Pumped for Murder (15 page)

Now Helen lived with the fear that Rob’s body would be discovered, but that was a worry she could bury deep—just like Rob. She hadn’t killed her ex. He’d died accidentally. Her innocent nephew, Tommy Junior, swung his bat and hit Uncle Rob when he attacked Helen. Helen and her sister, Kathy, had begged Rob to go to the emergency room, but the man had refused. He wasn’t going to the ER because a ten-year-old smacked him in the head with a bat. Rob died. Helen’s innocent nephew would have to live with a burden he didn’t deserve, all because of Rob’s selfish, careless decision.

Helen had wanted to call the police and say that she killed Rob, but her sister, Kathy, refused. She was afraid her son would confess that he’d hit Uncle Rob, and Tommy Junior would be branded for life as a killer, teased by thoughtless classmates, mocked and shunned until he became an outcast. Helen and Kathy had both seen an innocent classmate ruined that way.

So Helen swore she’d never tell anyone what really happened, not even Phil.

Now she lived with that decision daily. It had become part of her marriage, an unwelcome third party. Helen had pledged herself to Phil for better or for worse, and this was bad. She felt like she’d broken her vows before she’d even married Phil. She’d dragged her dead ex into their life.

Still, she couldn’t sacrifice her nephew. Helen had had to choose between blood and love, and blood won. She’d buried that fear so deeply, even she couldn’t bear to acknowledge it, but it was always there, a dark shadow beside her. Sometimes she wondered why Phil couldn’t see it.

Now she was facing a familiar fear, the one she’d learned to live with after she’d quit her high-paying job and went on the run—the fear of not having enough money. The fear of living with no comforting paycheck. At least this fear was well-known. It moved in again, like a houseguest who didn’t know when to leave. Worrying about money added another shade of gray to her world, but Helen could live with this dreary problem. She’d endured it for more than two years before she married Phil. Heck, most of America lived with it.

Phil brought her back to the present and the traffic jam on Federal Highway. “Helen, we’ll be okay. Margery hasn’t raised our rent in years,” he said. “She’s giving us the Coronado Investigations office for a dollar a month. We’re not going to be thrown out on the street tomorrow. You worry too much.”

And Phil refused to worry. Helen thought that was another fault.

“I have to worry for two,” she said.

He put his arm around her, drew her near and kissed her forehead. “Then find a real worry. We don’t have any credit card debt, just the utility bills. We only have to feed ourselves and the cat.”

“He’s a fat cat,” Helen said, but she couldn’t help smiling.

“Forty percent of the homes in Broward County have underwater mortgages,” he said. “How many of the people stuck in this traffic jam are worse off than we are?”

Helen studied the parade of painted snails stranded on the highway.

“How about that woman in the red Mercedes?” Phil said. “She looks prosperous, but she could be in debt up to her designer sunglasses. And that poor guy in the rusty dark blue Datsun. Wonder if he’s seen a process server on his doorstep.”

Those cars inched forward and the Datsun driver honked at them. Helen sat up and straightened her black dress. Phil waved at the Datsun and moved forward.

Now the Jeep was next to a silver convertible packed with shirtless, sunburned students. Loud bass blasted from its speakers. Three guys clutched beer cans, and two blondes in bikinis sat on their laps. The wind blew the telltale odor of burning leaves Helen’s way. Party time. If this traffic jam went on much longer, she and Phil would have a contact high.

What about you, kids? she wondered. Are you in debt already for school? Or will your troubles begin later, when you’re further down the road? The party car moved past them, and Phil said, “Get ready, Helen. As soon as we cross these railroad tracks, we’ll be at Boy Toys Restoration. There’s Gus, working on an old black Imperial. Look at that amazing beast.”

The Imperial was as big and square as Kansas. The fenders were draped with protective cloth, like a patient undergoing surgery. Gus had his hands in the Imperial’s guts. He looked up, saw the Jeep bouncing over the tracks, wiped his oily hands on a rag and waved.

Helen caught the first glimpse of her new car, parked in front. It wasn’t red, black, silver or even a cool blue. To Helen, it seemed older people drove cars this color. Even Margery, a woman who never showed her true years, had that one telltale sign of age.

“It’s so ... white,” Helen said, hoping she kept the disappointment out of her voice.

