The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) (7 page)

D
id Miranda kill Annabel with her homemade nicotine spray? What about Hugo? Or did Annabel kill herself?

Helen pondered these questions as she headed home in the Igloo. Jenny and Miranda were convinced that Hugo had murdered Annabel. Miranda thought Hugo would shoot his ex.

Hugo’s definitely a candidate, Helen thought. He could have put the nicotine in her open thermos during art class. If Annabel used as much honey as Cissy said, it could hide the bitter taste when she gulped down her tea.

But Cissy really thought Annabel had committed suicide.
I told the detective I didn’t think Annabel was murdered. She killed herself.
Was that lunch with Cissy at Kaluz only today? Helen felt like the dead woman had taken over her life.

Annabel was an artist. She was unstable,
Cissy had insisted. Annabel might have had myasthenia gravis and she’d been afraid her eyes were affected. Annabel couldn’t be an artist if she couldn’t see.

But that diagnosis wasn’t confirmed, Helen thought. Would Annabel give up so soon? Myasthenia gravis sounded scary, but treatment could allow her to live a mostly normal life.

Miranda had called Annabel a fighter. How strong a person was she? Did Annabel lose heart and decide she couldn’t face another debilitating disease?

If so, why would Annabel commit suicide while she was with her art class, a group who would—and did—rush her to the hospital? Was the poisoned tea a cry for help?

I don’t know, Helen thought. But I believe the police: Annabel was murdered.

Hugo looks like the main suspect—but who were Annabel’s family, friends and rivals? What about her husband, Clay, another artist? Miranda had suggested that Clay’s career was on the skids, while Cissy admired his talent and bragged about his New York career.

Who was right? What kind of man was Clay? Who loved and hated Annabel?

I don’t know enough, Helen decided.

Phil’s ringtone sounded on her cell phone, and she pulled the Igloo into a parking lot to take his call.

“There’s a police detective here who wants to see you,” Phil said. “He’s waiting in our office.”

“Burt Pelham?” she said. “The crimes against persons detective from Palmetto Hills?”

“That’s him,” Phil said. “He’s already talked to Margery.”

“He’s talking to everyone who was in Annabel’s art class,” Helen said. “I’m five minutes away.”

“Good. Don’t forget, you can’t tell him you’re working Annabel’s case without Jenny Carter’s permission. It’s Florida law.”

“Oh. Right.” More than once, the two private eyes had had to call their lawyer, Nancie Hays, when a police detective wanted to know about an investigation.

“I’ll call Jenny now and see if she’ll give me permission to tell Pelham,” Helen said.

“Do you want me to call our lawyer?” Phil said.

“No need to rile Nancie yet,” Helen said. “I can probably settle this with a phone call. Let’s hope I can reach Jenny. I’ll call her and then come straight home.”

Helen was relieved when Jenny answered on the second ring. “Helen,” she said. “Did you get Hugo already?”

Helen heard the hope in her client’s voice and quickly crushed it. “No such luck. Detective Pelham from Palmetto Hills wants to talk to me, probably about Annabel’s death. Do you want me to mention that I’m working on the case for you?”

There was a long pause. Then Jenny said, “Do you have to?”

“No,” Helen said. “Florida law says you have to give me permission to even mention that you hired me.”

“Then no,” Jenny said. “I don’t want him to know.”

“If we work together, it might help us find Annabel’s killer faster.”

“I know who killed her,” Jenny said. “I told Detective Pelham it was Hugo and explained why. Her ex had motive, means and opportunity. Pelham brushed off my suggestion. He said Hugo was a respected businessman—and he’s not. Then he said poison was a woman’s weapon. Even if you tell him you’re investigating Hugo, he won’t do anything.”

Helen decided to set the record straight now.

“Jenny, I am investigating Hugo, but I’m also looking into other suspects, in case Hugo’s not the killer.”

“But he hated her.”

