“There’s no fool like an old fool,” Margery said, “and I don’t mean Elsie.”
The woman with the throaty laugh and the elegant French twist was gone forever, Helen thought sadly. Margery would never again dance with a man in the moonlight. Warren had committed a double crime: He’d stolen Elsie’s money and taken the last of Margery’s youth.
The two women searched for dance lesson contracts and other papers. “I haven’t turned up anything more incriminating than his grocery and gasoline receipts,” Helen said.
“Gas prices are a crime, but he didn’t commit it,” Margery said.
In the bedroom, Helen found a locked closet. “Ha,” she said. “He’s up to something, and he doesn’t want the women he’s dating to find it.”
“Dating,” Margery said. “That’s a nice old-fashioned word for what he’s been doing. I’ve got keys to the closets, too.”
Margery unlocked the closet door. They saw the heads—two of them. Helen gave a little shriek of surprise.
One foam head had a beautiful shock of silver hair. The other was empty.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Margery said. “That pretty silver hair is a rug. I never guessed—and I ran my fingers through it.”
She turned the toupee over. On the inside were round metal eyelets. “He’s got an expensive one. The hooks are embedded right in his head. He attaches the toupee and gets the best fit.”
Helen winced. She could feel the hooks sticking out of her head.
Margery shoved the toupee in her pocket. “Got him. His ladies won’t think he’s such a stud when they see him with hooks in his bald head. I’m so happy about this, I feel like dancing.”
“Me, too,” Helen said.
“We’ll take my car, in case we need to make a quick getaway,” Margery said.
Warren’s Studio of the Dance was in a pink stucco storefront off Las Olas. Warren was waltzing a woman of about eighty around the room. They were both graceful dancers.
“He’s fun to watch, I’ll give him that,” Margery said. “He put me through my paces.” Helen could hear the layers of hurt and bitterness under her light words.
The studio was furnished with a couple of couches, a few potted palms, and photos of dancers from Fred and Ginger to Tommy Tune. There were black footprints painted on the floor in intricate patterns. Helen knew she’d fall over her feet if she ever tried them, but Warren and the dancing woman moved through the routines with practiced swiftness.
Margery wasn’t watching the couple. She was examining the framed items on the walls.
“Time’s up, Shirley!” Warren said when the music stopped. “See you next week.”
Shirley changed out of her ballroom shoes and headed for the door. Margery waited in the shadows until Shirley left.
When Warren saw her, he gave a glittering smile. “Margery! Have you come for those advanced lessons after all? A little rumba, maybe? Or a cha-cha?” He swiveled his hips expertly.
“Nope, this is going to be a cakewalk.” Margery whipped out the silver toupee.
“Margery! How could you? You stole that,” he said indignantly. “You entered my apartment illegally.”
“And you stole forty-eight thousand dollars from my friend, Elsie. You better tear up that contract.”
“I can’t. It’s a legal document. It’s way past the three-day cancellation period.”
“Dance studios are supposed to be registered with the state of Florida,” Margery said. “Your registration certificate should be prominently displayed up there with Fred and Ginger.”
“A minor oversight,” Warren said.
“Yeah, well, I’m overseeing this toupee.” She shook it like a dead rat. “I’ll come back for the other one and tear it off your bald head. Let’s see how attractive those gullible old biddies find you then.” Helen knew who the most gullible biddy was. Margery was gleefully destroying their moonlit nights.
“That’s stalking! I’ll get a restraining order.” Warren’s craggy face was unpleasantly flushed.
“You might stop me,” Margery said. “But you can’t stop every old woman in South Florida. You’ll never know when one of my friends will come in here, start dancing, and snatch you bald. They won’t be gentle, Warren. They might tear some hooks out of your head. Especially when they think about what you did to a sweet widow woman like Elsie.”
“Margery, please, can’t we talk?” Warren pleaded. “Doesn’t our time together mean anything?”
Helen winced at Warren’s sappy words.
Margery’s smile was savage. She held the toupee like a fresh scalp. “Nope. I got me a wild hair. Let’s go, Helen.”
They left Warren flatfooted in his dance studio.
Chapter 22
“So how’s your investigation going, Sherlock?” Margery was weaving in and out of the tourist traffic on Las Olas. Warren’s captured toupee lay between them like a dead pet.
Helen did not want to have this conversation. But if she didn’t, Margery would ask about Phil. She wanted to discuss her love life even less.
“Why do you think I’m investigating anything?”
“Your customer’s been murdered, the cops are asking the wrong questions, and you want me to give the right answers.”
Margery slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a man in a parrot shirt. “Blasted brain-dead tourist. Did you see that? Walked right into the traffic. I should run him down to teach him a lesson.”
Warren’s toupee slid across the seat. Now it was nuzzling Helen’s leg. “I could talk better if you’d get rid of that creepy hairpiece,” she said.
Margery picked it up by its scruff and stuffed it in her pocket.
“Speak,” she said.
Helen did. When she finished, Margery said, “Was that wedding held in a briar patch? Why is everyone scratched?”
“Not everyone,” Helen said. “Just three people. The cops think Kiki may have scratched her murderer. That could be why her nails were chopped off, to get rid of the incriminating DNA. Or maybe her killer was kinky. I saw her hands. They looked bizarre.”
Those clutching dead-child hands flashed in her mind again.
“Hello, Helen, are you there? Who else is scratched?” Margery said.
Helen shook off the memory. “Chauncey has a scratch on his neck, but Donna Sue says he got it at the theater. Desiree has a scratch on her arm. She says it was a cat. Her father’s not saying how he got the scratches on his hands.”
“All these scratches aren’t natural,” Margery said.
“One isn’t natural,” Helen said. “The others just happened. Everyone gets scrapes and scratches.”
“Yeah, right,” Margery said.
“What’s that on your right hand?” Helen pointed to a long red scrape.
“I was trimming the bougainvillea and it bit me,” Margery said.
“I rest my case,” Helen said.
“Watch it or I’ll get out that toupee again,” Margery said. “Have you checked that Jason guy for scratches?”
“No. Come to think of it, he was wearing a sweater with long sleeves. Of course, it was chilly.”
“He could be hiding something,” Margery said.
“He is hiding something. Ever since I talked with him at the theater, I’ve been trying to figure out what it is. I know he sells Ecstasy. I suspect he’s also using his product. One actress said he’s real touchy-feely. He wore this super-soft sweater, cashmere or something. X makes you sensitive to touch, so users crave hugs, stuffed animals, soft things.”
