Killer Blonde (6 page)

Minfreda found Vicki's purse and keys. She put on Vicki's pink coat, plus the head scarf and gloves she found in the pocket. She was glad it was a chilly night.

The security guard at the lobby door said, “Good night, Miss Vicki.”

Minfreda said nothing, which was typical Vicki. Her late boss didn't waste words on the hired help.

She drove Vicki's 1968 pink Mustang convertible. Minfreda longed to put the top down and feel the wind in her hair, but she didn't dare. She didn't want anyone looking at her too closely.

Vicki's home was in a subdivision with square houses on square blocks. It was pink, of course. Minfreda let herself in with Vicki's keys.

Inside, the place was a pulsating pink. The living room was pink and black, a sleek modern design that Minfreda liked. She thought it looked sophisticated.

The bathroom was pink, right down to the pom-pom poodle cover on the toilet paper.

The bedroom was a mad welter of pink ruffles—on the bedspread, the lamp shades, and the curtains. It was like walking into a live peony. All that throbbing color left Minfreda queasy, but the only thing she could find to soothe her stomach was Pepto-Bismol.

Minfreda kept on Vicki's pink gloves while she packed her boss's clothes, shoes, and makeup in three pink suitcases. She also took Vicki's checkbook and savings account passbook, plus three hundred in cash she found in Vicki's lingerie drawer when she packed up her clothes. She cut up the credit cards and left them on the kitchen table, along with the note she'd typed at the office. It was addressed to Vicki's sister.

Dear Val,
it said.
It's time you had a little fun. I won't be needing my Mustang convertible where I'm going.

That was certainly true. But Minfreda hoped Val believed her sister had taken off for Tahiti or Timbuktu. She also hoped that if Val got the Mustang, she wouldn't look too hard for Vicki.

The keys are on the kitchen table,
the letter said.
My rent is paid through the end of the month, and there's a first and last months' security deposit to cover any other expenses. Please give anything you don't want in the house to Goodwill.

Minfreda took an empty shopping bag, then locked up Vicki's house.

Fort Lauderdale has miles of canals. Minfreda drove to a deep-water canal and dropped the heavy suitcases off a bridge. She stood on the bridge, waiting to see if the luggage burst open and the clothes floated to the top. Her luck held, and so did the suitcases. They sank like concrete.

Minfreda neatly folded the pink coat, gloves, and scarf into the shopping bag and took a bus back to the office. It was midnight when she got to the company parking lot and slipped into her own car.

At eight the next morning, Minfreda put on the pink coat, scarf, and gloves one last time. She stopped at the bank and withdrew all Vicki's money. Minfreda planned to use the money to maintain her blonde hair. She would never be called “Mouse” again.

She dropped the pink coat, scarf, and gloves in an apartment Dumpster on the way to work. Minfreda tucked the pink bundle under an old carpet, which gave her a sense of completion.

Minfreda was at the office at 9:00
A.M
., looking refreshed and rested.

And why not? She'd gotten away with murder.

Suddenly, there was silence.

Helen realized it was not 1970. She was back in the present, sitting by the pool at the Coronado. Her wineglass was empty. Margery's cigarette glowed in the darkness, like an alien eye.

“That's it?” Helen said. “How did you know Vicki was dead? Or that Minfreda killed her? Did Minfreda confess?”

“Oh, no,” Margery said, refilling the glasses. “She never said a word.”

Helen felt woozy from the wine, and oddly cheated.

Margery seemed to read her mood. “This blonde got away with murder, remember? People who get away with crimes don't go around bragging that they killed someone.”

Right, Helen thought. I've been on the run for more than two years, and I haven't exactly announced it to the world. Even Margery doesn't know. Then Helen thought about the afternoon she'd caught her husband with their neighbor, Sandy, and how she'd picked up a crowbar and smashed her world. And I'd do it again.

Helen shrugged. “Makes sense that Minfreda wouldn't talk,” she said. “But how did you figure it out? Did you see her hit Vicki?”

