“Mother always paid, but she was in no hurry,” Desiree said. “She delayed as long as she could. People with means do that. It would be faster and easier for Millicent to collect the money from Mother’s estate. But I’m going to make sure she has a very hard time. And you can tell her that.”
Desiree pushed her empty plate aside and looked out the window. “It’s Luke. He’s waving to me. He wants me to come outside. He must have good news. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“But—” Helen said.
Desiree threw down her napkin and ran out. She wrapped herself around Luke’s waist while he talked on the phone.
Helen paid their bill.
If Luke’s call was good news, he didn’t share it with Helen. Nor did the couple thank her for picking up their dinner tab. Helen guessed she should be grateful they gave her a ride home.
As she sat in silence in the Beemer, Desiree’s accusation worked its way through Helen like a slow poison. Little distrustful memories stabbed at her: Why didn’t Millicent say that Kiki would give her a big check at the wedding? She could have left a message at Margery’s.
Because she knew Kiki was dead, an ugly little voice whispered.
Helen could see an enraged Millicent following Kiki to the church, waiting till Jason left, then fighting over money and smothering Kiki with the dress she wouldn’t pay for.
Unless Jason killed her.
Or maybe it was Desiree, the little bride with the big fake bags under her eyes. Desiree had to paint on her grief. Her husband Luke was some actor—but so was his wife.
“I turn left off Las Olas?” Desiree said.
“Then right,” Helen said. “It’s that big white building.”
The Beemer pulled in front of the Coronado. Helen wished that Desiree did not know where she lived.
As she walked to her apartment, Helen saw a shadow figure on Phil’s closed blinds. The woman swayed, swung her long hair, and sang, “You can’t divorce my heart. It’s the part that will always love you.”
Kendra.
Was she rehearsing—or giving Phil a private performance?
Helen slammed the door to her apartment, but she couldn’t shut out Kendra’s song. All thoughts of murder —Kiki’s murder, anyway—vanished. She was tormented by jealousy, loss, and love.
It’s your fault, she told herself. You drove Phil away.
Why didn’t he tell me about her? Helen’s heart cried. She paced restlessly as the rooms grew smaller. Tonight her cozy apartment seemed claustrophobic. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t sit out by the pool. She might run into Margery and Warren, or Peggy and her policeman. Everyone had a lover but her. Even Kendra. Especially Kendra.
Helen couldn’t stand being shut up with her thoughts. Although it was midnight, she found herself walking— no, stomping—through the dark streets. Helen knew it was foolish to wander alone in the poorly lit lanes. But she couldn’t bear the laughing couples and bright lights of Las Olas. She was too angry, and though she wouldn’t admit it, too wounded.
Her ex had betrayed her so badly, Helen swore she’d never trust a man again. Until she met Phil and learned to love him. Then Kendra showed up and wrecked Helen’s life all over again.
She stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. Helen stopped to wipe away her tears. Damn him. Damn all men.
Suddenly, she was aware of footsteps behind her. Heavy footsteps, not the light click clack of heels. Someone was following her. Helen looked around the street. The bright-painted Caribbean cottages were dark. The porch lights were off. The Bahamas shutters were down. No dogs barked.
Where was she? How many blocks had she gone?
Helen reached in her pocket for her key ring. Her car had died, and she couldn’t afford to fix it. Now its only use was the dubious protection of a pointed car key in a stalker’s eye.
The footsteps drew closer. She walked faster, saw a street sign, and made a quick turn toward the lights of Las Olas. They were three dark blocks away.
“Helen!”
She jumped. It was Phil.
“Helen, wait up!”
She walked faster, long-legged strides that ate up a whole sidewalk square at a time. But Phil was determined. She heard him running. Then he was beside her.
“Helen, please! Let me talk to you.”
Phil stepped in front of her, which was like stepping in front of a charging lioness. “Listen to me, Helen Hawthorne. I love you. I can’t live without you.”
Then his warm lips were on hers. She felt her foolish anger dissolve.
“I’m counting the days until Kendra’s gone,” he whispered, as he kissed her face and then her throat. She ran her fingers through his long silky hair, then down the muscles of his shoulders. He felt so strong.
“I was wrong. I should have never let her stay with me,” Phil said. “It was the second biggest mistake of my life.”
“What was the first?” Helen asked and was instantly sorry. Phil stopped kissing her to answer.
“The day I married Kendra.”
Helen wanted to go back to kissing, but she needed some answers. “How did you meet her? Kendra doesn’t seem your type.”
“She wasn’t. But I had a long undercover assignment in Kentucky. She was the prettiest girl in town and I was lonely.”
“So you really went undercover.”
“I knew it was wrong when we stood at the altar,” Phil said, “but it was too late. I tried to make the marriage work, but it was hopeless. Now that she’s staying with me, it’s worse than hopeless. I’d forgotten what a slob she is. This morning, I found wet pantyhose in my shower, dirty dishes in my sink, and an open jam jar on the counter. You can’t leave food out in this climate. Now I have ants.”
His commonplace domestic complaints gave her a little thrill.
“I promise you that she means nothing to me,” Phil said, as she let him fold her into his arms. The soft fabric of his shirt was almost like suede.
Helen remembered that her ex-husband had said the same thing about Sandy. She kissed Phil until she smothered that memory.
Chapter 17
It was the morning of the lost men.
They sat on Millicent’s gray husband couch like sailors stranded on a desert isle, dazed and bleak. Helen thought the couch cast a spell on men, sucking out their money and their hope.
One couch castaway was in his late twenties. Mark was a lawyer who looked like he was wearing a tie even when he had on a Polo shirt. His bride, Courtney, was in butt-sprung shorts and broken-down mules. Helen wouldn’t wear that outfit to take out the trash.
The bloom was off that rose, she thought. Helen saw the couple in twenty years, gone to seed and planted in matching recliners.
“I haven’t given Courtney the ring yet,” Mark said. “She’s picking out the dress. I guess we have to get engaged.”
He sounded so hopeless, Helen said, “You don’t have to. It’s not too late.”
“I don’t have any choice,” he said.
The bride marched out of the dressing room, flushed with triumph.
Millicent followed with a plastic-shrouded gown. Courtney paid for the dress, then dragged her not-yetfiance
