Murder Unleashed (23 page)

“Besides, Kent didn’t care about Tammie. He was bored with her, and a divorce would be expensive. Tammie’s death was convenient. Why would Betty help him by killing his wife? I swear, Helen Hawthorne, ever since you got locked in that cage, your head hasn’t been screwed on straight.”

Well, that last sentence was true enough, Helen thought.

Margery was still raging. “If Betty wanted revenge on Kent, she’d go after him. What reason does she have for killing Tammie?”

That was the problem: Helen didn’t know the reason. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Betty’s conversation had been full of strange hints and detours.

Betty had said that Kent and Tammie were into threesomes, and she’d turned them down. But what if she didn’t? What if she said yes and Tammie had humiliated her? Betty had been oddly, touchingly proud of her looks. “Don’t look so surprised,” she’d told Helen. “I clean up pretty good.” Had Tammie made a bitter enemy during a wild night at her home in Fort Lauderdale? Or had Betty known the couple in Tampa—in the biblical sense?

“Well?” Margery said.

“How did you meet Betty?” Helen asked.

“She rented a furnished apartment here for two months while her house was being built.”

“Did she live in 2C?” Helen said. That would be proof, at least in Helen’s mind, that something was off about Betty.

“No, she lived in your place.” Margery’s smile was triumphant, but not very nice.

“Why was Betty speeding out of the Stately Palms Country Club moments after Tammie’s death?” Helen said. “She was there when Tammie died.”

“Did you ask her?” Margery said.

“Yes, she refused to answer,” Helen said.

“Exactly what an innocent person would do,” Margery said.

Or a guilty one, Helen thought.

Margery had quit pacing. She settled onto a chaise and lit a cigarette with slightly trembling fingers. The smoke seemed to calm her.

“What do you know about Betty?” Helen said. “She’s not from here, is she?”

“No,” Margery said. “At least, I don’t think so. I know she lived on the other side for a while.”

“Tampa?” Helen said.

“Someplace like that.” Margery waved her hand vaguely toward the west. Either that, or she was swatting a mosquito. “She had a mansion in some gated community. Betty claimed it was too white-bread on the west coast and moved over here. It’s obvious Betty has had money all her life. She said once that she went to private schools. That’s all I know about her. Betty’s not one to brag.”

Was Betty naturally modest, or deliberately hiding her past? Helen kept that question to herself, too. She felt oddly disoriented. She’d thought she could talk to Margery about anything, but she’d bungled this badly. Now Margery felt betrayed, and so did Helen.

Peggy kept a tactful silence in the chaise longue, sipping wine and waiting for the two women to work it out.

Helen wasn’t good at confronting problems. She’d run from her husband, she’d run from the court, and now she ran from this. Instead of telling Margery her doubts about Betty, Helen changed the subject.

“Maybe you can help me with something else,” Helen said. “I’m looking for someone who would talk to me about the threesomes at Tammie’s house.”

Besides Betty the good old girl.

“Excuse me. You’re asking me?” Margery said. “I already gave you the name of one friend and you decided she was a killer. I’m not helping you this time. I don’t know anything.”

“Yes, you do,” Helen said. “I bet you know someone who could tell me about society’s risque side.” She tried a lopsided grin. Peggy and Pete stayed motionless on the chaise longue, as if under a spell.

“And after you talk to that person, what would you do? Turn her over to the vice cops?” Margery said. “No, thanks. Get Phil to help you.”

“I’d rather not have him investigating that side of Lauderdale,” Helen said.

“I don’t blame you,” Margery said. “If he were mine, I’d put him on a short leash. Helen, I’m seventy-six years old. For most of my friends sex is a distant memory. You’re on your own.” But this time Margery managed a smile. She blew out a big puff of white smoke, as if her anger had burned away.

Peggy finally spoke. “If you need information, maybe you should talk to Tammie’s grieving husband.”

“Kent?” Helen said. “You want me to talk to that scuzzball?”

“He likes attractive women,” Peggy said. “He might invite you to one of his parties. Then you’d get an inside look at what goes on there.”

“Awwk!” Pete said.

“I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m not his type,” Helen said.

