Final Sail (11 page)

“Any particular charity?” Helen asked.

“No, I’m new to Lauderdale,” Blossom said. “You’re a minister. You must know some good ones.”

Helen eyed the floor-to-ceiling rows and racks of clothes and shoes. “There’s a lot for me to carry,” she said.

“I’ll send my man,” Blossom said. “He’s taking a break in the kitchen. I had him get packing boxes. He can carry them out for you. His name is Phil.”

“Good,” Helen said. Phil and I can search this room together, she thought.

“May I make a donation to your church?” Blossom asked.

“No, thank you,” Helen said. “I’m happy to do this for Arthur.” And I’m already paid by his daughter, she thought. The ethics of this situation made her a bit queasy.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Blossom said. “I have to get back to my guests.” She held out her exquisitely manicured hand and shook Helen’s. “Thank you for your help,” she said. “I know you’ve had a long day. Please find a good home for Arthur’s clothes.”

Blossom paused, then said, “I don’t want you to think I’m getting rid of Arthur.”

Helen said nothing.

Blossom kept talking. “Every time I walk by this room, I seem to see him. Not the smart, strong man I first met, but the dying Arthur. I don’t want to think of him that way. I don’t want to face what I lost one more day.”

Face what you lost—or what you did? Helen wondered.

CHAPTER 12

H
elen could see Blossom’s dressing room on the other side of the bedroom. Arthur’s wife had barred the housekeeper from that room. Now Fran was fired and Arthur was dead and Blossom boldly left the door open.

It was an invitation to snoop. That’s what Helen was, and she knew it: a paid snoop. A professional investigator. I really shouldn’t do this, she thought. I’ve just buried the owner of this house.

Who may have been killed by his wife. Helen quickly tossed aside her few reservations, like a stripper’s flimsy costume. She stalked across the half acre of posh rug and stood in the doorway to Blossom’s dressing room.

I could get caught, she told herself. But I don’t expect Blossom back soon. She has her duties at Arthur’s funeral reception.

Helen slipped into Blossom’s dressing room. It was as organized as Arthur’s, but definitely feminine. Helen caught the scent of some light, spicy perfume. The walls were a flattering pale peach and the well-lit full-length mirror was slimming. The only art was a gold-framed photo of Blossom as a bride carrying that lush white bouquet.

Helen would love to have these finely crafted shelves in pale, golden wood. She’d like to have the clothes and shoes to fill them.

Well, some of the clothes. There seemed to be two Blossoms: the sedate wife that Helen knew and a sexy woman who wore daringly cut clothes in come-hither colors—red, sapphire blue and vibrant emerald green. Helen had never seen that side of Blossom, and she examined a carousel of gaudy evening dresses.

Cocktail dresses and long gowns glittered with sequins, rhinestones and bugle beads. As the dresses whirled slowly around, Helen saw flirty ruffles and frisky feathers.

Each dress was protected by a clear plastic zipped bag. They must look spectacular on Blossom’s well-toned figure. A red velvet number with a plunging front and back looked like the fabled “gownless evening strap” worn by a Hollywood starlet.

When did Blossom wear clothes like these with her elderly husband? And where? Certainly not at any soiree given by the staid silver hairs downstairs.

Helen slowly watched the dresses on the carousel until she came to a section of subdued silver and black gowns. Some were strapless, others had long sleeves, but all were elegant and tasteful. These were suitable for Arthur’s friends. So were the two racks of black, gray and pale peach suits.

Blossom’s casual clothes showed the same split personality: risqué halter tops with deep-cut necklines and V-cut backs. Blouses with sexy lace-up fronts, provocative corset styles and wisps of leopard prints with barely enough spots to cover the vital spots.

Club clothes, never meant for daylight. They contrasted oddly with schoolmarmish tailored skirts, pants and clamdiggers from Tory Burch, Brooks Brothers and Talbots, designed for a rich man’s wife.

