Board Stiff: A Dead-End Job Mystery (19 page)

“W
here is my grandson? I wish to see him immediately.” Helen recognized that voice. Margery. She stormed into the emergency room at four in the morning, magnificent in her chaos.

Helen watched from her ER cubicle as their landlady swept through in a lavender Chanel suit. The suit had an ethereal shine in the sad late-night fluorescent light. Margery’s elegant ropes of pearls and gold clinked delicately, the soft sound of money. A large-brimmed hat dipped over one eye.

Margery puffed on a cigarette in an ebony holder. Helen thought that was overdoing it.

A sturdy short-haired nurse in puke green scrubs planted herself in front of Margery. “You can’t smoke in here,” she said, a brave bulldog barking at a goddess. “And you can’t park your Rolls in front of the emergency room entrance. That’s for ambulances.”

Rolls? Helen wondered. Where the heck did Margery get a Rolls at this hour?

“I didn’t park the car there,” Margery said. “My driver did. You may tell him to move it.”

“Not till you put out that cigarette.” The nurse had the white skin and nearly colorless eyes of a cave creature. “It’s a fire hazard.”

Helen admired the nurse for standing her ground. Margery was formidable. The nurse waited, hands on hips, until Margery stubbed out her cigarette and stowed her cigarette holder in her Chanel handbag.

“There,” Margery said. “You may talk to my driver now.” Dismissed.

Helen was surprised that the tough little nurse left. Margery stalked straight to the ER cubicle with the Riggs Beach cop posted in front of it. He started to say something, but Margery glared him into silence.

She threw open the door and said, “Randy, darling, what have these awful people done to you?”

“I—” Randy said.

“Sh!” Margery said. “Don’t say a word, sweetheart. You let Grandmama handle everything.” Accent on the “grand.”

Phil raised an eyebrow and Helen smiled at him. He wrote a quick note: “Margery watching R till I call FDLE. Told her to be rich bitch.”

“Doing good job,” Helen wrote.

I should be dead tired, she thought, but I’m too happy. Phil came to see me. He still loves me. I still love him. It will be rocky for a while, but we’ll work it out. Phil can take me back home as soon as I’m discharged.

The ER doctor had examined her half an hour ago and confirmed that her burns were minor. He covered them with a soothing ointment, wrapped them lightly in gauze, and told her to take Tylenol for the pain. Now Helen was waiting for her discharge paperwork.

A young coffee-skinned man in maroon scrubs knocked on the door of Randy’s cubicle and said, “Randall Henshall?”

No response.

“Randall is sleeping,” Margery said. “He needs his rest.”

“I’m Curtis,” the young man said. “I’m here to take Mr. Henshall to his room. He’s being admitted until he can be transferred to the burn center in Miami.”

“Very sensible,” Margery said, as if the hospital needed her approval.

Helen watched Curtis wheel Randy expertly through the ER, threading his way around wheelchairs, carts, and an old woman with a walker.

Randy was lying on his stomach, draped with a sheet from the waist down. His back was covered with white gauze and stained with patches of red and yellow. Helen hoped the yellow was ointment. An IV line snaked out of his left hand.

Helen thought his young face looked collapsed. His eyes were sunken in dark pools and his mouth was open. He was either asleep or passed out.

The Riggs Beach cop and Margery followed in the stretcher’s wake. Margery flirted outrageously with the young cop. “Tell me,” she said. “Is a big, strong man like you bored standing outside a door?”

Helen rolled her eyes. Phil grinned. The cop seemed charmed.

“Grandmama Margery will stay with Randy until Cousin Phil arrives at nine in the morning,” Phil said. “That’s when visiting hours start.”

“How’s she going to stay in his room?” Helen said. “Visiting hours are over.”

“She’ll wait until Randy’s settled, then slip into his room.”

“And the staff won’t see her?” Helen asked.

