twenty-three million, plus interest. It’s more money that way. I could understand someone my age taking it in a lump, but he’s a young guy.”
“No, he did it right,” Peggy said. “All the experts say the figures work out in your favor if you take it in a lump sum and invest it. That’s how I’m going to do it when I win.”
She was serious, Helen thought. “Which lottery game do you play?” she asked.
“Lotto. It has the big jackpots.”
“How many tickets do you buy each week?” Helen said.
“Three a day. Twenty-one dollars a week.”
Helen whistled.
“That’s not much,” Peggy said. “There’s a guy who comes into the store and buys sixty dollars in tickets every week, and those are nothing but scratch-offs.”
“If you invested that money, you’d have something,” Margery said.
“If I win the lottery, I’ll really have something,” Peggy said. “Think about it. A guy right in Hallandale won twenty-three million. The good luck is getting closer. Look at the smile on that man’s face. That’s the same smile you’re going to see on mine.”
She passed Helen the paper. But Helen never got to the photo of the grinning winner. She was distracted by the headline on the opposite page: “Body of Unidentified Woman Found in Barrel in Biscayne Bay.”
The story began, “Miami Palms police are seeking information to identify the body of a woman found dead in a barrel in Biscayne Bay. The barrel was pulled from the water yesterday by . . .”
Helen could hear Peggy and Margery saying, “Helen, what’s wrong? Helen, are you OK?” but she couldn’t stop reading. The story continued:
“The woman was between thirty and forty years old, with shoulder-length blonde hair, and was wearing a black pants suit, a police spokesperson said. The deceased was described as being of slight build and about five foot three inches tall. Police said the woman is believed to have been dead about a week. The deceased died as the result of blunt trauma, sources said. Persons with information should contact . . .”
The page blurred. “Oh, my God, it’s Christina,” Helen said. “She’s dead. It’s right here in the paper.”
“Where?” Margery said, grabbing the paper. Helen pointed to the article with a shaky finger. Margery read it and said, “The dead woman was small, skinny, and blonde. That description would fit half the women in South Florida.”
But Helen was having trouble breathing. “No, it’s her. I know it. It’s horrible. She was beaten to death. That’s what ‘blunt trauma’ means. There’s a number to call. Margery, can I use your phone?”
“Sure, dear,” Margery said. The landlady put an arm around Helen’s waist and helped her to her apartment, as if Helen were an invalid. “Now, calm down. Don’t get so upset. If she’s really dead, it happened awhile ago, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Take some deep breaths. There. Feel better? You don’t know anything for sure yet. It still might be someone else. Lots of women wear black in South Florida.”
But Helen knew it was Christina. She sat down in Margery’s comforting purple recliner and had a sudden overpowering desire to fall asleep, but she knew she’d have no rest until she made that call. Her hands shook so badly, Margery had to dial the number for her.
The Miami Palms officer sounded more professional than the bored Sunnysea Beach policeman. Her name was Sweeney, she said.
Helen told Officer Sweeney about Christina not showing up for work. Sweeney asked many of the same questions as the Sunnysea missing persons officer. Helen had the same embarrassingly vague answers. How could she not know where Christina was going on vacation? she asked herself. Because Christina did not want to say. And I did not want to know.
“What was the subject wearing when you last saw her?” Sweeney asked.
“A black pantsuit with a long slinky jacket,” Helen said.
“Do you know the brand name?”
“Ferragamo,” Helen said. “I’m sure it was a Ferragamo. It was new.”
Officer Sweeney tried to keep her voice neutral, but Helen thought she heard a heightened interest. She asked Helen several questions about the suit’s details, down to the buttons.
“They were black with a gold center,” Helen said. “Very distinctive.”
“Would you be able to identify them?”
“Definitely,” Helen said.
Then Officer Sweeney asked if Christina had any distinguishing physical characteristics, “something that could help us with the identification.”
What made Christina different from any other underfed blonde in South Florida? Helen wondered.
“Well, she had her lips injected with collagen.”
“OK,” Sweeney said, and Helen knew that was no help. Everyone got their lips enlarged these days.
“And, wait, she just had some biopolymer injections in her face. The illegal ones. Something went wrong, and her right cheek is very swollen. It’s really big, about the size of a grapefruit half.”
“Um, that’s not going to help us in, uh, under the current circumstances,” Sweeney said, and Helen’s stomach lurched. She realized that elegant Christina was gone forever. Did the dead Christina know she looked like something in a horror movie now? How she would hate that. Was that part of her punishment? Good lord, I sound like my mother, Helen thought, and made herself listen to Sweeney again.
“. . . We’re trying to make an ID on the body,” she heard Sweeney say. “Would you know the name of her dentist?”
“I’m not sure she has one,” Helen said. “She told me once that she was afraid of dentists.”
“What about any surgical procedures? Any recent biopsies? Any blood she was stockpiling prior to a planned surgery?”
“She’s pretty healthy,” Helen said. “I don’t think she’s ever had any operations, except for breast implants. But I guess they don’t count. Everyone around here has those, right?”
“Actually, that’s very helpful,” Sweeney said. “Silicone implants have serial numbers.”
Then Helen blurted, “That’s awful! Her fake boobs are the only way to tell if it’s the real Christina.”
“I can’t believe I said that to the police,” Helen groaned.
“You were in shock,” Margery said. “Drink this hot tea.”
“What time is it?” Helen said. “I have to open the store.”
“It’s nine o’clock. Are you sure you’re well enough to go to work?” Margery said.
“Don’t fuss,” Helen said. “Work will do me good.” She stood up. She still felt wobbly, but she was OK.
“Peggy will drive you there,” Margery said. “And don’t argue.”
Helen did not. She was grateful for both women’s help. She hoped work would keep her mind off the horror of Christina’s death.
At Juliana’s, Helen opened a box of silk dresses, wrinkled and crammed too tightly into the box. She tried not to think of Christina, her battered body jammed into a barrel. Was she still alive when the barrel was dumped in the bay?
Helen called the florist and complained that the flowers looked funereal. “Send something cheerful,” she said. But the funeral Helen was thinking about was Christina’s. It would have to be closed casket. I’m burying her too soon. The police don’t know. It may not be Christina.
Everything reminded her of Christina. Helen knew Christina had done wicked things, but that’s not how she remembered her. Helen saw her sitting on the silk-satin loveseats, laughing with her regulars. She saw Christina finding the perfect dress for a desperate woman, convincing her it was designed to make a man as lovesick as she was. With Christina’s magic, it often did.
Helen saw Christina, slim and elegant, in her exquisite clothes. Then she saw her on an autopsy table, wearing a white sheet and a toe tag.
That’s when Helen picked up the phone and called Tara. She could not be alone at Juliana’s any more. Tara was eager to return to work.
“I’m sorry about Christina not coming back. I hope it’s not serious.”
“Nobody knows,” Helen said. She would not mention the newspaper article unless she had to. That would make it too real. “Do you know where Christina was going on vacation?”
