Half-Price Homicide Read online

  Margery and Helen applauded, while Pete rode Peggy’s shoulder triumphantly to their apartment. Margery gave Helen the box from Kathy.

  Phil appeared at the door to Margery’s kitchen. “Want to come to my place for a nightcap, Helen?”

  Inside Phil’s apartment, Helen said, “The curse of 2C has struck again. Margery has rented that apartment to every kind of crook. Now Jordan is cheating on poor Mark.”

  “Are you sure?” Phil asked.

  “Well, not exactly. But she’s been talking about dating another man.”

  “At least cheating on her boyfriend isn’t illegal,” Phil said. “It may be an improvement over everyone else who’s rented 2C. Jordan is only scamming Mark instead of innocent citizens.”

  “She’s a snob, like lots of pretty fashionistas,” Helen said. “She won’t get serious about a man who works with his hands.”

  “Jordan thinks it’s a fair trade,” Phil said. “Mark gets high-priced arm candy and she gets pretty clothes. ‘Forever’ is not a word in Jordan’s vocabulary. But it works both ways. Soon some man will dump her because she’s no longer young and pretty.”

  Helen found his words cold comfort.

  “Would you like a back rub?” Phil asked. “It will get the knots out.”

  The back rub turned into a long session of love. Later, Helen said, “I feel guilty enjoying myself while my mother is dying.”

  “And denying yourself would help her how?” Phil asked. “You’ve done everything possible for your mother.”

  Helen drifted off to sleep in his arms until a buzzing sound woke her. She sat up, slapped Phil’s alarm clock to shut it off, then realized the sound was her cell phone buzzing.

  “Miss Hawthorne, this is Priscilla, the night nurse,” said a voice with a gentle Southern accent. “I’m sorry, but your mother has taken a turn for the worse. Dr. Lucre doesn’t think she’ll last till morning.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Helen said.

  Phil sat up in bed, looking adorably tousled. “What’s going on? What time is it?”

  “It’s one oh three,” Helen said. “The nursing home says Mom may not last until morning.”

  They threw on shoes, shirts and jeans. Helen picked up the dress box and they ran for the Jeep. The Coronado gleamed in the ghostly moonlight. The air was soft and flower-scented. A yellow light burned in apartment 2C. Helen wondered if Jordan was home yet or if Mark was alone there, drinking beer.

  The Sunset Rest looked abandoned. The nursing home’s lights were off except at the night entrance. Helen rang the buzzer. Priscilla’s generous figure and short perm inspired confidence. The nurse led Helen and Phil through the dimly lit halls.

  “We’ve moved your mother’s roommate so you can have privacy,” she said. “Dolores is fading, but she’s peaceful.”

  Helen’s mother looked like a small bundle of laundry in the white bed. “She’s hardly there,” Phil whispered.

  Helen sat down, held her mother’s nearly transparent hand and wished the IV could be removed. “Mom, I know you will go to a better world,” Helen said to the still form. “You’ll see Daddy again. Tommy Junior and Allison will miss you so much. They loved coming to your house.”

  Helen talked to her mother for what seemed like hours, while Phil alternately paced the room, then went down the hall for soda or coffee.

  Suddenly, Dolores’s breathing changed. It grew loud and rapid, then seemed to stop.

  “Mom?” Helen asked. “Are you there?”

  No answer, except another burst of loud, almost raspy breathing.

  “I’ll get the nurse,” Phil said.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Priscilla asked, running into the room.

  “Her breathing is really loud and fast,” Helen said. “Then it’s almost not there. Then it starts up fast again.”

  “That’s Cheyne-Stokes respiration,” Priscilla said. “It happens near the end. They say it doesn’t hurt the patient, but it sounds frightening.”

  At last Dolores’s labored breathing stopped. “I believe she’s passed,” the nurse said. “I’m sorry.” Priscilla left the room and closed the door.

  Phil took Helen in his arms and she cried on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said, kissing away her tears.

  “But we never made up,” Helen said. “She died angry at me.”

  “If Dolores is in that heaven she believes in, she forgives you,” Phil said. He gave her a cup of fresh coffee.

  “Thanks.” Helen wiped away her tears. She took a sip, then said, “What time is it?”

