Catnapped! (10 page)

Phil quickly tap-danced back to the topic.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he said. “But while you were working on your career, this Jan Kurtz worked on making Justine into a champion.”

“Right. She has a job with a big-time breeder. Next thing I knew, Mort told me he was engaged to Jan. She’d signed a prenup giving him custody of Justine.”

Phil made a sympathetic noise. Amber sniffed back tears. A bit too dramatically, Helen thought.

“Mort was a good, decent man. He fell for Jan, and she killed him.”

Helen wished she could have seen Phil’s face when Amber dropped that bomb.

“Why would Jan kill him?” Phil said. “They were getting married.”

“He changed his will,” Amber said. “He left half his money to Jan, his future wife. A cat groomer will inherit millions. You do the math.”

Thursday

“T
he Coronado is saved. Come on down and celebrate!” Peggy called. Their neighbor knocked on Helen and Phil’s office door to invite them down by the pool, the scene of so many sunset salutes.

“Party hearty!” Pete the parrot said. He looked like a feather corsage perched on Peggy’s shoulder. She looked relieved and happy.

“I’ve got wine, cheese and appetizers. It’s party time,” she said.

“That pink sundress looks stunning with your red hair,” Helen said.

“Thanks. Daniel’s picking me up in an hour, but I want to celebrate this good news now. Let’s call Elsie.”

“Not a good idea,” Helen said, and told her why. “We’re playing it by ear, waiting to see if Margery says anything about forgiving Elsie. Now let’s get that drink.”

“And the appetizers,” Phil said. “I’m hungry.”

Margery was already by the pool, loading her plate with hummus, olives, cheese, chips and crackers spread out on the umbrella table. Beer and white wine with a real cork sweated in a tub of ice.

“You look gorgeous, Margery,” Phil said, and kissed her cheek.

Their landlady wore a striking, long, lilac tie-dyed caftan and earrings the size of coasters. Cigarette smoke circled her like an enchanted spell.

The hard-frost Margery of last night was gone, but Helen felt the barbed wire and Keep Out signs guarding the subject of Zach and Elsie.

Pete eyed the appetizers and edged toward them.

“Can he have a cracker?” Helen asked.

“He can have a carrot,” Peggy said, and handed him one from the hummus platter. “He’s an ounce overweight.”

Pete dropped the carrot on the concrete.

“Bad,” he said.

“I agree,” Helen said. “Margery, what’s that big brown patch in your lawn?”

“The weed killer worked,” she said. “The dollarweed is dead. I still have more to kill under the palm tree. When the construction is finished I’ll resod the yard. How are you doing with the cat woman?”

“It’s bizarre.” Helen cut herself a generous slice of cheddar and slid it onto a cracker. “Trish treats her cat like a kid. No, an only child. The cat has her own room.”

“Sad,” Peggy said. “I like cats, but they’re not children.”

“The client knows that,” Margery said. “It’s just her way of saying, ‘I have something in my life that’s lots of trouble but makes me happy.’ How you and Phil can stand that yowling flea bag is a mystery to me.”

“Thumbs is cute and cuddly, but I’d never treat him like a kid,” Helen said.

“Oh yeah? You defrosted shrimp for Junior. He howled all afternoon till you babied him. I don’t know which was worse, the cat or the jackhammer.”

“Maybe I can take him to work with me,” Phil said.

“Aw, what the heck, the construction will have this place torn up for weeks,” Margery said. “I’ll put up with your cat if you’ll put up with the Coronado.”

“Deal,” Helen said.

“You’ve saved a bit of Old Florida from the developers,” Peggy said. “Thank you!”

“To Margery!” they cried, and raised their glasses.

Their cheers died as a long black shadow darkened their table. A man with a gray suit and a grim voice asked, “Which one of you is Margery Flax?”

He looked like a fire hydrant with a bad haircut—short, stout and no-necked, with bristly brown hair.

“I am,” Margery said. “Who are you?”

“Detective Millard Whelan, Crimes Against Persons, Snakehead Bay Police. Do you know a Zachariah Flax?” he asked.

Margery’s eyes flashed and her nostrils flared. Uh-oh, Helen thought. She’s getting mad all over again.

“He’s my ex-husband,” Margery said. “What about him?” She blew a cloud of smoke at the detective.

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Detective Whelan asked.

“Last night,” Margery said.

“Did you have dinner together at Beachie’s seafood restaurant?” he asked.

“I didn’t intend that. A misguided . . . matchmaker arranged that. Zach had a drink. He didn’t stay for dinner. Neither did I.”

“Did you have an altercation and throw a glass of wine in his face?”

