Murder Between the Covers (9 page)

“Near the baseball stadium,” she said. The only thing she knew about Cincinnati was that it had a stadium like St. Louis. Just her luck Jax knew St. Louis. Helen was sweating now. She could feel sweat popping out on her forehead, running down her arms. She looked Jax in the eye and wondered if all liars did that. A fat drop of sweat plopped into her lap.

She was relieved when he switched to questions about Page and the termite tenting. Yes, she and Margery had accompanied Trevor on the final walk-through. She saw nothing suspicious in Peggy’s apartment. Certainly no bodies.

Yes, she knew Page Turner. She worked at his bookstore. What kind of person was he?

A rat, she thought. A cheat, a liar, a seducer. A rich man who stiffed his poor help.

“He wasn’t real popular with the staff,” Helen said. She figured Jax would find that out fast enough. “He closed two stores and let the booksellers go without any severance. He bounced our paychecks.” Well, not mine, she thought. I was paid in cash. But she couldn’t mention that, either.

“Was anyone mad enough to kill him?”

We all were, Helen thought. “What good would that do?” she said. “The stores would still be closed.”

Did Page have any friends or visitors his last day at the store? What time did he leave? Did he seem concerned, worried, angry, or upset?

“I think he was drunk,” Helen said.

Jax hit her with a hailstorm of questions, but she could answer them honestly. She began to relax. Did Page Turner drive away or did someone pick him up that last Friday? Did he have many visitors at the store? Who? Men? Women? Both? Did his guests stay after hours? What kind of cars did they drive? Did Helen know their names or what they did?

“One of his regular visitors was Burt Plank,” she said. She did not mention the sex videos they supposedly watched.

Who would benefit if Page died?

No one, Helen thought, except maybe his wife. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know anything about his private life.” But I’ve heard a lot of ugly rumors.

Jax’s other questions were about Peggy, and how and why Page was in her apartment. Helen said she was a friend of Peggy’s. They sat out by the pool after work and talked. No, Peggy was not dating Mr. Turner. Helen didn’t think she even knew him. Peggy had never mentioned his name.

To her knowledge, Peggy was not dating anyone. She’d never seen a man at Peggy’s apartment, or a woman, for that matter. Peggy lived alone, except for her parrot, Pete. She had a job. She was an office manager for some place in Cypress Creek, but she never discussed it. She talked mainly about her plans to win the lottery.

Funny, lively Peggy sounded so sad when Helen described her life. Peggy wasn’t a sad person, was she? Helen asked herself that question. Jax continued to bombard her with others:

“Where was Peggy Friday night?”

“At the beach barbecue with everyone else,” Helen said. “She brought a salad.”

“When did she leave?”

Helen had no idea. She didn’t see Peggy all weekend. She didn’t see anyone but Rich.

Helen signed a statement saying all her lies were true and the detectives left. She still couldn’t go anywhere. They were interviewing other Coronado residents.

Only one good thing happened that evening. At five o’clock, a florist arrived with a dozen red roses for Helen. The police checked out the vase, then let the flowers through. They were gorgeous, with extravagant bloodred petals and a heady hothouse perfume. They were the first flowers Helen had received since her tenth anniversary with the man who betrayed her. The card said simply, F
orever—
Love, Rich.
Helen wasn’t sure she was ready for forever, not after one weekend, no matter how good.

She was haunted by the scene in Peggy’s bedroom: The rich man dead in the sumptuous bed. The bloated body on the sensuous sheets.

Death was forever, not love.

That night, Helen’s worst fears crawled out from where she’d buried them. She saw Page Turner dead. She saw herself in handcuffs. The police would figure out who she was and send her back to St. Louis and the court’s cold justice.

Homicide detective Clarence Jax and his partner, Tom Levinson, were smart. She saw how Tom had laser-eyed her home. She heard Jax’s questions. Jax had gone to school in her hometown. He could easily find out she was on the run, if he started checking. She’d changed her name, but not her appearance.

She could grab her suitcase full of cash and hit the road, but that would look even more suspicious. If she was lucky, she was a minor part of a major investigation. If she ran, she’d become the focus for all the wrong reasons. Reason said to sit tight. Panic told her to flee.

