The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) (2 page)

“N
ine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” The operator sounded preternaturally calm.

“A woman passed out,” Helen said, her voice shaking. She was leaning on the front fender of Margery’s big white Town Car. “Annabel. She needs help.”

Annabel had fallen in a makeshift aisle between two parked cars, Margery’s white whale of a Lincoln and a big black BMW. Annabel’s purse, thermos and cane were abandoned in the sandy dirt. The cane looked like a green shoot that had been cut down in the thin, rubble-strewn soil.

“Is she breathing, ma’am?” the operator asked. Her matter-of-fact tone gave Helen hope. The operator sounded in charge. She would get help there to save Annabel.

“Yes,” Helen said.

“Are you with her, ma’am?”

“I’m standing right near Annabel. Her friends are with her.”

Helen saw small, worried Jenny cradling Annabel’s head in her lap. The artist’s skin looked like old putty and her long dark hair was plastered to her head.

“Ma’am, what’s the address?” the 911 operator asked.

“I’m not sure,” Helen said. “There’s no street sign. We’re on the street behind the Bonnet House Museum.”

“Is that the Birch Road entrance, ma’am?”

“No, we’re in the little dead-end street off Birch. In a vacant lot, where they just tore down some shops,” Helen said frantically.

She tried to calm down and give a better description. “There are six cars parked in the lot. It’s dirt, not pavement.” She looked around wildly. “There’s a big yellow Caterpillar tractor behind a chain-link fence, a construction Dumpster full of debris, and a row of blue porta potties.”

“I have the location now, ma’am,” the operator said. “Stay with me. What’s the nature of the injury?”

“Nature?” Helen said.

“How did she get hurt? Is she bleeding? Did she fall? Was she struck by a car?”

“I’m not sure she’s injured,” Helen said “There’s no blood. I think she’s sick. Annabel said she felt terrible and fainted. Landed in the dirt like someone cut her strings. Then she came to and started throwing up. Several times.”

Helen saw Jenny brushing Annabel’s limp, damp hair away from her pale, sweaty forehead. She was talking softly to her friend.

Suddenly Annabel went rigid. Her face looked like a skin-stretched skull and her sightless eyes were glazed. Her body bucked in jerky movements.

Jenny screamed.

“Cushion her head,” Margery shouted. She and Jenny fought to keep the thrashing Annabel from injuring herself. Jenny knelt in the dirt, not caring that she wore five hundred dollars’ worth of designer duds.

Helen’s heart was pounding. “Hurry!” she shouted to the 911 operator. “I think she’s having a seizure. Please, hurry!”

Helen saw the dark stain on Annabel’s pants. She’d wet herself.

“Please remain on the line, ma’am,” the operator said. “The paramedics have been dispatched. Did she eat or drink anything?”

“Just tea,” Helen said. “But she’s not in good health. She walks with a cane, but I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

Annabel appeared unconscious again, but her chest rose and fell.

“She’s still breathing,” Margery said to Jenny.

Helen could hear Jenny crooning to her friend. “Stay with us, baby,” she said, patting Annabel’s hand. “Help is on the way. You’ll be better soon.”

Margery had stubbed out her cigarette in the sandy soil and was fanning Annabel with her straw hat. A nicotine fiend like Margery would abandon a partly smoked cigarette only for a life-and-death emergency.

The blazing sun throbbed and turned the glass shards in the dusty lot into glittering fire, but Helen felt cold. She realized the operator was talking to her.

“How old is the person?” the operator asked.

“Early to mid-thirties, I think,” Helen told the operator. “Her name is Annabel.” The quaver was back in her own voice. “She’s an artist. A good one.”

“What’s your relation to her? Is she a relative? A friend?” the operator asked.

She’s trying to keep me calm until help arrives, Helen thought.

“Neither,” Helen said. “I just met Annabel at an art class. She was with some friends and we walked out together to our cars.”

Helen heard heavy feet crunching across the broken glass in the lot. Hugo was picking his way around giant tractor-tire ruts, dented soda cans and broken bricks. His face was rare-roast-beef red. Greasy sweat poured down his neck and soaked his polo shirt.

“Annabel collapsed,” Jenny told him. “We’re calling 911.”

