Board Stiff: A Dead-End Job Mystery (12 page)

“So Daniel had a million reasons to kill his wife,” Phil said.

“A million and one, if you count Maureen,” Helen said. “She lied to me. She made Daniel sound like a terrible person.”

“What better way to deflect attention away from their affair?” Phil said.

“She told me Daniel’s family is very Catholic and they wouldn’t approve of a divorce.”

“I’m sure,” Phil said. “But that doesn’t mean Daniel won’t run off with Maureen once he gets his million in insurance. He definitely goes to the top of our suspect list. When we get back to Lauderdale, I’ll have to figure out how he contacted that diver.”

We’re having a normal conversation, Helen thought. Maybe he’s forgiven me.

“Doesn’t the city look good?” Helen said. “I love driving on a sunny day.”

Phil ignored her attempt at conversation. “What’s next?” he asked.

“I have to stop by the bank and pick up the money for tonight.”

“You know that’s risky,” he said. “A withdrawal that big will be reported to the authorities.”

“I still have to do it,” she said.

“But not with me,” he said. “Drop me off at the hotel first.”

The sun vanished behind a cloud.

A
s she pulled into Tom and Kathy’s driveway, Helen thought their house could be a picture in a family magazine. Her sister waved from her gingerbread front porch, gleaming with its new white paint. Rambler roses tumbled over the picket fence. Allison and Tommy Junior scrambled out of the backyard, yelling, “Aunt Helen! Uncle Phil!”

Helen inhaled the meaty perfume of barbecue. Pork steaks! She was still St. Louisan enough to identify the city’s favorite barbecue.

Tom prodded pork steaks with his barbecue fork at the grill. Helen could read his sauce-smeared apron: THIS
IS
A
MANLY
APRON
FOR
A
MANLY
MAN
DOING
MANLY
THINGS
WITH
FOOD.

For the first time since her fight with Phil, she smiled.

This homey scene is a relief after my tense time at the bank, she thought. I was nervous as a cat burglar at a police convention when I withdrew the blackmail cash. Then I had to endure four hours of Phil’s sullen silence in our hotel room. He reread that free copy of
USA Today
until I thought he’d wear the newsprint off the pages.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Aunt Helen,” Allison said as she hugged Helen’s legs. “I got a present for you.” She stepped back and solemnly handed Helen a drawing of a butterfly with red and turquoise wings. The butterfly’s black feet gripped a bright purple flower.

“I love it,” Helen said. “I’m going to frame it and hang it in my kitchen.”

“Really?” Allison said, her eyes widening.

She looks so much like her mother did at that age, Helen thought. “Really,” she said, and kissed her niece’s dark curls. “You’re much taller than the last time I saw you.”

“I’m older,” Allison said. “I’m four years, eight months and one week.”

Oh, for the days when I proudly counted each week so I’d be older, Helen thought. “Let’s put your pretty drawing in my car so it doesn’t get dirty,” she said, and carried it to the PT Cruiser.

Tommy, nearly eleven, was too old for a hug. Helen smiled when he greeted Phil with a handshake and a man-to-man “How are you, Uncle Phil?”

“How’s the future Albert Pujols?” Phil said.

“He left,” Tommy said.

Phil, who didn’t follow the finer points of baseball, seemed confused. “Left what?” he asked.

“Albert Pujols abandoned the Cards for bigger bucks in Los Angeles,” Kathy explained.

“So who do you want to be now?” Phil said.

Tommy shrugged. “David Freese is okay. So is Jason Motte, the relief pitcher. He can hit.” Helen smiled. Tommy’s boyish enthusiasm was turning into cool teen indifference.

“I’m not sure kids idolize players anymore like in the old days,” Kathy said, as if in apology.

“But I still want to play for the Cards,” Tommy said.

When he smiled, he looked like his father. They had the same dirty blond hair and broad shoulders, Helen thought, though Tom Senior had the beginning of a paunch.

“How about some batting practice?” Phil asked.

“No time,” Kathy said, halfway up the back stairs to the kitchen. “Dinner’s in five minutes. I have to leave at eight, and so do you and Helen. Phil, get a beer out of the cooler and talk to Tom. Both you kids wash your hands. Then, Tommy, put the plastic knives and forks on the picnic table. Allison, I need you to put a napkin by each plate.”

Helen followed her sister into the kitchen, noting sadly that Kathy’s dark hair had more silver and she’d put on a few pounds since her last visit.

