Clubbed to Death (6 page)

“Dose are da real thing,” Angelo said. “I like dat in a woman.”

“You know what’s important,” Helen said. “I like that in a man.”

She saw Jessica shake her head slightly and regretted her smart remark. Rumor said Angelo left his enemies floating in barrels in Biscayne Bay.

Angelo missed the sarcasm and nodded his agreement. “I need a card for a new broad,” he said.

“You’re changing your DU, Mr. Casabella?” Helen asked.

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

Not quite. DU, or “designated user,” was the club name for a significant other. Most were very young women living with very old men.

Helen wasn’t sure who was using whom. DUs had the same privileges as spouses. Club members were allowed one—and only one—DU a year.

“Here. Dis is my member card.” Angelo flipped it on the counter.

His manicured nails were thick with clear polish. His fingers were studded with chunky gold rings.

Helen called up his computer file. Mr. Casabella had had three DUs so far this year. The two extra were approved by Solange.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give you another DU.”

“Sure you can.” The bodyguards moved in, a threatening muscle mass.

“The rules say club members are allowed one DU a year,” Helen said.

“Ain’t gonna happen. Lemme talk to da bimbo who runs dis place.

The redhead wid the fake boobs.”

“The department director is Solange,” Helen said.

“I just said that,” he said. “Lemme see her.”

Helen knocked on Solange’s door. Angelo Casabella’s description was deadly accurate. Solange wiggled out of her office in a tight pink sweater and short skirt, her hair rumpled as if she’d just gotten out of bed. “Mr. Casabella,” she cooed. “How may I help you?”

She ushered the mobster and his glowering bodyguards into her office with soothing sounds. Ten minutes later, they were back out.

“Helen, you may give Mr. Casabella an exception,” Solange said in her breathy voice. “But that’s the last one, Mr. C.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I’ll send in the new broad for her card photo.”

“He needn’t bother,” Jessica whispered, when the Casabella entourage left. “They all look alike: skinny blondes with big boobs and little brains.”

“Let me guess,” Helen said. “Solange gave him an exception because he’s another big spender.”

“You’re catching on,” Jessica said.

Cam strolled in, balancing five foam cups of ice. “Look, everybody,” he said. “I brought you ice.”

“We don’t need ice,” Xaviera said, her temper as hot as her red nail polish. “We need you at your desk, answering the phones. Who gave you permission to wander off?”

“I don’t have to ask you,” Cam said.

“Please don’t fight,” Jackie said, in a small, hurt voice. Her dark hair was pulled into a painfully tight chignon that accentuated the fine wrinkles at her neck and jaw. She absently gnawed her nails.

Cam and Xaviera ignored Jackie. She seemed to expect it.

“It takes five minutes to go to the ice machine,” Xaviera said.

“You’ve been gone half an hour.”

“I try to do you a favor,” Cam said, “and this is the thanks I get.”

Helen listened to them squabble and figured she had Cam pegged right. He was ambitious, but he’d never die of overwork.

Jessica whispered, “Helen, we have to talk.” Before she could say more, the office phones all rang at once, virtually levitating off the desks.

Solange popped her head out of her office. “Girls and Cameron, answer those phones,” she said, and shut her door again.

Helen dove for her receiver.

“This is Letitia Minotaur,” said a soft, quavery voice. “My member number is two-six-four-one. I wanted to alert you to a little problem.”

When a club member admitted to a little problem, it was a whopper. Helen called up Letitia’s file, and guessed this little problem was twenty-seven years old. Letitia’s son, Chadwick Minotaur IV, had been raising Cain at the club since he was sixteen. That’s when he stole a member’s Acura and wrapped it around a palm tree near the tennis courts.

Letitia had bought the member a better car and the club a bigger palm tree. No charges were filed against Chad. Every six or eight months, Letitia bought her son out of another scrape. Each run-in was documented in the club computers. Helen knew there was even more information in the paper files.

The Minotaurs had old money and lots of it. Letitia was a sweet widow of sixty-six who was kind to the staff, tipped lavishly and paid her club bill on time. She served on charity boards and volunteered for the duller, worthier club committees. It seemed a cruel twist that this selfless woman would have such a selfish child. Letitia had given her son everything—except character.