He grunted and ignored Margery and Jenny’s efforts to revive Annabel. He stepped over Annabel’s feet as if she were more construction debris, then stabbed the electronic key to unlock his car.

“Hey, jerk,” Margery said, standing up and brushing off her purple clam diggers. “We’ve got a sick woman here.”

Helen noticed her landlady held her keys. Was she going to stab him in the eye?

“Are you speaking to me?” Hugo said, glaring at her with small, mean eyes. His voice was a challenge.

“You answered to the name,” Margery said. “You’ve just stepped over a seriously sick woman and didn’t offer to help.”

“Not my problem,” Hugo said. “We’re divorced. It stinks here.”

He tossed his art supplies in the car trunk, then stepped around Margery and opened the driver’s door.

The Beemer made a rude
whump!
when he plopped into the leather seat. He fired up the engine and floored the car, spewing dust and gravel as he screeched straight out of the spot and crossed the curb with a
thunk
.

Helen winced at the sound and wondered if he’d scraped the undercarriage. She hoped so.

Jenny was choking on the dust, but Margery was grinning. She held up her keys and said, “Oops, I guess Hugo didn’t realize how close he was to my car keys.”

“You keyed his car?” Jenny said.

“It was an accident,” Margery said. She tried to look innocent, but it didn’t work.

Jenny poured the rest of her bottled water onto a wad of tissues and wiped Annabel’s sweating, dusty face. Annabel didn’t react, and Helen thought that was a bad sign.

“I can’t believe Annabel was married to that creep,” Margery said. “Why does he hate her?”

“He says she ruined his career,” Jenny said. “I’m glad she dumped him.”

“Her husband, Clay, is wonderful,” Cissy said. Helen had seen her hovering uselessly at the edges of the scene, wringing her hands and smoking her e-cigarette.

Now she powered up her cell phone. “I’m calling Clay,” she said as she speed-dialed a number, then paused and listened. “In case Annabel gets sick, he’s on my speed dial.

“No answer,” she said. “His cell phone went into voice mail. I’ll try to reach him at the college art department.

“Hello?” Cissy said into her phone. “Joanne, is that you? It’s Cissy. I’m trying to reach Clay. Is he in his office? Not there? I need to reach him—is he teaching a class now? No? Look, this is a family emergency. Annabel’s sick. Do you know where I can find him? Okay, I’ll try his cell phone.”

She hung up and speed-dialed a third number, then waited about thirty seconds. Helen guessed she was listening to the recording again.

“Clay, it’s Cissy,” she said, her words quick and urgent. “I’m sorry to leave this news as a message, but it’s important. Annabel collapsed coming out of her art class and the paramedics are on their way. They’ll probably take her to the closest hospital, Palmetto Hills.

“I’ll meet you in the ER. I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all I know. You know my number.” She hung up.

“Annabel’s husband is an artist, too?” Margery said.

“Oh, yes,” Cissy said. Her voice softened. “An important one. He paints the most divine seascapes. Clay was a famous painter in New York before he moved to Fort Lauderdale. Now his work is carried by RH Gallery Ltd. That’s a major gallery on Las Olas. If your art is shown in downtown Fort Lauderdale, you’re a very big deal.”

“I’ll have to check him out,” Margery said. “Why does Annabel use a cane?”

Jenny, who was still patting and soothing Annabel, said, “I’m not sure. She doesn’t like to talk about what’s wrong. She’s a very private person, so—”

“I know,” Cissy interrupted. “She has chronic fatigue syndrome. Some days she can’t get out of bed, she’s so tired. Clay is a saint—a
saint—to take care of her. He’s sacrificed his career for his wife, but that’s the kind of man he is.”

“Ma’am,” the 911 operator said to Helen, “I asked if there were any changes in her condition.”

“She’s not moving,” Helen said, “and her eyes are closed, but I can see her chest rising and falling.”

“The paramedics will be there momentarily,” the operator said.

“Excuse me.” An older woman walking a spindly, bug-eyed Chihuahua marched briskly toward them, picking her way around the treacherous lot with surprising agility. She wore a flowered pantsuit and red Crocs. Her face was shaded with an enormous red visor. She had a photo of her dog on her huge purse, and Helen wondered if the little Chihuahua rode in the bag when it was tired.