Kathy’s kitchen was no showcase, but it was livelier and more lived-in than Maureen Carsten’s. Bowls of potato salad, baked beans, and coleslaw and a huge platter of corn were lined up on the table.

“I’ll start carrying these out,” Helen said.

“Quick!” Kathy said, her voice low. “While the kids are washing their hands, did you get the money without any trouble?”

“The teller made me see a bank manager, but he was so busy I hope he’ll forget to report the transaction,” Helen said. “The money’s in my car, packed in a cloth Schnucks bag. We’ll all leave here together at eight.”

“How will I get the money?” Kathy said. Helen heard her distress at this small complication and felt sorry for her little sister—and guilty for the worry she caused her.

“Pull into the convenience store on Lindbergh on the way to the drop-off,” Helen said.

“Good,” Kathy said. “I always buy a lottery ticket there.”

“You do?”

“You know what they say: ‘You can’t win if you don’t play.’” She grinned at Helen.

“That’s the spirit, Sis,” Helen said. “And you won’t seem out of place if anyone spots you there. We’ll transfer the money in the parking lot. Then Phil and I will leave first in our rental car and park in the lot next to the drop-off spot.”

“Good choice,” Kathy said. “That drugstore is always crowded. You’ll blend in.”

“You wait at the convenience store until ten minutes before nine,” Helen said, “then make the drop-off and go.”

“Go where?” Kathy asked. “I can’t go home. I’m supposed to be at a meeting.”

“Go back to the convenience store and really buy a lottery ticket,” Helen said. “Or wait there for me to call your cell phone. Don’t be alarmed if you don’t hear from us right away.”

“What are you going to do?” Helen heard the fear in her sister’s voice.

“Phil and I may have to confront the blackmailer,” Helen said.

“Will you call the police?” Kathy asked.

“We’ll try not to,” Helen said. “Do you have the recording?”

Kathy nodded, then reached into a kitchen drawer by the phone for a slim metal recorder. “Here,” she said. “The recording is on it.”

“If we tell the blackmailer he’s been recorded, that should scare him away permanently,” Helen said, crossing her fingers that Kathy didn’t realize a recording with a voice changer was useless. “Hopefully we won’t have to go to the police, but I don’t know how long it will take. It could be a while.”

“You know what I’m going to do?” Kathy said. “I’m going to Cyrano’s on Lockwood Avenue.”

“The dessert house?” Helen said.

“You haven’t been there in a while,” Kathy said. “It has food and a bar. I’m going to sit in the nice dark bar and have”—she paused for a moment—“a raspberry cosmo in a real glass glass. That kind that breaks if the kids even look at it. For one hour, I’ll pretend I’m mysterious and sophisticated. I’ll even wear my black pants and new black blouse.”

“And Tom won’t notice when you walk out all dressed up?” Helen asked.

“I have my ways,” Kathy said, and giggled.

Helen hugged her sister. “Good plan.”

She carried the potato salad outside just as Tom was putting the pork steaks and burgers on the picnic table. Kathy followed with a basket of hamburger buns and the coleslaw. Two more trips and all six were seated at the picnic table, piling food on their plates.

Tom waited until Helen and Phil had their first bites of pork steak, then asked, “Well, how is it?”

“Awesome,” Phil said.

“Perfect,” Helen said. “It’s been way too long since I’ve had a good pork steak. Florida doesn’t appreciate the special delights of the pork shoulder. I can tell you’ve used Maull’s barbecue sauce, like a true St. Louisan, but there’s more in this.”

“My secret ingredients are mustard, brown sugar and beer,” Tom said, grinning proudly. “Some for the cook and some for the sauce.” He waved at a man in the next yard who was slowly climbing down his back stairs. “Hi, neighbor!” Tom said. “How’s your knee?”

That must be Lee Cook, Helen thought. And I can definitely see him from Kathy’s backyard. So much for her theory that the Cooks’ view was blocked. Lee was fortysomething with thinning mouse-colored hair and a round face with the features smushed in the center.

“I’m better,” Lee said.

A chubby woman with short brown hair and a thin, sharp nose stuck her head out and said, “He’s so much better he’s going bowling tonight, against doctor’s orders.” She smiled fondly at her husband.

“Aw, I’m just going to shoot the breeze with the boys,” he said. “Sunshine here has me on lockdown since I had knee surgery.”

Kathy turned white when Lee said “Sunshine.” Helen raised an eyebrow. She’d told her sister that was a common nickname. Phil and Tom were oblivious to the sisters’ silent communication.

