on the private beach for a moment. Christina could not afford this ocean view even if she skimmed a thousand dollars a week from Juliana’s, Helen thought. If she was arranging murders for hire at three thousand each, she’d still have to wipe out half of Broward County. What else had Christina been up to?
Nothing good, Helen decided.
The magnificent marble front with its vigilant doorman was for show. The service entrance door was propped open with a brick. Two Hispanic men in khaki stood outside it, smoking. They nodded politely when Helen and Peggy walked past them into the back entrance. The decor was grimy cinderblocks and unpainted concrete.
“The bucks stop here,” Peggy said. “Want to take the service elevator to the penthouse?”
“Let’s go around to the front entrance and see if we can talk to a receptionist,” Helen said. “Maybe he’ll know when Christina is supposed to return.”
The doorman looked at Peggy’s flip-flops and cutoffs the same way he’d viewed her car. Fortunately, Helen was still wearing her Ungaro suit. He let the women approach the reception desk.
The lobby was slick with shiny polished marble. Helen felt like she was walking across a skating rink. The manager on duty was a pale blond creature in a black suit. Helen was not surprised that his name tag said Mr. White. He looked down his nose at her and said, “Miss Christina left no special instructions with us as to when she expected to return from her vacation.”
“She told me she’d be back at work today, and she didn’t show up. I’m concerned about her. So is the owner of Juliana’s, Mr. Roget.” Helen hoped dropping a rich man’s name would help her get taken seriously.
“I understand your concern, madam,” Mr. White said, “but I cannot open her door.”
“Can you let us go up and at least ring her doorbell? What if she’s sick and needs help?”
“Each One Ocean Palm Towers unit is equipped with a security system and has a panic button in every room, including the lavatories,” Mr. White said. “If Miss Christina needed personal aid, she would contact us. However, to set your mind at ease, I will go up with you and ring her doorbell.”
The elevator was paneled like a lawyer’s office. They rode to the twenty-second floor in silence. The doors opened on a dramatic view of the ocean, green and turquoise until it faded into the darker evening sky.
“Wow!” Helen and Peggy said together. Mr. White’s nostrils pinched in disapproval. People who went to the twenty-second floor were not supposed to be so easily impressed. They stopped in front of white-paneled double doors with a discreet brass plaque that read “2200.”
“Well, there are no newspapers piled up on her doorstep,” Helen said.
Mr. White looked scandalized. “We would not permit that,” he said. He solemnly pressed the doorbell, and they heard the chime echo through the apartment. But there were no footsteps.
“Ring it again,” Helen said. Mr. White did. Again, there was nothing but the sound of chimes. Then Helen thought of Thumbs, the cat Christina loved so fiercely.
“Do you know what happened to her cat?” she asked.
“I’m sure she made private arrangements for the care of her animal,” Mr. White said. “Now, if you’re quite finished.”
There was nothing they could do but take the elevator down to the vast marble lobby and walk back out to Peggy’s little car.
“I don’t like this,” Peggy said.
“Me either,” Helen said. “Christina has never missed a day of work in her life. If she isn’t there, then . . .” Helen stopped, afraid to go on.
“She’s dead?” Peggy finished.
“Well, something’s very wrong,” Helen said, unwilling to jump to that conclusion yet. “Mr. Roget said if I didn’t find her at home, I should file a missing person report.”
She reported Christina missing to a bored Sunnysea Beach cop. He told Helen that Christina was an adult and could come and go as she pleased. The police could not do anything until Christina had been missing at least forty- eight hours.
“But she was due back today, and she missed work,” Helen said.
“Was she known to be depressed?” the officer asked.
“No, Christina was looking forward to her vacation.”
“Was she in the process of a messy divorce, or did she have arguments with her spouse?”
“She was single,” Helen said. “I thought I said that. Her boyfriend just broke up with her, but he didn’t threaten her or anything.”
“He have any history of prior physical assaults?”
“Joe? No!”
“Has the subject ever extended a vacation before?”
“No,” Helen said.
The cop droned on. “Did she make her return flight? Did she, for that matter, make her flight out?”
“I don’t know if she was flying anywhere,” Helen said.
“Where was she going on her vacation?”
“I don’t know,” Helen said, feeling foolish. “All I know is that Christina was eager to leave.”
“Then maybe, ma’am, she wasn’t eager to come back.”
Chapter 17
Another restless, sleepless night. Helen’s lumpy bed seemed to be stuffed with cabbages and bowling balls. Any attempt to find a more comfortable position set off a series of lonely squeaks.
At seven a.m., Helen gave up and got up. She told herself she was getting up an hour early because she wanted breakfast by the pool. But she knew what she really wanted: to see Daniel in his dashing blue uniform.
Helen felt guilty thinking about Daniel Dayson. Christina was missing, maybe dead, and she was carrying on a school-girl crush. But I can’t spend all my time worrying about Christina, she told herself.
A disapproving inner voice lectured her: “Didn’t Rob and Cal teach you anything? You know you have terrible taste in men.”
But Cal was a harmless mistake, the kind a woman made when she jumped back into the dating pool. She didn’t sleep with him or anything. She lost a little money, that’s all. And Rob? The pain of Rob’s betrayal seemed to be receding in the February sunshine. It was winter in St. Louis, and it was easy for her heart to stay frozen there. But South Florida was so lush and romantic and most of all, warm, that things seemed possible.
Helen dressed carefully, spending extra time on her hair and makeup. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee. It was quarter to eight when she went outside. Margery and Peggy were at the picnic table under the coconut palms.
“You look nice this morning,” Peggy said, looking up from her paper.
“He’s already left for work,” Margery said. Helen flushed. How did her landlady know?
“Daniel is always gone by seven-thirty,” Margery said. Her shorts set was covered with purple butterflies. Margery pointed to a white bakery box and a stack of paper napkins on the picnic table. “Want a chocolate croissant?”
Helen did. Peggy took another.
Peggy was dressed for her receptionist’s job in a parrot-green pantsuit. She looked like an exotic bird or Pete’s big sister. The wild parrots were screeching in the palms overhead, taunting Pete. He ignored them. Pete had no interest in his kind, just as Peggy had no interest in the male species. They were content with each other.
Peggy pointed to her morning paper. “A guy in Hallandale won the lottery,” she said. “Twenty-three million dollars. He’s thirty years old, and he’ll never have to work again. He’s going to take the whole thing in a lump sum, so he’ll get about half, something like twelve million.”
“Why would he do that?” Margery said. “Why not take the payout over thirty years? He’ll get the whole