Helen took a deep breath and tried again. “He has good reason to hate Annabel, Jenny. But we know almost nothing about the other people in her life. I want to catch her killer. What if he turns out to be someone else besides Hugo?”

The silence stretched on, until Helen was afraid Jenny would fire her. Finally, she said, “No, I want Annabel’s killer caught. But keep that detective out of your investigation.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It’s exactly what I want,” Jenny said. “He made me feel like a stupid woman. I don’t want Cissy to know either, or Yulia, our art teacher. It will only make trouble for me.”

“There’s no reason to tell any of them,” Helen said. “I’d like to talk to your friend Robert Horton at RH Gallery. Can you text me his number?”

“Of course. I’ll call him, too,” Jenny said, and clicked off her phone.

Five minutes later, Helen parked the Igloo in the Coronado lot next to what she guessed was Pelham’s unmarked white Dodge Charger. The sporty model was replacing the boxy Crown Victorias on many forces.

Phil met her at the Coronado gate and said, “I’ll go with you.”

The PI pair hurried up the stairs and into the Coronado Investigations office. Helen was relieved to see that Phil had cleaned the papers off both their desks. She was sure Detective Pelham would snoop when he was left alone—she certainly would.

The Palmetto Hills detective had commandeered one of the black-and-chrome club chairs. Helen thought he was trying to separate them. Phil dragged his chair next to the yellow client chair and sat beside Helen.

“Ms. Hawthorne?” the detective said, and introduced himself.

Definitely a northeastern accent, Helen thought, but she wasn’t sure what kind, except he sounded like he belonged in
The Sopranos
.

“Have a seat,” he said, inviting her to sit down in her own office.

Detective Pelham’s hair was the brassy blond of a bad dye job. Did he color it himself or pay someone to do that to him? Helen wondered. It certainly didn’t make his red, creased face look younger. His mouth was thin and disappointed and his nose was too big, but she thought it gave his face character. He wore a dark gray suit, white shirt and blue tie with a handcuff tie tack. Even in the air-conditioned office, he was sweating.

“How can I help you?” Helen asked.

“I’m looking into the death of Mrs. Annabel Lee Griffin,” he said.
“I understand you were present the day she took sick. How long did you know her?”

“I didn’t really know her,” Helen said. “I was never introduced to her. I was touring the museum with my landlady, Margery, and we stopped to watch the last part of the painting class. Annabel was part of that class. Then Margery and I walked out to the parking lot with the class and the teacher, Yulia.”

“What did you notice about Mrs. Griffin?” he asked.

“Not much,” Helen said. “I liked her painting. She sat next to a man I later found out was her ex-husband, Hugo, and she tried to avoid touching him. She had an open thermos next to her easel. She was very pale and walked with a cane.”

“What did Mrs. Griffin talk about during class?”

“Very little while I was there,” Helen said. “One of the other students said she wanted to paint as well as Annabel, and Annabel said she was still perfecting her technique. Then the class was out of time and everyone packed up their supplies and walked to the parking lot.”

“The Bonnet House lot?” the detective asked.

“No, the lot down the street where some buildings had been torn down. It wasn’t a real parking lot. The Bonnet House lot was too crowded, so we parked there. Jenny, one of the women in the class, and Yulia, the teacher, talked me into taking the art class.

“Annabel drank most of her thermos while we talked. Later, she said she felt terrible and collapsed, right there. Dropped her cane and everything.”

“Then what happened?” he asked.

“It was kind of confused. I called 911 and stayed on the line so the ambulance could find us. Annabel was violently sick and I think she had a seizure. Margery and Jenny tried to help her.”

“What about Narcissa Bellanca?”

“Who?” Helen said.

“I think she uses the nickname Cissy.”

