Half-Price Homicide Read online

  Helen arranged for Catholic sisters to come by once a week and pray in her mother’s room. A priest gave Dolores the sacrament of the sick (which her traditional mother would have called extreme unction). Helen asked parish priests in Florida and in St. Louis to say masses for her mother’s recovery.

  Arranging these small comforts for her religious mother had given Helen a sense of peace and some hope of reconciliation. Her late father had called Helen “my little firecracker” and enjoyed her spirit. Dolores saw her daughter as dangerously rebellious. Helen tried hard, but she could never please her mother. Taking care of her mother in her final illness was Helen’s last chance to be the daughter Dolores wanted.

  Helen visited her mother every two or three days in the nursing home. She would sit in the tall turquoise chair by her mother’s bedside and talk as if Dolores could really listen. Helen had read somewhere that some patients in comas could hear what people around them were saying. Helen told Dolores only news that she would want to hear.

  Dolores’s nursing home roommate was Ruth, a seventy-five-year-old who’d had a stroke. She, too, was unconscious. Ruth’s daughter, Muriel, looked like a hen with a perm. Muriel fussed around the room each visit, then turned up the television so loud it should have awakened the residents of the nearby Lauderdale cemetery.

  “Mama loves her television,” Muriel insisted as she ramped up the volume. Helen flinched at the blasting soap opera. Ruth didn’t move. Neither did Dolores.

  Helen turned off the set as soon as Muriel left. It stayed off until Muriel’s next visit. Neither woman mentioned this silent battle over loud noise. Muriel must have visited her mother this morning. Helen could hear the TV blaring from the courtyard.

  She stopped by the nurses’ station and checked in with Maria, the brown-skinned Jamaican nurse. “How’s Mom?”

  “The same, Miss Hawthorne.” Maria’s island accent made Helen think of vacation beaches and rum drinks with paper umbrellas. “The doctor is making his rounds. Would you like to speak to him?”

  “Yes, please,” Helen said. “I’ll wait for him.”

  “It shouldn’t be long,” Maria said. “Dr. Lucre is only three rooms away from your mother’s. I’ll tell him you are here.”

  Dolores had the bed with the view, though she’d never seen it. Her window overlooked the courtyard with the palm trees, pots of red impatiens and jolly smokers. The room’s walls were painted pink, Dolores’s favorite color. The corkboard on her side was covered with homemade cards from her grandchildren, Allison and Tommy Junior.

  Helen clicked off the blaring television and studied her mother. She could hardly find Dolores’s frail body in the tangle of lines, tubes and plastic bags. Dolores’s skin was yellow and her eyes were ringed with dark circles. Her chest barely moved under the hospital gown.

  She had only a few feathery wisps of white hair. Dolores had worn a brown wig for nearly twenty years. Helen had had the wig washed and styled. It waited on a stand in the closet.

  Dolores’s hands were crossed on her chest, as if she were already dead.

  “Hi, Mom,” Helen said, and kissed her mother.

  No movement.

  Helen tossed out the dying flowers she’d brought last week, and filled the vase with fresh water and pink carnations. She sat down and took Dolores’s small, bruised hand in hers, carefully avoiding the IV line.

  “I hope you’ve had a good week, Mom. I’ve been working. I like my job. Kathy and Tom send their love. Your grandchildren miss you. Allison asks for Grandma all the time. Kathy is shopping for Tommy Junior’s school supplies. I can’t believe school will be starting soon.”

  Silence.

  “We didn’t always get along, Mom, but I love you and want you to get well.”

  Helen’s mother didn’t answer.

  Dolores had loved Rob. She saw all of Helen’s faults, and none of Rob’s. Dolores had stayed in touch with her former son-in-law, giving Rob information he used against her own daughter.

  Kathy had supported Helen’s decision to divorce Rob. When Helen was on the run, her sister was the only person who knew how to reach her.

  During her divorce, Helen endured her mother’s harsh lectures. When the judge decreed Helen would lose half her home and her future earnings, she fled St. Louis. She called her mother occasionally. When the lectures started, Helen would break off the calls, claiming she couldn’t hear her mother through the cell phone static.

