Pumped for Murder (7 page)

“If we need paper, why don’t we start with Mark’s funeral records?” Helen asked. “When my mom died, the funeral parlor had stacks of paperwork about her life and death.”

Phil kissed her. “Did I say you were brilliant?”

“Not often enough,” Helen said. “Do you know where Mark was laid out?”

“It’s on Gus’s list. His brother’s visitation was at the Becca Funeral Home in Fort Lauderdale,” Phil said. “It’s a family-owned business. Been around since the 1920s. It’s only three o’clock. We have time to go there.”

The funeral home was pink stucco with a red tile roof flanked by the inevitable palm trees. Inside, the satiny gold wallpaper made Helen feel like she was trapped in a giant jewelry box. Dark red flowers and pale torch lamps added to the gloom. Helen shivered. The funeral home was cold, even by summer-in-Florida standards.

“May I help you?” The woman had a severe gray suit, short gray hair and a face so immobile it seemed frozen by the funereal cold.

Phil’s smile should have melted the woman. “We’re with Coronado Investigations. We are looking for records of a visitation you had here some time ago.”

The glacier face shifted slightly. Now the woman seemed worried.

“It’s okay,” Helen added. “We’re helping a family look into the cause of the man’s death. There’s no problem with the funeral home.”

Phil showed her the paperwork Gus had signed.

“I’m Jessica,” she said, her face thawing slightly. “Let me present this to our director. Mr. Harold is the fourth generation to run the Becca Funeral Home. Please take a seat.”

Helen sat on a couch upholstered in mournful brown velvet and felt it swallow her. She’d have to punch her way out of its pillowy depths. The air was thick with the lifeless perfume of hothouse flowers.

“Looks like a horror movie set,” Phil whispered.

“Shush,” Helen said. “If I start giggling, we’ll be kicked out.”

Jessica returned. She was smiling, but her face looked—Helen’s mind skittered away from the word—stiff.

“We’ll be happy to help,” Jessica said. “Follow me.”

They trailed behind Jessica like lost ducklings down the drab gold hall with the dark visitation rooms. Helen was relieved they were all empty.

The ordinary office with its oak veneer desk, fax, phone and computers seemed almost cheerful. Jessica pulled a leather-bound ledger off a shelf. “We did our records by hand back then,” she said. “I think they have more dignity than the computer entries.”

She opened the pages to Mark Behr’s “Record of Funeral.” It had cost $6,518.61. Mark had been buried in a Regal Steel Blue casket. Helen read the details with horrified fascination. Each seemed to add more weight to this sorrowful story. The funeral home had charged extra for dressing the body, for underwear, for hose (were those socks?) and slippers.

Mark’s family had paid for candles and candelabra, for an organist and a singer. They’d paid $150 for a second limousine. Flowers had cost $410. They’d ordered five hundred prayer cards for $50. The family had rented a tent to shade the mourners from the hot summer sun.

The last detail was the saddest: Mark’s mother had paid for the funeral in installments. It was stamped PAID a year after her son’s death.

Helen fought back her tears. That poor woman. Every month, she got a fresh reminder of her son’s death. You never knew Mark, she told herself. Quit being so dramatic.You have a job to do.

She heard Phil ask, “Is there a death certificate?”

“Let me check the files.” Jessica opened another door, and Helen got a glimpse of gray ranks of file cabinets.

Jessica was back in five minutes. “Here’s a copy.”

Phil’s eyebrows shot up when he read the certificate. Helen knew he’d found something. Phil put on his poker face. “I appreciate your time,” he said. “What do we owe you for the copy?”

“Nothing,” Jessica said. “We’re happy to be of service. We hope you’ll remember the Becca Funeral Home in your time of need.”

“We will,” Phil said. “We hope we won’t need you anytime soon.”

Helen couldn’t wait until they got to Phil’s Jeep.

“What is it?” she said. “Tell me.”

“The death certificate says Mark died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

“That doesn’t explain your smug look,” Helen said. “We already knew that.”

“Look.” His finger pointed to a box that read PLACE OF INJURY. Typed in it was “a motor vehicle” at “3868 Palmwood Blvd., Sunset Palms, FL.”

“Sunset Palms is nowhere near Plantation,” Phil said. “Why did Gus tell us the wrong town?”

