Just Murdered (23 page)

Jason materialized in the backstage blackness, green eyes glowing like a cat’s. He was wearing the softest sweater. Helen wanted to pet it. Once again, she was startled by his good looks. His face had a perfection Luke’s lacked. But his beauty seemed without animation. Jason wanted to be admired.

Helen followed him to the back door. “So how long have you been selling X?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jason tried to push past her. She blocked his way.

“I could call the cops and let them jog your memory,” Helen said. “Based on what I saw in that car, they could get a search warrant.” Helen was bluffing. She didn’t think stuffed animals and suckers counted as drug paraphernalia.

Jason’s green eyes burned with anger, lit by an odd fire she never saw onstage. “So what? It’s recreational. I’m only helping my friends.”

“Let’s ask the cops what they think about your help.”

“What do you want from me?” Jason’s perfect mouth was distorted by hate.

“I want to know what happened after you left the rehearsal dinner.”

“I went home. Alone.”

“Liar,” Helen said. “You went back to the church to have sex with Kiki. I bet the police don’t know that. But I do.”

Jason shifted uneasily. Helen had won that bet. She remembered what the chauffeur said: He’d heard a man arguing with Kiki at the church. It was time to gamble again. “You fought with the murder victim the night she died, didn’t you, Jason?”

Jason looked frightened now. He didn’t ask how she knew. “It wasn’t how it sounds. Kiki said she could help me. She knows—knew—the whole theater community. She had the bucks. I thought I should make nice. I agreed to meet her at the church. Just for a talk.”

“That’s not what I heard. Kiki said doing it in church made her hot.”

Jason’s green eyes opened in surprise.

“I’ve got a witness,” Helen said. “You didn’t want to screw on the steps.”

“She wanted me to fuck her, okay? In the church. She thought it would be a hoot. That’s what she said. A hoot.”

“And was it?” Helen said.

He stared at her, defiantly silent.

“Jason! Tell me or tell the cops. What happened next?”

“Nothing. She was old.”

“You didn’t think so earlier that evening,” Helen said. “You were all over her.”

“Maybe I was. But during the rehearsal, the church was dark. So was the restaurant. When we went back to the church, she was drunk, stumbling around and giggling. She wanted to put on that stupid rose dress for me.

“We went upstairs to the bride’s dressing room and she flipped on the overhead lights. They were real bright. She took off that gold dress and that’s when I saw how old she was—old like my grandmother. She had wrinkles on her neck. Her stomach was flabby. Her tits sagged to her knees. It was gross. She wanted me to kiss her again, but she had these lines around her mouth. She started screaming at me. I said she was a hag. I left her there. She could find her own way home.”

“You killed her because she insulted your manhood.”

“My what?” Jason laughed. “What century are you in, lady? I wasn’t insulted. I don’t screw grannies.”

“You had to shut her up. She could ruin your career.”

“What career? I’m a character actor.”

“You’ve got the lead now,” Helen said.

“Not for long. I’m a stand-in until Chauncey can find someone better. That’s what he told me tonight.”

Helen heard the sad truth in his words.

“To be honest, Kiki couldn’t do me any damage,” Jason said. “She’d look silly if she tried to pressure some director not to hire me. I’m not worth going after, and that’s the truth.”

In Helen’s experience, when people mentioned the truth a lot, they were lying.

“Why did you ask Desiree for twenty thousand dollars after the funeral?”

“You’re nuts, lady. I’m leaving.” But Jason stayed.

“Were you trying to blackmail Desiree? Did you have photos of her mother?”

He laughed contemptuously. This time, her gamble didn’t pay off. She’d guessed wrong. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Still Jason didn’t storm off. Helen tried again. “Where did Chauncey go when he sneaked out of the rehearsal dinner?”

A sneer disfigured Jason’s handsome face. “An evening with the breeders makes Chauncey nervous. He went to a gay bar to get in touch with his inner boy.”

“You don’t think he came back to the church and killed Kiki?” Helen said.

Jason gave a nasty, braying laugh. “He’s an old queen. He wouldn’t touch a fly—unless it was unzipped.”

Unzipped. “Did you unzip Kiki out of that rose dress?”

“What? I told you. I walked out. I didn’t care if she spent the rest of her life in that dress.”

“That’s exactly what she did,” Helen said.

 

Helen waited for Jason to leave first. He was furious at her, and she’d be walking alone down a deserted street. When she heard his car start up, she shut the door sadly behind her. Helen could never go back to the Shakespeare Playhouse. Not after that scene with Jason.

She crunched across the theater parking lot, heading for the bus stop. A car pulled into the lot and blocked her exit. It was one of those plain sedans that might as well have “Unmarked Police Car” painted on the door.

Detective Janet Smith got out of the driver’s side. She looked lean and mean. Her partner, Detective Bill McIntyre, looked malevolent and muscular. The two of them stood side by side in gray suits, their arms folded.

Helen could hear the blood rushing in her ears. How did they find her?

“Just thought I’d give you the results of your DNA test,” Detective Smith said. “We found your blood on the dress. We also found your fingerprints on the dress and the closet door.”

“Of course you did,” Helen said, trying not to panic. “I helped put the dress on Kiki. I hung it in the closet.”

“And the blood?” Detective Smith said.

“I told you. I cut my hand and bled on both dresses—the wedding gown and the rose dress.”

“We checked the wedding gown. We didn’t find any blood,” Smith said.

“That’s because I cleaned it off. Then the bride threw hot coffee all over the dress.”

“We should have found traces,” Smith said. Helen wondered if the detective was telling the truth. Maybe she should get that lawyer Colby Cox. Helen had about seven thousand dollars stashed in her suitcase. That should buy her a few hours of help. Right now she’d give it all to make these two disappear.

