Board Stiff: A Dead-End Job Mystery (5 page)

H
elen and Phil straggled through the gate at the Coronado Tropic Apartments a little after six that night. Phil’s paddleboard T-shirt was stained and wrinkled. Helen’s hair hung in limp strings, and she felt ridiculous in her swimsuit and cover-up. At least she was thawing out after the hospital’s chill air.

Margery Flax, their landlady, was stretched out on a chaise by the pool, white wine in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. She looked like a giant lavender butterfly in her caftan. She was seventy-six and wrinkled as a linen summer suit, but Margery’s wrinkles seemed like awards for distinguished living.

“You two look like particular hell,” she said. “You need a drink. Let me get you a beer, Phil. Helen, pour yourself a white wine. The box is on the umbrella table.”

“You are a goddess,” Phil said. “Don’t get up. I can run to my apartment and get my own beer.”

“You are a humanitarian,” Helen said, filling a plastic wineglass from the box of wine. She took a long sip. “Hey, this is actually good wine.” Usually, Margery’s box wine tasted like Kool-Aid with top notes of tile cleaner.

“Got it on sale,” Margery said. “The label says it has strawberry notes and a dry, slightly floral finish.”

Helen took another sip and said, “My sensitive taste buds can detect that it’s cold, wet and has alcohol. Tastes good, too.”

Phil was back with a cold Heineken and a big bowl of popcorn.

“What a man,” Margery said. “Good-looking and you cook.” She helped herself to a generous handful of popcorn. Helen grabbed some for herself.

Before they settled into serious munching, Margery said, “Who died?”

“How did you know?” Helen said. Her hand shook and she spilled popcorn on her cover-up.

“I didn’t,” Margery said. “But I know something is off. You’re prancing around in a swimsuit cover-up and Phil’s wearing a T-shirt that looks like it’s been in a food fight.”

“We’re working undercover in Riggs Beach,” Helen said. “We saw a woman drown today. It was awful.”

“Was she a client?” Margery asked, her voice softer and more sympathetic.

“She rented a paddleboard from our client,” Helen said, and told Margery about Ceci’s death. Margery did some subcontracting work for Coronado Investigations. She also was a good listener and a source for local information.

“You never mentioned who you’re working for,” Margery said.

“It’s on my shirt,” Phil said, and pointed to his chest. “Sunny Jim’s Stand-Up Paddleboard Rentals.”

“Not Jimmy Sundusky?” Margery said.

“You know him?” Helen said.

“Him and his daddy, Johnny. Johnny Sundusky was a beach bum, but the ladies loved him. Jim has his father’s charm and better business sense. He opened up that paddleboard rental company and seems to be doing well for himself.”

“Maybe too well,” Phil said. “He thinks Riggs Beach is out to get him.”

“Paranoia. He got that from his father,” Margery said. “Johnny owned Sundusky’s Sun Spot, a bar on Riggs Beach. Johnny claimed the city put him out of business.”

“That’s what Sunny Jim says the city is doing to him,” Phil said. “Was it true? Did Riggs Beach have it in for his old man?” He took a long drink of beer.

“Johnny was his own worst enemy,” Margery said. “He loved a good time and treated his customers like friends. He was always giving away drinks on the house. When he felt like celebrating, it was free booze all around. When he felt down, he gave away liquor to liven up the place. Johnny ran that bar like a perpetual party, and every mooch in town hung out there. When Johnny died in a car crash five years ago, he left his son barely enough to bury him and settle his debts. The only smart business decision Johnny made was taking out a hefty life insurance policy. That allowed Jimmy to start his business.”

“That’s what he said,” Phil said. “Are our client’s claims that Riggs Beach is crooked and his enemies are out to ruin his business true?” Helen noticed that Phil’s nose was sunburned and his tan was darker. This job made him even better looking.

“Not exactly,” Margery said. “The town is crooked. Riggs Beach has been called Rigged Beach since Prohibition days. Lowest-paid police force in South Florida, but they’ve always had big homes and expensive cars. When liquor was legalized, the smugglers switched to drugs. But Jim inherited his father’s paranoid streak, along with his debts. Don’t believe everything he tells you.”

“Great,” Phil said. “An impossible job just got worse. Sunny Jim is convinced Ceci was murdered.”

“Was she?” Margery asked.

“We watched that poor lady die,” Phil said. “Ceci paddled out against a strong west wind. She had no experience in ocean paddleboarding. Jim warned her about the wind and the rip current near the pier, but she went there anyway. She fell off her board and was knocked unconscious. Daniel, the husband, is threatening to sue Sunny Jim. But Jim says she was murdered, maybe by someone in the Riggs Beach government. We didn’t see a soul near Ceci when she went under. We’ve got nothing.”