“Lee and Sharon, these are my in-laws, Helen and Phil, all the way from Florida,” Tom said proudly.

Helen waved. Phil stood up and said hello.

“Pleased to meet you,” Lee said. “Don’t let me interrupt your dinner.” He limped to his car and waved good-bye.

“What time is it?” Helen asked.

“Ten till eight,” Kathy said, and started piling up paper plates.

“You go ahead and get dressed, sweetie,” Tom said. “The kids and I can clean up.”

Kathy didn’t hesitate. She flew up the stairs to change.

“Will we get to see you before we leave tomorrow afternoon, Tom?” Helen asked.

“No such luck,” he said. “I’ll be at work. But thanks for stopping by tonight. Kathy’s been so jumpy lately. She’s much calmer since you got here.”

Tom gave her a slightly beery kiss on the cheek. Helen and Phil said their good-byes. Kathy honked the horn on her minivan. She’d slipped out the front door and was ready to go.

They met two miles down the road at the convenience store. Phil stayed in the car while Helen handed Kathy the cloth Schnucks supermarket bag.

“Watch it,” she said. “It weighs a ton.”

Kathy carefully placed the heavy bag in the minivan’s passenger seat.

“You look chic in your black outfit,” Helen said. “How are you?”

“Nervous,” Kathy said. She tried a small smile. “I hope Lee isn’t the blackmailer. He’s such a nice neighbor.”

“I hope so, too,” Helen said. “We’ll be drinking cosmos before you know it.”

“You promise?” Kathy’s lip trembled.

“Trust me, Little Sis,” Helen said. “You’re dealing with pros now.”

8
:58 p.m.

Helen and Phil were parked at the edge of the drugstore lot, facing the empty strip mall on Manchester Road. Only two feet of grass divided the blacktop lots. Cars streamed in and out of the drugstore lot.

The strip mall’s parking lot was empty and had been for two years. Once, the low redbrick building had housed four struggling businesses: a bridal resale shop, a discount shoe store, a dog groomer, and a pretzel store. All were empty now, their dark, dusty windows plastered with sad FOR
LEASE and GOING
OUT
OF
BUSINESS signs.

Across the street was Jackie’s Fine Eats. The homey restaurant lived up to its name. Helen had had a first-rate meal there and still remembered the luscious gooey butter cake. Only two cars were parked in front of Jackie’s, both anonymous silver. Inside, Helen saw a man eating at a table in the far corner while a waitress hovered nearby. The chairs at the front tables were upended on the tabletops and a man mopped the floor. Jackie’s closed at nine o’clock, she remembered.

Helen checked again to make sure the Cruiser’s headlights were off. The drugstore lot had more than enough light for Helen to see the rusty blue Dumpster where Kathy would drop the blackmail money.

Any car traveling west on Manchester could turn into the strip mall’s short potholed drive, continue past the Dumpster, go around the back and come out on the other side.

Manchester was six lanes wide here, divided by a concrete median. Even at this hour, the road was clogged with traffic. Eighteen-wheelers barged through on their way to major highways. Small cars zipped past. Nobody drove the speed limit.

Phil drummed his fingers on the dash.

“Nervous?” Helen asked.

“Mrx,” he said.

Okay, buddy, if that’s the way you’re going to be, she thought, I won’t tell you about my secret weapon in the backseat. But if this goes sideways, you’ll be damn grateful I brought it. Buying that aspirin at this drugstore was brilliant. You’ll see. You need me and you know it. And so does Coronado Investigations.

Helen checked the Cruiser’s dashboard clock again. 8:59. Was that clock broken? she wondered. She glanced at her watch and the same time taunted her.

Finally, the dashboard clock flipped over to nine o’clock. Helen tensed. Phil looked more alert.

Where was Kathy?

She checked her watch again. That time was still 8:59. When her wristwatch clicked over to nine o’clock, Kathy’s minivan slowed and approached the strip mall drive. The tubby blue vehicle lumbered onto the pitted driveway, then stopped beside the blue Dumpster. The engine sounded like a sewing machine. Kathy rolled down her window.

Helen waited, hardly daring to breathe.

What’s taking my sister so long? she wondered. Does she need help lifting the heavy money bag?

Helen forced herself to remain in her seat. Finally, she saw the bag shoved through the driver’s window. It landed on the empty Dumpster with a booming thud.

Helen breathed a loud sigh of relief. Phil’s face twitched.

