Murder Unleashed (10 page)

Helen breathed a little sigh of relief. Jeff hadn’t noticed her slip.

“Someone is trying to frame him,” Jeff said.

“So what did you tell the police? Did Jonathon mention that he was missing his scissors?” Helen said.

“No,” Jeff said. “But he was busy.”

If he was busy, Helen wondered, wouldn’t he need his ten-inch scissors? But that was a question she couldn’t ask. She didn’t want to ask it. She didn’t want Jonathon to be the murderer.

“Kent stole them,” she said. “He heard the whole fight. He was there. I saw him standing in the doorway. He could have slipped in and taken the scissors and none of us would have noticed him.”

Jeff pulled out the pot-roast sandwich and began munching. Once again, Helen realized she’d missed lunch. Her stomach growled. Jeff didn’t notice that, either.

“The police also asked me if he’d ever shown any violent behavior,” Jeff said, taking a big bite. The sandwich dripped warm gravy. Helen wanted to lunge over the counter and grab it. “I think the cops may have heard the stories that he killed the man in Miami.”

“Wasn’t it self-defense?” Helen said. She couldn’t believe the theatrical Jonathon was a killer. It wasn’t his style, and Jonathon was all about style. She liked his retro disco suits and platform shoes. The world would be a dull place if all men wore Ralph Lauren and ate pot roast.

“Yeah, but a gay guy is easier to arrest and convict,” Jeff said, taking another bite of the boundless sandwich. “How do you think a flamer like Jonathon would do with a jury?”

Badly, Helen thought. South Florida, for all its wild ways, could turn suddenly conservative. Get a Bible-thumping jury and he’d be convicted for his ungodly lifestyle. But she didn’t say it. Jeff had enough worries.

“The police haven’t arrested Jonathon,” Helen said. “They’re still investigating. They could be targeting the husband. The detectives have to ask Jonathon those questions. It’s their job.”

“But are they any good at it?” Jeff said. “Stately Palms isn’t a city like Fort Lauderdale. They’re not going to hire young hotshot detectives. They’ll pick up a few tired old retirees from up north who don’t want to work too hard.”

“You don’t know that,” Helen said. “They might have experienced detectives who got sick of the politics in some cold city.”

“Is that how Crayton struck you—a good detective? Or that other one, McGoogan, the guy who twitched the whole time?”

Jeff had a point. “Do you know anyone in Stately Palms who could give you some inside information about the investigation?” Helen said, steering the subject to a less worrisome area.

“Not a soul,” Jeff said. “If it were here in Wakefield Manor, I’d know in a heartbeat. There’s the cutest sergeant on the force, and he comes in here with his rottweiler, Dixie. Buys bags of organic chow. But I don’t know anyone who can help us at Stately Palms.”

I do, Helen thought. Phil would make some inquiries if I asked him. He has the law enforcement contacts. But he’s in Washington now. And I didn’t tell him about Tammie’s murder when he called last night. So what do I say now? By the way, Phil, I forgot to mention it, but I found a body.

“I’m sure the police have a long list of suspects to check,” Helen said. She wasn’t sure at all.

“I hope so,” Jeff said. “I hate to sound selfish, but I don’t want to be known as the grooming shop that hired a murderer.”

“Maybe it will be good for business,” Helen said. “You know what they say, ‘No publicity is bad publicity, as long as they spell your name right.’ ”

The phone rang. Jeff stashed his sandwich and took the call in the back room. He came back five minutes later, pale and shaken. “That was Willoughby’s attorney. Barkley is still missing. The police talked with the husband, but he denied being in the store.

“Willoughby is going to file suit Monday. Her attorney claims his client lost a valuable dog because of our carelessness and incompetence. We’re being sued for the value of the dog, plus her lost income. She wants . . .” Jeff stopped and took a deep breath. He could hardly get the words out. “Fifty million.”

“Dollars?” Helen said. What else would it be? Monopoly money?

Jeff nodded. It was all he could manage. He pulled out the monster pot-roast sandwich and held it. Maybe its warm weight was comforting.