“Two glasses,” Margery said. “I divorced the SOB and never wanted to see him again. I wanted to make sure he got the message. What’s he done now?”

Helen sat frozen, wishing she could find some way to shut up Margery.

“Did you kill him?” Detective Whelan asked.

“What?”

Margery’s eyes widened. Helen felt like someone had walloped her with the wine bottle. Zach was dead? She didn’t dare look at Phil or Peggy.

“You heard me,” the detective said. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” Margery said.

“He was found dead in his condo this morning,” he said.

“Good!” Margery said. “He should have died years ago.”

What’s wrong with you? Helen thought. Quiet!

“It looks like he was poisoned,” the detective said.

“Rat poison, no doubt,” Margery said, narrowing her eyes. She stubbed out her cigarette in a tin ashtray. “Look, Detective, if you’re expecting me to burst into tears, it ain’t gonna happen. He’s been out of my life for thirty years. Recently, he tried to worm his way back in, but I made it clear we were through. I don’t need a seventy-six-year-old stalker.”

“What caused that brown spot on your lawn?”

Helen nearly got whiplash from the abrupt switch in topics.

“Weed killer,” Margery said. “Are we finished?”

“For now.” Detective Whelan stalked out, leaving the Coronado celebrants stunned silent.

“Bye!” Pete said, nervously patrolling Peggy’s shoulder.

“What was that about?” Peggy said.

“Damn Zach. I knew he’d come to no good end,” Margery said, trying to light another cigarette with shaking fingers. Phil took the lighter out of her hands and lit the Marlboro for her. She took a deep drag, then said, “Why the hell did he have to screw up my life again?”

Phil refilled Margery’s wineglass and said, “Margery, this is serious. Zach was poisoned. They’ve figured out he was at Beachie’s, and you had a very public fight with him there and he walked out.”

“So? He didn’t eat anything. How could I poison him?”

“He drank that glass of wine,” Phil said. “The wine that was sitting at his place for some time. You could have put poison in it.”

“Anybody see me?” she said, defiant.

“Maybe not. But they sure as hell saw the fight and the wine tossing.”

“Zach didn’t look good when he left,” Helen said. “He stumbled, and Peg, the server, caught him. I’m sure she told the police.”

“That doesn’t look good, either. You need to hire a lawyer,” Phil said. “I recommend Nancie Hays.”

“The hell I will,” Margery said. “I’m not paying some shark five hundred an hour.”

“Then at least retain us to investigate Zach’s murder. That way the police can’t question us. Anything we know will be confidential under Florida law.”

“You can’t beat our price,” Helen said. “We’re free.”

“Oh no,” Margery said. “I’m no charity case.”

“Give us a dollar to seal the deal,” Phil said. “Helen will get the paperwork now. We’ll work out the money later.”

Helen didn’t give their landlady a chance to say no. She ran upstairs for a standard contract and a pen.

“Sign here,” she said.

Margery signed, dusting the contract with cigarette ash. Peggy witnessed, then said, “Pete and I are going in. Daniel will be here any minute.”

“Night,” Pete said.

“Helen and I are starting our investigation tonight,” Phil said. “If the detective is asking about weed killer, I’m assuming he believes that’s what poisoned Zach. Who do you think killed him?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Margery said. “Like I said, he’s been out of my life for decades.”

“What about Daisy, the woman he was living with?” Helen
asked. “He split up with her after thirty years. Would she kill him?”

Margery shook her head and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Daisy Detmer? I don’t think so,” she said. “From what I remember of Daisy, she wouldn’t touch a fly. Unless it was unzipped.”

Ouch, Helen thought. No hurt feelings there.

“Maybe Zach committed suicide after being rejected by you,” Phil said.

Margery’s laugh was hard and ugly. “Do you really think I’m the kind of woman men die for?” she asked. “Whoever heard of a wrinkled femme fatale?”

“Okay, then tell us who killed Zach,” Phil said. “What pops into your mind?”

“One of his drug-dealing buddies,” Margery said. “Thick as thieves, and that’s what they were. I think he ripped one off when he left town suddenly after the feds showed up here.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“Those bums? I went out of my way to forget them.”

Helen was frustrated with Margery’s stubborn refusal to help. “Do you have any of Zach’s things?” she asked. “Didn’t you say the lawyer gave you back a cardboard box of Zach’s belongings from 1983? One he never picked up.”

“That’s in the hall closet,” Margery said.

“Dig it out,” Phil said. “We’re driving up to Delray Beach tonight to meet Daisy.”

