“What did you do when you overheard this so-called murder being planned?” Hansel said.
“I wasn’t sure it was a murder. I didn’t know the victim’s name. There was no way I could find her.”
“You could have come to us. We would have known how to get in touch with Jimmy the Shirt. That’s how you find his new girlfriend.”
Helen felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. He’s right, she thought. I let a woman die because I did nothing. But what if she’d gone to someone like Dwight Hansel? Would he have taken her seriously or shrugged her off as a crazy woman? Helen knew the answer.
“The murderer had no trouble finding Desiree Easlee,” he said. “She is dead. We know that much is true. How did you find out about her murder?”
“I saw it on TV,” Helen said. She could feel the anger building, the same anger that got her in so much trouble in court. Maybe she’d made a mistake. But she was trying to do the right thing now, and this was what she got.
“And did you tell the police?”
Detective Hansel sounded so snide, so sneery. Just like that sanctimonious judge in St. Louis. Something snapped in Helen. “No, because I knew I’d encounter someone like you,” she said.
“Watch it, lady. I can haul you in as a material witness,” Hansel said. Helen was pretty sure he could not do that. But she was also sure he could make her life miserable. In fact, he was already doing that.
“So what we have here is a criminal mastermind with fake tits?” Hansel said, sarcastically.
“Implants don’t lower a woman’s IQ, detective—just a man’s,” Helen said. His partner, Karen Grace, snorted. “Christina was smart and beautiful. How do you think she got that million-dollar ocean-view penthouse?”
“On her back,” Hansel said.
“Not at almost forty, detective. You’d better investigate a little better.”
“I apologize for my partner. He can be insensitive,” Detective Grace said.
“Hey, what is this?” Dwight Hansel said. He sounded indignant, but they might have been playing good cop, bad cop. Helen didn’t care. She wanted them to leave.
“We drive all the way over here, and you tell this wild story,” Hansel said. “We haven’t found anything to support it: no drugs in the woman’s condo. No shoeboxes full of cash in her closet. Yes, she had more money than a store manager should, but her sister says she received a nice cash gift from an aunt in Arkansas. A sort of off-the- books legacy before the old lady died. We’re not the IRS. We don’t care about that. Her sister says this Christina was smart about investing and turned it into a lot of money. And we did find evidence that she knew her way around the stock market.”
Lorraine made up that story, Helen thought. Christina’s older, colder sister was greedy. Helen wondered if Lorraine had found the cash and hauled it home with Christina’s body. Lorraine concocted the story of the legacy, so the police wouldn’t look too closely at Christina’s bank account. Lorraine wanted to inherit all of her dead sister’s money, legal or not.
But Helen didn’t say any of that. Who would Hansel believe: salt of the earth Lorraine or Helen with her wild tale of drugs and murder at a dress shop?
“Did you find Christina’s cat?” she asked instead.
“Cat? There was no sign of one,” Detective Grace said.
“We didn’t find no cat,” Hansel added.
“She had a cat named Thumbs. It had six toes.”
“She must have given it away,” Hansel said.
“She’d never do that,” Helen said. “Christina loved that cat. Maybe Thumbs ran away when the police opened the door.”
“And took its litter box?” Grace said. “I’m telling you we found no sign of a cat. No toys, no litter box, no food or bowls. Nothing.”
“Any cat hair?”
“Some. She worked in a public place. She could have brought those hairs home with her. Her condo was clean. Nothing was out of place, except in one room.”
“What was in there?”
Hansel cut in. “Can’t tell you. It’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
“Did you find any purses in her condo or her car? She took a box of expensive evening purses with her when she left that last Saturday,” Helen said.
There were no purses. There was no cat.
When the two detectives finally left, Helen felt beat up. She was mad at herself and snippy with Sarah when she showed up at the store. “You got me into this, Dudley Do-Right,” she said.
“I still think it’s better that you went to the police,” Sarah insisted, stubbornly. “What if Hansel found out that information on his own?”
“He’s too dumb to find anything but the next brew.”
“And his partner? Is she dumb, too?”
“No,” Helen said. “She didn’t talk much, but she didn’t seem stupid.”
“Then you did the right thing,” Sarah said.
But Helen didn’t think so. She hardly spoke as they walked around the old Himmarshee Village. It was old for Fort Lauderdale, anyway. The museum buildings hailed from about 1905. The commercial buildings were from the 1920s. Helen could find blocks of buildings much older in St. Louis, but Florida was newly hatched.
A Florida historical district was not a sober affair. Most of the buildings were bars and restaurants, with plenty of beer and live bands. Sarah and Helen stopped at a bar and had margaritas. Helen liked the salty-sweet taste, but she was restless sitting in the dark bar. Sarah didn’t want to sit long, either. They saw huge crowds streaming toward Sammy’s Good Tyme Saloon.
Helen and Sarah followed the crowd. Every inch of Sammy’s was packed. People were hanging off the upstairs decks, sitting on the balconies and staircases. More were crowding the open first-floor windows, watching the partyers lucky enough to get inside. Sammy’s set up auxiliary bars at the entrance, selling beer, wine, and bottled water to those who couldn’t get in.
“What’s drawing the huge crowd?” Helen said. “A Beatles reunion?”
“Big Dick and the Extenders,” said a twenty-something with a luxuriant goatee. “They usually play in the Upper Keys. They’re great.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Sarah said. “Big Dick is supposed to make Howard Stern look like Miss Manners.”
Helen and Sarah elbowed their way in closer to the open windows. Helen liked the music. Most of it was songs from the sixties and seventies, with some hard-driving southern rock. She did not like Big Dick’s jokes. She had expected some about sexual organs, considering the band’s name. What she didn’t expect was how many jokes put down women and how many women laughed at them. They even laughed when he said, “I see a lot of beautiful women here tonight. I see some ugly bitches, too.”
Helen felt trapped in a fifties frat house. The audience, mostly young men and big-haired women, seemed to love it.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sarah said.
“Took the words out of my mouth,” Helen said. She was about to walk away, when she saw a tall man in a purple muscle shirt deep inside the bar. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
“Sarah, wait. Do you know that guy?” she said, pointing him out.
“I can’t get a good look at his face,” Sarah said. “There are too many people.”
A couple in front of them left, and Sarah and Helen moved forward and pushed their way inside. Helen saw the guy more clearly now, but she still couldn’t place him. He stripped off his muscle shirt, waved it in the air, and began dancing like a Chippendale. Muscle Shirt was at least three beers ahead of his companions. The drunken crowd cheered, and his dance grew wilder and lewder. Helen saw Muscle Shirt had incredibly hairy armpits. Then she got a good look at his face.
“Oh, my God. It’s Detective Dwight Hansel,” she said. “The homicide cop who interviewed me today. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
The band took a break, and the sudden quiet was thunderous. Then the regular barroom sounds started up again—the clink of bottles, the scrape of chairs, snatches of conversation: “So I said to her, if you don’t like it, you
