Shop Till You Drop

Chapter 23

Did Tara kill Christina?

Christina had preyed on her friend, bleeding her for money, month after month. Tara had to pretend they were still friends to keep her privileged life. She would only be free if she had those photos. Tara was so desperate, she beat her head against the wall until she bled, then made up the story of the armed intruders.

But Tara still didn’t have the photos. She needed Christina alive.

Helen could see a frustrated Tara beating Christina to death with something heavy like a tire iron. But she couldn’t see tiny Tara stuffing the dead body into a barrel and then lugging the heavy barrel out to Biscayne Bay.

Tara seemed so delicate, so fragile. But delicate Tara could carry huge armsful of clothes to the dressing rooms. Fragile Tara could lift big boxes of stock. Tara was strong as a stevedore.

Helen wanted to find Christina’s killer. She was tired of being afraid. She was afraid Detective Dwight Hansel would discover her past. But she didn’t want the killer to be Tara. She liked Tara, despite her occasional outbreaks of silliness.

But how could Helen unravel this mess? She had no detecting skills. She didn’t know the meaning of the mysterious words on Tara’s flyer, “Love Will Keep Us Together.” They could be a slogan, a song, a code. Or a note Christina jotted down that had nothing to do with anything.

Maybe the key was hidden in those appliance manuals. Maybe there were more blackmail victims. But every time Helen slipped back to the stockroom, the doorbell rang, and she had more customers.

Helen soon saw any search was hopeless while the store was open. She’d wait until this evening. She was itching to read those appliance manuals. She had to know if there were more juicy secrets buried in those dry pages.

The wait was almost unendurable. It grew worse when the last person Helen wanted to see walked into Juliana’s—Niki. The woman who paid for the murder of Desiree Easlee now flashed her wedding ring like a trophy. She’d won, although Helen did not think Jimmy the Shirt was any prize.

The bride wore black, a good color for a killer. Even Helen had to admit that Niki made a radiant bride, until you got close. Then her mouth was bitter, and her eyes were hard. But the Playboy non-centerfold finally had a man. Helen wondered if he could endure her perfume until death parted them.

“I just heard about Christina,” Niki cooed. “It’s so terrible. She would have been so happy to know that Jimmy and I are married.”

“I thought Jimmy was going to marry Desiree,” Helen said. She couldn’t resist.

“She died,” Niki said, shortly. The perfume cloud around her quivered.

“She was murdered, wasn’t she?” Helen said. “It must have been a shock when you saw the reports on TV.”

“I didn’t. I was devastated when Jimmy . . . well, when Jimmy and I split up. I went home to Mother. I spent the whole month in Athens.”

“Georgia?” Helen said. Niki could have driven from Georgia to Florida and back without leaving a trace.

“Greece,” Niki said.

That would be a little tougher.

“I flew straight back when I heard about the carjacking. Poor Jimmy was so lonely. He threw himself into my arms and said he still loved me. He admitted Desiree was a mistake. He wanted to get married right away, so we’d never be apart again. We got our license and went to a judge, then caught a plane to Costa Rica. We’ve been there ever since on our honeymoon.”

Clever Niki was telling Helen she had an alibi for both Desiree and Christina.

“How was Costa Rica?” Helen asked.

Niki wrinkled her nose. “Full of bugs. But I don’t care. I’m so happy.” Her lips twisted into a Lady Macbeth smile.

What woman would marry a man right after his fiancée was buried?

The woman who hired her killer.

Jimmy was another gem. His bride-to-be was brutally murdered, days before their wedding. Her coffin was barely underground before he married another woman. Jimmy had not bothered to mourn his fiancée one week. The “mistake” had been erased.

Niki and Jimmy deserved each other. Helen was glad when Niki finally left Juliana’s, even though the bride didn’t buy anything. Her perfume lingered like an accusation. Helen felt like airing out the store.

The day crawled forward. Helen and Tara dragged clothes in and out of dressing rooms. Customers dropped ten-thousand-dollar gowns on the floor, left Hermes scarves draped over chairs, and abandoned belts on counters. They bought almost nothing. It was six-twenty when the last customer left Juliana’s.

Tara had been pale and subdued all day. She did not speak to Helen, except to ask the price of a Versace shirt. Now Tara said, “I guess you won’t want me working here any more.”

“Why?” Helen said.

“Now that you know what I am,” Tara said.

