Catnapped! (14 page)

Sunday

“N
ancie, we’ve got a problem,” Helen said.

“We’ve got a lot of problems,” the lawyer said. “What can’t wait till Monday morning?”

“Phil found an eighties photo of Zach Flax with three men, and we need Margery to identify them. If I visit her at the North Broward jail, I can’t take in the photo to show her.”

“You wouldn’t want to, either,” Nancie said. “Citizen jail visits are recorded. Attorney visits are not. I can have a face-to-face visit with her and bring in files and photos. You’ll go with me, but I’ll have to fax a request. I’ll try to speed it up.”

“Today?” Helen asked.

“Yes, as soon as you’re approved,” Nancie said.

They were lucky. Nancie called an hour later. “You’re good to go. I’ll swing by and pick you up. On the way there, you can tell me what else you found in Zach’s condo and that old box.”

The trip to the North Broward jail lasted just long enough for Helen to fill in Nancie on Zach’s clothes in two sizes, the stack of medical bills, the overdue bills and the rat poison under the sink.

“Interesting,” the lawyer said.

“Why?” Helen asked.

“Not sure yet.”

Maddening, Helen thought. The North Broward Bureau, the official name for the North Broward county jail, was run by the sheriff’s office. Inside, Helen whispered, “This is grim as an old prison movie.”

“Not if you’re an inmate,” Nancie said. “In the Broward jail system, this is nirvana.”

The guard checked their IDs, searched them and their things. The two women were shown to a small room and Margery was brought in.

Helen tried to hide her shock. She barely recognized her landlady. Margery’s steel-gray bob was oily and limp. She’d had wrinkles for as long as Helen had known her, but Margery’s skin was like elegant origami. Now her face and neck sagged in graceless folds.

Helen had never seen Margery in any color but purple. She looked jaundiced in her prison scrubs. Her nicotine-stained hands, deprived of their ever-present cigarette, moved restlessly.

She reached greedily for the yellowing photo, as if grateful for the distraction, and studied the picture.

“Yeah, I know those bums,” Margery said. “They were Zach’s shady buddies, one more worthless than the other. Zach was the leader of the pack.”

She absently slid a big metal paper clip off a legal document Nancie had left on the table and unbent it.

“We’re trying to track them down,” Helen said. “Maybe one had a motive to kill Zach or knew someone who did. We need anything you can tell us.”

“You’re talking thirty years ago,” Margery said. “I spent as little time as I could with those barflies.”

The paper clip was nearly straight.

“Try. Please? For me?” Helen said, like a mother coaxing a toddler to eat green peas.

Margery frowned at the photo and twiddled the paper clip. “Okay, the red-haired guy in the green tracksuit—the one who looks like the GEICO gecko—went to prison for dealing about the same time that Zach and I split. His name’s Mike . . . Mike Fernier. Yeah. That’s him.”

That’s one, Helen thought, and wrote down the name. “And the boring preppie in the black shirt and khakis?”

“He was anything but boring,” Margery said, twisting the paper clip into a reverse S. “You aren’t the first woman to underestimate him. Back when I knew him, he sold burial insurance. Made his living cheating widows and orphans. His name’s Xavier Dave Duncan. ‘My name is Xavier Dave, like Jesus Saves,’ he’d say, and give his smarmy grin. No idea what he’s doing now. Hope he’s roasting in hell.”

Two down. One to go. “What about the brown-haired guy with the red headband?” Helen asked.

“Dick. He’s dead, and good riddance,” Margery said, and bent the paper clip into a lopsided rectangle. “Shot in a drug bust in the late eighties. No big loss. He probably got Zach into the drug business.

“Look how much Zach has changed,” she said, shaking her head. “He used to be such a big, strapping man. When he turned up at my place again, I was surprised he was in such bad shape.”

“Bad shape? He was—what?—seventy-six?” Helen asked.

“Yep. Same age as me,” Margery said. “But I expected him to age better. He liked his beer, but he worked out and didn’t smoke like I did. Damn, I’d sell my soul for a cigarette. Can’t smoke in here. Not officially, anyway.”

Now the paper clip was twisted around itself.

“When Zach walked through my gate, I could tell he was sick.”

“I sure couldn’t,” Helen said.

“You’re too young,” Margery said. “All old people still look
alike to you. I’ve lost the ability to tell a twenty-year-old from a thirty-year-old—they all look young. But I can tell a healthy seventy-six from a sick one.”

