Murder Between the Covers (11 page)

Hanselmeyer was so short, she suspected he’d jacked up his chair to make himself look taller. He did not rise when Helen entered the room. He probably didn’t want to be measured against her six feet. Instead, she looked down on his elaborate comb-over. She wondered if it hid a diamondback pattern.

Helen recognized his first questions as part of the standard employee interview. He wanted to know her goals and past experience. Helen lied about both. She truthfully said she was skilled in all the right software.

When Hanselmeyer asked what job she wanted in ten years, Helen knew not to say, “Yours.” The snake asked when she would be available.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

Could she could work overtime? “I love overtime.” Yes! she thought.

Then he hissed, “Do you hear that old biological clock ticking?”

“I beg your pardon?” Helen said. She wasn’t sure what this had to do with typing and filing.

“I know I shouldn’t ask, but are you planning to have children?”

“I’m not married,” Helen said.

“Unmarried women can have children,” Hanselmeyer said, pointing to the empty desk. “That girl out there had herself a turkey-baster baby because she was afraid time was running out. Now she’s off half the time taking care of the kid. It’s always sick. Got croup today. I can’t fire her or I’ll have the libbers all over me. Maybe it’s a little illegal to ask, but are you going to have kids?”

Helen wasn’t. But she could feel her anger burst in her brain in a red-hot shower. How dare he? He only asked because she was powerless. He knew he could get away with a question that was piercingly personal and definitely illegal.

“Oh, dear, I wouldn’t want you to do anything illegal, Mr. Hanselmeyer,” she said. “So I won’t answer that.”

Oh, damn, she thought. There goes my chance to ask the snake to pay me in cash under the table. That’s illegal, too. Well, I couldn’t work for the slithering SOB, anyway.

She stood up and said, “Thank you for your time.”

On the way out, she gave the desk with the leather chair one last lingering look.

Helen dragged herself home to the Coronado, tired and discouraged. Margery poked her gray head out her door and yelled, “Pick your face off the sidewalk. That boyfriend of yours is on the phone.”

“Rich?” she said. She’d asked Rich never to call her landlady unless there was an emergency.

“You dating someone else?” Tonight, Margery’s shorts were a militant mulberry. They clashed alarmingly with her plum sandals and crimson toenail polish.

Helen picked up Margery’s phone with a fluttering heart. “What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t reach you all day.” Rich sounded whiny, her least favorite male mood. “I called the store six times. No one answered.”

“I’m sorry, Rich. We were swamped because of Page’s death. When that happens, the phones go unanswered.”

“How are you?” he said. “Are you avoiding strange men at the store, like I told you?”

She wanted to tell him not to be so foolish, but she wasn’t going to fight on Margery’s phone.

“Look, I don’t want to tie up Margery’s phone. She may be expecting a call.”

“Then let’s talk tomorrow night. We could go to my place. I’ll pick you up after work and throw a couple of steaks on the grill. You can meet Beans and Sissy.”

His pets—at his place. For Rich, meeting his animals was like meeting the family. Beans was a basset hound who’d been brought to the clinic with terminal flatulence. The exasperated owner wanted to put the gasbag to sleep, but Rich adopted the dog instead. Helen thought that was sweet. Sissy was a regal gray Persian. Helen had not been to Rich’s home yet, so she’d only heard about the animals. This was a step forward in their relationship.

“Helen,” he said, “why don’t you let me buy you a phone?”

Helen did not want to be in any phone company computer. She’d be too easy to trace.

“Thanks, Rich, but I’d rather not.”

“Don’t let your pride get in the way. I know you can’t afford one, but I can. You can keep it with you and then I can talk to you anytime I want.”

Anytime he wanted. The phrase lodged uneasily in Helen’s mind. Would that also be anytime she wanted? She could see Margery in the kitchen, pacing impatiently back and forth, smoking a cigarette, the red tips of her fingers and her cigarette glowing in the evening shadows.

“I can’t talk now, Rich,” she said. “I’m tying up Margery’s phone. I’ll see you tomorrow night at six. Your roses were still gorgeous this morning.” She hung up.

“Everything OK with lover boy?” Margery said. She blew a wreath of smoke.

