Murder Between the Covers (29 page)

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Authors: Elaine Viets

Tags: #Cozy Mysteries

BOOK: Murder Between the Covers
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“Was it that old man? Because he was asleep when I … He always slept in that chair. You’re trying to find out if I have an alibi! I can’t believe this. Your store has always persecuted me, and now this!” Melanie slammed down the phone.
When she what? When she picked up Page? Put the pillow over Mr. Davies’ face?
And why was Melanie talking about Mr. Davies in the past tense, as if he were dead? His death wasn’t in the papers or on TV.
Helen needed to know more about Melanie. All she had was a hunch, a slip of the tongue, and a dead witness. There was only one way to learn more. It would be horrible, but she would do it for Peggy.
Helen would read Melanie’s book.

Chapter 27

Helen fixed some coffee and sat in her turquoise Barcalounger, determined to read Melanie’s book. Last time, she’d gotten as far as Lance’s eyes sliding down Jillian’s dress.
She knew Lance loved her. Lance, with his strong,
sensitive hands, his sage-colored eyes, his devotion to
dental science. He was her knight, the lord of her
throbbing love. But Jillian was bound by law, if not by
love, to the heartless Simon de Quincy, who was as
rich as he was evil. Her spun-gold hair, bluebell eyes
and lush, feminine body were subject to the rough, in
solent caresses of another man, a man who never
flossed. Jillian had toiled as a dental assistant when
she first met Simon.

A dental assistant? That was Melanie’s job. Mr. Davies was right. Melanie put autobiographical details in her novel. She was the heroine in this romance novel, with spun-gold hair (courtesy of Miss Clairol) and bluebell eyes (contacts). Her heaving bosom was clad in discount ruffles and laces. Her glass slippers were clear plastic.

Yet Melanie’s job was ruthlessly practical. She stuck her fingers in strangers’ mouths and patiently scraped the gunk off their dirty teeth. Nothing was less romantic.
Was her book a way to inject some romance into her life? Were these questions a delaying tactic on Helen’s part to avoid reading this book? And what was a rich guy named Simon de Quincy doing married to a dental assistant?
Simon was a patient who needed his diseased gums
lasered. Alas, after she married him, she realized her
new husband also had a diseased soul. If Jillian ever
left him, Simon would make sure she never gazed upon
her darling baby Jarrod again. The corrupt de Quin
cys were so powerful, they could do anything, even
tear a mother from her child. Night after night, Jillian
endured Simon’s embraces while she thought only of
her true love, Lance.
Helen read about Simon de Quincy’s countless cruelties and inadequate dental hygiene until her gaze glazed and she fell asleep. She woke again at three-thirty. No woman could endure this on her own. It would take another pot of coffee. She made it extra strong. Then she resumed reading. She was 190 pages into the book. Jillian and Lance had gazed at each other sixty-seven times.
What was it about romances and gazing? Helen figured that’s why it took the couple so long to get into the sack. When gazes rarely went below the neck, it took time to get down to business.
I have no romance, she thought.
Helen got up, stretched, then poured her eighth cup of the night. The caffeine buzz would keep her awake until next week. Come on, she told herself. You have work to do. She resumed the painful task of reading.
The vile Simon de Quincy was snoring on the white
satin chaise longue, still wearing his muddy riding
boots. The dreaded riding crop, the source of so much
humiliation, was gripped in one hairy hand. A black
silk tunic clutched his broad chest, just as she had
once desired to clutch him in wifely lust, before he had
crushed her spirit and her love. A bottle of priceless
Napoleon brandy was beside him. It had fallen over.
Its precious liquid spilled out on a mahogany table
that had graced the de Quincy mansion for four gener
ations.
That was another problem Helen had with romances. Why didn’t the guy wear normal clothes? You could be a villain in jeans and deck shoes. Well, a Florida villain, anyway.

