Board Stiff: A Dead-End Job Mystery (8 page)

“M
y liver may not survive this assignment,” Phil said.

Even on Helen’s tinny cell phone, she could hear the clink of glasses and the wail of a country song in the background. “It’s two o’clock and I’ve been to six bars already.”

Now she heard the squeak of a door. Phil must be talking outside the bar. “I’ve talked with dozens of customers and bartenders,” he said. “Nobody’s heard of any scuba diver who suddenly came into money. I was sure Ceci’s killer would be throwing money around in the beach bars, celebrating his windfall.”

Helen sat on a weathered gray bench under a spindly palm tree and listened. She’d needed a soft ocean breeze to blow away the sour residue of Alana’s confessions.

“Maybe the killer’s being smart,” Helen said. “He could be waiting to spend his money after the uproar over Ceci’s murder dies down. Could be he’s a night owl and won’t be at the bars until after midnight.”

“Could be he doesn’t exist,” Phil said, sounding slightly testy.

“Then how else was Ceci killed?” Helen said. She was in no mood to coddle him. “We don’t even have another theory. Joan, the server who photographed the diver, says he was under Riggs Pier and he didn’t help Ceci when she fell off the board. I’ll stop by Cy’s restaurant and have another late lunch. Joan might remember more details.”

“Did you get any information at Cy’s shops?” Phil asked.

“Too much, but nothing we can use,” Helen said. “I’ll tell you about it tonight. Alana, the manager at his upscale boutique, Cerise, could be useful eventually. I’m about six blocks away. I’ll start walking back to the restaurant now. I love you.”

“Not as much as I love you,” Phil said.

They were still newlywed enough to heal a small fight with words of love. Their slight impatience with each other was quickly forgotten.

Helen kicked off her sandals and ambled along the water’s edge, the surf tickling her toes. The beige sand felt warm. South Florida had few natural sandy beaches. The Riggs Beach sand had been trucked in years ago and replenished after the hurricanes. Carefully cultivated stands of round-leaved sea grape and slim, elegant sea grass helped keep it in place.

Helen’s dark hair was a rippling flag in the brisk west wind. This weather felt like the weather the day Ceci died: warm, clear and windy. Helen couldn’t stop replaying scenes from Ceci’s death in her mind, but she never remembered anything useful.

Far off on the horizon, she saw a heavily loaded container ship stacked with wooden crates big as boxcars. Sailors called those crates “wooden icebergs.” When the crates fell off the ships in storms, they bobbed in the water just out of sight, a hazard to small craft.

At last Helen saw the lifeguard towers and the gray sweep of Riggs Pier. She dropped the bag with her new blouse in the Igloo and slipped her sandals back on, ready for lunch at Cy’s on the Pier.

The restaurant must have had a noontime rush. Nearly every table was piled with dirty plates, glasses and silverware. Helen saw Joan loading crockery into a gray plastic tub.

Cy sat in his booth like a pasha, eating across from a lean strip of a man in a beige suit. Cy’s guest shoveled in his food like he was being paid to clean his plate. His face was long and brown. So were his teeth.

“The way I see it, Frank,” Cy said, stuffing a thick chunk of meat into his mouth, “I could see my way to two days.”

Frank. Was that the city commissioner Frank Lincoln Gordon, better known as Frank the Fixer? Joan had complained that Commissioner Frank dined free and never tipped.

How does Frank stay so skinny when he eats like that? Helen wondered. A thick steak covered his entire platter. The steak was heaped with onion rings and crowned with a baked potato dripping melted butter and sour cream.

“I was hoping for four days,” Frank said, and somehow managed to swallow a third of his sour-cream-slathered potato.

Was Cy trying to kill the commissioner with a cholesterol overdose? Helen sneaked a peek at Cy’s platter. He was eating the same food. No wonder he looked so pale and doughy. He could barely fit into the booth.

“Three?” Cy asked, and chomped an onion ring.

Frank attacked his steak. “I’ll think about it. Your cook does a mean T-bone for a Mexican, Keith.”

Who was Keith? Helen wondered. Frank was eating with Cy.

“The boy does all right,” Cy said. “Once he tried to hold me up for a raise. I said the magic words—green card—and he forgot all about it.”

