story about the supermodel Sharmayne. She was photographed at an animal shelter benefit hugging her German shepherd, Big Boy. Sharmayne was at the height of her career and her beauty. The disastrous liposuction was another year away. But despite Sharmayne’s stunning looks, it was Big Boy who stole the photo. He made Rin-Tin- Tin look like the runt of the litter. His fur was glossy, his bearing noble, his eyes alert and intelligent. No wonder Sharmayne told the magazine “Big Boy is my main man.”
Christina’s black slashing writing was on this story, too. It was a Nick Lowe song, “The Beast in Me.”
The fourth was a business article announcing that Christina’s ex-boyfriend, Joe, had paid six hundred thousand dollars for a five-thousand-square-foot warehouse near Port Everglades. This story was so boring, Helen could hardly read it to the end.
In the margin, Christina had written “Gotta Serve Somebody.”
A Bob Dylan hit? This made no sense whatsoever.
Story number five was hidden in the instructions for store shelving. It was an article from
“Chocolate Lovers Bash Sweetens Charity,” the sugary headline said, but it was the photo that captured Helen’s attention. It starred another Juliana’s regular, Niki, the perfumed bride from hell, with four female partygoers. The benefit was at a lavish house, and the four women dripped diamonds. Only Niki had no jewelry. She outshone them all in a simple black dress.
Christina had written “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Why use this cliched show tune?
The last article was a short news story about the death of Brittney’s fiance, Steve. The story said his body had been found by a boater in a canal near the Seventeenth Street Bridge.
The couple was to be married in June. The story said the medical examiner found “significant amounts” of alcohol in the deceased’s blood. Steve’s death was ruled an accident, but Helen could see how the suicide whispers had started.
Christina had written “Tiny Bubbles” on this story, Don Ho’s ode to a bottle of bubbly. It was a mean choice for a man who got drunk and drowned.
Helen looked through the stack of manuals again but found nothing else. It was almost eight o’clock when she left the store. On the walk home, Helen puzzled over the articles and song titles. They were an eclectic collection, from Nick Lowe to Don Ho. If this was a code, it was beyond Helen.
She had been searching for two hours. Helen knew less than when she started. She had not found Tara’s blackmail photos.
Where did Christina hide them? The police had already searched her penthouse. Did that mean the photos weren’t there? Did the police miss the hiding spot? Or did they have the photos, and they weren’t telling Helen? No, if Dwight Hansel had those photos, he would not miss an opportunity to torment her.
Tara had searched the store and found nothing. It was Helen who stumbled on the Las Vegas flyer by accident.
How many other secrets did Juliana’s hold?
These questions buzzed around Helen like gnats, irritating her and refusing to go away. When she finally got to the Coronado, Helen went out by the pool, looking for Peggy or Margery. She wanted to discuss her finds, but neither woman was home.
Instead, Daniel and Cal the Canadian were talking at the picnic table. Daniel was barechested, and his tanned abs looked like they’d been bronzed. His cobalt eyes had a wicked slant in the twilight. His long hair tumbled down his shoulders like black silk. Next to him, Cal seemed old and shrunken, juiceless and used up.
“Yes, sir,” Daniel was saying. “I agree that the American medical system leaves much to be desired. But I’m not convinced the Canadian system is a cure-all. I read that in some Canadian hospitals, patients lie in the hallways because there aren’t enough beds. Is that true?”
Daniel was so well mannered, Helen thought. Most Coronado residents walked away when Cal started lecturing on the joys of Canada, but Daniel listened patiently and answered thoughtfully.
Cal growled an answer Helen couldn’t quite hear. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, sir,” Daniel said. “See you later.”
Helen watched Daniel walk to the parking lot. His muscles moved like oiled coils of steel. Daniel was barely out of earshot, when Cal said, “ ‘Sir’! He says ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir.’ To me!” Cal kicked the picnic table with his sandaled foot.
“But, Cal, you’re always complaining that Americans are not as polite as Canadians,” Helen said. She enjoyed tweaking Cal. He still had not paid back the money he’d “borrowed” for that disastrous dinner at Catfish Dewey’s.
“But he called me ‘sir,’ ” Cal said. “He makes me feel like his grandfather.”
Well, you look like his grandfather, Helen wanted to say. But she didn’t, proving that Americans were politer than Cal thought.
The green door did not open quite so often these days. Customers were drifting away, as Helen feared. But not Juliana’s small group of regulars. They kept coming back and asking the oddest questions.
“Did Christina give you an envelope with my name on it?” asked Sharmayne, the former supermodel. She waltzed in that Saturday morning and disdainfully demanded to speak to Helen.
“No,” Helen said.
“You must have it somewhere,” Sharmayne said. “Look again.” She tossed her mane of hair like an impatient pony.
“I don’t have it,” Helen repeated firmly, and Sharmayne knew she’d been rude. She tried her softest smile, the one usually reserved for rich men.
“Christina was going to send me something right before she died. I never received it, so it must still be at the store.”
“Maybe it was at her home,” Helen said. “In that case, her sister Lorraine would have it, or the police.”
Sharmayne blanched. “No,” she said. “I know it’s here. If you find an envelope with my name on it, send it to me. Don’t open it, please.”
Don’t open it?
Sharmayne saw her silence as stonewalling. “There will be a reward if I get that letter unopened,” she said. “A big reward. Very big.”
Sharmayne walked through Juliana’s, pointing at clothes until she had picked out more than the average woman spent on herself in a year. Helen carried them to the dressing room. Sharmayne stripped off her shirt and began unbuttoning her low-rise jeans. Helen fled. She couldn’t stand another look at those ruined thighs with the liposuction scars.
This time, Sharmayne bought. She wanted all the splendid, splashy things, but she seemed to buy them more to stay on Helen’s good side than because she enjoyed them.
Tiffany with the bad eye job was the first regular, but not the last, to bring Helen “a little present.” She gave Helen silver Elsa Peretti earrings from Tiffany’s “because I want you to be my friend.”
Niki had given Helen a Movado watch with a charming note: “Time we were friends.”
She told Helen, “I’d like to have the same relationship with you that I had with Christina.” Niki’s words glittered with unspoken meaning and lingered long after Helen got her perfume stink out of the store. Does she want me to find her another hit man? Helen wondered. Christina did not have time to blackmail Niki about Desiree’s death, if she in fact arranged it. Something else was going on.
The presents made Helen uneasy, but she kept them. They were no more than tip money for these women. She could pawn the watch and earrings if she ever needed cash fast.
Christina had something on all of you, Helen thought. I can’t figure out what. But I’d better find out soon.
Tara did not offer Helen bribes or presents. She seemed grateful for Helen’s silence and her acceptance. She worked even harder. She followed Helen around the store like a puppy. Helen knew it wasn’t just gratitude that kept Tara at her side. Tara wanted those incriminating photos, and she would not let Helen out of her sight until they turned up.
The only person Helen didn’t hear from was Venetia, Mother of the Year and Pill Popper of the Decade. Helen figured Venetia had found a new pusher and was twitching somewhere else.
