Clubbed to Death (10 page)

“Marcella, it could be anything,” Helen said. The martini glass was spinning until Helen was sure the lemon peel would be launched into space.

“It was something in par tic u lar,” Marcella said. “I want you to find out what it was.”

“But that’s impossible. There’s too much.”

“I’m sure you can do it if you put your mind to it.” Marcella gulped down the last martini.

“What if I can’t?” Helen said. “Are you going to send me back to jail?”

“Only if you’re lucky,” Marcella said. She stood up. “I expect your first report shortly.”

Bruce appeared to clear away the empty glasses and Helen.

Helen’s head was spinning like the champagne glasses when Marcella’s black limo took her back to the Superior Club. Too much had happened.

She checked her watch. Seven thirty. The customer care office was closed. “Please drop me off at the employee parking lot,” Helen told the driver. She still had to retrieve her car.

The crime scene tape was gone, along with all trace of the blood.

The Dumpsters had been freshly painted.

“Which car is yours?” the driver said.

Helen was ashamed to point out the Toad. “Just drop me off at the gate,” she said.

As the luxurious limo pulled away, Helen heard the putt-putt of a golf cart. Marshall Noote rode up on his cart, looking like grim death under the gaily striped awning.

The director of security stopped in front of her, blocking her path with a shower of gravel.

“My friends on the force asked me to deliver a message,” he said.

“They want you to know they can’t be bought. They’re going to find out the truth no matter how many fat cat lawyers protect the guilty.”

“I’m not guilty,” Helen said.

“Right,” the security director said. His massive foot crushed the gas pedal as he drove away.

CHAPTER 9

“You ask me, you’re damned lucky,” Margery said.

Helen’s landlady blew a cloud of cigarette smoke over the Coronado pool, as if putting it under a spell. Her cigarette glowed in the dark like a one-eyed demon.

“Lucky?” Helen said. “I was arrested, I lost my job, I’ve been threatened by a serial killer and the cops—all in one day.”

“You need wine to see this clearly,” Margery said. “I opened a bottle of the real stuff. Here. Have some.”

Helen’s landlady had uncorked a bottle of Fat Bastard merlot.

Corks were rare at Coronado wine parties. Usually they drank cheap box wine from the supermarket. This merlot had probably seen an actual grape. The wine glugged into her glass and Helen took a generous gulp.

“This is good.” Of course, her standards were low.

Helen had found some Greek olive hummus in her fridge and brought it out to the pool. Phil had contributed a bag of spicy hot Doritos. The chips were salty and strangely orange. Helen thought the unnatural flavor of the Doritos blended nicely with the bland, healthy hummus. She also thought she might be getting slightly looped on the wine.

“We have some time to talk before the others arrive. Let me explain why you’ve just won the lottery,” Margery said, sounding like a professor. Her purple poncho could be an academic robe, if you overlooked the lavender short-shorts—and there wasn’t much to overlook.

Her red-orange nail polish matched the glow of her lit cigarette. “First, you were arrested by a baby cop straight out of the academy. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.”

“The cops normally don’t arrest a person for one sock in the mouth, especially if the complaining party was AWOL,” Phil said. He was stretched out on a chaise, drinking a Heineken. “They might have asked you some questions, but no experienced cop would have arrested you.”

“Except Marcella and Rob are members of the Superior Club,” Helen said. “And Golden Palms is a company town.”

“Exactly,” Margery said, and blew a long hiss of smoke. “That means you should have been seriously in the soup. Those little police forces don’t like to admit they’ve made a mistake. Instead, your arrest was expunged and the cub cop apologized. That was lucky.

“Second, you got your job back, and you know that fighting for any reason is an automatic firing offense. You should have been canned regardless of what happened.

“Third, and it’s a big third, Marcella flew in Gabe Accomac, for god’s sake—and paid all your legal bills. I’d have to sell the Coronado to cover his fees.”

“And that’s what doesn’t make any sense,” Helen said. “Marcella is setting me up. If Gabe is so good, why didn’t she hire him for herself ?”

“If Marcella was setting you up, you’d still be sitting in the Golden Palms jail,” Margery said.

“I agree with Margery,” Phil said. He reached for another handful of Doritos.

“I bet you do,” Helen snapped.

“No, hear me out,” Phil said. Helen found his sweet reason irritating.