“I know you’re a good saleswoman, and I expect you here at ten in the morning,” Helen said. “Why don’t you go home before Paulie starts worrying? I’ll close up.”

“Thanks,” Tara said, and managed a weak smile. But she left as if she was escaping from jail. Poor Tara, trying live down her long-buried past. She must have dreaded the day it would be unearthed. Helen knew how she felt. She had her own secrets.

Helen locked the door, closed out the cash register, and put the money in the night safe. Alone at last.

The stack of appliance manuals was sitting in the stockroom, safe and dull as a pot roast. Helen paged through telephone booklets, security system manuals, and light fixture instructions. She shook each one and fanned the pages.

She found six things, but they were hardly fodder for blackmailers. They were harmless articles. Five were the sort of stories proud mothers showed their bridge clubs. The sixth was a routine news story.

Helen found the first story hidden in a computer manual. The pill-popping Venetia was “Local Mother of Year” in the Golden Shores Gazette. She was praised as the “spirit of Golden Shores volunteerism,” who raised half a million dollars for the children’s home. “But she’s also the busy mother of two little boys,” the article oozed.

Venetia’s Adolfo suit could have come from Nancy Reagan’s closet. Helen was surprised how attractive Venetia looked when she wasn’t twitching.

The puzzle was Christina’s bold, black writing on this clipping. She’d scrawled “Mother and Child Reunion.” Definitely a song title, a Paul Simon hit from the 1970s.

What did that mean? Why hide this story in a computer manual? It could not possibly be blackmail material.

Next, Helen found a newsletter for a Wichita nursing home. The Sunny Gables Monthly had named Cindy Pretters as Employee of the Year.

Despite the big hair and bad makeup, Helen could see that Cindy was Tiffany, before her eye job. Cindy/Tiffany’s baggy uniform was a far cry from the clothes she wore now, bought by her rich old boyfriend, Burt.

Even ten years ago, Tiffany had a knack for pleasing older men. She was photographed with four nursing home residents. The three elderly men looked at Tiffany like she’d just let them into heaven. Tiffany’s charm seemed to escape the only other woman in the picture. Mrs. Vera Crinklaw, age ninety-two, stared stoically into the camera, as if she’d been forced to attend at gunpoint.

Christina had scrawled another song title on the Sunny Gables Monthly: “Silver Threads Among the Gold.” Helen’s grandmother liked to sing that song. It was even older than the Captain & Tennille hit.

That was two articles.

In a booklet for a battery-operated clock, Helen found the third: a People magazine story about the supermodel Sharmayne. She was photographed at an animal shelter benefit hugging her German shepherd, Big Boy. Sharmayne was at the height of her career and her beauty. The disastrous liposuction was another year away. But despite Sharmayne’s stunning looks, it was Big Boy who stole the photo. He made Rin-Tin-Tin look like the runt of the litter. His fur was glossy, his bearing noble, his eyes alert and intelligent. No wonder Sharmayne told the magazine “Big Boy is my main man.”

Christina’s black slashing writing was on this story, too. It was a Nick Lowe song, “The Beast in Me.”

The fourth was a business article announcing that Christina’s ex-boyfriend, Joe, had paid six hundred thousand dollars for a five-thousand-square-foot warehouse near Port Everglades. This story was so boring, Helen could hardly read it to the end.

In the margin, Christina had written “Gotta Serve Somebody.”

A Bob Dylan hit? This made no sense whatsoever.

Story number five was hidden in the instructions for store shelving. It was an article from Chicagoland Hi-Life, a magazine devoted to rich people’s parties.

“Chocolate Lovers Bash Sweetens Charity,” the sugary headline said, but it was the photo that captured Helen’s attention. It starred another Juliana’s regular, Niki, the perfumed bride from hell, with four female partygoers. The benefit was at a lavish house, and the four women dripped diamonds. Only Niki had no jewelry. She outshone them all in a simple black dress.

Christina had written “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Why use this clichéd show tune?

The last article was a short news story about the death of Brittney’s fiancé, Steve. The story said his body had been found by a boater in a canal near the Seventeenth Street Bridge.

The couple was to be married in June. The story said the medical examiner found “significant amounts” of alcohol in the deceased’s blood. Steve’s death was ruled an accident, but Helen could see how the suicide whispers had started.

Christina had written “Tiny Bubbles” on this story, Don Ho’s ode to a bottle of bubbly. It was a mean choice for a man who got drunk and drowned.

