Clubbed to Death (11 page)

“Awk!” said Pete.

The poolside party was in full swing. Elsie was asking Peggy where she bought her lottery tickets. Nancy was making cooing sounds to Pete.

George was happily munching Doritos.

“Nice party,” Phil said, “but I’d better go. I want to make some phone calls to my friends on the force. Maybe I can find out something useful about Rob. They’re more likely to talk at night when the brass isn’t around.”

He gave Helen a kiss. “I’m glad you’re home safe. We’ll celebrate later.”

Helen watched Phil disappear into the dark.

“Are you going to let that man get away?” Margery said.

“You heard him,” Helen said. “He has to make some phone calls.”

“I wasn’t talking about to night. I meant are you going to marry him?”

“He hasn’t asked me,” Helen said.

“He has, too,” Margery said.

“Well, he hasn’t asked in a while.”

“Any woman worth her salt goes after the man she wants,” Margery said. “Don’t be a fool. I’d marry him myself if I wasn’t so damn old.”

Helen thought Margery could still marry Phil. He seemed half in love with her landlady.

“I’ve got a few other things on my mind right now,” Helen said.

“Yeah, well, don’t let a live one like Phil get away.”

“While pursuing my dead ex?” Helen said.

CHAPTER 10

Yesterday, Helen left the Superior Club in handcuffs.

This morning, she came back in a neatly pressed uniform and a crisp white blouse. Inside she felt worn, wilted and afraid. She dreaded opening the mahogany doors to the customer care office. If her colleagues cold-shouldered her, Helen would have to find another job. Even a lawyer like Gabe Accomac couldn’t make them want to work with her.

She heard the angry shrilling of the phones. Cam was ignoring his ringing phone and cleaning his desk with alcohol spray. Xaviera was talking on her cell to her boyfriend. She gave Helen a friendly wave.

Jackie was writing down some convoluted complaint and chanting into the phone, “Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Jessica was finishing a phone apology. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” she said. She hung up as Helen slid into her desk chair.

“Did you hear the latest scandal?” Jessica said.

I’m the latest scandal, Helen thought. But she was wrong.

“Mr. Casabella was caught with a hooker at the Superior Club restaurant last night.” Jessica’s eyes were wide with actressy wonder.

“No,” Helen said.

“Yes. They were having sex in the men’s restroom. The handicapped stall.”

“Yuck. There’s a romantic spot,” Helen said.

“Here’s the best part: Solange was at the restaurant. The waitress told me all about it. Solange was having dinner with four members of the Old Guard, trying to reassure them that the Superior Club had not lowered its standards. They’d finished dinner and were drinking coffee—no after-dinner brandy for that bunch—when the members started in criticizing the club. One said, ‘Your new policies are bringing in a crude clientele with whom we do not wish to associate.’ ”

“Definitely Superior people,” Helen said. “They’d never end a sentence with a preposition.”

“Solange told them, ‘Those were just summer people. Our regulars are a different class. Now that the summer people are gone you’ll see a completely different tone.’

“ ‘This club admits too many NOKs,’ the second member said.”

“What’s an NOK?” Helen said.

“Not our kind,” Jessica said. “A third member said, ‘Some of them didn’t even wear jackets at dinner in the Superior Club.’

“ ‘The club remains a Superior place for Superior people,’ Solange said, as two huge security guards charged through the restaurant door.

They burst into the men’s restroom. Everyone could hear the loud argument. Then security marched a disheveled young blonde and a grinning Mr. Casabella out of the restaurant. The woman barely looked twenty. And she was barely dressed. It was clear what had been going on. Mr. C’s zipper was down.”

“What did Solange do?”

“She pointed out that Mr. C was wearing a jacket. Then she offered the Old Guard a free dessert. They turned her down.”

“A club member refused free food?” Helen found that more astonishing than sex in the restroom.

“All four of them. They left the club immediately and turned in their resignation papers this morning.” She pointed to a three-foot stack on Cam’s desk. “It’s part of a growing trend.”

“I thought Mr. Ironton wanted rid of the old members,” Helen said.

“He’s succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.”

“What’s going to happen to Mr. Casabella?” Helen asked.

“Not much. He’ll get another letter of reprimand from Solange.”

“I’d love to see the wording,” Helen said. “Was he entertaining his DU in the john?”