De Quincy’s filthy snores grew louder. Jillian knew
the utter degradation she would face when he awoke.
Simon would beat her and force her to … she would
feel his thrusting … he would fondle her … no, she
could not endure that again. She was sickened at the
very thought. Last night, she had forced herself to keep
quiet as his hands slid over her tender camellia-white
body, knowing her precious Jarrod was in the next
room. But she swore it would not happen again. She
felt as if an angel was leading her to their unhallowed
marital bed, the scene of many despairing pairings.
She picked up a lace pillow that had been embroidered
by a de Quincy maiden two hundred years ago, and
put it over Simon’s face. He hardly struggled. When
the riding crop fell from his wretched hand, she knew
the man who defiled her was dead.

“Oh, Lance, Lance, I did it for you,” Jillian cried in
an agony of triumph. And then she heard the boudoir
door creak.
After slogging through mountains of rocky prose, Helen had hit pay dirt. The drunken Simon had been smothered. Just like the drunken Page Turner and poor Mr. Davies. Maybe it wouldn’t convince Detective Gilbert, but Melanie’s favorite method of murder definitely had Helen’s attention.
She set the coffee cup down and read. There was no chance she’d fall asleep now.
Jillian got away with Simon’s murder, thanks to those bluebell eyes, which she batted shamelessly, and a devilmay-care police investigation.
But that did not free Jillian. After Simon’s death, she was blackmailed by the de Quincy family retainer, the oppressive housekeeper, Mrs. Hermione Buncaster. Mrs. B. had photographed Jillian as she put the fatal pillow over Simon’s face. She had the photos under lock and key. It took months of frantic searching to discover their hiding place. Of course, the resourceful Jillian had a way to save herself.
Little did Mrs. Buncaster know that Jillian had be
friended a small-time burglar named Melvin Larkey.
He, too, was a patient at the dental clinic. Jillian
taught him to floss nightly, and saved his teeth from
dreadful plaque buildup. “You showed me how to pick
me teeth proper, little missy,” said Mel. “In gratitude,
I’ll show you how to pick a lock.”
Jillian vowed to use her new lock-picking powers
only for good. Thanks to Mel, she could save herself
and her innocent son.
Jillian was a lock picker? Now that was interesting. Helen bet this was another autobiographical detail. It took skill and patience to wield teeth-cleaning tools. It was a small step to picking locks. And locks didn’t squirm and yell, “Ouch.”
With nimble fingers, Jillian unlocked the door to the
housekeeper’s room. Mel would have been so proud. A
Tandy DE345 lock looks difficult, but it always gives
way after a few tries. The locked drawer, which had an
old-fashioned Peerless lock, could have been opened
with a hairpin. Jillian’s expert fingers knew its sordid
secret in seconds. She took one last sweeping gaze
around the room of her tormentor, then set fire to the
photos and the negatives in the metal wastebasket. She
gazed exultantly at the rising flames, and knew she was
finally free.
Mrs. B. left town and was never heard from again. Jillian married the honest dentist Lance at last. Helen hoped for their future happiness that their eyes didn’t go sliding anywhere.
She closed the dreadful book and thought again of dear Mr. Davies. He may have given Helen the key to solve his own murder. Helen was wrong about Melanie. She’d made the same mistake as some men—if a woman was a blonde with a big chest, she must be dumb.
The book was badly written, but Helen had learned a lot.
Melanie thought it was OK to smother dissolute drunks. Her heroine got away with murder and lived happily ever after.
Melanie was not disorganized. She wrote a whole book—a bad one, maybe, but even that took effort. She knew how to construct a murder plot.
Melanie knew a thing or two about lock picking. And that meant she could have easily gotten into Peggy’s tented apartment.
But even if she could get into the Coronado, where would she get the SCBA breathing gear? Helen doubted that even the most grateful patient would lend her that. Trevor said it cost two thousand dollars new. Helen didn’t think Melanie had that kind of money.
Helen moved slowly around the bookstore that morning. She’d had less than three hours’ sleep. But she felt she was finally getting somewhere. On her lunch hour, she bought a double espresso and walked over to the Broward County Library to check out SCBA gear on the Internet. Unfortunately, every computer was taken, and it would be twenty minutes before one was free. That might not be enough time.
