Board Stiff: A Dead-End Job Mystery (18 page)

“I meant to,” Helen began.

“But you married him with a lie. And you’ve kept lying your entire marriage. Phil is hurt and disappointed. It will take him a while to get over it.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Helen said.

“You’re a good private eye, Helen. You’re practical. You’ll find another PI job. You got over Rob and you’ll get over Phil.”

“But I don’t want to,” Helen said.

“You will. If you have to,” Margery said.

H
elen was furious—almost as angry as Thumbs. She could hear her cat screeching and shrieking while she wrote her report about Daniel’s pay-phone calling card. It was hard to believe that soft, furry body produced such harsh, intense sounds.

The big-pawed cat’s cries were impatient, insistent and incessant. No wonder people thought felines were the devil’s familiar, Helen thought. Thumbs was wicked loud.

She tried to concentrate on her report, but her head ached. So did her heart. Just stop, cat, she thought. Shut up, please. He answered with an otherworldly wail.

“Thumbs,” she called through the wall. “Thumbs, it’s me, Helen. It’s okay.”

He redoubled his efforts. Margery wouldn’t put up with this noise much longer, Helen thought. And neither will I.

At 9:12 Helen searched her apartment for something heavy to break the glass slats in Phil’s jalousie door and rescue her cat. The heavy pottery ashtray on the coffee table—a turquoise triangle. She grabbed it by one pointed end when she heard Phil’s door rattle, then slam shut.

Thumbs stopped howling a few minutes later. Phil must have fed him.

The silence was a blessing.

Helen waited more than an hour for Phil to respond to her report. She gave him time to shower and eat. He usually checked his e-mail after dinner. She’d dug up first-rate information. Her facts contradicted his assumptions. Would Phil admit he was wrong about Daniel? Would he turn their investigation back in that direction?

She started checking her e-mail every five minutes, then every two. No
ding
announcing an incoming message. She kept her cell phone at her side. No ring. Her apartment grew chilly as the night deepened. Helen slipped on a sweater.

She gave him a full hour. Then fifteen more minutes, which stretched like taffy into half an hour.

Nothing. Not a peep. That man was pigheaded.

Phil won’t admit I’m right, Helen thought. He sure as hell won’t admit he’s wrong. But I’m supposed to wear sackcloth and ashes because I made a mistake. Enough. I’m no martyr.

The silence grew so loud, it seemed worse than Thumbs’ screeching. She couldn’t stand the tension.

She flicked on her CD player—the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” Mick’s voice matched her mood. He sang with a sly, angry taunt. He insinuated. He sneered. And then he screamed.

Phil hated this rock classic. He liked Eric Clapton’s overrated guitar sounds: CLAPTON
IS
GOD. Hah. That was Phil’s favorite T-shirt. The Stones pledged their allegiance to drink and the devil, the way rock stars should. They didn’t think they were God.

“Satisfaction” finished and she played it again.

And again.

That’s when Phil erupted. “Hey, Helen,” he yelled through the wall. “Can you keep it down?”

“Keep what down?” Helen shouted back.

“That shrieking you call music.”

Helen opened her door. “It is music,” she shouted. “The whole world says so.”

“Not me,” Phil said, slamming out of his apartment and glaring at her. “Keith Richards is nothing but a junkie. A brain-damaged junkie who fell out of a tree. He has holes in his head. For real.”

“You have holes in your head if you think Clapton is better,” Helen screamed. “He’s a racist who wanted the wogs out of England. Nice guy, Phil. Real nice.”

Her anger felt hot and reckless, as if she was skimming across a lake of fire, almost out of control. She was tired of being a humble mouse, through with repenting. She put her hands on her hips, threw her head back and glared at her husband.

Phil glared back, his shoulder-length silver hair loose, his lean face a dark red, hateful mask.

“Yeah, and how about Mick Jagger,” he sneered. “The great Mick was shortchanged. His women didn’t get any satisfaction. So much for sex, drugs and rock and roll. He—”

“Shut up!”

Margery stepped between the warring couple, hair flying, nostrils flaring, cords standing out in her neck. Her caftan surrounded her, an angry purple storm.

Now that she had their attention, her voice was soft, fast and furious. “I said quiet! Right now. Both of you.

“I had the misfortune to be the minister who tied the knot for you two. I should have strangled you both. What are you doing, disturbing the peace of my apartments at eleven o’clock? Arguing about rock stars like two half-wit teens. What is this? A stupid contest?

