“I think you have a conquest,” Helen whispered when Cal went for another Molson.
“I’m not that desperate,” Sarah said. “That cheap Canadian is looking for free room and board.”
“Sarah! How can you say that?”
“Because his idea of a covered dish was two tomatoes on a plate, unsliced.”
“I mean, how can you say he’s only interested in your money? You’re an attractive woman.”
Sarah had curly dark hair, bright brown eyes, and pretty hands that she showed off with good jewelry. Tonight she wore a hot-pink muumuu and flowered sandals. “I’m a fat woman with a fatter bank account. Cal hates to work. Besides, would you date him?”
“I did. You know what happened. He stiffed me for dinner.”
“See? How’s your vet friend?”
“He’s spending the night with a sick Labrador,” Helen said, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
“He’ll be here tomorrow, don’t you worry,” Sarah said.
“Cal’s coming back. Don’t leave me. He won’t come over when you’re here.”
“That’s because he still owes me money,” Helen said.
Cal saw Helen, made an abrupt U-turn, and went back to helping Peggy. Helen stayed with Sarah, acting as an effective anti-Cal device.
Everyone seemed to be avoiding someone tonight.
Madame Muffy the preppie psychic stayed away from Peggy and Helen. Cal steered clear of Helen and Margery.
Phil the invisible pothead avoided everyone. He never came out of his room, but a persistent cloud of pot smoke proved he was having his own party.
Despite Cal’s stingy contribution, there was plenty of food. Margery had brought hot dogs and hamburgers, buns, and chips. Helen made deviled eggs. Madame Muffy baked a luscious chocolate cake. Beer, wine, and soda were chilling in a cooler.
“What’s the wine?” Peggy called, busy at the barbecue grill.
“The box says it’s ‘chilled red.’ Has an expiration date of September 2005,” Helen said.
“Sounds like a good year. Pour me a glass.”
“Will do,” Helen said. Sarah took a glass, too. So did Margery.
“What about you, Muffy?” Helen said, holding up the wine box and hoping to establish normal neighborly relations.
“No, thank you,” Muffy said primly. She was a study in baggy khaki. Helen wondered why a young woman was so defiantly drab.
“You want a Coke instead? Or a Sprite?”
“I don’t drink alcohol or soda,” Muffy said. “They’re all poison, filled with caffeine and chemicals. I brought my own natural fruit juice.” She poured herself a glass of something brown. She did not offer it to anyone else.
Helen felt like she’d offered Carry Nation a shot and a beer. So much for mending fences with Madame Muffy.
The conversation fell flat. Worse than flat. It seemed to lie there like something dead. Peggy picked at her salad, eating less than Pete. Madame Muffy cut her burger in two, then in quarters. Margery rolled a hot dog around on her plate.
Only Sarah and Cal had any appetite. Cal ate as if food was about to be outlawed. He wolfed down three burgers, two hot dogs, most of Peggy’s salad, a half dozen deviled eggs, and hefty helpings of calamari and baked beans.
Helen tried to eat, but she wasn’t hungry. She put a bunless burger on her plate and stared at it. It was all alone.
Like her. Rich had canceled their romantic night for a sick dog.
When Helen looked up, Peggy and Pete had disappeared.
Madame Muffy and her juice went missing soon after that.
Helen wished Cal would disappear. Instead, he droned on about how Canada was superior to America. Margery didn’t bother debating him, another sign she was not herself. Normally, she was the purple-clad defender of the USA. Helen and Sarah struggled to carry on a conversation.
The evening broke up about nine with polite thank-yous.
Sarah gathered up her dishes and left. Margery packed up the extra buns and chips and put away Peggy’s salad. Helen ate the last deviled egg. Cal took back his two unsliced, untouched tomatoes.
Helen had a restless night, but she could not sleep in Saturday morning. She’d promised to go with Margery for the final walk-through at the Coronado before the crew put the termite tent on. Helen felt like she was visiting a sick friend in the hospital.
Truly Nolen was doing the job. In South Florida, their bright yellow Volkswagen bugs with the mouse ears, whiskers, and tails were as common as the pests they killed.
When Helen and Margery arrived at the apartments at nine, a flatbed truck was already there. George and Terrell would put the monster yellow-and-black-striped tarps on the building.
George, thin and whiplike, threw the tarps off the truck and manhandled the long ladders. The tarps were rolled up like tacos. Also on the trucks were long strings of metal clamshell clamps, which looked like big spring clothespins.
The tarp ends would be rolled together and clamped shut, forming a seal. George did most of the roof work. Terrell, big and muscular, clamped down the building’s sides.
Signs were posted all over the Coronado: DANGER:
DEADLY POISON—PELIGRO VENENO MORTAL. For those who could not read, there were skulls and crossbones.
Trevor, the fumigator, was nailing the last sign on the gate. He was about five-eight, with powerful shoulders and a strong, square jaw. He’d dressed up his drab uniform with gold chains that gleamed against his dark skin.
“Ah, good,” he said. “Let’s do the final inspection.”
As they went through each apartment, Helen had a voyeur’s view of how everyone lived. All the cabinets were open. Helen saw the same things in each apartment: miscellaneous mugs, stacks of Tupperware, ugly glass vases from florists. They had a pathetic garage-sale look.
Trevor checked the refrigerators, cabinets, and stoves for food. He looked carefully in each room, making sure no one was left behind. He was obsessive about it.
“An old woman hid in her home once because she didn’t want to leave. Poor thing died. Happened to another company, but it’s every fumigator’s nightmare. I don’t want it to happen to me.”
Trevor moved with assurance through other people’s homes. Helen and Margery trailed behind him. Helen felt guilty about snooping, but she also enjoyed it.
Cal the Canadian had furniture for a colder clime: heavy velvet sofas and chairs, thick carpets, and a coffee table big as an aircraft carrier. Clothes were dumped on chairs.
Books and newspapers were scattered on the floor. His rooms seemed small and crowded. Even his fridge door was cluttered with photos of his daughter and grandchild.
His cupboards and refrigerator were bare of food, and there were no medicines in the bathroom. Cal’s place was safe.
Peggy’s home looked light and airy. Bright colors and white wicker, painted wooden fish, and pretty seashells made it a pleasant place to live. Her huge four-poster bed looked like something in a magazine. Helen noticed there were no photos except for ones of Pete. In the kitchen, Peggy had left behind a box of birdseed, bananas, and a bag of rice. Helen packed them up for her friend.
“Some people can’t follow simple instructions,” Margery grumped.
“Peggy must have been distracted,” Helen said.
After each apartment was inspected, the door was locked with the owner’s keys. Then the doorknob was fitted with a metal shield that had a second lock.
“Only the company has these keys,” Trevor said as he secured the doorknob shield. “The doors are double- locked to make sure the owners don’t come back and do something stupid. Before we put in the poisonous Vikane
