Murder Unleashed (11 page)

But Willoughby was listening. She leaned forward and said, “What choice do I have? Barkley has to be on the set in Miami Monday or the department store contract is canceled.”

“There’s a hurricane coming,” Helen said. “It’s supposed to be a bad one. When it hits, electricity and phone lines will be down, bridges will be out, roads will be flooded. Barkley’s shoot will be canceled. Things won’t get back to normal for weeks. No one will expect you to produce Barkley during a major hurricane. The papers will have other news to print besides a lost-dog story. You have some time to save the situation. Please let us find Barkley for you.”

Willoughby considered Helen’s words. She could almost hear the wheels turning in the blonde’s frilly brain. Finally she said, “You have one week.”

Helen nearly collapsed with relief. It was the first time she’d felt at ease since Willoughby screamed at her in the store. Helen wanted to sink into the sofa’s soft surface and snooze on the piles of pillows. Her plan would work if the weather cooperated. She was probably the only person in Broward County who hoped the hurricane would hit.

“Then we’ve got a deal,” Helen said. “But you’ll have to help me.”

“I’m not giving you any money,” Willoughby said in a hard, flat voice. Her hand shook slightly, and the ice clinked in her glass.

“I’m not asking for any,” Helen said. “I need you to answer some questions. Do you think anyone besides your husband could have kidnapped your dog?”

“No,” Willoughby said. “The police aren’t sure he did it, but I know it was Francis. He hates me. He’s never forgiven me for filing for divorce and getting temporary custody of Barkley.”

Willoughby didn’t mention that she’d also exiled her husband from the McMansion. Francis had lost everything—his wife, his income, and his home. Helen wondered how much rage was in that pale little nonentity with the restless hands.

“I thought Detective Brogers was going to talk to your husband.”

“He did, for all the good it did. Francis claimed someone impersonated him at your store. He says he never took Barkley.”

“Could the police get a search warrant for his home?”

“They didn’t need one,” Willoughby said. “Francis let the detective inside his condo to look for the dog. He made a big deal out of inviting him in to search. Brogers says he checked the entire place, including the closets and the storage room. There was no sign of a dog, not even any food or water bowls. But I know Francis has it. He’s hidden it somewhere. Francis is too smart to keep Barkley at his condo. Oh, there’s another thing. Francis has an alibi. He says he was at the mall when the dog was stolen.”

“Which mall?” Helen said. Florida had more malls than mosquitoes.

“Sawgrass Mills.”

“The outlet mall?” Helen said.

“The one with more than four hundred stores,” Willoughby said. “It’s supposed to be the biggest mall in Florida. It’s two miles long. They bring shoppers in on tour buses. You can buy mall tour tickets at the big hotels.”

Helen wondered if Willoughby had statistics on all the major malls. The woman was definitely a power shopper.

“I never shop there for my clothes, of course,” Willoughby said. “They would be at least a year out-of-date in an outlet mall.” She paused dramatically.

The awkward silence continued. Helen finally figured out that Willoughby was waiting for her to admire her outfit. “I can see your clothes are up-to-the-minute,” Helen said.

Willoughby smiled and took another sip of Evian. “Francis doesn’t care about fashion. He likes to roam around and look at things. He calls it people-watching.” Willoughby clearly could not understand her husband’s fascination with others. People were supposed to watch her.

“Francis knows that on a Saturday afternoon some fifty thousand shoppers can swarm into the Sawgrass stores. He showed Detective Brogers a dated and time-stamped receipt for a meal at the mall. He was supposedly eating a hamburger when Barkley was taken from your store. Except I don’t believe it. Who keeps a receipt like that? It was for cash, too. That’s how I knew it was a phony. Francis pays for everything with a credit card.”

“Did you tell the police?” Helen said.

“Yes. Francis explained that, too. He said he couldn’t afford to use his credit cards since I filed for divorce. I don’t believe that. I think he went through the mall trash cans until he found a receipt with the right time on it. It wouldn’t be difficult, not with thousands of shoppers eating there. Somebody would throw away a receipt he could use. There are more than thirty places to eat in that mall.”

Helen wondered if Francis was really that crafty, or if his soon-to-be ex was so blinded by hatred that she wanted Francis to be the kidnapper.

