Murder Unleashed (18 page)

Helen suspected her sister would be worried sick. As soon as Kathy answered the phone, Helen knew she’d guessed right. “Oh, thank God you’re safe,” Kathy said. “I’ve been so worried.” Helen could hear the relief in her sister’s voice. “Mom was over here, and kept asking why I was so jittery. She doesn’t know where you live and I couldn’t tell her. She’d go straight to Rob.”

“It’s too bad I can’t trust my own mother,” Helen said.

“She loves you,” Kathy said. “She wants what’s best for you. It’s just that her idea of what’s best—”

“Is the worst,” Helen said. “You know I can’t go back to Rob. But she can’t accept that. She never will.”

Helen could hear kids squabbling in the background, and knew this conversation would have to end soon. “Kathy, please don’t worry. I’m safe. I have plenty of food and water. There’s no damage to my building. The electricity is off. The worst that will happen is I’ll sweat a bit and lose six eggs in my fridge.”

“I kept thinking of you facing the storm all by yourself,” Kathy said.

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t alone,” Helen said. “I was with Margery and my friends.”

There was a piercing kid shriek and Kathy said, “Stop that! Helen, gotta go.”

I was more alone in St. Louis, Helen thought, as she hung up the phone. I have such a good life down here, and I could lose it all because I was careless and a coward. Her hot, dark apartment suddenly seemed infinitely precious, far more desirable than her St. Louis mansion.

Helen packed the phone back in the suitcase and went to Margery’s place. Peggy was in the yard, piling up dead branches. Cal and Phil were prying the plywood off all the windows except the broken one.

Inside, the women from apartment 2C were helping Margery clean up. Helen thought they were curiously ineffective for professional cleaners. Doris and Alice handled mops and brooms as if they were foreign objects. Even Elsie did a better job of cleaning, and she wore high heels.

Cal had the gas generator running. It was outrageously noisy, but the living room was blessedly cool. Margery had one window air conditioner running off the generator. The TV was on, except when Margery had the orange juicer going for screwdrivers, which was fairly often. The hurricane party wanted some hair of the dog.

Helen borrowed Margery’s phone to call her friend Sarah, who lived on the beach in Hollywood. Sarah was fine, except for a little water on the carpet. Next Helen called her boss, Jeff.

“Lulu and I made it through the storm unharmed,” Jeff said. “I’m at the store now. We have electricity. I’m going to take off the plywood and clean up the water in the grooming room. No, no, Lulu and I can handle it. Your Margery predicted it right. The water damage wasn’t serious. We’ll be open tomorrow, business as usual. I’ll expect you here at nine o’clock.”

Helen wanted to watch the news, but Margery had the TV off again while she made another batch of orange juice. She flipped the TV back on in the middle of the newscast.

The announcer looked strained from having to deliver one solemn statement after another. Helen caught the last part of his sentence. She thought he said, “Mrs. Barclay was the owner of the Davis Family Dollar department stores mascot.”

“Was?” Helen said.

On the screen there was a clip of the labradoodle pup frolicking on behalf of the store, then a formal photo of Willoughby.

“That’s Barkley’s owner! She owns the kidnapped dog,” Helen said as everyone gathered around the set. Even Margery came out of the kitchen, holding half a mangled orange.

“Mrs. Barclay was found dead in her yard by a neighbor about six this morning,” the announcer said. “At first police believed that Mrs. Barclay had been killed by a falling tree branch, but now her death is being investigated as a homicide.”

“Oh, Lord,” Margery said.

“Very sad. She was so young,” Elsie said in her fluttery voice. “And now she’s dead.”

Thank God, Helen thought, but she didn’t blurt that out. She felt a sudden selfish surge of relief.

“There won’t be any lawsuit,” Helen said. “My troubles are over.”

“Wrong,” Margery said. “Your troubles have just begun. You’re now the chief suspect.”

L
ulu wore a gold Lurex turtleneck and gold nail polish. “Now that the hurricane is over, you’re putting on the dog, Miss Lulu,” Helen said.

The low-slung hound strutted around the store as if she were at a cocktail party, greeting her guests. The customers did everything but worship Lulu. They definitely bowed down to her.

“What a sweet doggie-woggie,” a twenty-something brunette said. She had a jaunty ponytail and a white halter that said, TROUBLE. Helen thought Lulu should add that item to her wardrobe.