“You’re right,” Helen said. “We found bills in his condo for lots of different medical tests. The docs were looking for something, but we don’t know what. What made you think he was sick?”

“He was popping Tums like candy,” Margery said.

“Really? I never noticed,” Helen said.

Margery snorted, and for a moment seemed like her old self. “Well, I sure as hell did. He also reeked of garlic.”

“I never got close enough to tell,” Helen said. “Maybe he had Italian food.”

“He hated garlic,” Margery said. “Even you could see he’d lost weight. He tried to hide it, but his clothes were hanging off him.”

“I did notice the weight loss,” Helen said. “We found two separate sets of clothes, one fat and one thin, at his condo. I suspect he lost about twenty pounds.”

“More like thirty,” Margery said. “Old men get skinny, but they don’t lose that much weight unless something’s wrong.”

“At least he had his own hair,” Helen said.

“The hell he did,” Margery said. “That’s a hairpiece. A good one, but definitely not his hair.”

Nancie, who’d been listening carefully, said, “We’ll talk with his doctors. Margery, what about the rat poison hidden under his sink? If Zach had a terminal illness, would he commit suicide?”

“He might,” Margery said slowly. “His father died of cancer. Thirty years ago, Zach had a real fear of going that way. But he always said he’d take himself out with pills and scotch. He wouldn’t slowly poison himself, especially not if he lost his hair. Zach was always proud of his hair. Men hate being bald, you know. Zach would take the easy way out. He always did.”

“He was also behind on his mortgage,” Nancie said, “heavily in debt, and facing possible legal action for those cat towers he made.”

“He told me they were moneymakers,” Margery said. “What was wrong with them?”

“A company accused him of being a copycat,” Helen said. “Pardon the pun.”

Margery rolled her eyes. “Figures,” she said.

“Phil thinks he killed himself,” Helen said. “I’m not so sure.”

“Then you better come up with a good suspect, Helen,” Nancie said. “Right now, suicide is our best defense. Now, how are you, Margery?”

“How do you think? I can’t smoke.” The paper clip was scrunched into a tangled ball.

“You said you can’t smoke officially,” Helen said. She was used to her landlady’s sly ways.

“You can get anything you want in prison,” Margery said. “I’ve scored some tobacco, but the price was high.”

“How high?” Helen asked.

“The jail has these things called Care Packs that family and friends can send. You buy them online through a Web site. I need you to send ten weeks of the thirty-dollar protein-pack Care Packs for this inmate here.” She handed Helen a scrap of paper. “This has her prisoner ID number, name and the Care Pack Web site. Don’t lose the ID number. That’s more important than her name.

“She gets one protein pack a week. You can’t order more, and it has to start right away.”

“You paid three hundred dollars for tobacco?” Helen asked.

“I’ve been smoking for sixty years and I had to go cold turkey,” Margery said. “I would have signed away the Coronado for a smoke.”

“Of course I’ll do it,” Helen said. “What’s in this protein pack?”

“A festival of junk food,” Margery said. “Beef and cheddar sticks, salami sticks, chili cheese corn chips, cashews, peanuts, a hot fudge sundae Pop-Tart, two kinds of cookies. There’s more, but you get the idea. It’s the death penalty by coronary.”

“You’ve got the contraband tobacco,” Helen said. “Where are you getting the rolling papers?”

Margery looked piously at the ceiling and said, “My pocket Bible is a great comfort to me.”

“Huh?” Helen said. Margery had never used that particular B-word. But Nancie knew what she meant.

“Margery, if you’re caught using Bible pages for rolling paper—if you’re caught with any contraband—you understand the penalties are severe.”

“Worth the risk,” Margery said. “Besides, I’m a harmless old lady.” She tried to look sweet, and failed.

“How’s the food in here?” Helen asked.

Margery shrugged. “Bland. You know what BSO stands for?”

“Broward Sheriff’s Office?”

“Baloney Sandwiches Only.”

“Would you like a Care Pack?” Helen asked.

“Would I! I’ll pay you. I’m starving. I’ve got the munchies since I quit smoking.”

“Quit?” Helen said.

“Cut back,” Margery said.

“I’ll send you one a day,” Helen said.

“Can’t,” Margery said. “Like I said, prisoners are limited to one Care Pack a week.”

“How are the other prisoners treating you, besides smuggling you contraband?” Helen asked.

“Okay. Some are mean, some are crazy and some are mad-dog
dangerous. Most like me because I killed my old man. They’ll be disappointed when they find out I’m innocent.”

Nancie looked alarmed. “You aren’t talking to them about Zach’s murder, are you?”

