Murder Unleashed (5 page)

She had to get away for another reason: She could not be involved in a murder. She could not have the police asking awkward questions. If they looked into her past, they’d find out she had attacked a naked woman in St. Louis. Helen could see Sandy now, fleeing from Helen’s wrath, searching for her cell phone in her pile of clothes. Helen had had a good reason for going after her, and Sandy had never filed charges. But she had called the police, and they had made a report. The detectives investigating Tammie’s homicide might believe that this time Helen had killed a woman. They’d see the motive for the attack was the same: sex.

Jeff had seen Tammie coming on to her at the store. Helen had complained that Tammie was drunk and naked. The cops would find out she was a swinger soon enough. Unwanted advances could be a powerful motive for murder.

And the weapon? It was a natural for Helen, too. She could have taken the grooming scissors from the Pampered Pet, where she worked. Where Jonathon worked. The star groomer used ten-inch scissors.

If I’m not the killer, then I’m working with one—or for one, she thought.

Helen would worry about that later. She had to get away first. She tried to remember if she’d touched anything in Tammie’s house.

Yes! Her fingerprints were all over the front door. What could she use to wipe them off? She looked frantically around the pool deck. Nothing. Tammie didn’t have a towel or a swimsuit cover-up. Helen was afraid to rummage for one in the bathroom and leave more traces of herself.

For one wicked moment she eyed Prince’s long fur, and considered him as a canine handy wipe. Then she caught his sad brown eyes under his ridiculous blue bow and felt ashamed. He’d suffered enough indignities. Besides, she finally noticed the terry robe she’d brought to cover Tammie. It was dropped at her feet.

Prince was shivering now, even in the afternoon sun. He must be in shock. Helen tucked him tenderly into the folds of the robe, feeling guilty. How could she even think of using that poor dog to wipe away the evidence of his mistress’s death? Helen carried him through the cavernous house to the front door. She held him tightly while she rubbed the robe’s sleeve over the front door panels, frame, knob, and bell. She pushed in the lock button, then wiped it down again.

If the killer’s prints were on that door, I’m destroying evidence, she thought. But killers wore gloves, didn’t they? Not always, said a little voice. Sometimes they made stupid mistakes. Especially when they killed in an unplanned frenzy. You could be helping a murderer go free.

Something small and twisted slithered into her soul, a guilty imp who would torment her during the long nights. Helen didn’t have time to indulge it right now. She wiped down the front door once more. Holding the robe, she slammed it shut, then ran to the pink Pupmobile. Could she drive anything more conspicuous?

Prince whimpered as she put him in the pet caddy. She gave him another pat, but he couldn’t stop shivering. Even turkey jerky didn’t calm him.

Poor Prince. She wondered if Tammie deserved such loyalty. Helen scratched the dog’s ears until he stopped shaking. She felt shaky herself, but she had to get back to the shop. Prince would be OK there. Jeff would protect him until Tammie’s husband took the little dog home. The shop owner had a soft heart.

The security guard was snoring in his kiosk when Helen left the country club. He didn’t even wake up to wave her through the gate. Good. As the Pupmobile idled noisily in the Saturday afternoon traffic, Helen concocted her story for Jeff. She’d tell her boss that Tammie didn’t answer when she rang the doorbell. Helen had knocked and beat on the door, but nobody opened it. Finally she’d left.

Helen never went inside Tammie’s house, never saw her dead body, never heard the buzzing flies or saw the sun shining on the groomer’s scissors. She looked at her face in the mirror. How was she going to pretend she was fine when her skin was flour-white and her eyes were wide with fear?

I’ll paint on some color, she thought, and reached for her purse. That’s when she saw the white robe on the car seat. Ohmigod! She’d brought Tammie’s robe with her. How stupid was that?

Helen had to get rid of it. She pulled into a strip mall, then realized she was driving a block-long pink Cadillac. Someone was sure to see her poking around in the Dumpster.

A bigger mall half a block away had an Old Navy, a Marshalls, a Target store, a bagel shop, and a bank, like every other shopping center. She parked the Pupmobile and picked up Prince. It was too hot to leave him in the car. She tucked him into the crook of her arm. Now she was just another shopper carrying her little dog—and a big fluffy white bathrobe.

