Clubbed to Death (21 page)

That was true.

“Has anyone else complained?” Solange said. “Sometimes the repair crews forget to write down emergencies.”

“No, Blythe is the only one,” Helen said. Also true. “She says she tried to complain to customer care, but no one was on duty in our office at eleven yesterday morning.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Solange said. “We had a full staff here.”

“I told her that,” Helen said.

Solange gave a put-upon sigh. “OK. I’ll deal with Blythe. I’ll also note this in her file. Really, that woman is unstable.”

Helen didn’t feel guilty for
Gaslighting
Blythe. The golfer was growing more demanding by the day, and she had an ugly temper. But was Blythe crazy enough to club two people to death?

I hope so, Helen thought. If Brenda’s nasty golf partner turned out to be the killer, it would make our lives much easier. We could settle down at work. Now we’re jumpy, ner vous and watching one another.

We feel guilty and uneasy. None of us liked Brenda. We’re all glad she’s dead. But every one of us is wondering: Did someone in this office kill her?

Everyone, that is, except the killer.

Helen polished off her third coffee of the morning, and knew her jitters weren’t due to caffeine overdrive.

The strain showed on the staff in different ways. Solange looked ragged. Kitty was weepy. Xaviera snapped at people. Cam sucked on his puffer. Jessica was pale and drawn. Jackie retreated into herself. She sat scrunched up at her desk, as if she was making herself smaller.

“Can someone here help me?” a woman at the counter said.

Helen jumped. That was the other problem. Every time a club member came through the door, Helen wondered if she was waiting on Brenda’s killer.

This member looked mild enough. She had shiny blond hair, a soft, round face and thirty extra pounds. She wore pretty peach linen and carried a dainty Prada purse, a trifle that would cost Helen a month’s salary.

“I’m Gillian Aciphen,” the woman said. “I can’t use my card in the club restaurant. There must be something wrong with it.” Gillian had the smile of a woman who knew the world did what she wanted.

“I’ll check for you,” Helen said. “Sometimes the strip on the card gets demagnetized.”

Helen looked up Gillian’s photo in the computer, to make sure the card wasn’t stolen. Nope, Gillian Aciphen’s photo matched the woman at the counter—if you padded her with those extra pounds. Mrs. Aciphen was pretty in person, but she’d been drop-dead gorgeous when the photo was taken four years ago.

Helen checked the Aciphen account on her computer.

Uh-oh. Here was the problem in big red numbers. The account was one hundred twenty days in arrears. It had been frozen. That’s why Gillian couldn’t charge anything. Overdue notices had been sent to Harold Aciphen’s office. He’d ignored them.

“Let’s go in here where we can talk,” Helen said, ushering Gillian into Kitty’s empty office for privacy.

“Is something wrong?” Gillian’s blue eyes were wide and trusting.

Her lightly freckled nose was small and pert.

“I’m very sorry, but your account is three months in arrears.”

Gillian looked confused. “There must be some mistake. My husband pays the bills every month. Harold told me he paid this one.

Something is wrong with your computer.”

“No, ma’am,” Helen said. “We’ve sent three overdue notices.”

“I didn’t see any of them,” Gillian said.

“They were sent to your husband’s office,” Helen said.

Mrs. A turned white as typing paper. “That can’t be,” she said. “I know Harold—” Then she stopped abruptly. The light seemed to go out of her eyes. Her shoulders slumped. She gripped her pretty purse and said, “Thank you. I’ll look into this.”

Helen watched her leave, a beaten woman. Gillian knows what’s wrong, Helen thought. Something made her stop in mid-sentence. Helen wondered what she’d remembered: an odd phone call, lipstick on a collar, a husband who suddenly started working late?

What ever it was, Gillian Aciphen had just realized her comfortable life was coming to an end. She would never again smile in that same confident way.

Maybe Harold was having problems with his business and was afraid to tell his wife he was in financial trouble. Gillian liked expensive things.

Maybe Harold was paying the bills for a new love, and Mrs. Aciphen was about to be slapped with a divorce.

Judging by the changes in the photo, Helen thought it might be the latter. Get yourself a good divorce lawyer, Gillian, she wanted to say.

That’s where I went wrong.

“Why are you staring into space in my office, sweetpea?” Kitty said.

