Clubbed to Death (4 page)

As she crawled along the asphalt, Helen heard crazed cheers from the club theater. Clapton rocked, as Jessica predicted. Even outside, three buildings away, she could feel the energy storm the star created, building like approaching thunder.

I’m missing a magical evening because I’m afraid to face my ex—and my past, Helen thought. I am a fool. But she already knew that.

At midnight, she walked to the employee lot, alone and angry: at Rob, at herself. The winter moon was hidden by scudding clouds that matched her stormy mood. The wind blew spray from the marble fountains onto her uniform. Soon, it would be rain spotting her jacket.

The sky was black enough for a downpour.

Her car was parked in the back under a massive ficus tree. She watched the wind-shifting shadows and wished she’d parked under a light.

A gust sent a soda can skittering across the pavement. Helen started at the sound, then felt foolish. She was tired and jumpy. There was only one good thing about this day: She’d managed to avoid Rob.

As she unlocked her door, a man stepped out of the dark.

It was her ex-husband.

CHAPTER 3

“How did you find me?” Helen asked.

She could hardly see Rob in the dimly lit parking lot.

Wasn’t that ironic? She’d loved him for seventeen years.

Then she’d hated him. She’d wished him dead a thousand times and tried to save him once. But had she ever seen the real man?

The wind shifted and she caught his scent—that late-night Rob smell, a blend of spicy aftershave and booze she’d once found intoxicating. Now she didn’t find his drinking quite so attractive. But it no longer led to wild after-hours sex. Not with her, anyway.

“I always knew where you were.” She heard the fine edge of contempt in her ex-husband’s voice. “I knew you were at Margery’s. She didn’t fool me with that story that you’d moved. But it was time to let go of the past.”

“It was time to grab yourself a rich wife,” Helen said. “Why go after my pitiful bucks when you could score Marcella’s billions? Did you know your wife was called the Black Widow?”

Rob shrugged and moved slightly closer. Now she had a clear view of him.

“Obviously, you’re still alive,” Helen said. She added grudgingly, “Marcella must be good for you.”

Even to Helen’s jaundiced eye, her ex looked good. He was wearing a beige Tommy Bahama shirt and pants. The club gift shop sold the same outfit for a thousand dollars. His Gucci loafers cost even more.

His watch glittered with gold and diamonds.

But it was more than the expensive clothes. Rob had the burnished glow of the very rich. He was as carefully clipped, waxed, and manicured as a show dog. His skin seemed steam-cleaned. He was perfectly tanned and leaner than the last time she saw him.

“You’ve lost weight. Trainer?” Helen said.

“Plus a personal chef to keep me on a low-carb diet. She doesn’t like fat men. I’ve lost thirty pounds.”

“Good hairpiece,” Helen said. Rob’s bald spot was gone. “Your hair looks natural.”

“It is,” he said. “I’m using Rogaine. She can afford it.”

She. Rob didn’t call his wife Marcella.

After working with the superrich, Helen was an expert at spotting nip-and-tuck work. Rob’s eyes had been done, his forehead Botoxed, and his double chin liposuctioned. The chin was still a little weak. She wondered if an implant was next.

She saw him studying her face and knew what he saw: a tired forty-something woman in a rumpled uniform.

He looks better than I do, Helen thought. My ex is younger, fitter and more rested. Why did I waste my time trying to save his worthless hide?

Once again, Helen saw herself running across the Seventeenth Street Causeway, wild-haired and sweaty, screaming Rob’s name. She’d tried to stop his marriage to the Black Widow. She felt her guilt and despair as Rob sailed away with a serial husband killer. She was certain he would die. Each morning, she’d checked the paper for stories about Americans killed in the Ca rib be an.

All that time, he’d been living large. Meanwhile, Helen’s life had shrunk to sore feet, a plastic name tag and a poly-blend uniform. I’m Cinderella in reverse, she thought. I went from a fairy-tale marriage to a pile of ashes.

Once upon a time, Helen lived with her prince in a castle in a splendid St. Louis suburb. She’d had a husband she’d loved, a successful career and a six-figure income. Then she came home early from work and found her prince had turned into a troll.

Get real, princess, she thought. Your husband was a mooch who pretended to look for a job while you worked your tail off. You came home early one day and found him having mad-dog sex with the bleached-blond witch next door. He and Sandy were humping so hard your Ralph Lauren chaise was leaping across your back deck like a wild animal.

