Checked Out (3 page)

H
elen flew straight down the Coronado stairs and slammed into a young man.

Oof!

She caught flashes of curly black hair and a well-stretched black T-shirt before they tumbled onto the sidewalk.

She heard Phil clattering down the steps after her. “Helen!” he called. “Are you hurt?”

Helen sat stunned on the sidewalk, the breath knocked out of her, unable to answer.

The man she’d run into was definitely breathtaking. Helen guessed he was Latino and in his late twenties. He had smoldering romance-cover good looks, until he smiled at her. That was no sultry-surly pout. He seemed too good-humored.

“Are you okay?” Helen asked him. “I’m so sorry. I have to deliver a contract and I was rushing to my car.”

“Not your fault,” he said, standing up. “I should have been watching where I was going.” Helen caught a trace of an accent. Cuban?

Phil was at her side, but the unknown hunk held out his hand
and helped Helen up before her husband could. “You’re hurt,” the man said.

Helen brushed off her skirt. “Just a skinned knee,” she said. “That should make me look younger. About eight years old.”

He smiled at her. “I’m Markos Martinez,” he said. He shook her hand and held it until Phil cleared his throat. Helen had forgotten her husband was standing next to her.

With a vivid swish of purple fabric and a swirl of cigarette smoke, Margery Flax, the Coronado’s landlady, materialized next to Markos. Margery was seventy-six, with a swingy, gray bob and a face full of wrinkles. They seemed more like marks of achievement than signs of age.

“I see you ran into our new resident, Helen,” she said. “Markos is moving into the downstairs apartment that Cal the Canadian used to rent.

“Markos, this is my prize pair of private eyes, Helen Hawthorne and Phil Sagemont. They live here on the first floor and their office, Coronado Investigations, is upstairs in 2C.”

Phil shook the newcomer’s hand. “Martinez,” Phil said. “Any relation to Marcos Martinez, the Spanish race car driver?”

“Only that we both drive too fast,” Markos said, and grinned. “I have a common Cuban name. My family’s been here since the Mariel boat lift in 1980. I was born in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Can we help you move in?” Phil asked.

“Thanks, but I’m already moved in,” Markos said. “The apartment was furnished, and all my belongings fit in the trunk of my car. It was easy. All I had to do was carry in some clothes, books and my laptop.”

“I’ve been giving Markos the grand tour,” Margery said.

She waved her Marlboro like a wand at her kingdom, the Coronado Tropic Apartments. The harsh Florida sun brought out the best in the art moderne building: the swooping iceberg white curves,
fresh turquoise trim and the sapphire swimming pool. The two-story L-shaped apartments were set around the pool, and shaded by palms and broad green-leaved elephant ears. Ruffled purple bougainvillea spilled around the pool. The walkways were a triumphant imperial purple march of impatiens and spiky salvia.

“I can’t believe apartments built in 1949 are so beautifully preserved,” Markos said. “I’m lucky to live here.”

“We just finished an extensive renovation,” Margery said.

Our landlady didn’t mention that the Coronado had almost been torn down because the repairs were so expensive, Helen thought. Maybe some night when we’re drinking wine around the pool we can tell Markos the full story.

“Are you interested in architecture, Markos?” Phil asked.

“A little,” he said. “I like to know my city. But I’m really interested in food service. I’m working on my bachelor’s degree in restaurant food and beverage management at Reynolds-White College.”

“Impressive,” Phil said.

“The one in Fort Lauderdale?” Helen asked.

“You’ve heard of it?” Markos asked. “Are you a foodie?”

“Uh, I like to eat,” Helen said. “But I’m not much of a cook.”

“Reynolds-White has a four-year program,” he said. “But I want to know the restaurant business inside and out. I’m also a waiter at Fresh and Cool. They specialize in low-calorie healthy food.”

“I love that place,” Helen said.

She saw Phil’s face was a frozen mask of politeness. My man loves those evil-looking orange chips and other unnatural foods, she thought. He thinks ketchup is a vegetable.

“You can tell us all about it at tonight’s sunset salute around the pool,” Margery said, “when you can meet the rest of the menagerie.”

“Good,” Markos said. “I’ll make my special mojitos and bring
the appetizers. I’ll make kale chips and gluten-free taco wraps stuffed with lentils.”