Kathy drove slowly around the back of the strip mall, flipped on her blinker and eased into the traffic.

Enjoy your cosmo, Little Sis, Helen thought. It was 9:02.

Where was the blackmailer? How long would he leave that much cash sitting out in the open? A homeless man could have the luckiest find of his life. A curious shopper at the drugstore could wander over and check out the bulging bag on the Dumpster. The pale, sturdy cloth bag glowed like a beacon in the dark.

Helen wanted to tell Phil she was worried, but after a look at his grim face, she didn’t dare. Instead, she studied the scene behind the sparkling windows at Jackie’s Fine Eats.

The lone diner at the back table signaled the server for the check, put down some bills and stood up. The server hurried over to take his money, counted the bills and shook her head. Then she cleared the table. The mopping man made his way to that section.

It was 9:04.

Now the last customer was outside. He walked with a limp. Helen still couldn’t guess his age or see his face, just his pear-shaped body in khaki pants and a dark T-shirt. His hair was conventionally short and either very thin or receding.

The man limped past the two silver cars in the restaurant lot to the curb, then looked both ways. He waited for a break in the traffic, then limped awkwardly across the first three lanes of Manchester, dragging his right leg. He barely made it to the concrete median before the next rush of traffic.

“Phil!” Helen said. “Look! I think that man standing on the median is heading this way. Is he our blackmailer?”

Phil craned his neck.

“Could be,” he said. “Or he might be a diner who parked at the drugstore because he couldn’t find a spot at the restaurant.”

It was 9:07.

“The blackmailer has to pick up that bag soon,” Helen said. “That much money can’t just sit there.”

“The blackmailer’s probably parked in this lot,” Phil said. “That would make more sense. Manchester is dangerous to cross, especially if you have trouble walking fast.”

He peered at the man on the median. “Maybe that is the blackmailer,” he said. “He may not want to risk driving into the strip mall. That cash has been sitting on the Dumpster a long time.”

There was a short break in the stream of traffic. The limping man stepped off the median, then hurriedly tried to hop back on it. A passing Honda honked angrily as he landed safely on the concrete.

“That was close,” Phil said. “That last car nearly flattened him.”

“I can’t see his face yet,” Helen said. “But I think it’s Lee Cook, the neighbor who had knee surgery. They’re both built like bowling pins.”

“Could be the grandson who broke his leg,” Phil said.

“No, he looks too fat to be the grandson,” Helen said. And we’re having a real conversation, she thought, but tamped down that hope.

“You didn’t see Matt’s class photo,” Phil said. “He’s been porking out on Grandma’s cookies.”

“And drinking beer,” Helen said. “Don’t forget that DUI.”

Suddenly, the three eastbound lanes were empty. Helen saw the man step off the curb and run across Manchester. He wasn’t exactly running. It was more like a limping lunge. But he made it across before the next fleet of cars barreled down.

He limped faster now that he was safe and hop-limped up the drive.

“It’s the blackmailer!” Helen said. “He’s heading straight for the Dumpster.”

His head was turned so Helen couldn’t see his face. Phil cracked his door, ready to pounce.

“Careful,” Helen said. “He’ll see us when you open your door.”

“No, he won’t,” Phil said. “I unscrewed the dome light while you were getting dressed this afternoon.”

Just then, the man turned toward them.

“Oh. My. God,” Helen whispered. “It can’t be.”

But it was.

“Rob,” she said.

“A badly damaged Rob, overweight and crippled,” Phil said.

“Look how he’s favoring his right arm,” Helen said. “That whole side seems partly paralyzed. Tommy’s crack on the head with his bat did some serious damage.”

“Unless it was the premature burial,” Phil said.

“Rob’s sick, too,” Helen said. “His color is bad. He’s pale as lard.”

“Sh!” Phil said. “Get ready. It’s time.”

They both eased out of the Cruiser and silently stole across the short strip of grass as Rob clumsily grabbed the money bag off the Dumpster with his left hand. The bag was so heavy, Rob staggered under its weight.

He scuttled down the drive with his prize. Rob reminded Helen of a fish hawk she’d seen, trying to fly off with a fat, struggling fish. The bird nearly drowned trying to hang on to its prey.

Rob could hardly walk, but he wasn’t going to let go of his prize.

Phil stepped out in front of Rob. “Can I help you with that?” he asked.

Helen came up beside him and grabbed the bag.

“I’ll take that,” she said. “It’s mine.”

Rob looked stunned. He stood there, staring. Helen couldn’t pry the bag out of his fingers, but she had a good grip on the handles.