“What happened to the lady? Can I help? My name’s Gretchen.” Helen thought the woman might be about Margery’s age—mid-seventies.

“Thank you, Gretchen,” Margery said, “but the paramedics are on the way.”

That’s when Helen heard the wailing sirens and nearly collapsed in relief.

“Help is here now,” Helen told the 911 operator. “Thanks for staying with me. I’m going to hang up now. Thank you.”

Annabel didn’t react to the shrieking siren or the sudden silence when it was switched off. The red ambulance, lights dancing, crunched across the lot. Four paramedics who looked like bodybuilders poured out, carrying a portable stretcher and other equipment.

Brisk and businesslike, they took Annabel’s vital signs and then lifted her onto the stretcher. Jenny and Cissy told them about Annabel’s mysterious attack, and gave them her full name: Annabel Lee Griffin. Gretchen, the older woman, gathered up her little brown dog and stood off to the side, watching the show.

Jenny picked up Annabel’s purse and cane and ran over to Helen
and Margery. “Cissy and I are going to Palmetto Hills Hospital,” she said. “Thank you both for your help.”

Helen gave Jenny her Coronado Investigations card and said, “You’ll call and tell me how Annabel is?”

“I promise,” Jenny said. “As soon as I know something.”

Helen watched the paramedics load the unconscious Annabel into the ambulance. Her color had gone from ghost white to gray. She looked like a stone figure on a tomb.

“D
o you think Annabel is going to make it?” Helen asked, grabbing the dashboard as Margery’s big old Lincoln bumped and rocked across the vacant lot.

The ambulance had roared off, siren screaming, carrying the unconscious Annabel. Her friends Cissy and Jenny followed it to the hospital in their own cars.

Margery’s strong, veined hands expertly steered her white tank around the ruts and debris, but it took all her concentration to get out of the lot.

Frigid air blasted from the air-conditioning vents, mixing with the acrid odor of old nicotine. Even the seats and dashboard were fumed with sticky yellow tobacco tar. Helen was grateful for the cool air but hated the cigarette stink.

When the Lincoln landed on the street with a resentful
clunk
, Margery put it in Park and lit a cigarette. She kept the air-conditioning running but powered down her window and blew a long, satisfied plume of smoke into the air. She closed her eyes and leaned against the headrest.

Helen let her savor her cigarette awhile, then said, “I was on the
phone with 911 and couldn’t really see what was going on. Was Annabel as bad as she looked?”

“Worse,” Margery said, rolling up her window and pointing the faithful Lincoln toward the Coronado Tropic Apartments near downtown Fort Lauderdale. “Annabel had at least one seizure, a bad one, while we were waiting. Her head really jerked around.”

They stopped at a red light, waiting to turn onto US 1, a main artery for Florida beach towns.

“I saw some of that,” Helen said. “The way her body went rigid and then started flailing looked frightening.”

“It was,” Margery said. “Jenny and I kept Annabel from banging her head around, but that’s all we could do. I hope that seizure wasn’t a stroke and there’s no brain damage. When the seizure was finally over, Annabel was breathing, but that’s about it. By the time the ambulance showed up, she wasn’t reacting to anything. She didn’t move when Jenny wiped her face with cool water.

“I’m no doctor, but when the paramedics hauled Annabel away, she didn’t look unconscious—she looked like she was in a coma.”

Coma. Stroke. Brain damage. Helen didn’t want to hear those words. She barely knew Annabel—they’d never even had a conversation. But Helen remembered what the artist had said when Jenny had admired her work:
I’m only a student. I’m still perfecting my techniq
ue.

Helen had seen only one unfinished painting by Annabel, and she was no judge of art. But she liked Annabel’s crisp, offbeat style and her humble response to Jenny’s extravagant praise. Annabel had lots of talent, without the artist’s big ego. It would be a shame to lose someone so gifted.

Margery interrupted Helen’s gloomy thoughts. “Could you hear what the paramedics were saying?” the landlady asked. “They shooed us away and went to work.”

“Not a word,” Helen said. “They talked softly and looked serious.”

“The ambulance put the siren on when they took her to the hospital,” Margery said. “Another bad sign. They only use sirens for real emergencies.”

“At least we know she was still alive,” Helen said. “What was with her ex-husband, Hugo? He stepped over her like she was a hunk of wood.”