Helen looked through the stack of manuals again but found nothing else. It was almost eight o’clock when she left the store. On the walk home, Helen puzzled over the articles and song titles. They were an eclectic collection, from Nick Lowe to Don Ho. If this was a code, it was beyond Helen.

She had been searching for two hours. Helen knew less than when she started. She had not found Tara’s blackmail photos.

Where did Christina hide them? The police had already searched her penthouse. Did that mean the photos weren’t there? Did the police miss the hiding spot? Or did they have the photos, and they weren’t telling Helen? No, if Dwight Hansel had those photos, he would not miss an opportunity to torment her.

Tara had searched the store and found nothing. It was Helen who stumbled on the Las Vegas flyer by accident.

How many other secrets did Juliana’s hold?

These questions buzzed around Helen like gnats, irritating her and refusing to go away. When she finally got to the Coronado, Helen went out by the pool, looking for Peggy or Margery. She wanted to discuss her finds, but neither woman was home.

Instead, Daniel and Cal the Canadian were talking at the picnic table. Daniel was barechested, and his tanned abs looked like they’d been bronzed. His cobalt eyes had a wicked slant in the twilight. His long hair tumbled down his shoulders like black silk. Next to him, Cal seemed old and shrunken, juiceless and used up.

“Yes, sir,” Daniel was saying. “I agree that the American medical system leaves much to be desired. But I’m not convinced the Canadian system is a cure-all. I read that in some Canadian hospitals, patients lie in the hallways because there aren’t enough beds. Is that true?”

Daniel was so well mannered, Helen thought. Most Coronado residents walked away when Cal started lecturing on the joys of Canada, but Daniel listened patiently and answered thoughtfully.

Cal growled an answer Helen couldn’t quite hear. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, sir,” Daniel said. “See you later.”

Helen watched Daniel walk to the parking lot. His muscles moved like oiled coils of steel. Daniel was barely out of earshot, when Cal said, “ ‘Sir’! He says ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir.’ To me!” Cal kicked the picnic table with his sandaled foot.

“But, Cal, you’re always complaining that Americans are not as polite as Canadians,” Helen said. She enjoyed tweaking Cal. He still had not paid back the money he’d “borrowed” for that disastrous dinner at Catfish Dewey’s.

“But he called me ‘sir,’ ” Cal said. “He makes me feel like his grandfather.”

Well, you look like his grandfather, Helen wanted to say. But she didn’t, proving that Americans were politer than Cal thought.

The green door did not open quite so often these days. Customers were drifting away, as Helen feared. But not Juliana’s small group of regulars. They kept coming back and asking the oddest questions.

“Did Christina give you an envelope with my name on it?” asked Sharmayne, the former supermodel. She waltzed in that Saturday morning and disdainfully demanded to speak to Helen.

“No,” Helen said.

“You must have it somewhere,” Sharmayne said. “Look again.” She tossed her mane of hair like an impatient pony.

“I don’t have it,” Helen repeated firmly, and Sharmayne knew she’d been rude. She tried her softest smile, the one usually reserved for rich men.

“Christina was going to send me something right before she died. I never received it, so it must still be at the store.”

“Maybe it was at her home,” Helen said. “In that case, her sister Lorraine would have it, or the police.”

Sharmayne blanched. “No,” she said. “I know it’s here. If you find an envelope with my name on it, send it to me. Don’t open it, please.”

Don’t open it?

Sharmayne saw her silence as stonewalling. “There will be a reward if I get that letter unopened,” she said. “A big reward. Very big.”

Sharmayne walked through Juliana’s, pointing at clothes until she had picked out more than the average woman spent on herself in a year. Helen carried them to the dressing room. Sharmayne stripped off her shirt and began unbuttoning her low-rise jeans. Helen fled. She couldn’t stand another look at those ruined thighs with the liposuction scars.

This time, Sharmayne bought. She wanted all the splendid, splashy things, but she seemed to buy them more to stay on Helen’s good side than because she enjoyed them.

Tiffany with the bad eye job was the first regular, but not the last, to bring Helen “a little present.” She gave Helen silver Elsa Peretti earrings from Tiffany’s “because I want you to be my friend.”

Niki had given Helen a Movado watch with a charming note: “Time we were friends.”