Ms. Trouble got down on her knees to scratch Lulu. “You are the cootest doggie,” she said.

She sounded like she was possessed by the ghost of Elmer Fudd. Why did people talk to dogs that way? Helen stayed on the other side of the room, restocking the shelves. Baby talk made her fwow up. Helen wouldn’t admit it, but she felt sad and sour after her fight with Phil. It didn’t help that she knew she was wrong.

The boutique bell rang and a man with florid white hair and a forceful gut entered the shop. “Hew-wo, widdle doggie,” he said.

Helen froze. She recognized that voice. She peered out from behind a stack of dog-food sacks. Ted Brogers, pet detective, was cooing to Lulu. “Aren’t you a booful li’l girl?”

Lulu lapped it up. She pranced for the red-faced detective, showing off her gold manicure. Helen decided to slip into the stockroom. Suddenly the golden girl turned and planted herself in front of Helen, blocking her escape. Lulu’s gold clothes and nail polish glittered and winked at her.

You gave me up, you gold-plated bitch, Helen thought.

Lulu wagged her treacherous tail.

Where the heck was Jeff? Helen needed him here. Jonathon and Todd were busy grooming dogs. They couldn’t hear anything over the screaming hair dryers.

Helen put on an uneasy smile for Detective Brogers and tried for chitchat. “I see you survived the hurricane,” she said.

“I did,” he said. “But someone else didn’t. Another dog lover.”

“Willoughby Barclay is dead,” Helen said, then added quickly, “I saw it on TV.”

“She isn’t dead,” Brogers said. “She was murdered. It was brutal. Mrs. Barclay was a nice woman. She didn’t deserve to die that way.”

“It’s very sad,” Helen said. “But I didn’t realize you did homicides. I thought you handled lost-dog cases.” The words seemed to run out of her mouth, the way roaches scurried out of a kitchen when you flipped on the light. Nice move, Helen told herself. Always insult a cop.

Detective Brogers puffed out his chest with self-importance. “I investigate major crimes. Barkley is a valuable dog. Now her owner is a homicide victim. It’s still the same case.”

Helen could see Ms. Trouble, the ponytailed brunette, sidle in closer to listen. She was one aisle away, pretending to study the needlepoint beagle pillows.

“The victim had words with you shortly before her murder,” Brogers said. “Mrs. Barclay accused you of giving her dog to her estranged husband. She was going to sue you sideways unless you found that dog by the end of this week.”

“She was going to sue the store,” Helen said.

“Oh, no,” Brogers said. “She was suing the store, but she told me she was also suing you personally. You handed that dog to her husband. You were flirting with him. Trying to catch yourself a rich husband? I heard about your behavior in the store.”

“You heard wrong,” Helen said coldly. “That man is a creepy little bottom-feeler.” Where the heck was Jeff? Helen wondered. Why didn’t Brogers ask to talk to him?

“That’s your story now, but I know for a fact Mrs. Barclay was furious with you. She could have ruined you.”

“No! You don’t understand,” Helen said. “The last time I talked with Willoughby, she was happy with me. I discovered her husband dug his alibi out of the trash. A cleaning woman at the mall saw Francis Barclay rooting through a trash can at Sawgrass Mills Mall. That’s where he got the receipt for the Golden Calf. I called Willoughby and told her. It was a big break in the case. She was going to call you. Didn’t she?”

“No,” Brogers said. “I don’t know anything about this. Did this so-called witness actually see Mr. Barclay with a receipt from that restaurant?”

“No, but—”

“Do you have the witness’s address and phone number?”

“No, but—”

“Do you even know her name?”

“No, but—”

“Do you know where you were between four and six the night of the hurricane?”

Helen stopped, startled. Detective Brogers was asking for her alibi. “Yes,” she said. “I was here at the store. Locked in a cage.” Helen told him the story. It sounded stupid, even to her. Ms. Trouble leaned in so hard to listen, she nearly snagged her ponytail on a shelf.

“Can you prove you were at the store during that time?” Brogers asked.

“Three people drove over here to rescue me when I didn’t come home,” Helen said. “The owner, Jeff Barker, showed up with my landlady, Margery Flax, and my boyfriend, Phil. They got here about six fifteen. They saw me trapped in that cage. It was padlocked.”

“All that proves is that you were in a cage when they arrived,” the detective said. “You had time to murder the victim, run back to the store, and lock yourself in for an alibi.”

“That’s crazy,” Helen said.

