Clubbed to Death (9 page)

“We did?” Helen said.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what happens if your ex suddenly shows up and wants to press charges.”

Helen was too dazed to wonder anything, but she managed a nod.

“The domestic violence law is a little ambiguous,” Gabe said. “But it seems you can be arrested only if the fight was brought on by feelings engendered by or related to your prior relationship. A discussion of your ex-husband’s current wife would not be part of that law, as the attorney general sees it. For that reason alone, the officer exceeded his latitude when he arrested you.

“None of the witnesses heard the actual fight, but they did hear Rob say that there was no problem. You are free to go.”

“I am?” Helen tried to gather her scattered wits. She couldn’t be more surprised if Gabe wore chiffon and waved a magic wand.

“The assistant attorney general is a member of the Superior Club.

We both agreed this kind of publicity would be bad for the club. Your job will be restored. The unfortunate incident will be expunged from your record. The club regards you as a valuable employee.”

“It does?” Helen said.

“Shall we go?” Accomac said.

“Thank you,” Helen said. “I don’t know what to say. I can’t afford you. I have five hundred dollars to my name. I know that probably wouldn’t cover an hour of your time, but it could take care of your plane ticket home if you don’t mind flying coach. I’ll pay the rest off at twenty-five dollars a week but it will take some time.”

“It’s being taken care of,” Gabe said. “There is one condition.

You’ll have to have a chat with the woman who arranged this.”

“Of course,” Helen said. “I want to thank her.”

He stood up and opened the door. They walked through a seething quiet. No one in the station would look at Helen or Honest Gabe.

Helen staggered out into the flower-scented twilight and breathed in the warm evening air. She expected to see Margery’s big boxy white Lincoln Town Car. Instead, a long black limo was waiting in front of the police station. The chauffeur jumped out and opened the door. The little lawyer slid in. He didn’t have to duck his head.

“Come, Helen,” he said. “Let’s thank the woman who set you free.”

“Margery sent a limo?” she said. “For me?”

“Margery didn’t arrange this,” Gabe said. “Marcella did.”

CHAPTER 8

Marcella? The Black Widow had rescued Helen?

Something was wrong.

Helen figured she’d misheard Gabe Accomac. “Did you say Rob’s
wife
hired you to save me?”

“I did indeed,” the little lawyer said.

“Why?” Helen said.

“I’ve found her to be very generous,” he said. “But she can answer that question herself. We’re going to her yacht. We’ll be there in a moment.”

The yacht. Not the club. Of course. There would be no witnesses on the yacht. Helen was on her way to meet South Florida’s foremost husband killer. She shivered. The limousine’s teak-and-black leather interior closed in around her. Helen felt like she’d been shoved inside a hearse. She put her hand on the door handle. Fat lot of good that would do. She couldn’t jump out at this speed.

Gabe Accomac reached for a teak cabinet. The sudden movement made Helen jump.

“Drink?” he said. “You could probably use one after that exhausting afternoon.”

“Yes,” Helen said, then realized she’d need her wits with Marcella.

“I mean no. Any water in there?”

“Evian?” he said, checking the cabinet’s interior. “Fiji? Sparkling?”

Helen wondered what those three words had just cost Marcella.

Gabe’s hourly rate had to be stratospheric.

“Fiji,” Helen said.

The most expensive bartender in Florida put three frosty cubes in a crystal glass and poured the water for Helen. His white shirt cuffs took on a ghostly glow in the limo’s softly lit interior. He caught Helen staring at his cufflinks: a skull with three bloody teardrops.

“A gift from a grateful client,” Gabe said. “Platinum and rubies.

Not in the best taste, perhaps, for a man accused of a triple murder. But he was grateful when the jury found him innocent.”

Helen noticed the careful wording. Gabe didn’t say that his client was innocent.

“Interesting,” she said.

“Yes, he was.” Gabe’s theatrical mane of white hair made his head look too big for his small body.

He can’t hurt me, Helen thought. Not physically, anyway. I’m bigger than he is.

She gripped her water glass and tried to steady her shaking hand, but the ice cubes rattled. She was rattled, too. What was going on? Why would Marcella rescue her?

The Black Widow had to know that Helen was a suspect in her husband’s possible murder. Marcella must have aroused suspicion herself. So why would she try to clear Helen? The Black Widow was off the hook if Helen was accused of Rob’s murder. Marcella should have hired Honest Gabe to make her drinks and walk her through the police interrogation—not give him to Helen like an expensive present.

They turned into the yacht club basin. The gravel crunching under the tires sounded like little bones breaking. The long black limo pulled in front of the
Brandy Alexander
. Up close, Marcella’s yacht seemed big as an ocean liner.

The chauffeur opened Helen’s door. She abandoned her glass and slid out. The little lawyer hopped out after her, hauling his heavy briefcase after him. He moved briskly up the yacht’s gangway, unholstering his cell phone as he walked.

Helen trailed after him. She was met by a strapping white-coated steward with a shaved head. “Miss Hawthorne, I’m Bruce. Would you like to freshen up?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Gabe said, “I have some phone calls to make.”

“Thank you,” Helen said.

“Thank Marcella.” Gabe disappeared into a doorway, or what ever it was called on a boat.

Helen gratefully entered a bathroom designed for a woman. There were thick face towels, a lighted makeup mirror, hand lotion, mouthwash, fresh flowers and a flush toilet. No pump commodes on this yacht.

