Murder Between the Covers (15 page)

Today, in the harsh morning light, the bachelor squalor was depressing. Well, she wouldn’t be moving in with him anytime soon. Helen yawned and stretched. The gray sheets felt oddly soft. Why did Rich have flannel sheets in Florida? Helen saw her hands were covered with long gray hair. The sheets, under the layers of cat hair, were actually white.

Rich saw her hairy hands. “Oops,” he said. “That’s where Sissy likes to sleep.”

“When was the last time you changed these sheets?” Helen said.

Rich thought for a moment. “Let’s see. I broke up with Sheila in March.”

“It’s June,” Helen said, sitting up and throwing off the suspect sheets. “You didn’t change your sheets for more than three months?”

“I don’t think of that stuff.”

“But your clinic is so clean.”

“Gloria handles that. She’s a terrific office manager. Sheila did the house stuff.” He smiled winsomely. “I was sort of hoping, now that we’re getting serious, you could take over.”

“Do I look like a housekeeper?”

Helen looked like an angry naked woman. Time to fix that. She started hunting for her clothes. She wasn’t about to shower at Rich’s. She’d seen cleaner bus station bathrooms. She found her bra under the bed in at least three months of dust. She shook it out and snapped it on.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” Rich said. “I thought when a woman cared about a man, she naturally wanted to care for his house. It’s like an instinct.”

“Wrong,” Helen said. “There’s no connection between hormones and housekeeping.”

She couldn’t believe any man still thought that way. Then again, nobody ever called South Florida a center of advanced thinking. She put on her panties inside out, then picked up her blouse from a chair upholstered with more cat hair. She pulled on her pants and slipped on her Ferragamo loafers. They were damp.

Did she spill her drink on them? She hoped not. They were some of her last good shoes, even if they had been resoled twice. She picked up one loafer for a closer look. That’s when she caught the unmistakeable odor of cat urine.

Sissy had delivered her final opinion of Helen.

Helen got home at nine-thirty that morning. Thumbs greeted her at the door. Her big-footed cat looked cuddlier than ever. He was so gentle and well mannered, compared to Rich’s rude animals. She scratched his ears in appreciation and poured him an extra helping of breakfast.

As she pulled off her black Ralph Lauren pants, she saw tiny pinpricks of daylight in the seat and along the inseam. Her good pants were wearing out. She’d bought them back when she made a hundred thousand dollars a year. Now that she was working dead-end jobs, she could not afford pants that expensive. They’d cost a week’s pay. She wondered if she could get by with wearing her holey pants over black panty hose.

She had to salvage her smelly shoes. Helen did not have any leather cleaner, so she sprayed her loafers with lemon Pledge. They smelled a little better, but she still caught a faint, pungent whiff. Oh, well. She had to wear her thicksoled clunkers to the bookstore anyway.

Helen kept herself busy so she would not have to think about her disastrous night with Rich—or worse, their lovely weekend together on the beach. Suddenly, she couldn’t hold back the memories any longer. She saw the moonlight leav ing a silver path on the endless ocean, and the two of them walking along the shining sand.

The tears came and she could not stop them. She cried for all that she had lost long before she knew Rich. She could not change the past, but she would not repeat it. She’d let her ex take her for granted. That would never happen again. Could Rich believe that a woman naturally wanted to clean house for a man? She would not be any man’s unpaid housekeeper, no matter how good the sex.

She thought of her grandmother, a short tanklike woman who’d supported herself with dead-end jobs, watching other people’s children and cleaning other people’s houses. Grandma never got a weekend on the beach with a man who looked like a shaggy Mel Gibson, but she kept going.

She was tougher than I am, Helen thought. She seemed to hear her grandmother’s voice now: Pull your socks up and quit whining. She dried her tears and checked the clock. It was time to go to work.

When Helen walked into Page Turners shortly before eleven, the phone was ringing. “It’s for you,” Albert said, and frowned. “It’s a personal call. Again.” He pursed his mouth in irritation. Helen hoped his starched collar would strangle him.

The caller was Rich. “I can’t talk now,” Helen said.

“Don’t hang up,” he said desperately. “I’m sorry.”

