Dying to Call You

Chapter 4

“I think we better get together,” Savannah said.

Helen realized she’d been holding her breath. “I thought you’d call the cops on me, the way I blurted that out.”

“I’ve got a good feel for people,” Savannah said. “I hear a lot of things besides words when they talk. I think you want to help me. Where do you live?”

“Right off Las Olas,” Helen said. “How about the Floridian?”

“Sure, it’s my favorite grease spot.”

They agreed to meet there a little after ten P.M., when Helen got off work.

A distracted Helen signed up two more people for the martini survey, but she couldn’t keep her mind on her work—or her eyes off the clock. Nellie, her supervisor, must have noticed, but she said nothing.

The black hands crawled around the clock face like they were crippled. After half an eternity, it was ten o’clock.

Helen walked up Las Olas with long, impatient strides, slowed by tourists fluttering around the chichi stores like moths around patio lights.

“Isn’t that cute!” she heard over and over. Helen wondered how everything from a spike heel to a cat statue could be cute.

The Floridian had resisted the yuppification of Las Olas.

There was no valet parking. The waitresses took no sass off anyone. The cashier took no checks or credit cards. In fact, a blond couple in impeccable unwrinkled linen was arguing with her now. Helen stood just inside the door and watched the drama.

“But we don’t carry cash,” the blond woman said.

“We got an ATM right here,” the cashier said, pointing to a pint-size money machine across from the cash register.

“Our credit cards don’t work in that one,” the blond man said, as if that settled it. He had the smooth face of someone who always got his way. A tiny wrinkle now marred the woman’s forehead. She glanced warily at the kitchen, as though afraid she might have to put her pale, perfect hands in dishwater.

“There’s a bigger ATM at the convenience store across the street,” the cashier said.

“OK, we’ll be right back,” the blond man said.

“You’re not going anywhere until you pay.”

“But I have to get the cash. Here—I’ll leave you my watch.” He started to remove a watch that cost as much as a small car.

“This isn’t a pawn shop,” the cashier said.

“How about my driver’s license?”

“How about your wife?” the cashier said.

“My wife?”

The blond woman looked frightened now. Was she going to be sold into white slavery for a waffle?

“You leave your wife here until you get back with the money.”

“I’ll be back soon, honey, I promise.” The blond man looked amused. His wife did not.

“You’d better,” she said. She picked up a free paper from a rack by the door and pretended to read, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

“Your money or your wife. I like that,” said the woman standing next to Helen. Her white-blond hair was long, straight, and parted in the middle. Her black cowboy boots were scuffed and her jeans were worn at the knees. Her voice had a country lilt that Helen recognized right away.

“I’m Savannah Power.”

Helen stood six feet in her sandals, but Savannah was tall enough to look her in the eye. She shook Helen’s hand with a strong, callused grip. Savannah was about forty. Hard times were etched in her pale, freckled face and lean body.

“That guy didn’t mind leaving his wife hostage in a hash house,” Helen said.

“You could leave me here any time,” Savannah said. She was wearing a light, flowery perfume. Underneath it, Helen caught a curious sharp smell—bleach or some kind of household cleaner.

“Sit anywhere,” said a passing waitress, loaded with plates.

They found a table under a sign that read, DON’T STEAL... THE GOVERNMENT DOESN’T LIKE COMPETITION.

On a street known for serious snobbery, The Floridian had a sense of humor. The menu offered a “fat-cat breakfast” of steak, eggs and Dom Perignon for two for $229.99. It also had a “not-so-fat-cat breakfast—same as above with a bottle of our finest el cheapo champagne” for $49.99.

Helen felt suddenly lonely. She wished she could laugh with a man and order cheap champagne for breakfast. But she’d sworn off men after her last disastrous romance.

“What can I get you?” the waitress said.

“Eggs, grits and a Bud,” Savannah said.

“You want a glass with that?”

“Bottle’s fine,” Savannah said.

A straightforward woman, Helen thought. She ordered coffee, ham and eggs.

