Clubbed to Death (18 page)

“Wow. Look at you,” Margery said. “Those clothes are brand-new.

Did you win the lottery?”

“I’m going to,” Elsie said. “I have the winning ticket.” She held up a bottle of champagne. “You’re going to help me celebrate.”

“Are you sure you’ve won?” Margery said. “Have you turned in the ticket yet?”

“I know this ticket is a winner,” Elsie said in her soft, feathery voice. “There’s no doubt. The numbers match the ones printed in the paper.”

Margery set her wineglass down with a thump. “Well, why are you standing there? Let’s go claim your winnings.”

“Oh, no, not yet. I’m waiting for the young woman to come back with the ticket. She wasn’t feeling well. I’m going to meet her tomorrow.”

There was a frozen silence. Then Margery said, “What young woman?”

“The one I bought the winning ticket from,” Elsie said.

“Awk!” Pete said.

“You’d better explain.” Margery looked grim.

“You told me to make sure I bought a winner,” Elsie said, clutching her champagne by the neck. “There’s this nice young man who does odd jobs in our neighborhood. I told him I needed to win the lottery and he said his girlfriend from Haiti had this week’s winning ticket. It’s fourteen million dollars. But she couldn’t claim it because she was an illegal immigrant. It’s awful how people discriminate. This young woman—her name is Maria—”

“I bet,” Margery said.

“Maria sold me half of her winning ticket for fifteen thousand dollars cash. Not a bad investment, is it? Seven million for fifteen thousand. And lucky for both of us.”

Everyone groaned.

Elsie looked sweetly befuddled. “Aren’t you happy for me?” she asked.

“Where did you get fifteen thousand in cash?” Margery said.

“I gave them my mother’s diamond engagement ring. It’s worth about thirty-five thousand, but they’ll have to pawn it to get the money. The nice young man told me the pawn shops are in bad neighborhoods, so he’d do the pawning for me.”

“Elsie!” Margery said. “You didn’t!”

“It’s OK,” Elsie said. “He gave me a receipt for the ring. I’m not a complete ditz.”

“Awk!” Pete said.

Margery put her head in her hands.

Elsie dithered on with her story. “I have the receipt right here,” she said. “It’s signed Juan Garcia.”

“That’s Spanish for John Smith,” Peggy said.

“We have a lot of John Smiths, too,” Elsie said. “Most are perfectly trustworthy. If I may continue my story, Juan gave me a receipt. He promised to pawn the ring, and then he and Maria were going to meet me in the park and give me the winning ticket. Except at the last minute, the young woman called. Maria sounded really sick. She said she had the flu. She promised they’d meet me tomorrow morning, first thing.

“If you ask me,” Elsie said, dropping her voice to a confiding whisper, “I don’t think it’s the flu. I think she’s in the family way.”

“I think you’re screwed,” Phil said.

“No, no,” Elsie said. “They’re a nice young couple. They wouldn’t do anything bad.”

“They already did,” Phil said. “It’s a scam, Elsie. An old twist on the pigeon drop.”

“You’re the pigeon,” Margery said.

“Awk!” Pete said.

“No,” Elsie said, but now her old eyes were dark with fear. The celebration champagne was abandoned on a side table. Elsie was wringing her hands. “No, that can’t be right. I saw the ticket. The numbers matched.”

“They were altered,” Phil said.

“I’m sure if we go to the park—”

“They’re gone,” Phil said. “You gave them enough for a first-class ticket out of town.”

“It’s my mother’s ring,” Elsie said. “I promised it to my granddaughter when she graduated from college. Now I’ve given it to a stranger. I’m such a fool.”

She sat down heavily on the couch.

“This is all my fault,” Margery said. “I told Elsie to buy a winning lottery ticket and she got scammed.”

“It’s my fault, too,” Peggy said. “I told Elsie to buy the ticket in the first place.”

“No, you’re very kind to share the blame, but it’s all my fault,” Elsie said, miserably. “I’ve been had again. I can’t believe I was so trusting.”

“We’d better call the police,” Margery said.

“No, please,” Elsie said. “My son Milton will find out and have me declared incompetent. He’ll put me in an old folks’ home. I have to get my mother’s ring back or he’ll find out.”

