“Oh, no, you don’t.” Helen grabbed his collar and yanked him back toward her. His dress tore down the front. Its long sleeves tangled his arms and held them together like handcuffs.
Helen goggled at his naked chest. Her attacker had huge pendulous breasts with hot-pink nipples. They were foam rubber.
“Holy cow, you can buy a sagging chest,” Helen said.
“I got mine free for my birthday,” Margery said.
“Helen, you’re worse than a man,” Peggy said. “Quit looking at tits and tell us who he is.”
“You’re blocking the light,” Helen said. “I think it’s Jason, recapping his sword-fight scene from
Helen saw the blood running down her arm. She would need stitches. She’d probably have an ugly scar. She was so angry, she grabbed her assailant by his hair and dunked him once more.
“Helen! Do I have to come in there after you? Who is it?” Margery howled. The sirens howled with her. The cops were almost at the Coronado.
Helen dragged the choking, spluttering man over to the lights for a good look. She stared at his handsome actor’s face, then blinked.
“Luke!” she said. “You’re the killer.”
Chapter 27
“Helen, you’re safe.”
Phil’s voice was a caress. Helen’s eyes teared at his tenderness.
Phil knelt down to pull her out of the pool, a semi-naked knight at her service. Helen took his strong hands and remembered how they felt on her bare skin.
Then she thought of them unhooking Kendra’s red lace bra.
“You idiot,” Helen said as he pulled her up onto the concrete.
“What?” Phil’s eyes widened in surprise, and he let go of her. Helen fell back in the pool with a seismic splash, drenching everyone.
“What the hell was that for?” Margery said. Her gray hair hung in wet hanks, but she kept her gun trained on Luke’s fake foam chest. He didn’t move.
“What are you doing?” a dripping Peggy said. She looked like the winner of a wet T-shirt contest.
Helen could handle a murderer, but a lover was another matter. A woman had only so much courage each day. This time, she climbed out of the pool on her own, using the ladder.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said to Phil, who looked stunned.
“I think she’s light-headed,” Margery said. “Helen, you’re bleeding. We’ll get you help.”
Blood trickled down Helen’s arm and dribbled on her feet. Blood smeared her chest. Blood streaked her face like savage paint. Blood was pulsing off the Coronado walls and pool. Helen finally figured out that red was the police lights. The pool seemed to be swimming in red.
Helen started to sway.
“She needs an ambulance,” Phil said.
“Then call one and get some clean towels,” Margery said. She kept her gun trained on Luke.
Helen felt woozy when she looked at the pulsing bloodred pool. There was something black on the bottom. She looked closer. It was her purse. Inside was the tape recorder. Her conversation with Desiree was drowned in nine feet of water. Helen felt the world go black as she tumbled toward the concrete.
Phil was holding her bandaged hand. If this was a dream, it was a good one. He was so handsome. His eyes were electric blue. His naked chest was lean and lightly tanned. Even his crooked nose was cute.
She felt a draft at her back and knew she was wearing one of those stupid hospital gowns. They belonged in nightmares. This was real.
“Hi, there,” Phil said. “You’re in the emergency room. They’ve stitched you up. You’re going to be fine.”
His chest was smeared with blood.
“Are you okay?” she said. “How did you get hurt?”
“That’s your blood. I caught you when you passed out.”
Then Helen remembered everything—the conversation with Desiree, the fight with Luke, and Kendra’s red bra.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “Suddenly you look angry.”
Helen had learned one lesson after all her work: Things were not what they seemed. Jason was crazy, but he wasn’t a killer. The old woman by the pool was a man.
Helen thought the woman she heard making love in Phil’s bed was Kendra. But was the man Phil? Helen assumed it was. But so many of her other assumptions had been wrong.
“I want you to answer me, and I want an honest answer, no matter what the consequences,” she said. If Phil had been with Kendra, so be it. Margery had survived Warren. She would get over Phil.
“I promise,” Phil said solemnly.
“When I came home tonight, I heard a woman in your bedroom. Was that Kendra?”
“Yes,” Phil said.
Helen’s heart beat wildly. Now she had to ask the second question: “Was the man you?”
“No,” Phil said.
Helen studied his face for signs of lying. Her ex would get shifty eyed and sound extra sincere when he lied. Phil looked her straight in the eye.
“Do you believe me?” he said.
A great stillness descended between them. Helen thought the rest of her life depended on her answer.
“Yes. I do,” she said.
“Good,” Phil said. She realized he’d been holding his breath as well as her hand.
“Here’s what happened,” he said. “I came home tonight and found Kendra in my bed with another man. I’d made a deal with her: She couldn’t drag any more men back to my apartment. The last one stole my Clap-ton collection. I didn’t care what she did, but not at my place.
“Kendra said this character was a big-time producer who could help her career. Some help. He couldn’t even afford a motel room. I told her to pack up.”
“She’s gone?” Helen said.
Margery barged into the room, a whirl of wet purple. “I heard the whole thing,” she said. “At least the scene on the sidewalk. He threw out Kendra along with her rhinestone cowboy. Phil even loaded her suitcases into a cab. She’s out of there.”
“Oh, Phil.” Helen threw herself at Phil and began kissing him wildly. He didn’t care that she was covered in bandages. He kissed her right back. His lips were soft and warm. His face was pleasantly scratchy. It felt good to hold him again.
“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she said
“No, I’ve missed you,” Phil said.
Helen could feel exactly how much he missed her.
Margery’s hand clamped on her shoulder. “I don’t want to be a killjoy, but the cops want to talk to you. Now. They’re on their way in. Are you ready for that?”
Helen nodded.
“Good. I’ll tell them. And Helen, I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses.”
Margery winked at her.
The evening after the swimming pool attack, Helen sat on a chaise longue at the Coronado. All traces of the bloody battle were gone. The concrete had been bleached white. The pool was a peaceful oasis. Helen’s hand, arms, and chest were plastered with bandages. Her stitches itched, but she didn’t care. Phil held her good hand.