“Oh, Cissy. I didn’t know her formal name. Before Annabel got
sick, she’d been trying to talk my landlady into using e-cigarettes. Cissy likes to vape. Then she packed up her art supplies and Annabel’s—I think they came in the same car. While Annabel was really sick, I think Cissy sort of hovered around on the edges, and then she called Annabel’s husband, Clay. It took her a while to track him down. Then she followed Jenny and the ambulance to the Palmetto Hills Hospital.”

“Where was the teacher, Yulia Orel?” the detective asked.

“She’d left by then,” Helen said.

“And Hugo Hythe?”

“Annabel’s ex-husband? He showed up while that poor woman was lying there and stepped right over her body. He didn’t offer to help at all.”

Helen left out the part about Margery keying Hugo’s car.

“And what did you do after the ambulance arrived?”

“There was nothing I could do, except get out of the way,” Helen said. “The paramedics took over. Once Annabel went off to the hospital, I gave Jenny my card, with my cell phone number. She and Cissy followed the ambulance. Then Margery and I went home.”

“And when did you start investigating Mrs. Griffin’s murder?”

“I—” Helen said, and Phil squeezed her hand. Whoa! She’d nearly fallen for the detective’s clever question.

“You know the law, Detective,” Helen said. “I can’t tell you if I’m investigating a case without the client’s permission.”

“And you don’t have her permission?” he asked.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that I am investigating a case,” Helen said.

“Don’t stonewall me, Ms. Hawthorne,” he said. “I know you’re investigating Mrs. Griffin’s death. I don’t want you interfering with my investigation.”

Before she could reply, Phil squeezed her hand, and Helen kept silent.

“I’ve read all about you,” Pelham said, “and seen the videos about Coronado Investigations on local television. You’ve got the media
buffaloed, but you don’t fool me. You’ve had some lucky breaks, but you’re still an amateur.”

Phil squeezed her hand again, but Helen shook it off. “Lucky breaks!” she said. “That was damn good detecting.”

“I’m a detective,” he said, getting out of his chair. “You’re an amateur. Don’t meddle in my case. Good day.”

He shut the office door so hard the jalousie windows rattled. Helen and Phil waited until he was on the sidewalk before Helen said, “That jerk!”

“Hey, you handled him fine,” Phil said, returning his chair to its proper place. “I’m going to aid and abet your meddling. I went to Silver Glade Condominiums today for a formal interview, to make it look like I was just another person looking for a security guard job. I found out Clay Griffin has a studio on the nineteenth floor, overlooking the ocean.”

“A house and a condo?” Helen said. “How does he afford that?”

“Fort Lauderdale real estate prices seem cheap by New York standards,” Phil said.

“Not that cheap,” Helen said. “I think I need to talk to the grieving widower.”

“H
ey, Helen and Phil,” Markos called, waving to the private eyes as they locked up their office for the night. “Come on down. I have mojitos and Texas caviar for the sunset salute.”

Helen saw the other Coronado residents, Margery and Peggy, stretched out on adjoining chaises. Peggy wore a fresh pink sundress that shouldn’t have worked with her dark red hair, but did. Margery looked summery in purple clam diggers and a lavender cotton top.

Both women raised tall, cool glasses and Peggy said, “Hurry! We’ve started without you.”

The setting sun painted the old art moderne building a delicate pink at this hour, and a light breeze stirred the purple bougainvillea and rippled the turquoise pool.

Markos had turned one umbrella table into a buffet and another into a bar. The Cuban American hunk’s tight white shorts and white tank showed off his light brown skin and dark hair. One curl fell over his forehead. Helen, ashamed she was gawking, tried to focus on the drinks.

“I could use an ice-cold mojito,” she said. “Especially after the day I’ve had.”

“I’m building your drink now,” Markos said, and smiled, showing his white teeth.

Damn, even his teeth are beautiful, Helen thought.

As she approached the bar, Helen caught the sharp, pleasant aroma of fresh mint and lime wedges. Markos was working on Helen’s drink with his wooden muddler, which looked like a miniature baseball bat. He put the mint leaves on the bottom of the glass, then added the lime and extra-fine turbinado sugar.

