Final Sail dejm-11 Page 7

  Helen thought if Violet could have fallen on Blossom and squashed her, she would have. Margery must have felt the same way. She laid a restraining hand lightly on Violet’s arm after the bouquet toss.

  “We will conclude the burial service with the Twenty-third Psalm,” Helen said. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want… .”

  As she recited the comforting words, another, secret burial in her hometown of St. Louis flashed through her mind. Helen couldn’t block out that awful scene. Death stared her in the face, reminding her of her own sins.

  Helen knew that obsession, greed and blazing hatred led to misery and untimely death, but she couldn’t tell anyone, not even Margery or Phil. An innocent person’s future depended on her silence.

  “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,” Helen read. “He leadeth me beside the still waters.”

  For seventeen years, Helen had been a well-paid executive on the corporate fast track. She’d lived in suburban St. Louis and thought she had a happy marriage. Her husband, Rob, was looking for work, but couldn’t find a job equal to his talents. Then she came home early from her office and caught Rob cavorting naked with their neighbor. Blinded by rage, Helen had smashed her husband’s beloved SUV to smithereens, then filed for divorce.

  “He restoreth my soul,” Helen read. “He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

  There was nothing right—or righteous—about the divorce judge’s decision. As Helen expected, he split the house between Helen and Rob, even though she’d bought it. But then the judge awarded half of Helen’s future income to the unfaithful louse. Helen had tossed her wedding ring into the turbulent Mississippi River and taken off in a crazy-mad journey around the country until her car died in Fort Lauderdale. She wound up living at the Coronado Tropic Apartments, with Margery as her landlady.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

  Helen found comfort in her friendships at the Coronado while she lived as a fugitive from the court and worked low-paying jobs to stay off the law’s radar. But Rob pursued her relentlessly, determined to get his money. She figured if her ex ever caught up with her, he wouldn’t be interested in her miserable income. She’d underestimated Rob’s greed.

  “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” Helen read. “Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

  When Rob sailed off with a wealthy widow, Helen thought he was gone from her life. But the widow threw Rob overboard with a million-dollar good-bye gift. Rob ran through that money and tracked Helen down at her sister Kathy’s house in St. Louis, where he de-manded the money the court had ordered her to pay. When Helen refused, Rob had grabbed her arm and twisted it. Helen’s ten-year-old nephew, Tommy Junior, saw Rob threatening his aunt and swung his ball bat so hard, the boy knocked out Rob. The dazed Rob had refused treatment, then died suddenly.

  Helen was grateful that Tommy had been sent to his room after he hit Uncle Rob. The boy had no idea he’d accidentally killed the man.

  Helen had wanted to go to the police and take the blame for Rob’s death, but Kathy refused. She feared Tommy would confess that he’d whacked Uncle Rob and the boy’s life would be blighted. Instead, Helen and Kathy had wrapped Rob’s body in plastic and buried him in the gravel for the foundation of the church basement. The next morning, concrete was poured over his unmarked grave.

  No one looked for the missing Rob, which Helen thought said a lot about her ex-husband. But someone had seen the secret burial. So far, this person had blackmailed Helen and Kathy for fifteen thousand dollars. Helen expected more demands for cash.

  She tried to live with the burden of Rob’s death. She tried to pretend the awful incident had never happened. She’d married Phil and they’d started Coronado Investigations. The two private eyes were paid to uncover other people’s secrets.

  Helen had to keep hers buried. She couldn’t share her guilty secret at the expense of her nephew’s future.

  She longed to tell Violet and Blossom the damage that hate and greed caused. But she couldn’t say a word. She could only pray that Rob’s body was never found.

  “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” Helen said. “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  “Amen,” chorused the mourners.

  “That was lovely,” Blossom said, patting Helen’s hand. Helen studied the widow’s pale face under the glamorous hat for signs of guilt. She saw only weariness, lightly touched with makeup. “You will come back to the house for the reception, won’t you?”

  “I have another appointment at three o’clock,” Helen said.