“We’ll help you,” Margery said. “Phil will find it. He’ll check the pawnshops. Do you have a description of the ring?”

“I have a photo,” Elsie said. “Milton made me photograph my valuables for insurance purposes.”

“Thank god he’s a tight-ass,” Margery said.

CHAPTER 17

“I am Mrs. Hadley Kent-Jones. I’ve been a Superior member for twenty years.”

Helen winced and held the phone away from her abused ear. The woman had a well-bred accent and a screech like a wild parrot. “I demand to be placed at the top of the list. The top! Do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said, her ears aching. I’d have to be deaf not to, she thought.

“First, it was that disgraceful sex in the club men’s room,” Mrs. Kent-Jones said. “Mother was there.”

“She was?” Helen said.

“She was having dinner with me in the restaurant while that—that behavior—was going on. She saw the security guards escorting the woman out the door. I was mortified. How could I explain it to Mother?”

Unless Mrs. Kent-Jones was delivered by FedEx, Mother probably knew about sex. Helen suspected the scandal thrilled the old lady to the tips of her Pappagallo flats.

“Now it’s murder,” Mrs. Kent-Jones said. “Two murders! Put me at the top of your resignation list. I want my refund
now.
”

Her shriek hit a pitch so high, Helen thought every dog in Golden Palms would start howling.

“I promise you are at the top of my list,” Helen said, as the screecher slammed down her phone.

“But it’s not the list you want to be on, you old witch,” Helen said to the dead phone.

She took Mrs. Kent-Jones’s resignation letter off the top of the stack, where it had been resting comfortably, and buried it at the bottom under some sixty letters of resignation.

“You should have kept your big mouth shut, Mrs. Kent-Jones,” Helen said to herself. “Now you’ll have to wait an extra two months for your refund.”

Jessica let out an unladylike snort. “Talking to yourself already this morning?”

“Do rich people take special obnoxious voice lessons?” Helen asked.

Jessica laughed. “It comes naturally, darling. Let me guess. Another resignation. I’ve had four so far this morning.”

Helen tried to keep her eyes on Jessica during their conversation, but it took effort. She was irresistibly drawn to Brenda’s still-sealed office. She couldn’t stop staring at the dark door draped with yellow crime scene tape. She couldn’t get the picture of that blood-spattered interior out of her mind. How many coats of paint would it take to cover those awful red splotches on the walls? Who would use that coffin-sized desk again? Helen saw the white hand reaching around it, and shuddered. Could office furniture be haunted?

Kitty had scented candles burning on the marble-topped counter to hide the awful odor from Brenda’s office. Helen thought she could still smell it, but wondered if that was her imagination.

Kitty and Solange were in Mr. Ironton’s office, discussing how to deal with the fallout from the murders. The managers had already briefed the customer care staff on funeral information (nothing at this time) and where people could send donations to the victims’ favorite charities. So far, no one had asked.

Instead, the staff fended off irate calls from members and curious calls from other departments. They were all on edge. Cam kept wiping down his desk with alcohol spray until Xaviera finally said, “Murder isn’t catching, Cam.”

“I know that,” he said. “But it’s brought a lot of strangers into this office, and that means more germs.”

“How can a big man be afraid of a little germ?” Xaviera said.

“They kill bigger men than me,” Cam said.

“Please, stop. I can’t take the bickering,” Jackie said. She’d snapped another pencil in two, and her blue-veined hands shook. Stray hairs escaped her normally impeccable chignon.

Cam and Xaviera looked like two children who’d been caught fighting. Cam actually picked up the phone when it rang and talked to another angry club member.

Xaviera drummed her long painted nails until Helen wanted to grab her hands and make her stop.

Jessica was paler than usual, and the fragile skin under her eyes looked bruised. “These murders have everyone spooked,” she said.

“Staff and members both. People say the craziest things. One caller told me she was shocked that we had a double murder—she thought this was an exclusive club.”

“It is,” Helen said. “Only one member was killed. How exclusive is that?”

“Exclusivity is such a joke at this club,” Jessica said. “We charge our members twenty thousand a year for air. They pay us to come on the property. That’s all we give them, the right to drive through the member gate.”

“When the gate works,” Helen said.