“No, I missed the dramatic moment.” Margery stopped then, and her silence was louder than anything she'd said. Helen saw the slow burn of her cigarette. She wished she could see Margery's face.

“I put it together from the evidence I found,” her landlady said. “First, there was the resignation letter in Vicki's typewriter. I saw it when I got to the office the next morning. I knew there was something off about it. Vicki was a terrible typist.

“Minfreda, on the other hand, was excellent. She'd tried to type in a clumsy manner, but the letter looked like a good typist trying to be a bad one. She had a steadiness to her touch that bad typists don't have. The letter had to be Minfreda's work.

“I also found a shard of the
WORLD'S BEST BOSS
coffee cup under Vicki's desk. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Minfreda saw me do it, but said nothing.

“Plus my plastic typewriter cover was missing. And there was a dime-sized spot of blood on Vicki's desk. I wiped it up.”

Helen was shocked. “You removed evidence of a murder.”

“She could have had a nosebleed.” Margery blew smoke, which Helen thought was appropriate.

“The ripped-up carpet and the old curtains were in the back hall when I left work that night. The next morning I got there before the construction crew came on, but the curtains and a huge pile of debris were gone. The janitor didn't throw things down that chute. It wasn't his job.”

“No one reported that the trash was gone?” Helen said.

Margery gave one of her Seabiscuit snorts. “You can't steal trash. Dumping debris is hot, sweaty work. Who's going to complain because someone did his work for him?

“I talked to the night guard, Sam, and got some interesting information. Sam told me that Vicki left about twenty to nine, before the cleaners arrived. Sam was a fat old guy, who slept at his desk most nights, but he kept an eye on the pretty women.

“‘Queen Vicki was her usual snobby self,' he said. ‘Didn't bother saying good-night to me. I'm not important enough to notice—but she expects me to put my ass on the line for her if she's attacked.'

“‘That's Vicki all over,' I said. ‘But she sure likes to get noticed. Did you see those weird earrings she was wearing?'

“‘Can't say I did,' Sam said. ‘Her face was hidden by that big pink scarf, like she was Julie Christie avoiding her adoring fans.'”

Helen was confused. “What earrings?” she said.

“I made them up,” Margery said. “I wanted to see if Sam had really noticed her face. When he said that, I knew he didn't see Vicki leave. He saw her pink coat and scarf walk out the door.”

“That doesn't prove anything,” Helen said.

“There's more,” Margery said. “Sam told me Minfreda came back for her car at midnight, like it was big gossip. He couldn't wait to tell me that part. ‘That nifty little black suit was half-torn off her, too,' he said. He'd thought she'd had a hot date, the old lecher.”

“Date? That sounds like date rape,” Helen said.

“You're looking at it thirty years later,” Margery said. “Anyway, I knew for a fact Minfreda wasn't seeing anyone. That young woman was married to her job at the time. She tore her suit hauling Vicki's body.”

“That sounds reasonable. Maybe,” Helen said. “But how did you know some of that stuff, like that bit about the dropped pink high heel and Vicki's warm foot?”

“Oh, I made that up,” Margery said a little too quickly. “I don't really know if Minfreda talked to herself when she moved the body, but I know I would. Little details like that make a better story. So I added a few here and there.

“But if you insist on just the facts, ma'am, here's what I know for sure: Vicki was never seen dead or alive again. The cops may have bought the story that she sailed off into the sunset, but I didn't. Vicki was a corporate creature. An office was her natural habitat.

“Here's another fact: Minfreda was extra jumpy all that week. She haunted the back hall by the construction chute. She would stand there, pale as a ghost, staring down at that Dumpster, which got fuller each day. Lucky for her, it was a chilly week in Lauderdale.”

“Why was that lucky?”

Margery sighed. “Use your head, Helen. What do you think one hundred pounds of spoiled meat would smell like in hot weather?”

“Oh, yuck,” Helen said, when she thought about it.

