The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) (6 page)

“I
t’s me,” said the girlish voice on Helen’s cell phone.

Helen, juggling her new art supplies and her cell phone, didn’t recognize the voice.

“Cissy. From art class,” the woman said. “You skipped out today before I had a chance to talk to you. I have so much to tell you about Annabel. And the police interviewed me about her murder.”

“Oh, right.” Helen stashed her new supplies in the back of the Igloo and waved good-bye to Jenny. “When do you want to meet?”

“Now?” Cissy said. “We could have lunch. It’s twelve thirty. We can go to Kaluz.”

Helen whistled. “Fancy restaurant.”

“So you know where it’s at? On Commercial Boulevard right by the drawbridge.”

“I’ve been there,” Helen said. “Wonderful outdoor terrace.”

“It’s too hot to sit outside. I’ll get us a table inside and we can watch the boats. My treat.”

Kaluz’s owners had turned an old Roadhouse Grill, a place where patrons could throw peanut shells on the floor, into a chic dark wood and steel restaurant.

Helen pulled up in the Igloo at the Kaluz valet stand. Cissy was vaping by the entrance, looking like a pile of old shawls. Most of the other customers wore expensive designer casual. Cissy’s fringed outfit seemed out of place at the sleek restaurant.

Helen handed her keys to the valet and Cissy said, “I snagged us a table near the window. They’ll make me sit outside if I’m vaping.”

Inside, Kaluz was cool and dark, its two-story windows showcasing the Intracoastal Waterway. The Commercial Street drawbridge, pale gray with a sky blue clockwork underside, looked close enough to touch.

The hostess showed them to a table by the water, where a streamlined white Hatteras yacht was docking.

“This restaurant has valet parking for yachts and cars,” Cissy said. “How big do you think that yacht is?”

Helen, who’d worked as a yacht stewardess, said, “I’d guess maybe seventy feet or so.”

They watched a bronzed young man in a white uniform help a tanned, leggy blonde off the white boat. Her muscular husband—Helen saw his gold wedding band—carried a baby in frilly pink.

“Aren’t they a perfect family?” Cissy said.

“It’s fun to dine with the beautiful people,” Helen said.

They both asked for white wine. Helen ordered the blue crab salad with mangoes, mandarin oranges, avocados and Key lime vinaigrette.

“I’ll have a veggie burger,” Cissy said, and Helen hid a smile. After the server left, Cissy asked, “What’s so funny, Helen?”

“I was wondering what my meat-eating husband would think of something that had quinoa, beets, rice and black beans being called a burger,” Helen said.

“That’s why I’m glad I’m single,” Cissy said.

Helen didn’t see the connection. A red needle-nosed go-fast boat blasted under the bridge, setting off huge waves that rocked the tied-up yacht.

“Whoa,” Cissy said. “He definitely ignored the no-wake warning.”

“What’s this about you and the police?” Helen asked.

“A Palmetto Hills detective interviewed me about Annabel’s murder when I came home from class. Crimes against persons detective Burt Pelham. Do you know him?”

Helen shook her head. “What’s he like?”

“Fiftysomething. Dyed blond hair. New York accent.”

“Possibly a retired snowbird,” Helen said. “What did you tell him?”

“Of course I mentioned Hugo and how he acted that day. I told Detective Pelham that Annabel was Hugo’s ex-wife and he hated her. I can’t believe he stepped right over that poor woman when she was dying in the parking lot and just took off. If anyone killed her, it’s Hugo. He certainly had a good reason after she ruined his career.”

“But that was years ago,” Helen said. “Why kill Annabel now?”

“Because her career is taking off and he’s on the fast track to nowhere. You know he follows her everywhere.”

“I heard that,” Helen said.

“He’s like a stalker, except Annabel couldn’t do anything about him. But I told Detective Pelham I’m not sure Annabel was murdered. I think she killed herself.”

“Why would she do that, especially if her career was taking off?” Helen said.

“You know she had chronic fatigue syndrome. Some days it was so bad, she couldn’t get out of bed.”

“Lots of people live with it,” Helen said.

“But Annabel was an artist,” Cissy said. “She was unstable.”

Helen looked at Cissy, her corkscrew curls bobbing, her fringe floating on the air-conditioning breeze, and said, “You’re an artist, too.”

“Yes, I am,” Cissy said. “At least, I’m working on it. But Annabel’s chronic fatigue syndrome left her depressed. She’d had a flare-up and was using a cane again. She’d been making the rounds of the specialists and a Miami doctor told her she might have something worse.”

