the pocket of a Hugo Boss suit. She looked at his face and decided he would.
At six, the FedEx truck pulled in. The driver was a muscular blond man in shorts. He had great legs. Helen would hate to see him shot.
“Ask,” Joe hissed. “And remember what I said.”
“Hi,” Helen said brightly. “I dropped my package in there, and I need to get it back. I don’t want to send it after all.”
“I’ll get it for you, ma’am, but I need to see your airbill and some identification.”
Helen reached into her purse. Joe was watching her. She saw the gun move in his pocket, a reminder that he’d shoot the driver. Helen felt around in her purse. She could not find her pepper spray.
“You’re taking a long time, honey,” Joe said. “This nice man wants to get going.”
Helen grabbed her wallet, the airbill and her house keys.
“Here,” she said to the driver.
Then she threw herself on the Ferrari. She was spreadeagled on the long, slanting hood, holding her door key pointed like a dagger over the perfect red paint job.
“My Ferrari,” Joe screamed. “Don’t hurt my car, you crazy bitch.”
“Shoot the driver and I’ll rip a strip right off the car hood,” she said. “Shoot me, and you’ll put a bullet through the engine. You’ll kill two hundred thousand dollars worth of car.”
“It’s four hundred ten thousand dollars,” he said. “There are only one hundred twenty Barchettas in the U.S.”
The FedEx driver was edging toward the truck. She could hear him on his cell phone, “Possible domestic dispute. The guy’s got a gun.”
She touched the key to the paint job, ready to scrape it down the shiny hood.
“Don’t!” Joe howled, as if she was about to gut his first-born. “Don’t hurt it.”
“Then put the gun away, and get out of here,” Helen said.
She heard the sirens, and so did Joe. He ran for the Ferrari. He didn’t even open the door. He just jumped in. The powerful V-12 engine rumbled into life. Helen could feel it vibrating under her. She also realized she was still on the hood. Joe shifted the Ferrari into reverse, swung out into the parking lot, and Helen slid off the hood. Her key left an inch-wide gouge the whole length of the hood, down to the yellow prancing horse emblem.
“Aggghhhhh,” Joe screamed in agony, but kept driving.
The FedEx driver was yelling into the cell phone, “He’s escaping. It’s a red Ferrari. I think it’s heading west on Broward toward I-95. He’s got a gun. He’s armed and dangerous. He nearly ran over a woman.”
The driver turned to her. “Are you OK, ma’am? Do you need an ambulance?”
“No, I feel terrific,” Helen said. She remembered how her key had dug into the Ferrari and left that long brutal track down the hood. She hadn’t felt so good since she took a crowbar to Rob’s SUV.
“I can get that package for you now,” the driver said.
“No, thanks,” Helen said. “I definitely want to send it.”
Chapter 36
Joe was clocked going one hundred eighty miles an hour on I-95.
He had to slow down dramatically when he encountered a white Lincoln Continental driven by Mrs. Geraldine Fitzhammer, age seventy-six. Mrs. Fitzhammer was going forty-five in the fast lane.
Joe’s Ferrari glanced off her rear bumper and went spinning into the concrete highway divider. He suffered two broken legs, a broken wrist, and a broken collarbone in the collision. Unfortunately for Joe, he remained conscious.
Mrs. Fitzhammer was unhurt but mad as hell. Her late husband’s 1983 Lincoln did not have a scratch on it until Joe clipped it. Mrs. Fitzhammer was so angry at this desecration of her husband’s memory that she returned to her car and retrieved the foam box containing the remains of her early-bird special. Joe was hit with potatoes lyonnaise, half a grouper filet, broccoli florets, and a buttered Pepperidge Farm roll, then beaten with the box.
Mrs. Fitzhammer did not stop until the police arrived on the scene. She was delighted when Joe was arrested. She wanted the police to handcuff him, despite the broken wrist.
Brittney saw the Ferrari chase on TV. She was arrested later that evening at the Miami airport, boarding a flight for Rio. Brittney had always admired Brazil. It had such innovative plastic surgeons. Brittney might have made it to Rio, if she hadn’t taken time to pack twenty-two pieces of Fendi luggage, including a cat carrier.
Detective Karen Grace called Helen to tell her about Brittney’s arrest. “What happened to the cat?” Helen said.
“I’m trying to figure out what to do with Thumbs,” Detective Grace said. “Brittney doesn’t have any family. I can’t take him home. My cat would throw a fit. I’ll probably take him to the Humane Society.”
“I’ll take him,” Helen said.
“What if Brittney wants her cat back?”
“Then I’ll give him back.” But Helen was sure Brittney would not be free for a long time.
Helen did not allow Thumbs to roam free, but she did walk him on a leash by the pool every night. Since pets were not allowed at the Coronado, Margery now had to ignore Pete
He’d been at the Coronado for a week when the six-toed cat was bitten by a spider. His huge paw swelled to twice its size. Peggy drove Helen and Thumbs to the emergency animal hospital. Helen had always thought that small animal doctors looked rather like small animals. But Dr. Richard Petton looked like a shaggy Mel Gibson.
Helen was impressed with the way Dr. Rich gently handled the hurt, angry cat. “Easy, big guy, we’re just trying to find out what’s wrong here,” he said, as he examined the grossly swollen paw. When Thumbs lashed out, the vet deftly dodged the slashing claws. Helen noticed Dr. Rich was not wearing a wedding ring but that did not always mean anything in South Florida.
Dr. Rich called the next day to check on Thumbs’ progress. That’s when he asked Helen out to dinner for Saturday night.
“We’ll go Dutch,” Helen said warily.
“No, my treat,” he said. “I asked you out.”
Rich and Helen had a lovely dinner and a walk on the moonlit beach. They talked and talked, until he kissed her in the silvery light by the soft ocean. The evening went so well, Helen asked him out Wednesday night—her treat. That one went even better. They had another date for tonight.
“So how was your evening with Dr. Rich?” Sarah asked. They were at Jaxson’s Ice Cream Parlor in Dania. Helen had won the bet and was about to claim her prize, a hot fudge sundae. Sarah swore it was nirvana on a spoon. Sarah was wearing something turquoise and gauzy that set off her curly brown hair. On her wrist was a silver bracelet with an oval turquoise stone. Sarah had plump, pretty hands, and her jewelry showed them off.
“We’re going out again tonight,” Helen said.
“And this is your second date?”
“Third,” Helen said. She thought of Rich’s kisses, and a pleasant little sizzle zapped all other thoughts.
“Earth to Helen,” Sarah said.
Helen blushed and quickly changed the subject. “So this place has been around awhile?”
“Since 1956. That’s ancient for South Florida. They make their own ice cream.” The walls were an appealing jumble of old license plates, odd gadgets, and antique ads. Helen watched the man behind the counter put the finishing touches on her hot fudge sundae. He was huge, and his skin was as dark and lustrous as the hot fudge he ladled out. Good. Helen did not trust a thin man in an ice-cream parlor.
A waitress in a candy-striped outfit brought the towering creations. Each was topped with a thunderhead of whipped cream and had a side dish of extra hot fudge.
