Board Stiff: A Dead-End Job Mystery (7 page)

“Y
ou’re working late tonight,” Helen said, opening the jalousie door to the Coronado Investigations office. The only light was the pale blue glow of Phil’s computer screen. Six half-empty coffee cups were scattered on his desk.

“Good. You’re home,” he said. “I think I’ve found something on Sunny Jim’s security video. Take a look. I need to know if you see it.”

Helen rolled her desk chair next to Phil’s.

“Your eyes are red,” she said. “You look like a bloodhound.”

“I’ve been on this trail since I got back to the office about five,” he said. “Look at this.”

The security video, in flickering gray and black, was time – and date-stamped “1:38 AM 03/06/2013.” “That’s a Wednesday,” Phil said. “Not many people on Riggs Beach at that hour.”

Security lights cast a pale gray glow on the ocean side of Jim’s Riggs Beach trailer. Two stocky men about five feet eight entered the frame from the north. Both wore black head-to-toe dive suits, gloves and hoods. Full-face dive masks covered their features.

“Creepy,” Helen said. “They look like insects.”

“Locusts, in Jim’s case,” Phil said. “Watch the destruction. It starts with that one breaking the trailer’s padlock with a bolt cutter.”

The other diver opened the trailer door, and both entered. Their motion triggered the inside camera. The gray illumination was fainter, but Helen had a clear view into Jim’s trailer at night. The plywood desk was folded flat against the wall and the rack of paddles and boards was rolled into the trailer.

Helen watched one black-suited diver pull a paddle off the rack and smash it against the trailer wall. The other did the same. Then both men were gleefully smashing paddles in a riot of ruin.

“This looks even scarier because they’re faceless and soundless,” Helen said. “How many paddles did they break?”

“A dozen, at two hundred bucks apiece,” Phil said.

Snapped paddle shards were tossed about like downed branches after a windstorm. Then one vandal hoisted a paddleboard off the rack. The other followed him. Helen watched them walk out of the frame with the two boards.

“Look at the man on the left,” Phil said. “Is he limping?”

“I’m not sure,” Helen said. “He could be adjusting his gait because he’s carrying that heavy board.”

“Look at it one more time,” Phil said. He reversed the video until the two men were once again leaving the trailer carrying the boards, then slowed it so Helen could watch it frame by frame. Now she saw it.

“He’s definitely favoring his right ankle,” Helen said. “See how carefully he goes down the ramp?”

Phil sighed with relief. “We might have him,” he said. “Those men are the right size to be Jim’s former employee, Randy, and his buddy Buzz. They both have alibis for the time of the break-in. Each one says he spent the night with a girlfriend and the women confirm it.”

“Not exactly airtight,” Helen said.

“Is it too late to call Sunny Jim?” Phil said. They checked the office clock.

“It’s only eight,” Helen said.

Phil put the office phone on speaker and punched in Jim’s cell phone number.

“You got something for me?” Jim asked.

“I might,” Phil said. “Does your old employee, Randy, walk with a limp?”

“A limp?” Long pause. “No, he doesn’t limp. Where’d you get that idea?”

“Just a thought,” Phil said.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Jim said. “He doesn’t walk with a limp, but he sprained his ankle this spring. Happened late January, early February.”

“One of the guys on your security video has a limp,” Phil said.

“That’s Randy,” Jim said, his voice triumphant. “You got him.”

“Not really,” Phil said. “Not unless he’s still limping.”

“No, his ankle healed up in about six weeks. He’s walking fine now.”

“Did he go to the ER for his ankle?” Phil asked.

“Doubt it,” Jim said. “Randy doesn’t have health insurance. Well, at least we know he did the break-in. But that doesn’t help me.”

“We’ll keep at it,” Phil said. “Unless you need me, I’ll be tracking down the killer tomorrow.”

“Go ahead. I can handle the beach rentals alone,” Jim said. “Business is still slow.” He hung up.

