Half-Price Homicide (23 page)

“That’s where I’ll start my search tomorrow,” Phil said. “I’m going to look up the property owned by everyone who was at Snapdragon’s the morning of the murder, not just Danny Martlet. We’ll find Chrissy’s killer and then live happily ever after.”

He kissed Helen as the seat belt sign came on in the cabin and the pilot announced there was heavy turbulence ahead.

Clunk. Thunk. Rattle.
Helen yanked on the old red Samsonite suitcase wedged between the wall and the water heater in her utility closet at the Coronado. The suitcase popped free with a resonant
clang!

She set the hard-sided suitcase on her kitchen table and opened it. It was stuffed with shabby old-lady underwear she’d bought at a yard sale for twenty-five cents. Helen shifted the graying circle-stitched cotton bras and snagged support hose, then picked up a pair of flower-sprigged panties big as a parachute.

“Your trousseau?” Phil said.

Her fiancé leaned against the kitchen doorjamb, looking adorably rumpled in his blue terry bathrobe. He was joined by a grumpy Thumbs.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Helen said. “The keys to my new life are buried in this granny underwear.”

Helen held up the prepaid disposable cell phone she’d used to call her sister while she was on the run. “Won’t need that anymore. It’s out of minutes anyway.” She tossed the phone in the trash.

The crinkled cellophane she’d kept to quickly end conversations with her mother went in after it. Helen would pretend that static had broken up their awkward chats to avoid a fight. There was no chance she could ever change Dolores’s mind.

Heavy orthopedic hose hid two cards. Helen held them up. “My Social Security card and my Missouri driver’s license. These will ease my reentry into respectable society.”

“Isn’t that license expired by now?” Phil asked.

“Nope,” Helen said. “Missouri licenses are good for six years. And look! A hundred dollars from my original stash of ten thousand. I thought that money was all gone. It was hidden in this.” She held up an ugly orangey beige girdle.

“A good way to stretch your money,” Phil said.

“I’m glad we didn’t get married in June,” Helen said.

“Why?” Phil said.

“Because our marriage wouldn’t have been legal. I was missing too many documents. I’m going today to get my Florida driver’s license. Now I have everything I need: my Social Security card, my Missouri driver’s license and my Coronado lease for proof of residency. My name change has been approved already. I can download those documents and take them with me.”

“Are you going to keep the suitcase?” Phil asked.

“I can use it for storage,” Helen said. “And I want it for sentimental reasons. Mom gave it to me for my high school senior trip to Washington, D.C. It’s about all I have left from my old life.”

Phil looked puzzled. “Why did you think a bright red suitcase was a good hiding place? What if the police had a search warrant for your home?”

Helen held up the mass of shabby underwear and twisted panty hose. It seemed to writhe in her hands. “No man would touch these, even with gloves on.”

“There are women in law enforcement,” Phil said.

“I guess I can dump the ugly underwear, too,” she said, and dropped it in the trash. “Fortunately, my theory was never tested.”

Phil kissed her nose and then her lips. “Your hair smells nice. You’re letting it grow longer. I like that.”

“I like your hair long, too,” she said.

“We should go back to bed,” he whispered. “We got home after midnight.”

“I’m not interested in sleeping,” Helen said.

“Me, either,” Phil said, and kissed her again.

Helen forgot her plans to legalize her life for more than an hour. They fell asleep again after making love and woke up when Thumbs walked on their heads, howling for breakfast.

Phil scrambled eggs while Helen fed the cat. Thumbs had given them the cat cold shoulder for about ten seconds after they returned home late yesterday. When they’d been properly chastised, they were permitted to scratch his ears. He was still peeved and demanding this morning.

Over breakfast, Helen handed Phil a list of names.

“Vera Salinda. Danny Martlet. Roger Cardola. Loretta Stranahan,” he read. “Why are you giving me these?”

“You asked who was in Snapdragon’s Second Thoughts when Chrissy was killed,” Helen said. “You’re researching the house of the seven toilets today, remember?”

“No way I could forget. Who is Roger Cardola?”

“The hunky surfer guy who valet parks at the hair salon,” Helen said. “He is Vera’s best surviving source for high-end designer duds. The police are sniffing around him.”

“He’s definitely worth checking into,” Phil said, tucking the list into his zippered leather portfolio. He poured coffee for himself and Helen, then kissed her again. “Shall we face the day?” he asked.

They carried their coffee mugs outside by the pool. Purple bou-gainvillea blossoms floated on the water, and palm fronds whispered overhead. The humid Florida breeze felt like a caress on Helen’s face. It had the slight salt tang of the sea. She breathed deeply and said, “It’s so nice to be home. I love the humidity here.”

“St. Louis has humidity, too,” Phil said.

“But it’s not bracing,” Helen said. “Midwestern humidity is sticky. It drags you down.”

“Bracing humidity,” Phil said. “We must remember to tell the Fort Lauderdale Convention and Visitors Bureau. They can use that phrase in their ads.”

Peggy had turned the poolside umbrella table into an outdoor assembly station. come and get it, chow hounds! barbecue aprons covered the surface. Her red head was bent over her work. She was muttering to herself as she picked at the crossed beer bottles on an apron.

Pete the parrot peered from her shoulder like a small green supervisor.

“Good morning, lovebirds, and welcome back,” Peggy said. “We missed you.”

She moved a stack of aprons onto a chair and said, “Sorry. My work has spread like kudzu. Sit down. How was St. Louis?”

“Good,” Helen said. “Or as good as a funeral trip can be. Mom had the ceremony she wanted with all her friends. I’m on the way to being legal at last. I’ll apply for my Florida driver’s license today, then go to work. Phil is going to research Chrissy’s murder. Once we find Chrissy’s killer, we’re free to marry.”

