Final Sail (13 page)

“Easy there,” Phil said. He held her tighter and rocked her slowly, kissing her neck. “It’s only for a week. When you work undercover, you’ll hear lots of things you won’t like. As long as you’re not doing anything illegal, you put up with it for the job.”

Helen’s dying anger flared up again. “You want me to be a spineless wuss?”

“No,” Phil said. “I want you to be a detective and get that smuggler. There’s nothing spineless about it. While you’ve started tracking down the smuggler, I’ve been working on Arthur Zerling’s case.”

“When did you get away from his funeral reception?” Helen asked.

“The last guest left at two o’clock. I supervised the cleanup and Blossom let me leave early, about three thirty.”

Helen realized Phil was wearing his soft blue shirt and jeans. “Where’s your Cabana Boy uniform?”

“I left it at the Zerling house.”

“Really? Did she supervise the removal?” Helen raised one eyebrow.

Phil laughed. “You’re jealous. I like that.” He kissed her again, a lingering kiss this time. “I changed in the pool house. Blossom gave me six uniforms. She offered to have the staff do my laundry, but I said I could do my own wash.”

“Anything else she offered?” Helen was still suspicious.

“No,” Phil said. “She wanted to nap. She was exhausted.”

“From what? Ordering around the staff?” Helen asked.

“Grief is exhausting,” Phil said. “So is maintaining a facade. As soon as I got to our office, I did a background check. I hit pay dirt. And I do mean dirt. Blossom is no fragile flower.”

“Was this a legal or illegal search?” Helen asked.

“Strictly legal,” Phil said.

“Like those ‘Find anyone, anytime for $29.99’ offers that pop up when I’m trolling the Net?”

“Those are a good way to throw away thirty bucks,” Phil said. “Their information is hopelessly outdated. One still has me married to Kendra, and we’ve been divorced for years. Since you’re my trainee, Grasshopper, I will tell you a secret: No reputable investigator uses those databases.”

“You found out fast,” Helen said. “I thought you’d use the old PI standby and call a buddy on the San Diego force.”

“Can’t,” he said. “The new privacy laws killed the days when a PI could call a friend of a friend for a favor. Officers who run background checks now better have good reasons. There are internal checks, as well as outsiders looking in. I don’t know any San Diego cops I’d ask to risk their jobs. I went through the databases only licensed pros can access.”

Helen shifted restlessly. “Fascinating history, Teach, but what did you learn?”

“I’m getting there.” Phil checked the wall clock. “We’re supposed to see our lawyer at seven to meet with our client. It’s six thirty. I didn’t expect you back so late. How big is that yacht? You toured it for hours.”

“I also had to get fitted for my crew uniforms. I pick those up tomorrow,” Helen said. “I want to grow old with you, but not while you’re telling this story. What did you find?”

“Violet told us Blossom Mae was from San Diego,” Phil said. “She didn’t know her birth date, but she guessed her father’s new wife was thirty-five.”

“That’s about right,” Helen said. “Blossom has a few lines around her eyes, but her neck and her hands look young.”

“I searched a ten-year window,” Phil said. “No Blossom Mae was born in San Diego between 1970 and 1985. I did find a Mildred Mae Fennimore, born in 1976, which would make her thirty-six.”

“That age works,” Helen said.

“So does the face,” Phil said. “I saw Mildred’s booking photo. She looks madder than a wet cat and her hair is dirty blond. But it’s definitely Blossom. That was her trick name. Blossom—born Mildred Mae—was arrested and charged with soliciting sexual acts from an undercover police officer.”

“She was a prostitute?” Helen asked. “Poor Violet. She said Blossom married Arthur for his money.”

“That’s not illegal,” Phil said, “or prisons would be packed with calculating cookies.”

“Calculating cookies?” Helen said. “You sound like a shamus.”

“I am one. So are you. The police raided a massage parlor called Beautiful California Girls Body Works.”

“That explains Blossom’s wardrobe,” Helen said. “Half madam and half matron. Wonder where she learned to act like a well-bred wife? Was Blossom convicted for prostitution?”

