Half-Price Homicide (7 page)

“You!” she said into the phone. “I thought you were gone.” Her face was taut with anger. She listened for a moment, then said, “You want to speak to Helen? I’ll see if she’s here. Just a minute.”

Margery pressed the mute button.

“Sorry you got that call,” Helen said. “I bought a cell phone after Rob tracked me here so you wouldn’t have to take my calls. I figured there was no point in hiding anymore.”

“Maybe not from Rob, but what will you do when that Hendin Island detective finds out you’re running from the court?” Margery asked.

Helen didn’t want this discussion. “I can’t leave my mother now. I gave all my friends my new cell number.”

“This is no friend,” Margery said. “Brace yourself. It’s Rob.” “He’s back?” Helen said.

“I’m afraid so. Do you want me to stay here with you?” “No, thanks,” Helen said. “He’s as hard to get rid of as athlete’s foot. Go take the brownies out. I’ll take his call.”

“Hi sunshine.” Rob’s voice was slick with contempt.

“I’m sorry about your wedding.”

Stay cool, Helen told herself. Don’t lose your temper. He’s not worth it. She remembered a sign a secretary used to keep over her desk: only you can let someone ruin your day.

She was not going to let Rob ruin hers.

“What do you want?” Helen’s voice was freezing rain on a winter day.

Remember the last time you fought with him, she told herself. You nearly were arrested for murder.

Helen pictured Rob the way she’d seen him that night at the Superior Club. It was midnight, and a thunderstorm was rolling in. Flashes of lightning lit the sky. Helen had worked twelve hours straight, wearing the ugly polyester uniform reserved for servants. Sweaty, tired and rumpled, Helen was forty-one and looked it.

Rob had seemed sleek and smug. He’d looked tanned and lean, thanks to Marcella’s personal chef and fitness trainer. Even his bald spot was gone now that he could afford Rogaine. His skin glowed from frequent facials. Naturally, he was wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt. It was almost a uniform for players: Team Swine, the big-league cheaters.

Rob had taunted her that night and she’d punched him in the mouth, an indulgence for which she’d paid dearly. Now her hand itched to hit him again, though he wasn’t in slugging distance. She took her red-hot temper and sealed it into an ice cave.

“Hey, you don’t have to be that way.” Rob’s words seemed to slither out of the receiver. Her ear felt soiled listening to him. “I was trying to be polite. I heard your wedding didn’t come off and I’m sorry. That’s all. I also wanted to know how your mother was. She’s in a nursing home in Florida, right? That’s too bad. Dolores always liked me. I can’t help that.”

Helen’s hot temper shivered and stirred, but the ice cave held.

“Who told you about my mother and my wedding?” Helen asked. “You haven’t talked to my friends.”

She had surrounded herself with people she trusted. Margery wouldn’t have said anything. Neither would Phil. Helen’s sister, Kathy, couldn’t abide Rob. Marcella, the Black Widow, didn’t know what Helen was doing these days and didn’t care.

“Your mother’s second husband told me,” Rob said. “I’m the son that old Lawn Boy Larry never had. I stopped by his place and we shared a couple of brews. Larry gave me the news about your mother. He’s worried about her.”

“So worried he never bothered to see her in the nursing home,” Helen said.

Oops. She could feel the ice cave cracking. A burning red tentacle tried to break out. She stamped on the ugly thing and sent it scuttling back into the cave.

She took deep breaths in Margery’s cozy, brownie-scented kitchen. The polished copper kettle, the microwave, the bowl of fruit on the kitchen table, were all signs of ordinary life.

“Well, Larry is not young anymore,” Rob said in that lazy drawl. “Your mother is sick in Fort Lauderdale. Eight hundred miles is a long, hot trip for an old geezer. Larry isn’t well enough to take the bus. Look what it did to your mother.”

“It’s no hotter in Florida than it is in St. Louis,” Helen said. “And he can buy a plane ticket.”

“The farthest Larry goes these days is to the supermarket and church,” Rob said. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be nice to him, Helen. He’ll get your mom’s money when she passes on. Though I hope she won’t die,” he added quickly. “You know Dolores made out her will in his favor.”

“That’s all Larry cares about,” Helen said. “Mom and I both married men who were only interested in our money.” Oops. Her hot temper was flaring up, trying to bust out of the ice cave.

“That’s harsh,” Rob said. “It was your idea to divorce me. Otherwise, we’d still be happily married.”

“You’d be happy,” Helen said. “I was happy, too, as long as I stayed stupid.” She could hear the ice cave cracking. Helen fought to seal it, but the heat was too much.

“Your mom was a lonely widow when she married Lawn Boy Larry,” Rob said, his voice still silky cool. “She needed a companion. The new marriage didn’t work. When Dolores asked Larry to move back into his own home, he did. Larry is a gentleman. He still makes himself useful. He cuts your mother’s lawn, cleans the gutters, paints the fence, rakes leaves, little chores like that.”

“So he can sell her house as soon as she dies,” Helen said, with more heat than she intended. Her temper was sizzling. She tried to shut it away, but it was getting too hot to handle.

“You can’t judge Larry for that,” Rob said. “He’s almost eighty.

Dolores has been in a coma for what—three months now? Larry told me she was his wife in name only for most of their marriage. Larry and Dolores weren’t exactly red-hot lovers. Your mom only did it once with him. That was enough for her. Think it was that little flat cap he always wears when he cuts the grass? Could be quite a turn-on for an older woman. When she got him into bed without that cap, well, all his charm vanished.”

Ping! That was it. Helen could hear roaring in her ears.

“Are you here in Florida?” Helen asked, her voice lethally quiet.

“Why? Do you miss me?” Rob said.

