Murder Unleashed (15 page)

The shop door banged open. Was it the wind or her attacker returning?

Heart beating, Helen jerked the wire free, then sloshed up against the back of the cage. She hid the wire in her palm. I’ll ram it in his eye if he comes near me, she promised herself. I’ll stick it in his neck. I’ll rake his hand until he bleeds. I won’t hesitate. Not after what he did to me.

Helen heard a voice. No, wait. Was that two voices? It was hard to tell with the raging wind. A flashlight beam hit her in the eye, blinding her. Helen gripped her wire, ready to spring.

Then she heard Margery’s raucous voice: “What the hell are you doing in a cage?”

“Helen, are you OK?” It was Phil.

“Phil!” Helen said. “You made it to Florida. You’re safe.”

“Helen, what happened?” That was Jeff. She heard the rattle of her boss’s key ring, and the cage door was open. Phil’s strong hands pulled her free, and he wrapped his arms around her. Helen tried to stand, but her cramped knees gave out. They felt like they had been stung with a million needles. She sagged into his arms, her head cradled on Phil’s shoulder.

“Good Lord,” Margery said. “What is that smell?”

Helen didn’t answer. She might smell bad, but Phil was deliciously spicy and lemony, with a slightly sweaty tang that made Helen see him stripped naked on her sheets.

Margery took care of that memory. “Pee-yew. I’m sorry, Jeff, but I have to light up or I’ll gag,” she said. “What stinks?” She set fire to a cigarette.

Helen pointed to the bobbing bag in the cage. “It’s what got me locked in here in the first place,” she said.

“Gee, we used to use pork rinds for bait,” Margery said.

Jeff came back with a load of dog towels to wrap around Helen. The wind was tearing at the Pampered Pet building with such ferocity, Helen’s rescuers decided not to wait for her legs to start working. “Get her into my car, Phil,” Margery said, “while I help Jeff check the water damage.”

Phil carried Helen out to Margery’s big white car like a bride on her wedding night. Helen threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest. The chest was nice and hard. The shirt was soft, well-worn denim. The blue matched his eyes. It would have been romantic if Phil hadn’t staggered under her weight.

“It’s the water,” he said gallantly, as the rain slapped him in the face. Helen appreciated the lie. Phil struggled to open the door and stretched Helen out on the car’s wide backseat. He rubbed her cramped legs, trying to get the circulation back. Swarms of needles and pins traveled up and down her legs. She could not stop shivering. Phil took off his jacket and wrapped her in it. She was a soggy mass of ragged towels and damp coats.

Now that Helen was out of the store, she caught a whiff of herself. It wasn’t something she would bottle. Phil didn’t mention it. He was such a gentleman.

The wind rocked Margery’s heavy car. A chunk of wood hit the trunk and bounced off. Helen was glad when her landlady fought her way to the car and flopped into the seat, breathless and windblown.

Margery lit another cigarette, then said, “Store’s OK for now. Most of the water is on the grooming side, not in the boutique, so Jeff’s stock is in good shape. I helped him stack the expensive bags of dog food up on the higher shelves and set out some sandbags by the door. If they hold, he won’t have much damage.”

Neither Phil nor Helen said anything about a seventy-six-year-old woman helping Jeff with the lifting. They’d seen Margery sling the heavy patio furniture around like it was made of paper when she hosed down the pool deck.

Headlights blinked at the far end of the lot. “That’s Jeff’s car,” Margery said. “He made it. Let’s go.”

Helen settled against Phil in the backseat, grateful for his warmth. They drove home through a black soup on nearly deserted streets. Slamming winds sent the car sliding out of its lane, but Margery gripped the wheel and hung on, her cigarette clenched in her teeth. At a stoplight, a broken metal sign skittered through the intersection.

“I’m not waiting for the light to change,” Margery said. “God knows what will be through here next.” She ran the red light.

“How did you find me?” Helen asked.

“When you weren’t home by five, Phil and I were worried. You’d given me Jeff’s phone number. I called his cell and got him at home.”

“Did he ever find Lulu?” Helen said.

“Yes. He told me he left you to lock up his store because Lulu escaped. That crazy mutt was at the Taco Bell on Federal Highway, begging in the kitchen. When I said you weren’t home yet, Jeff was afraid something bad happened. Shops closing for the hurricane are easy targets for robbers. Phil and I met Jeff and then found you. Want to tell me what happened?”

