Murder Unleashed (17 page)

Helen started to open the kitchen door for some cool air, but Margery stopped her. “Don’t!” she said. “The pressure isn’t equalized. You open that door and every window in the place will crack.”

Margery and Helen sat back down at the kitchen table. Helen felt like she’d been shut inside a box. She wanted to claw her way out of the boarded windows.

“Walls closing in on you?” Margery said, as she stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.

“Yeah,” Helen said. “It’s that cage. I hated being trapped. I can’t sleep. If I close my eyes, I can feel the water slowly rising around me in the dark. I could have died, Margery.”

“Talk to me,” Margery said. “You’ll feel better.”

“I’ve just thought of one good thing,” Helen said. “The police have plenty of suspects to work with. Maybe they won’t bother me about being in Tammie’s house and running off with her robe.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Margery said.

“You’ve done wonders for my anxiety,” Helen said.

“Sometimes you’re supposed to be afraid. Like when you do something stupid during a murder investigation. It’s not too late to call the cops, you know.”

“Speaking of knowing,” Helen said, making a clumsy attempt to change the subject, “do you think Jeff knows his star’s past history? Do you think he knows his other groomer, Todd, is getting bags of money from customers?”

“Let’s back up a little here,” Margery said. “This is the second time you mentioned Todd and the money. It went by me last time when I got distracted. This Todd is getting bags of money?”

“Bag. A very sweet widow, Jan, dropped off two thousand dollars in a pink gift bag for Todd, right before the hurricane hit.”

Margery raised an eyebrow in surprise. “She told you that?”

“Of course not,” Helen said. “I peeked. She had the cash stashed under a brownie. It was a heck of a tip, even for Todd’s adoring women customers. I wondered what kind of services he was rendering. But now I think he’s blackmailing her. I heard him make an ugly phone call back in the stockroom. He said, ‘Listen, I don’t care how you get the money, but I want it.’ Then he said, ‘That’s your problem, not mine.’ ”

“And he was talking to this Jan?”

“I don’t know who he was talking to,” Helen said. “But he certainly wasn’t very polite. It could have been someone who borrowed money from him. But ever since I saw that bag, I’m wondering.”

Margery puffed thoughtfully on her cigarette. “How was this Jan person when she brought in the money? Excited, happy, a little twinkle in her eye?”

“Frightened,” Helen said. “Worried. She looked ready to jump out of her skin. She’s usually a well-groomed woman, but she was a mess that day.”

“Sounds like blackmail to me,” Margery said.

“But Jan seems like such a nice woman,” Helen said. “Why is Todd blackmailing her?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“You’re kidding,” Helen said.

“No, if she’s truly a nice woman, I’m guessing she didn’t do anything too terrible,” Margery said. “She might even be relieved to talk to you.”

The wind had picked up again. Now it screamed and pulled at the plywood on the kitchen windows. One wooden sheet flapped loose and went whirling off into the night, leaving the window looking raw and exposed. Helen could see the dancing palm tree doing a wild jig. Another surge of wind sent water rushing in under the kitchen door.

“There are towels in the cupboard by the sink,” Margery said, as they ran to clean it up. Helen’s landlady stuffed towels and throw rugs at the bottom of the door. Helen crawled around the kitchen floor, wiping up the water.

As she mopped, Helen said, “So when do you think I should talk to Jan—and where?”

“At her home, when the storm is over,” Margery said.

With that, the glass shattered on the exposed window and something came hurtling into the kitchen. The sound burst like a bomb. Pete woke up with a squawk. Thumbs yowled. Doris and Alice woke up and screamed in chorus.

Helen didn’t think this hurricane would ever end.

A
single shaft of sunlight pierced the broken kitchen window and hit Helen in the eye. That solar poke in the eye woke her up. The sun was shining in a blue sky. The wind was no longer wailing. The hurricane was over.

Helen didn’t know what time she’d fallen asleep last night, but she found herself sitting at the kitchen table. Apparently she’d slept on the chair with her head lying on the table. Margery must have wrapped the blanket around her.

Helen’s neck felt like it had been kickboxed. Her back cracked when she sat up. Her head hurt, but that pain had a different cause: Alcohol and adrenaline don’t mix.

