Final Sail

“You’re good enough to serve on the high seas,” Helen said.

Her chicken burrito was as big as a rolled hand towel and crammed with white meat. Phil’s was the same size, but oozing brown gravy. He happily bit into it.

“What did you get?” she asked.

“Lengua,” he said. “That’s a tongue burrito.”

She shuddered.

“It’s seriously good,” he said, taking a swig of beer. “Tastes like delicately flavored, slightly chewy beef.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Helen said.

He took the lid off the aluminum container. Thick chunks of ripe avocado were covered with drifts of queso blanco—white cheese. He dug into it with a tortilla chip from the grease-spattered bag. “Try this guacamole,” he said. “It’s like avocado fudge.”

“It’s like avocado cream with cilantro,” Helen said. “Tell me how Blossom killed Zack before I fall into a Mexican-food stupor.”

“Zack’s last meal wasn’t nearly as good as this one,” Phil said. “This time, I was disguised as Rasta Man. The couple drove to the restaurant I showed you. I followed Blossom in my rental car. Zack got there first and took a table outside. They ordered tacos, salsa and chips. Blossom fussed over Zack, dipping tortilla chips into the salsa and feeding him. He loved it. He drank beer and she had margaritas.

“He excused himself to use the men’s room. While he was gone, Blossom asked for more chips and salsa. When the salsa came, she sprinkled something on it from a little bottle. I thought it was extra hot sauce. The table had a rack of hot sauce bottles. I watched her put the bottle in her purse and figured she was stealing it.”

“When Zack came back, she kept kissing him and feeding him chips and salsa. He’d eaten most of the salsa and she was snuggled up to him.”

“Quite a change from the furious woman in the Deerfield Beach bar,” Helen said.

“She seemed in love with Zack,” Phil said. “That’s where I made my mistake.

“Zack was pretty drunk by now. He put his arms around her and said, ‘Baby, I know it’s too soon, but I love you. I can’t live without you. I don’t want to rush you, but I want to marry you. I’ve known you since San Diego. You’re smart and ambitious. I’ll do anything for you. I already have. I helped you get your new identity. I followed you here and then I stayed away because you asked me, though it nearly killed me. I love you. I need you. You can pick the date, but please say yes.’

“She hesitated a bit, then batted her eyelashes and said, ‘Yes, but on one condition.’

“‘Name it,’” he said.

“‘I’ll marry you after a year’s mourning for Arthur,’ she said. ‘Will you wait for me?’

“Zack was all over her then, kissing and saying she’d made him the happiest man in Florida. He ordered more drinks. They kissed and toasted and talked about where they’d hold the ceremony. Blossom said she wanted to get married on the beach.”

“Again?” Helen said. “Her beach marriage to Arthur didn’t work out so well for the groom.”

“I doubt if Zack was thinking of Arthur,” Phil said. “He was sloshed. Blossom asked if he could make it home alone. Zack said he was fine. He knew which roads to take to avoid the cops.”

“Blossom paid the bill and walked Zack to his car. He kissed her good night so hard he practically dented the car. She waved good-bye. I followed her back home.”

“Two days later, I read a brief item in the Sun-Sentinel about a Zachary Crinlund of West Hills who was taken to the hospital at two a.m. with seizures and vomiting. He’d called 911 from his apartment. Zack lapsed into a coma and did not regain consciousness. The news said Zack’s death was probably food poisoning. I think she poisoned him. That wasn’t hot sauce Blossom sprinkled in his salsa. I watched her kill him.”

“With the help of the suicide tree?” Helen asked.

“Different symptoms,” Phil said. “I’m going to keep looking for that poison, too.”

“In a fifteen-thousand-square-foot house?” Helen said. “That’s impossible. You’re also searching for the seed of the suicide tree, and you haven’t found that, either.”

“It’s there,” he said. “Both those poisons are. I know it. Whatever she’s using, she won’t throw them away.”

“I don’t understand why she’d keep them. That’s stupid,” Helen said.

“Murder has been easy for her,” Phil said, “and she’s gotten away with it twice—at least that’s what she thinks. Killing anyone who gets in her way is becoming a habit. She murdered poor old Arthur for his money. She killed Zack when he tried to pressure her into marriage. Now I bet she’s setting her sights on Violet, who hired a tough lawyer. She’s going to try to make friends with Violet.”

“It won’t work,” Helen said. “Arthur’s daughter can’t stand her. Violet can’t even say her stepmother’s name.”

“Blossom is a convincing actress,” Phil said. “When I watched her, I thought she was in love with Zack. We need to be careful. If she makes any overtures to our client about burying the hatchet, we can’t let Violet become her friend.”

“That should be easy,” Helen said. “We’ll clue in Nancie, her lawyer. Do you want to meet with both of them?”

“Not yet,” Phil said. “Zack lived in West Hills. That’s Detective McNamara Dorsey’s territory. Right now Zack’s death isn’t officially a murder. I’m hoping to give Detective Mac those poisons. I’m searching the Zerling house a few rooms at a time. I’ve done the pool house, two guest rooms and three baths. Tomorrow, I search the breakfast room and the kitchen.”

“Be careful, Phil,” Helen said. “Don’t eat anything Blossom gives you.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I bring my lunch. But she keeps asking me to have a manhattan with her. I keep telling her I’m a beer drinker.” He emptied his bottle.

“Maybe she needs a condolence visit from her spiritual adviser,” Helen said.

“Just what I was thinking,” Phil said. “But it’s not quite time to call in Reverend Hawthorne.”

“It is time to take her home,” Helen said. “And we won’t get back to the Coronado before one in the morning. Don’t forget our early appointment with the captain.”

The drive home seemed faster and the other drivers crazier—or drunker. Phil let a pushy Mustang pass him and kept well out of the way of a speeding BMW.

“We’re going seventy and that Beemer passed us like we’re standing still,” Helen said.

“He can have the road,” Phil said, and put his arm around her. “I’ve got you.”

Helen felt safe, despite the drunken drivers. “What does ‘Tacos al Carbon’ mean in Spanish?” she asked.

“I think it means the meat is grilled over hot coals,” Phil said. “A few years ago, Mexican-Americans got a chuckle over a big chain that sold ‘tacos del carbon.’ That translated as ‘tacos made of carbon.’ Another disaster was when Chevy advertised their Novas in Mexico and South America and the cars didn’t sell. Detroit didn’t realize that no va meant ‘doesn’t go’ in Spanish.”

Phil suddenly swung the Jeep into the slow lane.

“Yeow!” Helen said. “That red Chevy Corvette is sure going—way over the speed limit.”

Phil eased up on the gas and the Chevy streaked past them. Helen was relieved when they reached the Coronado.

In the moonlight, the apartment complex was a pale monument to Florida’s midcentury past. All the lights were out, and they tiptoed past Margery’s apartment. Helen stifled a shriek when she saw a tall figure step out from behind a palm tree.

It was their landlady in a purple silk robe and a small cloud of cigarette smoke.

“I’m enjoying the night,” Margery said. “I see you two finally got out of bed. Where did you go? The taco truck in Palm Beach?”

“So much for privacy,” Phil said.