Killer Blonde (8 page)

“The situation is too volatile at this stage in the negotiations,” Nancie said.

“May I go home now?” Trish said. “In case Mort's there with Justine?”

“Of course,” Nancie said. “You can count on Helen and Phil to handle Justine's return discreetly.”

“Our divorce has already had too much publicity,” Trish said.

The PI pair waited until the front door closed before they attacked the bagels in the conference room and carried their plates to the table.

“Is this case for real?” Phil asked, then bit into a garlic bagel slathered with onion cream cheese.

“Very real,” Nancie said. “I know you'd rather have a nice clean murder or civil suit. I don't usually take divorces, but Trish and her family are good clients. Pet custody and visitation rights are the hottest area of the law right now.”

“But it's ridiculous,” Phil said.

“Not to Mort and Trish Barrymore. If you think they're hard to take, you won't believe the Laniers of Tennessee,” she said. “When they split, the wife said she deserved custody of the dog because she kept it away from ill-bred bitches—her words—and made sure the dog went to a weekly ladies' Bible class.”

“Was it a lady dog?” Phil asked.

“I have no idea,” Nancie said sharply. “Mrs. Lanier wouldn't let anyone drink around the dog. Mr. Lanier said he deserved custody because he taught the dog how to ride on the back of his motorcycle and never drank beer around him. The court gave the couple joint custody. Each spouse got the dog six months at a time.”

“I would have bought the dog a beer and given him to someone who wasn't so crazy,” Phil said.

Helen saw a frown crease Nancie's forehead. She was running out of patience. “Let's go pick up Justine,” Helen said. “What's Mort's address?”

“Forty-two Peerless Point,” Nancie said. “Mort and his cat are rattling around in eight thousand square feet of prime waterfront real estate. Call me as soon as you get Justine.”

Helen and Phil made the trip in twenty minutes, slowed by morning rush-hour traffic. Peerless Point was an enclave of historic waterfront homes. Mort's estate was hidden behind a ten-foot white stucco fence. Phil punched in the code and the ornate wrought-iron gates swung open.

“Wow,” Helen said. “This looks like a silent screen star's house.” The two stucco wings were perfectly balanced by a series of arches: arched windows, an arched portico draped with red bougainvillea, and a white arched door.

The pale rose brick drive wound through a sculpture garden. They drove past time-weathered marble statues of gods and angels.

“Mort's at home,” Phil said. “At least his red Ferrari is. It's parked under the arches.”

Helen parked behind it and they walked carefully to the front door.

Phil had the door keys out, but Helen tried the massive wrought-iron handle.

“It's open,” she said. “What's the dark red puddle on the doorstep? Paint?”

Phil kneeled down for a closer look, but the coppery smell and clouds of flies gave them their answer. He peered inside.

“It's Mort,” he said. “He's dead.”

Elaine Viets
has actually worked many of those dead-end jobs in her mystery novels, just like her character Helen Hawthorne. She is also the author of the Josie Marcus, Mystery Shopper series and numerous short stories. Elaine has won an Anthony Award and an Agatha Award. She lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, with her husband, reporter Don Crinklaw.