In the dark, boarded-up recesses of Margery’s apartment, the other members of the hurricane party were stretching and waking.

“Ouch, I’m too old to sleep on floors,” Alice said, rubbing her back. Her cleaning partner, Doris, was examining a bruise on her bicep. “How do you think I got that last night?” she said.

Cal tried to get out of the purple recliner and nearly jackknifed it. Peggy pulled him to safety. The beer-soaked Canadian tottered around in unsteady circles, sideswiping Pete.

“Awk!” the parrot said. The hungover Alice and Doris looked like they’d had a hatchet sunk in their heads.

“No loud noises, please, birdie,” Doris said, rubbing her aching head.

Elsie came out of the bedroom with her fluffy little dog, Corkie, and Doris winced again. Elsie’s outfit was a lot for an alcohol-soaked brain to absorb. She was wearing green satin hot pants, a yellow bustier, and an orange bolero jacket. The hot pants and jacket were the same color as her hair. Helen thought Elsie was also wearing purple stockings, then realized those were varicose veins. Cal looked at her, groaned, and covered his eyes.

“The hurricane is over,” Elsie said. “And we’re all here safe and sound.” She sounded disgustingly chipper.

“Where’s Phil?” Helen said.

“Right here,” he said.

Helen saw all the women in the room turn to him with appraising eyes, as if he were the last hunk of undeveloped real estate in Florida. Phil’s hair was in a ponytail, and his shirt was open to show just the right amount of tanned chest. He looked hotter than an August afternoon. He grinned at Helen. She ran her finger along his slightly crooked nose. She preferred her men less than perfect.

Margery came out of the kitchen with a tray of orange juice and Krispy Kreme doughnuts. “The good news is the phones are working,” she said. “But there’s no power and we may not have any for a couple of days. That means no hot coffee and no hot showers.”

“I’m just happy to be alive,” Helen said.

“That will last about twenty-four hours,” Margery said. “Tomorrow there will be fistfights in the stores over the last bag of ice, but right now everyone is acting like this is the prelude to heaven.”

“What kind of damage did we get last night, besides the broken kitchen window?” Alice said.

“I was about to go out and see,” Margery said. The denizens of her apartment followed the landlady outside, blinking and squinting at the bright sun. “Stay with me,” she said. “Don’t go wandering until I make sure there’s no downed power lines.”

A small palm was stripped clean to its gray trunk, but the others survived, even the dancing hurricane tree. A broken chair floated in the pool. The yard was full of tree limbs and debris. A two-by-four was driven into the ground by the gate, and someone’s vinyl siding was lying on the flooded sidewalk. The bougainvillea and rose of Sharon had lost their blossoms.

“All your pretty flowers are gone,” Alice said.

“They’ll be back in a couple of weeks,” Margery said. “Things grow fast down here. I don’t see any downed power lines in the yard, so we can move around.”

“What can we do to help?” Phil said.

Margery began issuing orders like a purple-clad general. “I need you and Helen to see if you can get out in your Jeep and go for a coffee run,” she said. “Bring back some hot food if you find anyplace open. Cal, you get the gas generator started so we can have TV and air-conditioning in at least one room.

“Peggy, you can board up the broken kitchen window. I taped some plastic over it last night to keep the rain out, but I need something that will hold until the window people can come out. Then you can help pick up debris. Doris and Alice, if you don’t mind cleaning on your day off, you can help me get the inside in order. Everybody ready to go to work?”

Phil slapped his backside dramatically. “Oops, I forgot my wallet,” he said. “I think it’s in my place.”

Helen followed him to his apartment, wondering what that was all about. He locked the door behind him and practically threw Helen against the wall, he was so hungry to kiss her.

“I like to finish what I started,” he said.

“Me, too,” Helen said. They raced into the bedroom, ripping off their clothes on the way.

Half an hour later, Helen and Phil drove down U.S. 1 in a postcoital glow. Some side streets leading to the highway had been flooded, but the Jeep had bulled its way through. No one had any electricity on this side of town. Businesses stayed closed and boarded. The stop-lights were out. Police directed traffic at the major intersections. At the smaller streets, cars cautiously crawled across the highway, dodging oncoming drivers.