The two laughed harshly. Frank crammed another bloody hunk of steak into his mouth, then said, “Wish that worked on city employees, Keith. Always wanting more money for less work.”

Joan came out of the kitchen with a bottle of spray cleaner and a cloth. When she saw Helen standing at the entrance, she waved and said, “Helen! Are you here for lunch? Come sit here.”

Helen sat at a freshly cleaned table and ordered a salad with grilled salmon. Joan brought it quickly and whispered, “Could you use that video I sent you?”

“No,” Helen said. “We couldn’t see anything.”

“That’s what the police detective told me,” Joan said. “I e-mailed it to him. He was real nice and everything, but he sort of patted me on the head and sent me on my way. But I know that diver was there when that woman was murdered. I’ve got a witness.”

“You do? Can you talk about it?”

“Not now,” she said. “I have one other customer and I’ve got to clean all those tables.” She waved her hand at the lunch rubble.

“How about dinner again?” Helen asked. “You like Thai food? We could try Thai Bayshore on Federal Highway.”

“Across from the hospital? Love that place,” Joan said. “I’ll meet you there at six.”

Frank was on his way out the door when a tall brunette charged out of the restroom and headed straight for Cy’s table. He was dabbing his small mouth with a greasy napkin.

“Are you the owner?” she demanded, her voice icy.

Cy nodded.

“I saw a roach in the ladies’ room. A big one.”

“Did you say a big roach?” Cy asked. “Not a little brown one?”

“That thing is nearly two inches long,” the woman said. “You could saddle and ride it. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, that’s not one of our roaches,” Cy said. “That’s a beach roach.” He smiled as if that was an explanation.

“I’m never eating here again,” the woman said. She threw a ten on the table and stormed out.

“Her lunch was nine ninety-five,” Joan said, and sighed. “I get a whole nickel for a tip. Are you finished, Helen?”

Helen eyed the dark brown ovals in the remains of her salad and hoped they were olives. “I am now,” she said.

“Look, there are no bugs near the stove or the prep table,” Joan said. “It’s just that sometimes a palmetto bug wanders in off the beach.”

Helen found that cold comfort. “Palmetto bug” was a polite Florida name for a gigantic roach. She paid her bill and left an extra-generous tip in cash.

“Thanks,” Joan said. “That makes up for the last customer. See you at the Thai restaurant tonight.”

Helen swung by the Coronado and ran up the stairs to their PI office. The tiny apartment was fragrant with coffee.

Helen sniffed the air. “Coffee smells good,” she said.

Phil came out of the closet-sized kitchen. “I just made a fresh pot. Would you like a cup?”

“Definitely.”

Helen sat in a black-and-chrome partner’s chair and said, “You’ve been hard at work. Your computer keys are practically steaming.”

“I’m trying to shake off my morning bar tour,” Phil said. “I didn’t find Sunny Jim’s employee, Randy, or any evidence that he’s come into money, but I learned he has a record.”

“Burglary?” Helen asked.

“Sea cow molestation,” Phil said.

“Ick,” Helen said.

“It sounds like it was worse for Randy than the manatee,” Phil said. “He was a professional diver for an environmental firm, making fifty K, when he got drunk and rode a manatee. A woman tourist videoed the sea cowboy and posted it on YouTube.”

“I remember that,” Helen said. “I think I saw the story on the news.”

“It was a big scandal,” Phil said. “The video went viral and Randy was arrested. The judge threw the book at him. He said manatees were the symbol of Florida.”

“Well, they are cute but kind of useless,” Helen said.

“Randy’s attorney argued that the manatee wasn’t hurt,” Phil said. “The judge didn’t buy it. He said the psychological damage to the manatee couldn’t be assessed and it was an endangered species. The judge gave Randy the maximum sentence—sixty days in the county jail. Randy’s company couldn’t have a sea cow molester working for it. He was fired. After he lost his job, his beloved Dodge Charger was repossessed and he lost his fancy apartment. Randy hasn’t found a steady job since.