“Minfreda didn't relax until the construction company carted away that Dumpster a week later. Then she was a different person. She smiled for the first time since Mr. Hammonds's stupid memo.

“One more thing: She never went near the back hall again.”

Helen's head was spinning, but she didn't know if it was from too much wine or too much information.

“How did the office react when Vicki didn't show up?”

“I was the first to know,” Margery said. “I found the letter in Vicki's typewriter. I took it and Minfreda's carbons straight to Mr. Hammonds's office. Francine read the letter, examined the carbons, and clucked, ‘Margery, I never did like that young person.'

“‘Me, either,' I said.

“‘No sense of responsibility,' Francine said. ‘What's she thinking, running off with her boyfriend like that? Mr. Hammonds gave her an opportunity no other woman at this company has ever had. Selfish, I call it. She makes all women look bad.'

“People talked that way then. You weren't a good or bad boss. You represented the entire sex.

“‘There's another deserving young woman here,' I reminded her.

“‘Yes, there is. And we must not forget those were really her ideas and that Vicki person misappropriated them,' Francine said. ‘We must right this wrong. Wait here, Margery, while I talk with Mr. Hammonds.' She went straight into the CEO's office. Francine was a determined woman, with a strong sense of what was fitting.

“I waited maybe half an hour. Then Francine came out. ‘Mr. Hammonds would prefer you say nothing about this until he makes a decision,' she said.

“‘I'll have to tell people something,' I said, ‘or the rumor mill will go crazy.'

“‘Then say that Vicki has taken an unscheduled leave of absence. That is the truth.'”

“Speaking of the truth,” Helen said. “Did you mention your doubts about the resignation letter?”

“They were doubts, not facts,” Margery said. “Mr. Hammonds didn't like anything that wasn't cut-and-dried.”

“And you liked Minfreda.”

“I did. I still do.

“Our department went through the motions for the next week. Everyone was asking me: Was Vicki gone for good? Was she still our boss or not? Everyone but Minfreda. She knew the answers, of course. She didn't ask me anything. She seemed curiously lifeless.

“The boys didn't know whether to wear black armbands or break out the champagne. They had the lip balm ready and were prepared for some career-saving smooching. But Vicki's posterior had vamoosed, and they weren't sure if Minfreda would be sitting on the departmental throne.

“Our CEO took his own sweet time deciding, too. Evaluation week was canceled for our department, but that made everyone even more nervous. It wasn't natural.

“Mr. Hammonds's announcement came the Monday after evaluation week. We found his memo on our desks first thing in the morning.

“It said that Vicki had resigned. Period. That was all on that unlovely subject. Then the memo said, ‘Because of her impressive record and innovative ideas,' Minfreda was our new division head and the head of our department.

“There was no explanation for why Vicki resigned and no mention that she'd stolen Minfreda's ideas. Mr. Hammonds couldn't admit that he'd made a mistake promoting Vicki. I had the feeling that Minfreda would always be a little tainted because of her connection with the episode. Not too tainted, though. Minfreda was now the highest-placed woman in the company.

“There were whoops of glee throughout our department. We were finally, officially, Vicki-free. ‘Congratulations, Minfreda, I knew you could do it,' Bobby said, though he knew nothing of the kind.

“‘I've been behind you one hundred percent,' said Irish Johnny. With his knife at her back.

“Jimmy just said, ‘Congratulations, blondie, you deserve it.' He was the most honest of the three boys.

“Oh, the celebration we had in Harper's bar that night. By rights, I should still have the hangover. Minfreda didn't join us. She was smiling but subdued.

“She moved into her new office the next day, and she looked like she'd been born behind that partners desk. That dark wood and burnt-orange walls made her golden hair into living fire.

“As one of her first acts, Vicki's pink office was dismantled. The purloined walls were removed, the pink shag carpet was thrown out, the window and its hijacked sunshine were restored to the whole department.

“The staff saw this decision as a sign that Minfreda really cared about office morale. I suspected she had other reasons. Now all trace of Vicki's reign—and her removal—was gone. But things were about to get sticky.”

