“Awwk!” Pete moved restlessly along Peggy’s shoulder. Disagreements made the little parrot uneasy. Peggy petted him with a finger until he settled down.
“Have a homemade screwdriver,” Margery said. “You need your vitamin C to think straight. I made the juice myself. That electric juicer was the only good thing to ever come out of 2C.”
Her landlady had helped herself to the contraption when she cornered a deadbeat renter with a .38. Now Helen heard the juicer’s buzz-saw whine daily, as Margery mangled oranges for screwdrivers. She poured the powerful brew into three glasses, then topped each one with a Key lime slice.
Helen took the tall, cool screwdriver and stretched her long frame on a chaise longue. It was a good idea to sit down if you had one of Margery’s drinks. By the time Helen finished it, she could be flat on her back.
“So what’s happening at that soap opera you call a job?” Margery said. “Any more tears, tantrums, or fist- fights?”
“Today was a five-star drama.” Helen filled them in on the undesirable Desiree. “Kiki, the mother of the bride, is a real piece of work. She has a chauffeur who has ‘other duties.’ ”
“You mean sex?” Peggy said.
“Awwk,” Pete said.
“Yep,” Helen said. “They practically did it on the sidewalk.”
“You sound like you disapprove,” Margery said.
“I do,” Helen said.
“I admire the woman,” Margery said. “She’s got life figured out. If I had the money, I’d have some young stud drive my car.”
“Margery!” Helen said.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked. It’s a drag having to please a man. I’d like to have one around for sex without having to worry about his feelings.”
“Sex when I wanted it,” Peggy said. “Instead of in the morning when he likes it.”
Helen wondered how Peggy’s romance with her policeman was going.
“A chauffeur is a man with no complications,” Margery said. “I’d never have to hear about his jealous kids or crazy ex-wife.”
“When I got tired of listening to him, I could say, ‘Shut up, Jeeves,’ and raise the glass window,” Peggy said.
Hmm. Not a good sign for the policeman, Helen decided.
“I could send him home when I got tired of him,” Margery said. “ ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Jeeves. And wash the car.’ All that, and he’d drive in the tourist traffic, too.”
“Now that’s a dream lover,” Peggy said.
“You guys are awful,” Helen said. But she was thinking of her own dream lover, Phil. Who ever thought the perfect man would live right next door?
Helen finished her screwdriver and looked at her watch. It was eight thirty. “I’d better go. I have work in the morning.”
“Are you seeing Phil tonight?” Margery said.
“Probably not. He’s tied up with that court case. The lawyers are keeping him late every night, going over his testimony.”
“That man did you a favor keeping you out of that mess, Helen,” Margery said. “I hope you’re grateful.”
“Oh, I am,” Helen said. “And I know how to show my gratitude.”
The cigarette cloud Margery snorted could have escaped from a smoke stack. “Spare me,” she said.
Helen stood up and felt woozy. Must be a vitamin C overdose from the screwdriver. She needed dinner and so did her cat, Thumbs.
When Helen unlocked her door, the big cat threw himself at her feet and tripped her. Helen pitched forward and grabbed the kitchen counter. “If I break my neck, you’ll starve,” Helen told him.
Thumbs was a gray-and-white tom with the biggest paws on any cat this side of a zoo. He was a polydactyl and had six toes on his front paws. He also had golden eyes and a rumbling purr when he was pleased. Right now, he wanted dinner.
She poured Thumbs a bowl of chow. She was fixing herself a hash-house dinner of fried eggs, potatoes, and onions when there was a knock on the door.
Helen opened it and smiled. It was Phil.
She was always a little startled by his striking good looks. With his white hair and lean body, Phil looked like a pirate—or a rock star. His crooked nose only made his face more interesting. Helen liked her men a little flawed.
He kissed her and sniffed the oniony air. “Grease! My favorite food group.”
“And the only thing I can make. Let me fry you a heart-stopping dinner.”
“Fine with me,” Phil said. “I sure don’t want to live forever. Not after the day I’ve had in court. Damn lawyers.”
Phil was a private investigator. A case he’d been working undercover got him mixed up with a federal agency, two murders, and Helen.
“Tell me about it,” she said and popped bread in the toaster.
“I’d rather forget about it until after dinner. Tell me about your day.”
“I saw Margery dancing by the pool with the handsomest older man. They looked so romantic, Phil. I hope I have a lover when I’m seventy-six and can dance with him by the pool.”
“I hope it will be me,” Phil said. He took her in his arms and kissed her until the fried eggs were two rubber coasters.
Helen felt his scratchy, end-of-the-day beard against her cheek and kissed the tender spot at the base of his throat. His shirt smelled of starch. He smelled of coffee and something spicy.
Phil kissed her again, and the onions and potatoes turned to cinders.
They didn’t notice.
“I will dance with you now, Helen,” he said, waltzing her around the living room. “But I will love you forever.”
Helen kissed him again and tried to forget the other man who’d made that promise. Suddenly the smoke alarm blared and the moment was lost.
Chapter 3
“I love this black strapless dress,” Kiki said. “But will it fit all eight bridesmaids? I mean, will it stay up on them?”
“Are their breasts real or man-made?” Millicent said.
Helen blinked.
“Man-made,” Kiki said. “All eight of them. Or should I say sixteen?”
“Good,” Millicent said. “Real breasts shift and sag. Fake ones are hard. You can hang anything on them.”
Eight college-age women, all with implants, Helen thought. Welcome to Florida, where the biggest boobs weren’t always in bras. Instead of Beemers, doting Sunshine State daddies bought their babies boob jobs on their sixteenth birthday.
At first, Helen was surprised that Kiki had picked a plain black bridesmaid dress. Outrageously expensive, it didn’t look like much on a hanger. But put that dress on, and it was magical. It transformed awkward young women into slim princesses. Desiree’s blond bridesmaids would seem regal when they walked down the aisle.
The bride would look like a frump, dragging a fortune in pearls and crystal.
Why could Kiki make everyone look beautiful but herself and her daughter?
In her too-young outfits, Kiki looked scrawny and hard, like a hooker dressed as a schoolgirl. Her daughter was a ragbag. Today, Desiree wore wrinkled sweat-pants the color of cold oatmeal. Her baggy gray T-shirt made her firm young chest seem saggy.