“His bar buddies say he’s bitter. He hates tourists, especially the women. A few weeks ago Randy picked up a vacationing honey and slapped her around a bit. She didn’t press charges. Didn’t want her boyfriend in Massachusetts to know she’d had a fling.”

“Sounds like Randy’s getting dangerous,” Helen said. “Think he was hired to kill Ceci?”

“He’s definitely a candidate,” Phil said. “I also checked out that Riggs Beach detective, Emmet Ebmeier.”

“The one who cleared Daniel Odell as a suspect and said he could take his wife’s body back to St. Louis,” Helen said.

Phil nodded as he carefully balanced two cups. He sat in the other partner’s chair and gave Helen a coffee cup and a kiss.

“Mm, extra sugar,” she said. “What did you learn?”

“Ebmeier makes a modest salary for a detective who’s been on the force twelve years,” Phil said. “Riggs Beach is too small to have a homicide department, so Crimes Against Persons handles those. He’s head of that department and makes thirty thousand a year, plus benefits.”

“That’s all?” Helen whistled. “I know health insurance is a good benny, but he should be making fifty thousand.”

“At least,” Phil said. “He’s a senior person. Been on the job for years, so I would put him closer to fifty-five.”

“Is he married? What about his wife? Is she well paid?” Helen asked.

“Not really. She’s a Riggs Beach teacher,” Phil said. “They have one son in law school—and he’s not on a scholarship.”

“She must be a good money manager,” Helen said.

“She’d have to be phenomenal,” Phil said. “Their three-bedroom house with a pool is worth about half a million dollars, even in this depressed market. They also have a thirty-foot sailboat, a Harley, and two new cars, a Lexus and a BMW.”

“On their salaries?” Helen asked. “Either one inherit money?”

“Not a penny I can find,” Phil said. “I pulled the Ebmeiers’ credit report. Their house is paid off and their credit card debt is under a thousand dollars.”

“Daniel Odell couldn’t have given him a bribe big enough to buy all that,” Helen said.

“No, but I think there’s been a long-standing pattern of Detective Ebmeier looking the other way in Rigged Beach. That could be why he let Daniel Odell take his dead wife home.”

“Are you going to investigate Detective Ebmeier?” Helen asked.

“Not our job,” Phil said. “We have to find Ceci’s killer. But we have another serious suspect to add to our list—Daniel Odell.”

“Joan told me that she has a witness who saw that diver,” Helen said. “We didn’t have time to talk because she was working. I’m meeting her at six tonight.”

“Good,” Phil said. “Once we track down the killer, we can find out who hired him.”

T
ears ran down Joan Right’s face. She sniffled and blotted her face with a tissue.

“Are you feeling okay?” Helen asked. “Why are you crying?”

If the hardworking server needed a good cry, they were discreetly tucked away in a booth at Thai Bayshore. Dark wood blinds kept out the slanting rays of the evening sun and hid the approaching storm clouds.

“I’m fine,” Joan said. “This restaurant isn’t kidding. Their
nam sod
is spicy. It’s like swallowing razor blades.”

Helen eyed Joan’s harmless-looking plate of lettuce and ground chicken loaded with chili peppers. “And you like that?” she asked cautiously. She preferred milder Thai food, like her chicken
satay
with sweet cucumber sauce.

“Love it,” Joan said. “I asked for medium hot. This place is authentic. Good thing I have a cold beer to put out the fire.” She took a gulp and smiled through her tears.

Many of the diners were Asian. Helen took that as another sign the food was authentic. She noticed several male customers had eyed Joan. Even one or two women had glanced her way, as if studying the competition.

Helen wondered what it was about Joan that made her stand out. Her honey blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, showing off her good bones and green eyes. Joan’s slightly worn look would never make a magazine cover. But Joan had a competent, straightforward air. She was a woman who knew her own mind.

“Where did you learn to eat Thai food?” Helen asked.

“Old boyfriend,” Joan said, wiping away more spice-induced tears. “Another Mr. Wrong. The only thing I got out of that romance was a love of spicy food with cold beer.”

The Thai waiter brought Helen’s spring rolls, and tornado shrimp swimming in chili sauce for Joan. Both plates were trimmed with small purple orchids.