“Savannah Power. Interesting name,” Helen said, when the waitress left.

“My momma had a rough time when she had me. She gave birth at home. She saw this name on her bedside dresser: Savannah Power. She kept concentrating on it to get her through the pain. She thought it was a message. It was. It was a shut-off notice from the light company, but Momma didn’t know that then. Anyway, Savannah Power’s my name.

“We’re all named after cities. My middle sister is Atlanta Power. Momma lived there next. She was in Texas when Laredo was born. She’s the baby.”

“Laredo has a different last name,” Helen said.

“Different daddy,” Savannah said. “Lester Power took off by then, and Momma hitched up with Woodbridge Manson.”

“Just the three girls?” Helen said.

“Yes, and that’s a good thing. With her third husband, Momma moved to Wood River, Illinois, which wasn’t a proper name for anyone. Atlanta lives in California now. I only see her every couple of years. But I’m real close to Laredo.”

Helen felt like she was in a Who’s on First routine. She was glad when the waitress returned with the butter-soaked platters of food.

“Why do you think something happened to your sister?”

Helen said, between bites.

“She disappeared a week ago. We share a double-wide. I got home from work and her things were gone. Every last stitch. Even my new red heels, which she’d borrowed.

Laredo loved red shoes, but she would never take my best heels. And she’d never leave without telling me. She knows I’d worry. She would have left a note, at least.”

Savannah rummaged in a floppy leather purse the size of a saddlebag. “Here’s a picture. Look at her. Does that look like a girl who’d just up and leave?”

She produced a washed-out snapshot of a curvy young woman with a street urchin’s grin and a mane of honeycolored hair, thicker and curlier than Savannah’s. She wore a white tank top, tight white shorts and red heels, and posed in a parody of a pinup. Laredo knew just how pretty she was.

She stood in front of a sagging green mobile home with a straggly palm tree. Laredo was laughing, vibrant, out of place in those hangdog surroundings.

Helen thought she looked exactly like someone who’d run away. She certainly would.

“That’s where we live,” Savannah said. “Would you pass me the salt? I called the police and filed a missing person report. They weren’t real interested, her being an adult and all.

But they went and talked to a waitress who worked with her at Gator Bill’s.”

“The restaurant owned by Bill Shannigan, the Gators football star?” Helen said.

“The very one. Right here on Las Olas. Laredo was a waitress there. Wore the cutest cheerleader costume. That was gone, too. This waitress, name of Debbie, told the police my sister was bored and wanted to hit the road. Said Laredo had talked about packing up everything and driving off into the sunset. Oh, I forgot, her car’s gone, too.”

“What kind of car?” Helen said. She’d eaten her way through a slab of ham and two eggs. She started on the butter-soaked toast.

“Little yellow Honda Civic. But that isn’t like her to up and leave. Besides, Laredo had a part in a real Shakespeare play. The director’s called twice looking for her. Laredo worked hard to get that part. She thought it was her big break. She’d be at the rehearsal come hell or high water.”

Savannah sounded more like a mother than a sister. Another reason for a young woman to suddenly leave home.

“Was she restless?” Helen said.

“She said she didn’t want to wind up like me: trailer trash working a bunch of lousy jobs, stuck with a mountain of debt.”

Helen winced. “That must have hurt.”

Savannah shrugged. “She was young. She didn’t mean it.”

Again, she was the protective momma.

“Laredo said she was going to make it big. She would live in a mansion, marry a rich man, wear pretty clothes and be part of Lauderdale society.”

“Did she say how she was going to do this?”

“No, that’s how young girls talk. I figured that’s why she took that part with the theater. She was hoping to make it as an actress. There’s a lot of movie roles here in South Florida, if an actress can get the right showcase. A Shakespeare play would have been a big step forward.”

Maybe, but Helen thought Laredo’s talk of a big score sounded like trouble. Her plate seemed to be empty. She must have eaten the whole mound of food. Savannah had a few bites of grits and eggs, but she let the waitress remove her nearly full plate.