Helen hiked two blocks to a depressing string of doctors’ offices, a nail salon, and a Chinese restaurant. It was so anonymous, Helen doubted she could even find it again. She threw the robe in a Dumpster behind the building. Prince yipped.

Flies crawled over the Dumpster, just like they were crawling over Tammie’s body. Prince’s owner was lying dead by her pool. Helen remembered Tammie’s blank eyes and gray-green skin. What if some innocent partygoer found Tammie’s body and had a heart attack? What if her husband, Kent, wasn’t the killer? He didn’t deserve to stumble on that dreadful scene. His last memory of his wife would be of a flyblown corpse. A maid, a neighbor, a child who lost her ball—any of them could find Tammie and have nightmares forever.

Helen had to call the police. She knew it was risky, but she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t.

A pay phone rose like a mirage in front of her. Then she saw that the phone had been vandalized. The cord dangled without a receiver.

Was that a sign not to call?

Nope, it was a sign she was in a rough area of Lauderdale. The next phone worked. She dialed the police nonemergency number.

“I want to report a murder,” Helen said quickly. The officer who answered tried to interrupt, but she bulldozed ahead. “It’s at the Grimsby house. Stately Palms Country Club. There’s a dead woman by the pool.”

Helen hung up. She hadn’t tried to disguise her voice. She wondered if the call was being taped. She ran back to the car and drove the six blocks to the Pampered Pet.

Her heart was slamming in her chest and her hands shook so hard she had trouble locking the Pupmobile. She plastered a smile on her face and walked into the shop holding the whimpering Prince. Jeff was in the back room eating a pot-roast sandwich and drinking an orange soda. Helen realized she hadn’t had any lunch.

“Well, you took long enough,” Jeff said. “Traffic bad this afternoon?”

“The worst,” Helen said. “Plus I got stopped for a drawbridge over the Intracoastal and a train on the Dixie Highway.”

Helen was amazed how easily she could lie.

“All that, and I couldn’t deliver Prince. Tammie didn’t answer her door. I rang the doorbell and knocked until my knuckles were raw.”

“She was probably passed out drunk,” Jeff said, and shrugged. “Unless she forgot. That woman is such an airhead. Don’t worry. I’ll charge her a boarding fee for Prince. What was she thinking, abandoning that poor dog? Listen how upset he is.”

Jeff peeked inside the carrier and said, “Don’t you worry, guy. We’ll take care of you.” He fed the Yorkie pot roast from his sandwich. Prince licked Jeff’s fingers greedily. Helen looked hungrily at the remains of the sandwich, but Jeff didn’t notice.

The phone rang. Jeff set his sandwich next to a pile of lamb-lung treats. Helen lost all taste for pot roast.

“Francis,” he said, smiling into the phone. “Yes, Barkley is ready. Of course you can pick her up early. You’ll be right over? Terrific.”

Helen went back to the cage room to get Barkley. The little labradoodle was irresistible. Her chocolate-brown eyes melted with love. Her tail wagged with delight. No wonder she’d snagged the Davis department stores contract. Helen wanted to pick up the pup and hug her.

Her master, Francis Barclay, was at the grooming shop in two shakes of a Rolex. Jeff was busy with customers on the boutique side when the most anonymous man Helen had ever seen came into the shop.

“Francis Barclay,” he said. He gave her a thin smile. There was something dislikeable about it. “Here for the dog.”

Francis’s hair was the color of dead grass. He had a small, straight nose, thin lips, and beige eyes. Helen couldn’t remember if she’d met him before or not. There was nothing about him to remember, except maybe his knobby knees. Some men shouldn’t wear shorts.

While Francis paid for Barkley’s grooming visit, Helen tried to talk to him.

“Barkley is irresistible,” she said. “No wonder she has that big contract. I’ve never seen such a lovable dog.”

Francis grunted.

“Would she like a treat?” Helen asked.

“Is it free?” Francis said.

What a cheapskate. “Of course,” Helen said. She stepped out from behind the counter to get a cheese-and-bacon biscuit. As she bent over the bin, she felt a hand brush her bottom. Was the touch accidental? Now the fingers cupped her rump. Yuck. The knobby-kneed nonentity was feeling her up.

“Sorry,” he said, and looked her right in the eye.