“What?” Helen asked.

“Myasthenia gravis, an incurable muscle weakness. It’s horrible.
Annabel was facing weak arms and legs, double vision, drooping eyelids. She could have trouble talking, swallowing and breathing. That’s what killed Aristotle Onassis, the richest man in the world.”

“Myasthenia gravis isn’t a death sentence anymore,” Helen said. “I saw an article that said many people have it and live normal lives with occasional flare-ups.”

“But Annabel was afraid her eyes were affected,” Cissy said. “Both her eyelids drooped, and she had double vision. She couldn’t be an artist if she couldn’t see. I think she put nicotine in her iced tea and drank it.”

“Did she make her own tea?” Helen asked.

“Yes, with so much honey I couldn’t drink the stuff. But all that sugar would hide the bitter taste of nicotine.

“She didn’t drink her tea in class that day,” Cissy said. “She took the lid off her thermos and kept it next to her, but never touched it. She put the lid back on when we left class. Then, when I put away our art supplies in my car, she gulped down all her tea at once. Like she finally got the courage to do it.”

Helen replayed the scene in her mind: She remembered Cissy trying to get Margery to smoke e-cigarettes. Jenny and Yulia wanted Helen to sign up for the art class. They’d all waved good-bye to Yulia. And Annabel drank down nearly a full thermos of tea.

“I can see where that’s possible,” Helen said.

“I told the detective I didn’t think Annabel was murdered,” Cissy said. “She killed herself.”

A horn blast from the drawbridge interrupted their conversation. The halves of the bridge began to rise, blue metal meeting blue sky. A black-hulled sailboat was the first through the opening.

“I wish I had the talent to paint that scene,” Cissy said. “The sun sparkling on the water, the sleek black boat with the white sails, gears as big as trucks under the bridge.”

“Way beyond my skill level,” Helen said. “Could Annabel have painted it?”

“Oh, yes. She was definitely talented,” Cissy said. “She not only painted a scene, she made you feel it. But she’d changed so much in the last few months. She was depressed, bad-tempered and impatient with me and her husband. Clay noticed that her technique was deteriorating and advised her to take Yulia’s art class.”

“Did you agree with him?” Helen asked.

“It was good advice,” Cissy said. “Clay knows what he’s doing. He had a New York career before he came here. I could see that Annabel’s art was becoming more abstract, almost like graffiti. That’s the trend now. Clay felt she needed more grounding and recommended Yulia.”

“Clay didn’t feel Annabel should experiment to find her own style?” Helen asked.

“Of course,” Cissy said. “But even Picasso had classical training. You have to know what the rules are before you break them. And Annabel wasn’t afraid to break the rules.”

“What do you mean?” Helen asked. The ethereal Annabel didn’t look like a rule breaker, but Helen didn’t know her.

Cissy lowered her voice and looked around, making sure no one was near their table. “Annabel was quite wild in her youth. You know she had a lesbian lover.” Cissy waited for her bombshell to explode.

“I’m not sure a lesbian affair qualifies her as wild,” Helen said.

“Well, aren’t we broad-minded,” Cissy said, her voice sharp. “I thought you were from the Midwest, where people have standards.”

“I am,” Helen said. “But what some call standards are an excuse for harsh judgments.”

Helen was relieved when the server brought their meals. Both women admired the artfully arranged food, then ate in respectful silence.

When Helen’s salad was nearly finished, she returned to the conversation. “I’ve met all kinds of people living here in South Florida. I’m more live and let live.”

Cissy stabbed the remains of her veggie burger so forcefully,
Helen wondered if she was annoyed. I should have let that go, she thought. I’m supposed to get her to talk, not give sermons.

“Do you think Annabel was a lesbian?” Helen asked.

“She was very open about her past,” Cissy said. “She was a classic femme, and Miranda, the woman she had the affair with, was very butch.”

“Uh,” Helen said. This was suddenly too much information.

“Miranda was extremely handy,” Cissy said.

“Handy how?” Helen asked.

“She was good at fixing things,” Cissy said. “Annabel appreciated that about her and said Miranda had a real sense that she knew what she was doing.”

“Ah,” Helen said, not sure what to say.

“Plus Annabel thought Miranda looked hot in a white ribbed tank top.”

Cissy’s smile was sly. Helen knew she’d enjoyed that payback for the “live and let live” lecture. “Annabel told me that experimenting with women helped her know more about herself. She enjoyed her time with Miranda and then it was over.”

