“Violet won’t stop us, will she?” Helen asked.
“Hell, no. Violet will demand we tell the cops. The hard part will be keeping her away from here. Nancie promises she’ll do it, but she wants Violet’s permission in writing.”
“I sure hope Violet’s at home now,” Helen said.
“Me, too,” Phil said. “Nancie insists neither one of us talk to the cops unless she’s with us. The police will probably split us up. We have to tell them that we want to help, but we will only talk with our attorney present.”
Blossom moaned like something in a midnight churchyard.
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Blossom,” Helen said.
“Is she coming around yet?” Phil whispered.
“Not quite,” Helen said. “But soon.”
“Brace yourself,” Phil said. “I’m calling 911.”
Helen found her wine spritzer and downed the whole drink. She needed fortification.
“Better eat those cashews, too,” Phil said. “It’s five o’clock. We’ll be here until midnight, at least.”
Helen was still munching when a wave of blue uniforms washed through the mansion. She and Phil were immediately isolated in separate rooms. Both recited Nancie’s canned speech: “Yes, Officer, I want to cooperate, but I need my lawyer.”
Both received Miranda cautions. Helen took comfort in the words the police officer recited: “You have the right to an attorney and to have one here with you during questioning, now or in the future.”
Come on, Nancie, she prayed.
Detective Mac Dorsey arrived next. She’d been promoted to detective partly because of a case Helen and Phil had worked—and her colleague had bungled. Mac was a strong, sturdy woman. Since her promotion, she’d developed a knack for finding well-tailored pantsuits in resale shops.
She saw Phil first. “I’d love to talk to you, Detective Dorsey,” Phil said. He didn’t dare call her Mac in public. “But I have to wait for our attorney, Nancie Hays.”
“Maybe Helen has more sense,” Dorsey said, and stalked off to the sitting room where Helen was counting the tassels on the furniture, lampshades and curtains.
“Come on, Helen,” Dorsey said. “You know me.”
“I know the law, too,” Helen said. “We can’t talk until the lawyer gets our client’s permission. She’ll be here as fast as she can. Meanwhile, the crime-scene folks have lots to do.”
Detective Richard NcNally was next. Detective McNally’s sedate dark suit, white shirt and tie looked weirdly out of place in South Florida, land of sartorial outrage. McNally was even more unhappy with Phil than Detective Dorsey. His face turned the same shade of puce as his tie while Phil recited his speech.
“Hays can’t be two places at once,” McNally said.
“I’m willing to wait while she’s with Helen. Then she can be present during my questioning.”
“That could take all night,” McNally said.
“I have nowhere to go and I’m being paid by the hour,” Phil said. He smiled. McNally didn’t smile back.
The detective had better luck with Helen. Actually, he had better timing.
She had counted forty-seven tassels and was estimating the yards of fringe on the chairs and lampshades when McNally interrupted her.
“Well, well,” he said. “Ms. Helen Hawthorne. Again. This is like a family reunion.”
The Addams family, Helen wanted to say. We’ve got the right decor. She congratulated herself for keeping her mouth shut.
Nancie Hays heard his remark as she flew through the sitting room door. The little whirlwind in a suit set the fringe flapping.
“Sarcasm is unprofessional, Detective,” the attorney said, crisply. “Ms. Hawthorne and Mr. Sagemont are aware this is a serious matter and they are willing to cooperate with the police. They have the right to an attorney and I insist on being present during their questioning. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll chat briefly with my client.”
All night and a good part of the morning, Helen and Phil explained why they were at the Zerling mansion, why they thought Blossom was a killer, how she murdered first Arthur and then Zack. The police knew ten million good reasons for Arthur’s murder. Phil supplied the rationale for Blossom getting rid of her greedy boyfriend.
The couple repeated their stories again and again, while their lawyer stood by in her dark-framed glasses like an owl in a brown suit.
Shortly after the first wave of police arrived, Blossom woke up. She was read her Miranda rights, and waived them. She claimed Helen attacked her. An ambulance took her to the ER.
Police officers sniffed the Angostura bitters bottle on the kitchen counter and detected a definite odor of nicotine. Phil pointed out the soggy cigarette butts floating in a jar under the sink. One cop gagged.
Even though the doctors believed food poisoning had killed Zack, samples of his blood and urine had been saved in case of criminal or civil liability. There was enough for further tests.
The brown seedlike object was bagged as evidence and sent to an expert for identification.
By eight thirty in the morning, Helen looked like she’d crawled out of the wreckage of an F5 tornado. Her eyes were red, her suit was torn and her shoulder was bruised.
She felt terrific.
Detective Richard McNally had applied for a court order to exhume the body of Arthur Zerling.
CHAPTER 38
Helen squinted at the glaring sun as she and Phil tottered out of the Zerling mansion. Nancie Hays marched beside them with a gunslinger’s swagger.
The morning air felt cool and fresh. Helen did not. “I need coffee,” she said.
“And you’ll get it,” the lawyer said. “At my office.” Her brown suit wasn’t even wrinkled. How did she do it? Helen wondered.
“Can’t I go home and change?” she asked. “Please?”
“No,” Nancie said. “My legal services come with a high price. We have to meet with our client in half an hour.”
“But I can’t—” Phil said.
“No whining,” Nancie said. “Violet signed that release last night when we needed it. She cooperated. Now she has every right to know what happened. I’ll stop for bagels and meet you at my office.”
“I can’t face Violet without at least eight hours’ sleep,” Helen said.
“I promise you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Nancie said. “She is a changed woman.”
“I could use a pleasant surprise,” Helen said as she climbed into the Igloo. Phil followed behind her in the Jeep. They both drove carefully around the official vehicles scattered on the driveway.
Nancie’s office parking lot was empty. Helen tried to comb her hair in the rearview mirror, but her bruised shoulder ached when she raised her arm.
Forget it, she decided. Violet should see I’ve been in a battle. Phil parked next to her, jumped out with surprising energy and opened her car door. Helen gingerly unfolded herself from the Igloo and leaned against his shoulder.
“It’s over,” she said.
“Almost,” he said, rocking her in his arms. “I think that’s Violet’s Saturn parking under the palm tree.”
Helen turned and stared. “That can’t be our client getting out of it,” she said.
This woman was fifteen pounds slimmer and more toned than the Violet they knew. Her hair was chic and the new color gave her skin a rosy glow. Either that, or Violet had had makeup lessons since they’d last seen her.