“I’ve watched enough TV to know about jailhouse snitches,” Margery said. “Right now, it helps if they think I’m a stone-cold killer.” She grinned like the old Margery.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Helen asked.

“Yeah,” Margery said. “Out of here.”

Sunday

S
weat dripped into Phil’s eyes, but he couldn’t wipe it away. He was using both his hands to clean the clogged Coronado pool filter.

Helen felt a mean stab of satisfaction when she found her man up to his elbows in rotting leaves and unidentifiable debris. She’d had to clean countless litter boxes for Trish’s case.

“I’m nearly finished,” he said. “How did the jail visit go?”

“Margery looks awful,” Helen said. “But she ID’ed all three men in the photo. Here’s the list.”

“Good. I’ll shower and look them up on my computer,” Phil said.

They heard the vacuum cleaner whining in Margery’s apartment.

“Peggy’s still cleaning?” Helen asked.

“She’ll be there awhile. The cops really trashed the place.”

Helen tracked down Peggy in the living room, a dust rag slung over her shoulder. Her dark red hair seemed to glow as she vigorously vacuumed the purple rug. She shut off the howling machine when she saw Helen.

“The living room looks good,” Helen said. “Smells like lemon furniture polish instead of smoke.”

“Took me all morning to clean this room and the kitchen,” Peggy said. “You won’t believe the mess. The cops even dumped the coffee, sugar and flour canisters on the kitchen counter. How’s Margery?”

“So-so,” Helen said. “She’s busy breaking laws in jail.” She told Peggy about the visit, then asked, “How can I help?”

“Put the bedroom back together while I work on the bathroom.”

Margery’s bedroom has been ransacked. The mattress was stripped, its covers heaped on the carpet. The contents of the dresser drawers and closet were dumped on the floor. Helen put away everything as best she could, washed the bedding and dusted. She was making the bed with clean lilac sheets when Phil knocked on the apartment door, fresh from his shower.

“Looks good,” he said. “Smells nice, too.”

He hugged Helen and she rubbed his strong back. “So do you,” she said, playfully yanking his slightly damp ponytail. She liked the contrast between his young face and silver hair. She also liked sultry love on a sweltering summer afternoon.

“You don’t suppose we could go to your place—or mine?” she asked, her voice husky. She kissed him. He kissed her back, but didn’t linger.

“Not yet,” he said. “We have work to do. I made an appointment for us at seven this evening. We’re talking to Carol Berman.”

“Who?”

“Carol is Mort’s assistant, remember?” Phil said. “Nancie says she’s smart and itching to tell someone what she knows. The Peerless Point detective never bothered talking to her.”

“Are we meeting Carol at Mort’s office?”

“No, at her town house, by the pool. I thought she’d be more forthcoming at her place and feel safer outside. A woman alone feels more comfortable talking if another woman is there.”

“Good move,” Helen said. “Maybe we’ll finally have something useful for Nancie.”

“I also found Mike Fernier, Zach’s scrawny friend who went to prison for dealing. He was released six months ago. He’s staying at a halfway house in Broward County. The other man in the photo, Xavier Dave, has switched from swindling widows to selling used cars. He rents a one-bedroom apartment two blocks from the Fisherman’s Tale.”

“He hasn’t gone far since 1983,” Helen said. “Think he walked over to the bar for a Sunday-afternoon beer? We have time to go there before we meet Carol.”

“It’s better if I go alone,” Phil said. He looked up and said, “Hey, Peggy. Good work on Margery’s apartment, but your shoulder looks bare without Pete.”

“He’s not a fan of vacuums,” Peggy said.

“I was just telling Helen why she shouldn’t go with me to the Fisherman’s Tale. It’s a dive,” Phil said. “If our subject is there, he won’t talk if I walk in with Helen.”

“Then I’ll go there alone,” Helen said.

“You could take your good friend—me,” Peggy said. “A cold beer would taste good now. We’ll drive over in Helen’s car, as soon as I change.”

“Don’t dress up,” Phil said.

The Fisherman’s Tale, decorated in early beer sign, was a cinder-block building on an industrial stretch of Powerline Road. It had the hallmarks of a dive: duct tape on the red vinyl bar stools, restrooms marked
POINTERS
and
SETTERS
, and a sign over the cash register that said,
OUR CREDIT MANAGER IS HELEN WAITE. IF YOU WANT CREDIT, GO TO HELEN WAITE.

