Half-Price Homicide (30 page)

The wedding reception was lit by moonglow and bug lights, with flashes of distant lightning. There was no receiving line, no best man making tasteless toasts, no garter to throw or bouquet to toss. An intrusive videographer did not command the couple to pose. Peggy took photos for Helen and Phil, then put her camera away.

The wedding feast was on a long folding table by the pool. The bridal bouquet was once more in its vase, doing double duty as the centerpiece. The bride and groom held hands and kissed. The guests laughed often.

None of them paid lip service to their diets. Boring excuses such as, “I’d eat that, but it’s so fattening,” were forgotten. The pate, crackers and fruit were quickly demolished. Even Pete was allowed a single cracker. The pudgy parrot’s perpetual diet had a one-night reprieve.

Phil polished off the last of Elsie’s beef bourguignonne. Helen cut the coconut cake and served her guests generous slices.

Phil refilled the wineglasses for yet another round of toasts.

They’d drunk the champagne and were now working on the box wine.

“These are two words I’ve wanted to say for a long time: my wife,” Phil said. “I will love you forever. I’m so glad you finally said yes.” He gave Helen a lingering kiss as the wedding party applauded.

“Only a man as good as Phil could persuade me to marry again,” Helen said, raising her glass. “To my husband.”

“That’s so sweet,” Elsie said, wiping her eyes.

“And this toast is for Elsie,” Helen said. “A bridesmaid at last. It’s never too late to get your wish.”

They saluted Elsie.

“Thank you, dear,” Elsie said, patting Helen’s hand. “I had to wait sixty years to be a bridesmaid, but I must say, it was worth it. I married at eighteen and I was pregnant with my Milton the summer when my friends married. In those days you couldn’t have a pregnant maid of honor. It wasn’t done. We missed so much fun by worrying about what people thought and it was all so silly. I’m glad I’m free of those self-imposed rules now. Milton says my clothes aren’t appropriate for my age, but I think age is all in your mind.”

“You’ve made the world a more colorful place,” Phil said, and raised his glass again.

“This last-minute wedding is the way to tie the knot,” Peggy said. “I’ve been to too many where the bride is frazzled and the groom is hungover. The couple is so tired after months of planning their wedding, they don’t enjoy it. You both look relaxed and happy.”

“Why not?” Helen said. “Our friends did all the work.” She helped herself to another piece of coconut cake. “Terrific cake, Elsie.”

“Thank you, Helen, dear,” Elsie said. “It’s good to see a young woman with an appetite. Was that your name in a newspaper story about the arrest of that crooked county commissioner? The newspaper said she attacked you.”

“It did,” Helen said, “and she did.”

“My wife forgot to mention that she found the evidence that will put Loretta behind bars,” Phil said proudly. “There. I said it officially. My wife.” He kissed Helen again.

“Loretta hasn’t been convicted yet,” Helen said. “And my husband left out his own part.” It felt good to use the H-word without hating the man connected to it. “Phil tracked down the slum house where Loretta was renting rooms to illegal immigrants.”

“Danny the developer’s detective did that, too,” Phil said.

“But Danny didn’t use his knowledge for good,” Helen said. “He blackmailed the commissioner.”

“Whoa,” Margery said. “You lost me. I thought Loretta Stranahan was against Danny’s Orchid House development.”

“She was,” Phil said. “But once the police arrested her for murder, she couldn’t wait to rat out Daniel Martlet. She said he was blackmailing her in case he needed her vote on future Orchid House changes.”

“Did the commissioner give him money?” Peggy asked.

“No, Danny wasn’t after money. He has enough votes to get the proposal passed. She could oppose him publicly until her reelection. Then, if Danny needed her vote, he had it. She was his insurance policy.”

“Awk,” Pete said.

“How could she do that?” Peggy asked.

“Happens all the time,” Margery said. “I know I sound cynical, but for more than fifty years, I’ve been watching Florida politicians spin like weather vanes in a hurricane. First, they oppose all development as evil. That gets them elected. Once they safely have their seats, they have a sudden conversion. Now development is good. It will bring more tourists and more jobs. In these troubled times, they say, Florida can’t afford to lose this opportunity. Trust me, the times are always troubled. Nothing has changed in half a century.”