Fifty million dollars. The sum was staggering. The suit would swallow Jeff’s store and leave him with nothing, not even a bone. Helen appreciated the fact that Jeff said “our carelessness.” He was generously sharing the blame, she thought. Jeff did take the call from the husband. But I gave that dog to Francis. At least I think it was Francis. Now a sweet little pup was facing possible destruction—and so was Jeff.

“We might survive a killer groomer, but we can’t lose a dog,” Jeff said. Helen thought there were tears in his brown eyes. “Our customers won’t trust their precious babies to us again. This is like losing a child. When this story hits the news, I’m ruined.”

“You mean it hasn’t yet?” Helen was surprised.

“No. Willoughby has managed to hush it up so far. She told the Davis department stores that the dog has an upset stomach. It will buy her some time. She knows they’ll cancel her contract at the first sign of trouble. The publicity would ruin Barkley’s career. But the dog has to show up for that shoot on Monday or else. It’s only a matter of time before the story breaks. Willoughby is afraid her vengeful husband might blow the whistle. When the suit is splashed all over the media on Monday, I’m dead. There’s nothing I can do to stop this disaster.”

“Sure there is,” Helen said. “You worked all morning to rescue Prince. You can figure out some way to save yourself.”

“This is different. I don’t know how to fight this. It’s hopeless,” Jeff said. His shoulders slumped. The pot-roast sandwich sat untouched by his side.

Helen wanted to say, If you won’t try to save yourself, I will. But that would sound silly. She said nothing. But she had a plan. She slipped into the back room and made a phone call.

When she came back out, Lulu was on the counter, eating the pot-roast sandwich. Jeff didn’t notice.

He was staring at his boutique as if it might disappear.

T
he hammering was like nails being driven into a hundred coffins. It came with the hellish shriek of electric saws. The sound never stopped. People were boarding up their windows. They hoped for salvation from the hurricane. But they didn’t know if their buildings would survive. The hurricane heading for Fort Lauderdale could be the big one.

Floridians lived in a hurricane zone. They knew someday a storm could destroy their lives. But it was like the certainty of their own deaths. It would happen someday, later.

Now the inevitable was coming tomorrow. The TV weather maps showed the hurricane as a pulsing red blob bigger than the whole state. This mass of destruction was aimed at Florida’s Atlantic coast.

Helen had no doubt now that a hurricane was on the way. Strangely dark clouds scudded across the sky. The air felt like warm, wet cotton pressed against her face, but there was cold under the smothering heat. She shivered. The hurricane was supposed to hit about eight o’clock tomorrow night.

That was twenty-eight hours away. Helen had work to do if she was going to save Jeff’s shop—and herself. Any publicity on the dognapping would be fatal. Her ex-husband would find her for sure.

After she got off work at four p.m., Helen began phase one of her plan. She headed for Willoughby Barclay’s house. She was going to throw herself on the woman’s mercy. She knew it would be a stony surface.

Helen didn’t tell Jeff what she was doing. She knew he wouldn’t want her talking to a woman threatening a lawsuit. He’d think it was too risky. She figured they had nothing to lose.

Helen had looked up Willoughby’s address in Jeff’s files. The Barclay couple had moved into a new mansion shortly after their pup snagged her big contract. Willoughby told Detective Brogers that she’d kicked out her husband, but she still lived in their new home. Like most mansions, it was near a bus route. The rich needed their houses cleaned, their dogs walked, and their children watched.

Helen bought an energy bar for a late lunch and ate it while she waited for her bus. The passengers sat tense and straight-backed, clutching shopping bags crammed with water jugs, peanut butter, and bread. Hurricane food. The air was electric with their edgy energy and end-of-the-day sweat. Babies cried. Mothers snapped at their children. Men complained about their jobs and their wives. Helen was glad when the bus reached her stop.

The Island of Malta was in a cluster of man-made islands off Las Olas in downtown Lauderdale. Five years ago the islands had been lined with charming old Florida homes, sensible one-story houses with breeze-ways and jalousie windows.

Many were gone now, torn down for three-story stucco mansions. Squeezed into minilots, the new mansions looked like elephants herded into tiny pens.

Willoughby’s mansion had a portico with gawky white columns, like a teenager who’d grown too fast. The half-circle drive was barely wide enough for a Mercedes. Helen counted at least four styles of windows on the house, from Palladian to bulging bay. It reminded Helen of her own tract mansion in St. Louis. She didn’t miss it.