By the time Helen gave her landlady and Phil the details, they were at the Coronado. Helen’s legs felt warm and unpleasantly needle-y, but they were working. She could walk on her own.

“Look at that,” Margery said, as she pulled into a parking spot. “Storm got my neighbor’s old ficus tree.” The massive ficus, the size of a garage, was lying on the lawn, its roots helplessly in the air.

The jolly little Coronado Tropic Apartments looked grim in the lashing gray rain. The Art Deco windows and sliding doors were boarded with plywood. The wind had stripped the bougainvillea of its purple blossoms and torn away tree limbs and palm fronds.

“What time is it?” Helen said.

“Six thirty,” Margery said. “Why? You going somewhere?”

“The storm isn’t due for another hour and a half,” Helen said. “I can’t imagine what it will do.”

“Won’t have to imagine anything,” Margery said. “You’re going to see the whole show.”

H
elen ran through the stinging rain to her own apartment. She was greeted at the door by Thumbs, her six-toed cat. The big-pawed cat looked at her reproachfully with wide golden eyes. She bent down to scratch his thick gray-and-white fur. He looked like a stuffed toy, except for those monster paws.

“Sorry, boy,” she said. “I left you here alone. You must be exhausted from having to do storm duty.” Thumbs moved through the hot, darkened apartment with weary dignity, leading her to the kitchen. Helen opened a whole can of tuna to reward him. Thumbs ate it with smacking satisfaction.

She looked around her place as if seeing it for the first time. Helen guessed the turquoise Barcalounger, the boomerang coffee table, and the lamps shaped like nuclear reactors would fetch high prices in New York. In St. Louis she’d have called them tacky. They simply belonged here in her Florida home. She loved her small furnished apartment with the view of the Coronado gardens.

But the boarded-up windows turned Helen’s airy apartment into a dank cave. After being locked in the cage, she could hardly breathe in the small closed-in rooms. She was glad she wouldn’t have to stay here for the hurricane. Margery’s place wouldn’t be much bigger, but it would have noise and people to distract her.

Helen checked her windows and sliding doors for leaks, then took a quick hot shower and put on fresh clothes. No point in drying her hair. It would be soaked again by the time she ran across the yard to Margery’s home.

She put Thumbs’s food and litter box into a shopping bag, then packed bread, chocolate, pretzels, peanut butter, sliced turkey, a box of wine, and other hurricane essentials. As she locked her door, she wondered if it would be there to open in twenty-four hours.

Thumbs howled his protests as Helen carried him through the slashing rain, the bags of groceries bumping against her tortured legs. Margery’s door opened before she had to knock. The other storm refugees were already there.

Margery’s friend Elsie was sitting in the purple recliner with her unpoodle, Corkie. Doris and Alice, the new renters in 2C, were drinking screwdrivers on the couch. They were both in their fifties, no-nonsense women in jeans and T-shirts. Doris was built like a Humvee with short gray hair and a big bumper. Alice was the thin one with the long gray-black bob.

Helen put the struggling Thumbs on the floor.

“Here, kitty.” Doris gave Thumbs a big smile and reached for the cat.

Thumbs rudely ran past her and disappeared under the couch. Helen was relieved that her cat showed no interest in Pete. The tubby parrot was sitting on Peggy’s shoulder, restlessly pulling at his feathers. His exotic owner ran her fingers through her dramatic splash of red hair with the same gesture. Peggy’s face was not conventionally beautiful, but that made it all the more compelling.

Helen saw why Peggy was tearing out her hair. Another Coronado resident, Cal the Canadian, had her blocked in a corner. As usual, Cal was praising his home country and cutting down the U.S.A. “Not only don’t you Americans have health insurance like we do, but now your government is going to take away your Social Security. You know that, eh?”

Peggy gave Helen a wild-eyed look, and Helen promised herself she’d rescue her friend as soon as she could. She worked her way to the kitchen and added her bags to the loot on the table.

Margery was running her orange juicer. “I’m making screwdrivers,” she said over the high-pitched whine. “Help yourself to the food and drink.”

Helen suddenly remembered she was hungry and found herself a paper plate. A cooler was packed with iced soda, water, and wine. She helped herself to a cold bottle of clean water.

The table was overflowing with platters and dishes. Helen spotted a big bowl of Thai chicken salad, Peggy’s special recipe. The rest was comfort food: green beans in mushroom soup smothered with crunchy canned onion rings, sliced meat loaf, tuna casserole, chocolate cake, boxes of brownies and doughnuts, trays of deviled eggs, and thick ham sandwiches. Two bruised tomatoes sat unsliced on a plate.

“Did Cal bring the tomatoes?” Helen said.

“Again,” Margery said. “They look like the same ones he brought to the Labor Day picnic. That’s all he brought, too, except for the beer he’s drinking. Cheapest man on earth.”

There were better men to discuss, Helen decided. “Where’s Phil?” she asked.

She felt his long arms around her and his warm breath on her neck. He had a cold beer in one hand, and his kiss tasted deliciously bitter. Helen forgot all about her food.

“If you’re going to do that, go into the hall back there,” Margery said. “I can’t concentrate with you two making goo-goo eyes.”

They escaped gratefully into the dark hallway. Phil put his beer bottle on the floor. He had his hands under Helen’s shirt and was working them down into her jeans. Helen began quickly unbuttoning Phil. She gave a soft moan and pressed her hips against him. God, he felt good.

“Are you as hot as I am?” Phil said, as he feather-kissed her neck.

“Yes,” Helen said. “What is it about hurricanes?”

“The bedroom is full of sleeping bags, but maybe we can—”

“Oh, dear. Oh, my. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was on my way to—”

It was dear, dithery Elsie. Helen and Phil pulled apart. Helen was breathless and dizzy from Phil’s kisses, and embarrassed that her bare breasts were nearly hanging out of her unbuttoned shirt. It didn’t matter. So were Elsie’s. The punked-out septuagenarian was wearing red toreador pants, a blue satin push-up bra, and a black lace shirt. Lumps of bare flesh popped up everywhere, like a colony of prairie dogs.

Elsie took a step forward on her red spike heels and knocked over Phil’s bottle, sending cold beer across Margery’s hardwood floor. Helen could almost see the sticky alcohol eating the finish.

“I need to put Corkie to bed,” Elsie said, petting her fluffy white dog. “She’s sleeping.”

“We were about to head for bed, too,” Phil said. Helen kicked him.

“Oh, not so early, I hope,” Elsie said. “You’ll miss all the fun. You need to join the party.”

“Excuse me. Sorry, but this is the only route to the restroom,” Cal said. “And I need to get my sweater out of the bedroom.” He walked between them and stepped in the beer. “Did you know there’s beer on the floor here?”

“I was just going to the bedroom so my little dog, Corkie, can get a nap,” Elsie said. “Are you still coming, Phil?”

“Not a chance,” Phil said.

Helen kicked him again. “I think you’re right, Elsie,” she said. “We’d better join the party.”

Phil looked unhappy, but they both knew there was no privacy in Margery’s crowded apartment. Staying with each other was slow torture. It was better to separate for now. Phil rummaged in the hall closet for a towel to mop up his beer. He held the empty bottle strategically in front of him.

Helen went back out to the kitchen for her plate, then wandered into the living room. Peggy and Pete were watching the Weather Channel. It was strange to see the storm as a pulsing red blob on the TV map, when they could hear its lost-soul howls outside their walls.

“It appears now that the category-three hurricane may land at either West Palm Beach or Port Saint Lucie to the north,” the announcer said.

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” Alice asked.

“Not if you’re in Port Saint Lucie,” her cleaning partner, Doris, said. Helen and Elsie sat down on the couch to talk with the new neighbors in 2C.

“You clean houses for seniors,” Elsie said. “Isn’t that lovely?” Instead of her little dog, she was holding a screwdriver in a glass the size of a vase.

“We’d really like to clean your home,” skinny Alice said.

Burly Doris nodded enthusiastically.“We can help you.”

“Thank you, dear, but Gert has been cleaning for me for thirty years,” Elsie said. “I wouldn’t dream of using anyone else. She knows all the old remedies, the ones my mother used. Much better for the environment than some of those products they have now. When I had my new closet put in and the workers left plaster dust all over my tile floors, Gert got it up in two shakes with warm water and white vinegar.”

“White vinegar?” Doris said. “That’s for salads.”