Clubbed to Death (2 page)

Doing what? Helen wondered.

“She needed to relax,” the doctor babbled. “Job stress. We had breakfast in the Superior Room before I went to the office. Then she used the pool, the fitness club, had some lunch and bought a few things in the gift shop. The total came to three thousand dollars. I let her put the charges on my club account. My wife, Demi, will completely misunderstand the situation when she sees those charges.”

The doctor was sweating, though it wasn’t warm in the office.

Helen was sure Demi would understand perfectly. That philandering cheapskate. As a club member, the doctor got a 15 percent discount on meals, goods and ser vices if he used his club card. That could be the most expensive four hundred and fifty dollars the doctor ever saved.

“What would you like me to do?” Kitty’s dark hair curled innocently around her smooth forehead. Her lips were soft and pink. Only her determined chin gave a clue to her real strength.

“I’d like you to give me the damned bill right now so Demi doesn’t see it,” the doctor said.

“I’m sorry,” Kitty said. “I can’t do that. Your wife is a member of this club. I cannot deny her access to her own account, which she shares with you. Club rules require me to send the statement to your billing address. But I can give you a copy now if you wish.”

The doctor’s fist crashed down on Kitty’s desk. The teddy bear jumped and the children’s pictures rattled. “I don’t want a copy. I want the bill. I’m entitled. I make all the money.”

“But it’s also her account as long as you two are married,” Kitty said.

“That’s just it,” the doctor said. “She’ll give the bill to her lawyer.”

“If I were you, doctor, I’d be home tomorrow when your mail arrives. Then I’d explain those charges to your wife. Have a nice day.

Helen, please show the doctor out.”

Helen had no idea how Kitty managed to defeat him with her soft words, but the doctor realized he was dismissed. He pushed past Helen and slouched out of the office.

The two women waited until he slammed the mahogany door to customer care. “He is a brilliant boob doctor,” Kitty said. “But rumor has it the only way he can cop a good feel is through his specialty. Otherwise, he has to give the ladies lavish gifts.”

“But why bring his mistress to the club?” Helen asked. “He knew he was going to get caught.”

“That’s part of the thrill,” Kitty said. “You’ve only been here a week, sweetpea. You’ll see a lot more emergencies like this one. Some idiot brings his bimbo to the club and then tries to cover up his mistake. Do these guys really think their wives won’t find out? Demi plays golf and tennis here. One of her friends is bound to spot her husband with another woman.”

“If I knew the name of his wife’s lawyer, I’d fax the bill to him,” Helen said.

“I know Demi,” Kitty said. “She’s no fool. She won’t divorce the doctor during his peak earning years. Besides, he still cares enough to try to cover up. My guess is she’ll get another little gift from Harry Winston. When she’s finally had enough, Demi will cash in her diamonds for a good divorce lawyer.”

Helen saw Kitty staring at the empty spot where her almost-ex-husband’s photo used to be. She still loved him. Helen had no idea what caused the split. A single tear slid down Kitty’s cheek.

Helen silently shut the door to the office and went back to her desk to unearth Mrs. Reginald’s guest pass paperwork. The woman was still languishing by the pool. She’d call back any minute and assault Helen’s ears with that power-saw whine.

Jessica, at the next desk, was on the phone with a club member, making placating noises without making promises. It was an art form Helen had yet to master.

“Yes,” Jessica said in her hypnotic voice. “Yes, I do understand.”

It’s her acting training, Helen thought. Jessica sounded so sincere.

She had remarkably pale skin for someone who lived year-round in South Florida, and long straight blond hair that was either natural or a first-rate dye job. Helen really envied Jessica her bones. She had razor-sharp cheekbones, a strong chin and a thin elegant nose.

Jessica’s aristocratic face had earned her small, choice parts in the New York theater, but she made her real money selling champagne and pricey chocolates in TV ads. Four years ago, Jessica and her husband, Allan, moved to Florida. Their luck ran out about the same time as her acting career went on hiatus, and she took a job at the club. Fifty was a tough age for an actress. Jessica liked to say, “My greatest role is pretending to like the members at the Superior Club.”

Helen heard her finish another bravura phone performance. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” Jessica said, and hung up.

Helen wanted to applaud.

“I saw the doctor slam out of here,” Jessica said. “What was that all about? Was it really life and death?”