“He’s a real prize,” Margery said. “I wonder why he’s so bitter. He looks like a man who makes trouble for himself.”

“I’m glad you keyed his car,” Helen said.

“I didn’t,” Margery said, and grinned. “His car got in the way of my key. Wouldn’t have happened if he’d used better judgment.”

“About his wife?” Helen said.

“Ex-wife,” Margery corrected. “Now he’ll have a whopping repair bill to remind him of his bad behavior.”

The two women were quiet the rest of the way to the Coronado Tropic Apartments. Margery smoked and Helen thought about Annabel and her vivid paintings. The art world would be a less colorful place without her.

Margery turned off US 1 onto the Coronado’s street, a small slice of Old Florida lined with two-story midcentury modern apartments. At three in the afternoon, the street was cool and shaded by rustling palms, nine-foot scheffleras with thick, waxy green leaves, and Helen’s favorite, graceful royal poinciana trees with flame red flowers. Cerise and purple bougainvillea spilled over the fences.

The idyllic scene called for birdsong, but instead Helen and Margery heard the screech and roar of heavy machinery.

“What are the developers tearing down now?” Helen asked.

“Sunny Vista Apartments, two streets over,” Margery said. “Built the same time as the Coronado—1949. The late owner’s kids sold it.”

“More condos?” Helen asked.

“Town houses,” Margery said. “The developers are tearing out the city’s heart. Places like the Coronado are a dying breed.”

“I hope not,” Helen said. But the Coronado had had a close brush with destruction, until Margery found enough money to restore the place. Greed was wrecking the city.

“Phil’s Jeep isn’t in the lot,” Helen said. “I hope he gets another job soon. He’s bored and restless.”

“And you’re not?” Margery asked.

“I’ve been improving my mind,” Helen said. “It will be fun to take art classes and play lady.”

“Right. One look at you, and the word ‘lady’ immediately comes to mind,” Margery said.

Helen tossed back her long dark hair. “Art classes will give me a whole new perspective on my profession,” she said. “The art teacher said so.”

“She was working her own angle,” Margery said, and gave an unladylike snort.

But Helen thought their jokes sounded flat. She and Margery were both shaken.

Margery parked the car in the Coronado lot and Helen followed her through the gate into the sun-splashed courtyard.

She loved the building’s sleek white curves and fresh turquoise trim. The two-story art moderne apartments were set around the aquamarine pool, shaded by palms and broad green-leaved elephant ears. Waterfalls of ruffled purple bougainvillea surrounded the pool, and the sidewalks were an imperial march of purple impatiens and spiky salvia.

“What do you want for lunch?” Margery asked.

“I’m not really hungry,” Helen said. “How about a cold glass of wine by the pool? We can start the sunset salute early.”

“Only if you eat a chicken and avocado salad to lay down a base,” Margery said. “Then you can drink.”

“Deal,” Helen said.

Helen set one of the poolside tables with the purple umbrellas,
uncorked the wine and poured two generous glasses, while Margery served the salads. Helen kept her cell phone on the table, hoping to hear from Jenny about Annabel. She and Margery didn’t mention Annabel, but Helen knew they were both thinking about the young artist.

They were finishing their salads when Margery said, “Well, look who’s here. Afternoon, Markos!” She waved him over to their table.

Markos Martinez, the youngest Coronado resident, was dressed for a late-afternoon swim. Helen thought the Cuban American hunk was dazzling, but today he was especially eye-catching with his smooth tanned skin and thick black hair with a slight curl. Helen tried not to stare at his tight white bathing suit. Instead, she focused on his brown eyes and told herself she was a happily married woman.

He flashed a smile and strode over to their table. “How was Bonnet House?” he asked. Now Helen could smell his coconut suntan lotion. His six-pack was right at her eye level. She fought to look him in the eye.

“Fabulous,” Helen said. “After the tour wasn’t so good. A woman we met in the art class collapsed and had to go to the hospital. We’re waiting to hear if she’s okay. She was very sick.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he really did seem regretful. “I hope she’ll be okay. After my swim, I’ll make you some mojitos, and I have a new snack I want you to try—roasted chickpeas. Spicy and healthy.”