Helen looked at her Kewpie-doll boss. Kitty’s dark curls were flat and her big brown eyes were red-rimmed. Her face was freshly powdered. Helen wondered if she’d been covering up tear tracks.

“I had to break some bad news to Mrs. Aciphen,” Helen said. “She just found out her club account is three months in arrears. Her husband told her he’d paid it.”

“Harold told her a lot of things that weren’t true,” Kitty said.

“He’s cheating on her, isn’t he?” Helen said.

“Everyone knows it but Gillian,” Kitty said. “It’s the old story. The blind, stupid, trusting wife is always the last to know.” Kitty threw her notebook so hard on her desk, the teddy bear bounced off and fell on the floor.

Helen picked up the bounced bear. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” Kitty said. “As soon as I can find five thousand dollars for my kids’ tuition, I’ll be better. If you could catch Brenda’s killer before my next meeting with Mr. Ironton, I’d be just ducky. He seems to hold me personally responsible for her death.”

Her boss seemed so small and hurt, Helen was tempted to hug her.

Kitty daubed her damp eyes with a tissue, careful to avoid smearing her makeup. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I shouldn’t go on like this. It’s unprofessional. Run along and answer the phones. I hear them ringing. Solange is on a rampage, and the phones will set her off.”

Helen worked the phones, managing to avoid the notorious complainers. Solange returned from her meeting with Mr. Ironton looking like a bomb-blast survivor. Her red hair hung in lank hunks like cheap yarn and she had a run in her stocking.

“Ladies and Cam,” she said, standing in the middle of the room.

“Get off the phones now. I need to speak with you.”

Jessica was taking guest pass information. Solange glared at her until she hung up.

“I said get off the phone immediately,” Solange said. “I meant it, Jessica.”

“But the club member wanted—” Jessica began.

“I don’t care,” Solange snapped. “When I talk, you should have the courtesy to listen.”

Everyone in the office kept silent, even Xaviera. Solange was usually too lazy to get this angry. The customer care phones rang and rang, but no one answered them. Helen knew the club members would be furious. For once, they had a good reason.

“I want that Winderstine file. Now,” Solange said. “Cam, you’re going to reorganize the file room until it’s found.”

“Me?” Cam said. “Why me?”

“Because I said so.” Solange’s voice was dangerous.

“I have allergies,” Cam said. “It’s dusty in there. I’ll have an asthma attack.”

“Take your inhaler,” Solange said. “The faster you find that missing file, the quicker you can leave the file room.”

“But it will take months to go through all those files,” Cam said.

“Then you’d better get started.”

Solange turned on her heel and shut her office door. Cam left gripping his puffer and his bottle of hand sanitizer, muttering to himself.

The big pudgy man shambled away like an angry bear.

Xaviera raised her eyebrows, but still didn’t dare speak.

Helen started retrieving missed messages and soothing irate club members. The next time she checked the clock, it was after noon.

Enough time on other people’s problems, Helen decided. Time to help myself. I promised Phil I’d look into Dr. Dell’s affairs, pardon the pun.

She checked the dead doctor’s file, looking for the woman who got the day of relaxation that led to the surgeon’s eternal rest.

The doctor’s staffer was named Mandy. According to the customer profile she filled out, she lived in Pembroke Pines, had “raven” hair with no split ends and fair skin with a “T-zone problem.” Mandy was five-feet-six, weighed ninety-seven pounds and was twenty-three years old.

Shame on your hairy hide, Dr. Dell, Helen thought, chasing a woman thirty-five years younger.

Helen called the doctor’s office and asked to speak to Mandy.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “Mandy’s not here.”

Must be in mourning for the late doctor, Helen thought.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered her,” Helen said. “I know you’ve had a death in your office. When Mandy returns, could you have her call me? I have a refund check. She overpaid her bill by a hundred dollars.”

“Mandy’s not coming back,” the receptionist said. “She’s on her honeymoon.”

“She’s married?” Helen tried to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“And on the
Queen Mary 2
. How cool is that? The cruise must be a gift from her parents, because Dave’s a hottie, but he doesn’t have two nickels. Oops. My bad. Do I sound jealous? Guess I am. Some girls get all the luck and all the men. And now you want to give her money, too.”

