She was surprised when Joe, Christina’s ex-boyfriend, called that Saturday afternoon and asked if Christina had left anything for him.
“Like what, Joe?” Helen said.
“A package, an envelope, a box, I dunno. But I know she was going to give it to me. So you find anything with my name on it, you call me day or night, no problemo, and I’ll pick it up. And, Helen, there will be a reward. A big one, you know what I mean?”
“I’m sorry, Joe, but I haven’t found anything.”
“She had something for me,” he said. “I want it. Now.”
Joe must have realized that sounded like a threat, because he softened his words. “I mean, I miss her, and it would be nice to have some way to remember her. We were kinda engaged.”
“Except you dumped her,” Helen said. “If she left you a package, I’d open it carefully. If it ticks, it may not be a watch.”
“She always said you were great with the jokes,” Joe said. “We split, but it was a misunderstanding. I . . . I loved her.” He managed a teary throb in his voice.
Right. You really loved Christina, she thought. That’s why you have never said Christina’s name, just “she” and “her.”
Joe’s voice grew softer, more persuasive. It oozed through the phone like honey. The receiver felt sticky. “Look, Helen, let me level with you. That cop, Dwight Handel—”
“Hansel,” Helen said.
“Yeah, him. He’s on me like white on rice. He thinks I killed her.”
“Why you?” Helen said. “Aren’t bodies in barrels mob hits?”
“The FBI said this was not a mob hit. It was made to look like one. They’re not interested in it. But this Dwight Handel—”
“Hansel,” Helen said again.
“Whatever. He’s definitely interested in me. I’ve had to get a lawyer. I’m not supposed to be talking about this, but I’ve got to have that package. I mean, it like clears my name.”
Sure it does.
“Don’t you have an alibi for the time Christina died?” she said, fishing for more facts.
“That’s just it,” he said. “The police can’t tell exactly when she was killed. She was kinda messed up after being in that leaky barrel for about a week. She was very decompressed.”
“Decomposed,” Helen said.
“That, too. They coulda figured it out by the stomach contents, but she didn’t eat nothing.”
And who’s fault was that? Helen wondered.
“All they can say for sure is it happened sometime between Saturday after she left the shop and Monday morning. I don’t have an alibi. I was alone the whole weekend, kicking back, watching videos and drinking beer.”
Joe never spent any time by himself, if he could help it. Helen knew that. Every weekend, he and Christina and a carload of friends went to the South Beach clubs. He couldn’t stand to be alone. He might hear his empty head rattle.
“The police think she was probably killed sometime Saturday after she got off work, though, because she got her last cell phone call at six-twenty-two.”
“Who called Christina?”
“Me,” Joe said.
Helen was relieved when Brittney came into Juliana’s about four that afternoon. She was wearing something white and drifting that made her look like a lovely lost soul. White was the color of mourning in some cultures. It certainly looked mournful on Brittney.
Brittney was different from the others. There were no odd overtones, no presents, no offers of money if Helen found any letters or packages. She wanted to talk about Christina. Helen thought Brittney sincerely grieved for her friend, although she did not look sad. How could she? Brittney could show no emotion.
She was the only one who seemed to care if Christina’s killer was caught.
“It’s just terrible about Christina,” Brittney said, her voice soft and fluttery as moth wings. “What are the police doing about it?”
“They searched her house. Then they searched the store,” Helen said.
“They find anything?” sighed Brittney. It sounded so hopeless when she said it.
“They found nothing,” Helen said.
But I did, she thought.
Chapter 24
Tara snapped on Monday.
It was almost closing time when she began screaming. No customers were in Juliana’s. Helen was grateful for that.
Helen was steaming the wrinkles out of the new stock, a hot, mindless job that had to be done before she could go home. Suddenly, Tara shrieked, “Put on another CD! I can’t listen to
Tara’s jaw was clenched, and so were her hands. Her rigid arms looked like they were clamped to her body with iron bands.
“Sorry, I tuned it out,” Helen said. “I’ll find something else.”
The store had more than two hundred forty CDs in two tall towers, but the same six seemed to get played over and over. The CDs at the bottom of the towers were thick with dust. Helen reached down and pulled out
Helen was about to shove it back into the rack when she stopped. One of those ancient hits was “Love Will Keep Us Together.” The song on Tara’s flyer.
Helen opened the plastic CD case. Inside was the usual paper insert. It looked too thick. She pulled it out and opened it. Folded inside were three photos.
Tara was in a big round bed with two men and a woman. The four were so tangled together, Helen got dizzy trying to figure out who was doing what to whom.
The other woman was African-American, with a beautiful body. Helen could not see her face. The men were flabby and white as mushrooms. Helen couldn’t identify them, either, although one had an impressive head of white hair. The other was bald as a baby, but he was doing very grown-up things.
Only Tara was clearly visible. All of Tara. And she was definitely not a virgin bride. “Love Will Keep Us Together” was Christina’s nasty little joke. She knew these pictures would destroy Paulie’s love and split the couple forever.
“Find anything?” Tara called back to the storeroom. She sounded calmer.
“How about listening to Andrea Bocelli?” Helen asked. It was one of the same six CDs they always played.
“Sure,” Tara said. “A little opera will class up the place.”
She’ll be back here any second, Helen thought. She shoved the photos into the CD case, and brushed off her skirt
