Clubbed to Death (17 page)

Marcella’s white shark of a yacht loomed above her, dwarfing the club building. Once again, Helen was greeted on deck by the silent, shiny-domed Bruce. This time, she noticed the
Brandy Alexander
had five radar domes, shaped like Bruce’s round head.

She almost blurted that out, then reconsidered. Bruce had serious muscles. She didn’t think Marcella kept him around because he was ornamental.

Marcella was sitting on the back deck at the same white table with the flickering candles. Two outdoor heaters, like the ones used in expensive restaurants, warded off the night chill. Three more champagne goblets were lined up in front of Marcella—another trio of Bond martinis.

Bruce brought Helen a crystal glass of water with a thin lemon slice. It was exactly what she wanted, until the glass was in front of her.

Then she wanted something, anything else.

Helen wondered if this was what it was like to be fabulously rich:

Your every wish was anticipated, until you began to wish for something you couldn’t imagine.

To night, Marcella looked old and powerful. She hadn’t bothered putting on her harsh, bright makeup and her dark dyed hair washed the color from her face. Helen could see the predatory intelligence in the woman’s eyes. She wished she knew what Marcella was thinking—or maybe not. She’d seen eyes like Marcella’s only once, on a shark.

“I heard you found the bodies,” Marcella said, studying Helen with those flat eyes.

The club had clamped down on any information about the deadly scandal. The murders hadn’t made the news yet and Helen’s role would probably never be public. But Marcella could afford the finest spies.

Helen told her everything she knew: the half-naked Brenda and the fully dressed doctor, the missing file, which was missing again, and the bloody golf club.

While Helen talked, Marcella started spinning the champagne goblet between her red nails. “So do you think these murders are about sex or money?” Marcella went straight for the heart.

Spin. Spin.
 The martini goblet was whirling. Helen stared at it, hypnotized by the movement.

She shook herself free, then said, “Money. I think the killer tried to make the murders look like sex, but they were really about money.

That missing file has valuable information.”

“Sonny Winderstine’s art collection?” Marcella asked.

“Yes. It gives the dates when Sonny and Sawyer will be out of the country and the collection will be easier to steal. I’m pretty sure that’s it, though there are other possibilities worth paying for in that file.”

“You mean the eight hundred dollars in arrears?”

“Yes,” Helen said.

“Ridiculous,” Marcella said. “No one here would care about that.”

Helen felt the insult in those words: You might worry about petty cash, but my world doesn’t. The Black Widow’s martini whirled madly.

Helen had to pull her eyes away from it to concentrate on the conversation.

“And you think Rob was buying this information?” Marcella asked.

“Absolutely,” Helen said. “I also think he’s dead. Otherwise, that file would be back where it belonged, Brenda would have her bribe money, and no one would be the wiser. It was just bad luck that Winderstine mouthed off in the club restaurant and Solange needed to see his file. It could have sat unnoticed under Brenda’s desk pad for months.

Do you know Sawyer Winderstine?”

“Who?” Marcella said.

“Sawyer Winderstine,” Helen said. “The name on the file.”

“I’ve heard of his wife, Sonny,” Marcella said. “He’s nobody. Some tiresome climber who joined the club because it was good for business.

I try not to associate with those people. Do you think this Winderstine person killed Brenda and that doctor?”

“No,” Helen said. “Winderstine is a corporate wonk. He wouldn’t have the nerve.”

“You’d be surprised how far a man will go to get what he wants,” Marcella said.

Helen gulped her water. The Black Widow knew exactly how far a man—or a woman—would go. She’d gone there.

“Winderstine didn’t need to kill anyone,” Helen said. “If he found out a member was selling information, he could complain to the club.

Rob would be banned and Brenda would be fired. That’s easier, and more effective, than killing anyone.”

“So it would make more sense if Rob killed Winderstine,” Marcella said.

“No,” Helen said. “That wouldn’t make any sense at all. Rob had no reason to kill anyone.”

Why am I defending my ex? she wondered. Because he’s an adulterer and a leech, not a killer.

“Rob needed a mole inside customer care,” Helen said. “He wouldn’t kill Brenda. He’d use her and pay her. But I don’t think he bought that information in the Winderstine file yet. There’s no evidence that anyone has acted on it. I can check, but I’m sure the Winderstine art collection is still safe at home.”