Joan put her flower behind her ear and grinned at Helen. “My ideal night. I get waited on and flowers, too. Now I’d better earn my supper. What did you want to ask me?”

“That was Commissioner Frank Gordon eating lunch with Cy this afternoon, right?” Helen asked.

“Yep,” Joan said. “That was old Frank the Fixer, chowing down on another twenty-dollar steak. Once again, he didn’t tip—or pay for his lunch.”

She took a bite of shrimp and said, “Whoa, these are even hotter.” Helen could tell she approved.

“Why did the commissioner call Cy ‘Keith’?” Helen asked.

Joan burst out laughing. “You don’t smoke, do you?” she said, then gulped her beer.

“I don’t like cigarettes,” Helen said.

“I mean weed. You definitely don’t smoke pot,” she said. “Frank called him ‘Kef,’ spelled
K-E-F
. That’s the most potent part of the marijuana plant. You smoke kef for an intense high. In the eighties, Cy brought in high-grade pot and coke. It’s how he got the stake to start buying up Riggs Beach.”

“Cy?” Helen tried to imagine the paunchy restaurant owner as a drug smuggler.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Joan said.

“And he was never arrested?” Helen said.

“Honey, we’re talking about Riggs Beach in the eighties,” Joan said. “One of the crookedest towns in South Florida during the days of the cocaine cowboys.”

Helen felt naive. I’m not worldly enough to be a detective, she thought. Alana’s confidences made me blush. Now Joan makes me feel like an ignorant schoolgirl.

Joan wolfed down several shrimp, followed by another swig of beer. “Hot damn, this is good,” she said. “Cy was small-time and smart. He knew when to quit. Most dudes didn’t. He never used. The statute of limitations on his drug crimes ran out long ago.

“He’s Mr. Straight now. Cy married and has a kid. He has a zero-tolerance drug policy for his employees. If he so much as sees a busboy lighting a joint on break, he fires the kid. Cy was probably involved in worse crimes during his drug days, but folks around there have short memories when there’s long green. Only his good friends call him Kef anymore.

“Cy needs one more commission vote to get Sunny Jim’s beach spot,” Joan said. “He’s playing it safe, courting Frank and Want More. Cy’s raking in five hundred dollars an hour during the peak times.That parking lot is open twenty-four hours a day. Frank assumes—for his negotiations—that the lot is full all the time.”

“You mentioned that,” Helen said. “A day is twelve thousand dollars by Frank’s calculations. Four days would be forty-eight thousand.”

“That’s right,” Joan said. “Cy’s trying to chisel him down to three days. Either way, it’s only a small dent in Cy’s bank account, but you won’t believe the poor mouthing. Cy says he’s bleeding money.”

“Is he?” Helen asked.

Joan laughed. “It’s a self-inflicted wound. He owns a boat, Cy 4 Me. He calls it his ‘yacht’ but it’s thirty feet long, which means it’s really a cabin cruiser. A beauty, don’t get me wrong, but it’s pretentious to call it a yacht. You know what they say about boats?”

“They’re a hole in the water you throw money into,” Helen said.

“In Cy’s case, ‘BOAT’ stands for Bring On Another Thousand. His boat always needs something. Since I’ve known him, he’s put in new carpet, cabinets and upholstery, and upgraded the radar. The maintenance is ferocious. He just had the bottom scraped and painted and the paint cost more than a hundred dollars a gallon.”

Helen whistled.

“Now he wants a new forty-thousand-dollar Zodiac tender.”

“What’s that?” Helen asked.

“A boat for the boat,” Joan said. “A smaller boat used to get on and off the cruiser and to the dock if he’s anchored offshore. Frank’s money would take cash away from Cy’s boat. Then there’s Commissioner Want More Wyman, wanting Cy to give his daughter Wilma a wedding reception as a gift with steak, lobster and liquor.”

“So he wants about the same money as Frank,” Helen said.

“Exactly,” Joan said. “Just not so obvious.”

“That will cost Cy major money during the tourist season,” Helen said.

“It will cost us servers, too,” Joan said. “We won’t get paid for working the reception and Wyman sure as hell won’t tip us. But it’s not a done deal yet. The commissioner is being cagey. Sometimes he says his daughter is going to elope. Cy can’t be sure of Wyman’s vote and he’s nervous. He wants those extra parking lot spaces.