“Just fine.” Helen had a feeling her landlady knew she was lying. “Gotta go.” She almost fled out the door to avoid talking about Rich. She ran straight into a wall of heat. Even at six-thirty, it was a force. Helen liked it better than artificially chilled rooms. She was ready for a cool drink by the pool.

Pete and Peggy were already out there. Helen waved at them, but Peggy didn’t respond. She was staring into space. She hadn’t been herself since the murder.

Why should she? Helen thought. Peggy had found a dead man in her bed. Once the police tape came off the door, would Peggy ever sleep in that soft, sensual bed again? Or would she always share it with a bloating corpse?

Helen was worried about her friend. Peggy seemed drained and lifeless. Her dark red hair was flat, and her long elegant nose seemed more beaklike than ever. Maybe a glass of wine would cheer her up.

“Want a drink?” Helen called across the courtyard.

“Yes,” Peggy said. She sounded like she was sleepwalking. Pete let out a raucous squawk. “Don’t bring any crackers. He’s getting fatter.”

Helen opened her apartment door and was hit with the funeral-parlor scent of dying flowers. She’d turned off her air conditioner when she went to work that morning, to save money. The heat must have roasted her roses. The dropped petals looked like spots of blood on her coffee table. Rich’s gorgeous gift was dead too soon.

Helen sighed, threw the roses in the trash, and dumped the water down the sink. Then she slipped into shorts, found two wineglasses, and pulled a new box of wine out of the refrigerator. Out by the pool, she poured them both drinks.

Peggy took a sip and made a face. “What flavor is this?”

“‘Blush pink,’ ” Helen said, reading the name on the box.

“It should blush if it’s trying to pass itself off as wine. Tastes like Kool-Aid. Who made it—Jim Jones?”

“Guess that explains why it was on sale,” Helen said.

Peggy set her wineglass down by her cordless phone. “I’m expecting a call,” she said. “I’ve got this great idea for winning the lottery, this special system. I’m waiting for some information so I can choose my lucky numbers.”

“Another system?” Helen asked. “Why is this one different?”

“Because I’m going to win this time. I’ve figured out what it takes. I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it before it comes true. But this phone call will change my life.”

The more she talked about the lottery, the livelier Peggy became. When the phone rang a few minutes later, both women jumped. Peggy grabbed the phone and scrambled to hit the talk button. She listened a moment, then said, “Yes, I am.” She stared at the phone for a second before she snapped it off.

“Wrong number,” she said. “Some woman asked, ‘Are you Margaret Freeton?’ When I said yes, she hung up.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. If it was a wrong number, why would she know your name?” Helen said.

“You don’t suppose it’s a burglar or something, calling to see if I’m at home?”

“Could be. I’d tell Margery to be safe. She’ll keep a watch on your place when you’re not around.”

They heard car doors slamming. Lots of them. Helen couldn’t believe what happened next. A small army of police officers fanned across the yard, taking combat positions. Two men in plainclothes materialized. Helen and Peggy stared at them, openmouthed. Helen saw Margery’s door open. Their landlady looked equally shocked.

It’s a drug bust, Helen thought. The cops have finally busted Phil the invisible pothead.

The plainclothes officers were homicide detectives Clarence Jax and Tom Levinson. Helen wondered what they were doing on a drug bust.

“Margaret Freeton?” Detective Jax asked.

“Yes?” said Peggy.

“We have a warrant for your arrest.”

“What?” Peggy said. She didn’t understand what was happening. Neither did Helen. Margery was marching toward them, a purple-clad protector, demanding, “What is the meaning of this? What are you doing on my property?”

The detectives ignored her. “You are being charged with murder in the first degree in the death of Page Turner III,” Jax said. He read the Miranda warning and started to cuff Peggy’s hands. Pete bit him hard.

“Get that damned bird away from me or I’ll wring his neck.”

Peggy freed the detective’s bleeding finger and gently handed Pete to Helen. The parrot struggled, but did not fight Helen. He stayed perched on her hand and she stroked his feathers with one finger to soothe him. The detective cuffed Peggy’s hands behind her back.

“Is that necessary?” Helen said.