“The nurses and aides are run off their feet,” Phil said, “when they’re not putting data in the computer or taping sign-out reports for the next shift. I doubt they’ll notice she’s there. If they give her trouble, Margery will make a fuss about calling her lawyer and demand to see the hospital administrator. That’s why she has the Rolls parked outside.”

“What about the cop?” Helen said.

“She’s already made a cash contribution to his retirement fund,” Phil said. “You saw how Margery sweet-talked him. She’ll keep talking to him until it’s safe for her to go back into Randy’s room. The cop thinks she’s a harmless old lady.”

“He’s not the first man to make that mistake,” Helen said.

An aide arrived with Helen’s paperwork and a T-shirt she could wear home. She listened to the instructions, then signed the papers. At last, she was free.

Helen and Phil walked out of the ER together into the cool, dark morning. The light breeze stung her arms.

The hospital parking lot was nearly empty, except for the ghostly silhouette of the Rolls-Royce under a bright light near the staff lot. A uniformed chauffeur in a peaked cap sat in the front seat.

“Look how straight that poor chauffeur is sitting,” Helen said. “There’s nobody out here, but he’s not relaxing. His deportment is perfect.”

“For what he’s paid, it should be,” Phil said. “Besides, we’re out here. And you don’t know who’s looking out a window. Hospitals are hotbeds of gossip. He’s paid to be seen.”

“Where did Margery get a Rolls in the middle of the night?” Helen asked.

“She rented it,” Phil said. “That’s a 1960 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. Luxurious but understated.”

“It shouts old money,” Helen said.

“That’s the idea,” Phil said. “It’s good advertising. The hospital staff—and the administrators—know someone who can cause a lot of trouble is here.”

Phil’s Jeep was parked crookedly in the visitors’ lot, as if he’d abandoned it and run inside. Helen smiled when she saw that. Another love token.

He opened the door for Helen. She carefully leaned her head on his shoulder as Phil drove toward the Coronado, and inhaled his familiar smell of coffee and sandalwood. It was good to be with him again.

“I’ll start calling Calder at six,” Phil said.

“Who’s that?” Helen said.

“Calder Honeycutt, the FDLE special agent. I want to tell him about Randy. I hope I can reach him before nine. That’s when I go back to the hospital so Margery can go home.”

“When are you going to get some sleep?” Helen asked.

“When I know that Randy is safe with FDLE,” Phil said. They were stopped at a red light on Federal Highway, the only car on the road.

“It was sheer luck that Randy decided to burn down Sunny Jim’s as I was walking along the beach,” Helen said.

“You were so brave,” Phil said. “And so foolish. When I think I could have lost you for good.” He carefully kissed the top of her head. “You still smell like smoke and gasoline. You risked your life to save that worthless punk.”

“I didn’t care about him. I wanted to save the case,” Helen said. “We know Bill of Bill’s Boards hired Randy to kill Ceci. Randy recorded that conversation. FDLE can also prove Bill cashed in a five-thousand-dollar CD and trace the money to Randy. Plus he stashed Randy at his place in Stuart. His fingerprints will be all over it.

“We know Cy wanted Randy to kill Joan Right, but Randy refused. Cy must have found another way to murder her. How do we prove it?”

“None of the pier surveillance cameras were working the night Joan was murdered,” Phil said. “They were damaged by the fire. I checked Sunny Jim’s cameras, but they only cover the area around his trailer. I’ve got photos of Cy leaving Alana’s apartment and pictures of her coming home the night Joan was killed.”

“Do you know the autopsy results yet?” Helen asked.

“Not yet,” Phil said. “They aren’t usually released during an ongoing investigation. Joan didn’t die at the hospital, so I don’t think Jim’s nurse friend can get them for us. Cy’s never going to confess.”

“Alana’s the key,” Helen said. “She’s an accessory to Joan’s murder. She won’t confess, either. She’s tough as nails. But I know she somehow persuaded Joan to go down to the pier. Joan was too afraid of Cy to be alone with him.