“Except Jim is paying you,” Margery said. She took a puff on her cigarette. The tip gleamed in the evening light like an angry firefly.

“Definitely,” Helen said. “Until Ceci died, we had the perfect job. Phil did the heavy lifting, working at the rental stand, and I got paid to sit on the beach.”

“So what’s your plan now?” Margery asked.

“Keep investigating. Daniel is passing himself off as the heartbroken husband,” Helen said. “An ER nurse said he sure didn’t act like a grieving husband. The first thing he did when Ceci died was call his lawyer.

“The TV station ran a story at four today about the accident. We think Daniel e-mailed Channel Fifty-four the photo of him and Ceci looking like newlyweds. Phil thinks it’s a sure sign he’s suing.”

“So here’s a man supposed to be devastated by his wife’s death, yet he manages to call a lawyer and e-mail a photo of her to a TV station in time for a breaking news story,” Margery said. The exhaled smoke formed a swirling cloud around her gray hair.

“In the photo, he looks like the perfect husband,” Helen said. “But Phil and I know better. He was cruel to Ceci. I would have walked out on Phil for the things he said to her—and Daniel didn’t care he was insulting Ceci in front of us.”

“But she took it?” Margery asked. More smoke and another sip of wine.

“Meek as a lamb,” Helen said. “Acted like she’d committed some terrible crime and deserved punishment. I hated watching a woman abase herself like that.”

“We think Daniel, the husband, sent the photo to the station to show he and his wife had an ideal marriage,” Phil said. “He’s setting up our client for a major wrongful death suit.”

“If we can’t prove he murdered his wife, we have to at least ruin that lovebird image,” Helen said. “It will make Daniel less sympathetic if he sues Jim. He’s staying at Sybil’s Full Moon Hotel here in Lauderdale.”

“That’s where you worked as a hotel maid,” Margery said.

“Right,” Helen said. “I’ve stayed in touch. Some of the maids have moved on, but Sybil, the owner, still runs the hotel. She’s indestructible. I’ll talk to her tomorrow and see if I can find out anything about Daniel and Ceci.”

“Like what?” Margery waved her cigarette in the air. “They dropped their towels on the floor?”

“Couples on vacation reveal a lot about themselves,” Helen said. “Hotel maids know who’s cheap, who drinks, maybe even if Daniel and Ceci were really as much in love as they looked in the photo.”

“I don’t think Daniel was,” Phil said. “That’s a younger, thinner Ceci in that photograph. I think Ceci’s terrible crime is she got heavier.”

“Any man who rejects his wife because she gained a few pounds is a rat,” Helen said. “We want to make sure Daniel doesn’t look like a model husband to an insurance company or a jury.” She reached for a third handful of popcorn and then changed her mind. Wearing a bathing suit all day had made her body conscious.

“He may look like a rat to other women,” Margery said, “but you’d be surprised how many men think it’s a wife’s job to stay young and thin forever. What are you doing, Phil?”

“Besides helping Jim?” he said. “And trying to keep him from making crazy accusations? That’s full-time work.”

“Just in case there’s some truth in what Sunny Jim’s saying—that someone is out to get him—I’d look into his ex-wife,” Margery said. “Bet he never mentioned her.”

“My boss? He was married?” Phil said. “I had no idea he was divorced. Who did he marry?”

“Wilma Jane Wyman,” Margery said.

“Wyman,” Helen said. “Where have I heard that name?” She took another sip of wine and inspiration struck. “Not the Riggs Beach city commissioner?”

“Yep, only daughter of Charlie ‘Want More’ Wyman,” Margery said, “and the apple of her father’s eye. Lucky for Wilma Jane, she looks like her mother.”

Helen winced. “I saw Charlie on TV,” she said. “He’s definitely not one of Florida’s beauty spots.”

“Commissioner Wyman was on that TV report of Ceci’s death,” Phil said, “demanding a full investigation of Sunny Jim.”

“He’ll get it, too,” Margery said. “He’ll keep that commission riled up until they take away Jim’s city lease.”

“Sure glad we talked to you,” Helen said. “You’ve really cheered us up.”

“At least you know what you’re facing,” Margery said.

“Or not,” Helen said. She tried to stifle a yawn and failed.

“Come on, Helen,” Phil said. “You’re exhausted. You need rest. We have a lot of work tomorrow.”

“Your place or mine?” Helen asked.

