Half-Price Homicide (15 page)

Helen sat down on the bumper of Margery’s big white Cadillac and felt a little better, but still dizzy. Mark had been drinking beer all night—beer that Phil gave him. Now Jordan was dead, murdered by a beer bottle. She could hear Phil talking, but he seemed a great distance away.

“I checked on that limo for you, like you asked,” Phil said. “Jordan wasn’t out with Danny—not last night. The limo was rented by a modeling agency. I tracked down the driver, Pat. I knew him from a drug case I did last year. His employer thought Pat was selling drugs and I proved him innocent, so he owes me.

“Pat said there were six people in the limo and Jordan was the last pickup. There were two other women models—a blonde and a redhead—along with a big-deal fashion photographer and his two assistants.

“Pat said the models posed for photos on South Beach until almost midnight. After that, the whole party hit the clubs, then went out for breakfast. He dropped Jordan at the Coronado about five fifty that morning. Pat said there was a lot of champagne, some drugs and no sex. He drives one of those block-long limos with a hot tub inside. He says he’s seen some wild nights, but this wasn’t one of them. Not by his standards.”

“Jordan died for nothing,” Helen said.

“Not quite. Mark was right that Jordan was having an affair with Danny,” Phil said. “I also talked with a valet for a high-priced restaurant on Las Olas. His name is Taylor. You couldn’t get out of the restaurant he works at for less than two hundred dollars, even if you ordered a hamburger. That would be made of organic beef and served with artichoke fries or mango salsa.

“Taylor said Jordan met Danny for dinner at least six times at the restaurant where he valets. After dinner, they’d drive off in Danny’s black BMW. Danny drove his own car. He never rented a limo. Taylor didn’t know where they went, but the valet thought Jordan was hot. He said Jordan stuck to Danny like Velcro. Her head would be bobbing up and down at steering-wheel level before the car pulled away from the curb.”

“That’s a little too much information,” Helen said.

“Taylor seemed to regard Danny as his own personal soap opera,” Phil said. “He waited eagerly for the next episode. Taylor says Danny called it off with Jordan about two weeks ago. Jordan tried to get into Danny’s car as usual, but Danny said he wanted to go home.

“Jordan was ‘acting clingy as usual,’ Taylor said. She threw her purse at Danny. Other people were coming out of the restaurant. Jordan shrieked that Danny had promised to marry her and divorce his wife. They were gathering a crowd. Danny left Jordan right there on the sidewalk and roared off like demons were chasing him. The valet never saw Jordan with Danny again.

“According to Taylor, Jordan wasn’t the first woman who tried to pressure Danny into marriage. Stupid move. He always ran away when women did that. Danny came back the next evening and gave Taylor a twenty to forget what he saw.”

“But he told you anyway?” Helen asked.

“I gave him fifty to remember,” Phil said, and winked.

“You were so clever finding Taylor,” Helen said. “There are a lot of valets in Fort Lauderdale. How did you find him?”

“Some clever woman told me she’d heard Danny liked to meet his dates for dinner on Las Olas,” Phil said. “I picked the overpriced restaurants and found Taylor after two tries.”

“Poor Jordan,” Helen said. “What a terrible waste of a pretty young woman.”

“Jordan’s murder is bad, but I’m also worried about Margery,”

Phil said. “Margery aged twenty years after she found Jordan’s body. She looks like an old woman.”

“She is seventy-six,” Helen reminded him.

“I know, but Margery has never looked or acted her age,” Phil said. “Even her wrinkles had style. Now she seems frail. She walks like she’s old and creaky. Her colorful outfit just looks crazy. She’s not making a whole lot of sense, either.”

“I’d better go see her,” Helen said, and started to stand up.

“You can’t,” Phil said. “She’s with the police. They’ll take her statement for hours. They should have isolated me, too, but the first responder was young and inexperienced. I offered to flag down the other emergency vehicles, and he let me go outside and help. I’ll stick around for a statement, but that young cop will get his ass chewed when the detective in charge starts making sense of this scene.”

