Final Sail (31 page)

CHAPTER 36

L
ightning flashes of panic streaked through Helen as she turned into Blossom’s driveway. She and Phil were playing with fire. Worse—with a clever killer who used silent poisons. One misstep and Helen would be a widow.

This time, she had no trouble finding the Zerling mansion. Helen recognized the surreal sprawl of pink stucco towering over the tall ficus hedge. She parked the Igloo, gathered her courage and smoothed her prim gray suit. She was the Reverend Helen Hawthorne on a pastoral visit, pattering across the pink pavers in her sensible heels.

The valet and the black wreath from Arthur’s funeral reception were gone. Today, Blossom answered the massive arched door.

Helen had to force herself not to react to the new widow’s outfit. Her lacy black top clung like a cobweb and her red silk pants were tighter than a tourniquet. Red and black. Death and blood. The warning colors of a deadly spider that killed its mate. Blossom didn’t bother toning down her extravagant beauty at home. Her hair hung long, thick and free, and her false eyelashes fluttered like trapped moths.

“Reverend Hawthorne, what a nice surprise,” Blossom said, and showed a blood-rimmed smile.

“Call me Helen, please. I wanted to see how you were doing. I should have called first, but—”

“No, I’m glad you stopped by,” Blossom said. “I’ve been meaning to call you. I need your help. Come have a drink. You do drink, don’t you?”

“Definitely,” Helen said. She followed Blossom through the gloomy corridors to a room that looked like a British club in
Masterpiece Theatre
. It was crammed with leather wing chairs, tufted hassocks and small, fussy tables. An inlaid table supported by eight husky, half-clad nymphs dominated the room. The nymphs held up the one spot of color: a pretty vase with a coy shepherdess and an ardent shepherd.

“What a charming vase,” Helen said.

“Thank you. That’s a porcelain potpourri vase,” she said. “The shepherdess is French. Sevres. I love how she flirts with the shepherd.”

Blossom gently lifted the gold-trimmed slotted cover. “Inhale,” she said.

Could you inhale a poison and die? Helen decided to chance it. She took a deep breath and hoped it wasn’t her last. “Heavenly,” she said.

“Glad you like it,” Blossom said. “It’s lavender from Provence, cinnamon, sandalwood and more.”

Behind the table, a magnificent rosewood bar sprawled along one wall, carved with lush nymphs, busty mermaids and other boozy dreams. The mirrored back bar glittered with cut-glass decanters and liquor bottles.

Phil was behind the bar, as they’d planned. With his silver white hair and white uniform, Helen thought he looked like a ghost in that cave of a room. Her heart was cold with fear. Suddenly, the plan they’d hatched together seemed foolish. She was glad the dark velvet
curtains shut out the light. She didn’t want Blossom to see her face when Helen was introduced to her own husband.

“This is my man, Phil Sagemont,” Blossom said.

Helen felt her hackles rise at that possessive “my man.” She politely extended her hand and said, “I’m Helen Hawthorne.”

“She’s a minister,” Blossom said. “She conducted Arthur’s service.” She leaned forward and gave Phil a good view of her firm breasts. He stared. Helen wanted to kick him.

He tore his eyes away from the temptation and said, “I’m Phil, Mrs. Zerling’s estate manager.” His handshake was firm and dry. He slyly winked at her. Helen didn’t smile back.

“I thought we could talk in here,” Blossom said. “What would you like? Phil can make our drinks.”

So now he’s a bartender and an estate manager? Helen thought.

“White wine with a splash of soda,” she said. She was too keyed up to drink a glass of wine. The alcohol would go to her head.

“Would you like ice with your spritzer?” Phil asked. “The wine is already chilled.”

Helen saw the cold mound of cubes in the heavy cut-glass ice bucket on the bar, next to an old-fashioned seltzer bottle. “No, thanks,” she said.

Phil took a tall glass from a shelf under the bar and began building Helen’s drink. Blossom sat in a brown leather wing chair near the table and Helen took the chair next to it. The air-conditioned leather felt smooth and cool, but she had too much at stake to relax.

“Cashews?” Blossom handed Helen a silver dish.

Could you tamper with cashews? she wondered. “No, thanks.” Helen abandoned them on a small, pointless table.

“Would you like a snack?” Blossom asked. “A sandwich?”

“Not hungry,” Helen said. Those were the first honest words she’d spoken since her arrival. “I’m glad you don’t mind me dropping in like this.”

The prompt worked. “I needed to talk to you. As you know, Arthur died without a will,” Blossom said, “and my lawyer says I’m entitled to his entire estate. I don’t need all ten million and I don’t want his daughter to be an enemy. Arthur wouldn’t like that. Violet is well-fixed, but I want to offer her a settlement of two million dollars.”

The same going-away present you offered your dead lover, Helen thought.

“Well, what do you think?” Blossom asked. She congratulated herself with a smug smile.

“Very generous,” Helen said. “But why do you need me?”

“I want you to be the go-between,” Blossom said. “Violet doesn’t like me. She won’t even talk to me.”

“You both have lawyers,” Helen said. “Surely they could negotiate this.”

“Lawyers are so cold and formal,” Blossom said. “I know Violet won’t be my friend, but I’d like her to hate me a little less. There would be something in it for you, too. What do you need—a church van? A chapel? A vacation for yourself, so you can serve your flock better?”

Blossom might have been the devil herself, tempting Helen to forget her duties, weaving her into the plot to get rid of Violet. The widow was relaxed, almost languid, as she tried to buy Helen’s soul.

“I can’t take your money,” Helen said, “but I will pass on your message and make sure Violet understands your offer.”

Every last treacherous detail, she thought.