“Where did he eat?” Helen said.

“He didn’t,” Willoughby said. “He lied.”

Helen tried again. “At what restaurant did he claim he had the hamburger?”

“The Golden Calf.”

“Do the police think your dog was kidnapped for money?” Helen asked.

“I haven’t received a ransom demand. I would have been contacted by now. Who else would take it?”

“There are a lot of sick puppies out there,” Helen said. Why am I dogged with animal puns? she wondered.

Willoughby was too intent on blaming her husband to notice. “Francis took that dog,” she said. “He didn’t kidnap it for ransom. He’s doing this to spite me. He doesn’t need the money. We got a nice chunk of money up front when we signed exclusively with the Davis stores. He took his share and invested it.”

Willoughby blew her half on the house and the boat, while Francis saved his. The little bland man had brains.

“Francis has stashed that dog somewhere,” Willoughby said. “He’s going to keep Barkley until the Davis department stores contract is canceled and my dog’s career is ruined. I know how Francis thinks.”

“Where do you think he hid Barkley?”

“I have no idea,” Willoughby said, and drained her glass. “I just know he did.”

“Does he have family here in Florida?”

“No, his mother is his only relative, and she lives in Connecticut,” Willoughby said. “Mrs. Barclay wouldn’t steal my dog. She’s a lovely woman. She’s also eighty years old.”

“What about his friends?”

“Francis doesn’t have any,” Willoughby said.

Helen could believe that. “Lovers?” she said.

Willoughby looked uneasy. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

Ha, Helen thought. Your husband is a hound and you know it. But she’d been revolted by his touch. She suspected other women would feel the same way. Maybe he didn’t have a girlfriend. Why the careful wording? Was his ass-grabbing an act? Fort Lauderdale was the gayest city this side of San Francisco.

“Boyfriends?” Helen said.

That got a reaction. “Francis is not gay!”

The lady doth protest way too much, Helen thought, but she let the subject go. “Do you have Francis’s new address?”

“Why do you need it?” Willoughby sounded suspicious. Was she still afraid Helen would cross over to the enemy?

“In case I want to follow him for surveillance,” Helen said.

Willoughby liked that idea. She handed over the address.

“One last thing. Do you have a photograph of Francis?”

“Why?” Willoughby said. She still didn’t quite trust Helen.

“I’d like to ask around at the mall and see if anyone can identify him.”

Willoughby went to a cherry-wood secretary near the window. She opened a slim drawer and took out a silver-framed photo. It had been lying facedown. Helen saw it was a wedding photo of Willoughby and Francis. Willoughby was radiant in white lace and ribbons. Francis had no more expression than the plastic groom on a wedding cake. What had the beaming bride seen in him? Was it only money? Helen studied his blank face. It was the man who’d felt her up. She’d definitely given Barkley to Francis, but Helen didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

Willoughby slid the photo from the frame, then took a shiny pair of scissors from the same drawer. They had to be at least ten inches long. She cut the groom out of the picture with one swift, sharp stroke.

“Here,” she said. “Take this.”

W
aiting for a hurricane was like sitting on death row, Helen decided. She knew the lethal hour, but still hoped for a reprieve. Hurricanes were as unpredictable as governors, and subject to as many unseen pressures.

Maybe the monster storm would suddenly swing up to Palm Beach. (Dear God, please hit the rich for a change, instead of the poor mobile-home dwellers.) Maybe it would head even farther north to Orlando. (Smite Disney World, o Lord.) Or go south into the Keys. (They’re used to it.) Best of all, let it blow harmlessly out to sea. Please let it hit anywhere, anyplace, but my place.

That was the prayer for the hurricane-zone dwellers, and Helen recited it when she left Willoughby’s house.

Yes, she needed a hurricane to make her plan work. But now that she was getting a taste of the oncoming storm, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with it. The wind battered the palm trees and sent trash in swirling circles. Flying particles of sand stung her eyes. Street signs flapped and hummed, ready to pull loose and fly like Frisbees.

Helen felt restless and uneasy. She did not want to go home. Phil was still in Washington, and she couldn’t face her lonely apartment. It was only five o’clock. She had Francis’s picture stashed in her purse. Helen caught a bus to Sawgrass Mills Mall.