  Dolores pursued her daughter with hateful letters. “You have broken your promise and you will die,” she wrote. Her religious mania grew worse after her unhappy second marriage to Larry. Her parish priest rebuked her for lack of charity.

  As Dolores deteriorated mentally, Tom and Kathy considered placing her in a home. Dolores sneaked away, took a bus to Fort Lauderdale and showed up at Helen’s wedding at the Coronado. Her visit was an unwelcome surprise. Dolores told Helen—and the assembled guests—“I’d rather see you dead than burning in hell for divorcing your husband.” Those were her last words to her daughter.

  Helen used these one-sided conversations with Dolores to ease her pain. She repeated her mother’s arguments, trying to escape the stinging criticism.

  “I know you disapproved of my divorce, Mom,” she said. “You told me a wife had a duty to stay with her husband, no matter how unfaithful he was. But I’m not strong like you. I couldn’t stand living with a lie. I couldn’t forgive Rob.”

  More silence. To Helen, it seemed accusing.

  “You said it was my fault that Rob strayed, Mom, because I didn’t stay home and keep house like a proper wife. But we both had to work. We couldn’t afford to have me stay home.”

  Not if we wanted that cracker-box mansion your son-in-law loved so much, she thought. Helen bit back those bitter words.

  “I wouldn’t have been a good homemaker like you were, Mom. I was happier in an office.”

  She clamped down her lips so the next thoughts would not escape: You stayed home and Daddy cheated on you anyway, and the whole parish knew it. Especially after he had a heart attack in a no-tell motel during an illicit encounter with the head of the altar society.

  “You forgave Dad many times for his failings,” she said. “I hope you can forgive me. I’m sorry our last words together were—”

  Helen was relieved to hear a man clearing his throat. She turned to see Dr. Justin Lucre in the doorway, holding a chart. He was a fit forty, graying at the temples. Helen thought he could be in one of those old commercials that said, “Nine out of ten doctors recommend . . .”

  Dr. Lucre pulled out a stethoscope and began examining Dolores.

  “How is Mom?” Helen asked. “What were the results of the CT scan?”

  “Not good. Your mother’s brain is bleeding again, Helen. You and your mother’s husband decided that ‘comfort care only’ was the best course. The bleeding is growing. She may go quickly.”

  “Is she hurting?”

  “She’s not in pain,” Dr. Lucre said. “She’ll drift away. It’s good that you visit her, though I doubt if she knows you’re here.”

  “How much time does she have left?” Helen asked.

  “It’s difficult to predict. Maybe a day, maybe two or more.”

  “Is there any chance she’ll come to?” Helen asked.

  “I doubt it. Miracles have happened, but they’re unlikely. That’s why we call them miracles.”

  “Oh,” Helen said. She thought she’d been prepared for this, but the news felt like a blow.

  “You’ve gone out of your way to give her the best care,” Dr. Lucre said. “You’ve been a good daughter.”

  “A good daughter,” Helen echoed.

  But the doctor’s words were no comfort. She knew the truth.

  CHAPTER 9

  Helen drifted out of her mother’s room like a sleepwalker. She wiped away a tear, then realized she had walked all the way through the Sunset Rest Home to the lobby. An old man snored softly on a fat sofa, a newspaper on his lap. Only
the tropical fish saw Helen crying, and they were used to water.

  She picked up the dozing man’s paper and hid her face until she quit weeping. Helen didn’t like to cry, especially in public. She wouldn’t take the bus home until the tear storm stopped. Bus riders had their own troubles.

  Then she realized she didn’t need the bus. She was engaged. Phil, her fiancé, had begged Helen to let him drive her to the nursing home. She was too used to handling everything on her own. Helen stopped sniffling, opened her cell and called Phil.

  “I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” he said. “How’s your mom?”

  “Not good,” Helen said. “The doctor says she maybe has a few days left. She’s not in any pain, but that’s the only good news.”

  “I’m sorry she won’t recover,” Phil said. “Can I pick you up and take you to lunch?”

  “I definitely need a ride. But I’m not hungry,” Helen said.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Phil said.