“And the politicians get away with it?” Peggy asked.

“Almost always,” Margery said. “If the bums get thrown out of office, they find a safe, salaried berth with the developer or his friends. Either way, they win and we, the people, lose.”

“Loretta will be the exception,” Helen said. “She’s been caught, thanks to Phil, who found the house of the seven toilets.”

“I think I read that book when I was a little girl,” Elsie said, slightly tipsy from so many toasts.

“Probably not,” Phil said. “There was nothing charming about this house. Every room, even the garage, was rented to illegal immigrants for outrageous prices. Every room had a toilet. And it was my wife”—he stopped to savor that word—”who counted those toilets.”

“We know she’s a talented toilet counter,” Margery said. “But can we get to the end of this story before your golden wedding anniversary? You and Helen can split the credit for finding the house of the seven toilets. What happened next?”

“Loretta got arrested,” Helen said. “Should we tell you about that?”

“Yes, dear,” Elsie said. Her voice was gentler than Margery’s. “We’re anxious to know, if you don’t mind discussing murder at your wedding.”

“Marriage and murder go hand in hand,” Margery said. Cigarette smoke formed a crown around her head.

“A customer at Snapdragon’s showed me a pair of polka-dot heels that didn’t have a price tag,” Helen said. “I put them aside so Vera, the owner, could see them. Vera said the shoes were too damaged to sell and forgot them. Three days ago, I had a brainstorm. I remembered Commissioner Stranahan was in the store when Chrissy was murdered—and she wore polka-dot heels.

“I called Vera and asked her why the shoes couldn’t be sold. She said they had dark spots on the polka-dot bows. I ran over to the store—actually Phil drove me—and told Vera we had to find those shoes. Loretta was in the store and heard me. When I was searching shelves in the back room, she tried to kill me with a porcelain pineapple. I hate pineapples.”

“For good reason,” Phil said loyally.

“Vera called the police when Loretta attacked me,” Helen said. “Detective McNally came in just in time, and stopped the fight. Loretta was arrested and the police took the polka-dot heels. They’ve already confirmed that it was Chrissy’s blood type on the bows. The police lab is still running DNA tests to see if it’s really Chrissy’s blood and if Loretta actually wore the shoes, but they have backup evidence.”

“If Loretta left her polka-dot heels behind at Snapdragon’s,” Peggy said, “did she walk out of the store barefoot?”

“No, she shoplifted a pair of eight-hundred-forty-five-dollar Manolos,” Helen said. “We were selling them for about a quarter of that price. Vera noticed the shoes were missing later. I think the theft upset Vera more than Chrissy’s murder. She’ll never get the shoes back to sell, so Vera is out a couple hundred bucks. The police searched Loretta’s home and found the shoplifted Manolos. The police are fairly sure Commissioner Stranahan wore them after she killed Chrissy, and they’ll have proof soon. The stolen Manolos had blood on them, too, and it’s Chrissy’s type.”

“I’m a little confused by all these shoes, dear,” Elsie said. “Or maybe it’s the champagne.” Her kind eyes were slightly glazed.

“Chrissy had accused Loretta of having an affair with her husband, Danny the developer,” Helen said, as if she were teaching a class. “Chrissy taunted Loretta and said she knew about the house of the seven toilets. Loretta panicked. Renting to illegal immigrants and owning slum property in Palm Beach County would kill her career.”

“So she killed Chrissy instead,” Elsie said, shaking her head. “So foolish and wasteful.”

“She didn’t think it through,” Helen said. “Loretta slammed Chrissy on the head with that heavy pineapple knickknack. The blow stunned her and made her head bleed. Then Loretta hung poor Chrissy with a silk scarf. The commissioner noticed the blood on her polka-dot heels, stole the Manolos and wore them out. But Chrissy’s blood dripped on the tile floor, and Loretta got blood on her sole.”

“Blood on her soul,” Peggy said. “That’s very poetic.” “Awk!” Pete said.