  “Three fifteen,” Phil said.

  “Margery said Mother would die at three in the morning,” Helen said.

  It took nearly three hours for the grim formalities of death. Dr. Justin Lucre examined Dolores, declared her dead and signed the paperwork. Helen signed more papers and packed her mother’s few belongings. She called Kathy for a tearful conversation. Her sister promised to call Larry in the morning and tell him he was a widower.

  The funeral home took away Dolores’s body, along with her wig, the photo and her dress.

  It was six ten in the morning when Helen and Phil were ready to leave. The smokers were already puffing in the courtyard. Joe sat in his red motorized wheelchair with Rita at his side. She wore a perky pink bow today.

  “What are you doing here so early?” Joe asked Helen.

  Rita glared at him. “Have you smoked your brains out?” she demanded. “Why does any healthy young person come here in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m an idiot,” Joe said. “Your mother passed away, didn’t she?”

  Helen nodded. She was afraid she’d burst into tears if she said the words. Phil put his arm around her protectively.

  “Give us a good-bye hug,” Rita said. “We’ll miss you. And you, too, big boy.”

  Finally, Phil and Helen climbed into the Jeep. “It’s over,” she said.

  “Now you can take the day off,” Phil said.

  “I’m too keyed up to sleep,” Helen said. “I’ll get our plane tickets and hotel reservation online. The funeral home said Mom would be ready in about two days. I’ll have breakfast with Peggy by the pool if she has time. Then I’ll go into work at ten.”

  “I disapprove,” Phil said. “You need rest.”

  “I need a distraction,” Helen said. “I’ll leave Snapdragon’s early at two o’clock, come home and crash.”

  “We’re home now,” Phil said as the Coronado rose before them. “Please take a nap.”

  “You bitch!” a man shouted.

  Phil slammed on the brakes at the edge of the Coronado parking lot. Jordan and Mark were screaming at each other in Phil’s parking spot. Jordan was still wearing the same sexy outfit. She carried her high heels, but looked slightly shopworn. Her makeup was gone. Mark’s handsome face was red and contorted with rage.

  “I’m working my ass off while you’re sneaking around with that big-time developer,” Mark yelled.

  “I told you. I was working,” Jordan shrieked back.

  “On your back,” Mark said. “You’ve been sneaking out with Danny Martlet. Don’t deny it. I found his phone number on your cell phone and called it. You slut! Danny’s wife was murdered a couple of days ago. You didn’t even wait until she was buried to hop in the sack with him.”

  “Danny auditioned me for his Orchid House campaign. But he wasn’t at tonight’s shoot.”

  “Really?” Mark said nastily. “I bet you saw plenty of him before tonight.”

  “No, I swear,” Jordan said, then went on the attack. “You’re drunk.”

  “So are you,” he said, slurring his words.

  “You stink like cheap beer,” Jordan said. “I had French champagne.”

  Margery materialized in a purple robe. “Why are you two brawling on my property?” she demanded.

  “He said—” Jordan began.

  “That bitch—” Mark said.

  “I’ve already heard it,” Margery said. “The whole stre
et heard you. Jordan, go to your room.” Jordan went upstairs to 2C like a sulky child.

  “And Mark, go to work.”

  “I can’t,” Mark said. “I’ve been up all night worrying about that slut. She isn’t worth losing sleep over. I’m going to bed. Alone. She can sleep on the couch.”

  He stomped up the stairs after Jordan, and slammed the apartment door.

  CHAPTER 14

  By her fourth cup of coffee that morning, Helen was as wired as a stadium scoreboard.

  She was too jittery to talk sensibly to Phil. He gave up and went inside while Helen drank more coffee outside by the pool. She nibbled on toast and waited impatiently for Peggy to appear. At seven thirty, her red-haired friend burst out of her apartment.

  Normally pale and quiet, this morning Peggy seemed to crackle with energy. She moved so fast, Pete had trouble maintaining his perch on her shoulder. The parrot flapped his wings and let out a squawk of protest.

  “Whoa, you’re ready to fight the day,” Helen said. “You must have had good news.”

  Peggy slid into a chair and opened a cup of blueberry yogurt. Pete settled down. “I won a thousand dollars in the Florida Lottery. It’s my first win, ever.”