Then her ex seemed to recover from his shock. His small eyes lit with malice. “Well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t Auntie Helen and her new squeeze.”

His voice was flat and hard. “Hey, Phil, she still make that little moan when you stick it in her? I would have dumped her years ago, except for that sound. It was a real turn-on.

“But you won’t be getting any once she’s in jail, will you? And dear little Tommy will be motherless. The ugly sisters are going to jail for attempted murder.”

“No, they’re not,” Phil said, his voice cool.

“What?” Rob said.

“You lose, loser,” Phil said. He smiled, as if he was explaining something to a slow learner. “If you’d called the cops when you crawled out of the church hall basement, they’d both be in jail. But you got greedy. You had to blackmail Helen for the rest of her money. Well, the game’s over. Beat it.”

“Beat it?” Rob said.

“Git. Go. Vamoose,” Phil said. “You’ve got nothing to go to the police with.”

“It’s not my fault I didn’t call them right away,” Rob said, his voice unnaturally high. “I was unconscious. Do you know what that bitch and her fat sister did? They buried me in a basement. Wrapped me in plastic and then covered me with crushed rock and drove off. Drove off and left me to die.

“I woke up sometime after midnight—I heard the church bells; that’s how I knew the time. They stole my watch, too. I woke up and found myself under the rocks in the church hall basement. I was panicked and in pain. If I hadn’t crawled out of there, I’d be buried under concrete by now.”

“Gee, what a loss to the world,” Phil said.

“I suffered,” Rob said. “Look at me.”

“You never were much to look at,” Phil said.

“She ruined me,” Rob said. “I can’t move right anymore. I think I had oxygen deprivation when she buried me. Or a small stroke caused by that little bastard. But I’m going to tell the police and ruin them all.”

“No, you’re not,” Phil said. “You can’t prove a thing. You should have called the police after you escaped. Now it’s too late. You made it worse when you tried blackmail. Didn’t the Black Widow give you a million bucks to go away? That was one desperate woman.”

“I spent it,” Rob said. “So what?”

“Looks bad,” Phil said. “An ex-millionaire blackmailing a hardworking suburban mom and a little kid. Even for you, Rob, that’s low.”

“You can’t prove I blackmailed anyone,” Rob said.

“Yes, we can,” Phil said. “Kathy recorded you the last time you called.”

Rob’s face turned another shade of pale.

“Got the recording right here,” Helen said, and pulled the digital recorder out of her pocket.

“Give me that!” Rob grabbed for it, stumbled, missed and caught Helen by the arm.

“Ow!” she cried. It felt like Rob was trying to squeeze the bone out of her flesh.

“I said, give it to me.”

Helen slid the recorder into the money bag with her other hand. Rob wrenched Helen’s arm so hard, she screamed louder, but she didn’t let go of the bag.

“Phil, call 911,” Helen shouted, hoping that would scare Rob away.

It worked. Rob pulled harder on the bag, but Helen hung on to it. Phil produced his cell phone, and Rob’s eyes were frantic.

“No!” he said. “No, don’t. You can’t.” He threw Helen into the Dumpster. She hit it face-first and got a long, ugly slice on her forehead from a sliver of rusty metal. Her face throbbed and her arm ached, but she was still clutching the bag.

Rob scrabbled away, dragging his right leg. He’d given up the cash fortune. Now he tried to flee across the street to keep his freedom.

“Phil!” Helen said. “He’s running for his car across the road. Don’t let him get away.”

Phil was already after him. He looked up, saw the approaching traffic, and stayed at the curb.

Rob kept going. He hobble-hopped across the first lane, then the second, to a braying chorus of horns and squealing brakes. An air horn bellowed as an eighteen-wheeler in the third lane tried to stop. Helen heard shouts and screams, then screeching brakes and a sickening thump.

She hid her face.

There was a shocked silence. Helen looked up from the Dumpster, her face burning from the ragged scratch. Handprint bruises were already blotching her arm.

Traffic had stopped on Manchester, all six lanes. The truck’s driver leaped out of his cab and ran toward a broken figure on the road.

Helen saw a long red-gray smear on the truck’s gleaming radiator, then heard the driver say, “He’s dead.”

She dropped the money bag in the Dumpster.

“He’s dead,” the driver wailed. “Sweet Jesus, save me. I’ve killed a man.”

Thank God, Helen thought. Her knees buckled and she slid down onto the cracked pavement.