Killer Cuts: A Dead-End Job Mystery (10 page)

K
ing’s wedding guests scrambled for the exits like scalded

roaches. Honey’s dream wedding had turned into a night

mare. It was a well-dressed riot.

A blonde in a nearly sheer dress slipped through the ficus hedge. The sharp twigs tore her expensive clothes and scratched her face.The blonde pushed her way through to freedom and emerged on the other side, badly scratched and nearly naked in her leopard-print thong un derwear. Helen watched the blonde rip off her shredded dress, sling it over her shoulder, and lope across the lawn in high heels.

The blonde wasn’t the least bit self-conscious about her nakedness, and Helen wondered if she was a stripper or an actress.

A man in a hideous plaid tux nearly ran over a delicate grandmother in lavender chiffon. The plaid guy bulled his way through the fleeing crowd to the main door.

The bride was gone. The lawyer had led a bedraggled Honey to his Lexus and driven away. More guests tried to follow. Helen saw tux edoed men in the driveway, waving money and promising huge tips if the valets got their cars
now
.

A thin old man with a black cane was nearly trampled by a line backer in a gray suit.The linebacker rudely knocked the old man against a pillar and ran for the back door.The old man was trembling so badly he could hardly stand.

Women screamed. Men cursed and shouted. Peacocks screeched. Glasses and china crashed to the ground, and Helen could hear furni ture breaking. Someone overturned the chocolate fountain table, and the Sterno ignited the tablecloth. Little flames started licking the covered chairs, and suddenly the flowers were roasting and the blue silk ribbons went up in an orange blaze.The flames fell upon the wedding feast like hungry guests, devouring tablecloths, napkins and filmy swathes of tulle.

More guests screamed and tried to push their way out. Some looked vaguely famous, and Helen wondered if she’d seen their faces on maga zines in the supermarket checkout line.The mad escape stopped when two police cars blocked the narrow drive, the only way out. Six uni formed officers, holstered weapons plainly visible, informed the valets that they were not to fetch any more cars without police permission.

Helen heard a police officer arguing with the wedding videogra pher.”I can give you the original tape,” Marco Antonio said.”But it’s a mini DV format. Do you have a player for one? I didn’t think so.”

“But I think I can lock you up for obstruction of justice,” the officer said.”Now, take a deep breath and ask yourself how much trouble you want to be in.”

The videographer waited a beat, then apologized.”I am sorry, offi cer. I wasn’t thinking. I have to protect my clients. Mr. Oden’s competi tors would pay a lot of money for this wedding video, and I had to sign an agreement that I would not sell it.”

“You’re not selling it,” the officer said.”We need it for evidence.”

Now the photographer was all smiles.”Of course you can have the tape. Please let me make sure it’s stored properly, so we don’t lose any thing. I can check it in my van.”

The officer followed the photographer outside. Ten minutes later, the officer was back with a small tape. He bagged it.The photographer gave the cop his card and waved good-bye.

Helen was nearly knocked over by a leathery-skinned woman with unnaturally red hair.”Sorry, sweetie,” Ms. Red said as she sprinted past.

Now Helen could smell smoke, and she saw a raging fire had de veloped in the dining area. So far, it hadn’t reached the house, but she couldn’t stand around watching the guests run away. She had to get out of there.

There were more sirens, and Helen wondered if someone had called the fire department, police reinforcements, or both. She thought many of the frantic escapees were sex-industry workers.Those people wouldn’t welcome any contact with the police, she thought.

Oh, hell, who I am kidding? I don’t want another close encounter with the cops, either. Not so soon after I was accused of murdering my ex-husband, Rob.

There was also the problem with the court in St. Louis. That had sent Helen on a zigzag course through the country before she wound up in South Florida with a new name and a new life.

No, Helen didn’t want a smart cop, or even a dumb one, looking into her past. She ducked inside the French doors and found herself facing the kitchen, an oddly angled room overlooking the pool.There was a tiny bathroom on the right. Next to it was a door leading to the pool deck.

Helen heard footsteps. She ducked into the bathroom and locked the door. A narrow window over the toilet was covered with a pink shade. Helen estimated the size of the window and wondered if she could slide through it. She decided it would be tight, maybe a matter of millimeters. She wished she hadn’t piled her appetizer plate quite so high.

Helen took off her shoes and black pants, stepped up on the toilet seat, raised the shade and opened the window. She threw her pants and shoes outside. They landed on the pool deck with a thud. Then she boosted herself onto the toilet tank, knocking over a scented candle and shattering a jar of potpourri. She pulled herself through the window up to her hips.

Damn. She was stuck.

Helen wiggled and squirmed. It felt like she was scraping off a layer of skin. No, two layers. I’m going to look fabulous on my wedding night, she thought. I’ll be bruised from waist to knees.

She twisted and turned, and finally she was free. Helen fell headfirst onto a padded wicker couch. It wobbled, but didn’t fall over. Thank heavens King only bought the best.

Helen stood up gingerly and realized she’d lost her underpants in the frantic struggle through the window. No way she was going back in there. Helen slipped on her black pants and shoes. She threaded her way around the pool furniture, past the umbrella tables, and found a gate by a small waterfall. Helen peered through the fence and saw no one. She still smelled smoke.

She made a run for the back exit. She was out! She counted at least three fire trucks in the street, along with a herd of police vehicles. Helen dodged her way through them and was nearly to the street when she was stopped by a police officer. He had buzz-cut red hair, pale skin and a zit on his chin.

“We’re asking the staff and wedding guests to stay while we ask them a few questions,” Officer Buzz said.

“But there’s a fire,” Helen said.

“The blaze has been contained,” Officer Buzz said.”For safety’s sake, guests may wait in the empty house across the street. It’s for sale, and there’s an open house today.The Realtor gave us permission to use it to question guests, since potential buyers can’t get down the street with all the activity.”

“Why do you need to talk to us?” Helen asked.

“It’s routine in a suspicious death,” the officer said.

“Is King dead?” Helen asked.

“He was pronounced DOA at the hospital,” the officer said.

“But King drowned,” Helen said.

“We don’t know how he got into the water, ma’am.”

Another officer with Stevens on his name tag walked Helen across the street to a mansion slightly smaller than King’s.They crossed a vast empty parquet floor and climbed a curved staircase to a small bedroom.

“Wait here,” Officer Stevens said. “We’ll be back shortly. Do you have a cell phone?”

“No,” Helen said.

“May I check your purse?”

The officer looked through her purse, then left, closing the door. Helen sat down on a blue quilted spread and waited. She picked up the phone by the bed to call Phil, her fiancé.The line was dead.

Helen paced back and forth until she was sure she’d worn a path in the pale rug. It was nearly five o’clock when Officer Stevens returned and led her to a nearly empty kitchen with stainless steel appliances.A man in a dark suit was sitting at the oak kitchen table.

“Sit down,” he told Helen. “I’m Detective Richard McNally, and I’m in the Crimes Against Persons Unit.”

McNally was her worst nightmare. His white hair said he was a veteran. His steel blue eyes said he was smart. His questions started out mild. Helen tried to be as honest as possible.

Was she a guest at the wedding?

No, she was here to assist the bride’s hairstylist, Miguel Angel.

Where was he?

Helen didn’t know.

When was the last time she’d seen him?

He’d excused himself to go to the bathroom just before the main course was served.

No, she had no idea what time Miguel Angel had left the table.

Helen was worried and tried not to say so.Would the police see the stylist’s disappearance as a sign of guilt? Did they know about his fight with King? Miguel Angel had a hot temper, and he’d threatened to kill the groom. But his anger passed quickly. Helen was sure Miguel would never hurt anyone.

Where was Helen at the time the groom went into the pool?

She didn’t know the exact time, but she’d sat at table twenty-nine during the whole dinner.

Anyone else with her at the table?

Yes, Phoebe, Miguel Angel’s assistant, who was there as a guest of the bride.Also an older gentleman with a woman in a red dress.They’d never introduced themselves.

Where was the bride during this?

At the head table, until the DJ announced it was time to cut the wedding cake.Then Honey went to look for the missing groom. So did Cassie, King’s daughter, and Melody, the maid of honor.

Did Helen know the groom?

She’d never seen him before today.

Did anyone have a reason to kill King?

Helen said she didn’t know. She remembered the bride saying King liked to keep his friends close and his enemies closer, but she didn’t say that. King’s ex-wife and former girlfriend must have hated his guts. King had groped a young staffer. His former business partner was suing him. How close did King’s enemies get—close enough to kill him?

How did the deceased behave? Detective McNally asked.When was he last known to be okay?

“He stopped by to see the bride about an hour before the cere mony,” Helen said.”I think he was drunk. Just before the bride marched down the aisle, I saw him take a drink out of a bourbon bottle and then stash it in a potted palm.”

Helen didn’t mention drugs. She hadn’t seen King using those.The police didn’t seem to know about the fight with Miguel Angel, so she didn’t mention that, either. She gave McNally the name she’d used since fleeing St. Louis, plus the salon information, her current address and her landlady’s phone number. Helen didn’t have a phone in her name. She wanted to stay hard to find.

It was six o’clock before Helen was allowed to leave. Across the street, she could see that the fire trucks were gone. A faint odor of smoke lingered. Trampled flowers littered the pavement, and shattered crystal stars glittered in the waning light. King’s velvet lawn was scarred with brown tire ruts.

The wedding guests’ cars had been valet parked along the street. Some vehicles were still there. Helen saw no sign of Miguel Angel or his ride. He’d driven her to the wedding.

Well, it wasn’t that bad a walk. She started hoofing it home when Miguel Angel’s Jeep drove up.A woman leaned out of the driver’s side and asked, “Want a ride?” It was Miguel Angel, with long blond hair and a blue dress.