“Can’t wait till sunset,” Helen said, “but I have to deliver that contract now.”

“Kale chips?” Phil said, as if trying out the words for the first time.

Helen figured he’d probably never said that phrase before.

H
elen didn’t like the Coakleys, but she admired their home. It was in Peerless Point, a small, rich community that bordered Fort Lauderdale.

Between Peerless Point and Flora Park, I’m definitely working the area’s extravagant side, she thought. No mean streets for this PI.

The Coakleys’ winding pink-paved drive, lined with red hibiscus hedges, ended at a three-tiered fountain in a cool green garden.

Helen parked the Igloo in front of the white coral rock mansion. Creatures from long-vanished seas were etched in its surface. Millions of years ago, they were laboring for the Coakleys’ pleasure.

The pale front door was sheltered under a pillared portico. Ashler Coakley met Helen at the door. A thin, generic blonde in her forties, she was expertly exercised and exquisitely nipped and tucked. Helen had seen dozens of women like her in the society pages, clinging to their wealthy husbands’ arms, smiling tentatively. Ashler had brought up the Coakley daughters and run the vast household, but now that the daughters were nearly grown,
she had no job security. Amis could replace her with a younger, thinner blonde, and she knew it.

“Helen,” she said. “Good of you to stop by. Have you found the necklace?”

“We’re hot on the trail,” Helen said. “I’m glad Chloe’s home and can see me.”

“She’s on the terrace. I’ll take you there.” Ashler gave Helen a Stepford wife smile, and her heels pattered across the vast, white marble floors. Helen followed her through a living room and dining room so white she was nearly snow-blind by the time they reached the terrace. It opened out onto a hundred-foot deepwater dock and a spectacular view of the Intracoastal Waterway.

Chloe was blond like her mother, but she looked bored instead of eager to please. She was stretched out on a blue-striped chaise, wearing a bikini. Helen sat in the matching striped chair across from her.

“Would you like something to drink?” Ashler said, running her hands through her hair. “Ana can bring iced tea, coffee. . . .” Her voice trailed off and she turned to her daughter. “Honey, anything for you?”

“More iced tea,” Chloe said, as if addressing a servant.

“Ice water, thank you,” Helen said.

Chloe and Helen talked about the weather until the housekeeper, a generously built Latina in her fifties, bustled in with the drinks and a plate of cookies. Chloe ignored Ana. Helen thanked her and received a dazzling smile.

When they were alone, Chloe said, “Sorry about that. Mom fusses.”

“That’s what mothers do,” Helen said.

Chloe shrugged, and the bikini bra quaked. “Are you really a private eye?” she asked and sipped her iced tea.

“Class C license,” Helen said. “My partner, Phil—you talked with him last time—is also a detective.”

“He’s hot,” Chloe said.

“He’s my husband,” Helen said, marking her territory. “We work together.”

“That’s so cool. You and your husband are, like, equals. My mom doesn’t work,” Chloe said.

Helen decided to forgo the lecture about women working in the home.

“All Mom and her friends do is play bridge and go to lunch and now they’re old.”

Old, Helen thought. My age. Maybe.

“I don’t want that to happen to me,” Chloe said. “I’d rather die than live like her. Being a private eye must be exciting.”

Helen heard that all the time. “It’s not like TV,” she said. “I spend a lot of time sitting in a car.”

“Do you drive a Porsche?”

“You have been watching TV,” Helen said. “I drive a white PT Cruiser.”

“Boring,” Chloe said.

“I need a car that blends in,” Helen said. “Porsches are too flashy. That’s what a good private eye does—blends in so she can tail people. I don’t want to be noticed, and I can’t do too many car chases with a four-cylinder engine.”

“Ew. That’s like a . . . Neon.” The private eye profession was quickly losing its romance.

“My computer’s fast,” Helen said. “I do a lot of research on the Internet.”

“I’m good at Snapchat, Pheed, Tumblr, Instagram, Twitter, Vine and Vimeo,” Chloe said.

“All useful,” Helen said. “There are social media investigators. You’d be surprised what people put on Facebook.”

“I can do Facebook,” Chloe said, “but only old people use it.”

Ouch, Helen thought.

“Do you have a gun?” Chloe asked. Helen got that question a lot, too.

