Murder With Reservations (17 page)

Mulruney left her alone while she wrote, but he didn’t go away. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, laughing with Sondra. Helen labored over her statement as if it could save her life. She wrote, rewrote, crossed out and added words, then tore up the whole statement and started from scratch. She tried to say only the truth, and she did. But not the whole truth.

Helen signed and dated her statement and wished she had a lawyer. She’d betrayed poor Rhonda. She didn’t say anything about the plane ticket. She didn’t mention the man who gave Rhonda that fifty.

Except no one had seen the dream lover. He didn’t exist. He couldn’t exist. Rhonda never said his name. All Helen had was a vague schoolgirl description: He was handsome and he listened to Rhonda.

Maybe if I’d listened harder, I’d know something useful, she thought.

But there was nothing to know. Sam the biker was the only man in Rhonda’s life, and he was a taker, not a giver.

Poor Rhonda had cracked under the strain of her dreary life. She’d cleaned one too many honeymoon suites and created her own personal romance novel, starring a handsome hunk who wanted to carry her away to a castle by the sea. He was a fantasy man for a fantasy life. He existed only in Rhonda’s lonely mind.

But telling herself that didn’t make Helen feel better. Her pulse pounded out another message: He’s real. He’s a real killer.

She saw Rhonda’s body in the trash, a pathetic tangle of lank hair and stick limbs. Rhonda didn’t deserve that death. She was a good woman. Or was she? What did Helen really know?

Only this: If she was going to live with herself, Helen would have to prove Rhonda’s dream lover didn’t exist.

W
hat about those two?” Phil said. Helen and Phil were playing their favorite game: Who Are You? To play, they picked out people and tried to make deductions about them. It was Phil’s turn this afternoon. He pointed to a couple in the restaurant, the Blue Moon Fish Co. There were half a dozen like them at nearby tables. The Blue Moon was a romantic spot on the Intracoastal Waterway near a drawbridge. The bridge was an improbable face-powder pink, the water was Crayola blue, and the yachts were white. Phil was another picture—tan and lean, with his dazzling white hair pulled back in a swashbuckling ponytail. He got admiring looks from the women and a few from the men, including their waiter. “Two for one?” Helen said.

“It’s only fair, considering where we’re lunching,” Phil said. The Blue Moon was famous for its two-for-one lunches.

Helen studied the pair at the next table. The woman was blond, about thirty-five and exquisitely turned out. The man was a vigorous fifty-something with silver hair that looked sculpted. They held hands and gazed into each other’s eyes, then laughed and talked in hectic spurts.

“What do you think of her?” Helen said. She was picking through a huge crock of mussels in white wine. Phil had the salmon gravlax.

“Basic blond Barbie, getting a little long in the tooth,” he said, neatly forking a piece of salmon on his bread, then packing it with onions and capers. The tomato sat untouched. “Not much else I can say.”

A horn blared, the call for the drawbridge to go up. Tall yachts and sailboats bobbed and circled while they waited for the bridge. Helen was fascinated; a whole street was moving out of the way for the whims of the rich.

She tore off a chunk of focaccia, smeared it with roasted garlic and dipped it in olive oil. She noticed the blonde left the luscious bread untouched. The woman had superhuman powers. Helen watched her remove a morsel of yellowtail snapper with surgical precision and slowly chew it.

“There’s plenty that I can say,” Helen said. “They’re dating. That’s a no-brainer. She’s hoping for another marriage.”

“How do you know about the first?” Phil said.

“She’s taken off a ring on her left hand recently. She still has a tan line,” Helen said.

“Good,” Phil said, packing more salmon with capers and onions.

“She’s not a gold digger,” Helen said. “But she wouldn’t mind a man with money.”

“Where do you get that idea, Sherlock?”

“She’s high maintenance,” Helen said. “That’s a salon pedicure and wax job on her legs.”

“Nice legs,” Phil said, staring at them a little too long.

“Ah-hem,” Helen said. “If I can continue. Those sandals are this season’s and cost at least two hundred bucks. The clothes are expensive and up-to-the-minute. But her face doesn’t have quite the hardness of a real gold digger’s. My guess is she’s trying to make a quick strike before her money runs out, but she’s a tad desperate.”

“Why is that?” Phil folded a slightly too large slice of pink gravlax and somehow got it in his mouth.

“She’s laughing a little too hard at his jokes,” she said.

“He’s laughing at hers,” Phil said. “Not so loudly. She’s a little shrill and her laughter’s forced.”

“Very nice,” Phil said. “What about him?”

Helen pried the meat out of a mussel while she studied the man with the sculpted hair. “Typical middle-aged guy dating a woman twenty years younger.” She dismissed him with a shrug. “South Florida is crawling with men like him.”

“You see, Watson, but you do not observe,” Phil said. “I would say he’s also divorced and on the prowl. Look at his belt. See where those two notches are worn and he’s set it back on a new notch? That means he’s lost weight—twenty to thirty pounds. When a man his age has a sudden weight loss, he’s usually newly divorced or having an affair. This guy’s not wearing a ring and there’s no tan line on his ring finger.”

“Lots of married men don’t wear rings,” Helen said.

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t be flirting with a woman so openly at the Blue Moon, even on an out-of-town trip. The place is too popular. It’s easy to run into someone from back home who would tell his wife.”

“Good deduction,” Helen said. “What else?”

“He looks firm and toned despite the weight loss, so I’m guessing he works out at a gym or possibly has a personal trainer. Judging from his tan and his nails, I’d say he’s connected with some type of construction.”