“You, Phil, shouting that Mick Jagger has small equipment. You think that’s news? He calls it the ‘tiny todger.’

“You, Helen, insulting Eric Clapton. Like he cares.

“I’ve tried to stay neutral, but no longer.

“Helen Hawthorne, you’re a fool. You should have told the police about Rob. You should have told us you were being blackmailed. But you said nothing. You’ve paid dearly for that lesson.

“Phil, you’re an idiot. You’ve acted like a jerk ever since Helen confessed. Yes, she was wrong. But you were, too. You should have waved your arms, shouted, pouted and then forgiven her. She would have been grateful and you two could have lived happily ever after. Instead, you’ve been a two-bit drama queen.”

Margery pointed an angry, red-tipped nail first at Phil and then Helen. Helen suddenly realized that for the first time ever, Margery didn’t have a cigarette in her hand.

“I’ve had enough of both of you,” their landlady said. “You’re squabbling when you should be solving a major case. A nice woman died and a good man may lose his business. And that poor server was murdered helping you ingrates. Have you found her killer yet?”

She glared at them both.

“Well? I didn’t think so.

“Listen and listen good, both of you. You will work out your difficulties, or you will leave the Coronado. You have forty-eight hours or you’re both evicted. Got that?”

A tiny mew came from Phil’s apartment.

“If I hear another sound from that bellowing fleabag, he goes to the pound.”

Phil shrugged and ducked into his apartment to quiet the cat.

Helen couldn’t stop the electric rush of adrenaline through her body. She was too angry to sleep or even sit still. She headed for her car. She needed a walk along the water to cool down.

Helen meant to stop at Fort Lauderdale Beach, but the Igloo had been to Riggs Beach so often lately, the Cruiser headed there automatically.

Cy’s parking lot was nearly empty. The wind carried the dead campfire scent of the burned restaurant. She could see Sunny Jim’s yellow trailer locked up for the night. Why were his security lights so dim? And why were there no lights on the beach? Riggs Beach was a tourist town. That meant bright lights and noise.

Of course, she thought. It’s turtle season. Turtles outrank even tourists in South Florida.

From March to October, two-hundred-pound loggerhead turtles crawled ashore to lay their eggs on the South Florida beaches. Lights were banned to save the two-inch long hatchlings. The baby turtles followed the moonlight to the sea but were distracted by bright lights. Before the light ban, newly hatched turtles were killed trying to cross the highway, led astray by the glittering hotels. Some even turned up at a hotel tiki bar.

Tonight, no artificial lights outshone the bright white moon.

In the moon glow, Helen saw couples strolling on the sand. They made her feel safe walking alone. She locked her purse in the car, stuck her keys in her pocket, and gave Cy’s parking lot the second ten-spot of the day.

She walked into the wind, hoping to tire herself out. The ocean breeze helped cool her fury. The sand stung her face and made her cry.

These tears are caused by sand, she thought. Not because of my lost love and ruined marriage.

And I’m a liar as well as a fool. Helen stared out at the moon-silvered sea. The long day had caught up with her. She wanted to sleep.

She turned around and hiked back toward the pier. The moon softened the dark ruins of Cy’s restaurant. Helen stopped dead. She saw a shadow moving around Sunny Jim’s trailer. The wind was playing tricks with her eyes.

But she moved closer to the trailer, the damp sand silencing her steps. Now she could see the trailer’s door was open. And that was no shadow. A husky man in black was hauling a heavy white plastic bucket, liquid splashing over its rim.

Water?

The wind carried a familiar scent—gasoline.

The man in black slipped inside and tossed gasoline on the walls, wooden floor and plywood pull-down desk.

No! she thought. He’s going to burn down Jim’s trailer. She reached for her cell phone to call 911, then realized it was in her purse, locked in her car.

Where were those couples strolling on the sand? She scanned the shore for someone, anyone, but the beach was as deserted as if a lifeguard had ordered everyone to leave.

The moon slipped behind a cloud. The whoosh of the waves and the soft sand covered Helen’s approach. Now she could reach the rack of paddleboards with the paddles stored on top. She slid a plastic paddle off the rack and hid in the shadows alongside the trailer. The man in black emptied a trash can in front of the trailer, then added a stack of free newspapers and poured the last of the gasoline onto the pile. Helen nearly choked on the fumes.

She was close enough to see he was wearing a black sweat suit with a hoodie. His body, face and hair were hidden, but the dark clothes didn’t disguise his powerful shoulders and muscular arms. He took out a disposable lighter and held the flame to the gasoline-soaked trash.