“That information may not help Jim, but it helps us,” Phil said. “That was no spring break prank. Those two thieves were wearing about fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of dive gear. His ex-employee probably did steal his boards and break his paddles.”

“Did you hear anything in the beach bars?” Helen asked.

“Lots,” Phil said. “Sunny Jim’s ex wants part of his rental business. Wilma Jane Wyman, the commissioner’s daughter, actually went to a city commission meeting. Wilma told the commission she helped build Sunny Jim’s business and she was entitled to a share of his profits when his lease was renewed. She’s quite the looker, too.”

“You met her in a beach bar?” Helen asked.

“Nope,” Phil said. “The Riggs Beach City Commission meetings are taped. You can see them online. Watch.”

Phil tapped more keys on his computer and called up a grainy color video. The sound was boomy, but the speakers were captioned. He fast-forwarded it until Helen could see an impressive wood-paneled room where the Riggs Beach commissioners sat in a U-shaped arrangement, with the mayor in the middle.

“That’s Mayor Eustice Timmons, also known as Useless,” Phil said. “Man bends with every political wind. He acts as moderator at the meetings. Petitioners come into the blue-carpeted horseshoe to talk. They have exactly five minutes to state their case; then a red light flashes on in front of the mayor’s desk. Wilma will appear next.”

Wilma was a curvy brunette in a tight-fitting white bandage dress that made all the male commissioners’ eyes bulge—and possibly another body part. Only Wilma’s father shifted slightly in embarrassment and stared at the paperwork in front of him. The commissioners let Wilma continue to state her case against Sunny Jim for nearly two minutes after the red warning light was on.

“He built that business because of me,” she said. “I’m the one who risked skin cancer standing out in front of that trailer, attracting customers. I’m the one who posed for the video on the Sunny Jim Web site. I built his business, and then when our marriage fell apart, he went on working without me. When his license is renewed, I should have a share of those profits. I worked for them. Gentlemen, I stood in the sun and sweated for that man.”

“Miss Wilma Jane, we’ve known you since you were knee-high to a sandpiper,” Mayor Timmons drawled. “But, honey, we can’t help you. Anything you get from Mr. James Sundusky is a matter for the civil courts and should have been settled when you divorced the man. Does your decree say you’re entitled to a percentage of his future income?”

“No,” Wilma Jane said. Her voice was so low, Helen had to see the two letters appear on the computer screen to be sure she’d said them.

“I’m sorry,” the mayor said, “but you have no claim on Mr. Sundusky anymore. But let me congratulate you on your January nuptials. I’m glad you’ve found a man who appreciates your . . . um . . . intelligence.”

Helen snorted.

“What’s so funny?” Phil asked.

“Mayor Timmons couldn’t take his eyes off her double IQ the whole time she spoke,” Helen said. “Wilma may be mad at her ex, but I doubt she’d kill an innocent tourist—or hire a hit man to do the job, either. She’s looking for more money, not to ruin Jim.

“I learned some things today, too, when I had a late lunch with Joan Right,” Helen said. “She’s a server at Cy’s. Joan says there was a diver under the pier when Ceci died. She videoed it, but I couldn’t see anything. Well, one thing: if it was a diver down there, he moved faster than any human I’ve ever seen.”

“Interesting,” Phil said. “Maybe I need to see if Randy or his sidekick Buzz have had a sudden increase in their income—or if any local divers have been spreading money around the beach bars.”

“I guess Ceci’s husband is no longer a suspect,” Helen said, “now that Detective Ebmeier released Ceci’s body so he could take her home.”

“The detective said Daniel Odell wasn’t a suspect,” Phil said. “But this is Riggs Beach, remember? I want to do some checking up on Detective Ebmeier. We don’t know if Ceci had any life insurance. The detective could be getting a payoff from Ceci’s husband.”

“And I found out Commissioner Frank the Fixer desperately needs cash,” Helen said. “His kid needs dental work and the seawall around his mansion is crumbling. Why is the commissioner called Frank the Fixer, anyway?”

