Murder Between the Covers (27 page)

“But you didn’t actually see her in her office the whole night,” Helen said. “You were at the front cash register. She could have easily slipped out for an hour.”

“She could have, but she didn’t,” Brad said. He’d dripped a spot of mayo on his chin. “I hope you aren’t trying to pin Page’s murder on Gayle. You obviously haven’t worked as many shit jobs as I have. She’s a good manager. She’s too decent to murder anyone. I don’t really feel like reading, thank you.”

He handed Helen back the J.Lo tribute. She did not think anyone could look so dignified with mayonnaise on his chin.

Helen should have felt ashamed. But she didn’t. She couldn’t wait to get back to the Coronado with her news.

“The wife had to have an unbreakable alibi,” Helen said. “She would be the logical suspect. Gayle did the killing. She has no alibi for that night. She was alone in the office. She could have slipped out the back door and no one would have seen her.”

“Now all we have to do is prove it,” Margery said. “We are going back to Palm Beach tonight, aren’t we?”

“You bet,” Helen said. “I’ve stirred things up at the store. I think we might see something interesting tonight.”

This time, there was no rain on the hour-long drive. Even the traffic seemed saner. But the stakeout was just as boring. They parked in the same spot. Helen and Margery kept the same routine, watching for an hour, then driving around, then returning to their post. They encountered a security patrol, but no one questioned the formidable Margery.

After eleven p.m., they looked up hopefully every time a car came down the street. But Gayle did not arrive until twelve-thirty. The house lights went off about one a.m.

At one-ten, a hand yanked open the passenger door and pulled Helen out by the collar. She landed on her knees and found herself staring at a pair of shiny black Doc Martens. Helen could hear Margery say, in her best grande-dame voice, “Young woman, what do you think you are doing?”

“You!” Gayle said, pulling Helen up. “What are you doing here? Why is an employee spying on me?”

“I …”

Margery batted her eyes at Gayle and said, “We needed some privacy. Some quality time together. Surely you understand.”

Helen was always astonished at how boldly and easily Margery could lie. Now she was pretending to be Helen’s lover.

Gayle wasn’t buying it. “Nice try. But you forgot I work with her. I got nothing on my gaydar. She’s straight as an arrow. Explain yourself.”

“I …” Helen tried again. But nothing came out. Even Margery seemed flummoxed now. Helen knew she’d be fired.

“Let me guess. You think if you can blame Page Turner’s murder on me, your friend Peggy will go free. Brad told me you asked him where I was that night. It’s easy to blame the gays, isn’t it? We’re already doing something unnatural. Why not murder?”

“It’s not like that, Gayle. I like you. I respect you.”

“You like me so much you think I murdered Page. That worthless shit deserved to die, but I didn’t do it.”

“You have good reason to be angry, Gayle. I’m desperate, and I did something dumb. But I know Peggy is innocent. I just can’t figure out who did it.”

“I thought it was Peggy,” Gayle said, her voice calmer. “If it’s not, I haven’t a clue. Don’t you think I’d go to the police if knew? I want the killer in prison. Astrid and I will have to sneak around until Page’s murderer is convicted.”

Gayle’s voice turned soft. “If Peggy is innocent, then this is a miscarriage of justice. I’m glad you’re doing something about it. You’re looking at the wrong person, but you’re at the right place. Page Turner was his bookstore. In some way, that bookstore killed him.”

Then she turned and left them, her black clothes and bright hair vanishing into the rich darkness.

“Do you think she’s innocent?” Margery asked.

“Either that, or she put on a good act of outraged innocence,” Helen said.

They were driving back to Fort Lauderdale, both grateful for the anonymous night. Their faces were crimson with shame. Helen’s still felt hot when she remembered being yanked out of the car. Both knees were bruised and she had a scrape on her hand.

“The problem is, Gayle’s good at deception,” she said. “No one at the store knew she was having an affair with Astrid. I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw her drive up. But did she kill Page Turner? Gayle can’t prove she didn’t leave the store that night. I can’t prove she did.”

“Stalemate,” Margery said. “So tomorrow—I mean today—you go back to the bookstore and start all over again?”

