Clubbed to Death (13 page)

“It will, too. You’ll warn them she’s a bitch on wheels. But she doesn’t know that. Mrs. Rich is happy because she thinks she got someone in trouble.”

“Here’s another good one,” Phil said. “I use it all the time: ‘Don’t you worry, ma’am. There will be a note in the file over this incident.’

“You’re not lying. The note will warn the staff that Mrs. Rich is a real problem.”

“If the complainer is halfway reasonable,” Margery said, “you try this one: ‘I understand. I agree with you. But the rules say ...’ ”

“How do you handle the line that always makes me grit my teeth?”

Helen said. “ ‘I’m a doctor.’ The doctor acts as if he expects the yacht club basin to part so he can walk across it. I’d like to say ‘So what?’ but that would get me fired.”

“No, no,” Phil said. “You have to tweak their noses, not hit them on the head with a brick. Next time someone says, ‘I’m a doctor,’ you say, ‘PhD or MD?’ Deliver it very seriously. That always flummoxes them.”

Helen laughed.

Phil looked at her. “You don’t believe a word of this, do you?”

“I hate this job,” Helen said. “I hate these pointless people.”

“But you like combat,” Phil said. “Why do the members upset you so much?”

“I don’t know,” Helen said, miserably. “I don’t understand them. I don’t understand myself. I guess I’m not a Superior person.”

“Well, then, let’s talk about the less than Superior Rob. I found out some things.”

Helen was grateful he’d changed the subject. “You made those phone calls, just like you said you would.” She leaned over and kissed him.

“I’ve been working all last night and most of today. I found out quite a bit.” Phil expected to be paid for his work with praise and undivided attention. Margery stubbed out her cigarette. Helen put down her wineglass. They both listened carefully.

“Apparently, Rob didn’t take any clothes or personal items with him,” Phil said. “There’s no new credit card activity. His last charge was for lunch at Joe’s Stone Crab the day he disappeared. Your ex spent two hundred fifty dollars for lunch.”

That’s almost what I make in a week, Helen thought.

“Rob has about ten thousand dollars in a local bank,” Phil said.

“There have been no withdrawals since he disappeared. He wrote a check for seventy bucks the last morning he was seen alive.”

“He probably used it for tips at the restaurant and the valet stand,” Helen said. “Rob liked to throw money around, especially if it wasn’t his. I’m sure that ten thousand came from his wife.”

“You’re talking about him in the past tense,” Phil said.

“He has to be dead,” Helen said. “Otherwise, he would have cleaned out that bank account. Rob ran through a lot of money when he lived with me. I don’t think the Black Widow put him on a tight bud get. I guarantee that seventy dollars was gone long before I belted him in the club parking lot.”

“What about his cell phone?” Margery said. “Any calls?”

“Police found it in the parking lot. There was a bloody fingerprint on the call button.”

Helen felt a rush of guilt. Had Rob been calling for help when he died? Did he wander around dazed and fall into the water? Did he collapse by the side of the road and fall into a ditch? Where was his body?

“Any interesting phone numbers?” Margery said.

“Several calls from pay phones.”

“Who makes pay phone calls anymore, except for Helen?” Margery said.

“At least three other people in South Florida,” Phil said. “Rob had calls from pay phones at the Superior Club, the Miami airport, and the main library in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Sounds like people who didn’t want to be traced,” Margery said.

“The numbers were dead ends,” Phil said. “I ran into a lot of those.

I covered some of the same ground the police did, trying to find Rob.

No John Does at the hospitals in Miami, Lauderdale or Palm Beach. No dead men matching his description at the morgue. No bodies pulled out of the water from here to down south to Key West or up north to Palm Beach County.

“Rob hasn’t rented a car, or bought a plane, train or bus ticket in his name. I’m not ruling out a passport and credit cards under another name.

“Helen, you can do one thing for me. Do you have access to the club security reports?”

“Sure,” she said.

“See if there are any missing dinghies or small boats in the yacht club. There’s a chance Rob may have stolen a boat from the marina and escaped that way.”

But Helen knew he didn’t, even before she checked the reports.

Rob was dead. All Marcella’s husbands were dead. Rob’s killer had dropped him into the ocean. Or sent him to the bottom of the yacht club basin. Or fed him to the alligators in the Everglades. His body would never be found. Her name would never be cleared. She’d always be a suspect.