“L
ook at that knockout!” Phil said. “She’s amazing.”

Helen studied the boxy turquoise-and-white beast with vestigial fins. Its grill had a smug grin, as if it knew it was a classic. Gus had the hood open, a blanket protecting the front fender.

“Is that an old Chevy?” Helen asked.

“That’s like asking if the Mona Lisa is an oil painting,” Phil said. “Gus is working on a 1956 Chevy Bel Air. A two-tone convertible with fabulous chrome.” His voice was soft with reverence for the old beauty.

“Evening,” Gus said, and wiped his hands on a rag. He looked beat. A red-haired boy sat in a toy car next to Gus. His pedal car was a miniature version of the gleaming ’56 turquoise Chevy.

“Cool car,” Phil said. “Are you Gus the Third?”

“Yeah!” The boy held up a yellow plastic wrench. “I help PawPaw!” he said.

“He loves cars just like you do,” Helen said.

Gus straightened his shoulders and patted his grandson’s fiery curls. “I’m hoping he’ll take over the shop when he grows up.”

Gus smiled hopefully at Phil and Helen. “You find out something already?”

“We did,” Phil said. “Mark’s shooting didn’t happen in Plantation. It was in Sunset Palms. Why did you send us to the other end of Broward County?”

Gus looked confused. “What do you mean Sunset Palms? Mark was shot in Plantation. My mom and my sister said so. They can’t both be wrong.”

“They were,” Phil said. “Look, Gus, it’s your money. If you want to pay for a wild goose chase, that’s fine with me.”

“I don’t know how things got so tangled up,” Gus said. “Mark died a long time ago. They were in shock. We all were.”

“So shocked
both
women got the scene of the shooting wrong?” Phil asked.

“You weren’t there,” Gus said. “You don’t know what our family went through. You never knew Mark. That’s why I showed you the video, to give you some idea what he was like. When my brother was shot, it was total confusion at the hospital. First the doctors said he was going to make it; then they did a one-eighty and said he wouldn’t pull through.

“Mom was so upset I thought she was gonna die before Mark. My sister was half-crazy. Mom and Bernie wandered around the hospital like lost souls. I had to sit them down and force them to eat. I don’t think Mom ever got over Mark’s death, and Bernie changed completely. I can ask her myself why she got the location wrong.”

“No!” Helen said.

Gus frowned. “You’re telling me I can’t talk to my own sister?”

“Of course you can,” Helen said. “But it would be better if we asked Bernie the details about Mark’s death.”

“When it’s an emotional issue, it’s helpful to have a third party ask the tough questions,” Phil said. “It’s our job. We can ask the hard questions you can’t. That’s why you’re paying us. Remember, when this case is over, we’ll never see you or your sister again. You’ll have to sit across the table from her at Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Can I at least call Bernie and tell her you’re coming?” Gus asked.

“We’d rather you didn’t,” Phil said. “Helen will ask the questions. She’s good with people. We want you to be by your phone, in case Bernie calls you to confirm that you’ve hired us to look into Mark’s death. We need you for backup, Gus.”

“Okay,” he said, but Gus wasn’t happy. “When are you going?”

“I thought I’d drive out about nine tomorrow morning,” Helen said.

“If you need to reach me, have Bernie call my cell,” Gus said. “I’ll be here at the shop.”

He carefully eased his head back under the Chevy’s hood, like a lion tamer sticking his head in the mouth of a beautiful killer. Little Gus waved good-bye.

On the ride home, Helen said, “Little Gus’s pedal car was amazing. I can see why Gus worries that his grandson may have the family tendency for suicide. He has everything else—their looks, their hair, their fascination with classic cars.”

“You don’t have to turn into your family,” Phil said. “You aren’t anything like your mother.”

“I try not to be,” Helen said. “But sometimes I look in the mirror and think I see her.”

Phil laughed, leaned over and kissed her. “Not a trace,” he said. “I’d know.”

The car behind them honked, and the Jeep inched through Fort Lauderdale’s rush-hour traffic. Heat shimmered on the road, and the air was thick with car exhaust and the stink of melting asphalt.

The Jeep was not air-conditioned. Phil didn’t seem to notice the heat. Helen felt like she was on a griddle instead of Federal Highway. The cool Coronado seemed light-years away.

