Clubbed to Death (24 page)

This is paradise, she thought. How could the members be so miserable? They had money, freedom and beauty. They had to work hard to be so unhappy. Was this how God felt when She looked at Her wrecked world?

Helen heard a car honking impatiently at the main gate, and wondered if it was Plavin’s guests, demanding their passes. Back at the customer care office, she typed up the passes and sent them to the gate computer.

The repair person was working on the fax-copier machine. Angie was small, stocky and efficient. Helen loved her Brooklyn accent.

“Can I use the fax now?” Cam asked Angie.

“Not yet, sweets.” Angie pressed a button and the machine belched out a long list of phone numbers, times and dates.

Cam tapped his foot impatiently. “I have to send a fax,” he said.

“Not from this machine,” Angie said. “It’s DOA.” The fax machine’s guts were strewn across the floor.

“It’s a terrific day for a walk to the main office,” Helen said.

“They’ll fax it for you.”

“My allergies are acting up. I don’t want to go outside,” Cam said.

Angie rolled her eyes, just like Xaviera.

“What’s that?” Helen asked, pointing to the newly belched list.

“A printout of the faxes sent from this office machine,” Angie said.

“I wanted to see if a par tic u lar phone number triggered the problem.”

“That’s an incredible number of calls,” Helen said. “I had no idea we faxed this much.”

“You need a bigger machine,” Angie said. “This one is overworked.”

“So are we,” Helen said.

“Sorry about that,” Angie said, “but it makes sure I have plenty of work to do. I need the money.”

“Any chance that fax machine will be ready soon?” Jessica asked.

She was as insistent as Cam, but more polite. “I have to fax some guest passes.”

“People, please. Give me another ten minutes,” Angie said. “I’m pedaling as fast as I can.”

“Can I look at this list of faxes?” Helen asked Angie.

“Keep it,” the repairwoman said. “And if you three eager beavers will give me some air, I’ll fix this faster.”

Cam, Jessica and Jackie backed away a few feet, but they wouldn’t let Angie out of their sight.

Helen unrolled the list of fax numbers on the front counter and studied them. She recognized the area codes for New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco, and the country codes for France, Germany, Britain and Brazil. The club members were a far-flung lot.

One number looked familiar. The fax number had four sevens. It was the Black Widow’s. The number was repeated more than a dozen times on the list.

Helen waited until her break, then went into the club bathroom, locked the stall, took out her cell phone and called Marcella. The Black Widow answered her own cell phone.

“Did Rob get faxes on your yacht?” Helen said. Her voice echoed off the bathroom marble.

“All the time,” Marcella said. “He said it was business. He refused to go anywhere unless he received that fax. Such a bore.”

“Ever see the faxes?”

“Of course not,” Marcella said. “I couldn’t be bothered with his petty business.”

Too bad, Helen thought. You wouldn’t be in this fix if you’d paid attention to your husband’s crooked little deals.

“Did he receive the faxes on any par tic u lar day?” Helen could check the dates on the calls and figure out who was working in the office.

“Saturday mornings,” Marcella said. “Always on Saturday.”

Saturday morning was the club’s busiest day. Helen worked Saturdays. So did Jessica, Jackie, Xaviera—and Cam.

Cam had to be the killer, Helen thought. He was familiar with the back ways into the club. He’d lost a uniform shirt, the one he wore when he killed Brenda. He needed money for his high-priced condo.

He knew Brenda kept those golf clubs in her office. He came into the office early.

Motive, means, opportunity: the deadly trifecta.

Helen flushed the toilet and unlocked the stall. She thought she heard a door shut softly, and hoped it wasn’t Blythe St. Ives. The bad-tempered golfer would report Helen for making personal calls on club property.

When she returned, the fax machine was working. Cam had commandeered it.

Solange came in with an announcement. “Girls and Cameron, we’re adding a new membership exercise program—pole dancing.”

“Classy,” Jessica said. “That should really please the Old Guard.”

“Where are you teaching it, at the strip club on Dixie Highway?”

Xaviera said.

“Why do we need a class?” Helen whispered to Jessica. “Most of the club’s trophy wives got their husbands by pole dancing.”

“But it was only a six-inch pole,” Jessica said, and Xaviera cracked up.

“What’s so funny, girls?” Solange’s face was nearly as red as her hair.