Helen looked up Chad’s picture in the computer. Typical trust fund baby. Young women thought his heavy-lidded eyes were sexy. Helen thought they were mean. His dirty-blond hair was combed over one eye and his square jaw had a
Miami Vice
stubble. He could have been movie-star handsome, except his mouth was weak and spoiled. Chad lived in his mother’s Golden Palms mansion and did not work.

The club was overrun with trust fund babies—wastrels who’d never done anything but inherit money. They spent their days charming the pants off young women and wrecking six-figure sports cars. They rarely took over the family business. Their brains were fried on coke and booze.

“It’s Chad,” Letitia said. Helen could hear her fighting back the tears. “I thought I’d better tell you before security calls your office.

Chad’s a good boy. He just gets into bad company.”

Jack Daniel’s, mostly, Helen thought. According to his club bar bills, Chad drank Jack and Coke, a lethal combination. The sweet soda hid the taste of the alcohol, making the drinks go down easy. The caffeine kept him jazzed long after a normal drunk would sleep it off.

“Chad celebrated a little too much last night,” Letitia said. “He made off with one of the Endicott birds in the lobby.”

Chad definitely needed Jack’s help for that stunt. Elliott Endicott had installed a pair of fanciful wrought-iron parrots in the lobby in 1926.

The birds stood four feet high and weighed a hundred pounds each. The parrots were the club’s icons. Even the New York decorator didn’t dare remove them. Members rubbed the birds’ beaks for luck when they made a merger, a marriage, or played bridge in the club room. Generations of brides posed with the parrots on their wedding day.

Staffers were forbidden to touch the birds except to clean them, and then they wore gloves. Naked fondling by the low-paid could ruin the parrots’ luck.

“I’ll take care of the restoration,” Letitia said. “And the divers.”

“Divers?” Helen said.

“Chad threw the parrot in the yacht club basin.”

“Oh,” Helen said. “I see.”

She didn’t see how Chad had carried the bird out of the lobby with club members and staff all around. He must have been lucky. Well, why not? The kid had already won the ge ne tic lottery: He’d scored wealthy parents.

“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused you,” Letitia said.

“You didn’t cause us any inconvenience,” Helen said. Your son did, she thought, and he’ll never apologize. “I’ll note your intentions in your file and notify Solange.”

“Thank you,” Letitia said, with a dignity that hurt Helen’s heart.

“He really is a good boy.”

Conventional wisdom said Letitia should try tough love, and make Chad get a job. From what Helen had seen in the Superior Club files, that didn’t work. It was like turning a peacock loose in the winter woods. Trust fund babies were like the exotic birds: bad-tempered, ornamental and useless.

Helen had not seen many happy endings for young men like Chad in the files. Some ODed. Others were car crash or speedboat fatalities.

One tried suicide and botched that. He was now drooling in a Miami nursing home. Another tried to claim his corporate inheritance. The crafty board stripped the arrogant kid to his shorts.

The best Letitia could hope for was that her son would exile himself to Sedona, Montana, or some other trendy place, and produce an heir.

Meanwhile, she endured the pity of friends and strangers and the exquisite pain of her son’s broken promises.

No one can wound you like the people you love, Helen thought.

Rob had hurt her so bad because Helen had loved him so much.

Even her hate was a kind of tribute to their dead love. She should have been indifferent to his jibes by now. Helen’s knuckles were scabbed and bruised from their encounter last night. She hoped Rob’s mouth hurt twice as much.

Jessica was still on the phone. A worried frown creased her high, pale forehead. Her slim fingers slipped Helen a note that read, “Meet me in the restroom as soon as I finish this call. We need to talk.”

Customer care staffers could use the bathrooms in the club locker rooms. Lesser staff were required to use the employee restrooms, dank affairs with antique plumbing, mottled mirrors and sickly lighting. The club locker rooms had English porcelain fixtures, marble floors, and mirrors that flattered face-lifts. The showers were stocked with luxurious towels, terry robes and slippers, and thick bars of fragrant coconut soap.

Helen and Jessica first checked the stalls to make sure no one was there.

“What’s up?” Helen said. “You look worried.”

“I am,” Jessica said. “Kitty isn’t here this morning. She had to see her divorce lawyer. Solange and Brenda spent a whole hour in Solange’s office with the door shut.”

