possible. She wondered if the U.S. courts would track her all the way to Canada.
Suddenly, the flood of customers dried up, leaving behind their wreckage: piles of abandoned clothes and accessories, tangles of hangers, carpets littered with tissue paper, straight pins, and extra buttons. Someone had smeared red lipstick on a white blouse. A shirt reeked of perfume.
Helen was wearily hanging everything up when the phone rang. It was Gilbert Roget, the store owner, calling from Canada. “Is Christina there?” he said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Roget. She’s busy with a customer. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes, could you ask her to check an International FedEx shipping bill?” he said. He gave her the number. “Some customer in Brazil is complaining about the high price of a shipment to his wife, Bianca. He called me. Could Christina look into it?”
“Of course,” Helen said. “I’ll make sure she takes care of it today.”
Especially since Christina caused the problem, Helen thought. She’s not leaving me to deal with that mess.
Christina was furious. She called Mr. Roget and told him it was a clerical error. But the wily businessman demanded to know who had prepared the FedEx package. Christina had to admit she had. She promised to refund the disputed portion to the unhappy Brazilian. Helen knew the money would have to come from Christina herself.
That’s probably why Christina did not even try to be conciliatory when Lauren’s lawyer husband called about his wife’s shoplifting bill.
“I think I was charged too much,” he said. “My wife didn’t bring home the blouse and the belt that are on the bill.”
“I can’t keep track of her purchases once she leaves the store,” Christina said. “Maybe she sold them.”
“Maybe I didn’t buy them,” he said.
“Look, buddy, just be glad I didn’t have her skinny ass thrown in jail,” Christina said, and slammed down the phone.
“Jesus! How much worse can this day get?” Christina asked, fleeing to the back room.
Her question was answered when the pill-popping Venetia came into the store. She was angry and jittery. Venetia demanded to see Christina immediately. Her shrill voice was like an ice pick in Helen’s ear. Tara ran back to get her, while Helen kept an eye on Venetia.
Helen could hardly stand to be near the woman. Venetia bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, picking at invisible lint on her Yves Saint Laurent. Pick. Pick. Pick. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Jitter. Pick. Bounce. The whites of Venetia’s eyes were bright yellow, the same color as the trim on her suit.
She’s definitely strung-out, Helen thought. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with her.
When Christina bustled up, Venetia threw the black beaded purse at her. Christina ducked, and it flew past her and skidded across the counter. Christina’s hat was knocked sideways.
The delicate little purse looked like it had been mauled by bears. The beading was torn, the silver clasp broken, and the pink silk lining shredded.
“It didn’t last,” Venetia said in her high voice, and Helen knew she was not talking about the silk lining.
“I’m sorry you’re not happy, but that is not my problem,” Christina said smoothly.
“Take it back,” Venetia said, her eyes wild, her voice nearly a shriek. “Take it back, and give me back my money. All my money. My husband is going through my accounts.”
“I cannot do that,” Christina said. “There are no returns on special items.”
“I want my money!” Venetia screamed.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to leave,” Christina said in a firm voice. Tara gasped, as if Christina had produced a flaming sword. She knew Venetia was being barred from Juliana’s forever.
“You’ll be sorry. You’ll be very sorry,” Venetia said, as the green door closed on her for the last time.
“Is this a full moon or what?” Christina said to Helen. “Crazy complaints must come in threes, like deaths.” She looked in the mirror, and straightened her hat to cover her swollen cheek. “Is it six o’clock yet?”
“No, but why don’t you leave early?” Helen said. “We’ll close up.”
“I’m outta here,” Christina said. “I’ll see you next Friday. You and Tara can hold the fort.”
Helen was glad to see Christina go. She watched her slim figure disappear down Las Olas, melting into the tropical twilight.
Chapter 10
Helen stripped off her blouse and switched on the TV. She wanted to catch the news while she dressed for her date with Cal. As she unzipped her skirt, she caught the words “carjacking of a twenty-three-year-old Plantation woman.”
Helen stared at the screen in horror as the announcer said, “Desiree Easlee, who lived in a gated community in suburban Plantation, was shot and killed this morning in an attempted carjacking.”
Desiree? Niki’s rival was dead? No, it couldn’t be. She wasn’t the only woman in Florida named Desiree. Helen’s skirt slid unnoticed to the floor.
“Miss Easlee was engaged to be married to T-shirt entrepreneur James “Jimmy the Shirt” Dellamondo. The wedding was supposed to take place in Belize next Saturday,” the announcer said, and Helen’s last hope was as dead as Desiree.
On the screen was a photo of a luscious-lipped blonde in a tight black dress with a zipper up the front. In the next shot, Desiree was in a loose-fitting black body bag with a zipper up the front. Desiree’s enormous breasts created a mountain in the body bag.
A dead photogenic bride made good television, and the station had put extra effort into reporting this story. The announcer said the security guard did not have any record of a strange car being admitted to the gated community, and the police had no leads.
No leads, Helen thought. She felt sick and dizzy and guilty. Her head throbbed and pounded with the refrain: Desiree was dead. Desiree was dead. And she did nothing to stop it. Now she had a face to put with her crime of cowardice. An innocent young woman was dead a week before her wedding.
I could give the police a lead. I could tell them who set this up. I know who arranged the murder of Desiree. And why.
On the television, someone was saying that gated communities gave a false sense of security to residents. The people who lived there did not take the same precautions as residents who lived on public streets. A neighbor complained to the TV reporter that the security guard was an old man who frequently slept while on duty.
Another woman, who identified herself as a doctor’s wife, defended the gated community. “We have the guard for prestige, not security,” the woman said.
Helen could not figure out why a dozing senior citizen was prestigious. But it wasn’t fair that the poor gate guard was going to be the scapegoat for this crime. Helen knew this wasn’t a carjacking gone wrong. It was a murder for hire. Helen had heard the whole thing being planned and done nothing.
But what could she have told the police? See, officer, there’s this woman named Desiree. I don’t know her last name or where she lives, but Niki wants her dead before she marries her boyfriend. Niki went to the manager of a dress shop to hire a hit man. At least I think that’s what was going on. I couldn’t hear them talking too clearly. And I never saw any money change hands.
Helen would have looked like a fool. But Desiree might still be alive.
Now Desiree was dead. Before her wedding to Jimmy the T-shirt baron, just like Niki wanted. Christina had arranged the murder, but there was no way Helen could prove it.
She had a date with Cal in five minutes. She’d have to cancel. But what could she say? This woman I never met was killed, Cal. I should have stopped it, although I don’t know how.
