The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) (3 page)

T
hree twenty-six in the morning.

The glowing green letters on Helen’s bedside clock mocked her attempts to sleep. She checked her cell phone for a call or text message for the third time since three o’clock. Nothing. No calls or texts from Jenny.

That means Annabel is alive, Helen thought.

I hope.

Annabel’s medical crisis ran on an endless loop in Helen’s mind. She saw the artist’s plaster white face and her seizure-contorted body. Then she saw Annabel lying still in the rubble-strewn dirt. Dead still.

Margery’s words haunted Helen:
I’m no doctor, but when the paramedics hauled Annabel away, she didn’t look unconscious—she looked like she was in a coma.

Was Annabel in a coma? People came out of comas, didn’t they?

Helen wished she could talk to Phil about Annabel, but her husband slept like he was in a coma. She thought he looked adorable when he was asleep. Tonight, his long hair was spread out on the pillow, giving Phil an undeserved silver-white halo. He was forty-five but looked younger.

Phil was slim and muscular, with just enough chest hair to look manly. Helen thought his slightly beaky nose gave his long, elegant face distinction. He looked like an English nobleman. He’d look sexy as a Regency dandy in knee breeches and blue brocade the color of his eyes.

It’s too bad men don’t wear knee breeches, she thought. My man has great legs. He should be able to show them off in something sexier than baggy board shorts.

Last night when he came home, Phil had been tired and discouraged, his crisp summer shirt wilted and sweat stained.

“It’s harder to look for a job than actually work,” he’d said.

“Looking for a job is hard labor,” she’d said. “Neither prospect panned out?”

He shook his head.

“I thought you’d get the bar gig for sure,” she’d said. “The owner told us his cook was stealing thousands of dollars’ worth of prime meat.”

“He was,” Phil had said. “The owner wanted me to work undercover as a bartender to catch the dude. Instead, he caught the cook leaving work with twenty pounds of prime rib stashed in his gym bag under his smelly workout clothes. That’s how he’s been smuggling meat.”

“Ew,” Helen had said. “The cook actually eats that?”

“No, he sold it to his neighbors,” Phil had said.

“I’d love to hear their court testimony when they find out how he smuggled that meat out of the bar,” she’d said.

“Won’t happen, Helen. The cook confessed and agreed to make restitution.”

“How’s he going to pay if he’s fired?”

“He’ll be cooking for free for at least six months, and the owner will be watching him. Then I’m guessing he’ll be fired without references.”

“DIY detectives are bad for business,” Helen had said. “What about the runaway teen?”

“He called his mom at six thirty this morning. A night of dodging the chicken hawks who prey on pretty boys at the bus station convinced him that living by his parents’ rules wasn’t such a bad idea. He’s at home, cleaning his room.”

“We’ve got enough money to tide us over for a while,” Helen said, “but I’d rather work.”

“Tell me about it,” Phil had said. “I am a man of action.”

“So I’ve heard,” Helen had said. “Why don’t you demonstrate?”

She’d kissed him hard on the lips, and his kiss was equally passionate. They shed their clothes across the living room and ended up on the couch. After a quick, steamy session, they’d moved to the bedroom to make leisurely love.

Afterward, Helen had opened a bottle of chilled wine while Phil whipped up cheese omelets. They ate their meal in Helen’s small kitchen and went back to bed. Phil was softly snoring in seconds, while Helen stared at the clock, waiting for news about Annabel. She’d hoped that third glass of wine at dinner would help her sleep, but here she was at—she glanced at the clock—three forty-two in the morning, wide-awake and worrying about Annabel.

As Helen listened for a text message alert, she thought, I’m sure Annabel is fine. Jenny will tell me that at tomorrow’s art class. I wonder if . . .

Then Helen woke up, sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. Phil was whistling in the shower, and their six-toed cat, Thumbs, yowled for his breakfast and prodded her chest with his huge, polydactyl paws. She caught the lifesaving scent of fresh coffee drifting from the kitchen.

“Hang on, bud,” she said to the cat. “I’ll feed you as soon as I find my head.”

Helen stumbled out of bed, wondering how her husband could be so chipper in the morning. She carefully carried the empty wine bottle into the kitchen. Her head ached.

Must be worry over Annabel, she thought. I feel flu-y, too. Oh, cut it out. You had three glasses of wine last night. You’re hungover.

She checked the kitchen clock: nine oh nine. She’d have to hustle to make the art class. She didn’t even have any painting supplies. Well, she’d worry about that later.

