Half-Price Homicide (5 page)

“What a cluster fu—mess this is,” he said.

“Vera wanted Danny and Chrissy to leave. Instead Danny hauled Chrissy to the back dressing room to continue their argument. He gripped her arm hard. I saw the bruises. Those are his fingerprints on her arm.”

“What were you doing while they were fighting?” McNally asked.

“I was working. I wiped down that display case,” Helen said.

“Where you could hear every word,” McNally said.

“It would be hard to miss what they were saying.” Helen said. “Danny and Chrissy were yelling loud enough you could hear them all over the store.”

“Were they still arguing about money?” McNally said.

“No. Chrissy accused Danny of being unfaithful, of staring at another woman’s uh … chest. Then Commissioner Loretta Stran-ahan walked back and saw Danny and his wife. The women seemed to know each other, but I don’t think Chrissy liked the commissioner. Chrissy made a remark about Loretta calling her husband too often. Loretta said Chrissy was too stupid to understand they were discussing business.

“That’s when Vera stepped in. She showed Danny some Bruno Magli shoes, sent Chrissy to the back dressing room to try on a summer dress and took Loretta to her office to see some blouses she hadn’t put on the racks yet.”

“Those Bruno Maglis, is that the brand O. J. wore?” McNally asked.

“I think so. O. J. called the shoes cheap, but they weren’t. Anyway, Vera separated everyone and the store was quiet. That’s when Jordan came in, wanting some of Paris Hilton’s cocktail dresses.”

“Paris Hilton sells her used clothes here?” McNally asked.

“No, Vera gives her regular sellers code names that sort of match their personalities. They all have regular buyers. Vera’s Paris Hilton is a rich, young woman who likes to party, sort of like the real celebrity. Loretta likes Glenn Close’s suits.”

“Does this seller woman look like Glenn Close?” McNally asked.

“No, she’s a brunette businesswoman who likes married men,” Helen said. “Vera knows she can’t sell clothes to women who run in the same circles. They would be embarrassed to be seen in a friend’s cast-off dress. She shows them to people they’ll never meet. Jordan lives at my apartment complex. She’s safe to sell to because there aren’t any rich party girls hanging around the Coronado Tropic Apartments. Jordan wanted to try on two Paris Hilton cocktail dresses. She ran into Danny and he was rude to her. He was rude to me, too. He threw the shoes on the floor and walked out.”

“What time was that?” McNally said. “Around eleven fifteen.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”

“Vera and I took a breather and she looked at the clock. Then she went back to the dressing room to ask Chrissy about the pony-hair purse and found her dead.”

Helen stopped. This was the bad part. The cheerful clutter of the store seemed to close in on her. She gulped, afraid she might cry, and grabbed the edge of the counter. She didn’t want to show any weakness around McNally.

“Do you want some water, Ms. Hawthorne?” Detective McNally asked.

“I have a bottle here under the counter,” she said. She took a sip of water and felt a little better. The relentless questioning had stopped for a moment.

“You said Vera found the body,” McNally prompted.

“I heard Vera screaming and I ran to the back,” Helen said. She felt calmer now. “Jordan was in the front dressing room trying on a cocktail dress. She came out of the room in a half-zipped pink satin dress. Vera called 911. That’s all I remember.”

She left out their debate about whether Chrissy’s death was murder or suicide.

Helen stared out the window. Heat waves rose from the sidewalks. The relentless sun was bleaching the brightly painted shops and colorful canvas awnings. Sensible locals were inside, except for the uniformed cop on duty outside the shop door. He was dripping sweat. Only the window-shopping tourists were on the sidewalks, determined to enjoy their vacations. They were as wilted as week-old bouquets.

“We found something,” a crime-scene tech announced. She showed Detective McNally the warty porcelain pineapple. On the bottom edge was a thick dark smear and what Helen thought was a couple of hairs clinging to it. Her stomach turned.

“It was on the top shelf,” the tech said. “We’ve photographed it.”

“Which top shelf?” he asked. “Under the fan, next to the armoire,” the tech said. “So a tall person could reach it easily?” McNally said. “So could a short one,” Helen said. “There’s a chair next to it.” “We didn’t find any footprints or shoe prints on the chair seat,” the tech said.