“Cy paid Alana for that service. I saw the expensive outfit he gave her the day after Joan died—a sixteen-hundred-dollar dress. Alana worked for that gift, and she told me she didn’t have to do anything disgusting.”

“What’d she mean by that?” Phil asked.

“She didn’t have to have sex with Cy,” Helen said. “She did something to earn that gift. He doesn’t throw money around.”

That triggered a thought. Throwing. Money. Where was someone throwing money? Helen’s brain was too tired to hold on to it.

“The weak link is Alana,” Phil said.

“But how do we get her to say she’s an accessory to murder?” Helen asked. “She won’t talk to me anymore.”

Helen saw the furious Alana pulling a twenty out of her wallet and throwing it down. A slim black wallet. Why did that scene nag at her?

“Want to get something to eat?” Phil asked. “Maybe downtown?”

“That’s it!” Helen said. “The wallet. The black wallet.”

“What’s a wallet got to do with eating downtown?” Phil said. “You lost me.”

“When Joan and I ate downtown, she took out her wallet to pay the tip. She had a beautiful black Gucci wallet. It cost about five hundred dollars, way more than Joan could afford.”

“There are lots of fake Guccis,” Phil said.

“No, I’ve worked in retail long enough to know the real thing,” Helen said. “She said a boyfriend gave it to her. The day after Joan died, I confronted Alana at lunch. She pulled out a slim black wallet. Phil, it was the same wallet—and Alana can’t buy expensive wallets, either. Cy gave her Joan’s expensive wallet as a gift.”

“How do you prove that?” Phil asked.

“Women’s wallets have all sorts of little compartments and zippered sections,” Helen said. “We tuck things away in them. I have my cell phone number and a coded version of my ATM password hidden in mine. Somehow, we have to get our hands on that wallet. No, you have to get your hands on that wallet. She’ll call the cops if she sees me in her store.”

“How do we get her to take out her wallet?” Phil asked. “Would she give money to a charity?”

“Not a chance,” Helen said. “Only person she cares about is herself.”

“Suppose she got a small refund check—say, fifty or sixty dollars? Would she take it?”

“In a heartbeat,” Helen said.

“Then I think I know how to get her to open that wallet,” Phil said. “We’ll work on it after Randy is safely in FDLE custody.”

They were back at the Coronado Tropic Apartments. The old art moderne building glowed white in the darkness, and the palm trees rustled softly. All the lights were out.

“We’re home,” Phil said. “Helen, will you come back to my place? Come back to me?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.

“I love you,” he said. “I always have. I always will.”

“And I love you.” Helen tried to put her arms around him, but they hurt too much. “I wish I could hold you.”

“We’ll have lots of time for that when you’re well.”

“Let’s go home,” Helen said. “To your place.”

“Our place,” he said.

H
elen awoke to the smell of hot coffee, the sound of Phil singing off-key—and an empty bed. He greeted her with a careful kiss and a cup of coffee.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” she said.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Phil said. “Besides, a two-hour nap would have made me feel worse. I’ve got some amazing news. I tracked down Cal Honeycutt at seven this morning. Our timing couldn’t be better. FDLE has been investigating corruption in Riggs Beach for more than a year. They’re convening a grand jury next week. They’ve got lots of information about bribery, but no homicide.

“Randy could wind up being a star witness. Cal got a search warrant for Randy’s car. If that cell phone recording is as good as Randy says, and he’s willing to testify, Cal will take over by two o’clock this afternoon.”

“You thought the transfer would take a day or two,” Helen said.

“Cal’s moving with lightning speed. This Riggs Beach investigation is the case of a lifetime. Cousin Phil has promised to babysit Randy at the hospital and relieve Margery this morning.”

“What time is it?” Helen asked.

“Eight fifteen,” Phil said. “Margery should be home in about an hour and a half. You can watch her arrive in style. Don’t forget, once I’m home from the hospital, we’ll go get Alana.”

“And my car,” Helen said. “It’s still at Riggs Beach. Along with my purse.”

