She’d never felt better.
All the lights were out at the Coronado. She crunched her way across the parking lot. Something hissed at her in the dark.
A cat? A snake?
It was Margery. She was on her doorstep, her purple chenille robe tied crookedly, her red curlers askew. Her toenail polish looked like ten drops of blood.
“Where the hell have you been? Your cat was howling all night. I finally fed it to shut it up. Now the cops bring you home. What’s going on?”
“I’m in love.” Helen knew she had a big, sappy grin on her face. She didn’t care.
“Love? You look like you’ve been mauled by bears. Who is this goon?”
“Phil the invisible pothead.”
“Oh, my God. Let me put on some coffee. Go change out of those wet clothes. I’ll wake up Peggy.”
Helen floated back to her apartment, feet barely touching the concrete sidewalk. When she unlocked the front door, she was met by a ticked-off Thumbs. His big paws were planted firmly on the floor. His yellow eyes were angry. He punished her with the cat cold shoulder for about thirty seconds. Then he demanded an ear scratch. Helen scratched him contritely until he flopped on the floor and allowed her to rub his belly, the sign of feline forgiveness.
Helen showered, dried her hair and dressed for work.
Thirty minutes later, she was back at Margery’s.
Her landlady’s kitchen smelled of hot coffee and warm chocolate. Margery was heating chocolate croissants in her microwave. A sleepy Peggy, wearing jeans and an inside out T-shirt, was huddled over a fat mug of coffee.
“Where’s Pete?” Peggy always looked incomplete without her parrot.
“At home asleep,” Peggy said with a yawn.
“Where we all would be, if you weren’t blundering around, falling in canals and falling in love. Spill. Now, Margery commanded.
Helen did. She told them about the disk in the coffin, the fire in the mansion and Mindy’s death. She told them about the boat chase and how she saved Phil.
“Then he saved me. With a kiss,” Helen said. “Just like in the fairy tales.”
“He’s a real prince.” Margery’s sarcasm was like honeyed acid. Helen sat in silence, sipping coffee and waiting for their verdict.
“What do you think?” Margery asked Peggy, as if they were two doctors on a consultation.
They’re heart specialists, Helen thought, and nearly giggled. She was punch-drunk after the long night.
“This romance shows promise,” Peggy said. “But I should talk, considering my track record with men.”
“If Phil hurts her, I swear I’ll evict him.” Margery’s mouth went into a hard line and little cracks appeared around her lips.
“He won’t,” Helen said.
“How would you know?” Margery said.
“I don’t know. But I feel it,” Helen said.
Margery snorted like a Clydesdale. “What you ought to feel is tired. It’s time for you to go to bed.”
“It’s seven thirty,” Helen said. “It’s time for me to go to work.”
“You’re not going back to that boiler room,” Margery said.
“Try and stop me.” Helen took a final gulp of caffeine.
“Look, I really appreciate this. But I have to be there.”
She put her coffee mug in Margery’s sink, then stepped outside into the new morning. It was clear and clean. Helen’s fatigue disappeared. She felt hopeful for the first time in ages.
The boiler-room shift started like every other. The two bikers, Bob and Panhead Pete, clocked in, looking hungover.
Zelda was already at her desk, wrapped in her big sweater.
Taniqua was spray-cleaning the nicotine stink off her phone.
She looked like a modern version of those fifties commercials where housewives wore fancy dresses to clean floors.
Taniqua wore purple satin heels, purple pants cut way south of the border and a purple top that barely covered the subject.
The night shift had left a gutted sub sandwich on Helen’s desk. Cheese and chopped lettuce were piled on her phone.
“Haven’t those slobs ever heard of a trash can?” Helen said.
“No room.” Taniqua handed Helen the spray cleaner and waved at the overflowing cans.
At seven fifty-eight, Marina teetered in on black high heels, carrying a drowsy Ramon. He was drooling on her black spandex top, and clutching one of her black bra straps.
She spread a quilt underneath her desk. The little boy curled up at her feet and slept. His brown curls were heartbreaking.
No child should have to sleep on that filthy floor, Helen thought sadly. The overfilled trash cans were only a foot away.
The computers flipped on at eight oh-two and started dialing. With the calls came the rustle and crunch of sixty telemarketers staving off the nation’s abuse with junk food.
Helen checked her computer. It was dialing Maine. A staid state, she thought. Folks in Livermore Falls wouldn’t waste their breath cussing her out. They’d just hang up.
“Hi, Burt. This is Helen with Tank Titan Septic System Cleaner. We make a septic tank cleaner for your home system that is guaranteed to help reduce large chunks, odors and wet spots—”
“Get stuffed, bitch,” Burt said. So much for her theory about Maine.
At eight oh-six, federal agents burst into the boiler room.
Someone barked out an agency name, but Helen didn’t catch it. She was being cussed out by an irate homeowner in Skowhegan.
When the agents roared through the door, both bikers dove under their desks. The telemarketers were ordered to stay where they were.
Two agents had Vito on the floor with a gun to his head.
Vito seemed smaller, his egocentric energy gone, his round pink body deflated. Two more agents came out of the office with the elegant lizard, Mr. Cavarelli. His face twisted into a grimace when he was ordered to the floor.
“He don’t like putting that fancy suit on that raggedy-ass floor,” Taniqua said.
“Floor’s good enough for my little boy, it’s good enough for him,” Marina said. Ramon slept near the trash pile, oblivious.
“Shh,” Zelda said. “I’m trying to hear. The Feds are talking about money laundering. But I can’t tell if they said there were drugs or rugs here.”
“I see more police running up the stairs to Girdner Surveys,” Taniqua said. “They got the elevator and the exits covered. Penelope gonna shit when they break into her office.”
“I think Tank Titan is in the toilet,” Marina giggled. Helen had never seen her smile before. She realized the tired single mother was just a girl.
The computers were frantically dialing Connecticut and the Carolinas, but nobody was selling septic-tank cleaner.
“Hello? Hello!”
Helen jumped. The voice was coming from her abandoned phone receiver. Her response was automatic: “Hi, this is Helen with Tank Titan Septic System Cleaner.”
“You’re the septic-tank-cleaner people?” The woman was so old and frail, her voice sounded like tearing tissue paper.
It had the sweet, trusting quality that made her a prime boiler-room victim.
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said.
“I’m Mrs. Gertrude Carter. A nice young man from your company called here last week. My son hung up on