Blossom’s shoes ranged from modest ballerina flats to an outrageous pair of purple cage sandals with six-inch stiletto heels. How did she walk in those? Helen wondered. She picked up the heel for a
closer look. The strappy purple shoe weighed at least three pounds and the skinny heels looked lethal.

“Drop that weapon now,” said a voice behind her.

Helen jumped and the heel went flying across the peach carpet. She turned and saw her husband leaning against the doorframe, laughing.

“Phil!” she said. “I ought to stab you with that stiletto.”

“What are you doing in Blossom’s dressing room?” he said. “She could catch you poking around in her things.”

“She’s busy,” Helen said. “Why are you wearing white shorts and a blue polo shirt instead of your jeans?”

“The lady of the house gave me this uniform,” Phil said. He did a model’s turn in the dressing room.

“Shows off your buns nicely, Cabana Boy,” Helen said. “Where did she send you to buy that outfit?”

“She didn’t,” Phil said. “She guessed my size and had it waiting for me.”

“She’s been observing you closely,” Helen said. “When did she have time to run to the store and buy uniforms? She hired you the night her husband died.”

“Maybe she missed being at Arthur’s deathbed because she was uniform shopping,” Phil said.

“Maybe our client should suspect her stepmother,” Helen said. “Blossom said she was caught in the traffic from that accident on I-95.”

“Which isn’t on the way to the hospital,” Phil said. “But it is the fastest way to several malls. If Violet and Fran are right and Blossom poisoned Arthur, we’ve got a hell of a job. I checked out the place this morning while helping set up the reception. Besides the eight bedrooms and twelve baths, there are two dining rooms, a six-car garage and a pool house. I lost track of the halls, sitting rooms and living rooms.”

“Find any poison?”

“Lots,” Phil said. “Enough rat poison in the garage to kill everyone on Hendin Island.”

“They have rats?”

“In a big old house on the water? Sure. But I don’t think Arthur showed symptoms of that kind of poisoning. Where do I start?”

“Here,” Helen said. “The room Blossom wouldn’t let Fran enter. The housekeeper said Blossom was hiding something.”

“Then let’s find it,” Phil said. “You look through the clothes. I’ll check the drawers. Hurry. In case she comes back.”

Helen poked through the pockets and felt the hems of Blossom’s clothes. Phil searched the drawers, prying through sheer scarves and flimsy lingerie, probing behind and underneath the drawers. Phil looked in the air-conditioning vents. Helen crawled along the molding, feeling for hiding places. She tried to pull up the carpet, but it stayed securely nailed to the floor.

“Nothing,” Helen said. “Maybe she’s already used the poison.”

“If it existed anywhere but in the mind of her housekeeper,” Phil said.

“Maybe she was hiding those outré outfits,” Helen said. “Some of these clothes are costumes. How do we find the real Blossom? Aren’t you doing a background check on her?”

“I’ve been too busy working here,” Phil said. “I should have asked. How was Arthur’s funeral?”

“I got through it,” Helen said, and shrugged. “Had a slight problem with a drunken uncle. Violet was well behaved, except for an outburst against her stepmother in the limo after the burial, and nobody but Margery and me heard that. Violet doesn’t have Blossom’s charm, but we shouldn’t discount what she says.”

“She’s not getting a discount,” Phil said. “She’s paying full price.” He kissed Helen slowly, backing her against a chest of drawers while he unbuttoned her blouse. Helen kissed him back, then pushed him away.

“Not here,” she said, buttoning her blouse again. “What if
Blossom finds her minister and her estate manager in a steamy embrace? We’re not supposed to know each other.”

“We’re not getting a chance to know each other,” Phil said. “You leave tomorrow on the yacht and I won’t see you for a week.”

“Then let’s hurry and pack Arthur’s things,” Helen said, “so we can be together tonight. I have to tour the yacht at three.” She thought that sentence sounded romantic.

She led the way to Arthur’s dressing room. A foot-high stack of flat boxes and packing supplies was piled on the carpet.

Phil unfolded a box and taped the bottom while Helen pulled suits off hangers.