“I’d need a Class G license to carry a weapon,” Helen said. “To get your PI license, you’ll need to take a certification exam and you’ll probably have to work as an intern, which won’t pay much. But once you get your license, it’s a good job.”

“How much do you make?” Chloe asked.

“Enough,” Helen said. “Phil and I live where we want and we can afford what we want.” She didn’t add that a big house or a housekeeper were out of their price range.

“Am I old enough to start now?” she asked.

“Not quite. You have to be twenty-one in Florida. You’re eighteen, right? And your sister, Bree, is twenty-one.”

“Bree.” Chloe snorted. “She gets everything. My parents think she’s perfect. She got a better birthday party than I did. Just because she’s three years older.” Red resentment flared in her eyes.

There’s no mistake this time, Helen thought. Chloe is definitely jealous of her older sister.

“Now that I’m eighteen, my parents said they’d get me VIP tickets to the next Ultra Music Festival in Miami.”

“Impressive,” Helen said. “Those tickets are, like, what—eleven hundred for a three-day pass?”

Like? she thought. Did I just say
like
?

“Eleven hundred forty-nine,” Chloe said. “They spent thousands on Bree’s birthday party and got her a new Beemer and a diamond-and-ruby necklace. I’m still driving Mom’s old silver Acura and they think they can buy me some cheap tickets and I’ll be happy. I’ll get my own.”

“Can you afford them?” Helen asked. “Is your allowance that good?”

“My allowance barely covers my clothes,” she said.

And your clothes barely cover you, Helen thought. She wished
Chloe would put on a cover-up or a T-shirt. She wished her chair faced the water instead of Chloe’s nearly naked body.

“I wanted a boob job but they said no. All the girls in my class got boob jobs at sixteen, but Mom wouldn’t let me.”

Helen knew that outrageous statement was true. Big breasts were replacing the traditional sixteenth birthday gift of a new car. She felt sorry for Chloe, who maybe wasn’t so different from her mother after all.

“You need brains, not boobs, to be successful,” Helen said. “But if you’re making enough money to buy eleven-hundred-dollar tickets, you must be successful.”

“I’m a partner with my boyfriend,” she said. “We work together, sort of like you and Phil.”

Helen recognized an opening. “Do you have a job?”

“Not a
job
job, where we wear stupid uniforms and say, ‘Do you want fries with that?’ But we’re partners. Last Friday we made two hundred dollars.”

“Impressive,” Helen said. “That’s more than I made last Friday.”

“We can make a couple hundred every weekend,” Chloe said. “More during spring break and in the summer, when school’s out.”

“Sounds interesting,” Helen said. “What do you two do?”

“I can’t tell you without his permission. I promised,” Chloe said.

“Is it legal?” Helen asked.

“What he does is legal,” Chloe said.

Why did she word that so carefully? Helen wondered.

“You could guess, but you’ll never figure it out.” Bree’s little sister liked to play games.

Helen tried a lie. “This is probably old-school,” she said, “but I used to sell things my mom stashed in the back of the cabinet—old silver and stuff that she never used. She never missed it. I sold it at a pawnshop.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose. “Pawnshops are so gross. I only go in one if I’m with my boyfriend. He bought a ukulele at one,
some kind of collectible. I wouldn’t touch anything in those places. They’re dirty.”

“I can see that,” Helen said. She let the silence stretch, until Chloe couldn’t contain her curiosity.

“I can’t tell you what we do until I check with him,” Chloe said. “But I’ll give you three clues: Rex, Crown, Jewel. Meet us there at nine o’clock any weekend night and you’ll know.”

She gave Helen a sly smile. I’m not getting anything else out of her, she thought, and I have to get to the library. Time to finish this. “I stopped by to ask: Who do you think took your sister’s necklace?”

“Bree did,” Chloe said. She didn’t hesitate. “She took the necklace. I bet she sold it at a pawnshop. She’ll keep the money and get all that attention. My parents were boo-hooing with her. She eats that stuff up.”

“You don’t think anyone at the party took it?” Helen said.

“A necklace with a big, fat, stupid ruby and a bunch of diamonds? That’s jewelry for old ladies.”

Helen heard the scorn in Chloe’s voice and saw the want in her eyes.

“What about the golf cart?” Helen asked.

