Board Stiff: A Dead-End Job Mystery (16 page)

Ew.

“Hey, baby, come on in,” someone shouted from a dark corner. “Sweet cheeks, don’t leave,” said another. “You look like you could use a real man,” shouted a third. Helen escaped in a chorus of whistles and catcalls.

The ice cream shop seemed sweet, clean and innocent after the dingy bar. Phil was at an outside table, eating rocky road in a waffle cone. Helen ordered a scoop of chocolate chip and joined him.

“I found Randy,” Phil said. “He was easy to track down. He’s been spending money in the beach bars since he got back. He was sloppy drunk and said he didn’t have anything to do with Ceci’s murder.

“I asked him if he’d been hired by Bill’s Boards or Cy to kill Ceci. He said, ‘I ain’t talking. I don’t want to get killed, too,’ and started to leave.

“I gave him my card and said, ‘Contact me if you want to make a deal before it’s too late.’ I doubt he was sober enough to know what I was saying, but he stuck the card in his pocket.”

Helen told him about her encounter with Alana.

“I think her apartment is worth staking out tonight,” she said. “Cy may be seeing more of her now that he’s in trouble. Do you want to do the stakeout, or should I?”

“I’ll take tonight,” he said. “You need to be in good shape for tomorrow. Joan will take all your persuasive powers at seven in the morning. I’ll walk you back to the parking lot.”

They parted on what Helen thought were good terms. She took the faster route back to the Coronado, except this time, it wasn’t. A traffic accident kept her stuck on Federal Highway for thirty minutes.

As she pulled into the Coronado parking lot, she saw Phil’s Jeep and a locksmith’s truck. Was someone new moving in? she wondered as she crossed the courtyard and stopped dead.

A uniformed locksmith handed Phil two keys and said, “If you need more, call this number.”

Phil had had the locks changed on his door. She felt like she’d been stabbed. Helen hurt so bad, she could hardly walk to her apartment. She wanted to be alone, like a wounded animal.

B
rew Urban Cafe opened its door at seven o’clock, and Helen was nearly trampled by a trio of coffee fiends. She stepped aside to let them order. She was jittery, too, but not because she needed caffeine. She had to find the words to persuade Joan to give Valerie an interview.

Helen plunked an alternative paper on a table hugging a wall of colorful art. After the rush was over, she stepped up to the counter for a caffe latte, made with espresso.

The barista’s white fern in the velvetized milk was so pretty, she almost didn’t want to drink it, but the rich roasted coffee was too tempting. The espresso jolted her brain after the first sip.

What was Joan doing now that the restaurant had burned? she wondered. Was she working somewhere else? Collecting unemployment? Cy wouldn’t pay his staff while he rebuilt. Maybe that would help Valerie.

Valerie protects her sources, Helen thought. I know from personal experience. I’ll tell Joan this interview will be safe. But she remembered some anonymous TV interviews she’d seen. Undercover cops speaking from deep shadow. Disgruntled employees with digitized screens over their faces. She could always pick out a distinctive feature—a nose or ear shape. Even if the voices were disguised, most people had favorite phrases. Cy would be able to identify Joan.

Promises of confidentiality wouldn’t pay Joan’s rent once Cy knew she’d blabbed to a reporter. He could blacklist her at other Riggs Beach restaurants.

But Valerie knew everybody in Lauderdale. Joan was a good server. If the TV reporter could get Joan a job at a better restaurant with big tippers, Joan wouldn’t have to worry about Cy.

At 7:12, Helen called Valerie on her cell phone. The TV reporter answered on the second ring. “Helen,” she said, her voice quick and telegraphic. “On my way to meet with management.”

“How are you?” Helen asked.

“On probation,” Valerie said. “Scared. Watching a parade of younger, prettier women come in for interviews. I’m dead if I don’t come up with a scoop. Did you talk with your source? Will she talk to me?”

Helen heard her desperate hope and hated to crush it. “Not yet. She’s on her way. This interview could kill any chance for a job in Riggs Beach. Do you know a good Lauderdale restaurant that’s hiring? She’s an experienced server.”

“I’m dating Ben, executive chef at Fresh Ocean,” Valerie said. “It’s a business restaurant. Ben complained one new staffer is showing up hungover. I’ll put in a word for her.”

“Thanks,” Helen said. “I’ll call you as soon as we talk. Hang in there.”

Helen tried to relax, but she jumped every time the cafe door opened. The TV screen perpetually played black-and-white films with the sound off. Helen didn’t know which classic this was, but she saw a British courtroom and recognized Tyrone Power’s dark good looks.
Witness for the Prosecution
? Phil would know. He’s good at movies. He’s locked me out of his life.

A mournful train whistle from the tracks alongside the cafe underscored the movie’s noir feel—and her own loss.