She knew her ex would end this way. Rob didn’t even have the decency to die right.

“You’re staring off into space,” Phil said. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Not worth the money,” Helen said.

“You’re brooding,” Phil said. “You’re going to sit here all night in a dark fog.” He checked his watch. “It’s not too late.”

“Too late for what?” Helen said.

“The sunset cruise on the
Jungle Queen
,” Phil said. “We can still make it if we hurry. Don’t bother changing. You look fine the way you are.”

Helen made a face. “That boat’s kind of touristy, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Phil said. “That’s exactly why we’re going. Nobody important takes a cruise on a tourist boat. It won’t impress anyone. Most of the yachts at the Superior Club are bigger than the
Jungle Queen.
 You won’t meet a single club member. We’ll just be two people, enjoying the night and each other. Three, if Margery wants to join us.”

“You kids run along and have a good time,” Margery said. “I’m staying here and enjoying my smoke.”

The
Jungle Queen
was everything Helen thought it would be: a big fake hunk of gingerbread tricked out like a Mississippi River boat, docked near the beach in Fort Lauderdale. Helen felt ridiculous as she boarded the boat with couples from Tampa and Tacoma. Their clothes were too new, bought for this vacation. Their skin was burned a brutal red and reeked of coconut sunscreen. They snapped pictures of palm trees, wild parrots and sailboats and yelled, “Look at that!”

Helen and Phil slid onto a metal bench on the upper deck. A honeymoon couple from Akron sat next to them, nuzzling each other.

They could have been on a bus back home, for all they saw of the view.

The other passengers waved and cheered as the
Jungle Queen
pulled away from the dock and the guide began his narrated tour of the sights along the New River. It was hopelessly corny.

Phil put his arm around Helen and whispered in her ear, “Lighten up. Or I might mistake you for a Superior person.”

“Please, I want to get away from that place,” Helen said.

“Then do it,” he said.

Helen stared at the sunset-stained water and wondered if Rob was down there somewhere. “You asked what I was thinking earlier this eve ning. I’m afraid Rob is going to be as big a pest dead as he was alive.”

“We’ll find him,” Phil said.

“How?” Helen said. “Florida has a million places to hide a body.”

The nuzzling couple stared at Helen, then edged away down the bench, clutching each other even tighter.

“Finding people is my job,” Phil said. “I’m good at it. And you’re good at your job. We’ll do it together. The two of us.”

“Against the world?” Helen said.

“A big chunk of the world wants to help us. Now sit back and enjoy your cruise.”

Helen did. She oohed and aahed at the outrageous mansions lining the waterway. She waved to the people on shore and cheered the drawbridge tenders. She liked the idea that traffic on the city streets was held up while the
Jungle Queen
sailed through the open drawbridges.

When the boat docked at the “private island,” she sat on another bench and stuffed herself with sauce-smeared ribs and boiled shrimp.

She found yet another bench and laughed at the old-fashioned variety show. For a few hours, she forgot the Superior Club, the Black Widow and Rob. She told a nice couple from New York about other sights they should see on their vacation.

The cruise back home was quiet. The narrator hung up his microphone and the friendly groups divided once again into couples. The soft darkness seemed to wrap itself around them like a warm blanket.

Helen cuddled with Phil and watched the moonlight shimmer on the water. He smelled of shaving lotion and barbecue sauce. He kissed her forehead, then her eyes and lips.

“Do you know who I am?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Helen said. “The man I love.”

CHAPTER 12

Helen awoke to Sunday morning sounds: a newspaper rustling and coffee perking in the kitchen. The bed was empty. Phil must already be awake.

She stretched luxuriantly and surveyed the wreckage of her bedroom. A lacy bra hung on the bedpost and her pan ties were flung on the dresser. The sheets were pulled loose and the comforter was pooled on the floor. The mattress was crooked.

That made her smile. Helen remembered what she and Phil had done to get them that way.

She turned over and caught herself in the mirror. She hardly recognized this abandoned woman. Her dark hair trailed over one eye and her lips were bruised from Phil’s kisses.

“Do you know who I am?” she whispered to the woman in the mirror, and laughed.