  “Then you’ll have a couple of hours,” Blossom said. “I’d like to ask you for a favor. Would you sort through Arthur’s things? I want to give them away.”

  “Today?” Helen said, struggling to hide her surprise.

  “As soon as possible,” Blossom said.

  “I know you must think it’s too soon. I’m not getting rid of Arthur’s things because I don’t love him. It’s because I loved him too much. They’re a constant, painful reminder of my loss. I’m hoping you’ll take them to a charity for me. Arthur has some lovely clothes. They won’t do any good sitting in his dressing room.”

  Helen couldn’t believe her good fortune: Blossom was letting her search Arthur’s personal possessions. She also didn’t believe the widow’s excuses. She couldn’t wait another day to get rid of her husband.

  “I’m sure you’ll find something useful,” Blossom said.

  “I certainly hope so,” Helen said.

  CHAPTER 11

  Was that a house or a hotel? The Zerling mansion was a monster even in a millionaires’ ghetto like Hendin Island. Helen hoped she was pulling into the right driveway. The wrong choice could land her in hot water. The rich regarded lost strangers as potential burglars and were quick to call the cops.

  Blossom’s directions had sounded simple. “Turn right onto Hendin Island Road,” she’d said. “There’s only one road on the island. We’re the fourth house on the left with the big ficus hedge.”

  But all the Hendin Island mansions had towering ficus hedges. Ficus never got that big in Helen’s hometown of St. Louis. In the Midwest, they were scrawny houseplants struggling to survive in uncaring offices and drafty apartments.

  Burly Florida ficus grew into impenetrable hedges that had to be trimmed with chain saws. The fourth house on the left had twelve-foot hedges cut into sharp angles. Helen counted the houses twice, then decided that one had to be the Zerling mansion.

  It was barely noon, but Helen felt like she’d spent an eternity with the Zerling women.

  After Arthur’s burial, the limo had driven Helen, Margery and Violet back to the funeral home parking lot.

  Once they were inside the limo again, Violet’s control snapped. She unleashed a bitter stream of invective against Blossom. “She didn’t even invite me to my father’s funeral reception,” she’d said. “Not that I’d go. I don’t want to be in the same room with that woman.”

  That’s when Margery lit up a Marlboro.

  “Please, Margery. Do you have to smoke that in here?” Violet asked.

  “Let’s make a deal,” Margery said. “We’ll agree that you hate Blossom and I’ll put out my cigarette.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and Violet sat slumped in silence. Helen sighed with relief when the limo stopped in the parking lot. She climbed into the Igloo and headed to Arthur Zerling’s funeral reception.

  The mansion wasn’t even marked with a house number. That was the only discreet thing about the frantic swarm of turrets, towers and arched colonnades, painted face-powder pink and topped with red barrel tile. It was Spanish mission style on steroids.

  The sumptuous black wreath on the dark, arched door was the only sign there was a funeral reception at the h
ome. Helen left the Igloo with the valet. A uniformed Hispanic maid opened the massive door before Helen could knock. She heard string music and subdued conversation drifting from the back of the house.

  She followed the maid’s bobbing white apron bow through dimly lit rooms and corridors to Arthur’s reception, grateful she had a guide. The Zerling home could have been a set for Sunset Boulevard. Rooms and corridors were crammed with mahogany chairs upholstered in dark fabric, faded dull brown tapestries and twisted candlesticks. Silk fringe, fat tassels and swags of braid clung to lampshades, cushions and couches. Bulbous gold frames gripped dark oil paintings.

  Thick Oriental carpets smothered Helen’s footsteps. Velvet curtains shut out the subtropical sun. The curtains were looped with ropes of braid and hung with tassels like golden fruit.

  Helen could not imagine herself relaxing on those braided, tasseled velvet sofas with a book and a glass of wine. She’d be searching the shadows for serial killers. She felt the weight of the home’s heavy fabric and dark furniture, as if money was a burden. She itched to open the windows and let in the light.

