fashioned frog strangler that flooded the flat streets.
Helen ran down to the newspaper boxes and brought back an armload. She sat at her kitchen table listening to the rain and looking at the employment ads. It was a de-pressing business, and the rain didn’t help. Debt was a growth industry in Florida. The ads seemed to feed off the current financial crisis. Employers were looking for collection agents, credit counselors, and repo people.
If she didn’t want to service the rising tide of debt and bankruptcy, there were a zillion ads for telemarketers.
The more a job paid, the less useful it was, Helen decided. Selling books had redeeming social value. Calling people at dinner to peddle vacation time shares did not.
And look at this prize catch in the job pool. It paid six times what she made at the bookstore:
Bet I wouldn’t have to wear my ugly granny shoes, Helen thought. Or my pants with the pinpoint holes. Bet I wouldn’t have to wear anything at all.
She sighed and nearly threw the paper across the floor when she saw the display ad:
Maybe there was hope after all, she thought.
Margery’s day had been equally depressing. She’d been to see Peggy.
“She looks like death on toast,” Margery said. “The trial’s in three weeks. Her lawyer, Colby, is supposed to be the best, but for the life of me, I don’t know what she’s doing. She hired a private detective to help establish an alibi for Peggy. He came up with nothing.”
“What was Peggy doing after she left the barbecue?”
“She says she was driving around. But she didn’t buy gas—or anything else. No one saw her.”
They were in Margery’s big white Cadillac. The rain had stopped, and it was nearly nine at night. I-95 was a demented dodge-’em game. Cars weaved in and out of traffic, or stomped on their brakes for no reason. Sometimes they did both at the same time.
“I remember reading an article in the 1980s that twenty percent of the people arrested for traffic violations on I-95 were on Quaaludes,” Margery said.
“It explains a lot of this driving,” Helen said.
“Not really,” Margery said. “I think ’ludes are out. Who knows what they’re on now.”
The construction work started at the Palm Beach County line. The highway became a nightmare of lumpy patched asphalt and blinking barricades.
An SUV the size of an armored personnel carrier was tailgating the Cadillac. Helen could see its grille, like an evil grin, in the rearview mirror. When the SUV hit its high beams, urging Margery to get out of the way, the inside of the Caddy lit up.
“I hate when people do that,” she said, and slammed on her brakes. The SUV honked loudly, then pulled in front of Margery.
“Good,” she said, flipping on her high beams. “Let’s give this bird a taste of his own medicine.”
She tailgated and high-beamed the SUV all the way to Okeechobee Boulevard. Helen was relieved when Margery finally took that exit, even if it meant more torn-up roads in West Palm. About two blocks later, she was able to talk again.
“Can I ask a question?” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“What does Phil the invisible pothead do for a living?”
“I told you, he’s not invisible,” Margery said, sounding irritated. “I see him at least once a month when I collect the rent.”
“Well, I’ve never met the man and I’ve lived next to him almost a year. I just smell his burning weed. He’s supposed to be a Clapton fan, but I never hear a note from his apartment.”
“He’s a considerate Clapton fan.”
“Does he have a job?”
“Yes, it’s something with the government. Broward County, I think. Building division, variances and permissions.”
“No wonder he smokes so much dope. He must be crazy with boredom.”
“He’s got another five years and he can retire and do what he wants.”
“What’s that?” Helen said.
Margery shrugged. “He didn’t tell me.”
They rolled over the bridge into Palm Beach. The street looked like it had been steam-cleaned and landscaped by Disney. It was so neat, it made Helen nervous.
“We’re on Royal Palm Way, which is lined with royal palms,” she said.
“The rich aren’t big on ambiguity,” Margery said.
The late Page Turner didn’t have a house on the water, but he lived only a block or so away. The sight of Turner’s opulent home made Helen sick. It was a Mizner-style mansion in a shade of peach only rich people could buy. It was surrounded by a ten-foot-tall ficus hedge, but Helen could see the circular drive through the wrought- iron gates. The mansion was artistically lit, inside and out.
“Is this a hotel or what?” she said. “How many rooms does it have? Look at that. I can’t believe that cheap son of a gun was whining about paying me six seventy an hour.
My salary wouldn’t pay for his floodlight bill.”
“You wouldn’t want the man walking in the dark,” Margery said.
“I want him rotting in hell,” Helen said.
“It’s hard to sympathize with the little people when you’re sitting in a Cadillac,” Margery said. “Let’s keep some perspective here. Now, will you put down your manifesto and help me find a place to park?”
The street signs said, PARKING BY PERMIT ONLY—9 A.M. TO 6 P.M.
“It’s going on ten o’clock,” Helen said. “We can park on the street. If we see any security coming around, we’ll move on.”
“OK, but you’re going to have to do most of the watching. I can hardly see anything. My view is blocked by the hedge.”
They watched for an hour with the lights off. “If we don’t find a bathroom soon, I’m going to ruin the upholstery,” Margery said. “I could use some coffee and a cigarette, too.” Margery had made the supreme sacrifice. She didn’t smoke on the stakeout.
They stopped at a convenience store on Dixie Highway.
“This surveillance stuff is about as exciting as alphabetizing my spices,” Margery said. “I’m beginning to miss that parrot. His squawks would keep me awake.”
“It’s almost eleven. You want to hang it up for tonight?”
Helen said.
“No, let’s go back for another hour or so.”
As they sat in the dark, Helen asked, “How come the police never suspected you of Page Turner’s murder? He was killed at your place.”
“Why, that’s so sweet,” Margery said sincerely. “You don’t think I’m a helpless old lady. The cops did. Also, I had an alibi. I was drinking Singapore slings with Alice, the owner of the beach motel, until two a.m. One of the guests complained about the noise.”
It was eleven-twenty when a small car pulled up to the wrought-iron gates. An arm snaked out and punched in a code. The gates swung open.
“He has the combination,” Helen said. “He’s been here before. And look at that little car. He’s no rich guy.”
“This is it,” Margery said. “You don’t make a social call at this hour. We’re about to find out the widow