“You and Marcella have the same goal. You both need to find Rob to clear your name. You can’t go around under a permanent cloud of suspicion. Your colleagues won’t want to work with a suspected murderer.”

“I’m telling you, Marcella’s interest is a lucky break,” Margery said.

“Otherwise, you’d still be in jail.”

“Why didn’t you just get Colby Cox to represent me? She’s good. I could have afforded her,” Helen said.

“Could you now?” Margery said.

“Well, if I paid her twenty-five dollars a month,” Helen said.

“Neither of you is going to live that long,” Margery said. “Anyway, she was in North Carolina. Colby’s a good attorney, but I don’t think she could get you out of that jam
and
get your job back. The attorney general doesn’t take her calls.”

“Assistant attorney general,” Helen said.

Helen didn’t feel lucky. She felt angry, trapped and resentful. She took another drink of wine and glared at Margery and Phil. Margery’s cigarette glared back.

“Why won’t anyone believe me?” Helen said. “Rob’s wife is up to something.”

“She probably is,” Margery said. “But right now, your interests intersect. When you help her, you also help yourself. You both need to find Rob, dead or alive.”

“You aren’t alone in this, Helen. I’ll help you,” Phil said. “Tracking down people is what I do best. I’m a private investigator. You find out what Rob was doing at the club, and I’ll find him—or his body.”

“Do you think he’s dead?” Helen said.

“Don’t know enough to speculate,” Phil said.

“There was an awful lot of blood for him to be alive,” Helen said.

“You don’t know if the blood was all his,” Phil said.

“What I saw looked scary,” Helen said. “Especially those arcs of blood on the Dumpster, like a Jackson Pollock painting.”

She saw Phil wince.

“That’s bad, isn’t it?” she said.

“That could be an arterial bleed,” he said carefully.

“Then he’s dead,” Helen said.

“We don’t know,” Phil said. “It could also be castoff from a clubbing or stabbing and he might survive that.”

Might, Helen thought, and took another gulp of wine.

“The amount of blood isn’t always an indicator of death,” Phil said.

“I’ve read a lot of expert testimony on blood. Blunt force trauma can kill with one blow and not leave any blood if the skin isn’t broken. A few good whacks with broken skin, especially on the head, can leave lots of blood because head wounds bleed freely—but the victim will survive. An ice pick will do lots of damage, but the thin, narrow instrument will leave a self-sealing hole. Not much blood, if any. You can’t always tell by the amount of blood.”

“Maybe it was a scam,” Helen said. “Rob is a con artist. We all know that. Maybe he froze his own blood and stockpiled it. I saw that on a TV show.
Desperate House wives,
 I think. This woman wanted the real killer to go down for her sister’s murder, but there wasn’t enough evidence to get the police interested, so she stockpiled her own blood in the fridge. Then she threw it all over the killer’s floor and cut off two of her fingers and hid out. The police thought her sister’s killer had murdered her.”

Even as she said it, the scenario sounded improbable.

“That wouldn’t work in real life,” Phil said. “Once blood leaves the body, it clots. If Rob stockpiled his own blood, he’d be throwing around globs of blood—blood clots. You wouldn’t get spray or pooling.

If he used an anti-clotting factor, it would show up in the testing. The cops would know he’d faked his disappearance.”

“Oh,” Helen said.

“How hard did you hit Rob? Did you take out a tooth?” Phil crunched on another Dorito at exactly the wrong time.

“Did I what?” Helen asked.

“Knock out a tooth,” he said, through fiery orange crunches.

“Of course not,” Helen said. “I just popped Rob in the lip. His teeth scraped my knuckles, but he didn’t lose any. He hardly bled at all.”

She looked at her battered hand. It still hurt. Hitting Rob didn’t seem nearly so satisfying now. How come when you finally got what you wanted, it wasn’t what you needed?

“Sounds like you hurt yourself more than you hurt him,” Phil said.

“The story of my life,” Helen said.

“I don’t understand why you are so convinced Rob is dead,” Margery said. “Is it because you want him dead?”

Spare me the cheap psychology, Helen thought. But she didn’t say it.

“Yoo-hoo. Is it too late to join you?”

Helen heard a soft, fluttery voice.

“I’ve brought some chicken salad sandwiches and a lovely wine I found at the grocery store.”

It was Margery’s sweet, dithery friend Elsie. Helen’s eyes crossed when she saw Elsie’s outfit. Elsie dressed like Miss Marple with a makeover from Mr. Blackwell. Today, she wore what looked like a pirate costume crossed with the Arabian Nights.

Phil’s eyes bugged out. Margery blew a cloud of smoke, possibly to cover up the vision.

“What do you think?” Elsie spun in her thigh-high black leather boots, and the exposed skin on her upper legs wobbled. So did her chins.

“It’s a knockoff of a Prada outfit I saw in
Vanity Fair
.”

Helen suspected the model in the magazine was a good half century younger than Elsie. Besides the pirate boots, Margery’s friend wore a black leather mini skirt, a burgundy satin blouse with a plunging neckline, and a green satin turban.

“It’s amazing,” Helen said, truthfully.

“I should get a gentleman’s opinion,” Elsie said. “What do you think, Phil?”

He gulped. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Phil took a big drink to avoid any further comment.

“I think the belt may be a mistake,” Elsie said. “I’m having a little trouble locating my waist.”

Helen thought it was probably somewhere under Elsie’s large breasts.

They’d slid south over the years. “Maybe so,” Helen said.

“I didn’t dress exactly like the magazine model,” Elsie said. “I had to make some allowances for my age. She was wearing pale pink lipstick, which makes me look washed-out.” Elsie’s red lipstick crept into the cracks around her mouth.

“It’s quite colorful,” Helen said.

“Awk!” said Pete the parrot. Peggy and her green sidekick drifted into the party. Peggy carried a platter. “Hi, everyone. I brought cheese, crackers and grapes.”

“Does Pete get a cracker?” Helen said.

“No, he’s on a diet. He gets a grape.” Pete examined the green grape in sullen silence.

“Speaking of grapes, I have wine,” Elsie said. “Fat Bastard. I found it at the grocery store.”

“Good. You can add it to the stash we already have,” Margery said.

“Don’t you love the name?” Elsie asked. “When I was a girl, we couldn’t have said it.”

“That’s what we call my boss,” Peggy said. “Good name for a wine.

That fat bastard drives everyone to drink.”

Nancy and George came out of 2C, and Margery waved them downstairs. “Come join the party,” she said. “We have snacks and wine.”

“I like wine,” Nancy said.

“I like snacks,” George said, patting his round stomach. “I’ll get a beer out of the fridge and join you.”

It was the first time Helen had seen Margery’s nice normal couple from Ohio. They were amazingly ordinary in khaki shorts and navy golf shirts. Even their gray hair matched.

Nancy gulped a little when she saw Elsie’s outrageous outfit, but she recovered enough to shake Elsie’s hand, then Helen’s, and make small talk about the weather.

“And what do you do back in Ohio, George?” Elsie said.

“I’m in investments.”

“Maybe you can help me then,” Elsie said.

“Elsie!” Margery said. “Let the poor man alone. He’s not at work now.”

George looked grateful for the reprieve.

“Well, maybe the rest of you can help me,” Elsie said. “I need some advice. I’m worried about money. My son Milton is a good boy, but he won’t increase my allowance. He says I’ll just fritter it away on worthless junk.

“I’m actually very careful with my money. I bought this new skirt and blouse at Marshalls. The boots were a bit of an extravagance, but they were on sale. I’d never pay full price. I made the turban myself with fabric remnants.” She patted the green satin. “I wasn’t going to pay two hundred dollars. I do know how to stretch my pennies. But I’m tired of cheeseparing. I’m still young. I like nice dinners and pretty clothes. I need more money fast. I’m willing to invest my entire next Social Security check.”

“I don’t think investments are the answer,” George said carefully.

“Anything high-yield is too risky for the small investor.”

“Maybe you could get a job,” Nancy said.

“Doing what?” Elsie said. “I haven’t worked in years, and I never enjoyed it. I don’t want to bag groceries at Publix. That’s about all that’s open to someone of mature years. That and hostessing at the all-you-can-eat buffet, and I don’t want to spend eight hours on my feet.”

“Maybe you could buy a lottery ticket,” Peggy said. “I play every week.”

“Awk,” said Pete, and dropped the unwanted grape.

“How much have you won in the lottery, Peggy?” Margery asked.

“Nothing yet,” Peggy said. “But I’ve had a lot of fun losing.”

“Fun,” Elsie said. “That’s what I need. More fun.”

“You don’t need to lose more money, Elsie,” Margery said. “Make sure you buy a winning ticket.”