“Mine,” Phil said.

After their wedding, Helen and Phil had kept their two small apartments side by side at the Coronado. Their office was in 2C, a third apartment conveniently across the courtyard and up the stairs. Separate apartments helped the newlyweds ease into marriage. Helen’s cat, Thumbs, moved easily between the two places.

“Okay, but you have to feed the cat in the morning,” Helen said.

“Thumbs loves me,” Phil said.

“Because you overfeed him,” Helen said.

“You’re so cynical,” Phil said.

“Are you two ever going to live together?” Margery asked.

“We already do,” Phil said. “It’s just more fun this way.”

“It’s the perfect arrangement,” Helen said. “We’re together when we want to be, but I can go to my apartment when I need to be alone. Phil can shut his door and blast his Clapton collection.”

“But tonight we’re going quietly to bed,” Phil said. Helen kissed him on the nose and got up.

“Don’t forget to refill your wineglass, Helen,” Margery said. “I’ll finish the popcorn and leave the bowl outside your door.”

Helen and Phil walked hand in hand to his apartment. They could afford a house, but they loved this old L-shaped art moderne complex tucked away in downtown Fort Lauderdale.

“This is my favorite hour of the day,” Helen said as the lengthening shadows softened the bright white Coronado to pale blue. Purple bougainvillea blossoms floated on the turquoise pool and rustling palms provided soothing background music.

“You don’t see those slatted-glass jalousie windows anymore,” Phil said. “It’s like living in a noir movie.”

“I even like the rattling window air conditioners,” Helen said. “Reminds me of summer vacations when I was a kid.”

“This is Old Florida,” Phil said. “We’ll enjoy it while we can.”

They were almost to Phil’s door when Helen yawned again and said, “Think we can save our client’s business?”

“We’re going to try,” Phil said. “But the deck is stacked against Sunny Jim. He’s sitting on valuable beach property. Daniel Odell may sue him. His competition may want to ruin him. And if he’s got the city commissioners against him, even a lifeguard can’t save Jim.”

“W
hich one is the death board?” A scrawny teen with a shaved head washed up at Sunny Jim’s rental stand the next morning, just as Helen arrived.

“The what?” Jim’s voice was as ominous as an approaching thundercloud.

The kid was clueless. He pointed to the rack of eight yellow paddleboards. “You know, the board that tourist lady rode when she died. I want the one with the blood.”

At the word “blood,” Phil strolled from behind the trailer and stood next to Helen. Only the ghoulish glamour of blood would get this scraggly character out of bed and on the beach at nine o’clock, Helen decided. She’d never seen a less appetizing specimen. Acne raged across his flour-white face. His baggy T-shirt had a double arrow pointing up to THE
MAN and down to THE
LEGEND.

Only in your mind, Helen thought.

Sunny Jim towered over the twerp. “There was no blood,” he said, his voice quiet.

“Maybe not now, dude, after you washed it away,” the Legend said. “But you could, like, spray the board with Luminol and turn out the lights. Blood glows in the dark. It’s blue. Blue blood. Get it? Saw that on
CSI
. Blood lasts, like, forever.”

His board shorts slid down his narrow hips, disastrously near the Legend. He yanked them up and pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket. “I’ll pay extra,” he said. “Riding the death board would be awesome.”

Something snapped in Jim. His fists clenched as if he wanted to pound the stripling into the sand. “It wasn’t awesome,” he said. “It was sad. But not as sad as you. Get out of here before I drown your skinny ass.”

He took a step forward and the Legend backed away. “Okay, okay. I was just trying to give you some business.”

The Legend slunk up the beach past Kim’s lifeguard tower and disappeared.

“Third creep this morning,” Jim said. “They all want the death board. That’s what they call it, like it’s an amusement park ride. Here comes another weirdo. Why’s he all dressed up?”

The large man was overdressed for the beach. A navy polo shirt, khaki shorts and loafers were formal dress in South Florida. He walked straight up to Jim and said, “Are you James Sundusky?”

“Yes,” Jim said.

The man slapped a sheaf of papers into Jim’s hand, said, “You’ve been served,” and waddled off to the parking lot.

Jim paled under his tan and sat down heavily in his yellow folding chair. He read the first page and said, “Daniel Odell is suing me for the wrongful death of his wife.” His voice was doormat flat. “The suit says I didn’t give Ceci the appropriate basic training and failed to offer reasonable advice on currents, tides, rocks and other hidden and/or obvious threats.”

“But you did,” Helen said. “We both heard you warn her to stay away from the pier. I even videoed you when you pointed out the areas where she couldn’t paddle.”

