Astrid and Gayle were in it together. Astrid, as the most likely suspect, had established her alibi. Meanwhile, Gayle did the dirty work.
Suddenly, all Gayle’s odd behavior made sense.
Gayle knew Peggy had threatened to kill Page. She’d been at the store when it happened.
Gayle knew where Helen lived because she’d been to the Coronado before. She took Page Turner there and dumped his body in Peggy’s bed to throw suspicion on her.
Gayle was strong enough to move the body.
Gayle knew the Coronado was being tented. Helen had talked about it and asked for the weekend off.
Gayle could go into a building filled with poison gas.
She had a firefighter brother with access to SCBA gear.
Gayle hated Page Turner so much, she broke his Bawls.
Gayle had golden hair and a silver car.
Gayle told everyone that Peggy was guilty. Helen was sure she steered the police her friend’s way.
When Page’s office was broken into, Gayle said nothing was missing. If something vital was indeed stolen, something that cleared Peggy, Gayle would never tell the police.
All Gayle cared about was that the break-in would upset her precious Astrid.
And what about poor Mr. Davies, dead in his favorite chair? Gayle could have easily slipped back from her errand to hear Mr. Davies was about to spill the beans. She could have smothered him anytime during the mommy riot.
She certainly didn’t seem upset at his death.
Gayle stayed with the police when they were investigating Mr. Davies’ death, “helping” them. She made sure Denny and Helen weren’t anywhere near the scene. She could easily hide or cover up anything suspicious.
And what part did Astrid play in this? She was safely in Vero Beach, dancing till dawn in front of the photographers, while her lover made her a rich widow.
She had the money so they could live happily ever after.
Helen did not get more than four hours’ sleep that night, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t even care that she had to go into the bookstore on her day off. Today, she would confirm Gayle’s role in the murders. She would solve this case and save her friend. Peggy would be reunited with her pal Pete and live happily ever after.
Brad usually took his lunch hour at one o’clock. It was a short walk from the library to the bookstore. On the way, Helen stopped at a drugstore and picked up the latest magazine tribute to Jennifer Lopez.
The little bookseller was munching Miami Subs takeout when Helen walked in the break room. She had no idea how he stayed so skinny on junk food.
“I brought you a present,” Helen said, and handed him the magazine.
“Is this a bribe?” he joked.
“Sort of,” Helen said.
“I owe you for Albert,” he said, biting into a sandwich oozing lettuce and mayonnaise sauce. “Since you recited his poem, he hasn’t even mentioned J.Lo’s name.”
“Good,” Helen said. “You remember the night Page Turner died?”
“How could I forget? He was a bastard to the end.”
“Was it busy here that night?”
“Nonstop. It was a full moon, too, and every weirdo in South Florida was in the store. I was working the register. I had to call Gayle up front because some wacko wanted to order a book on devil worship, but wouldn’t give us his name, phone number, or address. He was one scary dude.
Dead-white skin, black clothes. Looked like he slept in a coffin. Gayle told him no phone or address, no order. I’m convinced he put a curse on us. In fact, that would explain everything that’s happened to this store since.” Helen thought Brad was only half kidding.
“Is that the only time Gayle came up front?”
“I think so. I handled the other crises myself. She stayed in the office the whole night, working on the accounts and the new schedule.”
“Did she go out for lunch?”
“She ate an eggplant sandwich from the cafe at her desk,” Brad said. “I saw her buy it.”
“But you didn’t actually see her in her office the whole night,” Helen said. “You were at the front cash register. She could have easily slipped out for an hour.”
“She could have, but she didn’t,” Brad said. He’d dripped a spot of mayo on his chin. “I hope you aren’t trying to pin Page’s murder on Gayle. You obviously haven’t worked as many shit jobs as I have. She’s a good manager.
She’s too decent to murder anyone. I don’t really feel like reading, thank you.”
He handed Helen back the J.Lo tribute. She did not think anyone could look so dignified with mayonnaise on his chin.
Helen should have felt ashamed. But she didn’t. She couldn’t wait to get back to the Coronado with her news.
“The wife had to have an unbreakable alibi,” Helen said.
“She would be the logical suspect. Gayle did the killing.
She has no alibi for that night. She was alone in the office.
She could have slipped out the back door and no one would have seen her.”
“Now all we have to do is prove it,” Margery said. “We are going back to Palm Beach tonight, aren’t we?”
“You bet,” Helen said. “I’ve stirred things up at the store.
I think we might see something interesting tonight.”
This time, there was no rain on the hour-long drive. Even the traffic seemed saner. But the stakeout was just as boring. They parked in the same spot. Helen and Margery kept the same routine, watching for an hour, then driving around, then returning to their post. They encountered a security patrol, but no one questioned the formidable Margery.
After eleven p.m., they looked up hopefully every time a car came down the street. But Gayle did not arrive until twelve-thirty. The house lights went off about one a.m.
At one-ten, a hand yanked open the passenger door and pulled Helen out by the collar. She landed on her knees and found herself staring at a pair of shiny black Doc Martens.
Helen could hear Margery say, in her best grande-dame voice, “Young woman, what do you think you are doing?”
“You!” Gayle said, pulling Helen up. “What are you doing here? Why is an employee spying on me?”
“I ...”
Margery batted her eyes at Gayle and said, “We needed some privacy. Some quality time together. Surely you understand.”
Helen was always astonished at how boldly and easily Margery could lie. Now she was pretending to be Helen’s lover.
Gayle wasn’t buying it. “Nice try. But you forgot I work with her. I got nothing on my gaydar. She’s straight as an arrow. Explain yourself.”
“I ...” Helen tried again. But nothing came out. Even Margery seemed flummoxed now. Helen knew she’d be fired.
“Let me guess. You think if you can blame Page Turner’s murder on me, your friend Peggy will go free. Brad told me you asked him where I was that night. It’s easy to blame the gays, isn’t it? We’re already doing something unnatural.
Why not murder?”
“It’s not like that, Gayle. I like you. I respect you.”
“You like me so much you think I murdered Page. That worthless shit deserved to die, but I didn’t do it.”
“You have good reason to be angry, Gayle. I’m desperate, and I did something dumb. But I know Peggy is innocent. I just can’t figure out who did it.”
“I thought it was Peggy,” Gayle said, her voice calmer.