“Well, somebody killed that woman and the doctor,” Marcella said.

“I need to know why. There are too many cops poking around that office. If this art thing leaks ...”

She didn’t finish the rest of the sentence. She didn’t have to. If her husband was selling club information, Marcella would be shunned by the only society that still accepted her.

She stopped spinning the martini and tossed it off in one gulp. “I need to find Rob.”

The Black Widow gripped the glass so hard, the fragile stem snapped. “I need to know what he’s done.” A thin red line of blood ran down her fingers.

Marcella didn’t notice.

CHAPTER 16

Helen drove home, feeling like she’d been wrapped in ice. The January night and the double murder were chilling. But that wasn’t what left her cold. The Black Widow froze Helen down to the bone. The woman wasn’t human.

Helen had seen Marcella slice her fingers till the blood ran, yet she didn’t react. Could the Black Widow even feel pain? Did she know what she inflicted on herself and other people?

Helen had left Marcella staring into the dark water. The silent, servile Bruce had guided her to the dock. Then Helen ran for her car as if the dev il were after her.

I have to get free of this woman, she thought. I was so close. Then Brenda got herself killed and ruined everything.

No, I let that file sit there overnight and lost my chance. And Brenda lost her life.

Who killed Brenda? And why? Helen pounded the Toad’s steering wheel in frustration. She couldn’t think of a single reason. Brenda’s death made no sense. Neither did the doctor’s.

Helen was relieved when she finally saw the warm yellow glow of the Coronado’s windows. She pulled the lumbering Toad into the parking lot and sat there in the dark. She felt overwhelmed and defeated. The day had been too long and it had held too many horrors: the battered bodies, the missing file, the meeting with Marcella. She put her head down on the hard steering wheel and closed her eyes, too tired to move.

“Helen? Are you OK?”

Helen sat up suddenly. Phil was knocking on her car window. His silver hair formed a halo around his long thin face. Peggy and Margery stood behind him, looking worried. Peggy’s skin was paper white in the streetlights. She looked like a beautiful wraith. Margery’s wrinkles were deep as furrows in a dry field.

Helen cranked down the Toad’s window. “Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”

“When’s the last time you ate?” Margery said.

Helen remembered the energy bar she’d thrown away. Lunch had been lost in the police interrogation.

“Breakfast,” Helen said.

“That was twelve hours ago,” Margery said. “You need food.”

“I’ll heat up some chicken soup,” Peggy said.

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Phil said. “I have turkey and rye bread.”

That sounded good to Helen, until she remembered that Phil’s sandwiches often had strange, smelly surprises. “No sour cream or raw onions,” she said.

“But those make it interesting,” Phil said.

“No ketchup, red pepper flakes or hot sauce,” Helen said.

“You like it too bland,” Phil said.

“Just slap some turkey on bread and don’t argue,” Margery said, shooing Phil toward his apartment. She waved her lit cigarette like a cattle prod. “Helen is light-headed from stress and hunger. Two bodies in one day are too much.”

Helen hadn’t told her landlady about the murders. She wondered if Marcella had filled her in.

“I’m taking her to my place,” Margery said. “Bring the food there.”

Margery’s soft purple recliner felt like welcoming arms. Helen sank into the old easy chair, and Margery brought her hot coffee. Helen wrapped her hands around it to warm them. She heard the beep of a micro wave, and her landlady came back with a heated brownie.

“Eat dessert first,” she said. “Life is short.”

“It certainly was for Brenda and Dr. Dell,” Helen said.

The brownie was gooey and sweet. She ate it in three bites and felt better. By that time, Peggy returned with a bowl of micro waved soup in her hands and Pete on her shoulder. The parrot was clutching a cracker and had no plans to share it.

Phil handed Helen a thick turkey sandwich on a plate. It was plain, the way she liked it, with a dill pickle on the side and no surprises.

Helen didn’t like surprises. She’d had too many unpleasant ones. She surveyed her meal and gave a little sigh of satisfaction. Between bites, she told them about her day.

Margery poured wine for herself and Peggy. Phil opened a beer and perched on the recliner’s arm. Pete nibbled his cracker.

When Helen finished, Peggy said, “And you really believe the murders are related to Rob’s disappearance?”