“You certainly are,” she said, slamming down the receiver.

He called every half hour after that. Helen didn’t know if she or Albert was more annoyed. She begged Rich to stop, afraid she might be fired. Finally he quit calling. At one o’clock, a florist arrived with an enormous bouquet. Rich had sent two dozen red roses.

Forgive me,
the card said. P
.S.: I’ve hired a cleaning ser
vice.

“You’ve got yourself one romantic dude,” Denny said. The newest bookseller smiled cherubically. He didn’t look like a nose breaker. But then, she didn’t look like someone on the run.

“I guess,” Helen said.

She wished Rich had not spent so much money on something that would be dead in three days. The roses cost almost as much as a new pair of pants. I’ve got to stop thinking like this, she decided. Being chronically broke was ruining her sense of romance.

She wanted to take the roses to the break room, but Denny set them on the counter, “So we all can enjoy them.”

“Those roses are beautiful,” gushed a gray-haired woman.

“Her boyfriend sent them,” Denny said.

“You are a lucky young woman. Not many men send roses anymore.”

He doesn’t care about me, she thought. He had them delivered here to make a big public splash. But Helen was glad to have the Rich problem. If she was mad at Rich, she wouldn’t have to think about Peggy, in jail and on trial for her life, hiding the one fact that could save her.

Helen was convinced that Peggy did not kill Page. Then who did? That was the problem. The list was endless. She would have to write down all the suspects. But the day was taking its own slow pace. At the store, the lines of book buyers went on endlessly.

A tall woman with long blond hair and a soft blue blouse said, “May I write a check?”

“Sure,” Helen said. “If I can see a picture ID.”

The check said Willamena Delgarno. Her driver’s license said William Delgarno. The address was the same. The photo was the same, too, except William was not wearing makeup and had a military buzz cut.

Helen looked at Willamena again. Under the makeup she had a five-o’clock shadow. Helen hoped the surprise did not show on her face.

The next person in line was undoubtedly a man. In fact, he looked like a Viking recruiting poster. He was tall, with narrow hips, a tight T-shirt, and long strong legs in formfitting jeans. He was wearing work boots and a tool belt, but he had a natural air of command, as if he carried five stars on his shoulders.

Helen felt a definite
ka-zoing!
somewhere south of her belt. She also heard warning bells go off. She’d had a disastrous date with a perfect man not too long ago. She looked at the Viking again. She was relieved when she saw his blond hair was receding. His front teeth were yellow from cigarettes and a little crooked. His stomach was not quite as flat as it first appeared. Perfect—he wasn’t perfect after all.

The Viking handed her two books,
Building Your Dream
Home
and
The Red Tent.

“Guess you must wonder what I’m doing with a woman’s novel,” he said, and blushed. Helen thought it was charming in a man so big. “My sister talked about it so much, I thought I’d better read it. Do you think that’s stupid? I mean, a guy reading a woman’s novel?”

“I think more guys should read woman’s novels. And vice versa.”

Helen’s hand accidentally brushed his as she picked up the books, and it was her turn to blush. His arms had little golden hairs and big muscles. He was not wearing a wedding ring.

“Uh, are you single?” he asked her.

“Divorced,” she said.

“My name is Gabriel,” he said.

Gabriel, she thought. And he looks like an angel. A balding, slightly paunchy angel.

“But you can call me Gabe.”

“Any children?” she said.

“Never wanted any.”

“Me, either,” Helen said. This man was a soul mate. At least on that subject.

“Listen, am I rushing things? Would you like to go out? Maybe for coffee or a drink or something?” Gabe said.

Or something, Helen thought. “Coffee,” she said. She really wanted a drink, but coffee was a safer choice. “How about the café here?”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Six-thirty tonight?”

“Tomorrow night,” she said, not wanting to be too available.

The woman behind Gabriel politely cleared her throat.

“I better go, I’m holding up the line,” he said.

Helen apologized to the woman, who winked and said, “No problem, but I’ve got to get back to work.”

The customer line was gone suddenly as a summer shower. But there was one thundercloud. Dr. Rich Petton, her erstwhile boyfriend, came up to the counter.