The bus ride took nearly an hour in vicious traffic. Cars scurried like scalded roaches through red lights, over yellow lines, into wrong lanes. Pickups flipped off anyone who was in their way. SUV drivers yelled into their cell phones and ran pedestrians out of the crosswalks.

Helen’s bus lurched past gas stations with angry, honking lines at the pumps. At one gas station, Helen saw a burly man take a swing at a guy who blocked his access. For once she was glad to be riding the bus.

At last she reached the sprawling Sawgrass Mills Mall. The bus let her off at the Pink Flamingo entrance. Each entrance was named after a different tropical animal—Pink Flamingo, White Seahorse, Yellow Toucan. As she approached the doors, recorded reminders said, “You are entering the Pink Flamingo entrance. . . .”

For Helen, the mall was a preview of hell, where she would forever long for what she could not have. Her shoes were resoled and her black Escada pants were shiny with age, but the mall’s designer styles, even heavily discounted, were too expensive for her. She was six feet tall and couldn’t wear the sensibly priced brands most women bought. They were too short for Helen’s extra-long arms and legs.

A sleek designer pantsuit with a long coat caught her eye in a shop window, and she stood there, wondering if maybe she could hold up a convenience store and buy it. She was almost grateful when a short woman shoved her out of the way. Helen tore her eyes from the displays and started searching for the Golden Calf, where Francis claimed he was eating when Barkley was stolen.

The stores were as frantic as on Christmas Eve. Nothing stopped the relentless shopping, not even the threat of a category-three hurricane. People had to buy before it all blew away.

The food court smelled deliciously of fried grease. Helen realized she was hungry. Not “I’d like some dinner” hungry, but “I could eat a side of beef” ravenous. Hurricanes did that. The energy bar she’d downed on the way to Willoughby’s house was long gone. Helen stopped at a chocolate shop for a big bar of Cadbury dark chocolate, then studied the mall map for the Golden Calf.

By the time she figured out where the restaurant was, the whole Cadbury bar had disappeared. Stress, she told herself. Helen bought two more bars for hurricane supplies. Desperate times called for desperate measures. She now carried a shopping bag, which would make her less obvious to store security when she questioned people.

The hike to the Golden Calf seemed to go on for miles. She was hungry again when she finally found the restaurant. The Golden Calf served twenty-dollar slabs of prime rib in dark-paneled booths. It was nearly empty at six thirty. Helen wondered if the storm kept customers away or if the Golden Calf was headed for the last roundup. She looked at the leather-bound menu. Francis hadn’t ordered a hamburger. He’d had a twelve-dollar chopped steak. She could afford a small salad and an à la cart baked potato. The rest of her assets were tied up in Cadbury’s stock.

The server had an expensive black uniform, a worn face, and tired hair. Her name tag said she was Eunice. When she poured Helen a glass of water, Eunice’s hands were red and calloused, with veins like tree roots. What did she do for her other job? Clean houses? Wash dishes? Work in a factory?

Helen was almost embarrassed to order, but Eunice said, “Can I bring you extra rolls and butter, no charge?”

Our kind recognize each other, Helen thought. She noticed that the Golden Calf’s tables were clean and the floor was vacuumed. There were no soda-straw wrappers or receipts on the floor. Maybe Francis really had eaten there.

When the server returned with her salad and potato, Helen pulled out the picture of Francis. “Have you seen this man in here recently?”

“What did he do?” Eunice said.

“Deadbeat dad,” Helen said. Well, it was true, sort of. Helen suspected that story would appeal to Eunice.

“I’d like to say I did, but he looks like a lot of guys,” Eunice said.

“He would have been here this weekend,” Helen said.

“I may have seen him, but I’m not sure it was this weekend,” Eunice said. “We get a lot of men in here on Saturday and Sunday while their wives are shopping. He looks familiar, but he doesn’t look like anyone in particular. Does that make sense?”

It made a lot of sense. Francis had the kind of face that was hard to get a fix on. There wasn’t any feature to catch the eye—no big nose or blue eyes or bulldog jaw. He wasn’t tall, bald, or hairy. He was average, with brown eyes, brown hair, and no scars. Life had left no marks on him, and he’d left no marks on it.