“He owns a TV repair shop near the beach,” Phil said.

“Do people still get TVs fixed?”

“Not enough so Frank can afford a waterfront mansion,” Phil said.

“So what do we do tomorrow, partner?” Helen asked. “I thought I’d check out Cy’s two Riggs Beach shops. I may be forced to do recreational shopping.”

“I’m looking at another day in the beach bars, knocking back beer and looking for that diver,” Phil said.

“You’re getting paid to drink,” Helen said. “Tough job.”

“It takes discipline,” Phil said. “I have to drink enough to look like I’m sloshed while still being able to follow conversations. It took years to build up that kind of tolerance. Now I’m finally being paid for my expertise.”

“We’ve done well today,” Helen said, wrapping her arms around Phil’s shoulders. “I think it’s time for that undercover work.”

N
ICE
STORY
,
BABE
—
NOW
FIX
ME
A
SANDWICH
.

FOR
MY
NEXT
TRICK
I
’
LL
NEED
A
CONDOM
AND
A
VOLUNTEER
.

I
PEE
IN
POOLS
.

Ick, Helen thought as she surveyed the T-shirts in the window of the Riggs Beach T-shirt Shop.

Do people really wear those? Somebody must buy them, or they wouldn’t be taking up expensive display space. Tourists must feel their vacation isn’t complete without a tacky T-shirt.

She couldn’t imagine anyone in St. Louis coming home wearing a shirt with a cartoon chef leering: TONY
’
S
ITALIAN
—
IF
YOU
LIKE
MY
MEATBALLS
,
YOU
’
LL
LOVE
MY
SAUSAGE.

More evidence that tourist brains softened in Florida’s subtropical sun, Helen decided. She read the handmade sign on the shop door: NO
FOOD
,
PETS
,
WET
FEET
.
WE
HAVE
CAMERA
SURVEILLANCE
!!

Could a camera see if people’s feet were wet? Helen tried to recall the grainy gray Sunny Jim’s surveillance video she and Phil had examined last evening. She couldn’t tell if those trailer burglars were damp or dry.

“May I help you, miss?” a pleasant brunette asked. She was holding a feather duster. Her name tag said KAREN.

“Are you the manager?” Helen asked.

“No, I only work here one day a week,” Karen said. “I’m hoping for more hours. That’s why I’m dusting souvenirs. I’m going the extra mile so I’ll get extra hours.”

“Do you know the owner, Cy Horton?” Helen asked.

“I’ve never met him,” Karen said. “But I’m prepared. If he comes in here while I’m working, I’m going to ask him for more hours.” She paused and cocked her head like a bright-eyed bird. “But maybe the store manager wouldn’t like it if I went over her head. What do you think?”

“Probably not a good idea,” Helen said.

“Well, let me know if I can help you with anything,” Karen said, going back to shining ceramic flamingos.

Karen can’t help me with information about Cy, Helen decided as she flipped through stacks of shirts, one more repulsive than another. There were stacks of shirts that said: PLEASE
TELL
YOUR
TITS
TO
STOP
STARING
AT
MY
EYES. Helen couldn’t imagine a woman desperate enough to date a dude wearing that. The only shirt she’d consider said REEFER
MADNESS over an underwater scene.

Her stomach turned when she saw a display for Florida Gator Poop. This shop could sell the real thing. She sidled closer and was relieved when it turned out to be chocolate-nut candy. “Chocolate Lore,” the package said. “To reduce calories, store your candy on top of the refrigerator. Calories are afraid of heights and will jump out of the candy to save themselves.”

On her way to the door, Helen passed Karen dusting souvenir seashells and said, “Thank you.” The only thing she’d learned was that the shop’s T-shirts were childish.

Next door, she heard joyless pounding music. Helen held her head high when the bar rats whistled and jeered “Nice tits!” as she walked by. She wondered why more women didn’t go postal when men behaved that way. She sure wasn’t flattered.