“No, a call girl brought in by limo.”

Helen groaned. Nothing would set off the remaining genteel members like hookers at the club. “How are we going to keep this mess quiet?”

“We can’t. It happened in front of the whole restaurant. By last night, all of Golden Palms knew. By today, the news will have spread as far north as Palm Beach and from there it will go straight to New York. It’s the talk of the country club set. I thought I’d better give you a warning, in case you get calls about it.

“That’s not the worst.” Jessica paused dramatically. “Last night was the ice cream social.”

“And that’s a problem?” Helen had visions of women in fluttery pastel dresses and flowered hats, men in linen suits, and little children frolicking.

“A big one,” Jessica said. “We had to bring in security to handle the complaints.”

“At an ice cream social? What could the members possibly complain about?”

Jessica picked up a pad on her desk and started reading: “The ice cream was too cold. The ice cream was not cold enough. A member couldn’t bring in a guest, even though he offered to pay her way. Security was called and the member shoved the guard.”

“A fight over ice cream?” Helen asked.

“Soft-serve,” Jessica said. “This isn’t even the good stuff. Between Mr. Casabella and the ice cream social, the phones have been ringing off the hook.

“Oh, one more thing. Solange is still looking for the Winderstine file. Are you sure you haven’t seen it?”

“Positive,” Helen said.

“So is everyone else. I can’t imagine what happened to it, but she’ll make our lives hell until she finds it. By the way, how are you?”

“Fine,” Helen said. “Thanks for calling my landlady.”

“I’m glad it worked out,” Jessica said. “Oops. There’s my phone again.”

That was it. Helen was accepted back. Jessica didn’t ask for the juicy details of Helen’s day with the police. She was barely a footnote in the club’s chronicle of gossip. She’d spent the night dreading her return to work, wondering how she’d face her co-workers after her shameful departure. Things were back to normal—almost.

Helen waited until Jessica’s back was turned, then slipped her fake driver’s license out of her co-worker’s purse. Jessica never noticed. She was too busy watching the front counter drama starring Jackie.

A hard-faced woman came to the counter in a red Escada suit that made her look like a fireplug. “Jackie dear,” she cooed. “Why don’t we see you for bridge on Tuesdays anymore?”

The face-lifted fireplug knew why. Jackie simply said, “I don’t have Tuesdays off, Estelle.”

Helen admired the cool way Jackie handled the sly dig, but it must have hurt. The pencil Jackie was holding snapped in two. How many times a week did the poor woman have to endure those slights? Her nails were bitten to the quick.

Helen’s phone rang, and her ear was assaulted by a loud, insistent New York voice.

“This is Mrs. Amos Sherben.” The voice bored into her brain like a corkscrew. Where did people learn to talk that way? Mrs. Sherben owned miles of South Florida beach. She could afford elocution lessons. “I’m calling to complain.”

“Of course you are,” Helen said.

“What did you say?” Mrs. Sherben’s words seemed to latch on to Helen’s ear with iron grappling hooks.

“How may I help you?” Helen said.

“I’m calling to complain about the ice cream social. The bowls are too small. The ice cream dripped on my linen pants. If you had bowls the proper size, this would never happen. It’s your fault. The ice cream was chocolate. The pants were D and G.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Helen said. “What do you want us to do?”

“Pay for my dry cleaning,” Mrs. Sherben said. The words were now razors, slicing into Helen’s ear drum.

“I can’t do that, ma’am. You filled the bowl yourself. The ice cream is self-serve. You eat it at your own risk. But I’ll make a note of your complaint about the bowls. What’s your member number, please?”

“Look it up,” Mrs. Sherben said. “That’s what you’re paid to do.”

She slammed down the phone.

“You old bat,” Helen said to the disconnected phone.

Jessica burst into applause. “Now you’re officially one of us. On the phone with a smile, off the phone with a snarl.”

Xaviera shook out her long hair. “I think she deserves to go to lunch first today, don’t you? It’s Jackie’s turn to eat early. Go with Jackie, Helen. You need to be with someone nice and calm.”

“What about my blood sugar?” Cam whined. “I have a medical condition. I should go first.”

“A con ve nient medical condition,” Xaviera said. “You’ve spent the whole morning cleaning your desk. You can wait.”

“A clean desk is important. Brenda said so.”