Helen checked her watch: 7:17. No Joan. She must have gotten stuck in rush-hour traffic. Helen opened the free paper but couldn’t concentrate enough to read it.

Next time she looked, it was 7:32. Maybe Joan couldn’t find the cafe. It was on Southwest Second Avenue at Southwest Second Street, one of those loony Lauderdale addresses that locals insisted were logical.

Scratch that theory. Joan had suggested the cafe because she didn’t like the big coffee chains.

Helen called Joan’s cell phone at 7:43.
“I’m not here to take your call. Please leave a message,”
Joan’s voice said. Helen left an anxious message. Of course Joan isn’t answering the phone while she’s driving, she told herself.

Helen looked up hopefully when the door opened but saw a red-eyed young man with a plaid shirt and fashionable stubble. He winced at the sound of the door shutting. A refugee from last night’s revels?

Lauderdale’s hippest coffeehouse was in Himmarshee, a historic area with low, flat-fronted buildings. At night, the streets were packed with twentysomethings searching for a party. At eight in the morning, most of those party-hearty types were sleeping off their good time. Except for this molting early bird.

It was now 7:58. Joan got the time wrong, Helen decided. She thought we were meeting at eight. She’ll come through the door any second.

On cue, the door swung open.

And two women in suits walked in.

I need more caffeine, Helen thought. It will save time when Joan shows up. She’ll order her coffee, and sit down, and I’ll make the case for Valerie.

This time, she upped the caffeine dose with a double espresso. While the barista worked, Helen idly read the drink menu. She loved the names on the menu: Rogue Dead Guy ale, Old Russian dark imperial stout, and the Bolshevik Revolution—Old Rasputin stout and espresso. She bet the chocolaty taste of stout went well with espresso. Phil would like that. Again, she felt a sharp pang of loss.

I haven’t heard from Phil, she thought. He staked out Alana’s apartment last night. Will he call or e-mail me? I’ll be the adult and phone him after I talk to Joan.

Her thoughts slid painfully toward the possibility of divorce. Our marriage will be easy to dissolve. We have separate cars, apartments and bank accounts. My cat’s already sided with Phil. On paper, it’s a clean, simple cut. So why does my heart feel like it’s been skewered with an ice pick?

Her double espresso was gone. Already? What time was it? She checked her watch again: 8:26. Joan isn’t coming to Brew Urban Cafe. I should quit kidding myself and track her down. My nerves are sputtering like a broken neon sign.

I can’t ask Cy where Joan is. I’ll see Sunny Jim. He’s so bored, he’s rescuing land crabs. He may know where Joan lives. If Jim can’t help me, I’ll drive to Kevin’s house, out past the turnpike. He’s Joan’s friend at the restaurant. He’ll trust me.

Once she’d decided to act, Helen felt better. Outside, she squinted at the bright sunshine and slipped on her sunglasses. She was too rushed and worried to appreciate the day’s perfection.

She drove to Riggs Beach in ten minutes on nearly empty roads.

That kills my theory that Joan’s caught in traffic, she thought. As she turned toward the pier, Helen was snarled in the only traffic slowdown that morning. Riggs Beach Road was blocked by police, ambulances, crime scene vehicles and a Channel 54 news van.

Helen parked at a strip mall two blocks from the pier, bought sunscreen at a T-shirt shop to justify her parking spot and tossed it in the car.

The pier was thronged with anglers. A makeshift bait shop had opened under a beach umbrella at the entrance. But no one was fishing or buying bait. They were watching the drama on the beach.

Helen sprinted toward Sunny Jim’s, passing paramedics unloading a stretcher from an ambulance. They were in no rush. The ominous black plastic on the stretcher said why. It was a body bag.

Oh, no. A drowning victim? One more death would be the end of Sunny Jim’s business.

She loped toward the crowd clustered near his yellow canopy with the brave banners. A uniformed officer stopped her. “Sorry, miss,” he said. “Police investigation.”

“I work for Sunny Jim,” Helen said.

The officer hesitated. His pale face was covered with peach fuzz and his button nose and red lips made him look tough as a teddy bear.

“Please?” she said and smiled, hoping she looked harmless.

“Well, all right. Since you have business there. Stay away from the investigation,” he said.

“Thanks,” Helen said, and ran awkwardly across the sand, which had been trampled into little hills. A breeze off the ocean blew sand in her face. Jim was watching the scene on the beach, his bronze, muscular arms folded protectively across his chest. The wind whipped his frizzy blond hair, and his sun-lined, leathery face looked sad.

Men and women in uniforms were gathered around a woman’s body. The dead woman wore a wet pink T-shirt and white shorts. Her feet were bare. In life, her long legs had probably been handsomely tanned. Now they had an odd greenish cast. Her long blond hair was flat against her skull. Helen couldn’t see her face.

“Jim!” she said. “Who is it? Who died?”

“Joan,” he said. “Joan Right. The waitress at Cy’s. She committed suicide. Dammit! Why didn’t she call me if she was in trouble?”

Helen stumbled into Jim’s yellow beach chair as if someone had kicked her legs out from under her.

“Not Joan,” she said, hoping to deny the awful truth. “No.” She felt sick. “We were supposed to meet for coffee this morning, but she never showed up. I came here because I thought you might know her.”

“I do,” Jim said. “I mean, I did. Joan was a little older, but we went to the same high school. Good-looking woman. Nice, too.”

“Who found her?” Helen said.

“Couple of tourists, about an hour ago. They were looking for shells. Her body washed up under the pier and they dragged her out on the sand there.”

Now Helen could see the drag marks, partly erased by the stampede of first responders. At the edge of the crowd, a silver-haired woman with a crumpled face sat shivering, wrapped in a blue blanket. A thin older man held her as if a rogue wave might wash her away, while a stern-faced police officer lectured them.

“That couple with the cop find her?” Helen asked.

“They got a vacation they’ll never forget,” Jim said. “The cop is ripping them a new one for moving the body. They were afraid the current would carry her away. The cop’s wrong, and if I get a chance, I’ll tell them.”

“How do you know . . .” She stopped. If I say this, then she’s really dead. But she watched the paramedics zip the body bag with that sound of terrible finality. Face it, she told herself. Joan is dead.

“How do you know Joan killed herself?” Helen asked, getting the words out in a rush.

“Cy told everyone on the beach,” Jim said, “including the reporters scavenging for a story.”

“I thought deaths aren’t announced until the next of kin are notified,” Helen said.

“They aren’t, if you have a shred of decency,” Jim said. “Cy’s using Joan’s suicide to promote his damned restaurant. I swear, when he rebuilds, I’ll torch it myself. You won’t believe his disgusting, self-serving display. Vulture.” He spat on the sand.

“Look!” he said. “Watch it yourself. Channel Fifty-four is going to interview him. He wants his burned restaurant as the backdrop. Cy doesn’t walk. He slithers.”

He did, sort of, Helen thought, if a fat man could slither. His lardlike complexion shone in the sun. He crossed his hands protectively over his paunch. Helen wanted to slap that satisfied smile off his face.

She didn’t get a chance. When the TV camera swung his way, Cy assumed the expression of a high-class undertaker in a long-sleeved shirt.

“Joan Right was my best waitress,” he said, as if he owned her. “I saw her about eight last night. She’d been walking along the newly opened pier. Joanie was very depressed.”

Joanie? Helen thought.

“She had financial problems,” Cy said. “When my restaurant burned down, she didn’t know how she was going to make it. I understood. I’ve known hard times myself. I’m fortunate my restaurant was fully insured. I assured her that when the new, improved Cy’s on the Pier reopened, she’d be the first waitress rehired. I can’t afford to let good help drift away.

“‘But what will I do in the meantime?’ Joanie asked. ‘I’m no lady of leisure. I can’t sit around for a year doing nothing.’

“‘It won’t be a year,’ I told her. ‘Cy’s will be up and running by February. I’m taking reservations for Valentine’s Day 2014. Joanie, if you’re worried about your bills, I’ll loan you the money, no interest, no strings. You can pay it back at five dollars a week. That’s the kind of person I am. Cy’s will come back better than ever, and so will you, Joanie.’ I gave her a hug and said, ‘When you’re back working at the new Cy’s on the Pier, you’ll get a nice big bonus.’

“Joanie was so grateful, she hugged me back. The last time I saw her, she was smiling. She waved good-bye. I went to check on our new, temporary bait stand and got distracted because we were selling out of baitfish.

“I didn’t think about her the rest of the night. I thought Joanie’s problems were settled.

“I blame myself for her death. After I left, she must have had a relapse. Maybe she was staring at my poor burned building. That’s like standing by a grave. She’d spent so many hours working there, she had to feel like a member of her family had died. She must have given up and jumped.

“I should have come back and checked on her. I should have given her money right then and there. I could have saved her. Joanie would still be alive if I’d used my common sense.

“Instead, I came by this morning to check on the progress. You can see how quickly the site’s being cleared.” The camera panned the blackened rubble. “That’s when I learned . . .” He paused dramatically, as if swallowing his sobs. “Poor Joanie was gone.” He hung his head dramatically.

Helen was tempted to clap. Hollywood lost a great actor when Cy took up restaurant running.

Jim was angry. “That revolting creep, using Joan to publicize his restaurant. If Joan needed money, I would have given her some. I should have gotten in touch with her. She didn’t have to crawl to that man. No wonder she killed herself.”

“She didn’t,” Helen said. “Joan didn’t commit suicide.”

“How do you know?”

“Joan would never, ever hug Cy. She loathed him,” Helen said. “She hated how he hit on the staff and went out of her way to never be alone with him. He’s lying.”