That’s when Helen picked up a crowbar and starting swinging.

Too bad she didn’t beat Rob. Instead, she reduced his SUV to rubble. He cowered, naked as a plucked chicken, inside the vehicle she’d bought him.

Armed with her outrage, Helen filed for divorce—and was wronged by another man. The divorce judge gave Helen’s unfaithful husband half of her future income. Her lawyer sat there like a department store dummy, so Helen swore on a Bible (OK, the
Missouri Revised Statutes
, but she thought it was the Good Book) that Rob would never see a nickel.

Then she hurled her wedding ring in the Mississippi and took off on a zigzag journey across the country, determined to make sure he never found her. Her car died in South Florida and Helen wound up working dead-end jobs for cash under the table, keeping out of the computers and away from Rob.

Until her ex tracked her down in Lauderdale. Rumor said Rob was desperate for money. Instead of claiming Helen’s paltry cash, he’d sailed away with a billionaire wife. Now he was back, rich and gloating.

Years of seething anger boiled up inside her. Her hands twitched.

Helen wished the tire iron wasn’t locked in the car trunk. She wanted to pound her worthless ex into a pulp.

Who am I really angry at, she wondered: Rob or myself ? Maybe I should use that tire iron on me. Or maybe it’s time I stop beating myself up. I want this man out of my life. Now. I’ve earned that right.

“Helen Hawthorne,” Rob said. “That’s the name you’re using, isn’t it? I hear you have a boyfriend. Phil somebody.” His sneer was painful as a paper cut.

“What do you want?” Helen asked.

“I need your help,” Rob said.

“Mine? What can I do for you? You’re married to one of the richest women in the world. You’re her problem now. I don’t care what happens to you.”

“Yes, you do,” Rob said. “The dock master told me you tried to stop my wedding. He said you were shrieking your lungs out, trying to keep me from marrying a billionaire. Very sweet.” He laughed.

Helen felt an angry blush flash up her neck and face. She didn’t know anyone had witnessed her pointless rescue attempt.

“Now someone is really trying to kill me,” Rob said. “I don’t know who. It could be my wife. It could be some man who wants to be her next husband. It could be someone else.”

All the artful work on Rob’s face hadn’t altered his guilty look.

Helen still recognized it. Her ex had been up to something illegal or immoral. Maybe both.

“What have you done?” Helen asked. “Did you cheat on your wife?”

His silence was answer enough.

“You idiot,” she said.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said. “She watches me all the time.”

“She should, with your track record.”

“It’s like being in prison,” he said.

“Some prison,” Helen said. “You’re on a yacht with a personal chef, a pool and the largest collection of Impressionists outside a museum. I feel for you. Especially to night, when you were forced to go to a private Clapton concert. Cruel and unusual punishment, Rob.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he said. “Not like it would be for you.”

Helen hated his condescension.

“I’ve already heard Eric twice,” Rob said. “Along with Billy Joel, Elton John and Pavarotti—who was past his prime, by the way. The entertainment changes, but nothing else does. It’s the same people saying the same things.”

“Yeah, well, at least they don’t say, ‘Do you know who I am?’ You don’t have to take their abuse.”

“I’m nothing but her gofer and whipping boy.”

“A very well-paid gofer. As for whipping boy, I don’t see any bruises,” Helen said.

Rob ripped open his Tommy Bahama shirt. His chest was splotched with hideous purple, green and yellow patches. A scabbed wound slashed his chest.

Helen winced. “She did that?”

“She plays rough,” Rob said.

Helen looked at his face. This time, she didn’t think he was lying.

“You’re afraid she’ll kill you accidentally?”

“I’m afraid she’ll kill me on purpose.”

“What did you do?” Helen asked again. “You never answered my question.”

“I needed a little money. Pocket change by her standards, but enough so I could leave her. I may have stepped on some toes.”

May. His face was earnest and sweaty. He tried to look sincere, but only succeeded in seeming shiftier. Rob had done something seriously crooked.

“There have been two attempts on my life,” he said. “Both were made to look like accidents. The first time, someone tried to push me down four flights of marble steps. It was in a crowded theater, and I never saw who did it. But I felt the push. It was no accident. I grabbed a stair rail and saved myself. The second time, a huge terra-cotta flowerpot fell off a rooftop and landed at my feet. You can’t accidentally knock over something that heavy. It missed me by inches.”