“Hell, no. If you’re staying at a nearby hotel, I want to come over and rip your face off. If you ever talk about my mother’s sex life again, I’ll kill you.”

She’d lost it. She was flaming mad, all caution forgotten.

“You’re feisty,” Rob said. “I’ve always liked that about you. Here’s some advice: Do be careful. Talking about killing me could be construed as a threat if anything should happen. As to your question, I’m a free man, Helen. There’s no reason to tell you where I am.

“You’ve got to admire Larry, though. He made sure he consummated his marriage to your mother. Dolores wouldn’t dare ask for an annulment after they did the deed. A lesser woman would have lied. But Dolores was legally married to Larry and she doesn’t believe in divorce. She disapproved when you divorced her favorite son-in-law. She wasn’t happy with Larry, but she’s no hypocrite.

“Larry made sure he and his new bride were well and truly hitched. Must have been worth the effort. Nice piece of property he’ll get when your mom passes.”

“Shut up,” Helen said. Her voice sizzled and died in the powerful heat of her rage. She tried to remember if Rob had been this obnoxious when they were married, but she couldn’t think.

“You won’t get her house, but at least you didn’t inherit Dolores’s dislike of sex,” Rob said. “You used to go at it hammer and tongs.”

Helen couldn’t say anything. A sheet of red flame shut out her vision. She didn’t know who she loathed more—her ex-husband or herself for marrying Rob.

“Shut up and tell me what you want, or I’ll slam down the phone,” she said.

“There’s a serious failure in your logic,” Rob said. “How can I tell you what I want if I shut up?”

“I’m counting to ten,” Helen said. “Then I’ll hang up if you don’t start talking. One …”

“Don’t do that,” Rob said, his voice slippery with satisfaction. “What’s his name—the guy who wants my used goods?”

“Phil,” Helen said. “My fiancé is Phil.”

“Right. He will be very unhappy when the law hauls you away.” “Get to the point,” Helen said.

“I want my money,” Rob said. His voice was flat and hungry. “The divorce judge awarded me half your income. You’ve disobeyed him. It’s hard to keep track of what you’ve actually made since our divorce, Helen, since you were paid with cash under the table. There’s one exception: your job at the country club. Based on your Superior Club salary, you earned eleven dollars an hour.”

“That’s the most I ever made,” Helen said.

“So you say,” Rob said. “But you can’t prove it. You don’t have any other payroll records.”

“I only made about six hundred dollars every two weeks at the Superior Club. And that was after taxes.”

“We’ve been divorced a little over two years,” Rob said. “By my calculations, you made thirty-one thousand, two hundred dollars. You owe me fifteen thousand, six hundred dollars. But I’m in a generous mood. I’ll only ask for an even fifteen thousand dollars to settle your past debt. And I won’t tell the IRS about your employers.”

“I didn’t make enough money to pay taxes,” Helen said.

“I understand, but the government gets crabby if they don’t hear from a potential taxpayer,” Rob said.

“What if my mother needs money?” Helen asked.

“She has a husband,” Rob said. “Larry is legally responsible for her bills. He can pay them.”

“That skinflint will ship her off to someplace cheap and horrible the moment she costs him money. Mom has a long-term-care policy.”

“A prudent move,” Rob said. “Dolores showed great forethought. No one wants to be kept alive beyond their time. Even if Larry puts her in a cheaper home, what difference will it make? She’ll never know. I mean no disrespect, but your mother is broccoli in a hospital bed.”

“You bastard!” Helen said.

“Let’s leave my mother out of it,” Rob said. “She’s dead.”

Now his voice was harder than granite. “These are the facts, Helen. I’m entitled to half of your earnings. It was a court ruling, and you’ve run from it for more than two years. The law will not look kindly on that.

“I’m sure your boyfriend will pay your old debt of fifteen thou. Once that is taken care of, you still owe me half your income, even if you remarry. It’s time I collected my little court-ordered annuity. I’ll expect that big check, then smaller ones each month.”

“The Black Widow gave you a million dollars,” Helen said. “What happened to that?”

“Lost it all. Bad investments,” Rob said cheerfully. Helen could almost hear him shrug. “I’m cold, stone broke. Do you know what a Belvedere martini costs these days? I can’t ask Marcella for more money. We had an agreement: a million bucks and she’d never hear from me again. And Marcella knows how to deal with people she doesn’t like.”

“I should have shot you when I found you with Sandy,” Helen said. “I’d only have to serve eight years for murder.”

“But you didn’t,” Rob said. “Like your mother, you’re too moral.”

“You son of a bitch,” Helen said.

“There you go, picking on my mother again,” Rob said. “Don’t even think of threatening me, Helen. Remember when you hit me? The charges were dropped, but that assault is on your record. If anything happens to me, you’ll be the first suspect.”

“It was expunged!” Helen cried.

“Not from the police officer’s memory,” Rob said.

He stripped away the last shred of silk. “I want my money in thirty days, Helen Hawthorne,” he said. “You owe me fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Do you have an address in St. Louis?” she asked.

“Not sure where I’ll be. But I’ll let you know where to send it. I’ll keep in touch. Remember, thirty days for the big payment, then the little ones once a month. Keep them coming. And don’t be late.”

Helen threw the cordless receiver across the room.

“Want a cigarette?” wheezed the skinny white-haired man in the wheelchair.

Joe’s big hands were dotted with yellow nicotine stains. Joe zipped around the Sunset Rest Retirement Home in his “Ferrari”—a red motorized wheelchair with black racing stripes and a miniature marine flag flying proudly. He wore a black baseball cap and held his cigarette at a jaunty angle.

“No, thanks, Joe,” Helen said, and laughed. “I still don’t smoke.”