“Why didn’t he tell me Kendra was staying with him?” Helen cried.
“He was probably scared you’d go ballistic. Which you did.”
“I had a good reason,” Helen said. “She’s so nasty. She made these insinuating little remarks about us, like I was a mercy screw. It was degrading.”
“Of course it was,” Margery said. “She wanted it that way. She’s a sly one. And you’re going to leave him alone with a hundred pounds of red-haired temptation? Helen, just let Phil move in with you. He’s there almost every night, anyway.”
“I would if he said he loved me. But he wants to do it because I’m convenient.”
“Helen Hawthorne,” Margery said. “If you let a man like Phil get away because you’re so stubborn, then you are a fool.”
Helen wiped angry tears from her eyes. “He can go to hell,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Margery said. “He will.”
Helen wanted desperately to change the subject. “Phil was just part of this wretched day. There’s a lot more. Kiki was murdered.”
“Awwk,” Pete said.
Margery dropped her cigarette. It glowed in the dusk. She retrieved it and said, “Another murder? How do you get mixed up in these things?”
“Murder is easy at a wedding,” Helen said. “Everyone wants to kill the mother of the bride.”
“The caterer did it,” Peggy said. “Or the photographer. Or the sister with the tattooed boyfriend who was banned from the ceremony.”
“Nothing that simple,” Helen said. “Ordinary people have those problems. We’re talking major money. Let me tell you what happened.”
When she finished, Margery said, “How much trouble are you in? Do you want me to retain Colby Cox for you? She’s expensive, but she owes me several favors.” Colby was one of the premier defense lawyers in South Florida.
“No, there are enough other suspects to keep the cops busy,” Helen said.
“The offer stands. I’ll call her anytime you need her,” Margery said. “Helen? Are you there, Helen?”
Helen was staring at Phil’s door. It stayed closed. He had not followed her to the pool. He won’t even walk across the yard for me, Helen thought. Damn him. She took a drink, but her wineglass was empty. She refilled it and said, “I’m going to my room to brood.”
“Good idea,” Margery said. “You’ve had a dog of a day. If you want company, knock on my door. I’ll be out till late tonight, but if you see my light, come on over.”
“Going any place interesting?” Peggy said.
“Dancing with Warren.” Helen thought Margery smiled like a woman with a secret.
“Warren, now, is it? Is there romance for rent in 2C?” Peggy teased.
“Please.” Margery blew a huge smoke screen. “Warren’s just for fun. He’s one of those rare men who likes women his own age. I go out with three other friends. He dances with all of us. I think he’s giving Elsie lessons. She’s seventy-eight and having the time of her life—if she doesn’t break her hip twirling on the dance floor.”
“Never mind Elsie,” Peggy said. “What about Margery? Helen could get you a good price on a wedding dress.”
Margery snorted. “Young people. You’ve got one thing on your mind.”
“Sex?” Peggy said.
“Marriage,” Margery said. “I’m past the marrying stage. Men Warren’s age don’t want wives. They want a nurse with a purse. I’m not that desperate. He’s strictly recreation.”
“Awwk,” Pete said.
Helen wondered if she’d ever be smart enough to use men that way.
Chapter 10
Phil knocked on her door three times Saturday night. Helen refused to open it. Then, with perfect lover’s logic, she was angry that he didn’t knock at all on Sunday.
Helen stayed inside all day, drinking cheap wine and brooding. She held a little film festival of failure in her head. Scenes from her marriage played again and again. She relived the afternoon she caught her cheating husband with their neighbor, Sandy. She saw Rob’s hairy butt bouncing in the air. How could she have loved a man who needed Nair on his rump?
She saw herself struggling with Kendra’s suitcases while that red-haired vixen stabbed her in the back. Now Phil, the love of her life, was shacked up with the enemy.
Helen downed more wine to make the misery movies go away. She was hungry, but she didn’t feel like cooking. She ate tuna out of the can. She thought Thumbs would join her for dinner, but he didn’t bother. Even the cat didn’t want her company.
Finally Helen fell asleep. In her dream, she opened the closet door and Kiki’s dead hands reached for her. She was trying to drag Helen into her cold world.
Helen woke up, alone and sweating, dry mouthed and headachy. She stumbled into the bathroom, drank a handful of cold water, and went back to bed.
Now she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about Kiki, who’d died alone. We made Kiki into some insatiable sexual siren when she was dead and stuffed in a closet, Helen thought. Poor Kiki. She had a lot of sex, but no love. She had millions, but died without dignity. Helen wondered if anyone would mourn her. Who was cruel enough to stuff her in a closet?
Helen’s own bedroom closet seemed to pulsate in the dark. The door was white as a tomb. She couldn’t sleep staring at it.
The sound came from the closet, urgent and oddly muffled.
Kiki! Helen thought. She’s after me.
“She’s dead, you idiot. And you’re drunk.” Helen thought she said those words out loud. She almost put her fear down to the fantods, when she heard another thud.
Helen switched on the bedroom light and picked up the heavy alarm clock for a bludgeon. Whatever is in there, she decided, wasn’t strong enough to open the door. I can overpower it. Helen got behind the door and threw it open, ready to attack.
Thumbs came sprawling out. He stood up, shook himself, and meowed angrily. His giant paws were tangled in an old sweater. He must have fallen asleep in a pile of winter clothes and woke up trapped in the heavy wool. That’s why the thud sounded so muffled.
Helen picked him up and soothed his ruffled fur. “I’m sorry, old boy.”
Thumbs struggled out of her arms and marched into the kitchen, demanding dinner. Helen opened a can of tuna just for him. Thumbs wolfed it down, took a bath, then followed her into the bedroom and curled up next to her. She was forgiven.
She woke up Monday morning, clutching her cat.
Helen’s tongue felt like a knitted tea cozy. Her eyes were an unfortunate fuchsia. The matching zit on her nose was a stop sign in her pale face. She tried to put on makeup, but her lipstick was a bloody slash. Her eyeliner looked like it was done with crayon. She washed her face clean. Millicent would have to take her as she was.
Helen switched on the local TV news while she put on her clothes. The announcer said, “Another bizarre twist in the Blood and Roses Murder. Police say an autopsy has revealed the cause of death for socialite Kiki Shenrad. The mother of the bride was smothered with her daughter’s wedding dress sometime after the rehearsal dinner Friday night. A bridal shop employee found her body in a closet at the church Saturday.”
Ohmigod, Helen thought. That’s me. I’m the employee. This is the biggest murder to hit Lauderdale in years. Kiki was a socialite worth thirty million bucks. Her son-in-law was a movie actor. Her heiress daughter was a new bride. Her death would be national news for sure.