“Third time’s a charm,” Helen said.

“It’s not funny.” He tried to frown, but the Botox wouldn’t let him.

“Somebody wants me dead.”

“Good,” Helen said.

“You don’t mean that,” Rob said.

“Try me,” she said. “I don’t care what happens to you. I hope you die slowly and painfully. We’re divorced, remember? You chased me around the country, trying to get my last dime, but I managed to escape.”

“Escape?” he said. “Excuse me, but isn’t the court still looking for you? You owe me, lady, until I say so. I could turn you in tomorrow. I bet you’re using fake ID.”

“Go ahead. You never got my money,” Helen said, “and you never will. I quit my job in St. Louis to keep you from sharing my six-figure salary. I’ll live in a cardboard box before I see you get a cent. You’ve married again. You’re another woman’s problem now. You cheated on me, just like you’re cheating on Marcella. Or have you forgotten why I dumped you?”

Helen realized that she was screaming. Rob was smiling. No, smirking. An irritating, self-satisfied smirk. She wanted to rip it off his face.

“Helen, I know how you feel,” he said, his voice softly smug. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know how I feel. You couldn’t. Just answer me one thing: Why? Why Sandy? You told me you didn’t like her.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “But she gave good head.”

Helen’s hand seemed to move by itself. It clenched into a fist, then struck Rob in the mouth. She felt his teeth graze her knuckles and saw the blood well out of the tiny cuts.

“Ow!” he shrieked. “What was that for?”

“For me,” she said. “I should have done it years ago, instead of beating up your innocent SUV.”

“You hurt me,” he whined. “Look what you’ve done.”

She’d split his lip. It was bleeding. She watched two red splotches drip on his Tommy Bahama shirt. She wondered how he’d explain that to his watchful wife.

“Is anything wrong?”

Brenda, the skinny assistant manager, had materialized in the parking lot. Even at midnight, her club uniform was crisp and every black hair was perfect. She must have varnished it to keep it in place in this wind. Jessica was beside her, eyes big with shock, long hair flapping like a distress flag. A drop of rain plopped on the ground. The sky was going to open up any minute.

“We’re fine,” Helen said.

“Are you sure?” Jessica said. “Did he hurt you? Do you want me to call security?”

“Hey, I’m the one with the busted lip.” Rob tried a crooked smile, then turned on the charm full force. “I’m Helen’s ex-husband, Rob.”

He put out his hand to shake Jessica’s. She took it reluctantly, as if it were unclean. Brenda was more eager to shake his hand. She seemed reassured by the rich gleam of Rob’s Rolex.

“This is my fault,” Rob said. “I surprised Helen. I shouldn’t have done that in a dark parking lot. She hit me. She has good reflexes.”

Another fat raindrop. This one hit Helen on her nose.

“We should report this to security,” Brenda said.

Helen could hear the glee under her officious words and see the malice glowing in her angular eyes. Helen had hit a wealthy club member.

There would be hell to pay.

“Any fight on club property should be reported. If an employee is caught fighting, it’s a firing offense,” Brenda said.

“Please, I’m fine,” Rob said. He waved his hands as if wiping away the incident. There was a splash of blood on one finger. “It wasn’t a fight. It was an accident. I scared Helen when I stepped out of the shadows. My wife, Marcella, is a member. Her yacht is the
Brandy Alexander
—the one with the helicopter. I’m asking you to forget this incident. If there are any problems, your superiors can contact myself or Marcella. We’re staying at the yacht club.”

We’re rich and important and you’d better do what I say, was the subtext. Brenda could read it as well as anyone.

“Well, as long as you say it’s OK.” Brenda was still unwilling to let Helen go.

“I insist,” Rob said.

“I have to leave. It’s late,” Helen said. “Good night, Brenda. Good night, Jessica.” She didn’t say anything to Rob. She was still shaking from anger and adrenaline. The raindrops were coming faster now.

She peeled out of the lot in her boxy green junker, tires squealing.

Her hand throbbed, but it was a good hurt. She’d ached to hit Rob for years.

Now, at last, she had that satisfaction. Maybe it had been a good day after all.

CHAPTER 4

The storm broke just as Helen’s green junker lumbered onto I-95 for the long drive back to Fort Lauderdale. Wild gray slashes of rain cut her visibility to a few feet.