Shop Till You Drop (31 page)

Anyone who hired illegal immigrants broke the employment laws, but few of Juliana’s customers wanted cabinet posts.

Joe was Christina’s source for those reliable scrubbing slaves. Helen would bet the rent that Christina collected a fee for finding maids for her customers. Joe probably got a kickback, too.

When they split, Christina wanted revenge, and she knew enough to get Joe in big trouble. Maybe Detective Dwight Hansel wasn’t so dumb after all, if he believed Joe had killed Christina. Helen had the motive right in her hand.

Helen dusted herself off, put away her twelve-button kid gloves, and called Sarah to crow about her discovery before she opened the store again. (Well, she didn’t say which fifteen minutes she’d be back, did she?)

She was lucky. Sarah was home and answering her phone.

“I’ve got something,” Helen said. “Something big. These have to be pictures of an illegal immigrant smuggling operation. And Joe’s involved.”

She described the photos.

“That’s what you say when you see the photos,” Sarah said. “Joe could say he was rescuing some poor strangers when their boat went aground. Does the photo indicate these are illegal immigrants?”

“No,” Helen said. “But it’s obvious.”

“Why? Because they’re not holding visas? You can’t even prove that boat photo was taken in Florida. It could have been the Bahamas or some other island.”

“What about those awful warehouse photos?” Helen said. “One shows the striped smokestacks. That’s definitely Fort Lauderdale.”

“Any date on those pictures?”

“No.” Helen could feel her triumph slipping away.

“I didn’t think so,” Sarah said. “Joe could say the photos were taken before he bought the warehouse. He’s not in those pictures, is he?”

“No,” Helen said. “I have absolutely nothing.”

“But you do. You have a place to start.”

“You don’t expect me to go to Joe’s office and confront him, do you?”

“Are you nuts?” Sarah said. “The cops think Joe did it, too. Stay away from that man. He’s dangerous.”

“But I can talk to Brittney,” Helen said. She remembered those long afternoons the women spent on the black loveseats, whispering their hatred for Joe, planning his downfall. “Brittney had no love for Joe. She helped plot revenge against him. I bet Brittney has the dirt on that maid business.”

“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.

“Something safe and smart for a change,” Helen said. “Brittney has the key to this. I have her address in our files. It’s time I paid her a visit.”

Fifty-five. Sixty. Sixty-five.

Helen felt around inside Chocolate, her stuffed bear, for more money. She pulled out a crumpled five dollar bill and two singles. Seventy-two dollars. That was all she had saved after the rent was paid.

The cab to Brittney’s house should cost about twenty dollars round-trip, but you never knew. Peggy would have driven her, but Helen didn’t want to drag Peggy into this. A bus was two bucks, but the next one wasn’t until eight p.m., and the last bus left Brittney’s neighborhood before ten. That might not give her enough time.

Helen put the seventy-two dollars in her purse, then walked to the Riverside Hotel on Las Olas and asked the doorman to call a cab. She gave him the two singles.

The cab driver had a heavy accent Helen could not place, but she understood one thing: he was rude. He listened to a radio station turned up loud. It sounded like French, but not quite. Haitian-Creole? He did not turn on the air conditioner. Helen amused herself by counting the acne scars on the back of his neck while the cab idled in traffic.

Brittney lived in Bridge Harbour, a high-priced neighborhood near the Seventeenth Street Bridge. It was an odd mix of architecture. The older houses were sprawling one-story places that knew how to hunker down in a hurricane. The new up-thrusting tract mansions were two- and three-story affairs, badly designed for high winds. The fake Spanish tiles would turn into Frisbees. The balconies, cupolas, and other gewgaws would sail off into the storm. The builders swore the tall windows were hurricane-proof, but that claim had not been tested yet.

Helen could not admire the view. New houses were popping up like zits at prom-time in Bridge Harbour. Magnificent mansions overlooked the aqua Porta-Potties of the construction site next door.

Brittney lived in a two-story white cube. It looked starkly expensive, like the offices of a top-notch plastic surgery group. Helen could see a swimming pool with a waterfall. A Hatteras cabin cruiser was tied up at the backyard dock. Parked in the driveway was a black Land Rover and a red Porsche. Brittney had a few bucks. Why was she dating aging mobsters? Or was that how she got her money?

Luxury cars were common as Hondas in this neighborhood. Helen wondered how the neighbors tolerated the old gray beater next door. Its rusted trunk was tied with twine. A tired woman in a white uniform heaved two bags onto the seat and drove off. The beat-up car must belong to a servant.

“This is the house. Stop here and wait, please,” Helen said, yelling at the driver above the Haitian radio station.

“You pay me up front now,” the driver said. He did not put the car in Park.

“I’ll pay, but you have to wait for me,” Helen said. She counted out the fare to the exact penny.

“You didn’t tip me,” the driver said, indignantly.

“I won’t, unless you wait,” she said.

Only then did he put the cab in Park. He was going to wait.

Brittney’s house looked bigger and more impersonal as Helen approached. The flower beds had spiky plants and bristly bushes growing in rocks. The bronze front doors belonged on a museum. The pet flap cut into the garage door looked too ordinary for this place.

A chunky brown-skinned woman in a snow-white uniform answered the door. Helen wondered if this was the wonderful wage slave, Maria.

“You wait here, please,” the woman said.