“The official color is stone white,” Gus said proudly. He opened the door and started the engine. “The interior is slate gray. It’s loaded with extras—bucket seats, air bags and tinted glass to make it even cooler in summer.”

I said I didn’t care how it looked, Helen told herself. I only wanted a car with air-conditioning. I didn’t want to trudge around the used-car lots. I got what I wanted.

Gus and Phil grinned, proud as new parents.

“Wait till you feel that cooling system,” Gus said. “Sit down.”

Phil virtually pushed her into the seat.

“It’s as cold as—” Helen began as the arctic air blasted her face.

“It’s a rolling igloo,” Gus said.

Helen knew her car had been named.

“I have the only igloo in South Florida,” she said.

Phil gave Helen a warning look, then said, “Before we hit the road, Gus, I have to ask you a question about your brother’s gun.”

“The .22?” Gus said.

“No, the Mauser the cops found in his car.”

“Mark never had a Mauser,” Gus said. “He had a little Walther P22 pistol he kept for protection.”

“Maybe your dad brought a Mauser home after World War Two,” Phil said.

“My dad served in Korea,” Gus said. “He never had guns. My brother bought a little .22 pistol for protection.”

“When?” Phil said.

“When he started hanging out with that wild crowd,” Gus said. “The grip was so small I could hold it and shoot it using two fingers and a thumb. Only had a five-inch barrel. I asked him what he was doing with a lady’s gun. He said the .22 was accurate and easy to conceal.”

“Are you sure?” Phil asked.

Gus was clearly steamed. “Of course I’m sure. I know the difference between a Mauser and a .22. Just because I fix cars doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“Whoa!” Phil said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. But the police didn’t find a .22 in Mark’s car. They found a blue steel Mauser .32 automatic.”

“It was not Mark’s gun,” Gus said. “We lived together in an apartment so small there wasn’t room for the roaches to hide. He never owned a Mauser.”

“Gus, did you ever wonder if your brother might have been a drug dealer?” Phil said.

“No!” Sweat poured down Gus’s face.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Phil said.

“I’m not upset,” Gus said. His clipped words and stiff body said otherwise.

“Where did Mark get all that money?” Phil asked. “It had to be drugs. Mark probably peddled a little coke at parties.”

“That couldn’t be,” Gus said.

Helen thought he was really saying
That’s not what I want it to be.

“Where did you get the money to keep this garage going?” Phil asked. “You said Mark steered exotic-car owners your way.You spent major money restoring Boy Toys in the eighties. How did you keep going until your income picked up?”

“Mark found an anonymous investor to lend me two hundred grand,” Gus said.

“Did you pay back this investor?” Phil asked.

“No. Only Mark knew the name. I waited for the guy to come forward after my brother died, but he never did.”

“There was no investor,” Phil said. “Mark gave you that money. He was dealing.”

“No! I built this shop through hard work.” Gus wiped more sweat off his forehead, leaving a dark oil smear.

“I know you did,” Phil said. “I didn’t say you were a dealer. But I think your brother was. I’m guessing Mark was a small-timer. He gave you the money and called it a loan. When his bipolar problem kicked in, he started sampling his product and wound up behind in his payments to Ahmet.”

“Maybe,” Gus said, his face sullen.

“Your brother owed Ahmet three thousand dollars when he died,” Phil said gently, as if his softer voice would make those words easier to swallow.

“I might have heard something like that,” Gus said. “Maybe. I don’t know for sure. I don’t know anything.”

Helen wished Phil would stop talking so they could leave. Gus was getting upset.

“You asked me to talk to his friends,” Phil said. “One of them said Mark rescued your sister from Ahmet’s house. Ahmet kept Bernie prisoner there. Mark had to kick down the door to get her out. She hid at your apartment, too afraid to leave.”

“Bernie never said anything like that to me,” Gus said. “Mark didn’t, either.Why are you telling me this?”

Because you insisted you wanted to know, Helen thought. But she didn’t say it.

“Because it means you were right: Mark was murdered,” Phil said. “I think Mark went to Ahmet’s business to kill him. Instead, the drug dealer shot him.”

Rivers of sweat cascaded down Gus’s forehead and drenched his shirt. His shoulders were bowed.

“I didn’t know any of this,” he said. “All I know is I love Mark and Bernie.”