Thumbs’ insistent breakfast howls raked her throbbing brain like wicked cat claws. She poured dry food into his bowl, then poured herself a cup of coffee and winced at the bitter taste. Phil liked his brew strong.

She was dressed when he emerged from the tiny bathroom in clouds of steam, wearing only a towel. “You’ve got that glow,” he said, kissing her good morning. “How about if we work on improving it?” He kissed her neck and was working on her shoulder, but Helen’s thoughts were elsewhere. All she could think about was Annabel.

“Later,” she said, kissing him back. “I have to get to art class at Bonnet House. I want to find out about Annabel.”

Outside, the hot, muggy Florida morning felt like a slap in the face with a warm, damp towel. Helen was glad her sunglasses hid her red eyes.

By the time she got to Bonnet House, she felt better. She was glad there was parking in the museum’s lot today. She couldn’t bring herself to park in that vacant lot again. Not after Annabel’s collapse.

She parked as far away from Hugo’s BMW as she could, and she smiled at the deep scrape along the driver’s side. The shining paint was slashed from the driver’s door to the taillight. Margery had left her mark.

“Helen!” A woman’s voice. She sounded like she was in tears.

Helen stopped admiring the damage to Hugo’s Beemer and saw Jenny tottering down the gravel path from the museum in her sky-high heels, nearly blinded by tears. Jenny still wore the same white jeans and navy striped top she’d had on yesterday, but her expensive
clothes were creased and stained. Helen could see where she’d kneeled in the dirt to help Annabel.

“Class has been canceled,” Jenny said, her voice wobbly.

“Oh, no,” Helen said.

“Annabel is dead,” Jenny said, and the tear storm broke. Helen gathered Jenny into her arms. She felt fragile and slightly sweaty.

“She was so talented,” Jenny said. “She was going places. It’s such a loss.”

“It is,” Helen said, rocking her. “I was impressed by her work and I only saw one painting. When did she die?”

“About three this morning,” Jenny said. “I stayed at the hospital all night. She never came out of the coma, but I was with her at the very end.”

She started crying again, sobs that made Helen’s heart twist. She wished there was something she could do to ease Jenny’s pain. Helen felt something sting her neck and realized they were in a cloud of mosquitoes. She caught a faint rotten egg stink. They were at the edge of the mangrove swamp that bordered the Bonnet House parking lot. They’d be eaten by mosquitos if they didn’t move.

“Have you had any food, Jenny?” she asked.

“Nothing except vending machine coffee at the hospital,” Jenny said.

“Let’s get you something,” Helen said. “We can go to a cute place near here on the beach.”

“No,” Jenny said. “Get me away from here, please.”

“Then follow me to the Warsaw Coffee Company on Thirteenth Street,” Helen said.

It was easy to spot Jenny’s fire-engine red Tesla S in Helen’s rearview mirror as they threaded their way through the late-morning traffic.

Thanks to hard work by the neighborhood, Thirteenth Street was now landscaped with plants and palms and lined with offbeat shops
and pretty, painted bungalows. The locals were especially proud of the Warsaw Coffee Company. More than a hipster hangout, the Warsaw was solid proof the area was on the way up.

The sleek white building with the big windows was decorated in industrial chic: cool gray and black colors, deceptively plain lights, steel chairs and copper-topped tables.

Jenny parked her car and joined Helen inside.

“This place is so cool,” she said.

Twentysomethings sprawled on leather couches, working on their laptops and iPads. At a long shared table near the door, a young brunette frowned at her laptop and sipped a latte. Three seats down, two Asian women chatted in a language Helen didn’t recognize, wolfing down the restaurant’s homemade version of Pop-Tarts.

Helen snagged a copper-topped table for her and Jenny. “Hold the table,” Helen said. “What do you want?”

“The sausage burrito with avocado and roasted tomatoes,” Jenny said. “And a cinnamon brown-sugar latte. I’ll worry about calories tomorrow.”

“You missed two meals yesterday,” Helen said. “I’m getting myself a blueberry muffin as big as a softball and an Ethiopian coffee.”

Jenny checked her iPhone while Helen placed their orders, then returned with their drinks.

The sugary latte seemed to revive Jenny. By the time a bearded server brought their food, she’d lost that shocky white look. While Helen wolfed down her warm muffin and Jenny ate her enormous burrito with small, methodical bites, they made appreciative noises.

After Jenny had a good start on her breakfast, she was ready to talk.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night,” she said. “I came to art class to tell our teacher, Yulia. I should have called you when Annabel died, but by the time I thought about it I was already at Bonnet House. I figured I’d meet you in the parking lot.”