  While Helen waited, she called her sister Kathy in St. Louis and told her the news. Kathy was silent for a moment, then said, “This isn’t a surprise. Why do I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut?”

  “Me, too,” Helen said. “And Mom and I didn’t get along.”

  “I wish I could be there with you,” Kathy said. “But Tom can’t get more time off work and we can’t afford more plane tickets.”

  “I’ll send you the money,” Helen said.

  “You aren’t rich, either.”

  “No, but Phil and I can come up with enough for two plane tickets.”

  “Helen, if Mom were conscious, I’d be there,” Kathy said. “But she never woke up.”

  “No, she didn’t. Sometimes Mom opens her eyes, but it’s obvious nobody is home,” Helen said. “The doctor said it would be a miracle if she regained consciousness. She won’t be alone when she goes. I’ll be with her. Stay home with your family.”

  “Tommy Junior will take his grandmother’s death hard,” Kathy said. “Mom loves our kids and enjoys doing grandma things with them—making cookies, taking them to the park, letting them sleep over at her house.

  “The holidays were so much fun, until she married Lawn Boy Larry. That Grinch stole our Christmas. He didn’t like the kids making noise. He didn’t want a real tree because it would shed needles. Larry complained when Allison got cookie crumbs on the kitchen floor. He wouldn’t let Tommy play with his soccer ball in Mom’s backyard. Larry said my boy might break a window. He’s a mean man. I miss Mom. I didn’t always agree with her, but I miss her.”

  Kathy’s voice wavered and turned watery. “I’m not going to cry.”

  “You should,” Helen said. “She’s your mother. She was a good grandmother and she gave your children wonderful memories.”

  “I just hope Tommy fits into his best shirt and pants for the funeral,” Kathy said. “The boy is growing like a weed.” She let out a startled gasp and said, “Oh, no. I just realized Larry has the legal right to make Mom’s funeral arrangements.”

  “Didn’t Mom leave instructions?”

  “Sure,” Kathy said. “She wants her funeral at the parish church and she wants to be buried in the cemetery plot next to our father. Mom’s name and her birthday are already carved in their joint tombstone.”

  Helen shuddered. “That’s creepy. You feel like you have to die to fill in the blanks.”

  “Larry will know where to find Mom’s instructions,” Kathy said. “They’re in the envelope with her will. I’ll have to suck it up and tell him she’s dying. Larry doesn’t like me. He is afraid Mom will change her mind and leave everything to our kids.”

  “Can’t happen now,” Helen said.

  “Word of Mom’s impending demise must be out on the local WIC,” Kathy said.

  “Wic?” Helen asked. “Do you mean Wicca, as in witches?”

  “No, WIC is what I call the widows’ information circuit, though there are a few witches in that group. The parade of homemade meals for Lawn Boy Larry has started already. Larry loves pot roast. I can’t pass his house without seeing a widow with a foil-wrapped dish ringing his doorbell. Mom’s funeral will be jammed, and not only with her friends. Every unmarried older woman in the parish will be in her best dress, trying to bag Larry. They’ll proposition him over Mom’s casket.”

  “Larry?” Helen asked. “Who would want him? The guy is bald and built like a broomstick.”

  “You’ve overlooked his assets,” Kathy said. “Larry has all his own teeth, plays bridge, has a fat pension, and best of all, he can drive at night. He’s the Daniel Craig of the senior set. I’d be surprised if Mrs. Raines didn’t tackle him at the burial. She’s the front-runner—excuse me, hobbler—for his hand in marriage. Her pot roast is said to be fork-tender.”

  “I’d better give Larry the news before his new flame flies to Florida and puts a pillow over our mother’s face,” Helen said.

  Kathy started giggling, then said, “I shouldn’t laugh.”

  “Why not? The thought of any woman pursuing Larry is hilarious. Instead of making pot roasts, they should wave their bank statements at him. I’ll call Larry.”

  “You’re a good sister,” Kathy said.

  Right, Helen thought as she hung up. Like I’m a good daughter.

  Before she could dial Larry’s number, her cell phone buzzed. It was Vera, Snapdragon’s owner. “Helen, can you meet me for lunch today?”

  “Uh, no,” Helen said.

  “Are you okay? You sound funny,” Vera said.

