Board Stiff: A Dead-End Job Mystery (15 page)

“F
ound something. Meet me in 2C 11 a.m.,” the e-mail read.

Phil sent that at nine twenty-two the next morning, and the tiny
ding!
of his new e-mail woke up Helen. She’d fallen asleep with her laptop open on her bed. Her vast, empty bed.

Eight words. That’s all Phil wrote, Helen thought. He didn’t even sign it, or ask if I’m free at that hour. He just assumed I’ll show up. I won’t play games. I’ll finish this case and get on with my life. And stop sounding like a self-help article.

Her anger burned away her grogginess. She’d slept late in her apartment. No husband woke her whistling in the shower. Helen had always found Phil’s early-bird cheer annoying. Now she missed it. She even missed Thumbs demanding breakfast at seven o’clock.

Neither one missed her. The weight of last night’s failure came crashing down. Her tiny apartment felt huge and lonely.

She fought back with a pep talk. Time to pick myself up and start over, she decided. I did it before and I can do it again. After coffee.

She set up the coffeemaker and noticed her hair smelled of smoke. She’d been too tired to shower when she got home. She’d do it while the coffee was brewing.

Her closet-sized bathroom was deliciously steamy. She started a bold song about washing that “man right outta my hair,” but her voice wobbled and her tears mingled with the shower water.

Enough with the waterworks. Helen turned off the tears and the shower, poured some coffee and blow-dried her hair. It seemed to take forever to dry in the humidity. The scratch on her forehead was healing. She draped her bangs to cover the wound, then dressed extra-carefully in her black pencil skirt and the fluttery-sleeved pink-and-black blouse she’d bought at Cerise.

Helen checked herself in the mirror: glossy dark hair with a bit of curl, touch of pink lipstick and dark mascara. The skirt and blouse weren’t bad, she decided. No, they were stunning. Eat your heart out, Phil.

She slipped on her black sandals, opened her door to a glorious sunny day, then marched across the Coronado yard and straight up the stairs to 2C. Helen didn’t knock. It was her office, too.

She opened the door exactly five minutes late.

Phil was at his desk. Her heart melted. Almost melted. She hardened her aching heart, sat in her black partner’s chair and said nothing. He’d called the meeting. He could speak first.

Phil fiddled with his coffee cup but didn’t offer her any. Last night took its toll on him, Helen thought. He’s ashen and the lines around his eyes look deeper.

He cleared his throat and said, “We still have to find out who killed Ceci and save Sunny Jim’s business.”

She nodded. He shifted in his chair. Her silence made him uneasy. Good.

“Her husband, Daniel, is still a suspect,” he said. “We have a good motive—the insurance policy and Daniel’s affair—but I can’t find any Florida connection. I’ll show his picture around the dive shops and beach bars and see if anyone remembers him.”

Helen broke the next uncomfortable silence with “What if Cy hired Randy the diver to kill Ceci?”

“The restaurant owner didn’t know her. Why would he kill Daniel’s wife?” Phil asked.

“To ruin Sunny Jim’s business,” Helen said.

“Max told us the killer had to know what time Ceci started paddleboarding,” Phil said. “He couldn’t hang around the pier in a black dive suit with an underwater scooter. Why would Cy buy the commissioner’s vote if he’d already hired a killer? He’d be spending double the money for the same result.”

“Makes sense,” Helen said. She didn’t bother hiding her doubts. “I can ask the staff at the Full Moon Hotel if Daniel went anywhere except the usual tourist places.”

“No need,” Phil said. “He used credit cards. I’ve already checked his bill online. He and Ceci only went to tourist spots. I’ve been looking into Bill Morris Bantry, the owner of Bill’s Boards. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Turns out Sunny Jim’s rival is a killer.”

“He went to jail for murder?” Helen asked.

“He was tried for manslaughter,” Phil said, “but not convicted. Bill used to live in the Florida Panhandle, in Pensacola, with his fiancée, a twenty-year-old named Tiffany. She disappeared ten years ago.

“Bill was questioned by the police. He kept to his story: The couple had argued after a long night at the clubs. Tiffany wanted out of the car so she could watch the sunrise on the beach. Alone. She was never seen again.

“Bill claimed he let her out, went for breakfast and spent the day at his mother’s house, repairing her roof and gutters. Two days later, Tiffany’s family reported their daughter missing. Bill didn’t bother to call the police and he didn’t help search for her.”

“And she was supposed to be his fiancée?” Helen asked.

“That’s why her family said Bill murdered Tiffany,” Phil said. “No point in joining in the search if he knew she was dead. Her body was never found and there was no forensic evidence that she was dead.

“The cops arrested Bill. At the trial, his lawyer tried Tiffany, dragging her name through the mud. She’d been a wild child, charged with possession and prostitution. Bill’s lawyer said Tiffany was killed by a drug dealer or a former pimp. Bill was acquitted. After his mother’s death a year later, he sold her house and moved to Riggs Beach to start over. His beach rental business is struggling, like Sunny Jim’s. Maybe more so, since Bill isn’t a local.”

“You agree with the family and the cops?” Helen said.

“Bill’s a killer,” Phil said. “He killed Tiffany and got away with it. Now maybe he’s getting away with murder again. He’s bold. He challenged Sunny Jim on his own turf, setting up his rental business next door to Jim on the beach. He’s worried about his business. He hired his employee, Randy, to wreck Jim’s business at spring break. When that didn’t work, he paid Randy to kill a customer and ruin Jim’s business permanently. Bill knew and trusted Randy.”

“Makes sense that Bill would go one step further and kill Ceci,” Helen said. “But why not do it himself?”

“With his past?” Phil said. “Bill barely avoided a murder conviction when his fiancée disappeared. The last thing he wants is more police attention, even in Riggs Beach. Besides, I can’t find any evidence that Cy ever talked to Randy. The diver sure didn’t eat there. Cy’s restaurant is too upscale.”

“But how did Randy know what time Ceci went paddleboarding?” Helen asked.

“Easy,” Phil said. “I asked Sunny Jim if he’d had any odd calls lately. Jim remembered one. The day before Ceci was murdered, a tourist called wanting to book boards for a big group—a party of eight—from ten to noon. Jim said he didn’t have eight boards because he had two reservations at ten o’clock. Most of Jim’s group bookings are for three or four people. Eight is unusual.

“Bill and Randy know exactly how many boards Jim has. When Jim said he had two ten o’clock appointments, that tipped them off when his customers were going out.”

“That’s what Margery said the killer would do,” Helen said. “Turned out Sunny Jim only had one paddleboard rental that morning. Ceci went paddleboarding alone, which made her even easier to kill. That theory is plausible, but you can’t prove it.”

“I need to find Randy, the missing diver who rented the underwater scooter,” Phil said. “I got a tip he’s back and hanging around in the Riggs Beach dives along A1A. I’ll go there this afternoon.”

“I don’t meet with the server, Joan Right, until tomorrow morning at seven,” Helen said. “I have to persuade her to talk to Valerie so our TV friend can save her job. Joan is terrified.”

“She can’t be worried about losing her job,” Phil said. “It went up in smoke.” He didn’t seem aware of the pun.

“I think she’s afraid of Cy,” Helen said. “Valerie says she should be. Some of his smuggling buddies disappeared in the eighties. Did you hear from Valerie yet?”

“No. I watched Channel Seventy-seven, but she wasn’t on. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“I feel bad that things went south last night,” Helen said.

“We got too used to good luck,” Phil said. “We started counting on it.”

I wonder if that was a royal “we,” she thought. Or did Phil mean himself and me? Or is Valerie the second person? Phil and Valerie were lovers long before he met and married me. They both moved on. Didn’t they?

Helen tried to push that thought out of her mind, but she knew Valerie was rich, famous and glamorous.

“I still think Cy is up to something,” she said. “He’s greedy and desperate. I’ll talk to Alana, the manager at his boutique, as soon as I leave here. She knows Cy way better than I ever want to.”

“She sleeps with him to get cheap rent, right?” Phil said.

“And doesn’t hesitate to tell me,” Helen said. “Alana is the original Miss TMI.”

“Let me know what happens,” Phil said. He made no move toward her. She left, head high.

All the way to Riggs Beach, Helen replayed their conversation in her mind. She didn’t know how to react. Was Phil being professional or was he thawing slightly?

As she approached the pier parking lot, Helen heard the wildcat screams of power saws and furious hammering. Workers were constructing a temporary wooden walkway to the pier. A mobile sign flashed: FISHING
PIER
OPEN
AT
5
PM
TODAY
!
YES
,
WE
SELL
BAIT!

Riggs Beach didn’t waste time recovering.

A knot of gawkers watched a growling backhoe bite into the blackened restaurant rubble and drop it into a construction Dumpster that took up five precious parking spots. Helen was lucky to find an open slot.