“What happened after you got to the hospital yesterday?” Helen asked.

“It was chaos in the ER. There was a bad accident on I-95—a carful of teens crashed into a light pole and one didn’t make it. The waiting room was full of worried, weeping parents. Cissy couldn’t track down Annabel’s husband, Clay, for nearly an hour.”

“Did Annabel’s death have anything to do with her chronic fatigue syndrome?” Helen asked.

“I don’t think so,” Jenny said. “The doctor said she’d been poisoned.

“The hospital gave her activated charcoal, whatever that is, and something to try to stop the seizures—she had more.” She shuddered and Helen saw her eyes cloud with tears. “The seizures were terrible to watch. When Cissy started screaming, the ER staff said we were in the way and made us sit in the waiting room.

“By that time, Annabel was having trouble breathing. She was gasping for air, and her lips and nails were this weird blue. They put her on a ventilator. Clay, her husband, finally arrived and got to stay with her.

“The doctors stopped the seizures, but she never came out of the coma. About two in the morning, she took a turn for the worse. Cissy and I were allowed to come in and stay with her. She died—” Jenny stopped, gulped, then forced herself to finish the sentence. “She died—at three oh two.”

Now that she’d said the words, Annabel’s death seemed to be real. Jenny couldn’t hold back her tears. Helen patted her hand, and Jenny wiped her eyes and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so emotional.”

“You should be,” Helen said. “Annabel’s death was horrible. How is her husband?”

“Clay’s in a trance. He was a zombie.”

“What was Annabel poisoned with?” Helen said. “And how? Did she commit suicide?”

“No!” Jenny shouted the word as if that would erase the ugly possibility. “The police are investigating her death as suspicious.”

“Suspicious how?” Helen asked.

“Maybe suicide—though I don’t think so—or murder,” Jenny said. “Maybe she took the poison accidentally. I have a friend in the medical examiner’s office who’s promised to tell me more when she finds out. That’s why I keep checking my phone, hoping I’ll hear from her.

“The hospital thinks Annabel was poisoned with nicotine, based on her blood and urine tests.”

“Where would Annabel get nicotine?” Helen asked. “I’ve heard of nicotine tea, made from cigarettes soaked in water, but why would she have that?”

“It’s also in e-cigarettes,” Jenny said. “And those nicotine patches to help people stop smoking. Nicotine is used in some pesticides and I think it has some medical uses. But nicotine poisoning doesn’t make sense.

“The police asked me a bunch of questions, but I was too dazed and tired to talk. They finally let me go about nine thirty, but I’ll have to give a statement later. Cissy drove Clay home and I came to art class to tell everyone.”

“But how did Annabel get poisoned with nicotine?” Helen asked.

“The best guess—and it’s a guess—is that the poison may have been in the thermos of raspberry iced tea she brought to our class,” Jenny said.

“She complained it was bitter,” Helen said. “After she drank it all.”

“We couldn’t find the thermos, so we can’t prove the poison was in there,” Jenny said. “The last time I saw Annabel’s thermos was when we were in the parking lot. I went over to the lot this morning before class, but I didn’t see any sign of it. I asked the construction workers if they’d seen it, but they said no.”

“Maybe one of them wanted a nice thermos,” Helen said.

“I don’t think so,” Jenny said. “I told them it was full of deadly poison.”

“Maybe Cissy has it,” Helen said. “She put Annabel’s things in her car.”

“Cissy checked her car trunk, but the thermos wasn’t there.”

Helen heard a chime.

“That’s my cell phone,” Jenny said, and checked it. Helen watched the color drain from her face as she read the message.

“Oh, no,” she said. “My friend at the coroner’s office texted me. Annabel was murdered.”

“H
elen, I want to hire you to find Annabel’s killer,” Jenny said. “I saw the news stories about the cases you’ve solved. I know you’re good.”

“Uh.” Helen stalled for time. The rumble of conversation at the Warsaw Coffee Company faded into the background while she considered Jenny’s request.

Jenny sat quietly, but her tired, hope-filled eyes pleaded with Helen. “I can afford your fee.”

If the red Tesla in the parking lot and Jenny’s Armani outfit were any indication, she was loaded—or deeply in debt.

Helen carefully chose her words. “I could investigate Annabel’s murder,” she said. “But I’d be duplicating the current investigation. The police are already on the case.”

“And going in the wrong direction,” Jenny said.

“You don’t know that,” Helen said. “You haven’t given the cops your statement yet.”

“I can tell by the questions they asked me,” Jenny said. “The detective in charge wanted to know if Annabel had any enemies.
Of course I told him about Hugo, her ex-husband. You saw how he acted. The man’s a pig.”