Phil brought Helen’s drink on a scalloped silver tray and set it down on a linen cocktail napkin. “I’m ready to make you that perfect manhattan, Mrs. Zerling. I have all the ingredients—sweet vermouth, dry vermouth and bourbon.”

“I hope you bought the Angostura bitters like I asked,” Blossom said.

“Didn’t have to,” Phil said. “I found a nearly full bottle on the kitchen sink. We can use it. See?” He held up a bottle.

“No!” Blossom said, sitting straight up in her chair. She forced a smile and said, “I mean, I don’t want a perfect manhattan after all.”

“Sure you do,” Phil said, and smiled. “You’ve asked for one nearly every night, and I’ve always said no. Well, tonight’s the night. My manhattans are perfection on the rocks. It’s all in the wrist.” He waved the Angostura bottle at her. “A dash of these bitters and you won’t be the same woman.”

He’s overdoing it, Helen thought.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you want my manhattan?” he asked. “I promise it will be good.” He raised one eyebrow. He seemed confident and shy at the same time.

Helen had a hard time resisting Phil when he looked at her like that. Blossom was made of stronger stuff.

“I’d like one, but you’ve refused me so often, I’ve gotten used to making my own,” she said. “I’ll mix two manhattans, if you’ll drink one with me. We’ll try your recipe another day. You go out to the kitchen and get me the maraschino cherries. They’re in the fridge.”

She playfully shooed him out of the room, as if he were a bad boy. Helen sat frozen in her cold leather chair. She’s going to kill my husband right in front of me, she thought.

Blossom stood up in a swirl of dark hair and red lipstick. Her clingy black and red clothes screamed a warning: The most beautiful predators were also the deadliest.

Helen picked up her drink and tried to follow Blossom to the bar.

“No, you sit there and relax, Helen,” she said. “I’ll make these in a jiffy and sit back down.”

She doesn’t want me to see her make those drinks, Helen thought. She watched in the mirror, never taking her eyes off Blossom. The woman could ruin Helen’s life with one move.

Blossom took out two glasses. “Some people use off-brand liquor, but I like the best to make the best,” she said. She added a healthy jigger of Knob Creek to each glass, then a half ounce of Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth and dry vermouth.

All that’s missing are the bitters, Helen thought. She watched Blossom add a dash of Angostura to one glass—and not to the other. She set the manhattan without the Angostura near the ice bucket.

“Now, where is Phil with those cherries?” she asked.

“Is the kitchen far away?” Helen asked.

“On the other side of the house,” she said. “He’s sure taking his time.”

Blossom picked up the glass without the dash of Angostura.

“You left the bitters out of your drink,” Helen said, heading for the bar.

“I don’t want them,” Blossom said.

“But that’s what makes a manhattan,” Helen said. “Here. Let me add a splash.” She reached for the small bottle.

“No!” Blossom said.

“I don’t know why you don’t want it,” Helen said. “It’s the key to everything. Just a little?”

“Stay away from me with that stuff,” Blossom said. Her eyes were wild, her dark hair stood straight out and one false eyelash fluttered loose. Her cobwebby top caught on the edge of the bar and tore. Blossom didn’t notice. The woman who’d killed two people was falling apart. She was terrified of a four-ounce bottle, the weapon that had murdered her lover.

Helen decided to help her unravel. “Can’t imagine why you’re so upset,” she said. “What harm can a drop do?”

She unscrewed the cap. Blossom picked up the seltzer bottle and held it in front of her like a shield.

“I said stop it,” she screamed, her voice frantic. “Stop it now!”

“What? Are you going to shoot me with that thing, like a Three Stooges movie?” Helen asked.

“Yes,” Blossom said, and hit Helen in the face with a jet of seltzer.

Helen coughed and staggered back, wiping seltzer off her face. “You’re upset,” she said. “You’ve been under a strain because of Arthur’s illness. But that’s no way to treat your minister.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Blossom howled.

There was no pretending now. This was a fight. Blossom waved the bottle of dry vermouth at Helen’s head.

“Put that down,” Helen said.

“Get out,” Blossom said, and swung it at Helen. The bottle clipped her shoulder and landed on the leather chair, spilling out onto the seat. The fumes choked Helen, but she grabbed the cut-glass ice bucket and heaved it at Blossom.

She ducked, and the ice bucket hit the potpourri vase. It shattered, spilling its fragrant leaves and seeds on the tabletop. Helen heard something roll across the table and land softly on the thick carpet. She saw something brown and round. A ball? A wheel? A seed? It was rolling toward them on the carpet.

Blossom set down the sweet vermouth bottle, distracted by the moving brownish object.

Now Helen saw it clearly. It was a fat round seed. Blossom wrapped her hand around it as Helen whacked her on the head with the bottle of Knob Creek.

Blossom collapsed on the floor, still clutching the seed in her hand. Helen stomped Blossom’s hand and she let go of it.

Helen picked up the seed. She was drenched with seltzer, stank of booze and was so bruised she could hardly move her arm.

Blossom did not move at all.

Phil strolled in with the jar of cherries, blinking in the dim liquor-scented chaos.

“Did I miss something?” he asked.

CHAPTER 37

H
elen stared at the shattered shepherdess and wondered if Coronado Investigations’ insurance covered Sevres smashed in the line of duty. She was still dazed from her unexpected battle with Blossom. Where was Arthur’s widow?

Facedown on the rug, not moving. Not good, Helen thought.

Phil was still holding the jar of cherries and laughing like a loon. “You mean it worked?” he said. “The bluff worked?”

“What bluff?” Helen said. “What’s so funny?”

“Blossom actually believed you were pouring poison in her manhattan,” Phil said. He couldn’t stop laughing.