Phil was at the bar, drinking a longneck Pabst and chatting with the bartender, a flabby, tattooed man whose stained apron protected a dingy T-shirt. Phil wore his redneck disguise: a dark ball cap with its own built-in curly brown mullet, dirty jeans, and
a saggy T-shirt that read
SILENCE IS GOLDEN, DUCT TAPE IS SILVER.
Helen was amused that he blended in with the men at the bar. The only woman was a worn blonde whose tube top threatened to roll off her substantial chest. The gap-toothed man next to her never took his eyes off that trembling top.

When Helen and Peggy walked in, the other men watched them with avid eyes. Helen was glad she couldn’t read minds, or she’d have to wallop the lot of them. She and Peggy quickly sat at a table near the bar.

“Atmospheric,” Peggy said nervously.

“If you like the scent of Pine-Sol,” Helen said, equally uneasy. “I don’t think they have table service. What can I get you?”

“I still want that cold beer,” Peggy said.

Helen ordered two cold ones at the bar. “Wanna glass?” the bartender asked, as he pulled two from the overhead rack. One had lipstick on the rim.

“We’ll drink from the bottle, thanks,” she said.

“You know how many men find that sexy, little lady?” he asked.

“Heh-heh,” Helen said inanely, and hurried back to the table.

After ten long minutes, Phil swaggered over with his beer and said, “Can I sit down, ladies?”

“Sure, dude,” Peggy said, giggling and batting her eyelashes.

“Our friend will be in Monday night,” he said, his voice low. “Ready to go?”

“I was ready when I walked in here,” Helen said.

They left the bar together. “I’ll drop you off at home, Peggy,” Helen said, “then Phil and I will drive over to see Mort’s assistant.”

“Hurry. We’re cutting it close for a seven o’clock appointment,” Phil said. “It’s six-thirty now.”

“Give me the keys to your Jeep and I’ll drive it home,” Peggy said.

They waved good-bye and Phil climbed into the Igloo’s passenger seat. “Head east toward Ocean Drive,” he said. “When we get near Carol’s town house, I’ll give you directions. I’m going to call Mrs. Gender, director of the Gold Cup Coventry All Breed Cat Show.”

“You can do that on your cell phone?” Helen asked.

“Our plan isn’t restricted to the US,” he said. “It’s eleven thirty in the UK. I hope Mrs. Gender is still awake.” He put the phone on speaker so Helen could hear.

Jinny Gender was home and grumpy. “I’ve just returned from holiday,” she said. “You do know what time it is?”

“I do and I’m sorry,” Phil said. “I’m calling from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on the East Coast of the United States.”

“I know where Florida is,” Jinny said sharply.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s a matter of murder. I’m Phil Sagemont, a private investigator. Did the Coventry cat show fly in a Gold Cup judge from the United States, a Ms. Lexie Deener?”

“No.”

“Did your show give away a red souvenir medallion with a wild cat on it—a cougar or panther, some kind of big cat?”

“Certainly not! Why would we do that?”

“Some cat shows have wild cats on exhibit.”

“In the States, maybe,” Jinny Gender said. “We believe it’s barbaric to keep a wild animal caged for the amusement of others. Good night, Mr. Sagemont.” She hung up.

“That kills my theory on the medallion,” Phil said.

They were in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, a seaside community with a broad beach, sidewalk cafés, and midcentury modern apartments and houses.

“Turn left here on Bougainvillea and you’re on Carol’s street,” Phil said. “Her town house is about halfway down.”

Carol’s home, in a cluster of two-story pink stucco town houses,
was as pretty as her street’s name. It was hidden behind a high wooden fence. Phil pressed the gate buzzer, and Carol met them. A cool beach blonde about Helen’s age, Carol had money and taste. She wore a classic aquamarine tunic and skinny white jeans. Helen had spent enough time in retail to recognize designer Tory Burch. Helen felt definitely down-market in her jeans and T-shirt.

A fluffy white dog trotted at Carol’s white sandaled feet. “This is Tory,” she said, and led Helen and Phil back to a turquoise pool, where three glasses of iced tea waited at an umbrella table. Tory settled at her feet.

“I miss Mort,” Carol said. “I worked for him for fifteen years and he was a wonderful employer. He even let me bring Tory to work. Not many employers will do that.”

“You’re not a cat person?” Helen asked.

Carol shrugged. “They’re nice, but they’re not my life. That’s how Mort felt about Justine.”

“Who do you think killed him?” Helen asked.

“I wish I knew,” Carol said. “He was such a good guy.”

“Trish?” Phil suggested.