“Can you get any fingerprints off the pineapple?” McNally asked.

“With that surface, probably not,” the tech said. “Maybe some smears. We can take it back and fume it.”

“I’ve dusted everything in this store,” Helen said. “I dusted that pineapple this morning. My prints will be on it.”

“I think you’d better come back to the station with me, Ms. Hawthorne,” McNally said.

“Why? Am I under arrest?”

“No, I want you to give your statement again and sign it. Then I want to take your prints. Just for elimination.” “Do I need a lawyer?” Helen asked. “Only if you’re guilty,” McNally said.

Helen staggered out of the Hendin Island police station and squinted into the scalding sun. She felt like a drunk who’d left a bar after hours of carousing. She was surprised that it was only six o’clock and still daylight. Detective McNally’s interrogation seemed to last for days.

Steam rose from the wet pavement, and puddles soaked her shoes. Fort Lauderdale had already had its afternoon monsoon. The brief, hard summer rain drenched everything and cooled nothing.

Helen hoped the troubled citizens of Hendin Island never needed to find their police station in a hurry. The sign was so small and discreet, it could have been a private clinic behind that high ficus hedge. The nasty business of police work was hidden by a pretty facade, the way people once hid outhouses in fragrant gardens. The rich Hendin Islanders wanted no reminder of life’s ugly necessities.

Helen sloshed through lukewarm puddles until her shoes squished. She felt battered by Detective McNally’s relentless questions. She was too tired to walk home through this sauna. Besides, Helen had a new cell phone. She could call her fiancé.

Phil answered the phone after two rings. “Helen, where are you? What’s the matter? You got off work two hours ago and you aren’t home. Did I forget that you were going somewhere?”

“There’s been a problem,” Helen said. “A Snapdragon customer was murdered. Chrissy Martlet.”

“The developer’s wife?” Phil asked.

“That’s her.”

Phil whistled, then said, “Are you all right? Were you hurt?”

“I’m fine. I couldn’t call. I had to go to the Hendin Island police station and give a statement. They took my fingerprints and palm prints, but didn’t arrest me.”

“That’s good,” Phil said. “How did the woman die? Was she shot?”

“I don’t know how she died, but she wasn’t shot. We didn’t want to touch anything and mess up the investigation. Vera swears Chrissy committed suicide. I think she was hit on the head and hanged.”

“Where are you?” Phil asked.

“On Las Olas, walking toward home.”

“Did you get any lunch?” Phil asked.

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Helen said, and suddenly realized she was hungry as well as tired. She hadn’t eaten for ten hours. No wonder she felt dizzy.

“It’s too hot to walk home,” Phil said. “Can you make it to the Floridian? We could have dinner there. It’s cool inside.”

“Deal,” Helen said. “I’ll be there in five minutes and get us a table.”

“The Flo,” as the locals called it, stubbornly refused to change. While other Las Olas restaurants served teeny portions and picked pockets for two-hundred-dollar dinners, the Flo had generous food and small prices. This was diner food, with sassy servers and a lit dessert display case. Meals for serious grease abusers.

If you were in the right mood, the Flo was friendly, funky and affordable. If you weren’t, then you could turn up your nose and decide the place needed a good scrubbing. In that case, the Flo hoped you’d order braised quail with kumquats elsewhere. It didn’t need your business.

Phil turned heads as he walked into the dark diner. His long hair was pulled back into a silver white ponytail. He wore jeans and a soft blue shirt that matched his eyes. Phil was a private eye. Helen knew he’d want the seat at their table that kept his back to the wall. He was more comfortable when he could watch the room. Sitting nearby was a young man, pale as a boiled egg, shoveling a chef salad into his mouth.

Phil kissed Helen and pulled out his chrome chair. The low light softened his laugh lines and eye crinkles. Helen was a sucker for eye crinkles. She couldn’t understand how she’d found such a good man. She’d had a lot of bad luck in her life. Maybe it was time for a change.

Phil ordered a beer and a ham-and-cheese omelet with a side of chopped onions. Helen asked for a turkey wrap and coffee. When his omelet arrived, Phil smothered it in ketchup until Helen couldn’t see any egg, then topped it with onions and hot sauce. Helen picked at her turkey wrap, drank coffee and told Phil about her day.