She wished she’d talked to Margery after the police left last night, but she fell asleep in the warm rose-scented evening and did not wake up until after midnight. Now Margery’s lights were off.

She sat on her bed, holding her cat Thumbs and waiting for dawn. His soft warm fur and contented purr comforted her, and made her believe that everything would be better in daylight. Then she saw Page Turner again, gray-green with death. Suddenly, Helen remembered there was something odd about his body. He’d been knifed in the back, but there was no blood. Why? Was he already dead from the Vikane gas when he was stabbed? Or did the knife hold in the blood?

Helen wished she felt sorry that Page was dead, but she didn’t like the man. His death created even more problems than his life. Would the new bookstore management honor Helen’s cash-under-the-table deal? Would the store stay open? Or would it close, too, now that its namesake was dead? That was a death she would mourn. The old store with its book nooks and wing chairs was a lovely place.

At seven that morning, she saw the lights were on in Margery’s kitchen and knocked on the door. She found Peggy wrapped in Margery’s purple chenille bathrobe, pale and shaken, a cup of coffee growing cold in front of her.

“How long did the police talk with you?” Helen said.

“Hours,” Peggy said.

“What did they ask you?”

“Everything.”

It was all she could get out of her red-haired friend. Peggy took one bite out of a chocolate croissant and left it on her plate. When Margery brought in the newspaper, Peggy didn’t even check the winning lottery numbers.

Margery, in shorts the color of an old bruise, was smoking like a pre-EPA chimney and talking to herself. Her muttering was interspersed with earsplitting shrieks from Pete. Peggy’s apartment was still a crime scene, so she and Pete stayed the night with Margery. The landlady was not happy about living with a parrot. It was hard to pretend Pete didn’t exist when he was squawking in the kitchen.

“Does he have to throw seed around like that?” she complained.

Peggy roused herself from her stupor. “He’s upset. I’ll clean it up.”

“Do they make parrot Prozac?” Margery said.

Helen wondered if they made landlady Prozac. “I wish you could stay at my place,” she told Peggy, “but I don’t think Pete and Thumbs would get along in close quarters.”

“It’s only for a day or so,” Peggy said. Then she went back to staring at her cooling cup of coffee.

“Let’s see if anybody talked to the reporters last night,” Margery said, and flipped on the local TV news.

Page’s death was the lead story. She was not surprised that the police had taken Trevor the termite fumigator in for questioning. There was a shot of him going into police headquarters accompanied by an African-American man with a briefcase.

The bizarre death of Page Turner had attracted hordes of reporters. They’d hung around the Coronado parking lot last night, trying to interview the Coronado residents. Peggy had no comment. Phil the invisible pothead was nowhere to be seen. Margery’s response to the TV reporters had to be bleeped.

But Cal the Canadian expounded on the violence of American society. And drab little Madame Muffy came to life in front of the cameras. She looked young and pretty on TV. Her dull clothes gave her a credibility that fringe and beads would not. She told the reporters she’d predicted Page’s murder when she read Peggy’s palm.

“I saw death, destruction, and murder,” Madame Muffy said. “Her fatal future was written in her palm. Peggy had a dark aura.”

Helen thought this was a violation of client confidentiality.

“I went to the bookstore to warn Page Turner of his impending death, but he did not want to be saved from his terrible fate. He laughed at me.”

Helen remembered the scene at the bookstore, where Page called Muffy crazy and threw her out of his office. At least she was telling the truth about that.

Madame Muffy’s sensational interview added to Helen’s misery. Page Turner’s murder could become a national story. Helen could not be seen on TV.

“I can’t go to work if the reporters are still in the parking lot,” she said. “If this gets on network TV, my ex might find me.” Margery knew Helen’s ex was looking for her but she didn’t know why. Her landlady looked out her back window and said, “It’s safe. They’re gone.”

Helen was relieved—until she got to Page Turners. This morning, the press pack was waiting outside the bookstore. Helen ducked around back and pounded on the loadingdock door until Albert opened it. The day manager was pale as a lost soul. His white shirt was wilted. The starch had gone out of him, too.

