Killer Cuts: A Dead-End Job Mystery (36 page)

Y
ou’re the killer the cops are looking for, aren’t you?” Mar

gery asked.

Helen screamed at the sight of her landlady in the morning light. Margery was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing the Marlins cap Helen had swiped from Mireya’s bedroom. Margery had a crazed grin. The air around her glittered with anger. Cigarette smoke surrounded her like fire from an ancient sacrifice.

“I thought I’d rescue this from the trash, in case the police need it for evidence,” Margery said. “Those aren’t strawberry jelly spots on that cap, are they? Those are blood flecks from that poor little photog rapher.”

Helen felt dizzy, and grabbed the edge of the table. She’d crawled out of Margery’s guest bed feeling like she’d been slammed in the head with a shovel. Funny, she didn’t remember drinking that much wine last night. The three of them—Phil, Helen and Margery—had celebrated the departure of the crooked 2C renters. Helen had been happy when she’d fallen into Margery’s guestroom bed at two in the morning. She didn’t care that she’d missed supper.

This morning, she craved coffee.

“Don’t stare like a halfwit,” Margery said. “Answer me.Where did you get this hat? Is it off the dead girl?”

“No,” Helen said.”Her head was—”

“Her head was a bloody mess because she’d been beaten to death,” Margery said.”You were there, weren’t you?”

“How did you—?”

“How did I figure it out? I saw this morning’s
Sun-Sentinel.
”

Margery slapped the paper down on the table. Helen jumped.

“The police composite drawing of the ‘person of interest’ is on the front page,” her landlady said.”The witnesses got the height right, but the rest wrong.You don’t weigh two hundred pounds, and you’re not a man. But you did come home wearing a baseball cap for the first time in your adult life, and you sure as hell are no Marlins fan.That red mark on your upper lip was where you had the mustache, isn’t it? You think it’s funny to screw around with a crime scene?”

“No,” Helen said in a small voice. Her head was ringing from Mar gery’s lecture. She desperately needed coffee. She reached for the pot, but Margery stepped between Helen and the kitchen counter.

“No coffee until I get a straight answer.What were you doing yes terday?”

“I tried to save Mireya, but I was too late,” Helen said. “Phil and I drove to her town house. She was already dead when we got there, and her place was ransacked.There were neighbors all over the complex.We had to get out of there, so I disguised myself.”

“Did you find anything?” Margery asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I found the wedding tape. I think Mireya was blackmailing the killer and that’s why she was murdered.”

“Has Phil seen it?” Margery asked.

“He was getting the Jeep while I found the tape. I slipped it into my purse.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“We were too busy running for the highway.Then I forgot.”

“Oh, you forgot, did you?” Margery’s voice dripped sarcasm.”What a surprise that Phil doesn’t know about that tape. He’d go straight to the police and probably lose his license.We can at least save him from himself. I’ve got a VCR right here. Let’s take a look at that tape.”

“It won’t work in a regular player. It’s a MiniDV tape,” Helen said. “Do you have a camcorder that takes one?”

“No, but I think Peggy does.”

“She’s not home,” Helen said.

“Then we’ll go to her apartment and borrow it.”

“You just can’t walk into her place—”

“I can,” Margery said.”I have a key, remember? But I won’t. I’ll call her at work and ask first—not that breaking and entering would bother you. But Peggy has this wonderful invention called a cell phone.”

Margery punched a speed-dial number on her phone.”Peggy, is that you? Do you have a camcorder that takes MiniDV tapes? Can I use it? No, no, I don’t want to video anything. I want to look at a tape.The camcorder has a display screen, right? Good. I’ll look for it in the hall closet. Thanks.”

Margery hung up her phone.”Now you can have that coffee while I get the camcorder.”

Helen’s hands were shaking so badly, she poured herself a cup over the sink.The coffee had cooled by the time Margery returned, but her landlady was still boiling mad. Helen kept staring at the teal Marlins cap.

“What are you staring at?” Margery said.

“I’ve never seen you in any color but purple,” Helen said.

“I am wearing purple shorts,” Margery said.”But these teal caps are classics. They go for twenty-five bucks on Amazon and eBay.Too bad this one was ruined by blood. Now, get that tape.”