She told Helen, “I’d like to have the same relationship with you that I had with Christina.” Niki’s words glittered with unspoken meaning and lingered long after Helen got her perfume stink out of the store. Does she want me to find her another hit man? Helen wondered. Christina did not have time to blackmail Niki about Desiree’s death, if she in fact arranged it. Something else was going on.

The presents made Helen uneasy, but she kept them. They were no more than tip money for these women. She could pawn the watch and earrings if she ever needed cash fast.

Christina had something on all of you, Helen thought. I can’t figure out what. But I’d better find out soon.

Tara did not offer Helen bribes or presents. She seemed grateful for Helen’s silence and her acceptance. She worked even harder. She followed Helen around the store like a puppy. Helen knew it wasn’t just gratitude that kept Tara at her side. Tara wanted those incriminating photos, and she would not let Helen out of her sight until they turned up.

The only person Helen didn’t hear from was Venetia, Mother of the Year and Pill Popper of the Decade. Helen figured Venetia had found a new pusher and was twitching somewhere else.

She was surprised when Joe, Christina’s ex-boyfriend, called that Saturday afternoon and asked if Christina had left anything for him.

“Like what, Joe?” Helen said.

“A package, an envelope, a box, I dunno. But I know she was going to give it to me. So you find anything with my name on it, you call me day or night, no problemo, and I’ll pick it up. And, Helen, there will be a reward. A big one, you know what I mean?”

“I’m sorry, Joe, but I haven’t found anything.”

“She had something for me,” he said. “I want it. Now.”

Joe must have realized that sounded like a threat, because he softened his words. “I mean, I miss her, and it would be nice to have some way to remember her. We were kinda engaged.”

“Except you dumped her,” Helen said. “If she left you a package, I’d open it carefully. If it ticks, it may not be a watch.”

“She always said you were great with the jokes,” Joe said. “We split, but it was a misunderstanding. I . . . I loved her.” He managed a teary throb in his voice.

Right. You really loved Christina, she thought. That’s why you have never said Christina’s name, just “she” and “her.”

Joe’s voice grew softer, more persuasive. It oozed through the phone like honey. The receiver felt sticky. “Look, Helen, let me level with you. That cop, Dwight Handel—”

“Hansel,” Helen said.

“Yeah, him. He’s on me like white on rice. He thinks I killed her.”

“Why you?” Helen said. “Aren’t bodies in barrels mob hits?”

“The FBI said this was not a mob hit. It was made to look like one. They’re not interested in it. But this Dwight Handel—”

“Hansel,” Helen said again.

“Whatever. He’s definitely interested in me. I’ve had to get a lawyer. I’m not supposed to be talking about this, but I’ve got to have that package. I mean, it like clears my name.”

Sure it does.

“Don’t you have an alibi for the time Christina died?” she said, fishing for more facts.

“That’s just it,” he said. “The police can’t tell exactly when she was killed. She was kinda messed up after being in that leaky barrel for about a week. She was very decompressed.”

“Decomposed,” Helen said.

“That, too. They coulda figured it out by the stomach contents, but she didn’t eat nothing.”

And who’s fault was that? Helen wondered.

“All they can say for sure is it happened sometime between Saturday after she left the shop and Monday morning. I don’t have an alibi. I was alone the whole weekend, kicking back, watching videos and drinking beer.”

Joe never spent any time by himself, if he could help it. Helen knew that. Every weekend, he and Christina and a carload of friends went to the South Beach clubs. He couldn’t stand to be alone. He might hear his empty head rattle.

“The police think she was probably killed sometime Saturday after she got off work, though, because she got her last cell phone call at six-twenty-two.”

“Who called Christina?”

“Me,” Joe said.

Helen was relieved when Brittney came into Juliana’s about four that afternoon. She was wearing something white and drifting that made her look like a lovely lost soul. White was the color of mourning in some cultures. It certainly looked mournful on Brittney.

Brittney was different from the others. There were no odd overtones, no presents, no offers of money if Helen found any letters or packages. She wanted to talk about Christina. Helen thought Brittney sincerely grieved for her friend, although she did not look sad. How could she? Brittney could show no emotion.

She was the only one who seemed to care if Christina’s killer was caught.

“It’s just terrible about Christina,” Brittney said, her voice soft and fluttery as moth wings. “What are the police doing about it?”

“They searched her house. Then they searched the store,” Helen said.

“They find anything?” sighed Brittney. It sounded so hopeless when she said it.

“They found nothing,” Helen said.

But I did, she thought.