Authors: Elaine Viets
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Helen managed.
“I wanted to give you the news before it got out,” Marcella said. “I see I’m too late. Would you join me for lunch?”
“I’m not hungry,” Helen said.
“Then meet me for a drink.”
Helen thought of the Black Widow’s spinning champagne goblets and her stomach twisted. She’d hoped she would never have to meet with Marcella again. She’d also hoped Rob would disappear, but that wasn’t going to happen. If Helen wanted to know what was going on with her ex, she’d have to swallow her pride and her disappointment. Also Marcella’s bottled water.
“I can get away for half an hour at one o’clock,” Helen said. “But I thought you were getting married to night. Don’t you have things to do?”
“Bruce takes care of that,” Marcella said.
Helen wondered why Marcella didn’t marry Bruce, the one man who seemed faithful to her. It wasn’t a question she could ask.
Helen spent the rest of the morning writing guest passes and dealing with club members.
At one p.m., Helen clocked out and walked up the path to the yacht club. On the way over, Helen decided she’d pretend she didn’t know the marriage to Rob supposedly never took place. A florist van was parked by the docks, and two men were carry ing vases of opulent white orchids up the ramp to the
Brandy Alexander
.
Bruce met her on the yacht. His bald dome seemed polished and his white uniform was extra crisp. Once again, he took Helen to the back deck. A striped sunshade flapped in the afternoon breeze. A glass of water with a lemon slice was waiting beside an empty chair. Marcella was drinking white wine. Helen wondered if she saved the heavy drinking for her manless nights.
Marcella wore a black pantsuit and blood-red lipstick—a Black Widow indeed. She looked ageless. It was not a good look. She did not belong to any time or place. Marcella was a lost soul.
“Congratulations,” Helen said. “I’ve worked with Michael at the club. I’m impressed.”
Marcella shrugged. She didn’t care what Helen thought.
“You’ve known Margery since you were young secretaries, right?”
“Yes,” Marcella said.
“Why do you stay friends with her? You’re rich and she’s—”
“Still my best friend,” Marcella interrupted. “Do you know how broke I used to be? I lived on tomato soup and canned tuna. Margery let me borrow her black Victor Costa cocktail dress that I wore on my first date. She also paid for my beauty salon appointment. That snagged me my first husband—and a fortune. Margery’s never asked me for anything, and I know she’s been through some hard times. She’s the only person I can count on to tell me the truth. Yes, I can buy and sell her, but Margery doesn’t give a damn. She’s her own woman.”
Helen thought it was sad that Marcella didn’t trust any of the men in her life. Bruce was a servant and her many husbands were dead, except for Rob, the thief and liar. Helen didn’t envy Marcella her money.
It bought her a lonely life.
“How did you get a divorce so fast?” Helen said. “It took me way too long to get rid of Rob.”
“I didn’t need one,” Marcella said. “There was no marriage.”
“Marcella, you can tell that to your new husband. But I saw you and Rob on your wedding day on this boat.”
“You saw us in white suits with a lot of flowers. Did you see us getting married?”
“No.”
“Did you see any documentation?” Marcella said.
“There was a marriage,” Helen said. “I can’t prove it, but I know it.
I’m going to sketch out a scenario. You can nod yes or no. You owe me that much after what I did.
“I’m guessing the minister who married you and Rob has been paid to forget the ceremony. Either he didn’t file the paperwork properly, or some money changed hands with a clerk or two and it vanished. Computers make it easy to lose rec ords, especially in Florida. I suspect your wedding was conducted by someone who was a bit borderline in the first place—not affiliated with any established church. Possibly even a mail-order minister. You or your attorney, or whoever chose the minister, deliberately built a trapdoor in the marriage from the beginning, in case you wanted to bail out.
“I’m thinking the witnesses won’t be a problem. They probably came from some cruise ship or hotel and they’re long gone. And with no paperwork, there’s no way to track down their names.”
Helen watched Marcella. She thought she saw a nod. Or maybe the boat just rocked a little.
“The minister—I’m going to guess he’s no longer in Fort Lauderdale. He’s suddenly come into enough money to realize his dream and open a wedding chapel in Reno.”
“Las Vegas,” Marcella said. “We’re honeymooning in Las Vegas.”
“Going to be hard to take the boat there,” Helen said.
