combination.
Millicent called out, “Here comes the bride.”
LaTonya slowly descended the stairs, her head held high. Her white veil floated like a banner.
“Here comes the bride,” the mother crooned to the traditional tune.
Then her voice swelled and she sang, “I say, here comes the bride, oh Lord, Lord, Lord.” Dorcas turned the tune into a full-throated gospel song.
I say here comes the bride
I am filled with righteous pride.
Thanks be to the Lord, oh yes.
LaTonya gave her mother a dazzling smile.
Millicent had tears in her eyes. “Did you ever see anything so beautiful?” The afternoon’s frustrations were borne away on the mother’s sweet song.
Dorcas dabbed her eyes with a man’s handkerchief. “I’ve been lost all these weeks, worrying about money and details,” she said. “I forgot what this wedding is all about.”
The bride, Helen thought. There would be no wedding without the bride.
There would be no murder without the bride, either. Kiki wanted to upstage her mousy daughter at her own wedding. But Desiree was a mouse with the heart of a wildcat. And her mother was dead.
It was Desiree who demanded to see Helen. It was Desiree who fed her the information about Millicent, then sent Helen off on a wild-goose chase that wasted her time.
Desiree knew something—and she didn’t want Helen to find out what it was.
The bride was the key to this murder.
Chapter 24
Helen walked home from work in the soft twilight. Fort Lauderdale was preparing for its nightly party. Musicians were setting up in the Las Olas restaurants. Sunburned tourists were ordering pitchers of margaritas. Cruise ship passengers wandered aimlessly through the shops.
Everyone had vacation smiles except Helen. She felt tired and sad. There’d been too many emotional scenes at the bridal shop today. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She didn’t know why she was crying—and then she did.
She missed Phil. She could see him now, that lean muscular body and those blue denim eyes. She missed his sardonic comments and his sharp intelligence. But most of all, she missed his love. She needed their champagne nights to survive the drudgery of her dead-end job.
With Phil, the Coronado seemed delightfully eccentric. Tonight the place looked seedy. Rust trails dripped from the window air conditioners. The sidewalk was cracked. The purple bougainvillea had dead spots, even after Margery’s pruning.
Helen also missed the comfort of her friends. She wanted to sit out by the pool and sip wine with Peggy and Margery, but both their apartments were dark.
But she wouldn’t go running to Phil. Not as long as his awful ex, Kendra, the Kentucky Songbird, was living with him. Maybe someday Helen could find the courage to forgive him. But not with Kendra gloating in the background. The woman had seen her naked. It was too much to bear.
Helen saw a light on at Phil’s place. Should she peek through his miniblinds?
Why not? She had no pride left after popping up in her black panties.
She crouched down and looked through the slats. Phil’s living room was the same welter of Kendra’s clothes, cereal bowls, and coffee cups. Helen’s stomach turned when she saw a brush bristling with red hair on an open pizza box. A red lace bra sprawled on the sofa.
The woman was shameless.
Phil’s bedroom door was shut. Was he locked in there with the braless Kendra? Or had they gone out together?
Helen wanted to knock on Phil’s door. She wanted to knock in his head. She didn’t do either. She marched home head down and ran into a solid wall of muscle.
It was Detective Bill McIntyre. His crooked-nosed partner, Janet Smith, was standing next to him on Helen’s doorstep. Helen’s heart started thumping when she saw them.
“Can we talk with you?” McIntyre said.
No! Helen started to shout. But she was afraid to say that. “Come in,” she said, hoping she sounded natural.
She unlocked her door. The two detectives followed her. Detective Smith prowled the two-room apartment, picking up knickknacks and putting them down. Helen wanted to tell her to stop, but she didn’t. She was starting to sweat.
Detective McIntyre sat on the turquoise couch. His muscular frame dwarfed its spindly fifties design. Thumbs, her traitorous cat, jumped into his lap.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Helen said.
“No thanks,” both detectives said.
A bad sign, Helen thought. Cops did not like to drink with suspects. She perched on the edge of the Barcalounger.
“You don’t have a phone,” Detective McIntyre said. He ran his huge hand through Thumbs’s soft fur. The cat purred loudly. Detective Smith was examining a flea-market vase as if it were museum-quality Meissen.
“I hate phones,” Helen said.
“No credit cards, either.” He scratched Thumbs’s ears. The faithless cat rolled over in flagrant feline delight and presented his belly.
“I’m trying to live within my means,” Helen said.
“And no bank account.”
“I don’t trust banks. Is that a crime?” Helen tried to say it boldly, but her voice quavered.
“No. But it is a crime to interfere with a homicide investigation and threaten a potential witness. Jason said you’d threatened him.”
“I threatened him? He threatened me. Ask his neighbor. She heard the whole thing.”
“He told us what he’d overheard the night of the rehearsal. Jason says you had a fight with the victim.”
Helen didn’t like Detective McIntyre’s tone. “I told you that.”
“Only after we heard it from another source.”
“I forgot. I was tired.” Helen sounded defensive.
“You also forgot to mention that you threatened to kill Kiki. Jason said you shouted, ‘Don’t you threaten me, lady. If I lose this job, you’re a dead woman.’ ”
“That’s a lie.” Helen leaped off the Barcalounger, red with rage. “I never said any such thing.”
That lying scum. Helen wanted to wring Jason’s neck. Then she saw Detectives Smith and McIntyre staring at her. She’d certainly showed her temper. Helen settled back on the Barcalounger and tried to answer more calmly. “You must have noticed I didn’t lose my job.”
“Kiki didn’t have time to complain. She was dead before the shop opened on Saturday,” Detective McIntyre said.
“Jason is lying,” Helen said. “Are you going to take the word of a drug dealer?”
“I’m not worried about someone who deals a little recreational Ecstasy,” McIntyre said. “I have a murder to solve. You’ve got no business messing in this investigation. I’m making it my business to find out why you’re so interested. Good-bye, Ms. Hawthorne.”
Detective McIntyre put down her cat and brushed the hair off his trousers, then walked out. Detective Smith followed. This time she was the silent partner.
Helen sank down on the couch, which was still warm from McIntyre’s bulky body. Thumbs bumped her hand,