  “Congratulations,” Helen said.

  “Woo-hoo!” Pete said.

  “Did he just say ‘woo-hoo’?” Helen asked.

  “Parrots learn to talk if you put a lot of emotion into your words. I’m glad that’s what I screamed when I won yesterday.”

  “What kind of fun will you have with your money?” Helen asked.

  “I’m using it to make more money,” Peggy said. “I want to work at home and make five thousand dollars a month. That’s twice what I make now. I bought my membership and supplies online. The first shipment will arrive this afternoon.”

  “I thought those work-at-home jobs were scams,” Helen said.

  “Most are lame pyramid schemes,” Peggy said. “But not this one. It’s called ‘Make Work with Mike.’ I start work when the first shipment of the product arrives after three o’clock today.”

  “What’s the product?” Helen asked.

  “Barbecue aprons. See?” Peggy showed Helen a photo of a smiling man at a smoking grill. His apron read, COME AND GET IT, CHOWHOUNDS! BILL’S BARBECUE. A barbecue fork and long-handled tongs were crossed under the letters.

  “The aprons are made in China. I personalize them,” Peggy said. “I add the name and the barbecue utensils. Or crossed beer bottles. Dog lovers can get the chowhound breed of their choice, from Airedales to Yorkies. I add those, too.”

  “Why can’t they do that in China?” Helen asked.

  “Too far away,” Peggy said. “Our buyers want a quick response. My membership is two hundred fifty dollars. I bought the industrial glue gun for another two fifty. I get the first shipment of aprons free. After that, I pay two hundred fifty per week for more aprons, but if I make my quota, I’ll earn five thousand dollars a month.”

  Phil had been standing by the table holding a fresh cup of coffee. “How much do those aprons sell for in stores?” he asked.

  “Not sure,” Peggy said, “but they’re in the finest specialty shops and cookery stores. Not Williams-Sonoma, but that same caliber.”

  “There has to be a hitch, Peggy,” Phil said gently. “I’ve never come across a work-at-home scheme that wasn’t a fake.”

  “Awk!” Pete said.

  “No,” Peggy said. “Not this one. I read the testimonials. Robert in Ottumwa, Iowa, made seven figures last year.”

  “Robert who?” Phil asked.

  “Robert G.,” Peggy said.

  “Did you talk to this man?” Phil asked.

  “Well, no. I tried to find him, but there are a lot of Roberts in Ottumwa.”

  “Exactly,” Phil said.

  “You don’t have to be so negative,” Peggy said. “This is my chance to escape a bad job.”

  “I thought you liked your job,” Helen said, trying to find a safer topic.

  “I do,” Peggy said. “I mean, I did. But now my boss’s wife wants a divorce. He spends all day on the phone with his lawyer. The staff is doing our work and his. And he’s always in a rotten mood.”

  “Bad boy!” Pete said, shuffling along her shoulder.

  “Pete and I could work at home together,” Peggy said. “He’d never be lonely. And I wouldn’t have to put up with my boss’s moods.”

  “Peggy, I understand,” Phil said. “But the Florida attorney general warns against these schemes.”

  “I didn’t find Mike’s company mentioned on the Web site,” Peggy said.

  “That’s a start,” Phil said. “Please promise me you won’t quit your job until you’ve had a good money-making month.” He knelt down beside Peggy and took her hand. Phil looked sincere, strong and, yes, humble. Helen’s heart overflowed with love.

  “When a man gets on his knees and begs me, I can’t resist,” Peggy said. She raised her right hand. “I solemnly swear I won’t quit my job until I’m making at least three thousand a month working at home.”

  Pete flapped his wings.

  “Now I’d better get to work,” Peggy said. “Did I imagine it, or was someone fighting in the parking lot last night?”

  “It was Mark and Jordan,” Helen said, lowering her voice. “The fight was this morning around six. Jordan came home after being out all night. Mark was drunk—and furious. He accused her of seeing another man. Phil and I had just come back from the nursing home and we saw the fight. Margery intervened and sent them both to their room.”

  “Bad boy!” Pete said.

  “Well, it’s quiet up there now,” Peggy said. “Let’s hope they’re asleep. I forgot to ask, Helen. How is your mother?”

