director wife, Patricia Wellneck, and the boiler-room bosses Vito, Penelope and Carlo Xavier Cavarelli, were indicted by a federal grand jury for Medicare fraud, money laundering and conspiracy to commit wire fraud. All those coast- to-coast calls were interstate wire communications. They were each sentenced to twenty years.
The burned-out Mowbry mansion was leveled and the property sold to pay Dr. Mowbry’s legal bills. A sixtysomething Dallas car dealer bought the land. He plans to build a newer, bigger mansion on the site. It will have three swimming pools, including one with a swim-up bar for his twenty-year-old trophy wife.
But that was in the future...
“I start my new job on Monday,” Helen said.
“Isn’t it a little soon to go back to work? The boiler room has only been closed three days.” Margery was in her yard, whacking off dead palm fronds with a long-handled cutter.
A branch hit the sidewalk, and Helen backed away.
“What are you getting yourself into this time?” Margery said. “I’m not sure I can take much more excitement at my age. Please tell me it’s not another dirty boiler-room operation.”
“Absolutely not,” Helen said. “I’ll be surrounded by chiffon and flowers. I’ll be with the richest people in Lauderdale on the happiest day of their lives.”
“You’re working at a funeral home with the loved one’s heirs.”
“Wrong. I’m working at an exclusive bridal shop. We’re talking ten-thousand-dollar dresses.”
“Well, that’s a relief. How much trouble can you get into zipping women into wedding gowns? Maybe you can get a good deal on a dress for yourself.”
“Not with my luck with men,” Helen said. “The only aisle I’ll walk down is at the supermarket. I think I’ll go sit by the pool.”
Margery attacked the palm with renewed fury, cutting off its coconuts. “Men!” she muttered, as she de- nutted the palm.
Helen hadn’t heard from Phil since the night she’d rescued him. He’d kissed her good-bye and vanished. She sat by the pool in the noonday sun and pretended to page through the paper. She was really watching Phil’s door.
Margery said nothing, but Helen could hear her thinking, “I told you so.”
She’d been stupid again. She knew it. Phil was another handsome jerk. He was never coming back.
She was dozing in the chaise longue when Margery woke her up. “Why don’t you take a nap inside?” she said. “You’re going to get sunburned. I’ll bring you some food later.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” Helen stood up stiffly. Her scorched back and whip-slashed chest and neck still hurt.
She went inside, spread aloe vera lotion on her burns, and fell asleep on her bed with her arm around her cat.
She was awakened two hours later by a knock on her door.
Margery, Helen thought. She was such a mother hen, fussing over Helen and bringing sandwiches, chocolate and wine.
“I’m fine.” Helen opened the door. “I don’t need any—Phil!”
He was standing on her doorstep, impossibly tanned and handsome. His pony-tailed hair was silver-white. His broken nose went off in an interesting direction.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said. “I’m about finished here.
I’ll have to go back to Washington. But I thought I’d take a few days to kick back and see Fort Lauderdale. Want to go with me?”
Helen studied the soft hollow at his throat. It looked vulnerable. She remembered his hands when they pulled her out of the fire last year. They were strong.
“I’d love it. I can show you places the tourists never see, Helen said.
“Where?”
“Right here.” She opened the door to her apartment.
“How do you feel about cheap champagne for breakfast?”
