness of people who have had to deliver too much bad news, and Helen could not lie to herself any longer.

“Christina is dead.” She’d said it. Now it was real.

“We found this purse with the body,” Crockett said.

How ironic, Helen thought. A fragile vintage purse survived unharmed, but Christina, hard as nails Christina, did not.

“One more thing, ma’am,” Crockett said. He showed her a smooth black button. The subtle gold center glowed like a jewel.

The words stuck in her throat. Helen forced them out. “It’s her suit button,” she said. “Was she alive when they put her in the barrel?”

“No,” Crockett said gently. “She was dead.”

Helen felt relieved. She did not ask if Christina had suffered. She’d been beaten to death. “Please don’t make me identify her.”

“No, you won’t have to,” Tubbs said. “We’ll make the ID from the implants.”

Helen felt an irrational anger flare up. “Then why did you have that terrible article in the paper, if you knew about the implants? Couldn’t you have traced her that way and saved me this?”

“The implant manufacturer was out of business,” Tubbs said. “The records were in storage. We were afraid it would take awhile to locate them. Time is important. The faster we start the investigation, the faster we can find her killer. We have the records now. But your information was a big help.”

“Does she have any family to bury her?” Helen asked.

“A sister, Lorraine,” Tubbs said. “She lives in Arkadelphia. Once the medical examiner is through, Lorraine will take the body home to Arkansas for burial. The sister is flying in today. We’d like to ask you some questions now, if you don’t mind.”

Helen locked the green door and put up the “back soon” sign. Then she and the detectives went to the black silk-satin loveseats. Helen sat down, even though sitting was forbidden for sales associates when there were no customers. Let Mr. Roget fire her. With Christina dead, who would run the store?

The detectives asked Helen questions for what seemed like hours. The funny thing was, Helen could not remember any of them later or how she answered. But she remembered being very careful. Helen did not lie to the police. She just did not tell them everything. She did not say anything about Christina’s drug dealing and skimming. She did not mention the murder of Desiree Easlee. She told herself she was too disoriented to deal with those matters now. If she said the wrong thing in her shocked state, she could be implicated in drug dealing, embezzling, and murder. After all, they happened at the shop. She needed time to work out the best way to tell the police.

After the homicide detectives left, Helen called Mr. Roget. The store owner made appropriate sounds of horror and dismay when he learned of Christina’s murder, but they sounded perfunctory to Helen. He seemed more interested in making sure that Helen and Tara could run the store now that Christina was dead.

“I’m not sure I want to manage Juliana’s, Mr. Roget,” she said, just to see how the old cheapskate would react.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he said. “I can give you an additional dollar an hour.”

“That’s all? For running a store?” Helen said.

“You’ll get your commission after six months. And of course, I’ll keep the same terms, cash only, off the books,” he said, and it almost sounded like a threat. Helen remembered the Las Olas store owner who wouldn’t pay her in cash. She’d be making seven seventy an hour. She knew how hard it was to get that money on her terms.

“OK, Mr. Roget. Do you want me to close the store Monday, in honor of Christina?”

“Oh, no, Helen,” he said, genuinely upset now. “Don’t close the store. Christina wouldn’t want that.”

Right, Helen thought. And you wouldn’t want to miss a sale. She wondered if he’d closed the store when his own mother, the original Juliana, died.

“And Helen,” he added, “do what you can to keep the store name out of the newspapers. We don’t want that kind of publicity for Juliana’s, do we?”

Now a new fear gripped Helen, something she’d never thought of. What if Christina’s murder got a lot of press? What if her own name got in the newspapers? And the two homicide detectives. Their clothes may have been out of style, but they looked smart. Suppose they figured out who Helen was? One phone call back to St. Louis, one story on the news wires, and Rob would find her.

Helen would have to go back to cold St. Louis. There would be no evenings spent drinking wine by the Coronado pool with Peggy and Pete. No purple-clad Margery, dispensing chocolate and sympathy. No glimpses of Daniel, the perfect man.

It was a horrible prospect.

Helen felt sick just thinking about it. She ran for the rest-room and threw up. Then she closed the shop for the day. To hell with Mr. Roget.