“Yes. His death. The doctor’s wife will kill him when she gets this month’s statement,” Helen said. “He’s been fooling around with some bimbo at the club.”

“They can’t even come up with an original sin,” Jessica said.

“You actresses,” Helen said. “Always complaining about the script.”

Jessica laughed. “I’m not much of an actress these days.”

“You’re resting,” Helen said. “Isn’t that the phrase?”

“If I get any more rested, I’ll be dead.”

“If I don’t get Mrs. Reginald her guest pass, I’m dead,” Helen said.

The Superior Club was like a stage set, Helen thought. The imposing pink stucco buildings were designed by Elliott Endicott, Addison Mizner’s greatest rival, in 1925. Critics called Endicott’s semi-Spanish architecture derivative. Helen thought it looked like it came from a Gloria Swanson movie. But that was OK. Gloria was once a club member, too. She must have felt right at home with the lobby’s throne like chairs, massive wrought-iron chandeliers and twisted candelabra.

Behind this imposing front was a warren of battered storage rooms and dark passages that reminded Helen of backstage at the theater.

They were used by the staff. But it was the club members who provided the drama. Too bad Jessica was right. The stories were old and trite, and it was easy to guess the endings.

Helen picked her way down the narrow, scruffy back hall of the customer care office to where the fax-copier machine growled and groaned in a former coat closet. The noises reassured her. The beast was working. Mrs. Reginald could receive her forms, sign them, fax them back and then go soak her head.

Helen’s office was part of the stage set. She sat at one of five original desks designed by Elliott Endicott, coffin-sized mahogany affairs carved with parrots and egrets. Endicott loved parrots and used to have them fly freely around the indoor garden in the lobby, until members complained the ill-mannered birds ruined their clothes and hair.

The drawers stuck on her antique desk and one leg tilted inward. The matching chair, with its original parrot-print fabric, was fabulously uncomfortable. But the view from Helen’s window made up for it. She could see the yacht club basin and the seagoing mansions. Today, the place looked like a boat show. Yachts the size of cruise ships were docking. Hunky young crew members in tight white uniforms were scrubbing decks and reaching for ropes.

“What’s going on?” Helen said. “Where’d all the yachts come from?”

“It’s the party to night,” Jessica said, as if that should explain everything. “Oh, I forgot. You’re new. Every year Cordelia van Rebarr, of the Boston van Rebarrs, has a yacht party. She invites some amazing entertainer to perform at a private party for one hundred of her closest—and richest—friends. This year it’s Eric Clapton.”

“The real Eric Clapton? Not an impersonator? How can she afford him? The man sells out stadiums.”

“The man himself,” Jessica said. “Some people have money. Cordy is rich. She hires the major names for her parties the way you’d get a DJ.”

“Ohmigod. Imagine listening to Eric Clapton at a private party.”

“You won’t have to,” Jessica said. “Customer care helps out at the party. That’s why you’re working late to night. We all work on party night. We’ll get to hear Clapton. It makes up for what we have to listen to during the day.

“It’s the social event of the season. Cordy’s guests arrive by private plane or helicopter. About twenty come by yacht. That’s twenty yachts at fifty dollars per foot per day. And none of the guests stay on their boats. They all take rooms at the yacht club for another thousand a day.”

Jessica broke off and said, “Look at that one. It’s huge, even for this crowd. Must be over a hundred feet long.”

The flashy white yacht’s dark windows gave it a sinister look, like a drug dealer in a white suit and sunglasses. A very successful dealer, Helen thought. The yacht had a helicopter and a swimming pool.

Then she saw its name.

“The
Brandy Alexander
,” Helen said. She didn’t even realize she’d said the name out loud.

“Now there’s a real-life mystery,” Jessica said. “Anyone who says there are no good roles for older women doesn’t know this story. That yacht is owned by a merry widow somewhere south of sixty. She’s had five—or is it six?—husbands die on her. Her first one, the rich old one, died of a heart attack in his eighties. His death may have been natural. After that, she married one young stud after another. Rumor says they played around on her, and shortly after she found out, they died. Sometimes it was a boating accident, or a problem with a dive tank, or a fatal case of food poisoning. She’s never been charged with murder, but she’s notorious. I can’t remember her name, but she’s a club member.”