Phil kissed her again, left her a twenty-dollar bill and a credit card “in case you need anything” and was out the door. Helen stretched luxuriantly and felt the sharp sting. Her burned arms still hurt, but they were better. Everything was better this morning.

Thumbs came up to Helen for his morning scratch. When she came home earlier, he’d tried to sleep with his head on her arms, but the pain was too much. Helen cried out, and Thumbs spent the rest of the night sleeping at her feet.

She took a careful sponge bath in the sink, washed her smoky hair, put on fresh clothes and spread a light coat of ointment on her burns, then stuffed the credit card and money in her pocket.

Helen poured herself another cup of coffee and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine, where she saw an even more dazzling sight. A uniformed chauffeur with dark wavy hair opened the door of a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. Out stepped Margery, a vision in lavender Chanel, ropes of pearls—and that cigarette holder.

“Thank you, William,” she said.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Flax,” he said, and bowed. He climbed into the driver’s seat and the Rolls purred away.

Helen waved to her landlady. “Lady Flax,” she said. “Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee?”

“Soon as I ditch these clothes,” she said.

By the time Helen was back with a mug of coffee and a plate of cookies, Margery was settled in a chair by the pool, wearing a purple cotton caftan.

“Nice outfit,” Helen said. “But quite a comedown from the Chanel suit.”

“More comfortable, though,” Margery said. She wiggled her tangerine-painted toes in her purple sandals and took a long drag on her Marlboro.

“You got rid of the cigarette holder,” Helen said.

“Too much trouble toting it around,” Margery said. “But it was fun last night. Don’t get a chance to use a theater-length holder much anymore.”

“You sure looked theatrical,” Helen said. “I didn’t realize cigarette holders have different lengths.”

“Four,” Margery said. “They kept the nicotine stains off your gloves, back when ladies wore gloves everywhere. Both went out of style about the same time. The short cigarette holders were called cocktail length. Dinner-length holders were about six inches long. The one you saw, my theater-length holder, was a foot long. If you really wanted to put on the dog, you got out the opera length. I think mine’s about twenty inches long and made out of Bakelite. The theater length was the best I could do in a hurry.”

“You looked amazing last night,” Helen said. “Like a movie queen.”

“Thanks. It was fun playing grandam,” Margery said.

“How’s Randy?”

“In a lot of pain and scared spitless,” Margery said. “As he should be. He’s starting to realize how much trouble he’s in. I’m glad that Riggs Beach cop was stationed outside his door all night. He was a living reminder that Randy’s a dead man unless he talks. I think by the time FDLE gets him, he’ll be very cooperative. How are your burns?”

“Not so bad,” Helen said. “Kind of like a bad sunburn. No blisters.”

“Did you and Phil make up?”

“Mostly,” Helen said. “We still have a little way to go. What did you say to him to change his mind?”

“Me? Nothing,” Margery said. “But if I can give you a piece of advice, your trip to the hospital gave him a chance to get off his high horse without losing his pride. Don’t ruin this opportunity with your own stubbornness.

“Oh, I signed for a FedEx package for you. Stop by and pick it up.”

Margery had sixty thousand dollars sitting on top of her fridge and didn’t know it, Helen thought.

In St. Louis, she’d picked the bag of blackmail money out of the Dumpster on the way to the airport and sent it to herself. She’d planned to use it to start her new life if Phil didn’t forgive her. Now she didn’t need to. It was nice to have an emergency stash.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Margery said. “I want to take a nap.”

It was only eleven o’clock. Phil wouldn’t return for at least three hours. Helen was too nervous to sleep. She walked off her jittery feelings along the shady streets. The Coronado was in a part of old Lauderdale that was quickly disappearing. Soon the small, candy-colored Caribbean cottages and the sleek midcentury duplexes would be torn down for hulking mansions and charmless condos. Winding streets like these would be widened, straightened and improved.