“I know it’s a shock to see it in print,” Phil said, “but you were expecting the husband to sue.”

“But not for this much,” Jim said. “He wants ten million dollars. I carry five million in insurance. Most companies my size only carry a million. I thought I was covered for emergencies.”

“Your insurance company will examine his claim and see you weren’t negligent,” Phil said. “Plus, Ceci signed a waiver. They’ll deny the claim.”

“Daniel Odell can still sue me,” Jim said. “See this lawyer’s name?” He pointed at the paper. “The guy’s ads are on every bus bench in the county. He’s already started his publicity campaign. That’s why Daniel e-mailed the photo of him and Ceci to Channel Fifty-four.”

“You don’t know that,” Phil said.

“I know juries act on emotion,” Jim said. “I’ll be the careless guy who killed Daniel’s sweet wife.”

“You weren’t careless,” Helen said. “We’ve got video that says otherwise.”

“It won’t make any difference,” Jim said. “This lawyer is a pit bull. Defending that lawsuit will bleed me dry. That photo of Daniel and his wife says it all.”

A hopeless silence descended. From far away, Helen heard children laughing and saw a couple walking in the surf. That broke the spell.

“Daniel didn’t love his wife,” Helen said. “We heard how mean he was. I bet there are other witnesses. He’s staying at a tourist hotel called Sybil’s Full Moon. I used to work there. Maybe it’s time I pay Sybil a visit.”

Jim managed a weak smile. “You really think I have a chance?”

“I know it,” Helen said. “I’m glad I wore shorts today instead of a swimsuit. I can be at the hotel in twenty minutes.”

The trip took half an hour in the tourist traffic. She shuddered as she drove past the Dumpster behind the hotel. She’d seen a young woman’s body tossed in there like trash. The memory haunted Helen’s nightmares, along with the suicidal shooting in the lobby. Two people had died violently at the hotel when she’d worked there.

Helen parked her car far away from the Dumpster, then made a wide circle around it and stepped into the hotel’s sun-splashed lobby. A dozen tourists with painfully new sunburns and bulging flowered suitcases were waiting to go home.

Helen always returned to the Full Moon with mixed feelings. Her bond with the hotel staff had been forged with sweat as well as blood. When she worked there, Helen had cleaned twenty-one bathrooms, made thirty-eight beds and emptied sixty wastebaskets a day.

The Full Moon had survived the twin tragedies because it was clean, quirky and affordable. The biggest quirk was Sybil herself. She and her husband had built the hotel in 1953 and added the homey touches in the lobby. They’d even picked up the display of creamy pink and white seashells on Lauderdale Beach.

Sybil’s husband had checked out permanently years ago, but she inhabited a smoky cave behind the front desk. Helen didn’t recognize the desk clerk on duty this morning. The bronze-skinned young woman had dark hair pulled into a tight knot. Like all Sybil’s employees, she was polite. The clerk promptly showed Helen back to Sybil’s lair.

Helen braced herself for the nicotine stink. The dirty, bitter odor of cigarettes in the manager’s rooms never seemed to seep out into the hotel. Sybil’s desk was a landfill buried under layers of ash. A wiry, yellowed woman, Sybil was a year younger than Margery, but she looked infinitely older. A lit cigarette burned in a butt-studded ashtray, like an offering to an ancient god.

“Helen,” Sybil said, and a nicotine-stained smile split her thin face. “I heard you and your hunky new husband opened up a PI business.”

“We did. I’m a partner in Coronado Investigations,” Helen said. “I wanted to ask you about one of your guests, Daniel Odell.”

“That one,” Sybil said, twisting her face into a thunderous frown. “If he never comes back here, it will be too soon. You know what that rat bastard did? Yesterday—the day his poor wife died—he came in here and had the nerve to ask me for a room discount.”

“Why?” Helen asked.

“His reason was a real beauty: ‘Only one person will be sleeping in the room now,’ he says. ‘I’ll use half as many towels.’”

She took a long drag on her cigarette and puffed out smoke like a small gray-haired demon. “Real broken up, he was, the cheap son of a gun.”

“I gather you didn’t give him a discount,” Helen said.

“Hell, no,” Sybil said. “Not a nickel off. I hoped he’d get mad and leave, but he didn’t. Mr. Odell won’t find another place this good for what he wants to pay.”

“Did he tell you how his wife died?” Helen asked.