“Her name is Marcella,” Helen said. “The Black Widow.”

“You know about her?” Jessica said. “She’s married again. I wonder how long this one has to live.”

“His name is Rob,” Helen said. Her voice seemed to come from far away. “I tried to stop the wedding, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Really. How do you know him?”

“He’s my ex-husband,” Helen said.

CHAPTER 2

“I can’t work the Clapton party to night,” Helen said.

She stared out her office window, as if it were the portal to another dimension. She watched the Black Widow’s sinister white yacht slide into its slip like a ghost ship. There was no sign of its shady owner—or Helen’s sleazy ex-husband.

“But you said yes a week ago,” Jessica said. “We need all the customer care staffers at that party.”

“Nobody told me what I’d be doing,” Helen said. “Kitty just asked me to work late.”

Nobody told me Rob would be there, she thought. He was supposed to be cruising the Caribbean with his killer bride. He doesn’t know I’m working at the club. He can’t find me here. Helen realized she was gripping her antique desk with the frolicking parrots and egrets hard enough to leave nail marks in the wood.

“Helen, all you have to do is check the guests’ names off the list, make sure they find the food and drink, and then you can hear Clapton live. To night will rock. You know what I’m stuck with? Gate duty.”

Jessica sounded like she’d been sentenced to a chain gang.

“I’ll trade you,” Helen said. “I’ll take the gate.” The main gate would be safe, she thought. No chance of running into Rob. Only guests who came by car used the main gate.

“No!” Jessica said. “Gate duty is the worst. You’ll have to check member cards. We get lots of crashers on party night. They can turn mean.”

“I want it,” Helen said.

She couldn’t run into her ex. She was still a wanted woman. Wanted by the court, unwanted by her ex. She’d rather go to jail than face Rob to night. He’d be squiring his diamond-drenched wife to the social event of the season—and Helen would be passing out name tags with obsequious “sirs” and “ma’ams.”

I should have killed the son of a bitch when I had the chance, she thought. I would have only served eight years for murder. Divorce is forever.

I’ve been on the run for so long, trying to avoid him. I gave up my career in St. Louis. I lost my old life. This is the best job I can expect now. Rob wouldn’t get out of his wife’s bed for my salary. And what do I get?

“Roses for my ladies.”

Helen stared at the man in the office doorway. He was a preppie prince with spun-gold hair and dazzling tennis whites. He carried an armload of long-stemmed roses. Not rubbery hot house flowers, but lush garden roses in hot tangerine, sunshine yellow, lipstick red and baby pink. Some were tight buds. Others were full-blown. All had a ravishing perfume.

“Mr. Giles.” Kitty held out her arms. “You never forget us.”

“How could I forget the ladies who love my roses almost as much as I do?” He filled Kitty’s arms with the flowers. She breathed in their scent, radiant as a Miss America contestant.

“Helen,” she said, “meet our favorite club member. Mr. Giles always brings us roses from his garden.”

“Lovely to meet you, Helen,” he said. “My court awaits, ladies. Off to tennis. TTFN.”

Ta-ta for now? “Who was that?” Helen said.

“A gentleman of the old school.” Kitty rummaged in a cabinet for vases.

“What’s he do?” Helen said.

“Mr. Giles plays tennis and grows roses.” Kitty filled six vases with water and cut the flower stems at an angle.

“Does he have a crush on you?” Helen said.

“Me?” Kitty looked surprised. “No, sweetpea. The roses are for all of us. He’s just generous.” She arranged the roses and set the vases on the customer care desks. Helen’s were vibrant orange with a spicy perfume.

“This is heaven,” Jessica said, and inhaled the perfume of her soft yellow roses. Helen thought the actress looked like she was auditioning for a florist commercial.

The clerk next to her reacted as if Kitty had handed him a vial of Ebola virus. “Not on my desk,” Cameron said, waving away the blood-red blooms. “Roses are bad for my allergies.”

Xaviera, who sat in front of him, laughed. “Give them to Helen,” she said. “She’s new. She needs more reminders that club members can be nice.”

Jackie, the fourth clerk, took her pink roses and said, “Giles has grown into such a thoughtful young man. His mother would be pleased.”

Helen’s phone rang. “I need to speak to Solange,” said a woman with a little-girl voice. “This is Roz Cornelia.”