She stopped to scratch the ears of a brown spaniel waddling along with its owner and tried not to smile. Dog and man both had brown eyes, brown hair and portly bodies. She admired a garden where a surreal staghorn fern clung to a tree like a many-clawed monster. White moth orchids fluttered in pots on the turquoise-painted porch.

A fit young mother pushing a jogging stroller raced by. Helen didn’t see an ounce of baby fat on the ponytailed mom’s muscular body, but she moved with determination. She watched an old couple with faded eyes and cottony white hair helping each other along a section of broken sidewalk.

Will Phil and I help each other like that in forty years? she wondered. Will we still be in love?

The quiet street ended at busy Federal Highway. Helen avoided the roaring traffic by strolling through a small palm-lined shopping center. She stopped at a closet-sized bookstore with a red awning. There, in the window, she saw the perfect present for Phil.

She saw Phil’s Jeep when she got back to the Coronado and stashed her present in her apartment. Then she knocked on Phil’s door.

He answered, wearing a short-sleeved khaki shirt and pants, his silver hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“You look very workmanlike,” Helen said.

“I hope this gear works,” Phil said. “I’m trying to pass myself off as a Riggs Beach city worker so we can get Alana’s wallet.”

“How’s Randy?” Helen asked.

“In an ambulance on his way to the Miami burn center,” he said. “He’s now FDLE’s problem. Cal has Randy’s cell phone. Let’s go see if we can convince Alana to talk. Cal said he thinks he can work a deal for her, but only if she’ll testify against Cy.”

“I can’t go inside Alana’s shop with you,” Helen said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Wear black and lurk by the door until I have her wallet,” he said. “Then come in.”

“Do you know what the wallet looks like?” Helen asked. “I can show you one like it on the Internet.”

She called up a Gucci leather goods site and pointed to one photo. “See? Long wallet with room for a checkbook. Black on black leather with nine gold studs along the flap.”

“Got it,” he said. “Now you have to change clothes.”

Helen ran back to her apartment, changed into a black T-shirt and pants, and added her black straw hat. Phil was waiting outside her door with a clipboard.

“You look like a glamorous gunfighter,” he said.

“What’s on the clipboard?” Helen said.

“A list of names and addresses of other people signing for the refund for the overcharge,” he said.

Helen noticed about half of the names had signatures beside them.

“Very authentic,” she said.

“The hard part was trying to create different signatures,” he said. He tapped the board. “Under this, I also have envelopes that supposedly contain checks, including one for Alana. Shall we?”

Phil and Helen were silent on the short ride to Riggs Beach. This was a different kind of quiet, not a tension-packed silence. Now they were united in their silence, gathering their strength for the coming ordeal.

Phil parked his car in the Riggs Beach lot as tired, sunburned beachgoers were packing up their gear to go home.

“I think we got here at the right time,” Helen said. “People are leaving the beach. There’s a better chance that Cerise will be empty.”

They walked quickly to the boutique. Phil peeked in the window. “One customer,” he said. “Is Alana a blonde?”

“Tall, slender, long blond hair, dangly earrings?” Helen said.

“That’s her,” Phil said. “As soon as she rings up this customer, I’m going in.”

The customer seemed to take forever. She and Alana chatted about the weather, the sunshine, a sale coming up next week. At last, Alana handed the woman her hot pink shopping bag and she was out the turquoise door.

“I’m going in,” Phil said, as if he was storming an armed stronghold. Helen pulled down her hat and studied the clothes in the display window.

“Hey, there,” Alana said.

“Are you Alana Roselli Romano?” Phil asked.

“I am, but why so formal?” Alana said. Her voice was an invitation. Helen’s hackles went up.

“I need your full name if I’m going to give you some money,” Phil said, flirting right back.

“You’re a lot younger and better looking than Ed McMahon,” Alana said.

“I don’t have nearly as much money to give away,” Phil said. “But I am prepared to give you a check. You live in the apartment upstairs, 10792 A1A, Suite 2?”

“I do, but why are you asking?” Alana sounded wary.