Helen looked at Mandy’s address in the club files. “So are they going to live at her place in Pembroke Pines?” she asked.

“No, they’re moving into Dave’s home in Hollywood. I think her town house in Pembroke is cuter, but Dave owns the house off Johnson Street.”

“I’ll send the check there,” Helen said.

So much for Mandy in mourning, Helen thought as she hung up the phone. The doctor wasn’t in the ground before she married a hot younger man.

“Ta-da!” a loud voice announced.

Helen looked up. Cam was triumphantly bearing a fat file through the office. Solange came running out.

“I found it,” Cam said. “I have the missing Winderstine file.” He held it over his head like a trophy. Helen saw the coffee ring on the file folder, in the same place as the file that had been hidden in Brenda’s desk.

“Where was it?” Solange said.

“On the bottom of the file drawer,” Cam said. “It had slipped under the other files, so you couldn’t see it. Do I get a reward?”

“You certainly do,” Solange said. “You’re the only one in this office smart enough to find that file. How would you like to take your girlfriend out to dinner?”

“Can I take my mom instead?” Cam asked.

Xaviera rolled her eyes.

“You can take whomever you want,” Solange said. “I have a gift certificate to Ruth’s Chris Steak House.”

“That’s funny,” Jessica whispered to Helen. “I checked that file drawer when I searched the room, and looked under the other files. I know I did. The Winderstine file wasn’t there.”

Helen knew she did, too. That coffee-ringed file had been on Brenda’s desk, then disappeared after her murder. Now Cam found it.

How did it get back in the file room?

Was it really there? What if Cam had hidden it somewhere in the building and produced it now? His timely discovery saved him from months in a dusty file room.

Cam had recently bought an expensive condo—way too expensive for an eleven-dollar-an-hour clerk. Where did he get the money? Was he selling club information to Rob?

What if Brenda had discovered the missing file in Cam’s desk on one of her snooping missions? Cam was the only person in the office with a locked drawer. But supervisors had keys to all the locks.

Cam could have come in early and killed Brenda. He’d been making up the time he’d taken off for his condo closing in the mornings.

Cam knew the club, its back roads and passages. He’d worked a variety of scut jobs before he’d landed a cushy place in customer care.

He could find ways in—and out—of the club that weren’t under the watchful eye of the employee gate camera.

Cam hated Brenda. He’d wanted to dance on her grave.

Did he kill her? He had a good reason. Brenda would have ruined his career at the club with that file. She loved destroying people.

But why would he kill Rob, the source of his money?

“People, listen up, since I have you all here together,” Solange said.

“We’re getting new uniforms in customer care.”

“What color?” Xaviera asked.

“Black pants and jackets with white T-shirts,” Solange said.

“Boring,” Xaviera said. “This is South Florida. Haven’t they ever heard of tropical colors?”

Solange ignored her. “The good news is the T-shirts won’t need to be starched and ironed. You can wash them at home. You won’t be at the mercy of the employee laundry for your shirts anymore.”

The staff cheered at that news.

“However,” Solange quieted the cheers with a glare, “the uniforms still have to be dry-cleaned. Please make your appointment for a uniform fitting today. The new uniforms will be ready in two weeks. In order to receive them, you must turn in your old uniform, including your five shirts or blouses. If we do not have your complete uniform, you will be charged for the missing pieces.”

“What?” Jessica said.

“That’s not fair,” Cam said. “The employee laundry lost one of my uniform shirts.”

“I’m missing a blouse,” Jessica said. “I’m not paying thirty bucks to replace it. I didn’t lose it.”

“I have one gone, too,” Jackie said. “I can’t afford that kind of money.”

“I didn’t make the rules.” Solange waved their protests away like annoying flies. “Deal with it, people. I need a manicure. If there’s a crisis, call me on my cell.”

The grumbling continued long after she left. Cam pouted and refused to answer his phone. Even laid-back Jessica slammed papers around on her desk. Two angry red spots stood out on her pale cheeks.

“I can’t believe this,” Jessica said. “Everyone knows the employee laundry is hopeless. They lose our things all the time. Now we’ll have to pay for their mistakes.”

“Do you still have your laundry ticket? Maybe you can prove the blouse is lost,” Helen said.

“Maybe,” Jessica said. “But don’t bet on it.”