“They have to be,” Helen said. “That missing file clinches it. I just can’t figure out how they fit together.”

“We need to know more,” Phil said. “I’ve been doing some follow-up work. There’s still no sign that Rob is alive. There’s no activity on his credit cards or bank account.”

“He’s definitely dead,” Helen said. “That man lived to spend money.”

“Marcella throws it around, too. It’s possible he accumulated a stash from her petty cash and he’s living off it now,” Phil said.

“Sort of the way my grandmother used to buy herself little luxuries with the pocket change my grandfather left on the dresser,” Peggy said.

“Exactly,” Phil said. “If Rob is alive, he’ll lie low for a while, but eventually, we’ll flush him out. People develop habits, and they return to them once they start to feel safe. That’s how we catch them. I traced one woman because she loved a particular spiced tea from a shop in St. Louis.

When she relocated to Alaska, she held out for six months. Then she ordered her tea online, and that’s how I tracked her down.

“That’s how we’ll find Rob, too, if he’s still breathing. But I need your help, Helen. Did Rob have any special needs? Was he asthmatic or diabetic? Any medicine he had to take? Anything he couldn’t live without?”

“Rob was healthy,” Helen said. “When I knew him, he didn’t even take cholesterol pills. He did tell me he used Rogaine for his hair.”

“That won’t help,” Phil said. “You can buy it at any drugstore without a prescription. I need something unique.”

“I don’t know what new habits he developed since he lived with Marcella,” Helen said, “but the Rob I knew sponged off rich women.

He liked to hang around where they gathered—upscale hotel bars, fancy restaurants and expensive malls.”

“I’ve been checking those,” Phil said. “No sign of him in Lauderdale, Miami or Palm Beach County. But it’s too early for him to surface in those places. He knows people are looking for him.”

“Does he?” Helen said. She was convinced her ex was dead. The unused credit cards and bank account were proof.

Margery stayed oddly silent. Pete gnawed his cracker, dropping crumbs on Peggy’s shoulder.

“Help me out here,” Phil said. “What are his luxuries? What does he drink?”

“Wine or beer, but when he had the money, he preferred Laphroaig single malt scotch.”

“Good,” Phil said. “That’s unusual enough I can track it.”

“He drank a lot of coffee, but he wasn’t a Starbucks fan,” Helen said. “He was addicted to Ronnoco coffee. That’s a St. Louis brand.

You can buy that online, too.”

“That helps,” Phil said. “He’ll chug along with supermarket coffee for a while, and then one day the craving for his favorite will hit him hard and he’ll need a caffeine fix.”

“If he’s alive,” Helen said, “Rob won’t forgo his indulgences for long. I doubt if he’ll hold out six months.”

“The sooner we find him, the better,” Phil said. “Talk to Marcella next time you see her, and see if he’s developed any new indulgences.”

Helen paled at that thought, and saw Margery studying her. Helen took a comforting sip of her cooling coffee.

“I’m going to check with my police contacts to see if I can learn anything more about the double murders at the club,” Phil said. “I still have things I can look into that could help turn up Rob.”

“Maybe the girlfriend killed him,” Peggy said.

“Awk!” Pete said.

“What girlfriend?” Phil said.

“The dead doctor’s.” Peggy had changed the subject with lightning speed. “Didn’t he send a staffer to your club for a three-thousand-dollar day of relaxation?”

“Yep,” Helen said. “The doctor didn’t want his wife, Demi, to see the bill and made a big scene. I’m sure the police are checking out the wife and girlfriend. But I can do some snooping on my own.”

“How are you going to find out anything about the doc’s love life?”

Phil said.

“I have my ways.” Helen managed a grin, her first since she’d left the Black Widow.

“Yoo-hoo, anyone home?” Dithery Elsie was knocking on Margery’s jalousie door.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for Elsie to night,” Margery said, softly.

“She’s sweet. Let her in,” Helen said. “It’s been a horrible day. Elsie will cheer us up.”

Margery opened the door. Elsie breezed in wearing a sheer red top over a black-sequined bustier. Helen thought there was a wide pink belt around her hips, and then realized that was Elsie’s bare skin. She’d forced her considerable self into black velvet lowriders, and they were stretched to the limit.

“Awk!” Pete dropped his cracker.