“Tell me what’s wrong with Margery,” Helen said. “She’s been like a mother to me since I got to Fort Lauderdale. Margery is prickly as a cactus, but she protects me in her own way. She always tells the truth, even if it hurts. I can’t lose both mothers in one week.”

Phil took a deep breath and said, “Margery blames herself for sending Jordan and Mark upstairs together. She says she should have taken Jordan to her home and protected her from her angry boyfriend. Margery feels like she sent Jordan to her death.”

“I can see why she’d say that,” Helen said.

“Here’s what doesn’t make sense,” Phil said. “Margery claims Jordan was killed by a burglar. She says there have been break-ins in the neighborhood.”

“Is that true?” Helen asked.

“There are always break-ins in this area,” Phil said. “The burglary rates go up in hard times. But Jordan was beaten savagely. Her murder looks more like an enraged lover than a surprised burglar. Our landlady says Mark didn’t murder Jordan because Margery found him passed out in bed. She wants me to investigate Jordan’s death and save Mark. I’ll go through the motions for her sake, but he’s guilty as hell.”

“What happened?” Helen asked. “Start from the beginning, so I can make sense of things. I’m hungry and groggy from lack of sleep.”

“Margery took a nap after lunch,” Phil said. “She woke up about one o’clock and went out to hose off the concrete sidewalks and pool deck like she does most afternoons. She saw dark drops on the sidewalk by the bougainvillea and thought coffee or paint had been spilled there. She looked closer and realized the drops were blood. She followed the trail of drops to the pool.

“Jordan was on the bottom of the pool. Margery called for me and we pulled her out. I tried CPR, but it was no use. One look at Jordan’s crushed skull and I figured she was dead when she went into the water.

“After we got Jordan out of the pool, Margery called 911. While we waited for the paramedics to arrive, Margery and I followed the blood drops in the other direction. They led straight upstairs to 2C.

“Margery opened the apartment door—it wasn’t locked—and found Mark passed out on the bed, surrounded by empty beer bottles. There was blood spatter all over the living room, bloody towels in the bathroom and diluted blood running down the sink. Even the soap was bloody. I thought it was obvious what happened: Mark killed Jordan while she was sleeping on the couch, dragged her outside when Margery and I were in our apartments and threw her body in the pool. After that, Mark tried to clean himself up, then drank himself into a stupor. Margery didn’t agree.

“We couldn’t wake him. Mark kept flopping back on the bed. His skin was clammy and his breathing was shallow. He’d drunk the two twelve-packs I gave him and a six of Coors. That’s enough to give a man his size acute alcohol poisoning. The paramedics took Mark to the hospital and two police officers went with him.”

“I don’t understand. Why does Margery believe he’s innocent?” Helen asked.

“Margery said Mark didn’t know Jordan was dead because he was unconscious. The burglar came into their apartment, attacked Jordan, dragged her body to the pool and Mark slept through it.”

“Then who tried to wash off her blood in their apartment sink?” Helen asked.

“Margery said it was the burglar. I’m sure the bloody fingerprints in that bathroom will show Mark was the killer. Margery insisted on calling a lawyer, Colby Cox, to be with Mark when he wakes up in the hospital.”

“Was the murder weapon in 2C?” Helen asked.

“There were lots of beer bottles,” Phil said, “but the cops found the murder weapon in the trash can near the pool. Mark had carried it outside, possibly to finish off Jordan, then dutifully followed Margery’s rules about not leaving glass near the pool. It was dropped in the trash can. He didn’t even try to hide it. The bottle is covered with blood and fingerprints and has some long hair on it. I’d bet you my next paycheck the fingerprints will turn out to be his.”

A white Crown Victoria screeched up in front of the Coronado and stopped defiantly under a no parking sign. Helen’s heart sank when she saw the driver. Detective Richard McNally, tall, gray and somber, unfolded from the seat and walked up the drive.

“What a surprise,” he said.

“I thought you were on the Hendin Island force,” Helen said.

“I was called here because a person of interest in my investigation was murdered—Jordan Drubb,” he said. “And what do I find? Another person of interest happens to be on the scene. The Queen of Coincidence, Helen Hawthorne.”