“Yes, you are. I bet he made some sleazy comment about your figure when you were at his house.”

Helen looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“Horndogs like Kent always do,” Peggy said, and shrugged.

“He’d love to chat you up.” Margery gave an evil smile. “Show you around. Get to know you better.”

“Ewww.” Helen shuddered at the thought of the overmuscled Kent hitting on her.

“All kidding aside, Peggy’s got a good idea,” Margery said. “Kent wouldn’t talk to Phil. He’s not going to tell a man anything, especially a younger, handsomer man. You have the perfect excuse to see him. You can offer your condolences.”

“I don’t want to be alone in that big house with Kent,” Helen said. “What if he killed his wife?”

“I thought you said my friend Betty was the killer.” Margery would not let it go.

“If Kent turned on me, I could scream for hours and no one would hear me,” Helen said.

“Make sure you’re not alone,” Peggy said. “Doesn’t he have a housekeeper? Call first. If she’s there, she’ll answer the phone. Don’t go to the house unless she’s at home. And tell Margery when you leave. If you’re not back by a certain time, she can call the cops.”

“Hell, I’ll even drive you over there,” Margery said. It was a peace offering.

“Thanks, Margery,” Helen said. “But there’s no place for you to park. You’d have to go sit in the country-club lot, more than a mile away.”

“So I’ll drive around the grounds for half an hour. Security isn’t going to bother a batty old lady in a big white car. The way that guard sleeps, he won’t even notice I’m there. Anyway, do you have a better plan?”

“No,” Helen said. “I haven’t found Tammie’s killer. I haven’t found Willoughby’s killer. I haven’t even found her dog.”

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Margery said. “Those are jobs for the police.”

“What are they doing?” Helen asked. “Nothing. I know who murdered both those women—their worthless husbands. I don’t understand why the police don’t believe those men are guilty.”

“Maybe they do,” Margery said.

“Not in Tammie’s case,” Helen said. “They’ve already arrested Jonathon. And I know he didn’t kill her.”

“Why? Because you like him?”

“Well, yes,” Helen said.

“Some reason,” Margery said. It was the same reason why Margery wouldn’t hear a word against Betty. But Helen didn’t mention that, either.

“You’re damn lucky the hurricane pushed Tammie’s murder off the front page,” Margery said. “Right now there are too many other stories for the media to cover. Nobody’s made the connection between Jonathon, Tammie, and Willoughby.”

“Oh, come on,” Helen said. “You’re really trying to nail Jonathon.”

“And you’re going out of your way to ignore the obvious,” Margery said. “He had the fight with Tammie. He disappeared for hours, and it was his grooming shears sticking out of her chest. The police were right to arrest him for her murder.”

“They haven’t arrested anyone for Willoughby’s murder,” Peggy said. Her voice was so quiet, they had to lean in to hear her.

“That’s because they think I killed her,” Helen said. “I’ll never be able to convince Detective Brogers to look at her husband, Francis. Brogers couldn’t find lint on a dark suit. How am I going to find the real killer? I can’t do that. I don’t have the resources.”

“You’re really thinking positive tonight,” Margery said.

“If you can’t find Willoughby’s killer, find her dog,” Peggy said. “She was killed for that animal. Once you have the dog, you’ll have the murderer.”

That made more sense than anything else they’d said tonight.

“It sounds a lot safer than talking to Kent Grimsby,” Helen said.

She was wrong about that, too.

E
ight thirty a.m. Even coffee didn’t help Helen this morning. She felt tired and dragged out after the scene with Margery last night. They were friends again by the end of the evening, but Helen was discouraged. She wasn’t getting anywhere. She wasn’t doing anything to clear her name. The cops could come for her any moment, the way they’d come after Jonathon, and then where would she be?

Back in St. Louis, facing a judge who looked like E.T. with a hangover.

Helen rummaged in her closet for a pair of pants with no holes and a blouse with all the buttons. That was the best she could do.

She was combing her hair when she heard the screech of tires and brakes in the parking lot, then the slamming of doors. It sounded like four or five cars. Who would be coming to the Coronado at this hour? And why so many cars?

The police!