Helen stepped back, stomping hard on Francis’s foot. “Oops,” she said. “You startled me. I didn’t mean to do that, any more than you meant to touch me.”

“Of course,” he said with the same insincerity. He was still standing too close. She could feel his hot, damp breath.

Helen backed farther away. How could any woman marry this creep? she thought. He couldn’t even hit on her like an adult. He almost wasn’t there, except for his knobby knees and roving hands. Even his clothes were anonymous. He wore khaki shorts and a blue polo shirt. He looked like someone she’d just seen.

But Francis was special to Barkley. The curly-haired pup gave a joyful bark when she saw her owner and licked his chin. Francis didn’t even give her a pat.

Some dogs don’t deserve their people, Helen thought.

Francis was out the door without a good-bye, Barkley slung under his arm like a sack of laundry.

Jonathon stuck his head out the grooming room door. “Any customers?” he asked. “I want a soda.” Jonathon didn’t like to be in the store when there were shoppers. Helen thought it was part of his mystique. She could see Todd peeking out behind him, still sulky. If the boy groomer was smart, he wouldn’t get too close to Jonathon.

“The coast is clear, but I can’t promise for how long on a Saturday,” she said.

Jonathon zipped into the back room and came out with a frosty bottle. “What’s the matter, Helen? You look upset.”

“That creepy Francis Barclay felt me up,” Helen said.

“Want me to neuter him next time he’s in?” Jonathon said.

“Thanks, but I ‘accidentally’ stepped on his foot. He got the message,” Helen said.

Jonathon laughed and slipped into the grooming room just as the doorbell rang. Todd was nowhere to be seen.

Ten minutes later, Willoughby Barclay trotted into the Pampered Pet. She was almost as cute and curly as her dog. Even her shoes were lovable. Helen wished she could wear flowered flip-flops and not look like she was heading for the shower at summer camp.

“Hi,” Willoughby said, all smiles. “I’m here to pick up Barkley.”

“Your husband just got him,” Helen said.

Willoughby turned white as a dog bone. “What? Francis was here? And you gave him my dog?”

“Is something wrong?” Helen said.

“Everything’s wrong,” Willoughby wailed. “I’m divorcing that jerk. We’re separated. I have temporary custody of Barkley.”

“Divorce?” Jeff was there now, his face anxious. “You didn’t tell us you were divorcing, Mrs. Barclay.”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “I called here today and talked with you. I said this was a sensitive subject and I didn’t want my personal life discussed in public and I wouldn’t mention it when I came in. You said you understood and you’d put the information in your computer.”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t get a call like that,” Jeff said. “I would have remembered.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Willoughby said. She looked like she might bite.

“There has to be some mistake,” Jeff said. “Are you sure you talked with me?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Francis has violated a court order. He’s kidnapped my dog. Call the police.”

“The police?” Helen said. She felt the floor fall out from under her, and grabbed onto the counter.

“Do you know what that dog is worth?” Willoughby said. “You gave him my dog. You’re an idiot. I’ll sue. I’ll haul you into court. I can’t believe you were so careless. I—”

Willoughby kept raging, but the words no longer registered with Helen. She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. She wanted to rip off her face and find a new one. She was mixed up in kidnapping and murder. There was no way she could escape the police now. She was doomed.

Willoughby had stopped yelling at Helen. Jeff was hovering nearby, looking like a concerned canine in a polo shirt. “Please, let’s talk this over.”

He tried to calm her, but Willoughby ignored him, whipped out her cell phone, and called 911. Soon Helen could hear the police sirens.

The dogs in the grooming room began to howl. Helen wanted to join them.

H
elen hated Detective Ted Brogers. She didn’t like most police on principle. But this was personal.

Detective Brogers had a gold shield, but his real job was public relations. He had to please the rich residents of Wakefield Manor, a town grafted onto the north side of Fort Lauderdale. Wakefield Manor had historic charm by Florida standards. Real estate agents bragged that its houses were half a century old.

So was Ted Brogers, but Helen found him short on charm. He should have been handsome with his gray-blue eyes and thick snow-white hair. He swaggered into the Pampered Pet gut-first. Helen decided it was a beer belly, not a doughnut gut. She bet he got it drinking in a bar that had a man’s name: Johnny’s, Bob’s, or Bill’s Hideaway.