“It wasn’t necessary for that bird to bite me,” he said.

“I didn’t kill Page Turner,” Peggy said.

“We’ll get you a good lawyer,” Margery said. “Don’t say a word until she shows up.”

“Please take care of Pete,” Peggy cried. “His birdseed is in your cabinet. It’s the red box. Don’t overfeed him. He’s on a diet.”

“Shut up,” Margery said. “Promise me, not another word until your lawyer gets there.”

As the police took Peggy away in handcuffed shame, Helen could hear her phone ringing and ringing, with the call that was supposed to change her life. Madame Muffy’s prediction was complete. Death, destruction, and murder had buried Peggy in a dark landslide.

A dazed Helen said, “How could they arrest Peggy for murder?”

“Because she probably did it,” Margery said.

“Peggy didn’t even know Page Turner,” Helen said.

“Of course she did,” Margery said. “They were engaged.”

Helen was too stunned to say anything. The woman at the bookstore was right, she thought. I am an idiot. And I don’t know anything.

“Tell me why you think Peggy did it,” Helen asked Margery.

The question had been hanging over them for the last two hours. Margery had been working the phone to find a lawyer for Peggy. She called friends and called in favors. She asked everyone, If you were in trouble, who would you call?

It came down to two lawyers: Oliver Steinway and Colby Cox. “Both are good. But Steinway’s defended so many killers that hiring him is practically an admission of guilt,” Margery said. “Colby is a little more low-profile. We’ll go with her.”

Then Margery called more numbers, until she found Cox at her home. It was now nine p.m. “She doesn’t live far away. She’s on the Isle of Capri. Want to come with me?”

Capri was one of several small islands connected to Las Olas by causeways. The residents were connected by lots of money. On the drive over, Margery said, “That Detective Jax is damn smart. He came back again today, batting his eyes and saying he needed to confirm the times when everyone arrived and left the barbecue Friday night. He didn’t seem interested in one particular person, but I should have known.”

“Known what?” Helen said.

“That he was after Peggy. She was the only one who came late and left early.” Margery hit the steering wheel with her hand. “I’m an old fool. I told him the times. I could have said I didn’t remember, but no, I had to prove I had such a great memory. I hope I haven’t talked that poor girl into the electric chair.”

She thinks Peggy is guilty, Helen thought, but she was too frightened to say the words. Margery swung her big white car into the driveway of Cox’s tract mansion, a pink stucco affair the size of a hotel. The small forest of royal palms sheltering it was lit like a stage set. As they drove up, the security gates swung open. Cox must be one successful lawyer.

“Wait out here,” Margery said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Helen suspected Margery was writing a sizable check and didn’t want her to know. Waiting in the Cadillac was like sitting in a plush lounge, but Helen could not relax. It all seemed so surreal. Peggy would be on trial for murder. The police had said first-degree murder. Was that the bad one? Florida was a death-penalty state.

She heard the front door open. Margery walked out slowly, as if she didn’t want to deliver her news. She pulled open the car door and sat down heavily on the seat. “Cox will see Peggy tonight at the jail, but there’s no way she can get a bail hearing before morning. She said Peggy may not get bail, period, because this is first-degree murder.”

“Margery, lawyers are expensive,” Helen said. “Peggy’s my friend, too. I’ve got seven thousand dollars in cash. You’re welcome to that.” It was all the money she had in the world.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Margery said.

Helen had read somewhere that a full-blown murder trial

could cost the defendant half a million dollars or more. She wondered where Peggy would get that kind of money. She’d have to win the lottery for sure.

On the drive back, in the wan glow of the streetlights, Margery looked exhausted. Her gray hair was limp, her skin sagged along her jawline, and her purple shorts set was wrinkled. She caught herself in the mirror and said, “I look like particular hell. Why don’t you come back to my place for a drink?”

When the landlady flipped on her kitchen light, Pete’s squawk sliced through their ears like a chain saw. He had overturned his water dish and dumped his birdseed on the floor. Helen cleaned up the wreckage from the one-parrot riot. Margery made herself a screwdriver that was a glass of vodka with a shot of orange juice. Helen had white wine out of a bottle with a real cork. It sure beat box wine.