“What should I do? The store opens in fifteen minutes. Should I let in those reporters?”

“Call Gayle’s cell phone and ask her,” Helen said. Albert seemed relieved to yield his authority to the night manager.

She could hear Gayle shout her answer. “For God’s sake, don’t let them in the store.”

“There are so many, how will I hold them off?” Albert said, desperate as General Custer at Little Bighorn.

“Keep the doors locked. I’m on my way.”

Helen saw Brad elbowing his way through the reporters. Albert unlocked the door and the little bookseller slid inside. His shirt was twisted and his hair stuck out at odd angles. “Today, it’s reporters,” he said, straightening his clothes. “Yesterday, it was the police. You missed that, Helen. They found the sex videos. Dozens of them. Took them out by the boxload.”

“So they really exist.”

“Oh, yeah. I bet there’s going to be cops begging for that assignment. I heard you saw the body. Was it horrible?”

“The worst. I won’t ever forget.”

“Did Page Turner suffer?”

“I don’t think so,” Helen said.

“Too bad,” he spat. Helen did not know how Brad’s skinny body could hold so much hate. She was afraid it would overflow and scald her.

Helen hid in the break room and made phone calls. She thanked Rich for the wonderful roses. He’d heard about the murder and wanted to take her away, but Helen insisted she was fine. She talked with her friend Sarah, who was equally worried. Helen assured her that she’d be all right.

At nine-fifteen, Gayle arrived, an avenging angel in Doc Martens and a black turtleneck. She read a prepared statement asking the press to respect the Turner family privacy and please stay out of the store. The reporters interviewed customers going in and out for a while, then drifted away.

Rich called again at eleven. And at noon. And at one and two. Albert, his composure regained, frowned with disapproval every time. “It’s your boyfriend,” he’d say, handing her the phone like it was a dead fish. When Rich called at four she said, “I appreciate your concern, but I can’t keep taking personal calls at work.”

“I’m worried about you,” he said. “There’s a killer loose.”

“I’m fine. I’m in a bookstore. It’s perfectly safe.”

“That’s what Page Turner thought. Be careful talking to strange men.”

“It’s South Florida. All the men are strange.” A man walked up to her register, his feet making an odd
slap-slap
sound. He wore a Hawaiian shirt that clashed with his tattoos. Helen looked down and saw knobby knees and DayGlo swim fins.

“Forgot my shoes,” he said, and handed her a copy of
Guns & Ammo.

Helen put Rich on hold while she rang up Swim Fins, and hoped he wouldn’t be there when she came back.

But he was, giving advice and orders. “Don’t speak to any men. Don’t encourage them in any way. It could be a serial killer. They’re attracted to unstable situations. It’s where they hunt women.”

“Rich, I’m forty-two. I can take care of myself. I really have to go. Please don’t call again. I need this job.”

This is Page Turner’s fault, she thought. His death had unleashed some streak of protective paranoia in Rich. It was ruining her romance.

Page was not done causing problems for Helen. When she got off work at six that night, Helen called Margery and asked if the TV reporters were back at the Coronado.

“I ran them off my parking lot, but the damn satellite trucks are parked in the street, thanks to that blasted Madame Muffy,” Margery said. “She’s outside talking to them again. I ought to raise her rent. I can’t even sit out by the pool with a glass of wine or I’ll wind up on TV looking like a lush. Call me in another hour, and I’ll let you know if they’ve left.”

Helen sat in the café, eating free, slightly stale eggplant sandwiches and drinking coffee bought with her employee discount. She found a paper on the table and read the employment ads. Most were for people with special training: Welder … window installer … wood finisher. All skills Helen didn’t have.

Wait! Here was something she could do. A “busy young company” wanted a word processor. They paid nine dollars and eighty cents an hour, good money in South Florida.
Must know spelling and grammar
, the ad said. F
ax résumé
attn. Sally.
There was no address or phone, only the fax number.

Helen checked her watch. It was seven p.m. She slipped into the bookstore’s deserted office and typed up a résumé with impressive speed. That alone should qualify me for the job, she thought. She checked it for errors. Perfect.