“I didn’t realize Lilly Pulitzer made pole-dancing togs,” Helen said, naming the club members’ favorite casual-wear designer.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Solange said. “You’re showing your ignorance. Pole dancing is the current hot fad. Our members requested it.”

Helen tried to imagine the skinny, horse-faced club women with their legs wrapped around a metal pole—or anything else.

“Maybe their husbands will consider pole dancing a job skill when they dump their current wives for someone younger,” Xaviera said.

“Less alimony.”

“Are we having lap-dancing classes, too?” Jessica said.

“That’s enough!” Solange sounded like an outraged schoolmarm.

“Back to work, everyone.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a flurry of phone calls and paperwork. It was nearly five o’clock when Xaviera said, “Look at the rain. It’s a tropical downpour. We’ll all get drenched walking to our cars.”

“Not me,” Helen said. “I’m working alone here until six. The rain will stop by then.”

“Helen has to prepare Mrs. Buchmann’s guest pass when she calls at five fifty-eight,” Jessica teased.

Jackie fretted over the drenching rain. “I walked to work,” she said, wringing her hands. “It was supposed to be nice all day. My uniform will be soaked. Does anyone have an extra umbrella?” She looked shrunken and worried, older than her years.

“I need mine,” Cam said. “I get sinusitis if I get wet.”

“There’s an umbrella in the lost and found,” Jessica said. “Use that.

I’ll drive you home so you don’t have to walk in the rain.”

“But I live by the main gate,” Jackie said. “We have to leave by the employee entrance at the back of the club. Taking me home will put you miles out of your way.”

“I’ll take the member gate,” Jessica said. “The arm and camera are still broken.”

Helen stared at her.

“It doesn’t work half the time,” Jessica said. “I use it when I’m running late. Saves me ten minutes.”

“Don’t do that,” Jackie said, worry lines creasing her pale forehead.

“What if Mr. Ironton catches you? It’s a firing offense. He uses that gate.”

“Mr. Ironton doesn’t know me from Adam,” Jessica said. “Quit fussing, Jackie, and let me help you. Bye, Helen. Hope the rain drives away any members who want something.”

Her co-workers left in a chattering crowd. Jessica’s wish came true:

The rain did silence the members’ demands. Nobody wanted to go to the beach or dinner at the club in a monsoon. Helen had an hour to search Cam’s desk, if the phones didn’t ring. She wasn’t looking forward to this duty. He’d have to be confronted with his crime. Helen felt sorry for him. He’d thrown away his young life for a few thousand dollars.

Helen had borrowed a skeleton key from Margery. She waited five precious minutes, in case any staffers returned to the office. Then she opened Cam’s locked drawer. The key didn’t quite fit and she had to wrestle with it, but the drawer finally opened.

Inside, Helen found a folder with photocopied pages of Brenda’s calendar: the dates when she’d gone to the doctor on company time.

Cam had been fighting back. Under the folder was a letter on scented blue stationery. Did Cam have a girlfriend?

Helen opened it without a qualm.

The letter was from Cam’s mother in Wisconsin:

Your father and I believe you are doing the right thing buying a condo now when prices are low. You are our only son, and we brought you up to be financially responsible. Rather than wait until we are dead, we’d like you to enjoy our money now. We are sending you enough for the down payment, plus a little for furniture. We expect you to fix up the guest room first, so your father and I can visit when the weather turns bad in Wisconsin.

We’re glad your condo allows pets under thirty pounds, so Misty can come, too.

Misty had to be the little dog in the photo on Cam’s desk.

Cam, careful as ever, had made a copy of the cashier’s check. It was for two hundred sixty thousand dollars. Thanks to Mom and Dad, he’d only have to take out a loan for about forty thousand dollars. He could afford that, even on his salary.

The weather was bad in Wisconsin now, and had been for months.

Helen looked at the postmark on the letter. Last March. Long before Rob met Marcella. Helen’s ex had never been to the club then.

Cam wasn’t the killer. He didn’t need to sell club information. His money came from Mom and Dad.

But Helen had seen the numbers on that printout. The killer had to be someone who sent faxes from the customer care office. Helen remembered the conversation as the staff left for the day. Jessica had offered Jackie a ride home. A shortcut. Because Jessica knew a back way in and out of the club. One that wouldn’t show up on the cameras.