“How did Miranda feel?” Helen asked. “Used?”

“No, Annabel and Miranda parted on good terms. But you can ask Miranda yourself. Her name is Storings, Miranda Storings. She’s settled down with another woman in Wilton Manors. They run the Women’s Pride Lawn Service. You can look them up on the Internet.”

“May I get you ladies coffee or dessert?” the server asked.

“No, thanks,” Helen said. “This was delicious.”

“Just the check,” Cissy said.

“Along with a good lunch,” Helen said, “you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

M
iranda Storings was tinkering with a mower on a workbench in the Women’s Pride All Organic Lawn Service. The lawn service was in a turquoise garage in Wilton Manors, Fort Lauderdale’s mostly gay neighborhood. The garage’s concrete floor was covered with tools and parts and smelled pleasantly of cut grass and oil.

Miranda’s short, spiked brown hair looked like it had been styled with a WeedWacker. A cigarette butt dangled from her lips, and Miranda’s sweaty white ribbed tank top showed off her toned arms. She had a rainbow equal sign tattooed on her right biceps.

“You’re Miranda Storings?” Helen asked.

“Yeah,” Miranda said, and ground out her cigarette butt on the concrete floor. “You need some yard work?”

“No, I’m a detective,” Helen said. “I’m looking into the murder of Annabel Lee Griffin.”

She watched Miranda’s face. Not a flicker. She pounded the mower’s engine with a wrench, tightened something, then said, “Yeah, I heard she’d died. How was she killed?”

“Nicotine poison,” Helen said.

“Huh,” Miranda said. “I always thought she’d be shot.”

Helen tried not to look surprised, but she doubted that she’d succeeded. “Who would shoot her?”

“Hugo,” Miranda said. “He’s her ex-husband. You know about him?”

“I’ve been told Annabel destroyed his chances for a national career.”

“Yeah, she screwed him up good. He was asking for it, but she ruined his career. Not saying he didn’t deserve it, but sweet little Annabel crushed that man.”

“Can I ask you a few more questions?” Helen asked.

Miranda wiped her hands on a rag, stuck it in a back pocket, and said, “I’m finished with this. Come into my office.”

Helen followed her into the next room. The beat-up brown desk looked like a thrift-shop special. Miranda’s chair creaked when she sat down and she put her work boots on the desk.

Helen sat carefully on a tilted office chair with a duct-taped leather seat and faced a vibrant oil painting of a Caribbean cottage, sunshine slanting across the green yard, hanging over Miranda’s desk.

“I love your painting,” Helen said.

“Thanks.” Miranda looked pleased. “My fiancée, Lita, did that. She’s got talent, doesn’t she? But I hear Annabel did, too.”

“You had an affair with Annabel for a while,” Helen said.

“Affair, fling, whatever you want to call it. She moved in with me for about six months.”

“Annabel told some people that she was experimenting with her sexuality,” Helen said.

“That’s right,” Miranda said. “You’d be surprised by the number of women who like a little walk on the wild side before they settle down with hubby in the burbs.”

“Was Annabel gay?” Helen said.

“Annabel was whatever she wanted to be. I don’t put labels on
people. We had some fun and then it was over. She wasn’t the love of my life. Not like Lita. Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Yes,” Helen said.

“That’s how it was when I met Lita.
Pow!
Like she’d slammed me in the head. I used to be uncertain about marriage. But I wanted to marry Lita. I proposed a month after we met. We’re getting married at her parents’ place at Christmas.”

“Congratulations,” Helen said.

“Thanks,” Miranda said. Was she blushing? Helen wondered.

“Annabel and me, we didn’t have anything like that. I was kinda relieved when she left me to marry Hugo. We parted friends. Mind if I smoke?”

“Help yourself,” Helen said.

Miranda lit another cigarette, striking a kitchen match on the sole of her boot.

“You didn’t feel used when Annabel left you?” Helen asked.

Miranda laughed and blew out a stream of smoke. “It would be hard to tell who used whom,” she said. “We got along and then it was over and we both moved on.”

“You didn’t want to see Annabel punished?” Helen asked.

“Like I said, I was relieved when she left,” Miranda said. “If I’d wanted her punished, marrying Hugo was punishment enough. From the moment I saw that man, I knew he was bad news. Annabel was wildly in love. She thought Hugo was forceful when he was inconsiderate and she mistook his rudeness for manliness. She married the bastard, and did she ever regret it.”

Helen thought Miranda could barely hide her glee.