“Do you think she’ll let me work there again, after I accused her of murder? When she tells Astrid, I’ll be lucky to live in Lauderdale, much less work here. I’ll call in sick this morning and look for a new job. Gayle can fire me when I show up tomorrow.” Helen let out a yawn. “These hours are getting to me.”

“Well, it is one a.m.,” Margery said. “Got any good prospects?”

“Yeah, Down & Dirty Discounts is taking applications at ten a.m.”

“Be there or be square,” Margery said.

“That’s what the ad said.”

At nine-thirty the next morning, Helen arrived at the new discount store. Red-and-yellow flags were flying the Triple D logo. A big banner said, WELCOME TO THE FUN

! Job seekers were already lined up outside the building. It was not a promising selection: skinny sunburned guys with prison tattoos, tough young women in tube tops, old men mumbling to themselves, poorly dressed people who spoke rapid Spanish and halting English. Helen, in a neat beige Ann Taylor suit and pumps, knew she was a prize.

I will get this job, she told herself. Forty hours a week at eight dollars an hour. That’s another one-hundred-nineteen dollars a week, an extra four-hundred-seventy-six a month. It seemed like untold wealth after the bookstore salary; especially now that she was working thirty hours a week.

At ten-ten, the doors opened on a barnlike room furnished with long brown folding tables and chairs. Each table had a box of pencils and a stack of yellow job applications.

“Take a seat and fill out the application forms, people,” said a callow young corporate type. He had no-color hair that looked like a bristle brush and a smile Helen didn’t trust. “You have twenty minutes.”

Helen set to work lying about her experience, her qualifications, and her background. There was no way she could list her real degrees or her former high-paying job.

A young woman in a hot-pink blouse with a plunging

neckline read her application carefully, moving her lips. Then she asked Helen, “They want to know if we have any felony convictions. Do they count if you were a juvenile?”

“Juvenile records are sealed,” Helen said. She was planning to lie about her own run-in with the court.

“At the top of your application is a number,” Mr. Bristle Head said. “We will call it for your interview.”

Six other suits came out. Mr. Bristle Head called the first seven numbers. Nearly an hour later, Helen heard her number, sixty-three. She got Mr. B himself. “Follow me, please,” he said, and walked back to a white cubicle the size of a phone booth. There was room for a chipped brown Formica table, a leather swivel chair, and an uncomfortable orange plastic chair. Bristle Head took the good chair.

“Now, Helen, your age is forty-two, right?” He talked to her as if she were a little slow. He did not bother to tell her his name.

“Yes,” she said.

“And you work at Page Turners. That’s very good. Can you operate a cash register?”

Helen explained her bookstore duties and skills for nearly ten minutes.

“Well, we’re definitely interested,” he said.

Here goes, Helen thought. This is the big test. “I’d like to work for you. But I need to make cash only.”

There was only a momentary hesitation. Then Mr. Bristle Head said, “I think that can be arranged, although you might have to work for a little less. Maybe seven fifty an hour. We can arrange it through me. I’m the new store manager.”

Well, well, Helen thought. This definitely was a Down & Dirty store. I’ll lose about twenty dollars a week, but I can live with that.

“Fine,” she said.

“We’d like you to start next Monday. The store won’t be

open for another week, but we’ll need help with the shelving, and, of course, we want to train you the Triple D way. Are you available to start then?”

“Yes,” Helen said. Oh heck yes.

“Good. Now, there’s just one more thing. We’d like you to take a little test.” He handed her a piece of paper with an

800 number on it. “Just call this phone number. The prompt will ask for a special code. That’s this number here.” “What’s the test for?” Helen said. “To see how good an employee you’ll be,” he said. “You can take it anytime, night or day. It’s automated. We’ll call you within twenty-four hours after you take the test. If you pass, we’ll see you Monday morning.”

He stood up. The interview was over.

Helen should have felt happy. She almost had the job, except for that test. But it made her uneasy. What kind of test was this? She’d ask Margery, who knew all sorts of odd things. Besides, she needed to use her landlady’s phone.