“Your phone is really clean,” Xaviera said, pointing at it with a manicured nail like a bloody dagger. “You never pick it up.”

“And you never use yours except to call your boyfriend,” Cam said.

“Want to compare phone logs?” Xaviera said.

“Please, don’t fight,” Jackie said. She looked pained. “Shall we go, Helen?”

She reached for a Chanel bag that was beautifully made. Helen saw the leather was worn gray on one corner.

It was the first time Helen had spent any time with Jackie. She was about forty, with fine bones and hair pulled into an elegant chignon. In Helen’s hometown of St. Louis, Jackie would be a knockout. But here in Florida, among the very rich, Jackie was considered past her prime:

There was a slight droop to her eyelids, with small lines around her mouth and larger lines on her forehead. Jackie couldn’t afford an eye job or Botox.

The two women clocked out and threaded their way through the dingy back halls. “I need to be careful,” Jackie said. “I’m wearing open-toed slingbacks. I could get written up for improper footwear.

My other pair of heels is at the shoemaker for new soles. They won’t be ready for another day.”

“Kitty won’t mind,” Helen said.

“Brenda will,” Jackie said. “And she has it in for me. Well, let’s not spoil our meal talking about Brenda.”

“What’s for lunch today?” Helen studied the cafeteria board.

“Roast beef. So fattening,” Jackie said. “I brought my own food.

I’ll get us a table.”

Helen came back with a plate piled with beef, string beans and fruit salad. Jackie carefully unwrapped a single hard-boiled egg. Poverty food.

“How are you settling into the job?” Jackie said.

“It’s OK,” Helen said. The beef was tougher than the club members. Maybe she’d bring her own food, too.

“What do you think of the members?” Jackie asked. She nibbled her egg.

“I don’t understand how people with so much can be so unhappy,” Helen said. “They live in paradise.”

“Adam and Eve weren’t happy in paradise, either.” Jackie delicately wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and took a small sip of the free water from the cooler. “We have two groups of members here. The young ones, the trust fund babies, have no concept of work. They inherited their money. They are rude, arrogant and demanding.”

“That’s for sure,” Helen said.

“The old ones earned the money. They’re usually in poor health.

Their spouses are either sick and old, or divorced and living with someone younger. Their children are gone. Their choices are gone. Their families are sitting around waiting for them to die so they can get the money. There’s nothing left for them to do. That’s why they spend all day quibbling their bills and complaining. We shouldn’t envy these people.”

“I don’t,” Helen said. “They’re so unhappy. I always thought I wanted to be rich. Now I realize I just want enough money. They have too much.”

“But when do you know you have enough?” Jackie said. “That’s the key.”

I didn’t know in St. Louis, Helen thought. I was almost as unhappy as the club members.

“I used to have a house in Golden Palms.” Jackie sounded wistful.

“I loved to entertain. I had a dinner ser vice for eighty, with silver, plates and linens. I never had to rent anything for my parties, not a single wineglass. My house had a view of the ocean and a big veranda where I could entertain. The worst part is, I thought we had a happy marriage. I had no idea anything was wrong until he came home and said he wanted a divorce.”

“Another woman?” Helen asked.

“No. He said I wasn’t any fun anymore. I did everything he wanted, I went everywhere he wanted and I wasn’t fun. He wound up marrying someone who ordered him around. I guess that’s his idea of fun.

Never give a man everything he wants—you’ll get nothing.”

“Did she get the house?” Helen asked.

“No, he bought her a newer, bigger place,” Jackie said. “No point in talking about the old days. It’s all gone now. I didn’t do well in the divorce.”

“Me, either,” Helen said.

“I’m so tired,” Jackie said.

“This job takes a lot out of you,” Helen said.

“I’m tired of the struggle,” Jackie said. “I’m not sure I can afford to live in Golden Palms anymore. The rent is going up on my apartment.”

Ohmigod, Helen thought. Jackie lives in those little servants’ apartments by the Dixie Highway. She’s gone from a beachside mansion to a one-bedroom box.

“Maybe you could get some place cheaper in Fort Lauderdale or Miami,” Helen said.

“But I’ve lived here all my life,” Jackie said. “I don’t want to leave the only place I know. My friends try to get me to date, but so far, nothing’s worked. A gentleman I knew from before has asked me out to lunch on my day off.”