This time Helen did. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to think about the cops, Jason, or Phil. She wanted to believe that people could live happily ever after and have real love at age seventy-six. Her landlady sat on the chaise longue next to Warren, smoking a Marlboro. She had the smile of a satisfied woman.
Warren filled a flute with champagne and handed it to Helen. She toasted the couple, then took a sip. The bubbles tickled her tongue.
“Do you dance, Helen?” he said. His tanned skin was like fine old leather, and he had interesting crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Margery had herself quite a catch.
“I grew up in the dreaded disco era, Warren. I just bounce up and down.”
“You should take dancing lessons. Many young people do.” It didn’t sound like a sales pitch. Warren seemed to believe dancing was good for people. It had done wonders for Margery.
“I give lessons to brides and grooms,” Warren said. “Many couples dance together for the first time at their wedding. They’re afraid of tripping or looking foolish. A lesson or two from me, and they have a beautiful start to their married life.”
“I’m not planning to get married anytime soon,” Helen said.
“You never know. You’re certainly in the right business. I gave the most unusual lesson of my life at your store. An emergency dance lesson, if you will.”
“My store? You mean Millicent’s?”
“Yes, Millicent had a gay couple in the shop after hours. She sold the bride—a female impersonator named Lady George—a lovely dress. An Oscar de la Renta, if I remember correctly. It had this deep-pleated ruffle running down the back. Very graceful. The groom’s name was Gary. The couple admitted that they were nervous about dancing together at their reception.
“Millicent tried to send Gary and Lady George to my studio, but they didn’t want to be seen learning to dance where others could watch. I have those large windows, you know.
“So Millicent called me, and I came to her store. We went upstairs to the fitting area so the couple could have privacy, and I gave them dancing lessons. It took awhile, but they finally caught on. I think they’ll dance beautifully together, now that Lady George has mastered that ruffle.
“They danced until nearly three in morning. They were so touching. Your Millicent was magnificent. I knew she wanted to go home. It was a Friday night after all, and she’d just put together this big wedding as a special rush job. But she stayed there for them.”
“A Friday night?” Helen said. “In early December?”
“Yes. I asked after you, but she said you were at the rehearsal. Millicent opened the shop specially for Lady George, so the bride could make her dress selection with no observers.”
Now Helen understood Millicent’s secrecy. Society brides would not buy a gown if it had been tried on by a transvestite. Lady George would not feel comfortable undressing near women with all the factory-installed equipment.
Helen could imagine what Desiree’s snotty bridesmaids would say about Lady George. They’d flayed poor flapping Emily, and her only fault was a few extra pounds.
Millicent stayed late at the store to give Lady George the privacy she needed. Then she kept her customer’s secret. And what a secret it was. Helen could see the couple now, dancing among the dressmaker’s dummies.
I thought Millicent was a murderer. Instead, she was a decent person and a good businesswoman. Helen felt small-minded and mean. She wanted to creep away and hide.
Helen finished her champagne and said, “Good night. Thanks so much. And Warren, I’m really glad I talked with you.”
The moon lit her way back to her room. Millicent was innocent. She’d eliminated one suspect. Suddenly, she felt so tired. She tiptoed past Phil’s window, but she wasn’t quiet enough. He opened his door.
For a moment Helen was struck silent with longing. The light shone on his silvery hair and outlined his broad chest. He was wearing another blue shirt. She was a sucker for blue shirts and blue eyes.
“Helen, what’s going on? Two homicide detectives came here today, checking your alibi for that wedding rehearsal night.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I was with you all night and left about seven in the morning.”
Helen couldn’t hide her relief.
“I’ve been so worried.” Phil’s eyes were soft with concern. “Why are the police asking about you?”
Phil’s sympathy almost melted her anger. But then she saw Kendra, wrapped around his trunk like poison ivy. To hell with his sympathy. She’d give him the facts and that was all.
“A customer at the bridal shop was murdered,” Helen said, as if there was nothing odd about that sentence. “The police found my fingerprints and DNA at the crime scene.”
“My God,” Phil said. “Please let me help you. I know a lawyer, a good one. I can investigate for you. I’ll do it for free. I have contacts with the police. I can talk with them—”
He reached out for her, but she stepped away, trapped in her shame, lost in her ancient anger at another man.
“Good night, Phil.” She unlocked her door.
“Helen, don’t be like that. Helen—”
She shut the door on his protests and double locked it.
Chapter 21
Helen locked her door to keep Phil out—and herself in.
She longed to run out and throw herself into his arms. She missed him so much. Helen felt like he had been torn from her—no, amputated without an anesthetic—and she was bleeding all over everything.
Margery said she needed courage to forgive Phil and learn to trust men. Helen thought she needed an eraser to get rid of her awful memories. They replayed endlessly in her mind: Once again, she saw Kendra’s dyed red hair, cheap short skirt, and catlike smile as she clung to Helen’s man.
And Phil—he was standing in his bedroom like a gigged frog.
Let’s not forget your role, Helen told herself. She’d popped in half-naked and yelled “surprise” like a hooker at a bachelor party.
Helen had worked herself into a meltdown rage when a blue envelope came skidding under her door. She opened it and read the note:
She crumpled the note into a ball and threw it against the wall. Thumbs jumped off the couch and batted it around the floor, doing flips and leaps. Helen sat down for a moment in her turquoise Barcalounger to watch the big cat play.
She woke up at three A.M.
Ugh. She hated when she did that. Her face was greasy with old makeup. Her mouth was dry. It hardly seemed worth going to bed when she had to be up in another three hours, but Helen dragged herself to her bedroom.
As soon as she hit the mattress, she was wide-awake. Helen stared at the ceiling and thought of her champagne nights with Phil. What would he drink with Kendra: Ripple? Cold Duck? Mad Dog 20/20?
Finally she cried herself into a restless sleep.
The morning didn’t look any better and she looked worse. Helen winced when she glanced in the mirror. The bags under her eyes were prizewinners. She could haul bowling balls in them.
Helen fished two ice cubes out of the freezer, put them on her bags for a bit, then checked the mirror again.
Great. Now the bags were bright red. She looked like she had eye hives. Worse, her concealer didn’t stick well to semifrozen bags. She quit trying to paint over them and got dressed.
As she slipped on her right shoe, Helen felt something in the toe. She pulled out Phil’s crumpled note. Thumbs had dropped it in her shoe.