“What happened?” Helen said.

“The cops showed up. And then Minfreda started acting strange.”

It was almost midnight. The moon rose white and cold.

Helen heard odd rustlings in the bushes near the pool, then a terrified squeak was cut short. South Florida was a strange, primordial place, freshly ripped from the swamps. Predators of all kinds abounded. What did anyone here know about their neighbors?

In Helen's hometown of St. Louis, everyone was connected in some way. One phone call, and Helen would know all about a man: where he went to high school, if his dad carried a briefcase or a lunch box to work, if his mom was a church lady, a lush—or both.

In south Florida, people have no families and no pasts. We are all freshly remade and newly hatched, Helen thought. Including me. Including Minfreda, who may or may not have been a murderer.

“It was nearly three weeks later when the police investigated Vicki's disappearance,” Margery said.

“Her sister, Val, called them after Vicki didn't show up for a birthday dinner. It was Vicki's birthday this time. Val and Vicki weren't close, but they never missed their birthdays. Val didn't even have a key to her own sister's house. The cops broke in Vicki's door and found the typed good-bye letter. Oddly, it was the letter that made Val suspicious.

“‘Vicki has never given me anything I've ever wanted,' her sister said. ‘She wouldn't give me that Mustang. She'd sell it and take the cash.'

“It was funny reasoning. The cops didn't buy it. But when Val told me, I thought it made sense. Remember, I got sent out to buy Val's birthday present.

“The police came here. I talked with a Detective Mowlby, I think it was. He had an odd name. He was very impressed with himself, but I wasn't impressed with him. He struck me as one of the boys in a trench coat.

“Mr. Hammonds, the CEO, showed the detective Vicki's resignation letter. Mowlby questioned everyone in the office, including me.”

“Did you tell the cops you suspected Minfreda?” Helen said.

“I told them what I knew for sure,” Margery said. “That Vicki was a lesbian and Chris was a woman.”

“What!” Helen nearly dropped her wineglass on the concrete.

“Sure. I saw them together at a restaurant in Miami.”

“But Vicki flirted with all the men.”

“Yes, she did. Vicki was what we used to call a lipstick lesbian. I don't know if that term is proper anymore. She was excessively feminine. She loved to lead men on. But she lost her heart to a woman with tattoos and a hairy lip.

“When I thought back to her stories about Chris, she'd never said ‘he.' And Vicki was so proud when Chris beat up the man who looked at her too long. That story made more sense when you understood that Chris was a woman.”

“But why was Vicki jealous of Minfreda and the attention she got from the men?”

“It wasn't about sex,” Margery said, as if she were talking to a large, slow child. “It was about power.

“After Detective Mowlby heard that, he was even less interested in digging. He confirmed that Vicki was a lesbian and had a lover named Christine. He confirmed that Christine had quit her job, closed out her bank accounts, and skipped town, leaving no forwarding address.

“Detective Mowlby figured Vicki and Chris took off for San Francisco or some equally open-minded place. Remember, people ran away from dull marriages and boring jobs a lot more in the sixties. It was an unstable time. Mowlby had more work than he could handle. Most of it was either hopeless or solved itself. The missing twenty-year-old daughter would usually turn up on her own, with VD and track marks, or she'd been living in some crazy commune. Either way, she'd want her middle-class life back, and in most cases Mommy and Daddy were more than happy to welcome her home.

“The detective told me that Vicki's bank accounts had been cleaned out by a blonde in a pink coat the morning after she wrote that letter. Her clothes, makeup, and purse were gone. He thought the letter giving her car and personal effects to her sister was a nice gesture. The detective said Vicki might have committed suicide—people often gave away their favorite possessions before they stepped off a bridge. Mowlby checked all the morgues and hospitals, and no blondes like her turned up.

“Val laughed at that idea. ‘Suicide?' she said. ‘Not a chance. My sister drove people to suicide, but she wouldn't take herself there.'