  “I’m at the nursing home. Mom is worse. She only has another day or so.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  “I shouldn’t be so upset,” Helen said. “I’ve been expecting this.”

  “My mother died of cancer,” Vera said. “No matter how well prepared you think you are, it’s still a shock. Let’s forget lunch.”

  “How about tomorrow?” Helen said. “I could meet you for breakfast.”

  “Sure,” Vera said. “The shop will still be closed. Swarms of cops are crawling all over the place. How about nine o’clock? We could go to the Coral Rose Cafe in Hollywood. Best breakfast in Broward County. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

  “See you then,” Helen said, and shut off her phone as Phil’s black Jeep pulled up under the Sunset Rest portico.

  Helen felt like she was running toward life when she jumped into the Jeep. She admired her fiancé as his Jeep plunged into the stream of traffic. The wind ruffled his silver-white hair. The man was hot as Florida, but in a good way. Helen sighed with happiness. Phil was her reward after her wretched marriage to Rob.

  “Margery has a cold glass of wine for you,” Phil said. “There’s a beer waiting for me.”

  “I can use it,” Helen said. “I need to fortify myself before I call Larry, Mother’s husband.”

  “Margery and I will be at your side.” Phil reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “Good. You can restrain me from reaching down the phone and tearing out his throat,” Helen said.

  At the Coronado, Helen was touched to find that Phil had fixed lunch for the three of them. The food was set out on Margery’s kitchen table.

  “I got you and Margery salads with grilled chicken and made an onion-and-rye sandwich for myself,” Phil said. “There are cupcakes for dessert.”

  “What else is on your sandwich besides onion?” Margery asked.

  “Irish butter,” Phil said.

  “You’re eating a butter-and-onion sandwich?” Helen said.

  “You’re always telling me to eat healthy,” Phil said. “This is a Bermuda onion. It has powerful antioxidants.”

  “It has something else powerful, too,” Helen said, waving her hand. “At least it’s not Limburger.”

  “I can’t find that cheese down here.” Phil looked innocent as a puppy.

  “Good,” Helen said.

  “Listen, I don’t want to ruin your appetite further,” Margery said, “but you should start maki
ng arrangements to ship your mother’s body home to St. Louis.”

  “She’s not dead yet,” Helen said.

  “She will be soon, if the doctor’s right. It’s better to make those decisions now than trying to reach a funeral director at three in the morning. Trust me, that’s when old people pass. You’ll be too tired and upset to make rational decisions then.”

  “Do you know a good funeral director?” Helen asked.

  “I do, and a couple of bad ones. I’ll go with you, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Helen said. “But I can’t deal with that today.”

  “How about tomorrow?” Margery asked. “We can leave about noon.”

  Fortified by two white wines, one salad and a cupcake, Helen was ready to call her stepfather. She could see Larry now, his bones covered with wrinkled skin like a baggy shirt, his hairless head hidden under a flat brown cap. Larry made polite noises of regret when she told him about Dolores. Helen thought she’d heard people sound more upset when their cat died.

  “I’ll make the arrangements to send Mother home,” Helen said.

  “Well, dear,” Larry said, in a voice that rustled like old paper, “I was thinking of having Dolores cremated.”

  “Mother wants to be buried in St. Louis, Larry. She left her funeral instructions in the desk in her living room, along with her will.”

  “I know, dear, but it’s so expensive to ship her body home. Cremation would be much better.”

  “You mean cheaper,” Helen said, her voice getting higher.

  “Well, yes, there are cost advantages. And we must be practical.”

  “You’ll cremate my mother over my dead body.” Or over Mom’s, Helen thought. She took a deep breath. Margery hovered in the background, frowning at her. Phil rubbed her back to calm her. Helen knew if she fought with Lawn Boy Larry, she’d get nowhere.

  She softened her voice and said, “Larry. Lawrence. Sir. You’re right, of course. But Mother was old-school Catholic. She was taught that cremation was wrong. I understand the Church has changed its view and cremation is allowed as long as you believe in the resurrection of the body. But Mother has already bought a plot next to her first husband and had her name carved on the tombstone. It’s paid for.”