“Did you learn that recipe in a food and beverage class at Reynolds-White College?” Margery asked. “Or pick it up at your restaurant job?”

Markos was working on his degree at the Fort Lauderdale college and working at Fresh and Cool, an upscale restaurant specializing in healthy, low-calorie food.

“Neither one,” he said. “Found the recipe on the Internet.”

“Sounds like something Fresh and Cool would serve,” Helen said.

“I’m going to suggest it as a happy-hour snack,” he said. “Only a
hundred forty-four calories in a third of a cup. Maybe they’ll let me make a test batch. I want to cook there.”

“We’ve brought you a drink recipe from Bonnet House,” Helen said, “and hope you’ll make us a test batch of that.”

“Maybe it’s one I learned at bartending school,” he said.

“I doubt it,” Helen said. “It was the favorite cocktail of Evelyn Bartlett, the grand lady of Bonnet House.” She handed Markos her recipe notes.

“For me? That’s so sweet.” He read, “‘The Rangpur lime cocktail is four parts Mount Gay Barbados Eclipse dark rum, one part fresh Rangpur lime juice, and maple syrup to taste.’

“Love the ingredients. Mount Gay is the world’s oldest rum, and it’s still popular. The first drink James Bond orders in the movie
Casino Royale
is Mount Gay rum with soda, instead of his usual vodka martini. I make a mean vodka martini, too.”

“I’m sure you do,” Helen said. “But your mojitos are amazing.”

“I’d like to make this Rangpur cocktail,” he said.

“I’ve got a bottle of dark rum and it’s the right brand,” Margery said.

“I have some Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup,” Helen said.

“Sorry, but that’s pancake syrup,” Markos said. “We need real maple syrup for this recipe. I know where to get some. I’ll also have to score some Rangpur limes.”

“I can get you regular limes,” Margery said.

“Not the same,” he said. “Rangpurs look more like mandarin oranges than Persian limes—those are the green ones you get at the grocery store—or Key limes.”

“So you’ve tasted Rangpurs?” Helen asked.

“Oh, yes. They’re a hybrid of a lemon and a mandarin orange. Their flavor is unique, but it’s more like a lime. I’ve used them in gimlets and Tom Collinses. I could make those, too. But I’d rather try this cocktail.”

“You should get some swimming in,” Margery said. “We’ll watch the recipe for you.”

Markos left his towel on the chair and made a low, flat dive into the deep end of the pool.

“You can relax now,” Margery said. “I thought your eyes were going to cross while you struggled not to look at his skimpy bathing suit.”

“Margery!” Helen said. “I’m happily married.”

“Of course you are. And you like sex. That young man is sex on a stick.”

Before Helen could say anything, their neighbor Peggy stumbled down the walkway, looking tired after a day at work. Her green sundress set off her dark red hair, but her pale skin was oily. She plunked her orange straw purse on the umbrella table but didn’t say hello. Instead, she stared at Markos as if she’d never seen anyone doing the backstroke. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off his muscular brown arms.

“Studying his form?” Margery said.

“Huh?” Peggy said. “Yes, of course. He’s a good swimmer.”

“Right,” Margery said. “Swimming was the first thing that came to my mind, too.”

Peggy ignored her wicked grin. She was digging in her big purse. “Did you see the condo burglary in today’s paper?” she asked. “Someone’s stealing gold from the units on the upper floors. Third burglary in two weeks in Blue Heron Crescent.”

“There’s a burglar in Little New York?” Helen said.

“How did the crescent get that nickname?” Peggy said.

“Because so many New Yorkers live there,” Helen said.

“And those towering condos look like Manhattan skyscrapers—with palm trees,” Margery said, punctuating her comment with a blast of smoke. “Ugliest condos in Fort Lauderdale, and you have to work hard to win that title.”

“The burglar made off with more gold coins,” Peggy said. “The police suspect the thefts are inside jobs, but they can’t figure out how he’s getting into the buildings. He’s bypassing the security guards and the cameras. He only hits condos on the upper floors—and only condos whose owners have gold coins.”

“Definitely an inside job,” Helen said.

“Think they’ll hire Phil to find the thief?” Peggy said. “Coronado Investigations has had some high-profile news stories.”

“I sure hope so,” Helen said. “We need someone to unload the gold—on us.”