“Val called, wrote letters, and browbeat the cops. The detective went through the motions. He looked through Vicki's office files in our storage room and had her typewriter dusted, but didn't find any useful prints. Too many people had used it since Vicki left.”

“Left?” Helen said. “She was murdered. She was dropped headfirst down a Dumpster. Didn't you tell the police about the Dumpster and the broken coffee cup?”

“Coffee cups break all the time,” Margery said.

“But you found blood on Vicki's desk,” Helen said.

“One drop. Maybe she cut herself when she broke the coffee mug. Sure, I thought the rolled-up rug went down the Dumpster, but I had no proof a body was in there. I never looked.”

“You didn't want to look,” Helen said.

Margery shrugged. “If Detective Mowlby had asked me, I would have told him what I suspected, but he didn't bother. I was just a secretary. What did I know? Besides, the cops weren't looking for a killer. They knew the staff didn't like Vicki, but most people don't like their bosses. Mr. Hammonds's memo didn't mention that Vicki had stolen Minfreda's ideas. We all followed the CEO's lead. We didn't mention it, either.

“After a while, Val quit pushing the police and they quit asking questions. Val was thrilled to have that snappy little Mustang convertible. I don't think she missed her mean little sister much. I sure didn't.

“The way I figured it, if Vicki was buried in a landfill somewhere—and I didn't know that for sure—she brought it on herself.”

“So Vicki got the death penalty for stealing?” Helen wished she didn't sound so sanctimonious.

“No, she got it for attempted murder of a career, the worst possible corporate crime. That kind of killing has no recourse under the law, but it does irreparable damage. A smart, talented young woman would have been unemployable if Vicki had had her way—not that I'm saying Minfreda murdered that lying slimeball of a boss.”

Margery lit another cigarette. The yellow flame illuminated her face for just a minute. She was grinning, but I couldn't tell if she was laughing at me.

Helen sat in the heavy silence and wondered: Did Margery really add those details to make her story more realistic? Or did she actually touch that dead foot with the sad pink polish?

The dropped high heel . . . she could have made that part up, maybe. But the warm foot and the pink toenail polish sounded too real.

Helen could feel the hair go up on the back of her neck. It was midnight, and she was drinking white wine with a woman who'd helped a murderer get away.

Maybe I should be glad, Helen thought. Maybe if the cops come for me, Margery will help me escape, too.

No, that couldn't be right. Margery didn't see anything.

Okay, she was an accomplished snoop. Most good office managers were. Helen had seen some sterling examples at the Coronado. She could imagine her landlady loose in an office. Margery would enjoy her power over the confidential files. She'd like being wallpaper and watching the little personal dramas.

Margery had known there was going to be a confrontation that night. Did she sneak back to the office with some trumped-up excuse? Did she see a murder instead of a fight?

Did she watch, hidden behind a desk, while Minfreda moved the body—or did she help?

She remembered Margery's careful wording:
I missed the dramatic moment.
Not,
I didn't see any murder.

Did Margery miss the murder, but see the corpse? Was that why she knew those details?

Did she watch her battered boss go headfirst down the chute into eternity? Did she throw plaster and wallboard on Vicki's grave, instead of roses and dirt clods?

Your imagination is wilder than a college kid on spring break, Helen scolded herself. Margery is a law-abiding citizen. She's seventy-six years old.

But Helen saw her landlady on the chaise lounge in the silvery moonlight, smoking cigarettes and swilling wine, wearing sexy purple shoes. Margery was not your sweet old grandmother.

“Did you . . . .” Helen started to ask, Did you help move the body?

But the words died on her lips. Margery fixed her with a look that made Helen feel like a butterfly on a pin.

Margery wouldn't actually commit a murder, Helen decided. But she might keep silent if she approved. Margery might believe that old Southern defense, “She needed killing.” Margery didn't always believe in the law, but she always believed in justice. Justice said Minfreda should have had that job.