“The poor fools think they’re getting exclusivity. They don’t realize we’re a third-rate club. We have no board and no membership committee to vet new people. Our admission fee of fifty thousand dollars sounds like a lot of money, but it’s cheap in this world. The really exclusive clubs start at a hundred thousand and they have strict standards. Members must be people of wealth, education and achievement.

We have no standards, except that members must have money.”

“This place is as exclusive as Sam’s Club,” Helen said.

“But the members aren’t as nice,” Jessica said. “There go the phones.

Back into battle.”

Helen had to listen to another complaint, this one in a clipped British voice. “I am Mrs. Jacob Rialto. I believe you closed the customer care office yesterday. How did you expect me to get my guest passes?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Helen said, “but the police would not permit us to open the office.”

“That’s the other reason I’m calling,” Mrs. Rialto said. “The club entrance was blocked by police vehicles. The police should use the service entrance. It sets the wrong tone.”

“I’ll make a note of your complaint,” Helen said.

She’d barely hung up before the phone rang again. Either she was tired, or the ring tones were starting to sound angry. “This is Mrs. Adriana Capetto. There were two murders at the club yesterday.” The voice was an accusation.

“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said carefully, while she searched the computer for the Capetto file. Mr. Capetto was big in trash hauling in New Jersey, she read. His mail was sent to a post office box in the Bahamas.

Helen recognized the hallmarks of a mobster.

“I didn’t join this club to associate with criminals,” Mrs. Capetto said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said, and hung up the phone with a sigh.

“You look upset,” Jessica said.

“I can’t believe this. Two people were horribly murdered in this office, and the members don’t care. Not one person has asked about the victims’ families, funeral ser vices, or if they should send flowers or food. All they care about is how it affects them.”

“That’s what they’re like,” Jessica said. “They can’t help it.”

“Doesn’t anything human happen here?”

Xaviera popped up from her desk like a gopher from a hole. “My boyfriend, Steven, said old Mr. Smithson got caught having sex in the pool this morning. He’s eighty-nine and the woman is forty-two.”

“Is he going to get a letter of reprimand?” Helen asked.

“I think he’s going to get a medal,” Xaviera said.

Even Jackie managed a smile.

Helen’s next phone call wiped away any trace of good feeling. It was Blythe St. Ives, the nasty lady golfer.

“I was unable to play golf at the club yesterday,” Blythe said. “Because of the problem.”

Because of the murders, Helen wanted to say. Because your golf partner, Brenda, who always let you win, lost big-time. Her head was bashed in with a seven iron. You played golf with her once a week.

Aren’t you going to say anything?

“I hope I’m not going to be charged for the tee time,” Blythe said.

“I’ll note it in your file,” Helen said. Then, before she could stop herself, she added, “By the way, you can make a donation in Brenda’s name to the cancer society.”

“Why would I do that?” Blythe said, and hung up.

Helen was about to tell Jessica about Blythe’s heartless reaction.

Then she heard her desk mate deep in a whispered argument on her phone.

“What do you mean the city inspector didn’t approve the new air conditioner?” Jessica said. There was a long pause. “My fault! It’s not my fault that the contractor didn’t use tie-down straps that could withstand hurricane-force winds.”

Jessica began shaking her head and slapping the desktop. “No, I am not staying home to deal with the problem. It’s your turn.
You
take off work for a change. I’ve had—”

Helen slipped down the hall to let Jessica argue with her husband in privacy.

I need some air, she thought. The club walls are closing in on me.

The only place staff was allowed to linger was the loading dock. It wasn’t a garden spot, but it was outside. Well, sort of. Helen could see a slice of green lawn and tennis court over the Dumpsters.

Helen had barely cracked the door to the loading dock when she heard Xaviera, arguing with her blond surfer boyfriend. The two were facing each other, red-faced and rigid with anger.

“When are you getting that promotion, Steven?” Xaviera said. “I’m not getting any younger. I want a house. I want a baby.” Helen could hear her desperation.

“I’m doing everything I can,” Steven said. “I’m in line next for a promotion at the club. I’ve also applied for a job with the Lauderdale police. It’s more money and better benefits. But I won’t hear anything for a while.”

“How long?” Xaviera stamped her foot. “I’m tired of waiting.”

“Why don’t you try for a promotion for a change?” Steven said, raising his voice and shaking his streaked blond hair. “There’s a slot open in the club billing office.”