“Where did you get that?” Helen said. “What’s unusual about his nails?”

“That’s a manicure,” Phil said. “Most guys his age get clear polish when they have a manicure. He didn’t. I’m guessing he doesn’t want the construction crew to see him wearing nail polish. He’d lose their respect. But he’s a boss or meets with big-money types, and they’ll look at his nails. So he gets a manicure, but that’s his compromise—no polish. Also, his tan is not from a salon. The back of his neck is too red. He’s outdoors a lot.”

“Good theories,” Helen said. “Too bad you can’t prove them.”

“Watch this,” Phil said.

He stood up and went to the tan man. “Excuse me, but didn’t I meet you at the American Home Builders Convention in Chicago? You’re Bill Donnelly.”

“You got the wrong guy, buddy, but the right industry,” the tan man said in a booming voice. His blond companion smiled adorably. “I build homes up the road in Boca.” He took out his card. “Here. If you and your lady friend are in the market for a good deal on a custom-built luxury home, you come see me.”

“Thanks,” Phil said.

“You win,” Helen said when he got back to the table. “I’ll buy the next round of drinks. Any more deductions?”

The lunches were two for the price of one. The wine was not. Helen was about to drink half a day’s pay. It should have bothered her, but it didn’t. It was odd, but the less money she had, the more she didn’t care about it.

Phil waited until the waiter brought their wine. “I’ve made one more deduction,” he said. “I know something is wrong, Helen. Don’t lie to me. You’re nearly frantic trying to hide it from me. I love you. Please tell me what it is. Is it your ex-husband? The murder at the hotel?”

Helen didn’t know how to say it was both. She didn’t want another “I can fix it” lecture about Rob. Phil didn’t know Rob was at her hotel and she couldn’t tell him. She was afraid Phil would go straight there and make a guy scene.

Helen looked up and saw the waiter. She’d never been so happy to see a man with a dessert menu. “Did we save room for dessert?” he said. “We have our icky, sticky caramel tart with Chunky Monkey ice cream, or crunchy-top creme brulee, or some very evil chocolate.”

Helen wanted to discuss the delicious desserts in intimate detail—anything to avoid the unappetizing can of worms Phil had just opened. But he was too quick. Before Helen could answer, Phil said, “Could you give us a minute, please?”

Could you give us a month? Or a year? She watched the waiter’s back disappear in the crowd, with the longing of a castaway watching a rescue ship sail by. Helen was all alone. She had to give Phil something. She settled for a small slice of the truth. “It’s Rhonda. That detective came back to talk to me again about her murder.”

“What kind of questions did he ask?” Phil said.

“Pretty standard ones, mostly: When did I last see her? How long did I know her?”

“What wasn’t standard?” Phil’s voice was sharp.

“The detective also wanted to know about a counterfeit fifty he found in her wallet.”

“Just one bill, or was there a stack of bad money in her effects?”

“One bill,” Helen said. “At least, from what I can tell.”

“You’ve got a good detective,” Phil said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I thought you had another retired cop from up north who took a cushy job with a small force,” Phil said. “But this one actually found a funny fifty. I don’t mean to put the police down, but most wouldn’t notice that fifty when they did a property inventory unless it was fairly low quality. Bad money usually goes right by your average copper.”

“I saw the bill,” Helen said. “Looked normal to me. I’m no expert, but at least it had President Grant on it.”

“Then the detective probably spotted some flaw he noticed in a flyer from the Secret Service. He’s sharp,” Phil said.

Helen’s heart sank. This was not what she wanted to hear. She’d thought Detective Mulruney was bored the first time she met him. Did she read him wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time. Her track record with the male species was not good.

“What else did he ask about the money?” Phil said.

Distract him, she reminded herself. “Why would the Secret Service care about a bad fifty? Aren’t they the president’s men?”

“They’re also charged with investigating funny money,” Phil said. “Maybe your detective got stuck with a bad bill himself. If there’s counterfeit money involved, someone definitely had a motive to kill that woman, especially if she paid for something with bad money.”

Phil was way too interested. Helen didn’t want him poking around the hotel, where he might run into Rob. That sharp detective would certainly notice Phil.

Think, she told herself. She had to ask Phil for some help, but keep him far away from Rob. Then she had an idea. “I need your help, Phil.” Helen’s voice shimmered with sincerity. “I lied to the police and now I feel guilty. Well, it wasn’t a lie, really. More like an omission.”

Like what I’m doing now, she thought.

“I didn’t tell the detective about Rhonda’s rich, handsome lover. I didn’t believe he was real. I still don’t. But I need to know for sure. Did Rhonda really have another lover? I’ve closed off that part of the police investigation by not saying anything, and I don’t feel right about it. Rhonda’s killer has to be found. He treated her with such contempt. I saw her body. He beat up that poor woman and then threw her away.”

Helen’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t know who she was crying for. “You could put my mind at ease if you’d tell me there is no dream lover.”

“And if there is?” Phil asked.

The waiter was at their table again. “Have you decided?” he said.

“Yes,” Helen said. The waiter stood there, pen poised.

“I’ll go to the police and let the chips fall.”

H
elen woke up in Phil’s arms. The sun was shining low through her bedroom window. She checked the bedside clock. Five in the afternoon. Now that was how to spend a day—a long, wet lunch followed by a lazy session of love.

Phil was still asleep. She studied his eyelashes. Not too long and girlie, but not short and bristly like a doormat. He had strong eyelashes, if that was the right word.