  When she turned the last corner, she was nearly blinded by the sunlight. The reception was in a stark glass annex that led to a pool the size of an inland sea. The funeral reception could have been an exclusive gallery showing. The crowd was subdued, mostly seventy and over, and spoke in murmurs. The harsh light revealed thinning hair, wrinkles and tight, face-lifted skin. She scanned the faces but saw no sign of Phil.

  Servers circulated with trays of champagne and mineral water. Hungry mourners lined up at cloth-draped tables along the east wall for a buffet. A chef cut thick bloody slices off a round of roast beef. Another carved a roast turkey and a pink ham. There were mounded platters of fruit, vegetables and shiny glazed pastries. A whole table was devoted to a tower of oysters, shrimp and lobster tails crowned by a silver bowl of caviar.

  The cloying scent of waxy white flowers overpowered the luscious food.

  A black-clad string quartet sawed delicately on their instruments. In an alcove, a slide show flashed on a tall screen. Helen paused to watch Arthur’s life unfold in photographs: first, as a curly-haired baby cradled in his mother’s arms. She gazed at her son as if he were a newborn god. Next as a sturdy toddler on a rocking horse, then a serious young scholar in a blazer and tie. The photos of Arthur’s school years ended with an exuberant college graduate throwing his mortarboard into the air.

  Helen thought young Arthur was movie-star handsome. He played tennis in a white polo shirt that displayed his tanned arms, stood on the deck of a yacht, his hair tousled by a sea breeze, and rode a brown stallion with a white blaze. He donned a business suit and gradually aged into a strong, snowy-haired man. Helen saw the photo Violet had shown her of the white-haired Arthur on the black horse. That was followed by Arthur and Blossom at their wedding. He wore a well-tailored navy jacket. Blossom was a sophisticated bride in strapless white satin clutching a huge white bouquet of roses and orchids. The new bride and groom kissed with the setting sun as a dramatic backdrop. The next photo showed the couple at home, lounging by the same pool sparkling outside the reception room. Blossom held Arthur’s hand and smiled into his eyes. Then the slide show started again with chubby baby Arthur held by his proud mother.

  Arthur’s life was bookended by adoring women. Helen noticed that photos of Violet and Honeysuckle Zerling were conspicuously absent. Blossom may have let Arthur sleep beside his first wife in the prepaid cemetery plot, but she wouldn’t acknowledge the woman and her daughter were part of Arthur’s life.

  “Helen!” Blossom called, and sailed over. The chic black hat was gone and the widow had freshened her lipstick. Her black suit accented her creamy skin.

  “Would you like a drink? How about some food?” Blossom asked.

  “No, thanks,” Helen said. “I have to leave for an appointment at three o’clock. Do you still want me to sort through Arthur’s belongings?”

  “You’d be doing me a huge favor,” Blossom said. “Let me take you to his dressing room.”

  She ducked through a service door near the alcove and said, “We’re going up the back stairs. Otherwise, people will keep stopping us to talk.”

  The gray-carpeted service stairs opened onto another long, gloomy corridor. Arthur and Blossom’s bedroom looked suitable for the procreation of a dynasty. The four-poster bed had columns like tree trunks. The floor was cushioned by a dark Oriental rug the size of a small country. Maroon curtains blocked the light. Everything was festooned with tassels, even the key to the mahogany secretary.

  Helen wondered if Blossom wore tasseled bras.

  “This really isn’t my style,” Blossom said. “I was planning to redecorate after Arthur and I settled in.” Her voice quavered. Then she steadied it and said, “Arthur’s dressing room is this way.”

  Helen followed her through a master bath the size of her Coronado apartment. The bathtub was encased in shining mahogany. Next to it was a marble Jacuzzi. The commode was tucked behind another door.

  Arthur’s dressing room was a man cave with dark wood, brass fittings and forest green walls. Neckties and suits were arranged on motorized carousels. Dress shirts were displayed by color on wooden hangers. Polo shirts were folded on shelves. Two shelves were devoted to cowboy hats, including a white Stetson with a crocodile band.