“One of the lawn guys,” Chloe said, and shrugged. “I can’t remember their names. They’re Mexicans or something. They hate us, you know.”

With good reason, Helen thought.

H
elen inhaled the Flora Park Library’s special perfume that afternoon. The scent of old leather-bound books, sunlight, dust and vanilla mixed with the sharp tang of new books.

The library smell transported Helen back to her favorite summer reading nook in her grandmother’s honeysuckle-scented yard. For a moment, she could see the red metal lawn chair and the green summer grass, and taste the sweet-sour lemonade.

Then she was back in the sunlit library entrance, and she swore the portrait of Flora Portland gave her a saucy wink.

Helen hurried down the hall to the director’s office, clutching the Coronado Investigations contract. Alexa Andrews was still frowning at her black desktop computer, as if she hadn’t moved since this morning.

She looked up, smiled and said, “Hi, Helen.”

“Reporting for duty,” Helen said.

“You’re overdressed,” the director said. “Tomorrow, I’d like you to shelve books and DVDs. You’ll also be searching through the dusty old Kingsley books for that missing watercolor. Wear
nice pants and a washable blouse, and leave those heels at home. I’m an executive, so I have to dress professionally. You’ll be running all over this building.

“I have your check for the deposit,” she said. “Let me sign the contract and then we’ll take the tour.”

Alexa signed both copies in black ink with bold, oversized strokes, and Helen put her copy and the check in her purse.

“We’ll start with the popular library,” Alexa said.

Helen thought that was an odd term for bestsellers. What were the other books—unpopular?

“Flora Park is more of a reading room than a true library,” Alexa said. “Most of our residents are older, and until a few years ago, few lived year-round in Florida. Flora Park is their winter home. Our patrons want to read the latest novels, biographies and periodicals. They like our educational programs, too.

“You’ve already seen the lobby and Flora’s portrait,” she said, as they passed under the arches behind the wrought-iron staircase. “Our popular library was Flora’s main salon, where she and Lucian had their musical evenings and book discussions. It overlooks the garden.”

The walls were painted silvery violet and lined with warm cherrywood bookshelves decorated with carved lions’ heads. Six patrons sat in cool, lavender-cushioned wicker wing chairs, reading books and magazines. A white-haired man in a dark suit was deep into Sunday’s
New York Times
. Two college-age students had their iPads set up at a dark wood library table with lions’ paws. A fortysomething businesswoman was typing on her laptop.

“It looks like a private club,” Helen said.

“In many ways it is,” Alexa said. “That’s Gladys Gillman at the checkout desk. Come meet our head librarian.”

The leggy Gladys looked like an MTV dancer, with long, glossy dark hair, red lipstick, a pleated red miniskirt and black boots with buckles. Helen guessed Gladys’s age at thirty.

Helen almost said, “She’s a librarian?” but stopped herself in time. That stereotype is a hundred years out-of-date, she reminded herself.

“Really pleased to meet you,” Gladys said, as she shook Helen’s hand. “Volunteers make my life so much easier. Thanks for helping.”

A woman impatiently rang the bell at the checkout desk, and Gladys ran back to help her.

“As you can see, we’re short-staffed,” Alexa said. She led Helen down a back hall. “The public restrooms are here.” She opened the door marked
WOMEN
. The bathroom sinks were thick, old-fashioned porcelain ovals and the stall dividers were brownish marble. The only modern touch was two hot-air hand dryers.

“This is where I saw evidence of our so-called ghost,” Alexa said. “I came in early one morning and water was splashed everywhere: the mirror, the floor and, especially, the sink. Someone took a sink shower. No one else was in the building yet. The rest of the staff and the volunteers hadn’t arrived.”

“Any other signs of a real human besides the missing hurricane kit and the flashlights?” Helen asked, as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

“Food disappears from the staff break room, but that could be a hungry staffer or volunteer. Last Tuesday, my chicken salad sandwich was missing from the fridge, but Blair might have thrown it away.”

“Blair?” Helen said.

“Blair Hoagland, head of the Friends of the Library. She’s compulsively neat and has this thing about food going bad.”

“The Friends go into the staff break room?” Helen asked.

“The Friends are powerful at this library,” Alexa said. “The money they make selling used books funds our Spanish, Hebrew and French language programs. They refurbished the chairs in the popular library and bought books, DVDs and furniture for our small children’s section.”