Helen heard the
whump!
as the fire ignited.

“Hey!” she cried.

He looked up, surprised, then launched himself at her as Helen swung the paddle. She whacked him on the shoulder. Hard. He stumbled and fell but scrambled back up. He charged Helen a second time.

I have to stop him, she thought. He’s strong, but so am I.

This time, she put all her muscle—and her anger—into that swing.

She walloped the side of his head with a resounding
thwack!

Stunned, he stumbled toward the fire. Flames ran up his back and jumped onto the hood. Now his back, arms and hair were on fire. He started to run toward the ocean.

“Drop down!” Helen shouted. “Running feeds the flames.”

He kept going and she tripped him with the paddle. He fell face-first into the shallow water, writhing and screaming.

“Turn over, turn over!” she shouted, but he was too panicked to pay attention. She pushed at his shoulders and her sweater caught fire. She felt the flames sting her arms. Helen ripped off the sweater, then soaked it and her arms in the cool seawater. The pain was bearable.

The man in black was lying in the water, eyes closed. He seemed to be unconscious, possibly from the pain. He was quiet at last.

So quiet, she could hear the screaming sirens.

“I
t hurts!” he moaned. “It hurts. Arggghhhh!”

Helen was back in the emergency room again, this time at Riggs Beach General Hospital. This ER’s walls were as flimsy as the ones in St. Louis. Helen listened to another medical drama in the room next door.

Her arms were wrapped in cool, damp gauze that did little to relieve her own pain. It was two in the morning, and she expected a long wait.

She knew the man moaning and shrieking: Randy, the diver who’d probably killed Ceci Odell. The man she’d saved after he set fire to Sunny Jim’s trailer. Every time he screamed, she winced.

I don’t like you, Randy, she thought. I hate what you did. But I couldn’t bear to watch you burn.

Helen tried to harden her heart. He’d killed Ceci Odell, an innocent tourist. He didn’t deserve pity.

Randy’s ER doctor sounded sympathetic. “I know it hurts, Randy,” she said, “but we have to remove the burned cloth and tissue on your back. We can’t let these burns get infected.”

“Can’t you give me something for the pain? Please!” Randy begged.

“We have,” the doctor soothed. “I can’t give you more pain meds for a while. Just a little more.”

“Ahhh!” Randy wailed. Helen jumped. The diver sounded like he was in the room with her. He was crying from the pain. Coward. He didn’t care how much Ceci had suffered.

Helen shut her eyes and wished she could shut her ears. She didn’t enjoy Randy’s torment, however much he deserved it. Even the minor burns on her arms stung like an everlasting sunburn.

She heard her exam room door open and looked up, hoping the doctor had arrived at last. But her visitor was Phil. Not the angry, arrogant, argumentative Phil of a few hours ago. This was her Phil, with the soft silver hair and the slightly crooked nose, wearing her favorite blue shirt. This time, she was sure he wore it for her.

He smiled tentatively and asked quietly, “How are you?”

“Where’s Margery?” Helen asked. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly talk. “I called her. I didn’t call you.”

“She’s at home,” he said. “She came over and told me what happened. I wanted to see you alone. She was right, Helen. I am an idiot. Forgive me.”

He looked at her bandages and said, “Can I kiss you?”

“Carefully,” she said.

His cool lips touched hers, but he brushed against her arms and she flinched in pain.

“I’ve hurt you,” he said, his voice soft with concern.

More than you can imagine, she thought. But I’m feeling much better.

“My arms sting a little,” she said. “My sleeves caught on fire when I tried to put out the fire. That’s why I’m wearing this lovely hospital gown.”

“I love you,” he said. “I was wrong. I have so much to tell you, but this isn’t the place. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Please tell me you weren’t burned trying to save Sunny Jim’s trailer.”

“No, I went after the guy who set it on fire. I hit him and he stumbled and his clothes caught on fire. He’s screaming in the next room, with second – and third-degree burns. He was wearing cotton sweats.”

“Cotton?” Phil said. “That goes up like a torch.”

“I think he’s in bad shape,” Helen said. “Do you have your notebook with you?” She put a finger to her lips.

Phil nodded and produced the small spiral notebook and pen from his shirt pocket.

She wrote, “Randy the diver is in the next room. RB cop outside door.”

He wrote back, “Saw cop. Can U text me?”

“Purse in car at RB,” she wrote.

“I’ll go for some water and be right back,” Phil said out loud, in a failed faked attempt to sound natural. “Would you like something?”

“No, thanks,” Helen said.

Randy’s doctor must have left. The diver was quiet at last.

Phil returned shortly with a white coat over his arm. He slipped it on, then wrote, “Found in the doc lounge. Going to see Randy.”

Helen watched through the glass door as Phil handed the Riggs Beach officer a folded bill and said, “Why don’t you take a half-hour break, Officer? No need for you to stand here. He won’t be going anywhere.”

“Thanks,” the cop said, pocketing the bill.

How much did Phil give him? Helen wondered. Twenty? Fifty? Was anyone honest in Riggs Beach? She heard the door open to Randy’s exam room.

“Can I have that pain shot now?” Randy asked, his voice low and weak.

“I don’t know,” Phil said. “You’ll have to ask a doctor. I’m here to give you bad news. You’re going to die.”

“What do you mean?” Randy sound more alert and very frightened. “That’s not what the doctor said. The real doctor. Who are you?”

“A private eye. You were a busy boy tonight, Randy. You bought two gallons of gas at the Riggs Beach BP station near your home at ten twenty-one,” Phil said. “It’s on the station’s security tape. Put your purchase on a credit card. Not smart.”

“So?” Randy said. The fear was gone. “I wanted to mow my lawn.”

“You don’t have a lawn—or a lawn mower,” Phil said. “You live in a rat hole near the beach. You set fire to Sunny Jim’s trailer tonight. Arson is a felony. That fire was started with gasoline.”

“They haven’t arrested me,” Randy said. “That cop is out there to protect me.”

“Protect you?” Phil said and laughed. “From what? Or should I say who?

“Here’s what you don’t know, Randy. When you’re arrested and go to the hospital, the cost of your medical treatment is billed to the arresting agency.”

“That’s cool,” Randy said. “I don’t have health insurance.”

“Not cool,” Phil said. “Riggs Beach hasn’t arrested you. Now, generally, the cops wait to make the arrest until after you leave the hospital.”

“I’m gonna be in at least a month, maybe longer,” Randy said. “I might need skin grafts.” He sounded cheerful at the awful prospect.

“I’m no doctor, but that back looks pretty crispy,” Phil said. “Are you going to be transferred to a burn center?”

“They’re going to admit me to the hospital,” Randy said. “They’ll send me to the burn center in Miami tomorrow afternoon. Get my own private ambulance. Think I’ll have a siren?”

Helen wondered if the pain medication made him sound like this, or if Randy was a ditz.

“Probably not,” Phil said.

“Either way, all I have to do is stay in bed,” Randy said. “It’s a drag lying on my stomach. Can’t watch TV. Maybe they got special ones at the burn center. I’ll know by tomorrow afternoon.”

“If you live that long,” Phil said.

“The doc says I will,” Randy said.

“And I say you won’t,” Phil said. “Who hired you to burn down Sunny Jim’s? Bill Bantry? You used to work at Bill’s Boards.”

“I quit,” Randy said.

“Right after you got a big payoff,” Phil said.

“Not from Bill,” Randy said. “He don’t pay nothin’.”

“Commissioner Frank Gordon?” Phil said.

Randy snorted contemptuously.

“Then it’s Cy Horton, Riggs Beach bigwig and restaurant owner,” Phil said. “Cy hired you, didn’t he? He paid you to kill Ceci Odell and Joan Right.”

“I never killed Joan,” Randy said.

“I believe you,” Phil said. “I also believe you’re a dead man unless you tell me who hired you to kill Ceci Odell.”

“Like I said, I ain’t talking.”

“Think about it,” Phil said. “I’ve got enough to tie you to Ceci’s murder. You rented an underwater scooter the day of her death. The dive shop identified your photo. A cell phone video shows you in the water near Riggs Pier when Ceci was murdered and you didn’t go to her rescue. In fact, you went in the opposite direction.”

“A video?” Randy sounded wary.

“You can’t move anymore without nosy people and their camera phones,” Phil said. “There’s a witness, too. He wondered why you didn’t help a drowning woman. He saw you drag her under.”

“No!” Randy made a noise between a yelp and a shriek.

Was he denying what the witness had seen or what he had done? Helen wondered.

“Yes,” Phil said. “You’re going down, Randy. You committed two felonies: murder and arson. Both are death penalties, especially killing that nice tourist lady, Ceci Odell. Florida doesn’t like it when tourists get murdered. It’s bad for business.”

“Leave me alone,” he whined. “I hurt.”

“I bet you do,” Phil said. “When you get more pain medication, you’re going to fall asleep. But are you going to wake up? What will keep that Riggs Beach cop outside your door from putting a pillow over your face? Or injecting your IV line with a lethal dose of painkiller?”

“Why would he kill me?” Randy asked. “I haven’t said anything.”

“People babble when they’re on drugs, Randy,” Phil said. “I’ve got contacts in Riggs Beach. Remember when I met you in that bar? I tracked you down because some of your friends talked to me. Sold you out for a beer.

“Detecting is thirsty work. I could go back to those same bars and say you wanted to cut a deal. Word would get back to the wrong people, and guess what? One less beach bum. Nobody would care, Randy.”

Helen heard a long silence. Was Randy thinking about his hopeless situation? she wondered. Phil had done a masterful job of bluffing. Randy didn’t know that Joan’s video was worthless and Kevin’s testimony could be demolished by a good defense attorney.

“I can help you, Randy,” Phil said. He sounded like a kindly older brother. “I know a special agent at FDLE.”

“What’s that?” Randy asked.

“Florida Department of Law Enforcement. State police agency,” he said. “Investigates corruption. I’ll call him in the morning. If he’s interested, he can arrange for protection. I can’t make any promises, but he might put in a good word for you if you cooperate.”

Silence.

“Tell me quick, Randy,” Phil said. “You wanna live or die? That cop’s coming back in five minutes. I bribed him, Randy. Fifty bucks. If I can get to him, so can someone else. Now, who hired you?”

“It was Bill. Bill Bantry,” Randy said. He was crying. “He hired me and my buddy to steal some boards and ruin Sunny Jim’s business at spring break. He thought Jim would close. But Jim had insurance. Bill was pissed. There isn’t enough business for two paddleboard rentals on the beach. He wanted me to kill a tourist and ruin Sunny Jim’s business for good.”

“Why did you pick Ceci Odell?”

“It didn’t matter who died,” Randy said. “Just so it looked like an accident.”

Helen thought that was the worst part of his confession. Ceci was killed because someone had to die. Her murder wasn’t even personal. “Bill said morning was the best time because of the high tide, and it would look like an accident,” Randy said. “The day before, I called Jim and pretended I wanted to make a reservation for eight, because that’s how many boards he has. He said he couldn’t do it. Two boards were rented for ten o’clock. I only saw one woman get into the water and she was kinda wobbly. It was easy.”

Helen shivered, and not from the hospital air-conditioning. Randy seemed to be bragging.

“And you hated women tourists after your famous manatee ride,” Phil said.

“Killing that lady tourist was like a bonus,” Randy said. “I got paid for revenge. Stupid YouTube video ruined my life. I wudda killed her if I could have, but she lived in Canada.”

“How much did Bill pay you?” Phil asked.

“Five thousand cash. He bitched about it. He had to cash in one of the CDs he got from his mom and pay a penalty. I left town afterward. Bill put me up at a cabin he owns in Stuart. Had me a nice little vacation. Then Cy called. He tried to get me to kill Joan Right, the waitress, but I wouldn’t.”

“So your buddy Bill talked after he used you,” Phil said.

“No!” Randy said.

“Somebody talked,” Phil said. “Word got out that you’re a killer for hire. Why didn’t you kill Joan?”

“I knew her. I couldn’t do that to somebody I knew.”

“Did you warn Joan?” Phil asked.

“No,” Randy said. “I was too scared. I heard stories that Cy made people who crossed him disappear. I had my own self to think about.

“I didn’t trust Cy and didn’t want to work for him. I was scared of Bill, too. Word is he offed his old lady and they never found her. That’s why I had some insurance. I learned something from that viral video. Recordings are powerful. When Bill asked me to kill a tourist, I recorded the conversation with my cell phone and then bought me a new phone.”

“Where’s the phone with the recording, Randy?” Phil asked.

“Hidden in my car trunk. Under the spare tire. It’s parked at Riggs Pier. Rusted orange Ford Fiesta, dented right fender. I used to drive a real car, not that junker.”

“Good boy,” Phil said. “You better hope the Riggs Beach cops didn’t search your car. I’ll call the FDLE agent and see if he’s interested in saving your sorry hide. Meanwhile, I’ll see if your grandmother can come here and watch you until you’re moved to the burn center.”

“I don’t have a grandmother,” Randy said.

“You do now,” Phil said.