She took a deep breath, then went through the paper once more, slowly this time. She saw the small headline on page 13A: “Police ID Biscayne Bay Body.”
The story began, “The body found in Biscayne Bay Friday has been identified as Christina Smithson, 39, manager of Juliana’s dress shop, a longtime retail fixture on Las Olas, police sources said.”
The article repeated the awful details but added one thing new. “The murder is believed to have taken place at Ms. Smithson’s luxury condo in Sunnysea Beach.”
So that’s where she died, Helen thought. At home, in a building with a burly doorman and a security system.
She read on. “Sunnysea Beach homicide detectives are conducting the investigation with the assistance of Miami Palms police.” That meant Crockett and Tubbs were no longer running the investigation.
“The Downtowner Merchants Association has announced a $25,000 reward for anyone who has information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons who killed Ms. Smithson. Anyone with information is requested to contact Sunnysea Homicide Det. Sgt. Dwight Hansel at 954-555-1252.”
Helen’s name was nowhere in the story. She nearly cried with relief. She was safe. The TV stations did not have any video of the barrel being pulled from Biscayne Bay, so they weren’t interested in Christina’s story.
Christina’s murder would not be a big story. Helen’s name would not be in the newspaper. The court and her ex Rob would not find her. She would not have to go home to St. Louis. Helen felt relieved and guilty at the same time. Christina had been buried twice, once in Arkadelphia and now in the newspaper.
The twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward was a sad commentary, Helen thought. The local merchants association cared more about Christina than her own sister did. Lorraine was giving her nothing, not even a Florida memorial service.
When Helen realized how many people read that little news story, she was even more relieved her name was not in it. At Juliana’s, the phone rang nonstop that Tuesday. Christina’s faithful customers wanted to talk about her terrible death. Some were sobbing. Some wanted to know about funeral arrangements. Others wanted to make sure that Juliana’s was staying open.
“Yes. The owner, Mr. Roget, said Christina would want it that way,” Helen said.
“Thank God. I have a party Saturday night,” said the tongue-pierced Tiffany, who had finally lost her lisp. “I need a new dress. It’s a matter of life and death.” But not Christina’s life—or her death, Helen thought.
She’d barely hung up when the phone rang again.
“Helen, are you OK?” It was Sarah, the woman judged too fat for Juliana’s. “I saw the article in the newspaper. The one about Christina. I’m so sorry. You must be worn to a frazzle. Let me take you to lunch today. Can you get away for half an hour? I’m working downtown.”
Helen and Sarah ordered chicken crepes at an outdoor restaurant on Las Olas. The bright flowers, green plants, and pretty wrought iron offered a soothing, sheltered spot to discuss Christina’s murder.
“Do the police know Christina was skimming money and selling drugs?” Sarah asked, mopping up bechamel sauce with a forkful of crepe.
“I didn’t say anything to them,” Helen told her.
“Why not?”
“Because it was worse than I told you,” Helen said. “I think she also arranged a murder for hire.”
Sarah’s crepe landed with a splat on her silk jacket and skidded down her suit. The alert waitress brought Sarah a glass of club soda, and she scrubbed at the stain with her napkin.
When Sarah could talk seriously again, she lowered her voice. “Christina arranged a murder? You heard this and did nothing?”
Helen felt another stab of guilt. “I didn’t think I could go to the police. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know the woman’s name or where she lived. I had no proof, just what I’d overheard, and I didn’t even hear the whole conversation. I could have been wrong.”
“But you weren’t,” Sarah said. Helen abandoned her crepe. She’d lost her appetite.
“Helen, you’ve got to go to the police.”
“I don’t want my name in the paper,” Helen said.
“The best way to get your name in the paper is if the police find out you’ve been holding back information. You’ll look guilty. Come forward now, and you still look like a concerned citizen.”
“But what if the police never find out what Christina was doing?”
“Did those detectives look stupid?”
“No. They were very smart.”
“Then they’ll find out. Besides, it’s the right thing to do.”
Something in that corny phrase appealed to Helen’s Midwestern morality. Maybe it was because Sarah looked so earnest, so honest, she made Helen want to believe in truth, justice, and the American way.
“You’re right,” Helen said. “I’ll do it. I’ll call the Miami Palms police.”
“The paper says the investigation is being handled in Sunnysea. That’s the scene of the murder.”
“Then I’ll call Sunnysea when I get back.”
“Good. And as your reward for being a solid citizen, we’ll go out for margaritas after work. Let’s go some place close. Maybe Himmarshee Village. I’ll come by about six.”
The relief was exhilarating. Helen felt as if a backpack full of rocks had been lifted from her shoulders. As soon as she returned to Juliana’s, she called the name she saw in the paper, Detective Sergeant Dwight Hansel.
And so, Helen made the biggest mistake since she walked down the aisle with Rob.
Chapter 20
“Are you telling us this broad was running drugs, skimming money, and arranging murders?” Detective Dwight Hansel said.
“Yes, I am,” Helen said. And I’m making a hash of it, she thought.
Hansel and his partner, Detective Karen Grace, were at Juliana’s within an hour after her call. As soon as Helen saw the tall, loudmouthed Hansel swagger in the door, she knew she was in trouble. She could tell where he spent most of his time. Those massive shoulders and muscled arms were made in the gym. That beer gut came from even longer hours on a bar stool.
His partner, Karen Grace, had strawberry blonde hair and a figure Helen’s grandmother would have called buxom. She also had cops’ eyes and a way of walking that said “Don’t mess with me.”
Helen told the two homicide detectives the whole story. Hansel made it clear he didn’t believe Helen. “Did you tell the store owner this woman was stealing from him?” he said.
“No,” Helen said. “I couldn’t prove anything. The shipping charge could have been an addition error.”
Helen was sweating now. What if Mr. Roget found out Christina had been skimming? He’d fire Helen for not telling him. It would take weeks to find another job. Helen would fall behind in her bills and never catch up. She’d have to leave the Coronado. With every stupid sentence, Helen saw another piece of her new life slipping away.
“And the drugs? Why didn’t you say something about them to Mr. Roget or the police?” Hansel said.
“Uh,” Helen said.
“Didn’t you say you found Ecstasy, and this Christina sold it to a customer?”
“I wasn’t sure. Someone else could have dropped it.”
“Really? You got a lot of people dropping drugs in here?”
“No. I’d never seen any before.”
Helen felt like she was twisted into a pretzel. She couldn’t think straight. Hansel had been questioning her for what seemed like hours, asking the same things over and over.