“We’ll fly,” Marcella said. “The sea doesn’t always have happy associations for me.”
“Why aren’t you a widow?” Helen asked.
“Widowhood was getting tiresome,” Marcella said. “And Rob was seen in Palm Beach County. He nearly destroyed that jewelry shop.”
“Oh,” Helen said. “I forgot about that.”
Marcella was too smart to let herself be blackmailed by that greedy little store own er. Simpler to pay off a slightly sleazy minister and a couple of clerks. They’d have more to lose if word got out.
“If Rob’s body didn’t show up for some reason, it would take ages to get him declared dead. I wanted to marry again. I gave Rob some money to go away.”
“Where?”
“I didn’t ask,” Marcella said. “He signed all the papers my lawyer needed and took off as soon as the check cleared.”
“How much did he get?” Helen said.
“Only a million.” She waved her hand as if the money was unimportant. “My jewelry was returned. Rob agreed to clear out and not contest anything.”
“You rewarded his treachery with a million dollars?” Helen could not believe how her ex skated through every disaster.
“It won’t be a reward,” Marcella said. “He went for a cruise with me and got a little taste of what will happen if he doesn’t keep his agreement. He promised never to come near me again. Besides, a million isn’t much. Not after what he’s used to. He’ll go through the money in no time and be even more desperate.”
“Then he’ll come after me,” Helen said. “He can do that. If you and Rob were never married, then he’ll try to collect the money the court says I owed him. I thought I was rid of him when he met you. Now I’m back where I started.”
“That’s your problem,” Marcella said. “You had two chances to kill him.”
CHAPTER 30
“This isn’t a good picture of me,” Jake Dourwich said.
This was the fourth time Jake nixed his club card photo.
The man was worse than an aging Hollywood actor. Helen was stuck in the hot little photo booth, snapping photos he refused to approve.
“It looks just like you, Jakie,” cooed his wife, Tiffany.
It did. That made it one scary photo. Jake Dourwich looked like a snake with a suntan.
“It sucks. I don’t like my eyes,” Jake said.
Helen didn’t, either. Jake’s eyes were flat, black and merciless. A predator’s eyes, watching a yummy little bunny. Helen could take fifty photos of Jake, but nothing would make his eyes look human.
“Take another,” Jake ordered Helen.
“I want to go to lunch,” whined his wife. Tiffany was a skinny blonde whose tiny white halter dress showed off enormous boobs and a little potbelly. Tiffany was pouting, unless her lips had overdosed on collagen.
“Shut up,” Jake said.
“You shut up,” Tiffany said.
Their daughter, a sweet chubby child with newly budded breasts, slipped behind a file cabinet, trying to make herself disappear. Helen felt sorry for the girl. She deserved better parents.
Helen pressed the button for the fifth photo while Jake hissed insults at his wife. Then she showed him the latest picture on the computer monitor.
“This sucks, too,” Jake said. “What’s wrong with you? These photos are shit.”
I only photograph what’s standing there, Helen wanted to say. But she remembered her enormous credit card bill and even bigger car repair bills. “The lighting seems to cast some shadows, sir,” she lied tactfully. “I can’t adjust it. Maybe if you wore your sunglasses.”
“Yeah, Jakie,” his wife said. “Wear your Gucci glasses.”
Jake slipped on his shades with the gold logo. Now he looked like a drug dealer, but at least that was halfway human. Helen pressed the button again, and the new photo appeared on the computer screen.
Jake looked better with those scary eyes covered.
“I like it,” Jake said, and gave Helen a thumbs-up.
Helen ushered Jake and his family out of the customer care office with their new member cards. She returned to find Xaviera arguing with a man who looked like sculpted lard.
“Whaddya mean, I blew six hundred bucks at the bar? I didn’t drink that much.” Mr. Lard loomed over Xaviera, his face red and greasy with rage. His thick New York accent made his words more threatening.
Xaviera didn’t back away. “These receipts have your signature, sir.”
She handed him a fat file.
He flipped through the receipts, then slammed them on the desk and snarled, “Why don’t you speak American? I’m sick of you people.”
Helen had seen this reaction before. When faced with an ugly truth, the club members insulted the messenger.
“Why don’t you?” Xaviera said. “Your accent is worse than mine.”
The man grabbed the receipts and stomped out.
