“I’ll never eat all this,” Helen said.
“Wanna bet?” Sarah said. “And since we’re discussing betting, I should say congratulations. You were right. I was wrong. Brittney killed Christina.”
“Didn’t your carjacking investigation go anywhere?”
“It hit a dead end, pardon the pun. What do you hear from the police?”
“Not much more than you’re reading in the paper,” Helen said. “You know Joe’s going to testify against Brittney.”
“I thought they had such a hot romance.”
“They did. But now Joe is looking at a long date in the federal pen for illegal immigrant smuggling. He decided to save his one true love—himself.
“By the way, Joe claims Christina took those pictures of Brittney whacking her fiance with a champagne bottle, so I guessed right. Joe told the police that she stood on the deck and kept shooting photos while Brittney bashed the guy. Christina bragged to Joe about how she didn’t flinch, despite the blood.”
Sarah winced. “That’s cold.”
“I think it runs in her family.”
“How’s the store?”
“Not good,” Helen said. “With Christina’s murder, plus Joe’s illegal immigrant and drug mess, we’re up to our hem-lines in law enforcement. You never know when some cop or federal agent will walk in.”
“That must make the boyfriends of Juliana’s regulars nervous,” Sarah said.
“Sales are way down. Ever since Venetia’s child-sex scandal broke, we haven’t had any serious customers, just sightseers in flip-flops. Did you hear the press conference Venetia’s lawyer gave? He said she did those terrible things because she was on Christina’s pills.”
“Ouch,” Sarah said. “Look, I don’t want to make you feel worse, but do you listen to the Crazy Cracker Morning Show? He called Juliana’s the Little Dress Shop of Horrors. Said it had a real exclusive clientele. Only murderers, child molesters, and pill poppers were allowed through the green door.”
“We can’t survive that kind of publicity. Juliana’s is done for,” Helen said.
“I saw Tara on TV a couple of times, but you’ve never been interviewed. How did you avoid that?”
“It wasn’t easy. The reporters were camped in front of Juliana’s for a week. Each morning, I went inside wearing dark glasses and a headscarf and carrying a bag of cleaning supplies. I told the reporters: ‘No spik English.’ ”
“And they believed you?”
“Sure. I have dark hair.”
“I love it. How’s your job search going?”
“It’s not. I can’t find a thing. It doesn’t help when I tell them where I work.”
“Helen, I don’t want to nag, but I can get you a good job at a decent company.”
Helen couldn’t accept Sarah’s generous offer. She had to stay out of corporate computers. Rob would find her.
“The cat DNA test results came back yesterday,” she said, switching subjects with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Sarah, deep into her hot fudge, did not seem to notice.
“The tests proved the cat hair found on Christina’s body, the cat hair in her penthouse, and the cat at Brittney’s home were the same animal. Sunnysea Beach is taking credit for the whole thing. They’re bragging about their pioneering investigative techniques.”
“But it was your idea,” Sarah said.
“I don’t care. They’re picking up the bill for the DNA test. Two tests, actually, since I got the first round of cat DNA without a warrant. They want a second test that will stand up in court.”
“That is good news.”
You don’t know how good, Helen thought. She’d planned to pay for that DNA test out of the twenty-five- thousand-dollar reward for finding Christina’s killer. But she could not claim the money. The merchants association insisted on media interviews, including
Helen could not suppress a sigh as she thought of the lost money.
“See, I thought you’d like Jaxson’s,” Sarah said. She thought Helen was sighing in delight over her sundae. Helen realized she was scraping the last of the fudge out of the side dish. She’d eaten the whole thing.
“That was a terrific lunch,” Helen said. “I’m glad we skipped the sandwiches and went straight for the sundaes. No point wasting good stomach space on ordinary food. Now I have to go back to work. Just drop me off at Federal Highway and Broward. I need the walk.”
It was nearly one o’clock on a sunny winter afternoon. Flowers bloomed. Palm trees rustled like taffeta dresses. Passersby looked trim and chic. Even the signs in the store windows were attractive. Especially the one in the window of Page Turners bookstore. It said, “HELP WANTED. Immediate openings for booksellers.”
Helen went straight in and asked for the manager. Gayle was small and blonde and dressed in black, like a Juliana’s regular, but she wore Doc Martens, a shoe that never trod Juliana’s carpet.
Helen breathed in the smell of hardbacks and reveled in their colorful covers. She saw a sign announcing that Burt Plank would be signing there Saturday. A real bestselling mystery writer. No more empty-headed bimbos. Helen knew she would like it here. Then she remembered what the other manager said on her first interview at Page Turners.
“Will I have to clean toilets?” Helen said.
“Not if you work days,” Gayle said.
Helen could live with that, especially after Gayle went upstairs to talk to the owner about her special circumstances. She was back in ten minutes.
“He says he can pay you six seventy an hour in cash,” Gayle said. “That’s twenty cents less than our other booksellers make, but he says it’s really more because there are no taxes and withholding.” Gayle looked like she did not believe this. Helen said the money was fine. She wanted out of Juliana’s.
“When can you start? I’d like to begin training you today,” Gayle said.
“Let me make a phone call. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Helen felt no loyalty to Mr. Roget, not after he’d docked her pay for the champagne. Dead-end job workers were powerless. They were yelled at by customers and abused by cheap bosses. Their hours were changed without notice. They were fired for no reason.
They had only one weapon, and Helen was about to use it. She marched into Juliana’s. “Tara,” she said. “I’m calling Mr. Roget. You’ll want to be here for this.”
Tara waited expectantly, rocking from one dainty foot to the other, while Mr. Roget’s secretary found their employer. Finally, he came on the line.
“I’m quitting,” Helen said. Tara’s eyebrows shot straight into her hair. She could hear Mr. Roget sputtering and protesting.
“When? Right now. What? You’ll give me a dollar-an-hour raise? No, thank you. Don’t worry about sending me this week’s pay. I’ll take the money out of the till before I leave. I’ll also take the money you docked me for the champagne. I know you weren’t serious. You couldn’t possibly be that cheap.”
Tara let out an audible snort.
“Stealing? I don’t think so. But you can report me if you wish, Mr. Roget. Of course, you’d have to explain our unusual financial arrangement.
“You want to speak to Tara? She’s right here, Mr. Roget.”
Helen handed the phone to Tara, who listened for a moment and said, “No way. I’m outta here, Old Tightwad. Get someone else to work for your miserable money.”
Tara hung up the phone, laughing. “Free at last,” she said.
Helen paid Tara her wages out of the till, then took the money she was owed, but not a penny more. She balanced the cash drawer and put it in the safe, turned off the lights, and turned on the alarm.
As she was locking the door, a skinny woman wearing a Harley T-shirt and missing two teeth rang Juliana’s doorbell. Two weeks ago, she would never have dared.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re closed,” Helen said. Then she shut the green door for the last time.