“Frank is easier to buy, but they can’t agree on a price. I hear the same conversation every afternoon. I’m tired of listening to them.”

“So Cy’s whining about getting money for his yacht while helping himself to ten percent of your tips,” Helen said.

“He’s shameless,” Joan said.

“And he didn’t lift a finger to help you at the restaurant,” Helen said. “Nearly every table was dirty and he didn’t pick up a plate. Or seat me.”

“I don’t want his fingers anywhere near me,” Joan said. “Cy’s the original hands-on boss. He thinks the women who work for him are his personal harem—like sex with Cy is an employee benefit.” She gave a derisive snort.

Helen thought of Cy’s squishy-soft body and squid-ink hair. “Does anyone take him up on his offer?”

“Oh, yeah,” Joan said. “He gives raises and rent breaks to the staffers who sleep with him.”

Helen remembered the manager of Cy’s boutique confiding about her uncomplicated married man and made a wild guess. “Like Alana at Cerise?” she asked

“You’ve met her, have you?” Joan said.

“She seems to be a free spirit,” Helen said.

“A little too free, if you ask me,” Joan said. “She gets that beach apartment over the shop for two hundred a month and all the Cy she can handle. I guess Alana closes her eyes and thinks of the ocean view. I’d sleep under a bridge before I let that man in my bed.

“At first, Cy had a habit of ‘accidentally’ brushing up against me. Then he outright groped me. I told him to keep his grubby hands off me or I’d tell his wife. He doesn’t come near me now, and that’s how I like it. His touch makes my skin creep.”

They finished their food in silence. The server took their plates and brought a pot of tea.

“Have you heard any more from that detective about your diver video?” Helen asked, steering the conversation back on track.

“No,” Joan said. “I’m sort of surprised he didn’t talk to anyone at the restaurant. None of the tourists snapping photos of that poor woman’s death caught the diver on their cameras.”

“How do you know?” Helen said. “Did Detective Ebmeier tell you?”

“No,” Joan said, “but the TV stations would have run a murder video
tout de suite
.”

“You really think that diver exists?” Helen said.

“I know it,” Joan said. “Kevin, our dishwasher, saw the diver. He ran out on the pier like everyone else when he heard the commotion. He told me later he thought it was odd that a diver would be stupid enough to go near the pier.”

“Would Kevin talk to me about what he saw?” Helen asked.

“He will if I ask him,” Joan said. “He’s from Nicaragua. I’m not sure he’s legal, but I’ve never asked. That’s a touchy subject for Latinos.”

“Where can I talk to him?” Helen asked.

“Not at Cy’s,” Joan said. “My boss has a paranoid streak. He seems to be getting worse.”

“With good reason, if he’s trying to bribe two city commissioners,” Helen said. “Would you like more tea? Dessert?”

“No, thanks. This was perfect,” Joan said. “I’ll take my orchid home and put it in water.”

Helen signaled for the check.

“Cy is safe as long as he stays in Riggs Beach,” Joan said. “But he’s suspicious of outsiders nosing around in his business. A customer talking to the kitchen staff would be a red flag. Kevin works tonight till nine.”

“What about his home?” Helen asked. The waiter brought the check.

“Kevin lives with his mother and five brothers and sisters,” Joan said. “He doesn’t hang out at bars. Every penny he makes goes to his family. He doesn’t even own a car. Wait! Kevin takes the bus home. Maybe we could catch him at the bus stop. What time is it?”

Helen checked her watch. “Eight thirty,” she said. “We have enough time to get to Riggs Beach and meet him at the bus stop. Which one?”

“The Seashell Drive bus stop, right off Riggs Beach Road,” Joan said. “Half a block from the restaurant. Kevin lives way out west past the turnpike.”

“I can drive him home,” Helen said.

“I know he’d appreciate a ride,” Joan said. “He sits on that bus an hour each way. The bus stop is in front of a little strip mall with a yogurt shop and a restaurant. We’ll park in that lot and I’ll go talk to him.

“I just hope that Cy doesn’t see me with you, or I’m in big trouble.”