“That son of a pig,” Xaviera said, when he slammed the door.
“Please,” Jessica said. “That’s unfair. Pigs are intelligent.”
Xaviera and Jessica burst into giggles. Helen tried to laugh along with them, but she was losing her sense of humor. She didn’t like the club members—and she didn’t like herself.
Helen had spent part of last night cursing her luck. Her ex had married a serial husband killer and slithered away with his life and a million dollars. She spent the rest of the night wondering what kind of woman she was: She’d wanted her ex-husband murdered.
A woman with plenty of company, she decided. Many women wanted their ex-husbands six feet under. But none came as close as I did.
At least the
Brandy Alexander
was gone. The Black Widow’s white yacht no longer haunted her. It had sailed after the sunset wedding last eve ning. Helen had no idea if Marcella was really going to Vegas with her new husband. All she knew was the view out her office window was once again a postcard with pretty palm trees and blue water.
The view inside had improved, too. Brenda’s office was finally opened, repainted and redecorated. The blood-soaked carpet and desk had been replaced. But no one staked a claim on Brenda’s empty room, even though it was prime private space. Cam walked past the door holding his bottle of hand sanitizer like a cross before a vampire.
Jackie’s desk was still empty. One drawer stuck out like an accusing finger. No matter how many times Helen closed it, she’d find it open again.
It was a little after eleven o’clock when Xaviera’s phone rang. Helen could tell by the way she covered the receiver that Xaviera was talking to her blond boyfriend, Steven. Suddenly, she stood up and shrieked.
“It’s either a proposal of marriage or major news,” Jessica said.
“I have major news,” Xaviera shouted.
“Are you OK?” Kitty, their little brunette boss, came running out of her office, looking worried.
Solange, her red hair artfully tangled, stood in her doorway. She was dressed in a casually expensive green linen pantsuit. “What is that noise, girls? I expect professional behavior in this office.”
“They found Jackie,” Xaviera said.
“When?” Solange asked, her lecture on professionalism abandoned.
“Yesterday,” Xaviera said.
“Where?” Jessica asked.
“Working in the café at the Down and Dirty Discount store in Ocala.”
“Yuck,” Helen said. “I won’t shop at Down and Dirty. There’s one chain that lives up to its name.”
“Makes Wal-Mart look like Nieman Marcus,” Jessica said.
“My boyfriend, Steven, says Jackie was in bad shape. She’d lost weight and stank like old hot dogs and greasy popcorn. She had blisters on her hands from the fry cooker.”
“Elegant Jackie was covered with grease?” Helen almost forgave the woman.
“Steven said she gave up when the officers came to her counter.
‘Take me to prison,’ she said. ‘It can’t be any worse than this.’ ”
“She’s got that right,” Helen said. She knew from personal experience that a bad job was a prison sentence. She’d worked as a telemarketer, selling septic tank cleaner. Six weeks into that job, Helen understood why companies hired prisoners for telephone work. If she went to hell, she’d be a telemarketer.
“What a sad end for a woman who used to be a social leader at this club,” Kitty said. Her brown eyes were brimming with tears. “I liked Jackie. I’m sorry she’s come to this.”
“Why are the police keeping it quiet?” Cam said. “You’d think Golden Palms would tell the world they caught a double killer.”
“Right,” Jessica said. “They really want the networks camping out in the city, asking some of the richest people in Florida rude questions.”
“And branding Golden Palms as the home of a double murderer,” Xaviera said. “Jackie had a Golden Palms address. She used to belong to this club and she killed a member. What’s that going to do to property values?”
“It’s best we keep that information quiet,” Solange said. “Back to work, people. We’ve wasted enough time gossiping.” She shooed them back to their desks.
Despite Solange’s command, the staff did little work. FedEx packages didn’t go out. Member requests were ignored. Ringing phones went unanswered, except for Xaviera’s. Her Steven supplied hourly updates.
At noon, Xaviera reported, “Jackie has a public defender.”
“She’s screwed,” Cam said. “She’s probably got some kid fresh out of college.”
“No,” Xaviera said. “There was some kind of conflict with the PD’s office and her ex-husband. She’s getting an attorney from a top private firm as her public defender.”
“Good,” Helen said, then wondered why she was rooting for the woman who’d tried to kill her.