Just Murdered (19 page)

As she sat in silence in the Beemer, Desiree’s accusation worked its way through Helen like a slow poison. Little distrustful memories stabbed at her: Why didn’t Millicent say that Kiki would give her a big check at the wedding? She could have left a message at Margery’s.

Because she knew Kiki was dead, an ugly little voice whispered.

Helen could see an enraged Millicent following Kiki to the church, waiting till Jason left, then fighting over money and smothering Kiki with the dress she wouldn’t pay for.

Unless Jason killed her.

Or maybe it was Desiree, the little bride with the big fake bags under her eyes. Desiree had to paint on her grief. Her husband Luke was some actor—but so was his wife.

“I turn left off Las Olas?” Desiree said.

“Then right,” Helen said. “It’s that big white building.”

The Beemer pulled in front of the Coronado. Helen wished that Desiree did not know where she lived.

 

As she walked to her apartment, Helen saw a shadow figure on Phil’s closed blinds. The woman swayed, swung her long hair, and sang, “You can’t divorce my heart. It’s the part that will always love you.”

Kendra.

Was she rehearsing—or giving Phil a private performance?

Helen slammed the door to her apartment, but she couldn’t shut out Kendra’s song. All thoughts of murder—Kiki’s murder, anyway—vanished. She was tormented by jealousy, loss, and love.

It’s your fault, she told herself. You drove Phil away.

Why didn’t he tell me about her? Helen’s heart cried. She paced restlessly as the rooms grew smaller. Tonight her cozy apartment seemed claustrophobic. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t sit out by the pool. She might run into Margery and Warren, or Peggy and her policeman. Everyone had a lover but her. Even Kendra. Especially Kendra.

Helen couldn’t stand being shut up with her thoughts. Although it was midnight, she found herself walking—no, stomping—through the dark streets. Helen knew it was foolish to wander alone in the poorly lit lanes. But she couldn’t bear the laughing couples and bright lights of Las Olas. She was too angry, and though she wouldn’t admit it, too wounded.

Her ex had betrayed her so badly, Helen swore she’d never trust a man again. Until she met Phil and learned to love him. Then Kendra showed up and wrecked Helen’s life all over again.

She stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. Helen stopped to wipe away her tears. Damn him. Damn all men.

Suddenly, she was aware of footsteps behind her. Heavy footsteps, not the light click clack of heels. Someone was following her. Helen looked around the street. The bright-painted Caribbean cottages were dark. The porch lights were off. The Bahamas shutters were down. No dogs barked.

Where was she? How many blocks had she gone?

Helen reached in her pocket for her key ring. Her car had died, and she couldn’t afford to fix it. Now its only use was the dubious protection of a pointed car key in a stalker’s eye.

The footsteps drew closer. She walked faster, saw a street sign, and made a quick turn toward the lights of Las Olas. They were three dark blocks away.

“Helen!”

She jumped. It was Phil.

“Helen, wait up!”

She walked faster, long-legged strides that ate up a whole sidewalk square at a time. But Phil was determined. She heard him running. Then he was beside her.

“Helen, please! Let me talk to you.”

Phil stepped in front of her, which was like stepping in front of a charging lioness. “Listen to me, Helen Hawthorne. I love you. I can’t live without you.”

Then his warm lips were on hers. She felt her foolish anger dissolve.

“I’m counting the days until Kendra’s gone,” he whispered, as he kissed her face and then her throat. She ran her fingers through his long silky hair, then down the muscles of his shoulders. He felt so strong.

“I was wrong. I should have never let her stay with me,” Phil said. “It was the second biggest mistake of my life.”

“What was the first?” Helen asked and was instantly sorry. Phil stopped kissing her to answer.

“The day I married Kendra.”

Helen wanted to go back to kissing, but she needed some answers. “How did you meet her? Kendra doesn’t seem your type.”

“She wasn’t. But I had a long undercover assignment in Kentucky. She was the prettiest girl in town and I was lonely.”

“So you really went undercover.”

“I knew it was wrong when we stood at the altar,” Phil said, “but it was too late. I tried to make the marriage work, but it was hopeless. Now that she’s staying with me, it’s worse than hopeless. I’d forgotten what a slob she is. This morning, I found wet pantyhose in my shower, dirty dishes in my sink, and an open jam jar on the counter. You can’t leave food out in this climate. Now I have ants.”

His commonplace domestic complaints gave her a little thrill.

“I promise you that she means nothing to me,” Phil said, as she let him fold her into his arms. The soft fabric of his shirt was almost like suede.

Helen remembered that her ex-husband had said the same thing about Sandy. She kissed Phil until she smothered that memory.

It was the morning of the lost men.

They sat on Millicent’s gray husband couch like sailors stranded on a desert isle, dazed and bleak. Helen thought the couch cast a spell on men, sucking out their money and their hope.

One couch castaway was in his late twenties. Mark was a lawyer who looked like he was wearing a tie even when he had on a Polo shirt. His bride, Courtney, was in butt-sprung shorts and broken-down mules. Helen wouldn’t wear that outfit to take out the trash.

The bloom was off that rose, she thought. Helen saw the couple in twenty years, gone to seed and planted in matching recliners.

“I haven’t given Courtney the ring yet,” Mark said. “She’s picking out the dress. I guess we have to get engaged.”

He sounded so hopeless, Helen said, “You don’t have to. It’s not too late.”

“I don’t have any choice,” he said.

The bride marched out of the dressing room, flushed with triumph.

Millicent followed with a plastic-shrouded gown. Courtney paid for the dress, then dragged her not-yetfiancé with her like a newly captured slave.

“How do you pick out the dress before you get the ring?” Helen said when the couple left.

Millicent was rehanging Courtney’s rejected gowns. “Are you kidding? I get brides in here who don’t have the groom yet. If a woman wants to marry, she will. She goes out and gets herself a man. Don’t believe that stuff about women waiting for the man to pop the question. In my experience, women do the picking. The smart ones let the guys think it was their idea.”

Courtney’s quick march through the store had left a gaggle of gowns tangled on their hangers. Helen pried them apart carefully, protecting the delicate fabrics.

“That groom sounded awfully trapped.”

“He trapped himself,” Millicent said. “Mark wants to make partner at a big Lauderdale law firm. He’s marrying the boss’s daughter.”

“How do you know this?”

“Courtney told me.”

“She doesn’t care?” Helen dropped a heavy duchesse satin in surprise. Good thing Millicent didn’t see it hit the floor.

Millicent’s white hair had disappeared into the snowy gowns, making her look headless. Now she faced Helen, using a bloodred nail to emphasize her words.

“Listen. Courtney is getting what she wants—an ambitious husband. Mark is getting what he wants—a partnership in a big firm. People always get what they want, Helen. They just don’t realize it.”

Helen wondered if Millicent got what she wanted, and how she got it. She wished she’d never listened to Desiree. Helen thought last evening was the start of the investigation that would clear her name. Instead, she was more confused than ever. The little bride was sly. Her accusations insinuated themselves into Helen’s mind. Did Millicent really murder Kiki in a fit of rage to get her money from the estate? Did she place that shocking “Weddings to Die For” ad?

The ad was a brilliant move. Oh, not at first. Millicent endured cold shoulders and cancellations. But now the shop was deluged with brides and their mothers, all buying. The ad was outrageous, and Floridians reveled—or wallowed—in their own bad taste. Kiki’s death brought new life to Millicent’s business.

Millicent hung up the last dress, pulled a bottled water out of the fridge, and dropped into a pink chair.

“Put your feet up a minute, Helen. This is the last free time we have until six o’clock. We’ve got appointments the rest of the afternoon. I’ve got so much business, I may have to hire another salesperson.”

“Because of that ad?” Helen said.

“Yes. The TV coverage didn’t hurt, either.”

Helen lowered her voice, even though the store was empty. “Millicent, it’s just us girls. I swear I’ll never tell. Did you place that ad?”

“Of course not.” Millicent looked indignant, but her bloodred nails crawled nervously in her lap.

“The
City Times
ad taker said it was bought by a woman with white hair, red nails, and a red jacket,” Helen said.

“So? Anyone can dress up like that.”

Anyone could. But did they? Helen needed to know for sure. Truth was the only antidote to Desiree’s poison. Fortunately, the answer was right down the street.

“OK if I go out for coffee?” Helen said.

“Go ahead. Just be back in half an hour.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine. Leave.” Suddenly, Millicent seemed relieved to have her out of the store.

The
City Times
office was ten desks, bales of tied papers, and a bundle of energy behind the counter. The small brown-haired receptionist darted about like a hummingbird.

“Eric is in the ad department, around the corner,” she said, and zipped off to answer the phone.

Eric had a soul patch, a pierced eyebrow, and a lot of attitude.

“I’m from Millicent’s,” Helen said. “We’re still trying to find out who placed that ad.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault. I just took the money.” He shrugged. Helen thought about grabbing him by his eyebrow ring.

“You took the money to ruin our business. I don’t want to cause trouble, Eric. Answer my questions and I’ll go away. Give me grief and I’ll be back with a lawyer.”

That got his attention. Helen’s bluff worked.

“Could the person who placed the ad have been a man dressed as a woman?”

“Not unless he had his Adam’s apple shaved,” Eric said. “We get transvestites in here with ads for the clubs.” He was impressed with his own esoteric knowledge.

“You said she was about fifty-five?”

“Yeah. My mom’s fifty-one and this lady looked older.”

“Could this person have been wearing a white wig to make herself look older?”

“Maybe,” Eric said. “But she had those freckles on her hands—what do you call them?”

“Age spots.” Helen had been trying to convince herself those brown spots on her hands were big freckles.

“Her neck was crinkly, too,” Eric said. “I guess you could artificially age yourself if you were in a movie, but it would be pretty hard to pull off otherwise.”

Helen sighed. Eric was right.

She went sadly back to the salon. Now she knew. Millicent had placed that ad and lied about it. Helen felt sick. She’d admired her boss as one tough, smart businesswoman.

Millicent was hauling new stock out of the back room. She towed a rack of heavy dresses as easily as a child’s wagon. Her biceps bulged through her suit sleeves. Her fingers were strong. Millicent could have easily smothered tiny Kiki.

“Here, Helen, hang this dress on the front rack.” Helen took a beaded gown from Millicent’s lightly liver-spotted hand.

“Millicent, I’ve got to talk to you before the next round of appointments.”

“So talk,” Millicent said.

“I saw Desiree last night.”

“The deadbeat bride,” Millicent said.

“She said you went to the rehearsal dinner and threatened her mother.”

“She’s a liar,” Millicent said hotly. “I never went near that rehearsal dinner. I wondered where the police got that story. She sicced the cops on me. I ought to sue her. I yelled at Kiki on the phone. They can check my cell phone records.”

So what? Helen thought. That wouldn’t stop her from driving to the restaurant. “Desiree says you wanted to strangle Kiki.”

“Of course I wanted to strangle her,” Millicent said. “I also wanted to shoot her, stomp her, and chop her into little pieces. But give me some credit for customer relations. I didn’t say it. I asked her to pay the bill, and she promised to bring a check Saturday morning. Now her debt-dodging daughter wants to get out of paying me. That’s what this is really about.”

“Where were you the night of the rehearsal dinner?” Helen said.

Millicent pointed one bloody nail in Helen’s face. “That’s none of your business. But if you think I’m a murderer, Helen Hawthorne, you can walk right out that door.”