Helen inhaled the scent. “Intoxicating,” she said. “And you haven’t even added the rum yet.”

“The trick is not to shred the mint,” Markos said. “Now I add the ice and the rum.” He garnished the glass with a thin lime slice and handed it to Helen.

She took a sip, and the tense time with Detective Pelham was washed away in a refreshing rush of lime and mint.

“Perfection,” she said, and raised her glass to the bartender.

“May I make you one, Phil?” Markos asked.

“No, thanks,” Phil said. “I’ll get a beer from my place. Beer, anyone?” Margery, Helen and Peggy all said no.

Phil returned shortly with a cold green bottle of Heineken. “Did you say caviar, Markos? Is it black or red?”

“It’s kinda both,” Markos said.

“Caviar,” Phil said, drawing out the word. “Love that salty, fishy taste. Goes well with a little chopped hard-boiled egg and onion on toast points.”

Phil’s lean features were lit with a smile of anticipation. “It can’t be beluga—that’s too expensive for a sunset salute. But it’s all good.”

His smile disappeared as he examined the umbrella table. “I see some beans and stuff and a plate of lettuce,” he said. “But no caviar.”

“That’s Texas caviar in the green bowl,” Markos said. “Next to the endive.”

“Endive,” Phil said, his voice hollow.

“Texas caviar is made with black-eyed peas,” Markos said. “They’re
actually a legume. It also has corn, tomatoes, green peppers, jalapeño peppers, onions and Italian dressing. Oh, and I forgot—avocado.”

“Avocado,” Phil said.

Helen thought Phil looked a little green.

Markos, gorgeously clueless, rattled on. “I thought you’d like Texas caviar better than eggplant caviar.”

“They make caviar out of eggplant?” Phil sounded like he’d just learned there was no Santa Claus.

“Roasted eggplant,” Markos said, still smiling. “But I know you don’t care for eggplant. Texas caviar is so much healthier than real caviar, which is loaded with salt and cholesterol.”

“And flavor,” Phil said.

“Texas caviar is loaded with flavor, too,” Markos said. “Try it with sour cream.”

Phil stayed motionless, as if a live snake were on the table.

Markos abandoned his makeshift bar. “Here, I’ll fix you one.”

Markos piled a sneaker-sized endive leaf with Texas caviar and a generous dollop of sour cream. “Here,” he said. Now Phil couldn’t avoid the legume-laden endive.

Helen couldn’t watch. She downed the rest of her mojito. Margery hid behind a Marlboro smokescreen. Peggy tried to turn a snort into a cough.

“Have another,” Markos said, while Phil gulped down most of his beer.

“No!”
Phil said. “I have to go to work at midnight.”

“Midnight?” Peggy said. “You investigating the Little New York burglaries, Phil? Which condo are you working for?”

Phil stalled.

“There were three more burglaries at condos in Little New York,” Peggy said. “I heard it on the radio when I was coming home from work. Once again, thousands of dollars in gold coins were stolen.”

“Really?” Phil said, finishing the last of his beer. “Do you remember the condo names?”

“I think one was Ventura Towers. Another was Bay-something and the third was Bombay or Taj Mahal, some name from India.”

But not Silver Glade, Helen thought.

Phil looked relieved. “I need to get ready for work,” he said. “See you all later.”

“India!” Markos said. “I forgot—I’ve scored some Rangpur limes. They should be ripe in a couple of days, and then I can make Evelyn Bartlett’s cocktail.”

“Now, there’s a woman who liked healthy food,” Helen said. “Our Bonnet House guide told us the Bartletts grew their own Rangpur limes, star fruit, and avocados and flew in eggs, vegetables and meat from their farm in Massachusetts.”

“Then I’ll have to make healthy appetizers to go with Evelyn’s cocktail,” Markos said.