“Uh-oh,” Helen said. “What’s Brenda the Bad plotting now?”

“Nothing good. And Kitty’s not here to defend us—or herself.”

“You don’t think the club would be dumb enough to promote Brenda,” Helen said.

Jessica looked at her. “You’ve seen their other decisions.”

“Right,” Helen said. “A place that will rip out an Elliott Endicott interior will do anything.”

“There’s something else going on,” Jessica said. “Xaviera’s boyfriend, Steven, is in club security. He calls her with the hot news. His current bulletin concerns you. Marcella, the Black Widow, reported her latest husband missing about nine this morning.”

Helen felt oddly frozen in the warm, coconut-scented room. “Her husband, Rob?” she said.

“He’s your husband, too,” Jessica said.

“Ex,” Helen said.

“Marcella told security Rob went for a walk after the Clapton concert. He didn’t come home all night. The last time anyone saw him was a little before midnight.”

Not true, Helen thought. The last time anyone saw Rob was after midnight. When he ambushed me in the employee parking lot. And I punched him. Ohmigod. Brenda saw us fighting. I’ve given her a bludgeon to use on me.

Helen’s head throbbed. So did her scabbed hand.

“Xaviera told the whole office,” Jessica said. “Brenda got this mean, secret look on her face, ducked into her office, made a quick call and left for almost an hour. When she came back, she was in Solange’s office with the door closed. I hope I’m wrong, Helen, but I think Brenda marched over to security and reported the fight in the parking lot.”

“But Rob asked her not to,” Helen said.

“Rob’s not here anymore,” Jessica said. “I’ve seen Brenda in action.

She’ll put the worst possible spin on the incident. She’ll use this against you and Kitty both. She’ll claim you’re dangerous and Kitty was careless when she hired you. Do you want me to go to security and make a report?”

“No,” Helen said. “Not unless they ask you about it.”

Jessica had been stalking back and forth in her high heels, unable to contain her nervous energy. Now she turned and faced Helen. “Let me set the record straight, for your sake. Fighting is a firing offense.”

I’m only here a week and I’m going to be fired, Helen thought.

After Margery called in her markers to get me this cushy job. I warned her I wasn’t cut out for this work.

“I don’t care,” Helen said.

But she did. She’d run up a lot of debts for this new job—her car, her cell phone, her new clothes. The Superior Club paid more than most jobs in Florida. How was she going to pay those bills with another minimum-wage job? She couldn’t get a better job if she was fired. She was trapped by her own greed.

“I care,” Jessica said. “I like you.”

“Look, why don’t we wait until we know more?” Helen said.

“We’ll just bring trouble on ourselves if Brenda left the office for some harmless reason.”

“There’s nothing harmless about Brenda.”

“Please,” Helen said. “Don’t stir things up. What happened after I left last night?”

“Nothing,” Jessica said. “Brenda and I went to our cars. Rob started walking. Brenda offered him a ride, but he said it was a nice night for a stroll. But it wasn’t nice at all. It was windy and threatening to rain.”

“Rob loves storms,” Helen said. “He didn’t seem hurt?”

“He had a fat lip and a few drops of blood on his shirt. He didn’t sound groggy or confused when he talked to us. I last saw him in my rearview mirror, as I turned out of the parking lot. He was heading toward the yacht club. He was walking fine.”

“He probably met some woman in the bar and he’s shacked up in her room at the club,” Helen said. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that.”

But it might be the last time he tried it on the Black Widow, she thought.

“One more thing,” Jessica said. “You don’t have the Winderstine file, do you? The paper file is missing.”

“No, why? Do you need it?” Helen said.

“I don’t. Solange does. Apparently Mr. Sawyer Winderstine had a bit too much to drink last night. He passed out on the terrace and the valet had to load him into a cab. Solange wants to send him a letter of reprimand.”

“By current club standards, his offense seems mild. Mr. Casabella has done far worse,” Helen said. “I’ve seen his file. Chad Minotaur just threw the club’s lucky bird in the yacht basin, and I doubt he’ll get a letter. His mother will get stuck with the recovery and restoration costs.”

“Mr. Winderstine spends a lot less than Angelo Casabella or the Minotaurs,” Jessica said. “We’d better get back before we’re missed.”

As they walked back to their desks, Helen heard sirens screaming close by.