The inside of Brittney’s home was all white: white marble floor, white textured walls, angular white couches like ice floes next to ice shards of glass tables. White orchids were the only living things in this ice palace, and they looked made of wax.

The walls boasted a lesser Picasso. Helen thought the colors were drab.

The air conditioning was set so low, Helen was shivering by the time Brittney appeared. She walked languidly, as if she was drifting in a dream.

Brittney wore a white string bikini. Helen had flossed her teeth with more material. Brittney was almost nude and absolutely perfect. She was not cold in that getup. She was the princess who ruled this ice palace.

“Helen, from the shop. What brings you here today?” Brittney said. Her whispery voice was clear and cool, like a breeze from a cave. She did not offer Helen anything to drink or ask her to sit down.

“I wanted to ask about your maid,” Helen said.

“Do you need one?” Brittney said. Was there a hint of contempt? Helen couldn’t tell. As usual, Brittney showed no emotion.

“No, a customer does,” Helen lied. “Tara raves about your maid, Maria.”

“Christina made the arrangements,” Brittney said. “And Christina’s dead.”

“Do you know where she got the maids?”

“Why do you ask?” Brittney did not deny that she knew.

“Was it Joe? Was he part of an illegal immigrant operation?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Brittney said.

She did, Helen thought.

“I think he helps bring them in and keeps them at his warehouse.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Brittney said.

“I think you do,” Helen said. “The police believe Joe killed Christina. Don’t you care?”

“Of course I care,” Brittney said. But a look at the ice palace showed Brittney did not care for any living thing except herself. Helen tried to appeal to her self-interest.

“You and Christina were plotting against Joe,” Helen said.

“Why do you say that?” Brittney whispered.

“Because I heard you. If Joe found out about your plans, you may need protection. I could put you in touch with a homicide detective.”

“And get myself in trouble? No, thank you,” Brittney said.

“I’m sure you could get immunity for hiring an illegal alien.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Brittney said. “Telling the police about Joe will get me killed. Do you know the kind of people he deals with? They would put me in a barrel.”

“Who are they, Brittney? Tell me, if you’re afraid to tell the police.”

“They’re—”

But Brittney never finished. A big ball of white fur streaked into the room, then stopped at Helen’s feet. It was a cat with golden eyes, a cuddly gray-and-white body, and front feet the size of catchers’ mitts.

“Thumbs!” Helen said.

“Mrrrrr,” the cat said, rubbing against her legs.

“His name is Mittens,” Brittney said.

The maid came running in. “Sorry, missis, sorry. I know you say lock him in, but the cat he got out. He opens doors. He is very smart.”

“Don’t stand there jabbering, Maria,” Brittney said. “Get him out of here.”

Maria picked up the big cat. It struggled to get free, scratched her arm, and jumped down.

“Here, Thumbs,” Helen said. The cat tried to run to her, but Maria tackled the animal, this time successfully. She carried him into the depths of the house.

Helen had no doubts now. “That’s Thumbs. That’s Christina’s cat. The one the police can’t find. You killed Christina.”

“Killed her? That’s ridiculous. You are accusing me of murder because I have a cat?”

“A six-toed cat,” Helen said. “Just like Christina’s.”

“Polydactylism is not uncommon,” Brittney said.

“You wanted Christina’s cat. You tried to buy it from her. I was there.”

“You better watch what you’re saying,” Brittney said. Ice crystals seemed to form in that cold whisper. “I can slap you with a lawsuit.”

She was almost naked in her string bikini, but her nudity gave her a greater authority, as if clothes were for lesser mortals.

“If you’re going to accuse me of murder, you better prove it. Now get out before I call security and have them throw you out.”

Brittney did not deny killing Christina.

Only when she was back in the hot cab did Helen realize this. Only when she was watching the driver’s evergreen air freshener swinging from the rearview mirror did Helen understand.

Brittney never said “You’re crazy!” or “How dare you?” or “I didn’t kill her,” or anything else an innocent woman would say. Instead, she threatened to sue Helen and call security. She wanted to either shut Helen up or get her out of there.

By the time Helen understood this, the cab had peeled out of Brittney’s circular drive. Helen was so rattled, she wasn’t sure how she got out of that icehouse. She didn’t know who opened the massive front doors. Seeing the dead Christina’s cat was like seeing a ghost. She knew that was Thumbs. How could she forget those enormous feet?

Helen had accused Brittney of murder in her own home. Did she really believe that?

Yes. Why else would Brittney have that cat? Who would murder Christina and give the cat to Brittney? What killer would waste time corralling a cat and packing its litter box and food?

Brittney killed Christina. It was the only explanation that made sense. She wanted Christina dead. And she wanted the cat.

But
why
did Brittney kill Christina? Blackmail was the only answer. Except Helen couldn’t find the evidence. She had to have a reason. She also had to prove that was Christina’s six-toed cat.

While the cab driver blasted her with Haitian talk radio, Helen rehashed the unpleasant scene. She was disgusted with herself. She was such an amateur, blurting out an accusation of murder. But Brittney—or rather, Brittney’s cat—caught Helen by surprise.

Still, Helen wished she had not behaved so stupidly. Brittney had money, and that meant she had power. Helen, who used to have money, knew this. She was just a dress shop clerk with no money and no connections. She couldn’t accuse a woman like Brittney without good reason.