No, please. Not Jessica, Helen thought. Not my good friend.

But now too many puzzle pieces were fitting together.

Jessica also hated Brenda.

Jessica had a missing shirt. Jessica needed money. Jessica had a stack of overdue bills. The contractors made her crazy. So did the members.

She’d been tightly wound for weeks. She was an actress. She could kill someone and pretend it never happened.

Please, no, Helen thought. No, no, no.

But all the evidence said yes.

Helen shut her eyes, hoping she could wish this away. She wanted Cam to be the killer. She didn’t like him. But Jessica was right: Cam was too lazy to kill anyone. Besides, he didn’t have to. He was blessed with indulgent parents.

Jessica was not.

Helen was too heartsick to work. She sat at her desk, grateful for the silent phone. She wanted to go home and hide from her terrible knowledge.

Jessica made the job at the Superior Club bearable. She was funny.

She was talented. She worked hard, much harder than Cam the hypochondriac. Jessica worked so hard, she’d cracked right down the middle.

Why, oh, why couldn’t Cam be the killer?

I can’t confront Jessica alone, like some dippy woman in a slasher movie, Helen thought. I need to be sure. I need to be careful. I’ll talk to Phil to night at dinner. We’ll work out a plan. Maybe he’ll tell me I’m wrong.

But I don’t think so.

CHAPTER 24

Helen was alone in the Superior Club office as night crept around the old building. She could swear Brenda was there, an angry, angular presence. The room seemed to vibrate with her malign energy. Maybe Brenda would rest easier, once her killer was caught.

Maybe I’ll quit jumping at shadows and imagining things, Helen thought.

She took a last bite of her apple and buried the core in the wastebasket.

Why am I being so careful? she wondered. Brenda won’t be going through the trash, looking for evidence of illegal eating. Not anymore.

She gave Brenda’s door a guilty glance. Her office was still sealed.

Helen didn’t even like to pass it.

Helen checked the clock. Five twenty-five. Two eons ago it had been five twenty-three. It was never going to be six o’clock. To night, she’d even welcome a call from Blythe St. Ives. Anything to break the dark, heavy silence. It seemed to weigh down the air in the room and press Helen into her chair.

Move, she told herself. Do some work. Quit moping. You’ll feel better.

She couldn’t feel worse. Not since she’d figured out Jessica was the killer. Helen didn’t want it to be true. But what did she really know about her office friend? Nothing. She’d never even been to Jessica’s house, never met her husband. She only knew Allan through whispered arguments on the telephone.

Helen’s mind was running in circles, like a toy train around a Christmas tree. Any more speculation was useless. She needed to discuss the facts with Phil, then make some serious decisions.

Might as well clean up the office early, while the phone stayed silent. Mrs. Buchmann would call for another guest pass at five fifty-eight.

She always did.

Helen turned off the photo-card machine, closed the curtains, and locked the back door.

She tidied the pens and papers that littered her desk and uploaded the day’s data to the main computer. She dropped her cell phone into her pocket and her sunglasses into her purse. She wouldn’t need them now. It was depressingly dark at six p.m.

There. She was ready to leave. Mrs. Buchmann could call and Helen would still clock out on time. She caught a glint of something shiny on the carpet and stooped to pick it up.

Helen was on the floor, picking up paper clips, when she heard the customer care door open. It was five forty-seven. Helen prayed it wasn’t Mr. Casabella’s blond bimbo Designated User, needing a new club-card photo. Helen would need ten minutes to restart the machine.

She was relieved to see Jackie clutching a pink ruffled basket, a leftover from her glory days when she could afford charming trifles. As her co-worker stood in the shadows, Helen caught a glimpse of the glamorous socialite Jackie used to be. Then she moved into the light, and Helen saw the strain lines around her mouth and eyes.

“Couldn’t stay away from work?” Helen said. “You missed me that much?”

“I left some papers in my desk,” Jackie said. “I was so upset about the rain when I left, I forgot them. The rain cleared up, so I walked back to get them. It’s a nice night.”

Jackie hesitated, but Helen heard the rest of the sentence. “I can’t stand to be home alone.” Before Phil, Helen had had nights when the walls of her tiny apartment closed in on her. She must have walked over half of Fort Lauderdale.