  “She died last night,” Helen said, then tried to stave off the inevitable burst of sympathy. “Don’t be sorry, please. Mom died peacefully. Phil and I were with her. We’ll take her home, probably in two days. Really, it was the best way for a good woman to go.”

  “Then I’m glad it’s over for you both,” Peggy said. “I still have to go to work. And you, Pete, have to go back to your cage.”

  “Bye!” Pete said.

  “He has an amazing vocabulary,” Helen said.

  “A testimony to my many lonely nights,” Peggy said as she took her parrot back to her apartment.

  When Helen heard Peggy’s car start, she said, “You handled that well, Phil. Peggy’s apron company sounds too good to be true. I wonder what the hitch is.”

  “She’ll find out soon,” Phil said. “How are the arrangements for the trip to St. Louis?”

  “We’re set for the day after tomorrow,” Helen said.

  “Then you have to keep your promise,” Phil said. “We have to straighten out your legal problems, for better or worse.”

  “Are you going to get down on your knees?” Helen said.

  “If you want,” Phil said. “But they’ll pop.”

  Helen took his hand. “I love you. I made a promise and I’ll keep it. But I don’t know where to start.”

  “With your divorce decree. What county were you married in?”

  “St. Louis County,” Helen said.

  “It should be on record at the county courthouse,” Phil said. “We’ll start there. Then I’ll research the judge and we’ll look for a good lawyer.”

  “And we’ll live happily—and legally—ever after,” Helen said. “But in the meantime, I’d better get dressed for work and let Vera know when I leave for St. Louis. Will you check that limo license-tag number for me sometime today? If we can prove Jordan was out with Danny the developer, it would help solve Chrissy’s murder.”

  She checked her watch. “It’s time for me to go to work.”

  “And I have my assignments,” Phil said. “Can I drive you to work?”

  “Thanks. I need the walk,” Helen said.

  At Snapdragon’s, Helen had her own second thoughts. Vera looked so bad, Helen wondered if the shop owner was sick. Instead of fit and th
in, Vera looked washed-out and bony. Her arms were scrawny as Madonna’s. Her red lipstick made her face seem sickly white. She was in a bad mood.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” Vera said. “But if you go, you’ll leave me here alone, pestered by the police and the lookie loos.”

  “I have no choice,” Helen said. “I can work tomorrow, but then I have to leave. If you want to fire me, I wouldn’t blame you.”

  “No, no. It’s not your fault. I’ll get by,” Vera said. “My sister in Plantation is looking for work now that her kids are going back to school. She’ll complain about the drive, but she’ll help me out.”

  “Good,” Helen said. “Thank you.”

  “But I want you back here as soon as possible,” Vera said. “I hired you as a favor to Miguel Angel. I didn’t expect to wind up needing you.”

  This odd mix of praise and blame was interrupted when a short, sturdy woman entered the shop. She looked like the perfect grandmother. Her blue pantsuit had a tabby cat on the front. She had fluffy white hair and a sweet smile. She opened a plastic grocery bag and brought out a purse wrapped in a white towel.

  Perfect Grandma carefully peeled away the towel and said reverently, “This is a genuine Louis Vuitton.”

  Helen could tell it was a fake and a poor one at that. The classic brown monogram Vuitton bag had missing stitches on the leather handle tabs. The brass fittings were dull and the nylon zipper looked cheap.

  “Was it a gift?” Vera asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Perfect Grandma said. “My dear son Edward and his wife brought it home from their Caribbean cruise. They bought me two designer handbags.” Her face was pink with pride. “I wouldn’t sell this one except that my Social Security doesn’t stretch as far as it used to. And I have my Gucci.” She patted another obvious imitation.

  “The Louis Vuitton is a beautiful purse,” Vera said. She held it up and pretended to admire it. “I wish I could buy it, but we’re overstocked right now. But thank you for bringing it here.”

  “Maybe later,” Perfect Grandma said, and swaddled the purse like a newborn.

  When she left, Helen said, “You were sweet to her.”

  Vera blushed. “Hey, I know I can be a bitch sometimes, but I had a grandma, too. I hope nobody tells her the truth about sonny boy’s gifts.”