This section of Riggs Beach alternated beer dives with scuzzy T-shirt shops. Helen thought there must be a kind of mathematical formula: the sleazier the bars, the nastier the T-shirt shops. At least she could enjoy the day. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, the soft sea breeze was soothing and the constant sighing surf sounded relaxing.

As Helen marched north along A1A, Florida’s east coast beach highway, she passed shops promising GIANT
SALES. Racks of $15.99 bargain beach cover-ups, slightly salty to the touch, were wheeled out on the sidewalk. Helen never saw anyone buy anything from the racks, but they lured in shoppers.

Boys on skateboards charged through the strolling pedestrians, rudely whistling at people to get out of their way.

When she crossed Riggs Beach Road, the stores changed for the better. Now there were brightly painted frozen yogurt shops, sophisticated wine bars and cheerful restaurants promising “fishbowl margaritas.”

Helen was tempted by the pies and pastries in a case at a coffee shop but didn’t stop. Cy’s upscale beach boutique, Cerise, was next door. The two-story building was easy to find. It was painted cerise with a turquoise door. A window sign screamed
10%
DISCOUNT
FOR
TOURISTS.

Helen heard more screaming inside Cerise. A stringy woman with tightly curled black hair waved a purple blouse and shrieked abuse at a slender, sheep-faced blonde.

“What do you mean, I can’t have the discount?” Ms. Black yelled. “I don’t live in Riggs Beach. I came here to visit on my day off. I’m a tourist and I want my discount!”

Helen noticed the blonde kept the cash register between herself and the irate Ms. Black, while she tried to placate the woman.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said, nervously tugging on her straight golden hair. “I can’t give you the discount. You live in Hallandale Beach, right down the road. Broward, Palm Beach and Miami-Dade counties are all considered local.”

“I’m reporting you to the manager. What’s your name?” Ms. Black screeched, then slapped her palm on the counter. Helen jumped.

“My name is Alana, and I am the manager,” she said. She seemed to grow calmer as the customer got angrier. Helen admired her professional cool in the face of the woman’s shrill demands. “It’s not my policy, ma’am. It’s the owner’s.”

“Keep your blouse,” Ms. Black said, throwing it at Alana. “It’s locals like me who keep your shop going when the tourists go home.”

She charged out of the store, knocking two skirts off a rack on her way to the door.

Helen picked up the skirts and hung them back up. Now the shop seemed unnaturally silent. She could see these clothes were a world away from the items in Cy’s T-shirt shop.

Alana appeared at Helen’s side. “Thanks,” she said. “Sorry you had to listen to that.” The store manager wasn’t conventionally pretty. She had a long nose and an overbite. But her golden brown skin, gauzy gold Indian print shirt and intricate gold earrings gave her an exotic, sensual look.

Helen shrugged. “I’ve worked in retail,” she said. “The customer is not always right.”

Alana laughed. “How can I help you? What are you looking for?”

“A new blouse,” Helen said. “A bright color—turquoise, pink, red. Size ten.”

Alana pulled out floaty prints and cool cottons that would be comfortable in Florida’s humid summer. Helen selected a sheer-sleeved turquoise blouse, a deep green tunic with melon-colored lace, and a hot pink butterfly-sleeved top banded in black. She tried them on in the dressing room and settled on the hot pink.

“Nice,” Alana said, carrying it like a trophy to the cash register. “Are you local?”

“Fort Lauderdale,” Helen said.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you a discount,” Alana said. “You also walked in on a fight. I don’t want you to have a bad impression of the store. How about a coupon for a free coffee at the coffee shop next door?”

“Nice. I was eying the Key lime pie before I came in here,” Helen said. “Care to join me?”

“I’m due for a break,” Alana said. “Lisbeth is here now. She can mind the store and call me if any rabid customers attack.