Helen fished it out of her purse. She was relieved when her landlady removed the ball cap and tossed it into the trash for the second time.

“Let’s make sure I don’t record over this.” Margery popped the tape in the camera and opened a three-inch display screen on the camcorder. A shot of Honey with her sister, Melody, fussing over the bride’s veil appeared.

“I think that was some of the first video Mireya took,” Helen said. “That’s in Honey’s bedroom.”

“Now, about when did the murder happen?” Margery asked.

“The last time anyone saw King alive was just before the toast by the best man.That would be almost an hour later.”

Margery fast-forwarded through endless views of the bride, the cer emony, and the receiving line. Finally, the camera was on a man holding a glass of champagne.

“Is that him?” Margery asked.

“Yes,” Helen said.

The camera swung toward the head table. Honey was smiling at her wedding party.The groom’s seat was empty, but Honey didn’t look worried.

Then the camera tilted. The next part was an out-of-focus jumble, before the camera settled on a blonde in a blue dress. She was arguing with King.They stood by the edge of the pool. Helen could see a closeup of a blue star on her back. King’s hair was plastered to his forehead, and he swayed as he talked. His back was to the pool. His face was red and sweating. The blonde gestured angrily and waved her arms. King laughed. It sounded harsh, even with the tinny camcorder speakers.

The blonde pushed him, and King toppled into the pool with a tre mendous splash. He thrashed in the water, clearly panicked.The blonde backed away to keep from getting wet. King managed to grab the pool edge with one hand.The blonde stomped on his hand.

King screamed and fell back into the water. The blonde watched him struggle. Blood trailed in the water from his damaged hand. The blonde turned her back on King and walked away. Helen could see her clearly.That was Phoebe.

The camera stayed trained on the man’s struggles, until King went quiet and floated facedown.Water ballooned out the jacket of his ugly tux, and he slowly sank to the bottom.

“He’s dead. Phoebe killed him,” Helen said.”But Mireya is guilty, too. She watched him die when she could have saved him. No wonder she didn’t go to the police.This video is proof Miguel Angel is not guilty. I could enjoy my wedding a lot more if I knew he was in the clear.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Margery said.

“I’m going to talk with Phoebe.”

“Alone! Are you nuts?” Margery said.

“Nope, I’m not going alone.You’re driving me.You don’t have to come in.You can wait in the car.”

“Like hell I will,” Margery said. “Who do you think you are, the Lone Ranger? Even he had Tonto.”

“Okay,
Kemo Sabe,
will you drive me to Phoebe’s condo?”

“Where does she live?”

“Near Commercial and Bayview in north Lauderdale,” Helen said.

“Ritzy neighborhood for an assistant hairdresser,” Margery said. “How does she afford it?”

“I don’t think it’s from salon tips,” Helen said.

“Do you have that Hendin Island homicide detective’s card?” Mar gery asked.

Helen found it in the bottom of her purse. “He’s in the Crimes Against Persons Unit and his name is Richard McNally.”

“Good. If anything goes wrong, I’ll call him on my cell phone.”

It was a tense half-hour ride to Phoebe’s condo. Helen was glad Margery drove a big car. She hugged the door, but there still wasn’t room for the two of them and Margery’s anger.

Phoebe lived in a ten-story pink condo on the Intracoastal Wa terway, with an ocean view from the upper floors.The view from the street was not as picturesque. The lawn and circular drive were piled with wood and rusting metal. The fountain and flowers were hidden by a noisy generator and a Dumpster overflowing with construction material. One-third of the building had a skeleton of scaffolding. Metal stages, like those used by window washers, hung at the seventh and third floors. Brown-skinned men with jackhammers tore at the con crete balconies and shouted at one another in Spanish.

“Are they building this place or tearing it down?” Helen asked.

“I’m guessing they’re replacing the rebar,” Margery said. “That’s the ridged steel bars used in reinforced concrete. This salty ocean air destroys them. When the rebar goes bad, it has to be removed, then replaced and new concrete poured over it. These condo owners are looking at monster assessments. Do you know what unit she lives in?”

“Seven-seventeen,” Helen said.