“Did I what?” Margery demanded.

Suddenly Helen was nervous. The moon gave the night a graveyard glow. I've been listening to spooky stories and scaring myself, Helen thought.

But she was never sure about Margery. She did know Margery was not fond of the police. Whenever possible, she solved the problems at the Coronado without calling the cops. There was some history there that Helen didn't understand.

“Did I what?” Margery demanded again, and Helen's last questions about Margery's role in the murder died in the cold moonlight.

“Did you find out why Chris, her lover, never came forward?” Helen said. “Maybe they really did run off together. Otherwise, why wasn't she looking for Vicki?”

“Because they'd had a fight right before Vicki's death and broke up,” Margery said. “Chris never wanted to see Vicki again. She said so. I knew that because Chris called her once. It was the only time she called Vicki at the office. I happened to pick up the wrong extension and heard them fighting.”

Right, Helen thought.

“When Vicki missed her own birthday dinner, Val called Chris looking for her sister. Chris knew she'd be the number one suspect if her lover was mysteriously missing, and the law was not kind to homosexuals. Chris really did take off for San Francisco. She lived happily ever after with another woman. I ran into the couple on a trip a few years ago.”

“Did you ever see any signs that Minfreda felt guilty about what she'd done?”

“Was she wracked with murderer's guilt?” Margery said. “No, not that I could tell. I think she was glad Vicki was gone. I certainly was. Our office was a better place without her.

“But the murder and the double promotion did make Minfreda crazy. She started believing she was all-powerful. Minfreda flirted outrageously with the boys. Really, it was shameful, and they were married men, too. I was disappointed in her behavior. I think she may have actually had an affair with Jimmy.

“She ignored the deserving women in our office, and even made fun of the hardest workers. Minfreda's pretty blonde head got fat on all that flattery.”

“It's almost as if, after killing Vicki, she turned into her,” Helen said.

“Maybe,” Margery said. “Or maybe all that gorgeous blonde hair went to her head. Or maybe she thought she could get away with anything.

“Minfreda forgot that hard work got her promoted. She started coming into the office late and leaving early. She took long, boozy lunches with Jimmy, Bobby, and Irish Johnny while the rest of us slaved at our desks. People were starting to say that she was no better than Vicki, and maybe a little worse.

“The last straw was when Minfreda started ordering me around like I was some kind of servant. I didn't mind picking up her dry cleaning and taking her shoes in for new soles. But one day she handed me her grocery list. She wanted me to do her shopping on my lunch hour. She was one of those nitpicky shoppers, too. ‘I want the Smuckers grape jelly in the six-ounce size, not the eight-ounce,' she told me. That kind of stuff can make you crazy. I wasn't going to put up with it.

“I went to the store, all right. I put one brown bag on her desk and said, ‘They were out of everything but this.'

“Minfreda opened the bag. Inside was a
WORLD'S BEST BOSS
coffee mug. A nice thick mug.

“Minfreda turned pale when she saw it. ‘Thank you, Margery,' she said. ‘That will be all for today.'

“That was all, period.

“Minfreda became a lot more polite to the women in the office. She stopped flirting with the men. She no longer went for three-hour lunches with the boys. Most days, when she didn't have a lunch meeting, she brown-bagged it at her desk. She stayed later and worked harder than all of us put together.

“Her behavior became perfectly professional. All in all, she was a good boss. We all liked her.

“She started dating nice men, on her professional level. The whole office chipped in and bought her a silver chafing dish when she married a corporate lawyer and moved to Arizona two years later. They had three children, all blondes. That's funny, when you consider Minfreda and her husband both had brown hair. I guess Mother Nature righted that wrong in the next generation. Last I heard, Minfreda was vice president of some accounting firm. She is well respected.

“Just like she was at our company, once she straightened up and started flying right. She was known to be a bit strict, but fair.

“Well, she did make one exception. I have to say, she treated me like a queen,” Margery said.

“But then, like all good secretaries, I knew where the bodies were buried.”