“I saw the story on TV,” she said, “with that lovey-dovey photo. I don’t know where the station got that picture, but it sure wasn’t taken here. He made that poor woman’s life a misery. Hateful man.” Sybil crushed out her cigarette as if she was grinding it into Daniel Odell’s face.

“Did they argue?” Helen asked.

“Nonstop,” Sybil said. “And he started them all. Poor woman couldn’t do anything to please him. He bitched that she didn’t wear her makeup right. She didn’t do her hair nice. But mostly, he complained about her being fat. He supervised her breakfast like a prison guard. He’d bring her food to their table in my breakfast room. It was always the same: black coffee, one slice of dry wheat toast and half a banana.

“I put out a good free buffet, but he wouldn’t let her eat anything else—no eggs, bacon or warm cinnamon buns. Not even a bowl of cereal.

“I don’t know what they did for lunch or dinner, but I’m sure it was more of the same. That poor thing was starving. After he fell asleep, Ceci would sneak down here and stuff herself with candy bars from the machine. Drank Coke, too. She’d also leave a tip for the maids with the front desk. Her husband didn’t bother.

“The last night, the night before she died, she snuck down, left two dollars for the maid at the front desk same as usual, then started to use the machine. Kelly, the night clerk, said, ‘Why don’t you order a pizza, Ceci? I’ll make the call.’ She got Ceci a large sausage-and-pepperoni pizza. Ceci was so grateful, she tipped Kelly five dollars for making a phone call. When the pizza arrived, Ceci took it into the hotel breakfast room and wolfed it down like she hadn’t had a solid meal in months. Probably hadn’t.

“She was finishing the last slice when the elevator doors flew open and Daniel Odell stomped out and demanded, ‘Where’s my wife?’

“‘I have no idea,’ Kelly told him.

“But he saw Ceci cowering behind the table. ‘Liar!’ he screamed at Kelly and stormed into the breakfast room. He couldn’t have been madder if he’d caught Ceci with another man.

“He grabbed her by the arm and shouted,
‘What are you doing? You’re hog fat and now you’re sneaking downstairs and shoveling more food in your face. I told you, I won’t have a fat wife.’

“He yelled so loud, I heard him back here with the door closed. I went out and told him to keep it down or I’d call the cops.

“‘I’m doing this for her own good,’ he said, and gave me that phony smile.

“I’d had enough of him. I said, ‘You will not verbally abuse your wife in my hotel. You’ll treat Ceci with respect or you’ll leave.’

“‘How can I respect her if she won’t respect herself?’ he said. ‘She’s gained forty pounds. It’s a health hazard. I’m a businessman and she makes me look bad.’

“I said, ‘Handsome is as handsome does, and that makes you the ugliest bugger I’ve ever seen. You can shut up and stay, or you can pack your bags and get out now. Ceci, if you want to sleep in another room, you can. I won’t charge you.’

“Ceci said, ‘No, no, I’ll go upstairs with Danny. This is all my fault.’ They got into the elevator and up they went. She had tears running down her face, but at least he wasn’t yelling at her.”

“I don’t understand why Ceci was such a doormat,” Helen said.

“Some women get like that,” Sybil said. “They’re so used to men treating them bad, they don’t think they deserve better. I saw them leave for the beach about nine thirty the next morning. That’s the last time I saw that poor girl alive. I hope she’s in heaven now, because her husband made her life hell on earth.”

“Daniel said he didn’t want to go stand-up paddleboarding that morning because he was drinking the night before,” Helen said. “Was that true?”

“Oh, he was liquored up, all right,” Sybil said. “Bourbon, by the smell of it. But he didn’t need booze to be mean. It came natural.”

“Did he make any calls from his room?” Helen asked.

“Used his cell phone,” Sybil said. “He’s not going to pay hotel rates for calls. This morning he asked me if I knew the name of a crematorium.”

“He’s going to cremate Ceci?” Helen asked. “So soon?”

“As soon as the medical examiner signs off on it,” Sybil said. “Daniel said he should get the autopsy results by noon today. He’s out making the arrangements now. He told me he’s leaving Florida the minute the autopsy report is in and he can cremate that poor girl and bring her home.”

“But her death was sudden,” Helen said. “Her family won’t get to say good-bye. Did she want to be cremated?”

“She’s only thirty. Probably too young to think about it,” Sybil said. “He’s the husband, so he can do what he wants. That son of a bugger will have her cremated for two hundred dollars and carry her ashes on the plane. Save himself the expense of embalming, a casket, flying her body home and a St. Louis funeral.”

She mashed out another cigarette, then lit a new one. As the flame flared up, Sybil said, “I’d like to see him burn. In hell.”