“They’ve been divorced for years now, but after the divorce, Hugo still made life awkward for her. I was at a group art show in Miami that had her work, and Hugo was there. He made a big deal about buying her most expensive painting. Even outbid her husband. Everyone could tell Annabel didn’t want Hugo to have it, but he insisted. It was like he had to own a piece of her.”

“The gallery ignored her wishes?” Helen said.

“The gallery is in business,” Miranda said. “Paintings by unknowns rarely bring that much. The bidding war helped her reputation.

“When Annabel ruined Hugo, she underestimated her ex. Hugo was relentless. I heard he was even taking lessons at her art class.”

“He was,” Helen said. “In fact, Hugo sat at her table in class the day she died.”

“And I bet she hated it,” Miranda said. “I can see her, sitting all scrunched up so he couldn’t touch her.”

That was the scene exactly, Helen thought. “How did you know?”

“Because I know—knew—Annabel. And I could read Hugo like a book. She got her revenge, but he made it clear she couldn’t get away from him. Well, she’s free of him now.”

There was an awkward pause when both women realized exactly what that remark meant. “She paid for her freedom with her life,” Helen said.

“I didn’t mean to be flip,” Miranda said. “I really am sorry she’s dead.”

“Did Annabel have health problems when she lived with you?”

“You mean the chronic fatigue syndrome? Yeah, she had some bad days, but she didn’t let it get her down. Annabel was a fighter.”

“Do you think Annabel killed herself?” Helen asked.

Miranda gave a barroom guffaw. “Hell, no,” she said. “She might drive people to murder, but she’d never kill herself.”

“For someone who split with Annabel some time ago, you still know a lot about her,” Helen said.

“The South Florida art world is very small and my fiancée, Lita, keeps me current on the gossip.”

That was a lesson Helen was constantly relearning: Fort Lauderdale, despite its fluid society, is a big small town. The snowbirds and tourists come and go, but the full-time residents make the real difference.

“My fiancée has an art space in FAT Village,” Miranda said.

“The Fort Lauderdale arts district?” Helen asked.

“That one. Officially, the Flagler Arts and Technology Village. Fun place. Lots of warehouse studios, food trucks, bars and restaurants. It’s a happening place, but Lita says I sound old-school when I talk that way.

“Annabel was sharing a studio space with Lita in FAT Village, and Clay, her husband, didn’t like that. He didn’t like FAT Village, which attracts the young talent in Fort Lauderdale. Clay said the place was self-indulgent, nothing but jumped-up graffiti artists. Clay believes in art with a capital
A
. Personally, I think he’s washed up, and I’m not the only one.

“Annabel and Clay are names in the South Florida art world,” Miranda said. “They’re the subject of a lot of gossip. Lita thought Clay was jealous of his wife’s success. She said Annabel was getting restless and talking about divorce.”

“What about you?”

Miranda shrugged. “I thought Clay was way too controlling, but Annabel liked her men that way.”

“Would Lita let me look at her and Annabel’s studio?” Helen asked.

“If I ask her. She’s really busy. You just can’t barge in on artists. Lita doesn’t get that much free time. She’s my partner in the lawn service, too. But I’ll set up an appointment for you.”

“Thanks,” Helen said.

“Are you sure you don’t need a good organic lawn service?” Miranda asked. “I’d give you a good price.”

“Thanks, but my landlady does the yard work,” Helen said.

“Does she use pesticides?”

“Only ones registered with the EPA,” Helen said.

“Doesn’t make them safe,” Miranda said. “Even the EPA says no pesticide can be considered safe.”

“I couldn’t interfere with Margery’s domain,” Helen said.

“Okay,” Miranda said. “But if you can’t get your landlady to be
careful about what she sprays in the yard, at least be careful about what you use in your house. You got ants?”

Helen hesitated, then nodded.

“Most Florida houses do,” Miranda said. “You can get rid of ants in your kitchen with a little ammonia and water in a spray bottle. If you want to keep them away, make a barrier with cinnamon. Smells nice and won’t hurt your pets or your kids.”

Miranda tossed the cigarette into a big jar overflowing with them.

“You save your cigarette butts?” Helen asked.

“Yep. I use them to make an organic spray. Nicotine kills aphids, thrips, leafhoppers and scale. Only works on young, soft scale, though, but it works.”

“How do you make cigarette butts into bug spray?” Helen asked.

“I boil the cigarette butts. Takes about a hundred to make a decent spray, but it’s all organic. They die naturally,” she said, and grinned.