Savannah took a long drink of beer. “I know something’s wrong. I told the police that, but no one believed me. I got this feeling Laredo’s dead. Then you called. It was the call I’d been dreading, but it was a relief, you know?” She started peeling the label off her beer bottle.

“But I don’t know,” Helen said. “All I know is I think I heard a woman strangled. The police disagree. They say it was a movie. But that was no movie. It was about the worst sound...” Helen stopped. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting she was your sister.”

“No, go ahead,” Savannah said. “Don’t spare me the details. What makes me crazy is everybody saying nothing is wrong. Just tell me what happened.”

“Your sister knew a guy named Henry Asporth, right?”

“He hung around the restaurant,” Savannah said. “Hank liked to flirt with the waitresses. There were a lot of guys like that. Men with more money than sense, trying to forget middle age was creeping up on them. Laredo went out with him for a while.” She pulled away another strip of label.

“Our survey files say she lived with him,” Helen said.

“She stayed over weekends sometimes, but she never moved in. That was more wishful thinking. She did that survey thing as a joke. She came home laughing about it. Hank was talking business with the boys one night, and Laredo was bored. Some survey taker called and asked boo-coo questions. Laredo made up a bunch of stuff about how she lived with Hank in that big house and was an actress. She was always pretending to be somebody else, even when she was a little kid.”

Helen heard Laredo’s teasing voice again, like a forties movie star: “You’ve been a very bad boy, Hank. You’re just lucky I like bad boys.”

Another strip was gone. Savannah’s beer bottle was half-naked now.

“Laredo wanted Hank to marry her, but that was never going to happen. Hank never treated her right. She finally walked out on him. Had to, for her own self-respect. I was proud she did that. Takes courage for a girl to walk away from a man with money.

“Laredo told me all about it, why she finally pulled the plug. She was over at his house. She was all ready for a little lovin’ when he got a business call on his cell phone. He answered it. He kept talking on the phone while they were doing it. He finished up, still talking on the phone. He got out of bed and went into the living room. Didn’t say a word to her.”

“What a pig,” Helen said.

“Oh, yeah. He woulda been a prize swine at the state fair.

Hank’s call lasted for hours. Laredo could see him in the other room pacing around bare-naked, with the lights on so the neighbors could see him.”

Savannah hit a tough patch of label, but kept picking at it.

“Laredo said she read a magazine, then played around on his computer. She liked video poker. Hank never did come back to bed,” she said. “She was good and pissed. When he finally returned, Hank said he’d be tied up all night and sent her home in a cab. Laredo told me she never went out with him again. Said no man was going to treat her like that.”

Pick. Pick. The label was stubborn. But so was Savannah.

“Your sister told you all that?” Helen trusted her sister, Kathy, more than anyone in the world. But there were some hairy escapades in her past that even Kathy didn’t know about.

“Laredo knew I wouldn’t judge her. I know she kept stuff from me, but she told me most of her adventures. She was so mad at ol’ Hank, she had to tell somebody. I thought she might put sugar in his gas tank or something.” Pick. Pick.

“Did she have any particular plan for revenge?” Helen said.

“Not really. She said when she finished with him, he’d be sorry. She said he’d be begging her to marry him. She was going to be one of the fine ladies of Lauderdale.” The last of the label gave way, and Savannah had a little pile of crinkled paper on the table.

“But that was Laredo, all talk and dreams. I couldn’t see how she was going to make Hank marry her—she wasn’t pregnant, she wasn’t going out with him and she made fun of him. She said he was always looking in the mirror and combing his hair to cover his bald spot. He was getting those hair plug things. Once she said he was making so much money that he could afford the best defense lawyers.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“She didn’t say. It was just a casual remark. They were definitely finished.” Savannah took a final drink. The beer bottle was empty, inside and out.

“Then why was she at his house the other night?”

“I don’t know,” Savannah said. “I don’t for the life of me.

All I know is she’s gone and I haven’t heard from her in a week.”

“I heard her say ‘It’s the coffee.’ Does coffee mean anything special to Laredo?” Helen said.