She breathed in the soft, salty ocean air, slightly tinged with wood smoke. Helen swung by Sunny Jim’s on her way to Cerise. His yellow banners and canopy made a brave show, but Jim was staring glumly at the restaurant ruins.

“My business fell from zero to below zero,” he said. “People aren’t even stopping by to ask how much it costs to rent a paddleboard. I’ve been entertaining myself watching that tourist.”

A sunburned man in lime board shorts gingerly carried a big bluish crab to the water. The crab, big as a saucer, wiggled its hairy legs and waved its claws dangerously close to the man’s thumbs.

“That crab looks angry,” Helen said. “I mean, if crabs get angry.”

“That one’s pissed, all right,” Jim said. “It’s a land crab. They don’t like salt water once they’re adults. Buncha land crabs live in burrows by that sea grass there. This is the third time he’s thrown that poor creature in the water. I better tell him before that crab takes a hunk of his hand.

“Hey, dude!” Jim said. “Dude in the green! Drop that crab.”

“You talking to me?” the man asked. He was in his twenties, with buzzed brown hair and small features scrunched together in his red face.

“Yeah. That’s a land crab,” Jim said. “You aren’t doing it any favors dunking it in the ocean. It hates salt water.”

“Can I, like, eat it?” the man asked.

“You can,” Jim said. “It can eat you, too. Watch your hand!” The crab’s sharp claw lunged for the tourist’s thumb. He dropped the crab and leaped back before it attacked his bare toes. The crab scuttled across the sand to the sea grass. The tourist waved at Jim and ran into the ocean.

“How’s the investigation going?” Jim asked.

“Our trip to St. Louis helped. We found Ceci’s husband had a good motive for wanting her dead,” Helen said, “but we have other suspects. We’re both interviewing today. I’m on my way to Cy’s boutique.”

Helen enjoyed her stroll to Cerise in the warm afternoon sun. The boutique was empty at one o’clock. Alana greeted her with a big smile.

“Helen! I’m glad you came by,” she said. “This place is deader than disco. I’ve got some new things I know you’ll like.” Her dangly gold earrings jingled cheerfully as she plucked blouses off the racks. “This white blouse looks simple, but it’s dynamite on. This tie-dyed turquoise silk is fabulous. Try them on.”

In the dressing room, Helen liked both but decided to buy the silk tie-dye. She’d come back for the white blouse if she needed to talk to Alana later.

Alana’s gauzy red print top set off her golden-brown skin and long blond hair. She should have been homely with her long nose and overbite, but they made her more attractive.

She wrapped Helen’s purchase with swift, deft fingers, then rang it up, talking nonstop. “I guess you saw what happened to Cy’s last night,” she said.

“It’s totaled,” Helen said. “I parked my car at the pier lot.”

“Cy is beside himself,” Alana said. “He came by my apartment at two this morning. Didn’t even call. Said he lost his cell phone in the fire.”

“Really?” Helen said. “What started it?”

“Some clumsy customer knocked over a candle and those stupid fishnets caught fire.”

Cy wasn’t talking about what really happened, Helen thought. Good to know.

“I warned Cy not to use those crappy shells with candles stuck in them,” she said. “They’re too easy to knock over. But he’s too cheap to buy decent candles. His cheap ways cost him big-time.

“He came by my place looking for sympathy. I should get workers’ comp for repetitive motion injury. He said he was horny, but he couldn’t get it up with a derrick. My hand still hurts.”

She used that hurting hand to give Helen her shopping bag—and way too much information.

“If he wants anything else this month, he’s going to have to give me this.”

Alana held up a sheer peach paisley dress.

Helen whistled. “That’s perfect for you,” she said.

“Retails for sixteen hundred,” Alana said. “I’m worth every penny. He spends too much on that damned boat of his. Oh, I shouldn’t complain. I do have an apartment with a fabulous ocean view.”

But what you have to see to get it, Helen thought, and hoped her face didn’t show her disgust. A customer came in, and Helen waved good-bye, promising, “I’ll be back.”

Helen checked her cell phone. Phil had sent her this message: “Found diver at Beached. Meet me at the ice cream shop on A1A near Riggs Beach Road.”

Beached was a nasty little hole-in-the-wall in a strip of grungy T-shirt shops and bars along the ocean. She was glad Phil didn’t want to meet in the bar, but when she reached it ten minutes later, she peeked inside the open door. It was so dark, she could only make out two customers slumped over their beers and a nearly life-sized framed photo of a hairy naked man on a toilet. “Only one here who knows what he’s doing,” it said underneath.