“How did it feel when you cut the victim’s fingernails?” Detective Smith said.

Helen saw those pathetic gold claws again and nearly threw up.

“Are you going to arrest me?” she asked.

“Let’s just say we’re a step closer,” Detective Smith said. “Don’t leave town.” Detective McIntyre said nothing, which was even more ominous. They got into the car and drove off.

As Helen waited for the bus home, she couldn’t stop shivering. Her encounter with the cops frightened her. Her DNA was in all the wrong places. Was anyone else’s blood on that dress? She should have asked. But they probably wouldn’t have told her.

If the police weren’t scary enough, there was Jason. He frightened and confused her. Helen knew he was lying, but she also thought he was telling the truth. He believed Chauncey was no murderer. Donna Sue, whose opinion she respected, thought so, too.

The fight scene with Kiki probably happened pretty much the way Jason described it, Helen decided. But she thought he was leaving something out.

Did Jason murder Kiki in an impotent rage? Or did he stalk off and leave her, tipsy and trapped, alone with her killer? Kiki couldn’t run away in that hoop skirt. And why would Jason ask Desiree for money at her mother’s funeral?

It was almost midnight when Helen got to the Coronado. It was a warm night for December. She went by the pool, hoping for some company. Margery and Warren were drinking champagne in the moonlight.

“Come join us,” Margery said.

This time Helen did. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to think about the cops, Jason, or Phil. She wanted to believe that people could live happily ever after and have real love at age seventy-six. Her landlady sat on the chaise longue next to Warren, smoking a Marlboro. She had the smile of a satisfied woman.

Warren filled a flute with champagne and handed it to Helen. She toasted the couple, then took a sip. The bubbles tickled her tongue.

“Do you dance, Helen?” he said. His tanned skin was like fine old leather, and he had interesting crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Margery had herself quite a catch.

“I grew up in the dreaded disco era, Warren. I just bounce up and down.”

“You should take dancing lessons. Many young people do.” It didn’t sound like a sales pitch. Warren seemed to believe dancing was good for people. It had done wonders for Margery.

“I give lessons to brides and grooms,” Warren said. “Many couples dance together for the first time at their wedding. They’re afraid of tripping or looking foolish. A lesson or two from me, and they have a beautiful start to their married life.”

“I’m not planning to get married anytime soon,” Helen said.

“You never know. You’re certainly in the right business. I gave the most unusual lesson of my life at your store. An emergency dance lesson, if you will.”

“My store? You mean Millicent’s?”

“Yes, Millicent had a gay couple in the shop after hours. She sold the bride—a female impersonator named Lady George—a lovely dress. An Oscar de la Renta, if I remember correctly. It had this deep-pleated ruffle running down the back. Very graceful. The groom’s name was Gary. The couple admitted that they were nervous about dancing together at their reception.

“Millicent tried to send Gary and Lady George to my studio, but they didn’t want to be seen learning to dance where others could watch. I have those large windows, you know.

“So Millicent called me, and I came to her store. We went upstairs to the fitting area so the couple could have privacy, and I gave them dancing lessons. It took awhile, but they finally caught on. I think they’ll dance beautifully together, now that Lady George has mastered that ruffle.

“They danced until nearly three in morning. They were so touching. Your Millicent was magnificent. I knew she wanted to go home. It was a Friday night after all, and she’d just put together this big wedding as a special rush job. But she stayed there for them.”

“A Friday night?” Helen said. “In early December?”

“Yes. I asked after you, but she said you were at the rehearsal. Millicent opened the shop specially for Lady George, so the bride could make her dress selection with no observers.”

Now Helen understood Millicent’s secrecy. Society brides would not buy a gown if it had been tried on by a transvestite. Lady George would not feel comfortable undressing near women with all the factory-installed equipment.

Helen could imagine what Desiree’s snotty bridesmaids would say about Lady George. They’d flayed poor flapping Emily, and her only fault was a few extra pounds.

Millicent stayed late at the store to give Lady George the privacy she needed. Then she kept her customer’s secret. And what a secret it was. Helen could see the couple now, dancing among the dressmaker’s dummies.

I thought Millicent was a murderer. Instead, she was a decent person and a good businesswoman. Helen felt small-minded and mean. She wanted to creep away and hide.

Helen finished her champagne and said, “Good night. Thanks so much. And Warren, I’m really glad I talked with you.”

The moon lit her way back to her room. Millicent was innocent. She’d eliminated one suspect. Suddenly, she felt so tired. She tiptoed past Phil’s window, but she wasn’t quiet enough. He opened his door.

For a moment Helen was struck silent with longing. The light shone on his silvery hair and outlined his broad chest. He was wearing another blue shirt. She was a sucker for blue shirts and blue eyes.

“Helen, what’s going on? Two homicide detectives came here today, checking your alibi for that wedding rehearsal night.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I was with you all night and left about seven in the morning.”

Helen couldn’t hide her relief.

“I’ve been so worried.” Phil’s eyes were soft with concern. “Why are the police asking about you?”

Phil’s sympathy almost melted her anger. But then she saw Kendra, wrapped around his trunk like poison ivy. To hell with his sympathy. She’d give him the facts and that was all.

“A customer at the bridal shop was murdered,” Helen said, as if there was nothing odd about that sentence. “The police found my fingerprints and DNA at the crime scene.”

“My God,” Phil said. “Please let me help you. I know a lawyer, a good one. I can investigate for you. I’ll do it for free. I have contacts with the police. I can talk with them—”

He reached out for her, but she stepped away, trapped in her shame, lost in her ancient anger at another man.

“Good night, Phil.” She unlocked her door.

“Helen, don’t be like that. Helen—”

She shut the door on his protests and double locked it.