“Well, she had to have a cup first thing in the morning, Savannah said.

“Listen, Savannah, do you really think it was your sister I heard? Maybe it was someone else who got... who...”

“I know it’s her. But I figured you’d ask that question.

That’s why I brought this.”

She dug around in the floppy purse again. This time, she pulled out a dented cassette recorder and a tangle of wires and sponge that were headphones.

“I thought it might help if you could hear her voice. She was working on her lines for that Shakespeare play. She’d tape them. Helped her memorize them. She was going to play Lady Macduff.”

“She was in Macbeth?” Helen said.

“Yes. She had a big scene where she...” Savannah stopped, and her pale face went even whiter. She took a deep breath. “... Where she got murdered. Laredo told me the play was bad luck. You couldn’t even say the name in the theater. They called it ‘the Scottish play.’ Laredo slipped and said ‘Macbeth’ during the audition and they made her go outside, turn around three times and ask permission to come back in because it was such bad luck. Laredo laughed, but she did it. She really wanted that part. I helped her with the script. I read the other parts, the murderers and the son.”

Savannah turned on the clunky old tape recorder and pushed a button. “I’ve got it at the right place.”

Helen put on the headphone. The sound was tinny and it was hard to hear over the clatter of plates and restaurant conversation. She took a sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine would help her concentrate.

Helen recognized Savannah’s voice. “Okay, Lady Laredo, are you ready?”

There was a giggle like the one on the answering machine. Unfortunately, the woman Helen had heard on the phone wasn’t giggling.

Then another voice, younger and lighter: Laredo. “I’ve been practicing my screams. I think I’m getting good at them.

Erin told me it’s like being an opera singer. You’ve got to open your lungs. Let me take a last drink of water and let’s do it.”

Savannah was talking again: “I’m reading the parts of the murderers and the son. You’re doing Lady Macduff, right?”

“Right.” Helen guessed that’s what Laredo said. “Born to be Wild” was playing on the restaurant sound system. Steppenwolf’s wail drowned out the words.

Savannah started reading in a stilted monotone. “First murderer: ‘Where is your husband?’ ”

Laredo spoke next. Helen could hear the fear and defiance as she said, “I hope, in no place so unsanctified where such as thou may find him.”

Damn. Steppenwolf was running over Laredo’s words.

Helen couldn’t tell if she recognized the voice. She wished Laredo would say more. Instead, she heard Savannah’s flat voice: “Thou liest, thou shag-eared villain!”

With absolutely no change of tone Savannah said the murderer’s part: “What, you egg! Young fry of treachery! Stab!

Stab!”

Savannah read the son’s dying declaration like a grade schooler with a primer: “He has killed me, Mother. Run away, I pray you.”

Finally, Laredo’s voice again. Her emotion overwhelmed the tape recorder’s tinny little speaker: “Murder!” she cried.

“Murder!” There was an unearthly scream.

Helen knocked over her coffee. “It’s her,” she said.

“That’s the woman on the phone.”

“I knew it,” Savannah said with satisfaction, as she mopped up Helen’s spilled coffee. “Now tell me what you know about my sister’s death.”

Helen told her everything. Savannah did not cry. Her sorrow seemed beyond tears.

“Have you seen this Hank Asporth?” Helen said. “Was he big and strong enough to hurt her?”

“My sister was just a little bit of a thing. It would be easy.

She didn’t even weigh a hundred pounds.” Helen noticed Savannah was talking about her sister as if she was dead.

“The police think I heard a movie,” Helen said. “But I heard her say ‘Hank,’ twice, and then I heard her scream—like the scream on the tape only more real. I know that was no movie. But the cops searched the place and found no body, no blood, no sign of a struggle, no sign of a woman.

The only cars in the garage were registered to Asporth. They don’t believe she was killed. I know she was.”

“I do, too,” Savannah said. “I knew the moment he did it.

It felt like someone reached in and ripped out my heart.

“I want the man who did this to her. I want him dead.”