“These look handmade,” she said. “Amazing details. Even the cuff buttons have real buttonholes. They aren’t stuck on the sleeves for show. The fabrics are gorgeous.” She lined the box with tissue paper, folded each suit neatly and packed it between more paper while Phil taped a second box.

“Blossom said I could choose the charity,” Helen said. “What about a homeless shelter?” She labeled the first box “Men’s Suits” and Phil taped it shut while she filled the second.

“Many shelters don’t take clothes,” Phil said. “They’re swamped with cast-off clothes. Florida has lots of old people and their clothes are donated when they die.”

“Too bad,” Helen said. “The city could have homeless men in hand-tailored suits and Turnbull & Asser shirts. Look at this.” She held up a shirt with a white collar and pale pink pinstripes.

“Good way to get the homeless hassled by the police,” Phil said. “Why don’t we give the clothes to Out of the Closet? They’re a chain of thrift stores. The proceeds help people with AIDS.”

Six boxes later, the suits and shirts were packed and Phil was emptying Arthur’s underwear drawers.

“Was Arthur a boxers or briefs man?” Helen asked.

“Boxers.” Phil held up a pair of dark blue boxers and read the label: “Hanro Fishbone cotton boxers.”

“He had good taste for an old guy,” Helen said.

“Or a young one,” Phil said.

“Those boxers sell for about seventy-five dollars each,” Helen said.

“I just packed a thousand dollars’ worth of men’s underwear,” Phil said. “They didn’t feel like plain old tightie whities. On to the socks.”

Phil opened a narrow drawer and whistled. “Look at these. Paisley, striped and tartan. Socks with clocks.”

“Beautiful,” Helen said. “Your socks are so plain. You either wear black or white.”

“Reflects my view of the world,” Phil said. “They’re easier to pair if I stick to two colors. Matching up these patterns would make me dizzy.”

“I doubt Arthur did his own laundry,” Helen said. “Did he make his money or inherit it?”

“Blossom told me this is his childhood home, so I guess he came from big bucks and made more,” Phil said. “Hey, look what’s under these paisley socks.”

He lifted out a wedding photo in a mother-of-pearl frame. The groom was a twenty-something Arthur Zerling. The bride wore white satin with shoulder pads and carried a bouquet of honeysuckle.

“I’ll bet she’s Violet’s mother,” Helen said. “Honeysuckle was a pretty thing. She and Arthur made a handsome couple. I wonder why Arthur hid that wedding picture. Did he still love his first wife—or regret his second marriage?”

“Honeysuckle was a major part of his life,” Phil said. “Maybe he didn’t want to hurt Blossom’s feelings by displaying his first wife’s photo.”

Helen opened the top drawer of watches. “They’re all at two o’clock,” she said. “Someone kept these old-fashioned watches wound. Look, Phil, this platinum Rolex Oyster is engraved on the
back. It says:
To my love on our first anniversary. We have all the time in the world—HZ.
That’s so sweet. HZ has to be Honeysuckle. I’m giving this watch to Violet. She should have this memento of her parents.”

“Does Blossom know you’re doing that?” Phil asked, packing more socks into the box.

“She said I could dispose of the watches any way I wished,” Helen said.

“Really?” Phil lifted one eyebrow.

“She never said I couldn’t give that watch to Violet.”

“But you didn’t ask, did you?” Phil said.

“No.” Helen’s eyes shifted away.

“Because you were afraid she’d say no,” Phil said.

“I can’t predict what she’d say,” Helen said, and looked her husband straight in the eye.

“Ever study the spirit versus the letter of the law, Reverend?” Phil asked.

“Didn’t have time,” Helen said. “I was ordained in the click of a mouse.”

“If you give Violet that watch,” he said, “what will you do when she runs and shows it to Blossom?”

“Violet’s not getting the watch until this case is closed,” Helen said. “If we prove Blossom killed her father, it will be her parting gift.”

“And if we don’t?” Phil asked.

“Then it’s a consolation prize,” Helen said.

CHAPTER 13