“Why were you flirting with that guy?” he said. “You don’t know him. It’s dangerous. You could get yourself killed. What if he’s a serial killer? This is Florida, home of Ted Bundy. At least find someone who knows him before you start flirting with that man.”

“What business is it of yours?” Helen said in a hissing whisper, so her colleagues wouldn’t hear.

“I care about you.”

“I’m a grown woman, Richard. I don’t need a chaperon.”

“You were making a date with him. You were picking up men in bookstores.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said.

“You don’t need another man,” he said. “You have me. Didn’t last night mean anything?”

She looked down. His strong callused hand was clamped on her wrist like a handcuff. She felt the pain shoot up her arm. He was hurting her.

“Let me go, Richard,” she said coldly, trying to keep control. “I’m not a dog on a leash. I won’t follow your commands.”

“Helen, please, I didn’t mean it.” He let her go. There were red marks on her wrist where he’d grabbed her. They would turn into bruises. “I’ll do anything. I got a cleaning service for you. I’ll see a counselor. I’ll—”

“Good-bye,” she said. Her wrist throbbed. She’d been manhandled. That scared her.

Helen felt only relief when Dr. Richard Petton walked out of her life. Relief and regret that she did not feel more.

Helen picked up the knife carefully. Her wrist hurt from where Dr. Rich had grabbed her. She wore a bracelet of bruises and a long-sleeved blouse to cover them. No man had ever treated her like that, not even her ex, Rob. She seethed with anger.

Crack!
A peanut-butter cracker crumbled into pieces. She imagined it was Rich’s bones. She should have hit him. She should have killed him. She picked up the plastic knife and plunged it into the heart of the peanut-butter jar. It snapped off. So far she’d broken two knives and six crackers. She had a pile of peanut-butter-smeared pieces, but nothing she could eat.

Helen was alone in the Bawls-less break room with her anger and her lunch, a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a box of crackers. She was still furious after that humiliating scene with Rich yesterday. He hadn’t called her since. She almost wished he would, so she could tell him what she’d thought of him. She’d carried his roses home and thrown them in the Dumpster. Her only revenge was her date with Gabriel. Well, she couldn’t call it a date exactly. It was coffee at the Page Turners café, under the watchful eye of Gayle.

“That’s your lunch?” Gayle said, opening the break room door. She’d brought back a lovely little salad Nicoise from a nearby French restaurant. She brushed cracker crumbs off the table and sat down in the second least wobbly chair. Gayle was wearing black, as usual. Her metal belt buckle looked like it belonged on a blast furnace.

“It’s one of the few things I can cook,” Helen said.

“You call that cooking?”

“I opened the jar myself.”

“Look out, Emeril. Doesn’t the break room look better since we got rid of all those cases of Bawls?”

“It’s bigger, anyway,” Helen said, looking around the dingy room. It still smelled like Taco Bell takeout. “Did Astrid tell you anything about Page’s funeral?”

“It was short and sweet,” Gayle said. “They had him underground in record time.”

“Any of his old girlfriends show up?”

“Not a one. That’s why Astrid kept the funeral service private. She didn’t want his weeping bimbos there.”

Helen wondered if the other women in Page’s videos would weep for him. Peggy was just one of many in that locked cabinet. Maybe one wanted him dead. Maybe they all did. She imagined a scene like something from
Murder
on the Orient Express:
A dozen flossy-haired beauties held a pillow over Page’s face while he struggled helplessly.

“Did you know any of the women who starred in his videos?” she asked Gayle.

“You mean besides the one who was arrested? Because I have to tell you, Peggy was here more than the rest combined.”

Helen winced. Gayle didn’t notice. She was picking the tuna off her salad.

“I knew most of them. They usually came into the store when I was on nights. Let’s see … there were Cheree and Maree, two skinny blondes with long straight hair. Very striking, those two. They looked like twins, although I don’t think they were. They always showed up together. They wore identical black dresses and black studded dog collars. I expected Page to walk them on a leash. I think they were pros.

“Then there was Liza. She was a sweet little thing, curly brown hair, big brown eyes. She moved back home to Pittsburgh and married a dentist. You see any pepper over there?”