“Vera found Chrissy dead in the back dressing room,” Helen said. “She thinks Chrissy committed suicide. The crime-scene techs found a white porcelain pineapple with blood and hair on it. I think it could be the murder weapon. The police won’t say. I’m guessing the killer knocked Chrissy out with the pineapple, then tried to make it look like suicide by hanging her with a scarf. When I said Chrissy had been murdered, Vera got mad and reminded me I wasn’t a crime-scene expert. She wants Chrissy’s death to be suicide. Murder might scare away her customers.”

“Suicide or murder, it’s a nasty way to go,” Phil said. “I hope Chrissy was unconscious.”

“I always thought that pineapple was a stupid ornament,” Helen said. “It’s as useless as the people who like it.”

“Any ideas on the killer?” Phil asked.

“I’m betting it’s the husband,” Helen said. “Chrissy was afraid of Danny Martlet. He’s a bully and Vera said he fools around. He’d want his little wife out of the way.”

“That makes sense if she didn’t sign a prenup,” Phil said. “But the last thing Danny would want was a murder trial while he’s negotiating the Orchid House deal. Bad publicity could scare off the board votes he needs for his project.”

“Maybe,” Helen said. “I’ll tell you what’s scaring me. Snapdragon’s is in Hendin Island, and Detective McNally has the case. He made my life miserable after King Oden was killed. He’s looking for any excuse to arrest me.”

“But he didn’t, did he?” Phil asked.

They didn’t stop talking when the waitress refilled Helen’s coffee cup. The waitress didn’t react. It was that kind of place.

“No, but I don’t know why,” Helen said. “My fingerprints were all over the Limoges pineapple that bashed Chrissy.”

“But you work at the shop,” Phil said. “Your prints are supposed to be on things. Any good defense lawyer would point that out. When fingerprints are someplace they’re not supposed to be, then there’s trouble.”

“Still, the detective took me back to the station for elimination prints,” Helen said. “The cops took Vera’s and Jordan’s prints at the scene. McNally is out to get me.”

Phil took a long swallow of beer, then said, “Helen, we’ve had this conversation before and you’ve always refused to listen to me. But there’s been a murder at your store. The wife of an important developer was killed. A county commissioner was present.”

Helen knew where this conversation was heading.

“I have no connection to Chrissy,” Helen said. “I didn’t know her. Today was the first time I ever saw her. I certainly didn’t fight with her.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Phil said. “Law enforcement will be all over your store like a cheap suit. Sooner or later, McNally is going to find out you’re wanted in St. Louis. You defied the court and refused to pay half of your future income to your ex-husband, Rob.”

“But Rob disappeared. Nobody’s seen him in months,” Helen said.

“Which makes you look even more suspicious,” Phil said.

“But he disappeared because his second wife—or whatever Marcella was—gave him a million dollars to go away. Everyone in law enforcement knows the Black Widow has had five or six husbands who conveniently died.”

“They also know she’s never been arrested or convicted of murder,” Phil said. “Marcella can afford the best lawyers in the world. You can’t. You’ve made yourself an easy target.”

“But the divorce judge made a stupid decision,” Helen said. “Rob wasn’t entitled to half my future income. He wasn’t entitled to anything of mine. He lived off me for years. He just had a better lawyer than I did and he won.”

“And you ran away,” Phil said. “Come back with me to St. Louis and fight the decision.”

His voice was soft. Helen wanted to say yes, but then she saw the pale guy eating the salad was eavesdropping. His mouth was open and his fork hovered in the air. Great. What if he reported their conversation to the police? Helen glared at him, and he went back to shoveling in salad.

“Phil, I can’t leave Mom alone in Florida,” Helen said, lowering her voice. “She hasn’t regained consciousness in the three months since our wedding. What if she does come to? I can’t let her wake up alone in a nursing home. My sister, Kathy, and Tom can’t afford to travel here again after our June wedding didn’t come off. Mom’s so-called husband, Larry, is too cheap to fly down and see his sick wife. I haven’t been the best daughter, but I can’t abandon Dolores.”