“Dirty blond Mildred Mae skipped San Diego before her court date,” Phil said, “and forfeited a thousand-dollar bail. There’s a warrant for her arrest. I think that’s when she became brunette Blossom Mae and got a job on a cruise ship giving massages.”

“Violet suspected Blossom’s magic fingers weren’t just massaging Arthur’s back,” Helen said. “Wait till she hears this. She’ll explode.”

“That’s what worries me,” Phil said. “Our client is as unstable as a grenade with the pin pulled. That’s why I wanted to make my report at the lawyer’s office: so Nancie can defuse our client.”

“Nancie’s earning her money,” Helen said.

“So are we,” Phil said.

“After you give your report, I’ll tell her about the club clothes I
saw in Blossom’s closet,” Helen said. “I won’t mention that Blossom asked me to give away Arthur’s things—or that I kept a wedding picture and a watch for her.”

“Do we still want to give Arthur’s clothes away?” Phil asked. “I’d better check with Nancie.”

“I’ll freshen up while you make the call,” Helen said. “Meet you at my car in five minutes.”

Helen’s PT Cruiser crawled through the rush-hour traffic toward the lawyer’s office while the two private eyes discussed the case. “Nancie says you should donate Arthur’s clothes, except for the keepsakes,” Phil said. “She says that’s Blossom’s legal right and there’s no evidence she killed Arthur. Also, it maintains your cover.”

“Violet knew there was something wrong about her stepmother,” Helen said, “but no one believed her. Now it’s too late.”

“For Arthur,” Phil said. “But we still might stop Blossom from spending his millions.”

Helen parked next to a shiny silver Saturn. “I think that’s our client’s car,” Phil said. As they knocked on Nancie’s office door, he whispered, “Battle stations.”

Nancie was dressed for success—and client control. Her stern navy suit and no-nonsense attitude had tamed more than one unfriendly witness.

Violet was a dark mass hunched in the lime green client chair. Arthur’s death had taken its toll on his daughter. Her silk shantung suit looked expensive and uncomfortable. Sleepless nights had etched lines into her face and sorrow had stamped dark circles under her eyes.

Helen felt a pang of sympathy. Their news would make her feel worse.

Nancie peered over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. “Violet, as I told you, Coronado Investigations has found some new information,” she said. “You may find it upsetting. Before we proceed, I’m warning that you will not act on their information without my
consent. If you do, I will not keep you as my client. Do you understand?”

Violet nodded. Her face shone with hope. “What is it? What did you learn? I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Phil will make his report,” Nancie said. “Then Helen. I want you to hear all the facts before we decide how to proceed. Phil?”

“Your suspicion that Blossom has a shady past was correct,” Phil said.

“I knew it!” Violet squealed, and hugged her fat beige purse like a stuffed toy.

“Violet!” Nancie said. “You promised to listen.”

“I’m sorry,” Violet said. She folded her hands like a reprimanded schoolgirl and listened until Phil finished. “That woman is nothing but a high-class hooker.”

“Not even high-class,” Phil said.

“Alleged hooker,” Nancie corrected. “Blossom hasn’t been convicted.”

“I don’t understand,” Violet said. “How did that woman get a job with a respectable cruise line?”

“The cruise line made a mistake,” Phil said. “Or didn’t vet her properly. It happens.”

“If that woman jumped bail, we can have her arrested,” Violet said. “All we have to do is call the police. We’ll see how good she looks in handcuffs.”

“That’s exactly what we’re
not
doing,” Nancie said. The fierce little lawyer glared at her client. “Blossom now has the money to fight these charges. Her lawyers will tell the court she has reformed and become a good wife. She’ll get a slap on the wrist—at most. If she’s hauled out to San Diego, she’ll close up her house in Fort Lauderdale. That would stall our investigation. We’ve worked hard to get Phil an inside job.”

Violet reluctantly agreed. “Have you found anything suspicious?” she asked.

“Haven’t had a chance to search the house,” he said. “I was too busy with the funeral reception. It’s not going to be easy, Violet. We don’t know what poison to look for and the house is fifteen thousand square feet.”