“How are you going to get up there? Most condo elevators require special keys. I see a security guard.”

“He’s reading a magazine,” Helen said. “If this condo has a big as sessment, buyers are going to be hard to find, right? What if I say I’m getting married and I’m looking at a condo for sale.”

“Finally, you have a smart idea.” Margery parked the Lincoln in a guest spot and waved at the guard, who stayed engrossed in his maga zine. “There are always places for sale in these big buildings. Let’s look around the grounds first.”

They followed a path to the fenced pool, which jutted out over the Intracoastal. A crooked palm tree cast a grudging circle of shade on the concrete deck. Only one woman was out by the pool. She’d dragged her towel-draped chaise longue into the shade circle.The blonde, wear ing a red bikini, was lying on her belly. Her bra clasp was undone to avoid a tan line on her back.The star tattoo was visible.A plastic water bottle the size of an oxygen tank sweated next to the chaise, along with a pair of black heels. Were those the same shoes that killed King’s last hope of rescue?

“I think that’s Phoebe by the pool,” Helen whispered. “I’m going to talk to her.”

“Don’t let her back you into that pool,” Margery said. “She’s dan gerous.Take a weapon.”

“Like what?” Helen said. She could hardly hear Margery over the stutter of the jackhammers.

“That purse you have looks pretty hefty. Hit her with that. And carry this.” She handed Helen a two-foot section of rusty rebar.

Helen slid the rebar into her purse so only a small piece stuck out, then strolled toward the pool gate. The jackhammers suddenly went silent as Helen opened the gate. She stood over Phoebe’s chaise. The sun-roasted killer seemed to be asleep.

“Phoebe!” Helen said in the deafening silence.

Phoebe sat straight up and grabbed her bra to cover her bare breasts.

“Nice to see you again,” Helen said, sitting in a deck chair next to her. “Florida unemployment must pay well if you can afford this luxu rious condo. Did King buy this, or have you found someone else to blackmail?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Phoebe said. Her voice was cold enough to chill the pool.

“Of course you do,” Helen said. “You pushed King into his own pool, then stomped his hand when he tried to crawl out.You watched him drown.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Sure you do.”

“Prove it.” Phoebe was a study in sunburned defiance.

“I have the wedding video,” Helen said. “You have a star part in King’s life and death.”

“You never did make sense,” Phoebe said.

“I mean the star tattoo on your back. It was in the newspaper ads when you danced at King’s strip club.”

Phoebe turned her back and said,”There’s no tattoo there.”

“Sure there is. It’s on your—”

Phoebe grabbed a high heel, swung around abruptly and aimed for Helen’s eye. The bikini top fell on the pool deck. Helen ducked and caught the blow on her head. Something warm dripped down her forehead, but Helen was too furious to notice. She swung her leather purse and knocked Phoebe flat onto the chaise. Phoebe took a second swing at Helen, using the hefty water bottle as a bat. Helen dodged it and nearly fell into the pool. She carefully backed away, anxious to avoid the water.

Helen reached for the rebar in her purse and swung the rusty metal at Phoebe’s smooth, tanned legs. She connected, leaving a long, nasty scrape. Phoebe screamed, but no one heard her over the pounding jack hammers. She picked up the chaise and threw it at Helen. Helen easily sidestepped it.Waving the rebar like a sword, Helen aimed for Phoebe’s ankles, trying to drive her away from the pool.

Phoebe leaped up on an umbrella table.The table tipped under her weight. Phoebe hung by the umbrella pole, six feet over the brown, polluted Intracoastal.

Helen whapped Phoebe’s fingers with the rebar.The bare-breasted killer screamed and dropped straight into the dirty water. Phoebe splashed around, then swam to the condo’s concrete seawall and tried to climb out. Margery was there with a tire iron.

“Put one finger on that concrete before the cops get here and I’ll smash it to pieces,” Margery said.

Helen heard the wail of sirens and felt dizzy with relief. She put her hand to her forehead. It was red with blood. Black spots formed at the edge of her vision, and she swayed in the heat.

“Don’t you dare faint, Helen Hawthorne,” Margery yelled.”Are you a woman or a wuss?”