Helen couldn’t wait. She found a pay phone, called her friend Sarah and prayed she was home.
She answered on the fourth ring. “Hi, Helen, what are you doing?”
Helen could see curly-haired Sarah in her Hollywood beach condo, her computer set up so she could watch the ocean. “I don’t have much time to talk. I have a suspect who may know how to pick locks.”
“That would get him in the door.”
“Her,” Helen said. “But I don’t know if she has access to SCBA breathing gear. Can you do an Internet search for me?”
“Sure. What do you want me to look for?”
“Can regular people buy it, or do you need a special license? Can you find it for less than two thousand dollars?”
“Want to hang on while I search?” Sarah said.
“Better not. I’ll call you at two.”
By the time Helen walked back to the store, her lunch hour was nearly over. At one o’clock, she opened her cash register, and watched the hands loiter on the clock face. She didn’t think a court order would get them to move.
Finally, it was two. She asked Brad to cover for her for five minutes. Back in the break room, she called Sarah. “I’ve got good news,” her friend said. “Anyone can buy SCBA equipment. In fact, after nine-eleven there’s been quite a bit of interest in it. People are buying it the way our grandfathers built nuclear bomb shelters in their backyards. They’re afraid of a poison-gas attack.”
“If there was an attack, would you want to be one of the few survivors?”
“No, thanks,” Sarah said. “I’d get stuck with the cleanup. The point is, anyone can buy this gear. It’s expensive new. But you can also buy it used. You can buy used thirtyminute units for around five hundred dollars.”
“You did have good news,” Helen said. “I couldn’t see this woman spending two thousand dollars. But she might come up with five hundred. Suddenly, Page Turner’s death is positively cheap.”
“OK, I did your research. Now tell me who your suspect is,” Sarah said.
“Melanie, the print-on-demand author. She wears those plastic see-through heels. That’s why Mr. Davies said she looked like Cinderella. She’s got blond hair, too. I read her book last night. She’s a terrible writer. But her character smothers the bad guy, and then picks some locks to get the incriminating photos.”
“Interesting,” Sarah said.
“That’s because I left out the dull parts,” Helen said. “Here’s how I see it: Melanie, a blond, blue-eyed dental assistant, hungers for romance. She meets Page Turner and imagines this wonderful future. She’ll have a mad, passionate affair with the bookstore owner. They’ll have great liter ary discussions, and, incidentally, he’ll promote her book. She falls into Page Turner’s clutches.”
“Did you say clutches?” Sarah said.
“It’s not my fault. I’ve been reading Melanie’s romantic mystery or mysterious romance.
“Page sees it differently. He has her for a quickie on his couch. He expected her to go quietly. But Melanie isn’t like the others. She had dreams not just for herself, but her beloved book. Page Turner shattered those precious dreams. So Melanie struck back at her seducer.”
“How much longer before you talk normally?” Sarah said.
“It should wear off shortly,” Helen said. “What do you think?”
“It has possibilities. How are you going to get this accursed murderess arrested for her vile deeds? Please don’t say you’re going after her alone.”
“Not me. I’m not one of those half-wit heroines who runs into the empty house looking for the killer. When I get off work, I’ll go check the lock on Peggy’s door. If it’s a Tandy, I’ll call Detective Gilbert. Even if isn’t, I’ll call him. But that brand will make my case stronger.
“Gilbert can get a search warrant and check Melanie’s apartment for lock-picking tools and SCBA gear. He can get those Cinderella shoes and probably other evidence I can’t think of. He’ll have the murderer of Mr. Davies and Page Turner and Peggy will go free.”
“Helen, you’re more romantic than Melanie. You really do believe in happy endings,” Sarah said.
Helen went back to her cash register. The clock hands continued to crawl. At three p.m., the letter carrier brought in the store mail. She handed the big stack to Helen and said, “There’s a package for you.”
Helen never got mail. But the package definitely had her name on it. It looked like a shoebox wrapped in brown paper. There was no return address. Helen did not like this. Dr. Rich could be sending her something, or Gabriel. Neither one would give her a pleasant present. She shook the box. It sounded harmless. She held it up to her ear. No ticking.
Here goes, she thought. She pulled off the brown paper, then lifted the lid.

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