H
elen fell in love with the Igloo on the ride back to the Coronado. The white PT Cruiser rolled coolly down the highway, encasing her in a lovely chilled bubble. The car had lots of legroom and a cargo cover, so she didn’t have to worry if she left something valuable inside. Her neighborhood had suffered a rash of car break-ins. The thugs smashed windows with a spark plug and went after laptops, iPods, purses, even pocket change.

Helen admired the Igloo’s retro dashboard clock. The temperature gauge told her it was a sizzling ninety-six degrees outside. She waved at Phil, following in his open Jeep, his long silver hair tied back in a ponytail. The man wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

Helen was still shaken after their scene with Gus. He was clearly hurt by their new information, even if it did bolster his belief that Mark was murdered.

At the Coronado, she parked in the spot where the Toad used to squat. The Toad was an ugly green monster she’d driven when she’d worked at the Superior Club, a not-so-superior country club. The Toad had been junked long ago, but the miserable creature had leaked nasty body fluids in the lot, a permanent memorial to a moody, bad-tempered car.

A purple cloud drifted to the gate. Margery, in a gauzy eggplant caftan and lavender sandals, lifted a chilled glass of white wine in a salute. “Like the new ride,” she said. “Gives my white car some company. How is the Cruiser?”

“Cool, in all senses of the word,” Helen said.

Phil kissed their landlady on the cheek and said, “You look like a glamorous hostess in a magazine.”

She kissed him back lightly and said, “You’re sweet.”

Margery flirted outrageously with Phil. Helen wondered if her husband would have married Margery if she’d been thirty years younger. Their landlady was glamorous at seventy-six. She must have been devastating in her forties.

“You two want to join me in a drink?” Margery asked.

“We’ll take a rain check,” Phil said. “Helen’s gym is closed tomorrow while the crime scene unit goes over it. We want to make some progress on Gus’s case.”

They retreated upstairs to the Coronado Investigations office. In the kitchenette, Phil poured Helen a glass of wine, opened himself a beer, and pulled a bright orange bag out of the cabinet.

“What’s that?”

“Spicy snack mix,” he said. “Jalapeño cheese crackers, hot pretzels, salsa-flavored corn chips and more.”

“More what—heartburn?” Helen asked. She thought Phil had a touching faith in the promises on junk food labels.

“More ingredients,” he said. “It also has spicy SunChips. Those are multigrain, so they’re good for you. So are the peanuts. The spicy snack mix has no trans fat and sixty percent less regular fat.”

“Than a can of Crisco?”

“Than other potato chips,” Phil said. “You’re always after me to eat healthier. Then when I try, you make fun of me.”

He tilted his head like a puzzled pup. Helen laughed and kissed him. “I love you,” she said. “I’m glad ‘for better or worse’ doesn’t mean eating your snack mix.”

Phil kissed her back and Gus’s case was forgotten for more than a half hour. That old-fashioned desk was surprisingly roomy.

“We have to get serious now,” Helen said, straightening her black dress. “No more newlywed breaks.”

“We had to christen that desk,” Phil said. “That’s why shamuses hang around leggy brunettes. Now we have to figure out who shot Mark.”

“With a gun his brother says he didn’t own,” Helen said. “Is part of that police report missing? Do we need to go back and check for more of it?”

“By we, I assume you mean me,” Phil said. “Sure. It won’t be the first wild goose I’ve chased. I need to poke through those old records anyway. I have a hunch there’s more in those files. Those cops loved filling out forms.”

“They were better paper pushers than investigators,” Helen said. “I didn’t realize how hard it would be to tell Gus what we found out.”

“We haven’t confirmed it yet,” Phil said. “We’re just repeating old stories.”

“I think on some level, Gus believes them,” Helen said. “Can we conclude that Ahmet shot Mark?”

“For now,” Phil said. “Unless someone else in the drug business killed him. Mark was hanging around with a dealer. He bought a gun for personal protection. He was scared and doing something dangerous. Ahmet had the most likely motive for Mark’s murder: Mark was acting crazy. He’d insulted the drug dealer and broken into Ahmet’s house to rescue his sister. Ahmet couldn’t tolerate a challenge to his authority like that. He had to send a message. Mark was shot. Shortly after that, Ahmet quit dealing and became a solid citizen.”