They were at the top of the stairs now, in a pleasant light-filled room with shelves of DVDs, more books and those inviting wicker wing chairs with the plump cushions. Helen wished she could curl up in one and read.

“We keep the reference books, cookbooks and biographies up here,” Alexa said, and they walked through another arch into the next room.

“This was Flora’s formal dining room. It’s our computer room. We had to take out her Waterford chandelier, but we left the paintings.”

Helen studied the pictures of nineteenth-century women watching the patrons on the computers. “The paintings look familiar,” she said.

“They’re by Mary Cassatt, the French painter. Flora Portland collected them. Actually, these are good copies. The originals were sold at Flora’s death to provide part of the library’s endowment.”

A long, sturdy table with lions’ paws held twelve computers. “The computers are free to everyone for thirty minutes. If there’s a crowd, patrons have to sign up again. I may ask you to supervise when the library gets busy. Hello, Ted.”

Ted was typing at a monitor, a fat, dirty-gray backpack at his side. His skin was baked brick red and Helen caught the sharp pong of body odor as she got close to him.

“Hi, Alexa,” he said. “I’m applying for a grant to get into a group home.”

“Let me know if I can help,” she said. “I’ll be happy to be a reference. This is Helen. She’s a new volunteer.”

“Hi,” Ted said, and went back to work.

“The elevator is back this way,” Alexa said, and Helen followed her down a dark hall with a maze of small rooms. “These were servants’ quarters, closets and pantries in the original house.” Helen saw a bewildering number of closed doors.

“We use them mostly for storage now, but we can’t keep too
much in them until the floors are reinforced. Ted is our homeless person. He’s schizophrenic, but he’s on medication. He spends his days here at the library and sleeps in a shelter at night.”

“And you don’t mind?” Helen asked.

“Why should I? He follows the rules.”

“You have homeless people, even in ritzy Flora Park?” Helen said.

“We have homeless people everywhere in the United States,” Alexa said. “We just don’t see them.” Helen recalled how she’d looked away when she saw a homeless woman pushing a shopping cart on upscale Las Olas Boulevard, and felt uneasy.

“You don’t think he took that sink shower?” she asked.

“No. Ted always cleans up after himself—when he remembers,” she said. “He’d never leave a mess.”

“And you don’t think Ted ate the food in the break room?”

“I’ve never seen him back here in the staff area,” Alexa said.

The hall ended with two beige steel doors. “This is the Beast, our vintage fifties elevator,” Alexa said.

The massive doors slid open and swallowed them. The elevator lurched, then groaned all the way to the first floor. Helen grabbed the railing.

“Relax,” Alexa said. “The Beast is noisy, but it does the job.”

The elevator jolted to a stop near the back door. “When you come tomorrow, please use the staff entrance,” she said. “And check for foundlings. Ah, here’s a box on the doorstep.”

She opened the back door and picked up a musty cardboard box piled with tattered paperbacks and children’s books with torn pages and chewed covers.

“Ew,” Helen said. “Why would anyone donate trash to the library?”

“They’ve cleaned out the garage and can’t bear to throw the books away,” Alexa said.

“The Friends can’t sell those,” Helen said. “I wouldn’t touch them.”

“They’ll probably get shipped to Better World Books,” Alexa said. “They recycle and sell old books. These go into the Friends’ intake room to be evaluated and sorted.”

Behind the grand foyer and the popular library was another honeycomb of rooms. Alexa opened the first door and Helen was slapped with the overpowering stink of mold and decaying paper. Boxes of books were piled six feet high. Drab books with stained covers and curled paperbacks were stacked on a long table. Library carts labeled
SELL
and
BETTER
WORLD
were lined up next to it. A covered plastic bin was labeled
DISCARD
.

“This is our intake room,” she said. “The donated books are kept here away from the collection while the Friends of the Library check them for mold, silverfish, bedbugs or bodily fluids. The books that make the cut are moved to another FOL room.”

“Are the Kingsley books in here?” Helen asked.

“No, I’ve had those moved down the hall into a locked room,” Alexa said. “You’ll have to sort through them. We’ll have the only keys.” She handed Helen a skeleton key.

