felt sorry for the distraught daughter.
“Phil, will you call that woman and apply for that ridiculous estate-manager job this afternoon?” Violet said. “My friend Mary Lynn Reed will give you a good reference. Here’s the information about Mary Lynn’s property for your job interview.” She pulled an envelope from her massive purse and handed it to Phil.
“What am I looking for if I get hired?” he asked.
“Evidence of murder.”
“Attempted murder,” Nancie corrected.
“How do you think Blossom killed—uh, attempted to kill your father?” Phil asked.
Violet didn’t hesitate. “Poison,” she said. “Fran says she poisoned him. She’s no expert on spices—she thought cumin and turmeric were poison—but she’s smart. Fran recognized that woman’s behavior was suspicious. She just picked the wrong things off the counter. Poison is a woman’s weapon.”
“Not always,” Phil said. “I’ve known women to shoot, stab and strangle.”
“You don’t know that woman,” Violet said. “She’s sly. She knows how to ingratiate herself. Somehow she flattered her way into my father’s life on that cruise ship.”
Even a smart man can have a weakness for a beautiful woman, Helen thought. Especially if he’s a lonely widower. Why can’t Violet see that?
“That woman has sailed to India and Asia,” Violet said, “places famous for exotic poisons. I think she brought some home. So does Fran.”
“Poison isn’t always from the exotic East,” Phil said. “I could find enough at Home Depot to wipe out half of Lauderdale. Blossom could kill your father with his own medication, like giving him too much blood thinner.”
“My father doesn’t take blood thinner,” Violet said. Her voice softened into a plea. “Fran knows that woman poisoned Daddy. So do I. We want you to work at her house and find the evidence. We think she used a poison that doesn’t show up on normal tests. That’s why the doctors can’t find it.”
“Violet, if Blossom used something from your father’s medicine cabinet, there may be no way to trace it,” Nancie said.
“If Daddy should die, I want that poison found during the autopsy,” Violet said, her voice rising.
“There won’t be an autopsy if your father dies,” Nancie said.
“And why not?” Violet was standing now.
“Because if he dies, he’ll be in a hospital under a doctor’s care,” Nancie said. “The law says there is no need for an autopsy. Autopsies are expensive.”
“I can pay for one,” Violet said.
“You still can’t do it,” Nancie said. “Blossom is next of kin. She’ll have to give permission, unless there is compelling evidence of a homicide.”
“That’s what I’m paying these investigators to find,” Violet said.
CHAPTER 4
Frances Murphy Sneed was proud of her new condo, a corner unit overlooking a lake. She answered her door in a white polyester uniform. “Come in, Helen,” she said. “Don’t mind the uniform. It’s still good, even if I don’t work anymore.”
Helen wondered if the housekeeper with the crinkly gray hair had lost her identity as well as her job. “Thanks for seeing me, Mrs. Sneed,” she said.
“Call me Fran. Anything for Mr. Z. I need a cigarette and coffee. What about you: coffee, water, Coke?”
“Coffee’s fine,” Helen said.
Fran was a plump, comfortable woman. Helen guessed her age at sixty-something. From her work-worn hands, she could tell they’d been hard years.
The housekeeper’s condo building could fit inside the Zerling mansion, but it was light, airy and livable. Helen followed Fran into a beige-tiled kitchen with cardboard boxes piled in a corner. She poured two mugs of coffee and told Helen, “Sugar and creamer’s on the counter.”
Helen carried her coffee carefully across the living room’s pale blue carpet. Fran patted a pillowy white sofa wrapped in thick plastic as if it were a pet.
“Delivered this afternoon,” she said. “I had a furnished apartment at Mr. Z.’s. When that witch Blossom fired me, I wanted to rent a furnished place, but Miss Violet wouldn’t hear of it. She bought me this condo.”
“Violet bought this?” Helen asked. And never mentioned it, she thought. She gave the woman points for her secret kindness.
“And the furniture,” Fran said. “That girl has a good heart, like her parents.”
Fran slid open the doors to a screened-in porch with white wicker. “This is my favorite room,” she said. “It’s the only table until my new kitchen set arrives. Let’s have our coffee out here.”
Fran sat down with a small, tired sigh and lit a filter-tip cigarette. Golden sun slanted through the green trees by the lake. Graceful white birds foraged in the lush grass.
“It’s like a painting,” Helen said.
Fran looked pleased. “Some condos, like Oak Hill, don’t have an oak or a hill. But White Egret has real egrets.”
She sipped her coffee, then asked, “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about Blossom and Mr. Zerling,” Helen said.
Fran’s faded blue eyes hardened with dislike. “She killed Mr. Z. Not a doubt in my mind. I worked for the Zerlings for thirty years. I ran the place and did the cooking. Nothing fancy, just good home cooking—fried chicken, steaks, chops.
“Violet’s mother hired me, and no finer lady walked this earth. Mr. Z. was lonely after she died. He said everything reminded him of Honeysuckle and he needed a change of scene. That’s why he took that cursed cruise.
“He called me all the way from India and said he was getting married. I was happy for him. But when I saw his bride, my mouth dropped open. She was fifty years younger than him. He was crazy about her. She acted like she was in love, but that’s what it was—an act. She’d flinch sometimes when he touched her. Poor Mr. Z. never noticed.
“Blossom tries to act like a lady, but she makes little slips.”
“Like what?” Helen asked.
“I fixed salmon steaks for dinner and she didn’t know what a fish fork was. Drinks her tea with her pinkie extended. Pretends to be fancy when she’s common as dirt.
“Blossom wanted rid of me from day one. She complained about my cooking. Said it was fattening. ‘I need vegetables,’ she says. So I made a pot of green beans with new potatoes and a nice ham bone. ‘The beans are overdone,’ she says. ‘I like them al dente.’ That’s half-raw. It ain’t healthy.
“One night I brought a crown roast into the dining room and Mr. Z.’s face lit up. I was going back for the baked potatoes and sour cream and chives, when she whispered, ‘If I keep eating like this, I’ll be as fat as Fran.’
“That hurt my feelings. I’m no size two, but I’m strong and healthy.”
Helen tried not to stare at Fran’s swollen ankles and the purple veins worming through her legs.
“Mr. Z. shushed Blossom. After dinner, he dropped by the kitchen for a cookie and slipped me a hundred dollars. ‘Buy yourself a little treat, Fran,’ he says. That’s the kind of man he is.
“Blossom kept on about my cooking until Mr. Z. let her get rabbit food special-delivered from some chef. But he still wanted me to cook for him. She never went into the kitchen, not even to make tea.
“That’s why I got suspicious when Blossom said she was cooking Mr. Z. a special dinner. ‘I’m making chicken curry,’ she says. ‘Arthur likes spicy food.’”