“I told you Jordan lived here,” Helen said.

“Yes, you did,” Detective McNally said. “But you didn’t say she’d die here, too.”

“You have True Religion! ” The woman had the glowing eyes and long, pale face of a young novice nun. “I do?” Helen said. “Yes,” she said. “You have the True Religion jeans with the horseshoe-flap pocket. The same ones Halle Berry wore. Except hers cost three hundred dollars and yours are only seventy and they’re my size. I can’t believe it.”

“We have Gucci and Versace, too,” Helen said. “No, these are all I want,” the novice said, and plunked them on the counter.

Helen’s fingers moved slowly over the cash register keys as she rang up the jeans. She had the IQ of a squid this morning. She’d been questioned by the police and Detective McNally until six o’clock last night. McNally had even called Vera to ask what time Helen left work.

Then Helen spent three long hours with Margery. She was shocked by the change in her landlady. Margery had refused any food, even toast. She insisted on drinking a screwdriver. Then another. And another, until Helen refused to make more. She tried to give Margery straight orange juice, but her landlady wouldn’t touch it. Margery chain-smoked cigarettes instead. Worse, she never cussed or chewed Helen out.

Margery had become an instant old woman, just as Phil said. She mumbled, lost her way in sentences, wept that Mark was innocent and that she had killed Jordan. No one believed that last part but Margery.

Helen was glad that Mark was under arrest. As far as she was concerned, he was guilty of two murders: He’d killed Jordan and he’d killed Margery. The landlady Helen loved was gone.

Margery either fell asleep or passed out about nine o’clock. Helen had removed the burning cigarette from her landlady’s fingers, covered her with a blanket, carefully shut Margery’s door and gone to her apartment.

There she fed her cat, Thumbs, and scrambled herself an egg for dinner. Just when Helen thought she could get some sleep, Peggy came over with her box of aprons. Helen told her the awful news while Peggy worked on her aprons. At least her friend had left Pete at home. A prowling Thumbs made the little parrot nervous.

Tired as she was, Helen found comfort in Peggy’s company. Peggy insisted Margery was resilient and would soon be her old self. Helen wanted to believe her. It was midnight when Peggy finished the last apron. “I’m overnighting these tomorrow,” she told Helen. “Then the money will roll in and I’ll be free.”

“I hope so,” Helen said. She shut the door and finally fell asleep.

Morning came too soon. Now she was at Snapdragon’s, walking in a fog, wishing she could go to sleep and selling to a woman ecstatic over a pair of jeans.

The True Religion buyer carried off her purchase as if she were bearing frankincense and myrrh. A pocket-sized brunette breezed up to the counter holding a pair of high heels with polka-dot bows.

“These are so cute,” Ms. Pocket said. “How much? I don’t see a price tag, but they were with the summer bargains.”

Helen turned the shoes over, then said, “There is no price. Let me ask the boss.”

Vera, on the phone in her back office, waved Helen away.

“She’ll be here in a second,” Helen said.

“Sorry,” the miniature brunette said. “Gotta run. I see the parking patrol.”

Helen had barely stashed the polka-dot shoes under the counter before a tall dishwater blonde announced she was looking for a summer dress. Helen didn’t see many women her own height. It was refreshing to look another female in the eye.

Ms. Dishwater riffled through the racks, then picked the white gown Helen had worn for her aborted wedding. “This is lovely,” she said. “It looks new.”

“Only worn once,” Helen said. The words were torn from her heart. She’d been so happy when she’d put on that dress. Then, with a few words from her mother, Helen’s dreams were destroyed. She could no longer bear to look at the dress. Hiding it in her closet was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Vera had given her a generous consignment deal and Helen put the wedding dress out for sale.

Ms. Dishwater came out of the dressing room in Helen’s wedding gown and admired herself in the mirror. “I’ll take it,” she said.

“Excellent.” Helen fixed a smile on her face, carried the dress up front and wrapped it. She felt like she’d sold a piece of her heart for fifty bucks.