“You sure I can’t go with you tomorrow morning to talk to Bernie?” Phil asked.

“Nope,” she said. “Bernie’s interrogation requires my special skills. I’ll do the talking.”

“I might be better at talking to women,” Phil said and waggled his eyebrows.

Sweat dripped down Helen’s forehead. “This could turn into girl talk,” she said. “A man would be a liability when we really dish. I’ll handle it.”

“You aren’t worried, are you?” Phil asked. He grinned at her.

“Of course not,” Helen said.

She hadn’t forgotten how Bernie had undulated into Granddaddy’s Bar during Mark’s birthday video, wearing skintight leather and a flame red bra. Helen knew Phil was nothing like her unfaithful ex-husband, Rob, but the man was human. Helen had been a trusting fool during her first marriage. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She wouldn’t push her new husband into the path of a fiery-haired temptress.

“Bernie and her husband, Kevin, must have some bucks if they live in Weston,” Helen said. “Didn’t some magazine say Weston had some of the richest residents in the country? I wonder what Bernie’s husband does.”

Phil turned off Federal toward tree-shaded Las Olas. Helen felt cooler already. Almost home.

“I can answer that,” Phil said. “I checked him out. Kevin Maynard Bennett is a health insurance executive. Their son, Kevin Maynard Junior, goes to Nova University. Your husband, Phil, could use a drink.”

“You’re about to get it,” Helen said as the Jeep rumbled into its parking spot. “We’re back at the Coronado in time for the sunset salute.”

Every evening, the Coronado residents gathered around the pool to toast the day. Peggy and Margery were sitting on chaise longues, sipping box wine. Helen’s landlady looked mysterious in her perpetual haze of Marlboro smoke. Her purple caftan gave her a languid air.

Red-haired Peggy seemed tired and drained after a day’s work. Pete was perched on her shoulder.

“Hello!” the parrot said, nibbling a strip of green pepper.

“Hi, Pete. Still on a diet?” Helen asked.

“Poor Pete!” the parrot said.

“How about a cold glass of wine?” Margery asked.

“Count me in,” Helen said.

“I’ll get myself a beer and be right back,” Phil said. He returned shortly with a chilled bottle, a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa.

“Don’t take the lid off that salsa until you open your present,” Margery said.

She handed Helen and Phil two long, thin boxes wrapped in silver paper and white ribbons. Helen ripped off the shiny paper and opened a white box.

“Business cards!” she said. The cards read:

They had the agency’s address, phone number and license number.

“Love the typeface,” Helen said. “Straight out of a noir movie. How did you know our agency license number?”

“That took some real detecting,” Margery said. “You have it framed in your office. I love that Florida private investigators are licensed by the Department of Agriculture. They regulate vegetables, fruit, milk, pawnbrokers, dance studios, shellfish and pest control.”

“I assume we come under pest control,” Phil said.

“Should be food service, as often as your wife is in the soup,” Margery said.

“Seriously, Margery, these cards are lovely,” Helen said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Be successful,” Margery said. “I need your agency to overcome what happened in Apartment 2C.”

A young woman had been murdered there. Margery blamed herself, though she had nothing to do with the untimely death. Their landlady’s guilt had eased some with time, but all the paint and disinfectant in Florida couldn’t make that tragedy go away.

Margery had pulled the apartment off the market and given it to Helen and Phil as an office for one dollar a month, until their agency turned a profit.

“I can’t make a profit until you two succeed,” she said.

W
eston had cornered the market on beige paint. Helen drove through what seemed like miles of monotonous minimansions on carefully curved streets. Each had its own pool. Most were covered with black mosquito cages. Weston was the gateway to the Everglades, and the mosquitoes never let anyone forget that.

Weston was born a decade after Mark Behr was buried, the brainchild of real estate developers. Bernie’s flirtation with exotic men was long gone: Weston looked rich and regimented.

Bernie and Kevin Bennett lived well off the misery of others. Their home was a brownish stucco mansion on a perfectly landscaped cul-de-sac with palm trees as skinny as flag poles. A four-car garage stuck out of the front like a tumor. Helen heard the distant thrum of a lawn crew manicuring grass and trimming hedges.