“Oh, is that all?” Peggy asked, and grinned. “The police haven’t made any progress, but I suppose Super Phil can outdo two police forces.”

“It’s my job to do the impossible.” Phil winked and sat beside her. “How’s the apron business?”

“Not good,” Peggy said. “Mike rejected my first shipment.” She showed an apron to Helen and Phil. “See? He says this one is not up to his quality standards.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Phil asked.

“Mike said the crossed barbecue forks should be one-eighth of an inch lower,” Peggy said.

“They look fine to me,” Helen said.

“I prefer the crossed beer bottles, but the forks look okay,” Phil said.

“My crossed beer bottles were crooked—according to Mike,” Peggy said. “All twenty-five of them. I’d used a ruler, too. Every single apron had something wrong with it. I was so sure my work was good that I’d already ordered another shipment, completed the aprons and sent those back, too. I got another e-mail from Mike this morning. The second shipment has been rejected. I’m trying to see if I can dissolve the glue and reapply the barbecue forks, but they tear.”

“Not worth your time,” Phil said. “You’ll never please Mike, or whatever his name is. That’s part of the scam.”

Helen waited for Peggy to say the aprons weren’t a scam, but she seemed too discouraged to fight back. “How do you know it’s a scam?” she asked in a small voice.

“How much was that glue gun?” Phil asked.

“Two hundred fifty dollars,” Peggy said.

“I can buy it online for one hundred thirty dollars, including shipping,” he said.

“But this is a cordless self-igniting hot-melt glue gun,” Peggy said.

“That’s right,” Phil said. Somehow, he managed not to sound smug. Helen loved him for that. “Same specs, but a much lower price online. Work-at-home scammers make their money selling you overpriced ‘professional’ equipment and supplies.”

“What do I do now? ” Peggy asked. “I’ve lost a thousand dollars from the lottery on this scheme.”

“You have some nice aprons,” Phil said. “You could sell them somewhere else.”

“Snapdragon’s might take them on consignment,” Helen said. “I could ask.”

“Would you?” Peggy looked relieved. “At least I’ll get some money back. Wouldn’t you know it? The only time I’ve ever won anything in the lottery and I lost it anyway.”

“Bye!” Pete said. He groomed a green wing feather with his beak.

“Right,” Peggy said. “Good-bye to my money. The natural order at the Coronado has been upset. All the scammers used to live in apartment 2C. Now I’m the idiot who fell for a scam and we have a murderer in 2C.”

“Who has a murderer?”

Helen heard the reedy voice and stared at the small, bent woman. “Good morning, uh—Margery,” Helen said. She almost didn’t recognize her landlady. Margery wore dull beige flats and a flapping flowered housecoat. It wasn’t even purple.

“I said, who has a murderer living here? ” Margery said. It wasn’t a demand. It was a polite request.

“You do,” Helen said. “Mark in 2C was arrested for Jordan’s murder.”

“That doesn’t mean he did it,” Margery said mildly. “You’ve been arrested, too, and so has Peggy. Don’t go calling someone a murderer unless you know what you’re talking about. Where are my cigarettes?”

“In your hand,” Peggy said.

“Awk!” Pete said.

“Right,” Margery said. “I’d better have one to calm my nerves.” Their landlady lit a Marlboro with trembling hands.

Helen wanted to weep for the ruin of the magnificent Margery. “Margery, you have no reason to blame yourself,” she said. “You didn’t kill Jordan. Mark did.”

“I ordered her upstairs to her death,” Margery said. “I should have kept Jordan in my apartment and she’d still be alive.”

“You don’t know that,” Helen said.

“I acted like a fatheaded old fool, ordering people around without thinking about the consequences. Now that poor girl is dead. Where’s Phil?” Margery asked in a querulous voice. “He’s supposed to do some work for me.”

“Right here,” Phil said, raising his coffee cup. “What can I do?”

“Prove Mark didn’t kill Jordan,” Margery said.

“I don’t know if I can prove that,” Phil said. “But I will look into his background for you. I’ll need Mark’s last name, Social Security number, date of birth and previous address.”

“I have that on his lease application. Here.” She pulled the papers out of her housecoat pocket.

Phil read it. His eyes widened in disbelief. “His name is Mark Smith?”

“There’s the copy I made of his driver’s license,” Margery said. “That’s his picture on it. He used to live in Chicago. I checked. There is a Mark Smith in Chicago.”

“There are probably five or ten of them there—and in every other major city in the United States,” Phil said. “Margery, I promised I’d investigate Mark, but I can almost guarantee you won’t like what I find. I believe he killed Jordan. This ‘Smith’ driver’s license only adds to my suspicions. I’ll bet you it’s a fake. You have a murderer living in 2C.”

“Hah!” Margery said. “I know a murderer when I see one.”

She glared at Helen until Helen wondered if her landlady knew about Rob’s death. I didn’t kill Rob, she thought. I just buried him.

“Margery,” Phil said gently, “you know you’ve had some problems before with the renters who lived in 2C, and you never believed they were crooks. Some were ordinary thieves, others were scammers. One has infomercials on late-night television. Four are still in jail.”

“So? ” Margery said. “Florida is a rootless society.”

“That makes it a perfect home for a murderer.”

“Mark is not a killer,” Margery screeched until her old voice cracked. “I want you to find who really killed Jordan. I ask you to do one little thing and you give me excuses.”

Helen felt cold in the warm summery sunshine.

Where was her shrewd landlady? Would Margery ever return?