“Is it?” said the detective. “Why would anyone bother locking you in a cage? That’s even crazier.”

“It wasn’t crazy at all. The prowler”—Helen thought of the figure in the rustling rain slicker as a man, even though it could have been a woman—“could have killed me, but he didn’t. He wanted me locked up, alive and alone.”

“You’re the person who benefited most from the victim’s death,” Detective Brogers said.

Jeff benefited more than I did, Helen wanted to say. He has money and a business. It took all her strength not to shout that at Brogers, but she wouldn’t sell out her boss. Jeff had been good to her. But where was he? She needed him. He’d know what to say. Soothing words were his specialty.

“What about her husband, Francis?” Helen’s voice was shrill. Ms. Trouble jumped back, alarmed by Helen’s raised voice.

“He was fighting the issue in court. He didn’t have to kill his wife. He was using lawyers for his weapons,” Brogers said. “Mr. Barclay had a good chance of winning, too, according to his attorneys. All he had to do was sit tight and he’d get the dog back—or half of it—and Barkley makes enough money for two.”

“But he stole that dog,” Helen said.

“You’d better watch what you say. I personally searched Mr. Barclay’s condo and never saw any sign of a dog. But I did see Mrs. Barclay blaming you for giving her dog to a kidnapper. She was going to sue you for carelessness. She said so right in this store.”

“She didn’t mean it!” Helen said.

“She sounded serious to me,” Brogers said. “You don’t look like the sort of person who can afford lawyers, Miss Hawthorne. But you don’t have to worry about that now, do you? With Mrs. Barclay dead, the lawsuit went away. Very convenient.”

“You think I killed Willoughby? That’s nuts,” Helen said.

“Is it? Like I said, it doesn’t sound as crazy as your cage story. I’ll be back, Miss Hawthorne. You can count on it.”

Ms. Trouble backed up, then leaped over Lulu in her dash for the door. Her ponytail bobbed like a race-horse’s tail. Ms. Trouble was running from Helen, the hurricane killer. Lulu followed Detective Brogers to the door, her tail wagging.

Helen couldn’t move. Now she knew who was in that rustling rain slicker—Willoughby’s killer. He’d locked Helen in that cage for a reason. He wanted her to take the blame.

It worked. Helen had no alibi for the crucial time of Willoughby’s murder. She was sure the cop didn’t believe her story about the cage. She hardly believed it herself.

But who killed Willoughby? Was it her husband, Francis, or someone else? Margery was right: Willoughby’s death made everything twice as bad. This wasn’t about a missing dog anymore. She was in the middle of another murder. Her only break was that Tammie’s murder had been pushed out of the news by the hurricane. So far, the detectives in the two separate investigations hadn’t made the connection that the two rich dead women had been customers at this store. Worse, both had had screaming battles here before they were killed. And Helen was involved.

But so was Jonathon. Helen remembered what Elsie had told her at the hurricane party. Maybe she could find some tactful way to ask him. “Hey, Jonathon, that woman you’re accused of killing—did you know her back in Tampa when she was Wanda and you were someone else? And by the way, did you blind a show dog?”

Jeff came through the front door, smiling. His teeth were white as sugar cubes. His thick dark hair hung down over one eye, giving him a sultry look. Had Jeff been flirting with someone in the parking lot?

“Hi,” he said. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

“Nothing much,” Helen said. “A cop accused me of murdering Willoughby, but that’s all.”

“Is that a joke?” Jeff asked.

Helen told him the whole story. Jeff rubbed his head and groaned. “And Brogers was harassing you in front of our customers?”

“Oh, yeah,” Helen said. “He all but accused me of murder. The good news is there was only one person in the store: a brunette about twenty-five with a ponytail and a halter top that said, ‘Trouble.’ ”

Jeff groaned louder. “That isn’t good at all,” he said. “That’s Genevra, the biggest gossip in Lauderdale. The whole town will know by tonight. We’re going to have the TV cameras here yet. I’ll be ruined. Can this day get any worse?”

It could, and it did.

Half an hour later, two men in suits entered the shop. One was short and stocky. The other was tall and lean with a face like raw hamburger. Lulu pattered up to them. The all-too-solid homicide detective Crayton bent down to scratch Lulu’s ears. The gangly man beside him scratched his own ears. That would be Detective McGoogan. The Stately Palms detectives waited a minute. Then four uniformed police officers, three men and a woman, came through the boutique door.