“It was blood on her shoe sole,” Helen said. “The left one. The police also have a usable fingerprint now. The forensics lab used Super Glue fuming and a dye stain to find a print Loretta left on the pineapple. The fingerprint was the size of a pinkie nail, but it’s big enough to have seven points. That counts as a valid ID.”

“Your prints were on that pineapple, too,” Phil said.

“They were,” Helen said. “But my prints were consistent with someone holding it for dusting. Loretta gripped it differently, the way you would to hit someone.”

“What made you suddenly remember the shoes?” Peggy asked.

“I was in a restaurant and saw a woman wearing a blouse. It looked like one that had been shoplifted from our store. The thief left her cheap blouse behind and took the expensive one. That’s when I realized Loretta had worn another pair of shoes out of Snapdragon’s. It’s an old shoplifter’s technique. Too bad I told my boss while Loretta was in the store. She attacked me and broke a lot of merchandise.”

“But you weren’t hurt this time, were you?” Peggy asked.

“A few bruises,” Helen said. She tried to shrug, but her shoulder still ached.

“I’ve never attended a wedding where the bride and groom talked about murder,” Elsie said. “It’s nice not to have to compare caterers and wedding presents.”

“There’s no chance Loretta will go free, is there?” Peggy said. “Could she buy a ‘dream team’ lawyer?”

“Can’t afford one,” Phil said. “Palm Beach County took her money machine. They made Loretta pay big-time for damaging the county’s reputation. Palm Beach County did not appreciate a Broward County commissioner creating slum housing on their turf.

“Commentators made fun of Palm Beach County’s motto, ‘The best of everything,’ when the story went nationwide. The county penalized her to the full extent of the law. The inspectors found twelve hundred seventeen code violations, then gave Loretta a week to fix them.”

“That was impossible,” Helen said. “I saw those houses. There’s no way they could be fixed in a week. Or even a year.”

“Exactly,” Phil said. “Loretta was fined two hundred fifty dollars per violation. Don’t ask me how much that came to.”

“It’s $304,250,” Helen said, proud she could still multiply after uncounted drinks.

“Loretta could have appealed the decision,” Phil said, “but by then she was charged with murder and denied bail.”

“Will she fix up the properties while she’s in jail?” Peggy asked.

“I doubt it,” Phil said. “I think Palm Beach County will impose liens on the two properties, then foreclose and raze them.”

“What happened to those poor illegals?” Peggy asked.

“They’re in the wind,” Phil said. “When the inspectors showed up, both houses were empty. Loretta’s illegal fortune will be spent on legal fees. There’s a certain justice in that.”

“And Loretta will go to prison,” Elsie said. “I like happy endings.” Her smile had a tipsy sweetness.

Peggy stifled a small yawn. Pete was sleeping with his head tucked under his wing.

Margery yawned, too. “It’s two in the morning,” she said. “Isn’t it time for you to start living happily ever after?”

The storm clouds were long gone. The afternoon sun was beating down on the umbrella table when Helen and Phil strolled out of Phil’s apartment, with the smiling, insufferable smugness of the sexually satisfied. Helen looked glowing, but slightly worn. Phil was whistling.

Margery sat at the table, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. She grinned at the newlyweds. “Good morning. Or should I say good afternoon? How’s marriage?” “Fine,” Phil said.

Helen glared at her chipper husband and shaded her eyes from the brilliant sun. “If you loved me, you’d have a hangover, too,” she said. Her voice was a groan from a distant tomb.

Helen sat down carefully, next to her bridal bouquet, which was still in the vase on the umbrella table. Those roses got around. Today, they were surrounded by a basket of muffins, butter, jam and a platter of fresh fruit. In the center was a giant pineapple.

Helen looked at the pineapple and winced.

“At least it’s a real pineapple,” she said, “and not one of those freaking porcelain things.”

“My wife means thank you for the lovely breakfast, especially the fresh fruit,” Phil said, picking up a blueberry muffin. “This breakfast is so thoughtful. You’ve also cleaned up after the wedding feast.”

“Wasn’t much left to clean up,” Margery said. “We ate and drank everything. It took Elsie, Peggy and me maybe fifteen minutes. Have you two come to give notice on your rentals?”