The damage looked similar to the Coronado’s: Trees were toppled and bushes torn up, signs broken and fences flattened. A few roofs were stripped of their shingles.

Helen switched on the radio. “The National Weather Service reports that the hurricane landed north of Fort Lauderdale in Palm Beach County,” an announcer said. “Most of the major damage took place in that area. Officials estimate that—”

“Look, an open doughnut shop,” Helen said.

Phil swung the Jeep into the waterlogged parking lot. They bought warm glazed doughnuts and filled four thermoses with hot coffee. Helen was tempted to dig into the doughnuts, but restrained herself.

As they drove farther south, there was electricity again. More shops were opening and more hurricane shutters were coming off. “There’s a pizza place,” Helen said.

Four pizzas later, they were back on the highway heading toward the Coronado when they spotted a chicken franchise.

“Let’s get a roast chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and gravy,” Phil said, pulling into the drive-through line.

“Hurricanes make you hungry,” Helen said.

“And horny,” Phil said. He kissed her until the order taker shouted three times over the staticky speaker, “May I help you, sir?” Phil finally gave the woman their order.

While the Jeep idled in the line, Phil held Helen close. “Margery tells me that you found a dead woman when you went to deliver a dog,” he said.

Helen tensed. Here it comes, she thought. “I did,” she said cautiously.

“Did you tell the police?” Phil said. He knew she didn’t. Margery had told him that, too.

“No, I got scared and ran,” she said.

“Helen, the police know that people panic when they see dead bodies. But you have to tell them what you saw before they find out you were at the murder scene. Your information could be important to their investigation.”

“I saw the same thing they did—a woman with a pair of scissors in her chest,” Helen said. “Besides, they aren’t going to find me.”

“Cops aren’t stupid, Helen. They will track you down. They’ll be royally pissed if you don’t tell them first.”

They won’t find me, Helen thought. I wiped off my fingerprints—and maybe the murderer’s—with Tammie’s robe, then dropped it in a Dumpster. I didn’t tell them that, either.

“Is there anything else you’re not telling me?” Phil said.

Helen felt like she was locked in that dark cage with the rising water. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you just answered my question with a question,” Phil said.

The man she loved had turned into a relentless interrogator. Helen pulled away from Phil and sat up. “I can’t let the police get sidetracked and have them start investigating me. And you know why—because of my ex-husband.”

“The police understand abusive spouses,” Phil said.

They wouldn’t understand if I were the abuser, Helen thought. I took after Rob with a crowbar. Phil seemed to believe she was running from an ex-husband who’d beaten her. Helen had never corrected that impression.

“What’s wrong? Is your ex-husband friends with the prosecuting attorney back in St. Louis?” Phil said. “Does he have pull with the local cops? I have contacts, Helen. I can help you. Just tell me what it is.”

“It’s nothing I can talk about,” Helen said.

Only her sister, Kathy, knew Helen’s complete story. She loved Phil, but she wasn’t ready to trust him completely. She wanted to. She felt guilty that she didn’t. But Helen had had such bad luck with men. What if she told Phil everything and he betrayed her, too? All it would take was one fight and one phone call, and she’d be back in front of that ugly little judge in St. Louis. She was risking everything if she told Phil what really happened, including her new life in Florida.

Besides, nothing could fix her situation. She was beyond help.

“So I’m good enough to fuck, but not good enough to talk to,” Phil said. His voice was hard, and there was an angry flush on his face.

“No!” Helen said. “You don’t understand.”

“Here’s your order, sir,” the cashier said, handing him the bags of food. “Anything else you need?”

“Yes, but I can’t get it here,” he said, then gave her that crooked grin to soften his hard words. The cashier giggled.

As they headed home, the chicken and gravy overpowered the other tantalizing odors. But Helen had lost her appetite.

Phil and Helen arrived at the Coronado in sullen silence, but there was so much activity, no one noticed. Helen let herself into her apartment and dug her secret cell phone out of the red Samsonite suitcase. Helen had bought the phone in Kansas and sent her sister, Kathy, a thousand dollars cash to cover the bills. She usually called only once a month, but she had to let Kathy know she was OK.