Margery was sitting by the pool, painting her toenails the color of Red Hots. “Thought this color would set off my new shoes,” she said. She pointed to a pair of polka-dot slides. She wore a matching polka-dot shorts set. All those white dots were making Helen dizzy.

“Very cute,” she said. “I think I’ve got the job, but I’m supposed to take this automated phone test. Ever heard of anything like this?”

Margery studied the paper. “One of those,” she said, as if Helen had handed her a palmetto bug. “It’s an honesty test.”

“Why are they worried about my honesty? They plan to cheat the government and pay me in cash under the counter.”

“They’re afraid you’re going to steal them blind,” she said. “The test is a piece of cake, as long as you don’t follow your natural instincts. Never give a humane answer. For instance, they’ll ask something like, If you see a starving person steal a loaf of bread, you should:

“One, call the police and have them arrested.

“Two, turn a blind eye. What is bread compared to a human life?

“The correct answer is one.”

“You’re kidding,” Helen said. “Even the nuns, who were as conservative as you could get, said it was OK to steal food if you were starving.”

“We’re not talking nuns,” Margery said. “We’re not even talking humans. Think like a robber baron. No, like an Enron executive. Never show an ounce of compassion. Screw the widows and orphans. The bottom line is what matters. If you have any doubts, ask yourself, ‘What would Enron do?’ “

“Right,” Helen said. “Bottom line. To heck with widows and orphans. I’m ready. Can I use your phone?”

“Soon as I finish painting,” Margery said. Ten minutes later, when she had foam thingies separating her red-hot toes, Margery hobbled into the house. Pete greeted them with his usual angry squawk. Margery threw the cover over the cage.

“That will shut him up. We can’t have featherhead screeching during the test. You take the kitchen phone. I’ll be listening on the bedroom extension if you need help.”

Helen dialed the 800 number, then punched in the code. A mechanical voice asked for her Social Security number. Helen punched in her number, with two digits off, and prayed they didn’t check it.

A stern female voice said, “Congratulations. You are taking the job test. Please answer honestly. Press one for yes. Press three for no.” It was the voice of authority. It was the voice that said Helen did not quite measure up. She felt a sudden urge to confess she’d sneaked a cigarette in the girl’s bathroom, she’d skipped school on a sunny spring day, and she’d taken two dollars off her mother’s dresser. But there was no need. The voice knew every venal act.

The first couple of questions were easy.

“Are you always pleased with your job performance?” the voice asked in crisp, no-nonsense tones.

Helen pressed no. Margery kept quiet.

“If a supermarket charged you for a dozen oranges and when you got home you realized you had thirteen, would you return to the store to pay for the extra orange?”

Right. She should endure a two-dollar round-trip bus ride to return something worth ten cents—when it was the store’s mistake? She could see the clerk, irritated by the extra hassle. She could see the line forming behind her, as the store tried to deal with this unprecedented situation.

Close your eyes and think of Enron, Helen told herself. They’d want every dime. She pressed yes.

“Have you ever lied about anything?”

Helen pressed yes again. It was a trick question. Everyone lies, even if it’s to say, “I’m sorry, I have another engagement and can’t come to your party,” instead of, “I wouldn’t go if you paid me.”

“If a man in a bar offered to sell you a Rolex watch for twenty dollars, would you buy it?” the voice asked.

A definite no. Helen hated the guys who went around to bars late at night selling CDs and watches. Besides, it was probably a fake Rolex.

Then the voice asked, “If one of your coworkers needed money for medicine for her sick child, and you caught her taking twenty dollars from her cash register, would you:

“One, report her to your supervisor for proper disciplinary action.” Ha, Helen thought, the bastards would fire her in a heartbeat.

“Two, say nothing. It’s none of your business.” That had possibilities.

“Three, lend her the money and remind her that pilfering is not a good idea.”

Three was a little sanctimonious, but probably the best option.

Margery said, “Helen, don’t you dare press three. What would Enron do?”

Damn the widows and children, full speed ahead. “Report the thieving witch,” Helen said.

“Very good,” Margery said.

The questions were obsessive on stealing. They asked: