Clubbed to Death (22 page)

“They took my laundry ticket when they looked for my missing shirt. They lost that, too,” Cam said. “I can’t even prove I took the shirt to the laundry.”

“Inexcusable,” Jackie said.

“Criminally careless,” Jessica said.

Careless, definitely. The employee laundry was notoriously bad.

Criminal? That was another question.

Helen definitely thought this lost shirt was a crime.

But was it lost in the laundry? Or did Cam throw it away because it was covered with Brenda’s blood?

CHAPTER 21

Helen’s last call of the day was the worst. Phil phoned her at the Superior Club, something he rarely did. As soon as she heard his voice, she knew the news was bad.

“What’s wrong?” Helen said.

“The body on the beach wasn’t Rob’s,” Phil said. “The dental records didn’t match. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Who was the dead man?” Helen asked.

“Nobody knows,” Phil said. “His description doesn’t match any other missing person. He could be an illegal immigrant, a drifter or homeless. He could be some tourist down here alone. The body was so battered by the waves it’s hard to tell much, and he wasn’t wearing any clothes or jewelry. They don’t even know how he died.”

“No clothes, no name and no identity,” Helen said. “What a lonely death.”

“They may still find out who he is,” Phil said. “Someone who knew him could come forward. How are you feeling? I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear.”

“Relieved and disappointed at the same time,” Helen said. “I want it to be over. I want to be rid of Marcella. Now I have to call her and tell her the news.”

“Margery will call for you,” Phil said.

“And the Black Widow will tell Margery to call me. Margery isn’t my errand girl. I’ll make my own calls.”

“I’m here if you need me,” Phil said. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m glad the dead man wasn’t Rob. You don’t need the police interested in you right now.”

“Or any other time,” Helen said. “Thanks. I’ll call Marcella.”

Helen didn’t feel nearly as brave once she hung up the phone. She didn’t want to call Marcella and be drawn once more into her lonely world of power and money.

Might as well get it over with, she thought. My phone won’t dial itself. She took a deep breath and called Marcella.

“I have news,” Helen said.

“The dead man on the beach wasn’t Rob,” Marcella said.

“Then you already know,” Helen said. Good, she thought. Now I won’t have to meet with her.

“I still want to meet with you,” Marcella said.

Damn.

“I get off work in fifteen minutes,” Helen said. “I’ll stop by the yacht club on my way home.”

“Do that,” Marcella said, and hung up.

Helen put her head down on her desk. Her heart was beating wildly and her hands were shaking. She had to get away from the Black Widow. The woman had said three sentences and Helen felt ice forming on her bones. Helen had convinced herself Marcella was evil, and she couldn’t shake that feeling.

“Are you OK?” Jessica asked. They were the last two people working in the customer care office at this hour.

“It’s been a rough day,” Helen said. And I have to meet with a serial husband killer, she thought.

“Tell me about it,” Jessica said. She sipped her tea and made a face.

“Yuck. It’s cold.” She dropped the tea bag in the trash, then emptied the dregs in the waste can, something else Brenda never permitted.

Helen watched, fascinated by the quick, efficient movements of the actress’s thin fingers. Jessica’s smallest gesture was photogenic.

“I keep looking at all the club members and wondering which one is the killer,” Jessica said. “I rush up front when I see them at the counter. I don’t want them angry at me.”

“Do you really think the killer is a club member?” Helen said.

“Of course,” Jessica said. “Who else could it be?”

Helen said nothing.

“You think it’s one of us?” Jessica said. “After all the time you’ve spent in this office? Thanks a lot, Helen.”

“I don’t think it’s you, Jessica.”

Jessica flung her arms wide, to take in the whole office. “Then who? Jackie?” She laughed theatrically.

“Xaviera?” She pointed an accusing finger at Xaviera’s empty desk.

“If Brenda had been stabbed with a rhinestone-tipped fingernail, I’d say Xaviera was the killer.”

She waved her hand at Kitty’s empty office. “How about her? Our boss is really dangerous. She might drown them in tears.”

“I think it’s Cameron,” Helen said.

“Cam? You’re joking. That big mama’s boy? He’d never kill anyone. Dead people have too many germs. Besides, haven’t you figured out by now how lazy he is? Brenda was beaten more than fifty times.

That’s too much work for Cam.”

“He started doing the worst jobs at the club,” Helen said. “He was a porter. He lugged garbage and took out used cooking oil. He scrubbed pots in the club kitchen. Those are hard, dirty jobs. He finally worked his way up to a nice desk in customer care, and Brenda tried to get him fired. She wrote a memo to Mr. Ironton ratting out Cam for buying his condo on company time.”

“Brenda lied,” Jessica said. “Solange won’t do anything, but Kitty will fix it. She’ll tell Mr. Ironton the truth.”

“Some of that accusation will stick. It always does. Cam was furious. He’d kill Brenda to save his easy job.”

“Stop this,” Jessica said. “Stop it, right now. We have to work together. It’s us against the members. We need one another to survive this awful job. I’m sick of the fighting. I’m tired of being broke. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it!”

Jessica slammed her teacup down on her desk so hard, it cracked.

She threw it in the trash, picked up her purse, and walked out without another word.

The silence that followed was like the quiet after a disaster—unnatural, uneasy. Helen had no idea laid-back Jessica had so much fury in her.

But she’d been under terrible pressure at work and at home. Helen remembered the stack of past-due bills and Jessica’s hissed arguments with her husband. And that list of agents who never called her for acting jobs.

Actresses were good at manufacturing fake feelings and hiding real ones.

So who was the real Jessica: the raging woman who smashed crockery? Or the easygoing actress?

Helen brooded as she closed the customer care office for the night.

It was dark when she left the club, and the path to the Superior yacht basin was crossed with wind-shifting shadows. The Black Widow’s yacht loomed over the dock, white as bleached bones. The windows were black and shiny as a new hearse.

Helen boarded the
Brandy Alexander,
 her thoughts heavy with dread.

Bruce materialized at the ramp to greet her. She could see the shape of his skull under his shaved head. Helen heard ghostly laughter coming from the back of the yacht. She’d heard it before, the night Margery had introduced the Black Widow to Rob.

Marcella was being courted by a new man. Rob was definitely dead to the Black Widow. She was looking for his replacement.

The new husband candidate was sitting in one of the white chairs on deck, relaxed and easy. He was about forty, with thick brown hair and a nicely weathered face. He nodded to Helen, kissed Marcella’s hand, and wished her good eve ning. Marcella didn’t introduce him to Helen.

The man seemed vaguely familiar, but Helen couldn’t place him.

She thought he was a good choice, though—handsome, tall, but not so young he made Marcella look ridiculous.

In this light, Marcella could almost be the same age as her new man. She seemed younger and slimmer. Her makeup was softer and her hair color not so harsh.

The Black Widow needed men, Helen thought. She fed off their admiration and absorbed their vitality.

“May I offer you a drink?” Marcella was sipping a frosty margarita from a salt-rimmed glass. She must save the martinis for when she wanted to pound down the booze. Helen realized she’d never seen Marcella eat so much as a peanut. She wondered if the Black Widow was like one of those demons who couldn’t touch human food.

“Just water,” Helen said. “I have a long drive home.”

“Bruce will bring it. Let’s get down to business. Anything more on the dead man they found on the beach?”

“Nothing. They still don’t know who he is.”

“Too bad it wasn’t Rob,” Marcella said. “I’d love to see him dead.”

We have something else in common, Helen thought. She said, “I’m sure you have a good prenup. It won’t cost you much to get rid of him.”

“It’s already cost me. He stole my jewelry.”

Helen knew Rob was a con artist, a sponger and a womanizer.

Now he was a common thief. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Marcella tossed back the rest of her margarita.

The silent Bruce replaced it with a fresh drink, and put a crystal glass of water in front of Helen along with a plate of thin lemon slices.

“When did you find out your jewelry was missing?” Helen asked.

“It’s not missing,” Marcella said, and sparks snapped in her dark eyes. “It was taken deliberately. Rob and I are the only ones with the combination to the safe on board the yacht.”

“When’s the last time you saw it?” Helen said. “The night of the Clapton concert?”

Helen had seen enough guests at the gate to know the concert was a glittering event. Safe deposit boxes had been raided from New York to Miami for the Clapton party.