“I’ll say. That prize porker stepped over her in the parking lot,” Helen said. “She was passed out and he didn’t offer to help.”

“Exactly,” Jenny said. “And he’s always sniping at her in class, putting her down. But the cop brushed off my suggestion. He said Hugo was a well-known businessman and poison was a woman’s weapon.”

“What!” Helen said. “Where’d the detective get that stupid idea?”

“From watching
Game of Thrones
?” Jenny said. “On that show, poison is the favorite weapon of cowards and women.”

“That detective needs to see the stats,” Helen said. “Men kill more than women—a lot more. Men commit seven times more murders than women—and that stat is straight from the Justice Department. Here’s another he won’t like: Sixty percent of poisoners are men.”

“Really?” Jenny said. She pushed her half-finished breakfast burrito aside. Helen wondered if talking about poison had affected her appetite, or if she’d had enough of the huge entree.

“That detective doesn’t know his crime history,” Helen said. “History has tagged Lucretia Borgia as a poisoner, but men are the real killers. What about Dr. Thomas Neill Cream?”

“Who’s he?” Jenny asked.

“A dashing Victorian doctor who poisoned at least eight prostitutes about the time Jack the Ripper was slicing and dicing them.”

“That was a long time ago,” Jenny said.

“There are plenty of modern cases,” Helen said. “Another Brit, Graham Frederick Young, the Teacup Poisoner, killed his stepmother and at least four other people. That little twerp started poisoning people when he was fourteen.

“And we’ve got homegrown poisoners, too. Remember George Trepal, the Mensa Murderer?”

“No,” Jenny said.

“George lived right here in Florida. He poisoned his neighbors for making too much noise. Then this so-called genius opened his big mouth and talked his way into a murder conviction.”

“How do you know all this?” Jenny asked.

Helen was ashamed to admit she’d been surfing crime stats and stories on the Net.

She put a noble spin on her boredom. “I keep up with the research,” she said. “And I’m sick of stereotypes. I’ve heard other cops say that guns are a man’s weapon, but that’s not true, either. We’ve achieved equality when it comes to killing. Most women use guns, same as men. A woman is more likely to knife you than poison you.”

“They sure are at my office,” Jenny said. “I work with a real bunch of backstabbers.”

Suddenly Helen realized she was at the Warsaw Coffee Company, lecturing a woman she’d met yesterday. “Sorry,” Helen said. “I didn’t mean to rant.”

“Don’t say sorry,” Jenny said. “Amy Poehler says women apologize too much. She’s a comedian, but it’s true. That wasn’t a rant. Everything you’ve told me says you’re the right person to take this case.

“Please, Helen. You know statistics don’t lie. Someone killed my talented friend. Annabel had so much to live for. I want her killer to pay for what he did. I know it was Hugo and the clue to her murder is in our art class.”

“Well,” Helen said. She had been bored and she did want this case. Besides, she’d get paid to attend art class.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Jenny said. “I sell waterfront real estate, and I’m good at it.”

“I’d say so, judging by that Tesla,” Helen said.

“It gets me the kind of clientele I want,” Jenny said. “So does taking painting lessons at Bonnet House. The volunteers and patrons are rich and connected. Those art lessons are good for my business. Please, Helen, take Annabel’s case.”

“Let me get you another latte,” Helen said, “and you can tell me why you think Hugo killed Annabel. Then I’ll decide.”

She gathered up their plates and carried them to the steel dish cart, then ordered more drinks.

When Helen returned to the table with their coffees, Jenny had spruced herself up. She’d combed her dark hair, washed her face, and put on lipstick. She couldn’t do anything about her wrinkled clothes or the dark fatigue circles bruising her eyes, but Jenny seemed more alert and energetic.

“Now, start at the beginning,” Helen said. “How long have you known Annabel?”

“About five years,” Jenny said. “I sold Annabel and her husband, Clay, their house. Annabel and I are both the same age—thirty-five. Like most artists, Annabel was a free spirit.”

“What’s that mean?” Helen asked.

“She liked to experiment. Not just with art. With life, too. I gather she had at least one affair with a woman.”

“She was gay?” Helen asked.

“I don’t think so,” Jenny said. “But I’m not sure. I think Annabel felt guilty about the affair and I didn’t push her. I know she went from living with her lesbian lover to marrying Hugo.”

“Why would she marry him?” Helen asked.