Helen grabbed her purse, slipped out her sliding doors, and tiptoed to the end of the walkway. Four police cars blocked the Coronado parking lot. Helen sprinted across the grass. She started to knock on Margery’s door when her landlady opened it and yanked her inside.

“It’s the cops,” Margery whispered.

“They’re coming to arrest me,” Helen said.

“That’s what I figured,” Margery said. She dragged Helen into the laundry room, past a chugging washer and a warm, humming dryer. She pushed Helen out a side door she’d never noticed before.

Helen found herself standing by a throbbing window air-conditioning unit, next to a pile of abandoned pool furniture and a rusted-out water heater that should have been hauled away years ago. Spiderwebs were strung everywhere. The walkway was so narrow Helen would have to slide out sideways.

Margery picked a wide-brimmed straw hat off a hook by the door and plopped it on Helen’s head. “This will hide your face. Go to the end of the gangway, turn right, and you’ll come out behind the Dumpsters next door.”

Margery handed Helen a reeking bag of trash. “Here, take this,” she said. “Drop it in old lady Murphy’s Dumpster like you live there. Then pretend you’re going for a morning walk. Don’t forget to act curious about all the cops. That’s the natural way to behave. You got some money?”

“Twenty dollars.” Helen held up her purse.

Margery pushed a wad of bills into her hands. “This will get you through today. You may need more. You can pay me back later. Call me in an hour. I’ll tell you if the coast is clear. Don’t say your name when you call. If I tell you I don’t want anything, call me back in another hour. Keep calling till you get the all-clear.”

They heard pounding on Margery’s front door.

“Take care of Thumbs,” Helen said. “Tell Phil I love him.”

“The cops are here. You’d better get going,” Margery said, and pushed Helen forward.

Helen scooted down the gangway between the buildings, feeling oddly disoriented. She’d never spent much time on this side of the Coronado. She’d never seen this strange little passage between the two buildings. Helen had to pick her way carefully. The walkway was cracked and overgrown with weeds. Hairy spiders crawled along the walls. Cobwebs brushed her hair, and something slithered over her foot. Helen hoped it was a lizard. The gangway was only about thirty feet long, but it seemed endless. She came out by a short fat palm tree and an overflowing blue Dumpster.

Helen threw the bag of trash in and hoped the crabby woman next door didn’t come out and yell at her. She had a clear view of the Coronado. She saw the police cars and more uniformed officers than she could count.

“Come on, move on, there’s nothing to see,” a tough male voice said.

Helen jumped.

A uniformed officer was directing traffic on the street in front of the Coronado, making the gawkers move along. Helen decided she’d shown enough interest. Hanging around any longer wasn’t a good idea. Margery’s hat hid her hair and part of her face, but Helen couldn’t do anything about her height. Any smart cop would spot her.

Helen made her way to the sidewalk. She kept expecting a cop to yell, “You, there, stop!” She tried to stroll, but it was hard to look casual when her heart was hammering hard enough to knock her flat.

Helen made it down the street and turned toward Las Olas and the safety of the tourist crowds. Once out of sight of the Coronado, she burst into a frantic run that she told herself was a power walk. She didn’t stop until she came to an outdoor café. Then she sat in an empty chair and collapsed. Her rapidly beating heart made her dizzy. Her hand hurt, and she realized she was clutching Margery’s roll of bills so tightly she had nail marks in her palm.

Helen counted the money. Margery had handed her two hundred dollars in tens and twenties.

“May I help you?” the waitress said.

Helen jumped, then tried to pull herself together. “Coffee,” she said. “And . . . and a bagel with cream cheese.”

That sounded normal, didn’t it? She was a tourist on a fine day, having a cup of coffee. Except she was supposed to be at work. What time was it? She checked her watch. Nine o’clock.

Helen found a pay phone and called Jeff. “I may be a little late,” she said. “About an hour.”

If I’m lucky. Otherwise, I’ll be gone twenty to life, she thought.

“It’s OK,” Jeff said. “It’s a slow morning. Lulu and I can handle it.”

“How is Jonathon? Can I visit him in jail?”

“He’s holding up as well as can be expected. He says no visitors. He doesn’t want anyone to see him. He’s trying to raise the money to make bail. He wouldn’t let me help with that, either.”