“You’ve overpaid your city water bill by five dollars and twelve cents for the last ten months,” he said. “I have a refund check for fifty-one dollars and twenty cents.” He tapped the clipboard. “It’s not a lot.” Phil sounded apologetic.

“I’ll take it!” Alana said. “I love free money.”

“Hardly free,” Phil said. “You’ve already given it to the city. I’m just giving it back. I’ll need to see your driver’s license or some other photo ID. Then you sign here and I’ll give you the check.”

Helen could see Alana duck down behind the counter, pop up with her purse and plop it next to the register. She rummaged inside and pulled out a slim black wallet with gold studs along the edge of the flap.

Phil grabbed it out of her hand. “I’ll take that,” he said.

“Hey, I’m calling the police.” Alana picked up the phone.

“Please do,” Phil said. “Then you can tell them what you’re doing with a dead woman’s wallet. Helen!”

Helen slapped the CLOSED sign on the turquoise door and locked it.

“You!” Alana hissed. “I told you to stay away from here.”

Helen ignored her. Phil tossed her the wallet and Helen began emptying the compartments on a display table. The driver’s license, credit cards and library card all belonged to Alana. So did the ATM card and checkbook. Helen ignored the money and explored the other compartments.

Now she was frantic. There was nothing in this wallet to show it had belonged to Joan. Nothing.

Helen opened a long zippered section, then felt under the leather flap with her finger. Jammed into the corner was a pink raffle ticket, number 176591. Joan Right’s raffle ticket for the Mercedes.

“Found this,” Helen said. “It’s a chance to win a Mercedes.”

“That’s mine,” Alana said.

“Really?” Helen said. “Then why does it have Joan Right’s name, address and phone number? Were you going to give the Mercedes to a server?”

“Where did you get the wallet, Alana?” Phil said.

“Cy,” she said. “Cy gave it to me. As a gift.”

“And we know where Cy got it,” Phil said. “He gave you another present to convince Joan to come down to the pier alone so he could kill her.”

“You wanted that peach dress in the worst way,” Helen said. “That’s how you got it. You talked Joan Right into meeting you at the pier so Cy could kill her.”

“You can’t prove that,” Alana said, but her voice trembled.

“Don’t have to,” Phil said. “I’ll also call Channel Seventy-seven, and their investigative reporter can video the wallet and raffle ticket. Helen will swear it belonged to the late Joan Right, who mysteriously committed suicide.

“After that story runs, I’ll call the Riggs Beach police and tell them that you have the dead woman’s wallet—and Cy gave it to you. Where did he get it, Alana? Nobody will believe he found it on the beach. Not after his weepy speech on TV about how much he wanted to help poor, worried Joan. Even a force as crooked as Riggs Beach won’t cover up that.

“Are you going to tell them you’re only an accessory, that you didn’t kill Joan?” he asked. “Are you going to say Cy did?

“How long do you think you’ll last in a Riggs Beach jail, Alana? You know what Cy did to Joan. He can hire some beach bum to get rid of you. Heck, he could probably hire a cop. Next, we’ll hear how you hung yourself in your cell out of remorse. That’s an ugly way to die, Alana.”

“No! No! Let me go. I have some money. I can pay you,” she said.

“Not interested,” Phil said. “But you may want to talk to a special agent with the state. He’s investigating corruption in Riggs Beach. He might—and I say
might
—cut you a deal in return for your testimony.”

“Then get him,” Alana said. “Call him right now.”

The sexy, lighthearted Alana was gone. Now she seemed haggard and badly used.

“Not yet,” Phil said. “Answer one question first: Why did Cy kill Joan Right?”

The color had drained from Alana’s face. She put her hands on the counter to stop them from shaking, took a deep breath and said, “He knew Joan was meeting with a woman PI who drove a white PT Cruiser. She was hanging around the restaurant the night it burned. So was that investigative reporter for Channel Seventy-seven. He couldn’t have Joan talking to the press or a private eye.”