“Their divorce was bitter, but Trish loved him in her fashion. Mort had a heart of gold, and Trish—I like her, but she’s a teeny bit of a gold digger.”

“I heard Mort gave good financial advice,” Phil said.

“Very good. That’s how I got the nest egg to make the down payment on this town house.”

“Did he ever give bad advice?” Phil asked.

“Nobody in this business is infallible,” Carol said. “Mort had a better record than most. He had to be good. He gave Trish a free hand on remodeling and redecorating those two huge houses. She was fond of antiques and two-hundred-dollar-a-yard fabric.

“Some of his customers said they wanted high-yield, high-risk investments, but when those tanked, they were furious.”

“Anyone in particular?” Phil asked.

“I’d rather not say,” Carol said. “Mort kept his clients’ information confidential.”

“But it’s not confidential, not really,” Helen said. “Not like something you’d say to a doctor or a lawyer. You don’t want to protect Mort’s killer, do you?”

Carol shook her head no.

“Did anyone threaten Mort when his advice went haywire?” Helen asked.

“Two clients were very emotional. Both made scenes at the office. One was a man, Logan Lovechenko. He was a Russian, or maybe Ukrainian, businessman who wanted Mort to invest his considerable fortune. Mort wanted to diversify, but Logan insisted on high-risk Chinese investments, even after Mort warned him that the Asian markets are volatile. Logan didn’t lose everything, but he lost a lot.

“He showed up here one day and said he expected Mort to make good on his losses. Mort couldn’t do that. Logan told Mort to drive carefully and left the office.”

“Drive carefully?” Phil asked.

“His exact words,” Carol said. “If Mort had been killed in a car crash, I would have insisted the police listen to me. But he wasn’t.”

“Was Logan with the Russian mob?” Phil asked.

“Mort didn’t stereotype people of Russian or Italian descent,” Carol said. “I do know that Logan used to live in Brighton Beach when he first came to America.”

“Who was the other man?” Helen asked.

“Woman,” Carol said. “She was in sales. Medical equipment. Lives in North Carolina but comes down here often. She’s also a cat-show judge, of all things.”

“Really?” Helen said. She and Phil were now hyperalert.

“Her name was Dexie? Dixie? No, Lexie,” Carol said. “That’s
it. Lexie Deener. She stormed into Mort’s office, mad as, well, a wet cat.”

Helen, who knew about wet cats, didn’t correct her.

“Lexie said his so-called insider advice had lost her entire pension. ‘I was planning to retire next year,’ she told Mort. ‘Now I’ll have to work until I drop. I’ll do everything in my power to ruin you. I’ll make sure that damn cat of yours never wins a ribbon. Not in my ring.’”

“You heard all that listening at Mort’s door?” Helen asked. Carol didn’t seem the type.

“Oh no,” she said. “He recorded it and asked me to make a transcript. Mort did that when he was worried his clients would be trouble. He kept a tiny recorder in the pen cup on his desk.”

“I thought single-party recordings were illegal in Florida,” Helen said.

“They are,” Phil said. “But so is accepting investment tips in exchange for favorable judgments at a cat show.”

“When was Mort threatened by Lexie?” Helen asked.

“The Friday before he died,” Carol said.

“And the Russian?”

“That took place about two weeks before he was killed,” Carol said.

They talked a little longer, then thanked Carol, and she walked them to her gate.

Inside the Igloo, Phil said, “Mort liked beautiful women. Do you think he was having an affair with Carol Berman?”

“No,” Helen said. “Mort’s beauties are all cat crazy, and Carol could take them or leave them.”

“Sounds like Mort didn’t mind investing mob money,” Phil said. “He was playing a dangerous game.”

“What’s our next step?” Helen asked.

“I’ll look into Logan tomorrow and check his alibis and
Lexie’s for the night Mort was killed,” Phil said. “I’ll check if any of Mort’s neighbors saw any strange cars in Mort’s drive.”

“Good luck with that,” Helen said. “Peerless Point estates are so big you can’t even see the house next door. Judge Lexie will be at the pet-day assembly tomorrow. I’ll snag her water bottle or soda can and see if we can get her prints off it. Maybe she’s the unknown print on the medallion.”

“So what?” Phil said. “The medallion wasn’t given out at the Coventry cat show. We don’t know where it’s from. That unknown fingerprint could belong to a jeweler, a parking valet, even a bumbling Peerless Point cop.”

“So we’re back where we started,” Helen said.

“Worse,” Phil said. “We’re behind.”