Helen jumped in with, “I found something. I searched Blossom’s closet while I was at the reception—the one she wouldn’t let anyone enter. She has two sets of clothes: a prim and proper wardrobe and club clothes that leave nothing to the imagination.”

“Fran’s right. There’s another man,” Violet said, her voice hard and flat.

“Maybe she wore those wild outfits for your father,” Phil said.

“No, I stopped by at four o’clock one afternoon when they first returned. Daddy was in a dressing gown with a silly look on his face and that woman was wearing a white frilly negligee. My father told me she was a
lady
.” Violet smothered that word with bitter sarcasm.

“You found out what she really was, Phil—a hooker. Her kind of woman needs a man. A young man. Fran saw her dressed to meet him. Follow Blossom when she leaves the house and she’ll lead you to him.”

Fran also saw poisons on the kitchen counter that turned out to be harmless spices, Helen thought. Our case is based on dislike and delusion.

Nancie was giving Violet a dose of reality. “Tailing Blossom will cost extra,” she said.

“I don’t care what it costs,” Violet said. “That woman has a lover. I know it and so does Fran. Just like I knew she was no innocent young wife. Find the man and you’ll find the poison that killed my father.”

CHAPTER 15

P
hil barged into Helen’s bedroom with three bulging plastic bags.

“Retail therapy?” she asked. “I know we had a tough interview with our client tonight, but you’ve never gone in for recreational shopping.”

“I’ve been working,” he said. “While you were lolling, I bought disguises to tail our suspect.”

“Ordinary detectives get their disguises at Goodwill,” Helen said. “And I wasn’t lolling. I was packing.”

“I am no ordinary detective,” Phil said, and grinned. He dropped the bags on Helen’s blue bedspread. Thumbs, attracted by the rustling and crinkling, jumped on the bed and cautiously circled the mound of bags. The cat sniffed one, then backed away. He prodded a red bag with his big six-toed paw. It crackled invitingly. Thumbs leaped on it and a shock of wild brown hair spilled out of the bag. The cat hissed, swatted the hair and disappeared under the bed.

“What’s in there?” Helen said. “It upset Thumbs.”

“Items that will render me invisible when I follow Blossom,” Phil said.

Helen reached up and ruffled his thick silver hair. “With that hair?”

“I am a master of disguise,” Phil said. “Watch.”

He disappeared into the bathroom with the bags. Helen was packing a navy canvas carryall for her yacht cruise. She folded a pink T-shirt into the carryall while Phil slipped out of the bathroom, a vision in black dreadlocks with a red, green and yellow Rasta tam plopped on top. A neon tie-dyed shirt, red board shorts and round John Lennon sunglasses completed the ensemble.

He tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. Be happy.”

Helen put her hands over her face and moaned, “My eyes, my eyes. I may go blind.”

“You have to admit this doesn’t look like me.”

“I recognize the smug look,” Helen said. “Except for that, it’s a good disguise. Where’d you get the dreads and the tam?”

Phil pulled them both off his head. The dreads were attached to the hat. “No problem, mon,” he said in a bad Jamaican accent. “All in one. They sell them in souvenir shops.”

“I’ve seen pale guys on vacation with Rasta tams and dreads,” Helen said. “I didn’t realize they were wearing wig hats.”

“It takes many beers to look this stupid,” Phil said, abandoning the accent.

“That’s good for one trip,” Helen said. “But what happens if you don’t catch Blossom the first time?”

“Wait and see,” Phil said, shutting himself back into the bathroom.

While she waited, Helen mentally inventoried the contents of her carryall: underwear, sandals, casual T-shirts and shorts, sample-sized toiletries.

“Ta-da!” Phil threw open the bathroom door. Now he sported a camo visor with a burst of wild brown hair on the crown, like a clump of dead grass. A “Guns, God and Guts” T-shirt stretched
across his chest. His jeans needed a wash. Phil twirled so Helen could see the jeans’ sagging seat.

“No wonder Thumbs hissed at the hair,” Helen said. “If he sees the whole outfit, he may never come out from under the bed.”

“You don’t like Bubba?” Phil asked. “I was hoping you’d admire my new look.” He waited for a reaction.