Poor Phil, Helen thought. I can’t let that happen. “Why don’t I investigate what the Bartletts served for appetizers?”

“Just buy the museum cookbook,” Margery said.

“Does Bonnet House have one?” Helen asked.

“Every museum has a cookbook,” Margery said. “I think it’s some kind of law.”

“If I could make real Bonnet House appetizers, that would be . . .” Markos stopped. “Amazing.”

He was staring at the glamorous vision in a yellow bandage dress. Valerie Cannata, the Channel 77 investigative reporter. Her complexion glowed, her makeup was perfect and her long dark red hair was frizz free in the humidity. Her lively face defied the usual TV personality blandness.

“Hi, Helen, may I come in?” Valerie asked. Her high-style black heels clip-clopped on the pavement.

“Introduce me to your friends,” she said. “I know your landlady, the amazing Margery.”

“I’m Peggy.” The red-haired renter shook Valerie’s hand. Markos nearly leaped over the table to say, “I’m Markos.”

Helen thought there was an electric connection when the two shook hands. She remembered Miranda the lawn service owner saying,
Do you believe in love at first sight?

Valerie shook her head slightly, as if recovering from a blow, and said, “Helen, I heard you’re investigating the murder of the artist Annabel Lee Griffin. What can you tell me about it?”

“Valerie, you know better,” Helen said, and smiled to take out the sting.

“Then you are,” Valerie said, talking faster now, “but I know you can’t say anything yet. Promise me I’ll get the scoop when the time comes.”

Helen said nothing.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Valerie said. Her cell phone gave a
ping!

“Excuse me,” she said, and checked her phone. “Gotta run.”

“Wait,” Markos said. “Can you come back in two nights? I’m making a special treat for the sunset salute: Rangpur lime cocktails from the original Bonnet House recipe. Please?”

“I think I have that night off,” Valerie said, reaching into her purse for a business card. “Text me. Now I really have to go.”

She gave the tanned, toned Markos one last look and sprinted toward the gate.

After Valerie left, Markos said, “She is so hot.” He began packing up the mojito bar while Helen wrapped up the Texas caviar.

“She’s nearly twenty years older than you,” Peggy said, then looked embarrassed.

“I know,” Markos said. “I just hope such a beautiful, accomplished woman will be interested in me. Good night, ladies.”

Helen helped him carry the sunset salute supplies to his apartment. When she rejoined the two women, Peggy said, “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I did.”

“Not proprietary, are we?” Margery asked. “He’s a fine addition to the Coronado. Helen was practically drooling when she saw him tonight.”

“I was not!” Helen said. “I’m a happily married woman.”

“Just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t look at the menu,” Margery said. Helen saw her landlady’s alligator grin through the cigarette smoke.

“Daniel and I get along fine,” Peggy said, which made Helen wonder if that were true. She remembered how Peggy had stared at Markos when he was swimming. Daniel was a good man, but Markos was the stuff of dreams. Peggy looked a little tired and pinch faced, but maybe it was the slanting late-day light.

“Markos is handsome,” Peggy said. “But why would a successful woman like Valerie go out with a food-service student? She’s an award-winning broadcaster, a Fort Lauderdale celebrity.”

“Markos is hot. Isn’t that enough?” Margery said.

“And Valerie just got out of a relationship with an international correspondent who was always flying off somewhere exotic and missing important events,” Helen said. “She won six Emmys last year and had to go to the awards ceremony alone.”

“Maybe she wants someone hot, loving and uncomplicated,” Margery said.

Peggy made a clumsy attempt to change the subject. “While we’re talking about hotties, Helen, is Phil working undercover at a Little New York condo tonight?”

“You know I can’t talk about that,” Helen said. But Peggy was bound to see him in his uniform.

“I thought so,” Peggy said. “I hope he’s careful. That burglar is slipping in and out of those places like a ghost. He could get violent if he’s surprised.”