“This isn’t secure,” Helen said. “Any skeleton key will fit those old locks. We should have a new lock on this door.”

“It’s the best I can do,” Alexa said. “If Jared, our janitor, puts on a new lock, it will attract too much attention. I’ll show you the Kingsley books tomorrow. Let’s visit the staff area and then you can go. Blair’s probably back there on break. I should warn you—she’s quite annoyed with me because of you.”

“Why?” Helen said. “What did I do?”

“She feels her friend Seraphina Ormond was entitled to your volunteer position.”

“You can’t say I’m temporary?”

“No, I explained why that would interfere with your
investigation. I didn’t want to give that position to Seraphina. She may be a Flora Park first family, but that doesn’t mean she’s entitled to a volunteer position.”

“My volunteer job is that important?”

“To Seraphina,” Alexa said. “Flora Park society revolves around this library, its programs and fund-raisers. It’s the key to the local social life. But I still run this library. Seraphina is a fabulous fund-raiser. Her parties are the talk of society. Fund-raising is her great strength. But I want volunteers who will help the patrons, and Seraphina doesn’t have the patience to deal with people.”

“Will this decision cost you a good fund-raiser?” Helen said.

“I think I can bring her around,” Alexa said, but her smile was uncertain. “Seraphina is hot-tempered, but she doesn’t stay angry for long. She’s a great believer in retail therapy. After she has a major disappointment, she usually goes out and buys something outrageous. Last time, after she had a big fight with her husband, she bought herself a beach house in Aruba and flew twelve of her closest friends to the island for a weeklong party. Then she was her old self again. My job will be to find her a fund-raiser that challenges her.”

“What if she raised the money for the renovation of the Flora Park Library?” Helen said.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” Alexa said. “By the time the board makes its final decision, she’ll have cooled down. I’ll ask her to run the whole show. She’ll be the toast of Flora Park.

“Meanwhile, be prepared for her to snap at you.”

“Can’t wait,” Helen said.

“Our tour is nearly finished,” Alexa said. “This is the staff break room. It used to be the old kitchen.”

The huge, high-ceilinged room was painted a pleasant coral. An old Magic Chef stove squatted next to an industrial sink and a white fridge. A microwave sat on a cabinet. A round oak table
cluttered with paper napkins, plastic utensils and piles of mustard and ketchup packs dominated the room.

Helen saw a thin, lanky woman in a drab green pantsuit sipping a mug of tea and reading
Masterpieces of the Frick Collection
at the table. She looked like Helen’s idea of an old-school librarian: horn-rim glasses, no makeup and dark brown hair in a tight bun.

“Helen Hawthorne,” Alexa said, her voice too cheerful, “let me introduce you to Blair Hoagland, head of the Friends of the Library. We couldn’t function without our Friends’ support.”

Blair put down her tea and glared at Helen. “You’re the new volunteer? What are your qualifications? Do you live in Flora Park? Have you ever been in this library?”

The attack surprised Helen, even after Alexa’s warning, but she tried to remain cool. “I like to read and I’m a good worker,” she said. “I’ll do my best to help.”

“Hmpf! We have a perfectly good candidate for your position,” Blair said, “someone who’s lived her whole life in Flora Park. But Alexa chose to ignore her.”

“Blair, please,” Alexa said. “We need our volunteers. If you have issues with my decisions, please discuss them with me.”

“I already did,” Blair said. “You told me Seraphina wasn’t a people person. She’s very good with people, but that doesn’t mean she has to put up with cretins.”

“Blair . . .” Helen heard the warning in Alexa’s voice. Blair ignored it and rushed on.

“I know what you said, but I was there that day. The woman was standing in front of the
G
section and she asked Seraphina where she could find Sue Grafton’s mystery
S Is for Silence
. It was right in front of her. Right in front! Seraphina said if she couldn’t see how close the book was, she was too blind to read.”

“We don’t speak to our patrons that way,” Alexa said.

“Seraphina tells it like it is,” Blair said. “We could use some
plain speaking around here. Instead, you brought in this stranger.” She glared at Helen.

“Nice meeting you,” Helen said. “It’s getting late. I’ll see you tomorrow, Alexa.”

Helen forced herself to walk slowly down the corridor and out the back entrance. The garden was cool and shady, even in the late-afternoon sun.