Delray is one of the beach towns dotting South Florida’s east coast like a string of pearls. Some forty miles north of Fort Lauderdale, downtown Delray is a pleasant mix of low-rise restaurants and high-end shops, prettily painted and draped with bougainvillea.

Daisy lived in a bungalow about three blocks west of downtown, with an actual picket fence. It was periwinkle, and the
cottage was turquoise trimmed in hot pink. Tropical plants and red and yellow flowers rioted in the yard.

“Let’s hope she’s home,” Helen said, and then rang the doorbell.

Daisy answered the door, looking like she’d escaped from her own garden. She wore a long, black sleeveless dress dotted with giant red poppies. She had a pleasant round face, a plump body, and fluffy gray-blond hair. She held a Diet Coke. Helen could hear a television in the living room.

“Well, hello,” Daisy said, fluttering her eyelashes at Phil. “What are you doing on my doorstep?”

Daisy might be in her mid-seventies, but she was still a flirt. Phil flirted right back. “I’m glad you’re home,” he said. “I’m a private eye.”

“That’s exciting,” Daisy said. “I’ve never met one before.”

“Well, now you get to meet two,” Phil said. “I’m Phil Sagemont and this is my partner, Helen Hawthorne.”

He didn’t mention we’re married, Helen noticed. He’ll probably get more out of Daisy that way.

“Nice to meet you, Helen,” Daisy said, but it sounded like “Get lost, will you?”

“I’d like to talk to you about Zach Flax,” Phil said. “He listed this as his address.”

“He doesn’t live here now. Moved out six months ago. Ancient history,” Daisy said, making it clear she was free for Phil.

Helen tried to hide her surprise. Daisy didn’t know Zach was dead.

“We’ve been told Zach is well-off,” Phil said.

“Zach’s good at impressing people,” Daisy said. “Not as good at making and keeping money.”

“Can we come in to discuss him?”

“It’s a nice night,” Daisy said. “Let’s sit out in the yard.”

It was a warm, steamy night, but Daisy was no fool. She wasn’t
going to let two strangers inside, even a handsome silver-haired one like Phil.

She shut the screen door and led the private eyes to a black wrought-iron table on the lawn. Mosquitoes whined in the sticky night air.

“I haven’t seen Zach in a while,” she said. “He borrowed three thousand dollars from me, so I don’t expect to see him any time soon.”

You won’t, Helen thought. Ever again.

“He bought an expensive condo in Snakehead Bay,” Phil said.

“He’s missed two mortgage payments,” Daisy said. “He spent the money on a lawyer instead. I gave him the three thou, but that man’s in a boatload of trouble.” She took a long drink of cold Diet Coke. Helen was thirsty, but didn’t dare ask for a drink and interrupt Daisy.

“Isn’t his Zen Cat Tower business doing well?” Phil asked.

“It was until he got the cease-and-desist order from the company that made the original version,” Daisy said. “He stole his Zen Cat Tower from a design sold by the big-box stores. Copied it right down to the suede cushions, and the company is threatening a suit. The bank is about to foreclose on his Snakehead Bay condo.”

“Are you married?” Phil asked.

“No, thank goodness,” Daisy said. “I’ve made a lot of dumb mistakes, but I didn’t tie myself down to Zach and his problems. It’s bad enough I lived with him all those years.

“He wanted me to move in with him. I have to take care of my Aunt Tillie. This is her home. She’s quite old, and I’m her only relative. I can’t leave a sick woman. She needs me.

“I kicked him out, and now I’m enjoying being a single lady. Got that big old bed to myself. No old guy shuffling around the house, demanding dinner at six, snoring all night. It’s quieter without him. More fun, too.”

Fun? Helen thought. Taking care of a sick person?

“I love dancing,” Daisy said. “That’s my real interest. Do you dance?”

“Sometimes,” Phil said.

Never, Helen thought.

“I take ballroom and salsa dancing lessons at the Coral Room, a fabulous ballroom built in the thirties. They say Fred and Ginger danced there. It’s worth the drive to Fort Lauderdale. It’s my one free night. Aunt Tillie sleeps, and I go with a regular group of women every Friday. Fun-loving women, if you know what I mean.”

She winked at Phil and patted his hand. “You should join us. Handsome guy like you would go far.”

I bet, Helen thought.

“You’d have a good time, too, honey,” she said to Helen.

“You know what I like about dancing? You can rent a good man. Lessons with a professional dance partner cost me a hundred dollars an hour. That may sound like a lot, but I get a man who devotes his attention to me for a full hour. Does whatever I want.

“It’s cheaper than living with a man full-time who ignored me. And when I get tired of him, he goes home.”