  Six shelves held well-shined shoes from wing tips to cowboy boots. Only Arthur’s deck shoes were comfortably scuffed and battered. Helen noticed a bronze statue on a chest of drawers—a beautifully rendered cowboy on a bucking horse. She checked the signature at the base and saw a name she recognized: St. Louis artist Charles Russell. That dressing room decoration was worth at least six figures.

  On another chest of drawers was a photo of the bridal Blossom with her white bouquet.

  “Arthur’s cuff links, watches and other jewelry are in these cases,” Blossom said, patting the tall chest under the Russell bronze.

  Helen opened the top drawer and saw four watches on velvet. From her years in retail, she guessed she was looking at more than a hundred thousand dollars in timepieces.

  “These are good quality,” Helen said. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep them or give them as mementos to Arthur’s friends?”

  “No, give them to charity,” Blossom said. “I would appreciate a receipt for taxes. Please take them away today.”

  Blossom paused, then said, “Arthur’s clothes and things could help people if they went to a charity. I’d like them put to good use. I know Arthur would, too.”

  “Any particular charity?” Helen asked.

  “No, I’m new to Lauderdale,” Blossom said. “You’re a minister. You must know some good ones.”

  Helen eyed the floor-to-ceiling rows and racks of clothes and shoes. “There’s a lot for me to carry,” she said.

  “I’ll send my man,” Blossom said. “He’s taking a break in the kitchen. I had him get packing boxes. He can carry them out for you. His name is Phil.”

  “Good,” Helen said. Phil and I can search this room together, she thought.

  “May I make a donation to your church?” Blossom asked.

  “No, thank you,” Helen said. “I’m happy to do this for Arthur.” And I’m already paid by his daughter, she thought. The ethics of this situation made her a bit queasy.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Blossom said. “I have to get back to my guests.” She held out her exquisitely manicured hand and shook Helen’s. “Thank you for your help,” she said. “I know you’ve had a long day. Please find a good home for Arthur’s clothes.”

  Blossom paused, then said, “I don’t want you to think I’m getting rid of Arthur.”

  Helen said nothing.

  Blossom kept talking. “Every time I walk by this room, I seem to see him. Not the smart, strong man I first met, but the dying Arthur. I don’t want to think of him that way. I don’t want to face what I lost one more day.”

  Face what you lost—or what you did
? Helen wondered.

  CHAPTER 12

  Helen could see Blossom’s dressing room on the other side of the bedroom. Arthur’s wife had barred the housekeeper from that room. Now Fran was fired and Arthur was dead and Blossom boldly left the door open.

  It was an invitation to snoop. That’s what Helen was, and she knew it: a paid snoop. A professional investigator. I really shouldn’t do this, she thought. I’ve just buried the owner of this house.

  Who may have been killed by his wife. Helen quickly tossed aside her few reservations, like a stripper’s flimsy costume. She stalked across the half acre of posh rug and stood in the doorway to Blossom’s dressing room.

  I could get caught, she told herself. But I don’t expect Blossom back soon. She has her duties at Arthur’s funeral reception.

  Helen slipped into Blossom’s dressing room. It was as organized as Arthur’s, but definitely feminine. Helen caught the scent of some light, spicy perfume. The walls were a flattering pale peach and the well-lit full-length mirror was slimming. The only art was a gold-framed photo of Blossom as a bride carrying that lush white bouquet.

  Helen would love to have these finely crafted shelves in pale, golden wood. She’d like to have the clothes and shoes to fill them.

  Well, some of the clothes. There seemed to be two Blossoms: the sedate wife that Helen knew and a sexy woman who wore daringly cut clothes in come-hither colors—red, sapphire blue and vibrant emerald green. Helen had never seen that side of Blossom, and she examined a carousel of gaudy evening dresses.

  Cocktail dresses and long gowns glittered with sequins, rhinestones and bugle beads. As the dresses whirled slowly around, Helen saw flirty ruffles and frisky feathers.

  Each dress was protected by a clear plastic zipped bag. They must look spectacular on Blossom’s well-toned figure. A red velvet number with a plunging front and back looked like the fabled “gownless evening strap” worn by a Hollywood starlet.