“I didn’t open the safe that night,” Marcella said. “I keep my everyday diamonds in a smaller safe in my dressing room. This safe is hidden in the master bedroom. Rob took two or three expensive pieces, the kind I wear once or twice a year. He replaced them with junk jewelry, so the boxes had some heft. I wouldn’t have known they were missing for months if I hadn’t sent my ruby necklace for cleaning. The jeweler called and said the piece I’d sent him was a fake, bought at a shopping mall. A mall! I was humiliated.”

Rage ate away at her newfound youth. The Black Widow looked old and scary. Her tiny, pointed teeth were bared in a frightening snarl.

Helen gulped her water.

“I’m still going through all my things, but he’s made off with more than two million dollars’ worth of jewelry.”

“Ohmigod. Did you report this to the police?”

“I don’t want the police in my life,” Marcella said.

Helen had a sudden inspiration. Phil was looking for Elsie’s missing ring as a favor to Margery. Maybe she could get him some money for his good deed. “I know a detective working on another jewelry job now, checking the pawnshops and outlets for a stolen ring,” she said. “I can put him on your case, too.”

“No detectives,” Marcella said. “I told you. I don’t want that kind of attention.”

“This isn’t an ordinary detective,” Helen said. “Ask Margery.”

“I will,” the Black Widow said. “Wait here while I make the call.”

Marcella disappeared inside the huge yacht. Helen wondered if she’d ever see more than the bathroom. Maybe you couldn’t walk inside until you knew all the right names for the boat parts.

Helen stared into the soft darkness. She could hear laughter and the clink of glasses on another yacht and the sound of slow, sweet jazz. The water lapped at the sides of the boat. There was a plopping sound and a big fish jumped up in the water.

Marcella was back. “Look at that,” Helen said. “Is that a dolphin?”

“Barracuda,” Marcella said.

Naturally, they’d congregate here.

“Margery says this Phil is OK,” the Black Widow said. “Tell him I’ll pay his regular fee plus a bonus if he finds the jewelry, but I don’t want any written reports or billing statements.”

“Do you have photos of the missing pieces?” Helen asked.

“They’re in a safe deposit box in New York. I’ll have them faxed here and delivered to Margery.”

“Do you have a fax machine on board?” Helen asked.

“Of course.” Marcella sounded insulted, as if Helen had asked if she had indoor plumbing. “I have a state-of-the-art satellite phone setup with Internet access. The fax has a phone number and works just like it does on land. That’s how we get our weather updates. The only problem is when it’s really overcast or there’s a heavy storm. Then our reception may be disrupted. That’s when we need it most. So much for satellite technology.”

She sighed, as if no one could understand the special burden of being rich.

“May I ask you a question?” Helen said.

The Black Widow shrugged.

“Why do you call your boat the
Brandy Alexander
? I’ve never seen you drink one.”

“Lost my taste for them after my second husband died,” Marcella said.

Helen held her breath, afraid to say more. She’d stumbled onto a dangerous subject.

“His name was Alexander,” Marcella said. “I called him Alex.

Brandy Alexanders were our special drink. Ever have one?”

“It’s sort of an alcoholic ice cream sundae,” Helen said.

“A brandy Alexander looks innocent, but it’s destructive. It’s loaded with fat, calories and liquor. One was enough to knock me out. I kept the name. It’s bad luck to rename a yacht. Besides, it was a reminder.”

Helen didn’t have the nerve to ask, “Of what?” The Black Widow answered the unspoken question.

“Treachery,” she said, “can seem so sweet. So can revenge.”

CHAPTER 22

“The curse is broken,” Margery said, lifting her wineglass high. By the glow of the tiki lights, she looked like an ancient priestess at an arcane ceremony.

“It’s official,” Margery said. “Apartment 2C is no longer a crook magnet. My nice normal couple, George and Nancy, are leaving at the proper time.”

“For 2C? That would be midnight, right?” Helen said.

Margery ignored her. “Their checks didn’t bounce and the cops didn’t bust them,” she said.

“You still have a day or two. The police could come through the gate yet, yelling ‘Freeze!’ ” Phil said.

He grinned at Margery, but that was no joke. Several 2C renters had been hauled off in handcuffs. They were still guests of the government.

“I hope you counted the towels,” Peggy said.

“And everything else that isn’t nailed down,” Helen said. “Remember the crooks who took your shell mirror and the teakettle?”