“Order two slices and two coffees and I’ll join you as soon as Lisbeth opens her register.”

Helen found a table, and their pie and coffee arrived as Alana fluttered to their table in her gauzy outfit. Her coffee-colored eyes and long golden hair were a striking combination.

“Sugar and caffeine,” Alana said, digging into her pie. “Just what I need after that awful woman. Cy posted all the rules on that sign, but you need a magnifying glass to read anything but the ten percent discount part. I think it loses him more customers than it brings in.”

“But he’s very successful, isn’t he?” Helen said.

“Hell, yes,” Alana said, taking a big drink of her coffee. “Cy owns most of Riggs Beach and the people who run it. Oops, guess I shouldn’t talk about my boss that way.” She grinned.

“I’ve never met the man,” Helen said truthfully.

“He’s not bad,” Alana said, and shrugged, sending the sheer sleeves of her blouse floating on the breeze. “The pay’s decent and the rent’s cheap on my apartment up over the shop. There’s no way I could afford an ocean view.”

“Are you single?” Helen asked.

Alana nodded while she sipped her coffee.

“Must be fun living at the beach when you’re single,” Helen said.

“Yes and no,” Alana said. “There are supposed to be plenty of fish in the sea, but I’ve met some real stinkers. Dudes think dinner comes with a free hump for dessert. Last one, Jordan, gave me a case of crabs, and I’m not talking about the special at Red Lobster.”

Helen sat there in slightly shocked silence, which Alana interpreted as sympathetic.

“Jordan stole from me, too,” she said. “I woke up the next morning, and he’d taken my TV, disk player and twenty bucks.”

“Did you call the police?” Helen asked.

“Couldn’t,” Alana said. “I didn’t know Jordan’s last name. I didn’t want the Riggs Beach police to know I’d been slutting around. Those boys gossip like a bunch of old ladies. Anyway, it was my own fault. I took Jordan home because I was horny. He had a fine six-pack and it wasn’t Coors. The man was ripped. But that night with Jordan scared me. He cleaned me out and I slept right through it. That was my wake-up call. I was lucky something worse didn’t happen. From now on, my yahoo palace is closed to strangers.”

Whoa, Helen thought, way too much information. She took another forkful of pie so she wouldn’t have to say anything.

Alana didn’t seem to expect an answer. She kept babbling. “At least he didn’t take my battery-operated boyfriend. I call him Pete, which is short for—”

“I get it,” Helen said, quickly. She could feel her face getting redder and hoped Alana didn’t notice she was blushing. Some tough detective she was.

“Pete’s Eveready, and I don’t just mean his batteries. I keep Pete in my bedside drawer.”

“Ah,” Helen said.

“I guess you wonder if I ever want a real man,” Alana said.

No, I don’t, Helen thought, but she let Alana keep talking.

“I have a nice married dude when I want the real thing,” she said. “He’s not much in the looks department, but he’s not bad in the sack and he won’t give me any diseases. He’s got a kid, so there won’t be any complications. He’ll never leave his wife.

“Most of the time, though, I like Pete. I don’t have to listen to him complain about his family. When I get tired of him, I turn him off and put him in a drawer. Pete doesn’t wake me up getting dressed in the middle of the night, either.”

Their server was standing at the table. “May I bring you anything else?” she asked. Helen was grateful she’d interrupted Alana’s monologue.

“What time is it?” Alana asked. She checked her watch. “I’ve stayed too long. I should have been back at the store ten minutes ago.”

“I’ll take the check,” Helen said. “I have a coffee coupon.”

The server presented it. Helen put down a twenty and said, “Keep the change.”

“Thanks,” Alana said. “I hope you’ll stop by the store again.”

“I will,” Helen said.

Alana ran lightly back to the boutique, gold sandals gleaming in the noonday sun.

Helen sipped the last of her coffee and thought, Alana is worth cultivating. Once she starts talking, she’ll say anything. Next time, I hope we can talk about Cy Horton.