“I’ve seen the photos when he was younger,” Jenny said. “He had a certain charm. He was up for a big CEO job and hired a publicist to get puff pieces in the newspapers. And maybe he wasn’t such a big jerk before their divorce. I know the split was bitter.”

“Do you know the details?”

“Sure, but I’m too tired to go into them now,” Jenny said. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow, when I can think straight. We can go somewhere after class. The newspapers covered some of their divorce. When I met Annabel, she’d just married Clay. She seemed madly in love with her new husband. I sold the couple a fabulous five-bedroom house in Coral Ridge Country Club Estates.”

“Where’s that?” Helen asked.

“Fort Lauderdale,” she said. “Near Oakland Park Boulevard. Built in 1975. Their home has ninety feet of deepwater dock.”

“Do they have a boat?” Helen asked.

“Never got one,” Jenny said, “but they liked the water view. The house was a good deal at a million nine: twenty-five hundred square feet, a covered patio, dome-screened pool, Turkish sandstone paver circular drive and a—”

Helen felt her eyes glaze over. Jenny sounded like a real estate brochure.

She stopped and said, “Sorry. It’s easy for me to slide into real estate–ese.

“Clay and Annabel’s home has a beautifully landscaped yard. Annabel loved to paint the flowers and birds there. Clay has a studio by the ocean. He’s an artist, too. He paints seascapes.”

“What’s Clay like?” Helen asked.

“I don’t know him that well,” Jenny said. “Annabel was proud of the fact that Clay was a big-deal painter in New York. Now he’s repped by RH Gallery in downtown Fort Lauderdale. RH is run by my friend Robert Horton. I don’t understand the local art scene, but Robert does. He can fill you in.”

“You seemed surprised yesterday when Cissy said that Annabel had chronic fatigue syndrome,” Helen said.

“I was,” Jenny said. “I don’t want to sound like I’m in high school, but I thought Annabel and I were best buds. I don’t know how Cissy knew about her health situation. Cissy can be pushy and pry information out of people. Annabel never talked about what was wrong with her. Never. All I knew was that she sometimes uses a cane and complains that she is tired.”

Jenny stopped, and a fresh stream of tears trickled down her face. “I mean she sometimes
used
a cane and
complained
that she
was
tired. She’s dead, dammit, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

She stood up, rocking slightly on her high heels. “Can we go, please? Don’t I have to sign some papers or write you a check if you’re going to take my case?”

“Yes, you do,” Helen said. “Follow me to the Coronado Investigations office.”

Jenny’s bright red Tesla tagged behind the Igloo, Helen’s white PT Cruiser, all the way to the Coronado Tropic Apartments. Jenny parked next to Helen and surveyed the Coronado with a real estate agent’s shrewd eye.

“This place is beautifully restored,” she said. “It’s a prime piece of Old Florida. Bet the developers are licking their chops when they see this much land so close to downtown.”

“So far, they haven’t swallowed it up,” Helen said. “Why do developers want to tear down these charming old places? You’d think the buildings would be worth more restored.”

“Bathrooms,” Jenny said.

“We have plumbing,” Helen said.

“But not modern bathrooms,” Jenny said. “The johns in these places are the size of phone booths.”

“Young hipsters will put up with small baths for a lot of charm.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jenny said, following Helen past the plant-fringed pool and upstairs to the Coronado Investigations office.

Helen had the uneasy feeling Jenny was sizing up the property for a bigger building. The private eye unlocked the glass-slatted jalousie door and Jenny followed her inside.

“This is exactly what a PI’s office should look like,” Jenny said. “Love the terrazzo floors.”

She checked out Helen and Phil’s chrome-and-black club chairs and the yellow client chair, nodded her approval of the tanklike gunmetal desks and the beat-up gray file cabinets.

“That poster of Sam Spade from
The Maltese Falcon
is the perfect touch,” Jenny said, and dropped into the yellow client chair.

Helen saw that Jenny’s face was gray with exhaustion. “You
look so tired,” she said. “Let me drive you home. It’s okay to leave your car here overnight.”

“I only live a few blocks away,” Jenny said. “Show me where to sign and I’ll write you a check and head for home.”

Jenny efficiently completed their business and Helen walked her downstairs to her car.

“I’ll see you at class tomorrow,” Jenny said. “How long will it take you to prove that Hugo is the killer?”

“I’m not sure he is,” Helen said.

“But you saw how badly he treated Annabel,” Jenny said. “He hates her.”

“Jenny, if every man who hated his ex was a killer, there would be no room in the prisons,” Helen said.

“I’ll find out who killed Annabel. But I’m going to catch the real killer—not the man you want it to be.”