CHAPTER 11
Was that a house or a hotel? The Zerling mansion was a monster even in a millionaires’ ghetto like Hendin Island. Helen hoped she was pulling into the right driveway. The wrong choice could land her in hot water. The rich regarded lost strangers as potential burglars and were quick to call the cops.
Blossom’s directions had sounded simple. “Turn right onto Hendin Island Road,” she’d said. “There’s only one road on the island. We’re the fourth house on the left with the big ficus hedge.”
But all the Hendin Island mansions had towering ficus hedges. Ficus never got that big in Helen’s hometown of St. Louis. In the Midwest, they were scrawny houseplants struggling to survive in uncaring offices and drafty apartments.
Burly Florida ficus grew into impenetrable hedges that had to be trimmed with chain saws. The fourth house on the left had twelve-foot hedges cut into sharp angles. Helen counted the houses twice, then decided that one had to be the Zerling mansion.
It was barely noon, but Helen felt like she’d spent an eternity with the Zerling women.
After Arthur’s burial, the limo had driven Helen, Margery and Violet back to the funeral home parking lot.
Once they were inside the limo again, Violet’s control snapped. She unleashed a bitter stream of invective against Blossom. “She didn’t even invite me to my father’s funeral reception,” she’d said. “Not that I’d go. I don’t want to be in the same room with that woman.”
That’s when Margery lit up a Marlboro.
“Please, Margery. Do you have to smoke that in here?” Violet asked.
“Let’s make a deal,” Margery said. “We’ll agree that you hate Blossom and I’ll put out my cigarette.”
She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and Violet sat slumped in silence. Helen sighed with relief when the limo stopped in the parking lot. She climbed into the Igloo and headed to Arthur Zerling’s funeral reception.
The mansion wasn’t even marked with a house number. That was the only discreet thing about the frantic swarm of turrets, towers and arched colonnades, painted face-powder pink and topped with red barrel tile. It was Spanish mission style on steroids.
The sumptuous black wreath on the dark, arched door was the only sign there was a funeral reception at the home. Helen left the Igloo with the valet. A uniformed Hispanic maid opened the massive door before Helen could knock. She heard string music and subdued conversation drifting from the back of the house.
She followed the maid’s bobbing white apron bow through dimly lit rooms and corridors to Arthur’s reception, grateful she had a guide. The Zerling home could have been a set for
Thick Oriental carpets smothered Helen’s footsteps. Velvet curtains shut out the subtropical sun. The curtains were looped with ropes of braid and hung with tassels like golden fruit.
Helen could not imagine herself relaxing on those braided, tasseled velvet sofas with a book and a glass of wine. She’d be searching the shadows for serial killers. She felt the weight of the home’s heavy fabric and dark furniture, as if money was a burden. She itched to open the windows and let in the light.
When she turned the last corner, she was nearly blinded by the sunlight. The reception was in a stark glass annex that led to a pool the size of an inland sea. The funeral reception could have been an exclusive gallery showing. The crowd was subdued, mostly seventy and over, and spoke in murmurs. The harsh light revealed thinning hair, wrinkles and tight, face-lifted skin. She scanned the faces but saw no sign of Phil.
Servers circulated with trays of champagne and mineral water. Hungry mourners lined up at cloth-draped tables along the east wall for a buffet. A chef cut thick bloody slices off a round of roast beef. Another carved a roast turkey and a pink ham. There were mounded platters of fruit, vegetables and shiny glazed pastries. A whole table was devoted to a tower of oysters, shrimp and lobster tails crowned by a silver bowl of caviar.
The cloying scent of waxy white flowers overpowered the luscious food.
A black-clad string quartet sawed delicately on their instruments. In an alcove, a slide show flashed on a tall screen. Helen paused to watch Arthur’s life unfold in photographs: first, as a curly-haired baby cradled in his mother’s arms. She gazed at her son as if he were a newborn god. Next as a sturdy toddler on a rocking horse, then a serious young scholar in a blazer and tie. The photos of Arthur’s school years ended with an exuberant college graduate throwing his mortarboard into the air.
Helen thought young Arthur was movie-star handsome. He played tennis in a white polo shirt that displayed his tanned arms, stood on the deck of a yacht, his hair tousled by a sea breeze, and rode a brown stallion with a white blaze. He donned a business suit and gradually aged into a strong, snowy-haired man. Helen saw the photo Violet had shown her of the white-haired Arthur on the black horse. That was followed by Arthur and Blossom at their wedding. He wore a well-tailored navy jacket. Blossom was a sophisticated bride in strapless white satin clutching a huge white bouquet of roses and orchids. The new bride and groom kissed with the setting sun as a dramatic backdrop. The next photo showed the couple at home, lounging by the same pool sparkling outside the reception room. Blossom held Arthur’s hand and smiled into his eyes. Then the slide show started again with chubby baby Arthur held by his proud mother.
Arthur’s life was bookended by adoring women. Helen noticed that photos of Violet and Honeysuckle Zerling were conspicuously absent. Blossom may have let Arthur sleep beside his first wife in the prepaid cemetery plot, but she wouldn’t acknowledge the woman and her daughter were part of Arthur’s life.
“Helen!” Blossom called, and sailed over. The chic black hat was gone and the widow had freshened her lipstick. Her black suit accented her creamy skin.
“Would you like a drink? How about some food?” Blossom asked.
“No, thanks,” Helen said. “I have to leave for an appointment at three o’clock. Do you still want me to sort through Arthur’s belongings?”
“You’d be doing me a huge favor,” Blossom said. “Let me take you to his dressing room.”
She ducked through a service door near the alcove and said, “We’re going up the back stairs. Otherwise, people will keep stopping us to talk.”
The gray-carpeted service stairs opened onto another long, gloomy corridor. Arthur and Blossom’s bedroom looked suitable for the procreation of a dynasty. The four-poster bed had columns like tree trunks. The floor was cushioned by a dark Oriental rug the size of a small country. Maroon curtains blocked the light. Everything was festooned with tassels, even the key to the mahogany secretary.
Helen wondered if Blossom wore tasseled bras.
“This really isn’t my style,” Blossom said. “I was planning to redecorate after Arthur and I settled in.” Her voice quavered. Then she steadied it and said, “Arthur’s dressing room is this way.”
Helen followed her through a master bath the size of her Coronado apartment. The bathtub was encased in shining mahogany. Next to it was a marble Jacuzzi. The commode was tucked behind another door.
Arthur’s dressing room was a man cave with dark wood, brass fittings and forest green walls. Neckties and suits were arranged on motorized carousels. Dress shirts were displayed by color on wooden hangers. Polo shirts were folded on shelves. Two shelves were devoted to cowboy hats, including a white Stetson with a crocodile band.
Six shelves held well-shined shoes from wing tips to cowboy boots. Only Arthur’s deck shoes were comfortably scuffed and battered. Helen noticed a bronze statue on a chest of drawers—a beautifully rendered cowboy on a bucking horse. She checked the signature at the base and saw a name she recognized: St. Louis artist Charles Russell. That dressing room decoration was worth at least six figures.
On another chest of drawers was a photo of the bridal Blossom with her white bouquet.
