It didn’t work. Smearing goo all over Daniel’s index finger and wrapping it in a Band-Aid seemed like some arcane aphrodisiac rite, a prelude to passion. Get a grip, woman, she told herself.
“Well,” Helen said, briskly. “That’s that.”
“Thanks,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes. “Anything I can do for you?”
Helen studied his face for a smirk. He seemed to be sincere. “For a Band-Aid?” she said, with a shaky laugh. “Don’t be silly.”
“Then I guess I better go,” he said, and moved off into the velvet night.
Helen could not stand to be alone in her apartment. Daniel had overpowered it. He’d overpowered her fears, too. She still felt the fear coiling in the pit. She was still afraid Detective Dwight Hansel would get her. But when Daniel was with her, the snakes stopped slithering.
Helen stepped around her huge empty bed, opened the patio door, and cursed her denseness. Daniel had given her an invitation, and she was too dumb to recognize it. She’d lost her only chance to be loved by a perfect man. She breathed in the soft night air and thought she might die of longing. But women who wore Tweety Bird shirts did not die of anything so interesting.
Helen went sadly, soberly, out to the pool. Peggy was outside again, without Pete. Or the magnificent Daniel. Pete wasn’t a pet, Helen decided. He was a feathered chaperone. An earsplitting squawk was enough to discourage most men. If not, Pete literally nipped the romance in the bud.
“I guess I messed up my chances for a date, huh?” Peggy said.
Helen looked at her. “You don’t really care, do you?”
“I’d care very much if Pete had hurt Daniel,” she said, seriously.
“But you don’t really want to date Daniel, do you?” Helen said. “You admire him, like a painting or a statue.”
“Helen, I’ve had too much hands-on experience to get involved with any man again. I’m through with them for good. Pete’s the only man for me.”
Helen wondered what had happened to make a woman as striking as Peggy live like a nun.
Their purple-clad landlady popped out of the palms like a wild orchid. “What happened?” Margery asked.
“Absolutely nothing,” Helen said.
“Good girl,” Margery said, approvingly. “Only way to land a man like that.”
But Helen was sure she’d made another mistake.
Chapter 21
“If you need any other help, let me know. . . .”
Margery’s words haunted Helen as she walked back to her apartment. She passed through Phil’s pot fog in a fog of her own. Helen knew she was in trouble. Big trouble. She had angered a homicide detective. If Dwight Hansel looked into her life, what would he find?
Nothing.
Helen had no phone, no credit cards, no bank account, not even a paycheck. Any good detective would be suspicious.
But Hansel was not a good detective. That was Helen’s only hope. He was a loudmouth drunk, a party animal. Of course, she’d been poking sticks into the party animal’s cage. He could strike back with a search warrant.
But he would not find anything, she thought. There’s no trace of my other life except for a teddy bear and some clothes.
And an old suitcase. Containing seven thousand one hundred and eight dollars in cash.
A wild flash of panic ripped through Helen. Buried in her closet was seven thousand dollars she could not explain. She had no bank statements. That cash would say “drug money” to any cop, no matter how stupid. The coil of fear grew heavier. The snakes were slithering in the pit again.
I’ve got to get that money out of my apartment, she thought. Helen paced back and forth, asking: Where can I keep that cash?
A safe deposit box? No, that would cost money to rent. Besides, it would leave records. Even Hansel could find a safe deposit box.
“If you need any other help, let me know. . . .”
Margery. Margery would help her. Helen pulled down all the blinds, flung open the utility closet door and grabbed the old Samsonite suitcase wedged between the wall and the water heater.
She looked out her front door. The Coronado apartments were quiet. No one was outside. Peggy’s lights were off. So were Daniel’s. Cal’s were on, but she could hear his TV. And Phil? She sniffed the air, heavy with the sweet, burning-leaf smell of pot. Phil was happily in the hay.
Margery’s light was on. Helen carried the suitcase over to her landlady’s apartment and knocked lightly on the door. “Margery!” she called in a whisper. “Margery, are you there?”
“Where else would I be at this hour?” Margery bellowed, flinging open the door. “Come on in.” She was wearing a purple chenille robe. Her gray hair bristled with red sponge curlers.
“Are you running away from home?” she said. “What’s with the suitcase?”
“Margery, can you keep this for me? I promise it’s nothing illegal, but I can’t . . .”
“The less you tell me, the better. As far as I’m concerned, I’m storing your old luggage. Case closed,” her landlady said, patting the suitcase, “and I’m keeping it that way.”
Helen’s worst nightmare came true. The next morning, Detective Dwight Hansel showed up with a search warrant. But he wanted to search the store, not her home.
Hansel and his partner, Detective Karen Grace, were waiting in front of Juliana’s when Helen arrived at nine- thirty. Helen looked like a drug dealer in her heavy black sunglasses, but she was only trying to shield her eyes from the searing sun. Helen was so hungover from her night in Himmarshee she could hardly unlock the door. Breakfast had been black coffee and aspirin. Only then did she have the courage to look in the bathroom mirror. Helen winced at the sight: She looked old enough to be her own mother.
Detective Hansel did not look like someone who had been dancing on the ceiling at Sammy’s Good Tyme Saloon the night before. He seemed earnest and sober and eager to nail Helen’s hide to the green door. Detective Grace was the same odd mix of don’t-mess-with-me voluptuousness. Helen suspected Grace had to watch every bite to keep that lush figure from going to fat. Or maybe not. Working with Hansel could make any woman lose her appetite.
Hansel wanted to search the premises for evidence of drugs. Helen was relieved to see that the search warrant was fairly specific. The police were looking for ledger books, documents, long-distance records, and computer disks that did not relate to the business of the store and also for illegal drugs or narcotics paraphernalia.
No scales and tiny baggies at Juliana’s, Helen thought. So far, so good.
Helen called Mr. Roget in Canada and told him two homicide detectives wanted to search the store in connection with Christina’s death. Mr. Roget did not understand American law and didn’t care to. “Cooperate fully with the police, and call me if there is a problem,” he said. Helen was relieved he didn’t ask too many questions.
Stay out of the way, she told herself. Stay under the radar. You cannot afford to get noticed by the police. You do not want to go home to St. Louis.
Helen moved to the back of the store by the black silk-satin loveseats, as far away as she could get from Detective Dwight Hansel. He was up front, searching the counter area. Detective Grace was in the back, looking at ledgers in the stockroom.