The sun seemed extra bright this morning. That made her sit straight up in bed. What time was it? She checked her clock: eight twenty-seven.

She had to leave for work in half an hour. Thumbs usually woke her up long before, demanding breakfast. Phil must have fed him.

Her apartment smelled of sex and coffee. Hot love at night, hot coffee in the morning. What more could a woman want?

Money to pay the rent. She’d better get moving if she was going to make it to work on time. Helen hummed a little tune as she got out of bed. She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and slipped into one of the white shirts she found on the floor.

She tripped over her teddy bear, Chocolate. She kept part of her stash hidden in Chocolate’s fat tummy. Alas, her bear was a lot thinner these days. Helen’s new job had turned out to be expensive, and she constantly robbed her stash for gas and lunch money and never replaced it.

The money always went for something else she needed.

Phil was sitting in her kitchen with a steaming coffee mug. The Sunday paper was spread open on the table. Thumbs was sitting on the national news. Phil was reading the business section and scratching the cat’s solemn, round head.

“Hi, sexy,” he said to Helen. “You look like someone who’s been sleeping with her boyfriend.”

“I didn’t get much sleep,” she said. “Any more of that coffee?”

“Half a pot. Want to go out to breakfast?”

“Yes, but I can’t. I have to be at the Superior Club by ten, which means I need to get dressed and hit the highway.” She kissed Phil on the ear and he held her close.

“Can’t you call in sick?” he said. “Dr. Phil thinks you need another day in bed.”

“Sorry,” she said. “There’s no one else working in the office today.

I’m on my own on Sunday.”

“Think you can handle the meanies by yourself?” he said.

“After last night, I can handle anything,” she said. “I won’t let them get to me.”

That was her mantra as the Toad rumbled and belched through pristine Golden Palms, drawing disgusted glances from the rich women walking their dogs. Helen waved to the guard at the club’s employee entrance.

“I won’t let them get to me,” she repeated, as she parked the car and walked to the customer care office.

She didn’t get a chance to say it again. Blythe St. Ives, the notoriously nasty golfer, was pacing by the office door in an outfit no serious sportswoman would wear on a dare: short pink skirt, belly-baring pink designer top and silly pink golf spikes. A ruby-and-diamond bumblebee perched on her perky pink visor.

“Where have you been?” Blythe said. “I’ve been waiting here ten minutes.”

“We don’t open for another fifteen,” Helen said.

“Do you know who I am?” Blythe said.

Her face was set in a dissatisfied frown. Helen wondered if she could put up a sign: caution: frowning causes wrinkles.

“The rules do not permit me to unlock the door for members before the appointed time,” Helen said. It was technically true, but the staff made exceptions for some members, like nice Mr. Giles who brought them roses. He could walk in anytime he wanted.

“That’s outrageous,” Blythe said. “I spend a lot of money at this club.”

What did Margery tell her to say? Oh, right. “Rest assured that topic will be brought up to the staff,” Helen said.

“It better,” Blythe said. But she seemed satisfied with Helen’s answer. Maybe Margery’s customer ser vice phrases really did work.

Helen unlocked the door and quickly shut it in Blythe’s face. Then she turned on the office lights, opened the curtains, clocked in and booted up her computer. The phone was ringing already.

Blythe was staring at her watch when Helen unlocked the door at precisely ten o’clock.

“Finally,” Blythe said. “I need a guest pass for eleven tomorrow morning. I’ll be golfing with two friends and what’s-her-name in your office.”

“Brenda?” Helen asked.

“She doesn’t need a guest pass, of course, but my friends do,” Blythe said. “They’re from out of town.”

That explained it. No one in Golden Palms would golf with Blythe.

Helen printed out the passes, then ran for the ringing phones.

“What took you so long?” screamed a woman with a New York honk. “I had to call twice.” She said this as if she’d had to swim the English Channel.

“My guest is coming in fifteen minutes,” she said. “I want a guest pass. Now.” No please or thank you. “Hurry up. I don’t want them waiting.”

Helen hurried. It went like this all morning: last-minute demands for guest passes and members’ friends who had to be called in at the gate. If the members had called yesterday, when the office was fully staffed, they would have had faster ser vice. But they wanted what they wanted when they wanted it.