Helen rang the doorbell. Willoughby answered. When she saw Helen, her face turned into a primitive mask of hate. “You husband stealer. What do you want?”

Helen was stunned. She’d expected any reaction but this. “Husband stealer? What are you talking about?”

“I heard you were flirting with my husband at the shop. You let him grope you, you slut. You just want a rich man. Well, let me tell you, when I finish with him, he won’t have a dime.”

Helen was still trying to figure this out. Someone must have told Willoughby about Francis feeling her up, but they put a nasty spin on it. Did a customer see that humiliating scene? Did Todd or Jonathon tell Detective Brogers to save their own skin? That damned detective was capable of twisting the truth.

“Wait a minute,” Helen said. “I don’t know where you heard that, but it’s a lie. I wasn’t flirting with him. Your husband put his hand on me, and I stomped him good and hard. You must know he’s handy. I guess that’s one reason why you’re divorcing him.”

Helen didn’t add that she couldn’t steal what this woman didn’t want—or that she wouldn’t let Francis touch her if she spent six months alone in a lighthouse.

“Now can we talk about what’s really important—getting your dog back?”

“You’d better be here to tell me you’ve found Barkley,” Willoughby said. But there wasn’t much threat in her words. The bounce was gone from her curls and her step. She had great dark circles under her eyes. Willoughby was worried. Helen suspected this stucco splendor would go on the sheriff’s auction block if the dog wasn’t found.

“I have an idea about how to get her,” Helen said. “But I need to come in and talk to you.”

Willoughby opened the door reluctantly. Helen slid in before the woman changed her mind. The front hall glared with mirrors and marble. Tiny spotlights set off a gold-framed painting of Willoughby signed by Rax. She looked like a young queen about to ascend her throne. Helen thought the least the couple could do was put up a portrait of Barkley. After all, the dog bought the place.

Willoughby didn’t look like the confident woman in the painting. She was wearing something pale and ruffled that undoubtedly had a designer label. But in her own home, Willoughby seemed overwhelmed by her expensive outfit, as if it were wearing her.

Helen followed Willoughby into a great room with a view of the pool. She watched the wind rip pink and purple flowers off the bushes and toss them like confetti. The pool deck led to a boat dock, where a white Hatteras cruiser rocked wildly in the water.

Willoughby went to a wet bar. With silver tongs she dropped ice in a wineglass, then poured herself an Evian water and topped it with a thin lemon slice. She didn’t offer Helen a drink. Helen was thirsty after her bus ride, but she said nothing. She was inside the house. That was enough.

Willoughby plopped down on a pale beige leather couch. Helen bet Barkley never got near it. Helen sat down on another slippery leather sofa section and set loose an avalanche of needlepoint pillows. She picked them off the floor, then said, “I’m very sorry about Barkley.”

“You should be,” Willoughby said. “You gave my dog to my husband. She’s gone and you’re responsible.”

Helen felt her tact tearing away like the flower petals. “You should have warned us you had sole custody of your dog. You didn’t tell us your husband couldn’t pick up Barkley.”

“I did. Besides, did I have to give you a list of all the people who couldn’t pick up my dog?” Willoughby said. “I dropped it off at your store and I should have picked it up. Period. I don’t have to give you any information about my private life.”

“It.” Barkley was an “it” to her owner. Willoughby didn’t really love the perky puppy, just the money she brought in. Maybe my plan has a chance, Helen thought. She took a deep breath and started in. “Jeff will lose everything if you sue, Willoughby. His reputation, his shop. I’ll lose my job.” Helen didn’t mention that she had much more to lose, including her freedom, if this story went public.

“And I’ve lost my income,” Willoughby said. “I’m bankrupt if that dog isn’t found. Do you know what the payments are on this house? Or the maintenance? The pool service alone costs a fortune.”

Not to mention the landscaping, Helen thought, as a palm frond sailed through the air. It’s already gone with the wind.

“Suing us won’t help you,” Helen said. “Jeff doesn’t have one million dollars, much less fifty million. The only one who’ll get any money is your lawyer. Please give us a chance to find Barkley. You don’t want this story getting out to the media. A catfight over a dog won’t help you.”

I could have used a better choice of words, Helen thought.