Shop Till You Drop

Chapter 26

“My life,” Helen said, “is in the toilet.”

She was staring at a blue toilet with a gnarled schefflera plant growing in the bowl. A bathtub was planted with a mass of spiky mother-in-law’s tongue.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Sarah said.

Bathtubs and commodes were the decor at Le Tub, one of Hollywood’s funkier restaurants. Some of the exiled porcelain were planters. Others were painted with slogans: “An inexpensive place for folks with money!” one tub said.

Le Tub’s weathered wood booths overlooked the silver water of the Intracoastal. A boy fed his french fries to the fish. Helen watched the sun set. It was hard to take her troubles seriously when she sat between a bathtub and a post-card view.

Sarah looked chic in a gauzy white outfit, and Helen remembered with shame that she was a Juliana’s reject. “Thanks for taking me here,” Helen said. “I feel better already.”

“Good,” Sarah said. Her charm bracelet jingled cheerfully, but her bright brown eyes were sympathetic. “I’m sorry about Daniel.”

“I feel like such a fool,” Helen said.

“Why? The guy was a scam artist who operated in three states. Florida breeds them like mosquitoes. If you got conned by him, you’ve got plenty of company. At least you didn’t give him your life savings.”

“I gave him my heart,” Helen said, then wished she’d never said something so ridiculous.

“Honey, at our age, that’s a gift we’ve given before. He didn’t get anything new.”

Helen giggled. A waiter came by, and both women ordered white wine and seafood salads.

“I’m trying to think of Daniel as a diversion,” Helen said. “When I was with him, I forgot my troubles.”

“But you still have them,” Sarah reminded her. “What’s happening with the investigation? Who are your candidates for Christina’s murder?”

“There are too many,” Helen said. “Christina was blackmailing at least five people, maybe more. It was nasty. She could ruin a lot of people.”

“Like who?” Sarah said.

“Tara, for starters. Christina had proof that she was a prostitute in Vegas.”

“This is South Florida. Would anyone care?” Sarah said.

“Tara’s boyfriend, Paulie. He’d dump her in a heartbeat, and he’s her meal ticket. Christina was bleeding Tara for two thousand a month, and she wanted more. Tara says she wouldn’t kill Christina because she couldn’t find the incriminating photos. I think she’s telling the truth. Of course, I believed Daniel was the perfect man.”

“Enough flagellation,” Sarah said. “You’re starting to enjoy it.”

“Christina also had compromising material on Sharmayne, the supermodel, and Tiffany with the bad eye job.”

“The woman was busy,” Sarah said.

“I think she may have been blackmailing her ex-boyfriend Joe, too. He’s been bugging me for a package he says Christina left him. The creep practically threatened me. The only problem is, I haven’t found any blackmail photos for Joe yet. But I still have to check the other CD tower.”

“What’s his song?”

“ ‘You Gotta Serve Somebody.’ ”

“Dylan,” Sarah said. “Christina had good taste. An ugly sense of humor, but good taste.”

“Oh, yeah?” Helen said. “Then why am I looking for Don Ho’s ‘Tiny Bubbles’?”

“I don’t know, why are you?”

“It might have something to do with the death of Brittney’s fiancé, except she’s not acting like the others,” Helen said. “I don’t think Brittney was being blackmailed.”

The seafood salads were served in paper bowls, with forks sticking out of the top and a pile of paper napkins on the side. They were mounds of fresh calamari, salmon, crab, and shrimp.

“Oh, I forgot Venetia, the jittery drug customer,” Helen said. “Christina was blackmailing her, too. That woman is weird enough to flip out and kill Christina, but she’s too skinny to hurt anyone.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Sarah said. “I used to work in a hospital. The skinny druggies can get powerfully strong when they are desperate. It took four men to restrain one ninety-pound cokehead at our hospital.”

“Then I’ll keep Venetia on the list,” Helen said. “There’s also Niki. Christina knew she’d been a jewel thief. And there was the murder for hire. Except everything went right. Desiree died, and Niki got her man.”

“Maybe Christina was blackmailing her for it anyway,” Sarah said.

“Maybe. But Niki couldn’t have killed Christina. When the murder took place, she says was in Greece.”

“That’s what she says. I say we check her out,” Sarah said.

Their seafood salads were eaten, the sun had gone down, and Helen was shivering in the chill evening air. “Let’s go back to my place for coffee and Key lime pie and talk this over further,” Sarah said.

Helen had no problem discussing the blackmail business with Sarah. But she would not mention it to her landlady, Margery. Maybe she did not want Margery knowing too much. Her landlady already had Helen’s suitcase full of cash.

Helen and Sarah walked along Hollywood Beach until they reached Sarah’s condo. Kids pedaled by on low-slung yellow banana bikes, their rumps nearly touching the ground. Young couples kissed by the ocean. Old couples walked hand-in-hand on the boardwalk. Tired parents packed up their beach umbrellas and sunburned offspring.

At her condo, Sarah made coffee and cut two slices of pie.“I gather you’re not going to the police with this new information?” she said.

Helen just looked at her.

“You’re afraid Detective Dwight Hansel will make your life difficult, and you’ll need an expensive lawyer, like Joe had to get.”

“Yes,” Helen said. It was partly true. The whole truth was worse.

“Then you’ll have to solve Christina’s murder yourself.”

“I’m no detective. I don’t know where to begin.”

“Find out who has an alibi for the day Christina died.”

“Weekend,” Helen said. “Well, sort of. The police think she was killed sometime between Saturday evening and Monday morning. Christina’s last phone call was with her ex-boyfriend Joe, about six-twenty Saturday night. She’d left the store by then. I know for sure that Joe has no alibi. Niki claims to have one. I can’t tell you about the blackmail victims or Brittney.”

“Then you need to know. Invite them all to the store, the way Nero Wolfe gets people to come to his brownstone. Then ask where they were the weekend Christina died.”

“How am I going to get these women in the store at the same time?”

“They shop there all the time. Invite them for a special sale.”

“Juliana’s never has anything as plebeian as sales,” Helen said. “But we are getting in some lovely new stock. I can offer them a first look. A special champagne showing. It will cost me a couple of bottles of bubbly.”

“Don’t you dare pay for the champagne yourself. Take the money out of petty cash.”

“You’re right. I will,” Helen said defiantly. “What’s old Tightwad Roget going to do? Fire me?”

Sarah’s cell phone rang, and she looked at the caller’s number. “Oops. I have to take this. Make yourself at home.”

This might work, Helen thought. She used to analyze financial reports in her other life. Now she could analyze alibis. Helen remembered something else. There was a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward if she caught Christina’s killer. She didn’t have to bring in the killer at gunpoint. Just give the police information leading to the arrest and conviction.

Sarah’s call was taking longer than she thought. Helen read an old Best Friends magazine she found on the coffee table. She was halfway through a story about theater cats when Sarah came out of her office and caught Helen in mid-yawn. “I’m tired, too,” Sarah said. “Take the magazine. I’ll drive you home.”

The more they talked about the special showing on the drive home, the more enthusiastic Helen became. “I’ll hold the champagne showing in two days. Tell them it’s a one-time-only offer. I’ll start calling first thing tomorrow. There’s just one problem: How am I going to get these women to talk about where they were when Christina died?”

“Tell them you know the time of death. They’ll jump in with where they were. It will be easier than you think,” Sarah said. “Trust me.”

“That’s what got me into trouble in the first place,” Helen said.

The champagne showing had everything a Juliana’s regular could want: secrecy, snobbery, and special treatment.

Helen called each woman and made her swear not to tell a soul, knowing she would talk the instant she hung up. Her conversation with Tiffany was typical.

“You have to keep this quiet,” Helen said. “I can only invite five special people. I couldn’t ask Melissa or Bianca, much as I love them, because, frankly, you’re a better customer.”

“I won’t breathe a word,” Tiffany said. “I’m so honored.”

She was, too. Helen felt a little sad.

Niki jumped at the chance to be one of the chosen. Brittney said she’d be delighted. Even the hard-boiled Sharmayne said yes. That really surprised Helen. But she suspected the women liked the idea they were getting special treatment in a store that prided itself on exclusivity.

Helen’s one failure was Venetia. She couldn’t reach her at home or on her cell phone. Helen kept calling every half hour. It was five o’clock, the day before the special sale, when a shrill voice answered the phone.

“Venetia?” Helen began. “This is Juliana’s, and we’d like to invite you to a special—”

“I can’t believe you’d have the nerve to call here,” the woman screeched. “You’ve ruined my daughter-in-law. Ruined her.”

Whoa. Venetia’s husband had definitely married someone like Mom.

“Do you know where she is?” the screecher continued. “In a private hospital, trying to recover from the damage you did. She went to your store to return a purse and came home raving. I don’t know what you gave her, but it sent Venetia over the edge. We had to commit her that afternoon. She’s been there ever since. If it wouldn’t bring more shame on our family, I’d call the cops, you heartless—”

“Wait, it wasn’t me,” Helen said. “I’m the new acting manager.”

“Where is that terrible Christina? Did they finally fire her?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“I don’t hear anything. I’m trying to keep my son’s family together.”

“Christina was murdered,” Helen said.

“Good,” the woman said, and slammed down the phone.

Venetia had an alibi, and it was ironclad: She was in a detox ward when Christina was murdered. But that made Helen one person short for the champagne showing. The solution was standing—or rather, moping—in front of her.

“Tara,” Helen said. “I need a big favor. Tomorrow, would you be a customer instead of a sales associate? If you buy anything, you can use your store discount. I’ll also pay you for your time.”

Tara squealed like a little girl getting a special treat. “That’s your idea of a big favor? I’ve been dying to go. I was thinking of quitting so I could be a customer. I’ve already got my eye on that new black D&G.”

Helen showed up at the store that Friday morning with three bottles of chilled Piper-Heidsieck Extra Dry for the five women.

“Aren’t you going to put out any snacks with that?” Tara said.

“No, they buy more if it’s just champagne,” Helen said. They talk more, too, she thought.

Tara looked dubious. “Niki doesn’t hold her liquor well,” she said. “Neither does Tiffany.”

“I promise I’ll send anyone who gets tipsy home in a cab,” Helen said.

At ten-forty-five, while Tara shooed out the uninvited customers, Helen hung an elegantly lettered sign on the green door. It said, “Closed for a special event. Reopen at two p.m.”

By eleven-oh-two, all the special guests had arrived. Helen popped the first champagne cork. It was like she had fired a starter’s pistol.

The five women bought as if shopping was a competition sport, an Olympic event. They spent like drunken congress-men with taxpayers’ money. The clothes Tara bought cost more than Helen made in a year at Juliana’s. Niki beat her in the shopping sweepstakes. Brittney spent more than both women combined.

The women spent with style. They tried on dresses that laced fetchingly up the front like corsets or bared elegant backs. Skirts were slit to the thigh. Blouses showed off smooth shoulders or slender waists.

The fabrics were rich or sheer or so frothy you wanted to dive into them.

The colors were edible. Tiffany bought a delectable peach slip dress. It’s stylish on her, Helen thought. I’d look like I was in my underwear.

Sharmayne came out in a severe black Chanel suit piped in white, and black ankle-strap heels straight out of a bondage catalogue. The effect was incredibly sexy. Everyone applauded, and Sharmayne did a catwalk strut through the store.

They are so beautiful, Helen thought. They’re like flowers in an exotic garden. Except one of these beauties could be a killer. She looked at the gorgeous women laughing and sipping champagne. She wondered which one murdered Christina and let her rot in Biscayne Bay.

She also wondered why she was trying to trap this killer. Was she nuts? The fear began crawling in her guts again. I’m playing Nero Wolfe, she thought, but I forgot he had Archie Goodwin when he sat in a room with a killer. Not me. I’m getting them drunk. I’m unarmed and desperate.

Helen stood at the cash register like a soldier at her post, ringing up one purchase after another, until Juliana’s profited more than a hundredfold on the investment of three bottles of champagne. After the buying fever was over, the five women sat on the loveseats. Spent was the only word to describe them.

They were now deep into the third bottle of champagne. Niki had hiccups. She sent out a wave of perfume with each hic. Helen thought she’d better pop the question before it was too late.

“I’d like to propose a toast to Christina,” Helen said, lifting a champagne flute.

“She would have loved this,” Tiffany said, sounding the least bit teary. She finished the glass in one gulp.

“Don’t the police know anything about her . . . ”—Niki couldn’t bring herself to say “murder”—“passing?”

“They know the time of death,” Helen said. “They think she died sometime between Saturday evening and Monday morning.”

“That’s so sad,” Niki said. She gave an enormous hic and then a delicate belch. “I didn’t come back until Saturday. I mean the Thursday after she passed.” And interesting slip, Helen thought. Was the date of the carjacking and Christina’s murder on her mind? Or did she just say too much?

“I was in Greece,” Niki said. It sounded like Griss. “I was having a wonderful time while Christina was getting murdered.”

I’d better get a cab for Niki, Helen thought.

“I spent the whole time with Paulie, but I can’t say it was all that wonderful,” Tara said. The word came out “wunnerful.” She moved her head abruptly and slapped herself in the face with her long dark hair.

No way to prove that, Helen thought. And Tara was tipsy, too.

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” Tiffany said, and finished off another glass. The champagne should have made her eyelids droop, but surgery had stretched them too tight. Instead, she looked slightly bug-eyed.

“Too bad they don’t give Oscars for best performance in bed,” Tara said. “Then the world would know what a good actress I am.”

Tara wasn’t tipsy. She was sloshed. Two cabs, thought Helen.

Brittney adroitly steered the conversation away from the slippery subject of sheets. “Where were you, Sharmayne?” she whispered. “Some place glamorous, I’m sure.”

“I was at the Frances Sneed Memorial Scholarship benefit in New York.”

“I saw your picture in the New York Times,” Tiffany said. “You wore your black Vera Wang. It looked super.”

“And where was—hic—your hic— your little puppy, Big Boy, while you were in New York?” Niki said.

Helen felt herself blush at the mention of the dog’s name. Sharmayne must have seen her face redden. She stared right at Helen and said, “I took him with me. I never board him at the vet’s. Big Boy doesn’t know he’s a dog. We stayed over until Monday.”

Sharmayne knows I’ve seen those blackmail photos, Helen thought. And she’s absolutely sober. The fear snakes in the pit of her stomach slithered nervously.

“How about you, Brittney?” Sharmayne said.

“I was at the Kensington art and jewelry sale in Boca,” Brittney whispered. She looked rather like a work of art herself. One of those lifelike people sculptures so popular a few years back.

“Ooh, that’s the three-day sale by invitation only,” Tara said.

“Right,” Brittney breathed. “I stayed at a hotel from Saturday night until Monday morning and shopped till I dropped.”

“Lucky you,” Tara said. “Three days of bargains.”

“Don’t you usually go to the Kensington sale, Tiffany?” Brittney said.

Tiffany’s eyes bulged like an ornamental goldfish’s. She tossed off another flute of champagne before she said, “No, my boyfriend, Burt, was out of town. His big saltwater aquarium broke Friday right after he left. Cracked right down the middle. I spent the whole weekend running around getting new saltwater fish and a new tank and everything. Took me till Monday to get things back together. It was awful. Flish fopping all over the carpet . . .”

The phrase “fish flopping” had defeated her pierced tongue.

“Did you go to Deep Blue Sea for your saltwater fish?” Brittney asked.

“No,” Tiffany hiccupped.

“Funny,” Brittney said, softly. “They have the best selection.”

“Well, I didn’t think so,” Tiffany said. She sounded flustered, and for a moment Helen caught a glimpse of the straggly-haired girl who swiped jewelry at the old folks home.

“So where did you buy your fish?” Brittney asked. The woman would have made a good prosecuting attorney.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Tiffany said, slurring her words.

She’s lying, Helen thought. And she doesn’t have an alibi.

At two o’clock, the champagne was drunk, and so were at least three customers.

“Time for me to reopen the store,” Helen said. “And your cabs are here. Tara, ready to go?”

“How am I going to explain to Paulie why I’m coming home in the middle of the day?” Tara said.

“Tell him you got the flu,” Helen said.

“The wine flu,” Niki giggled. Her perfume seemed to be getting stronger as she got drunker. “Gotta queshun. Christina leave anything for me?”

“Some papers?” Helen said, thinking of Niki’s arrest record squirreled away in the CD case.

“No, a tape. Wedding songs. I’d like it for sennimen—for stentimen—for pers’nal reasons.”

“I haven’t found any tapes,” Helen said.

“You wouldn’t lie to little Niki?” Her face crumpled like a wet Kleenex, and Helen was afraid she might cry. Time to go. Helen loaded Tara, Tiffany, and Niki into cabs, along with their mountains of purchases. Brittney said she could drive herself home. Helen had not seen her drink more than half a glass of champagne.

Sharmayne was completely sober. She was also the last to leave. She stood at the door, hip cocked at an aggressive angle, voice lowered to an icy threat.

“I know what you were doing,” Sharmayne said.

Then she slammed the green door in Helen’s face.