Helen winced at herself in the mirror. She was finally going to meet Rob’s new wife. Marcella was sixty, with all the beauty money could buy. Helen was eighteen years younger and slightly shopworn. Her long chestnut hair needed a good cut. She wanted a manicure and a facial.

She wasn’t going to get it.

You aren’t in competition with Marcella, she told herself. You have the one thing she’s killed for—a good man. With all her billions, Marcella couldn’t find a lover like Phil. Instead, she’d married Helen’s discard.

Helen smiled at herself in the mirror. Maybe I don’t look so bad. I have interesting hazel eyes, good skin and terrific legs. She wiped the grease off her face with a warm, scented washcloth and put on fresh lipstick. Enough.

The shiny-domed Bruce escorted Helen to a deck on the back of the boat. Helen saw the nighttime panorama of the yacht basin. The water was black silk, the sky was black velvet, and the moon was mother-of-pearl.

Soft candles lit the white table where Marcella sat, twirling the stem of a champagne goblet. From this distance, in that light, she looked glamorous.

“Join me in a drink?” she said.

“Water’s fine,” Helen said.

“For washing,” Marcella said. “But if that’s what you want, you can have it.”

“It is,” Helen said and sat at the table.

Up close, even in the flickering candlelight, Marcella looked like a caricature of herself. Her hair was dyed the too-dark black of her youth. The rich natural color had long since fled her face, replaced by bright red lipstick and harsh black eyeliner.

“Care for a sandwich?” Dainty crustless sandwiches were arranged on a silver server. Two hours ago, Helen would have devoured them.

Now, she’d lost her appetite.

“Not hungry,” she said. “But thanks.”

Bruce silently appeared with water in a wineglass and three more champagne goblets. Each contained a yellowish liquid and a lemon peel.

“You can go now, Bruce,” Marcella said. “This is between us girls.”

She tossed off the goblet’s contents in one gulp.

Bruce removed the empty glass, lined up the three champagne goblets in front of Marcella and bowed.

“Odd champagne,” Helen said. “It doesn’t bubble. I’ve never seen it served with lemon peel.”

“It’s a James Bond martini,” Marcella said. “Remember the lines from
Casino Royale
? ‘A dry martini in a deep champagne goblet... three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a mea sure of Kina Lillet.’ The Lillet gives it the yellow color. It’s sweeter than an American martini. My husband taught me how to drink these when we lived in London.” Her red mouth curved into a surprisingly sweet smile.

Helen didn’t ask which one. She knew it was Marcella’s first husband. Perhaps he was Marcella’s only husband.

Helen studied the woman whose fatal beauty had lured men for de cades. She looked embalmed. Her hair was carefully arranged to cover the face-lift scars. She had the stretched eyes of frequent eye jobs. There wasn’t a wrinkle anywhere. Those would have made her seem younger.

Helen saw where the surgeons couldn’t reach—the crooks of Marcella’s arms and the backs of her blue-veined hands. She wore white linen pants and a navy blazer. Good tailoring couldn’t quite hide Marcella’s fight to control her weight.

“Thank you for sending the lawyer,” Helen said. “That was very generous. But I’m not sure why you want to help me.”

“Margery is a good friend of mine,” Marcella said.

That still didn’t explain it. “The police think I’m a suspect in your husband’s murder,” Helen said.

“You didn’t kill him,” Marcella said. “I know that.”

I bet you do, Helen thought. She stared at the black water and wondered if Rob was down there wearing concrete overshoes instead of Gucci loafers.

“You aren’t a killer,” Marcella said, “or you would have whacked him instead of his Land Cruiser.” She started twirling the stem of the first goblet.

“You know about that?” Helen said.

“He never stopped talking about it,” Marcella said.

Good, Helen thought. Then she realized Marcella was talking about her husband—their husband—in the past tense.

“I also know that Rob is dead,” Marcella said. She stared at Helen, almost daring her to say something.

You have the right to remain silent, Helen told herself.

“I feel it in my heart,” Marcella said. “A wife knows.”

So does an ex-wife, Helen thought. I feel nothing, so I know Rob must be dead. If he was alive, I’d want to kill him.

“I need your help,” Marcella said. She twirled the martini glass faster. Her painted fingertips looked like they’d been dipped in blood.

Here it comes, Helen thought. Here’s why Marcella paid thousands of dollars to get me released.

“I know Rob was a crook,” Marcella said. “He was up to something at the Superior Club. I want you to find out what it was. I need to know how deeply he was involved and how far he dragged my reputation into his nasty mess.”

“Surely you could hire a private investigator,” Helen said.

“There’s no such thing as a discreet inquiry at a country club,” Marcella said. She polished off the martini. “That place is worse than a small town.

You’re in the customer care office. You have access to all the club records. I need you. You can look through things without arousing suspicion.”

“But I wouldn’t know where to start,” Helen said. “We have thousands of present and former members in our computers. We have still more information in a storage room packed with paper files. It would take years to go through all that.”

“I don’t have years,” Marcella said. She picked up the third goblet and started twirling the stem. “I’m afraid what ever he did will come back to haunt me very soon. I think Rob was involved with some tough customers.”

Like you, Helen thought. “Rob showed me the cuts and bruises on his chest,” she said. “He said you liked to play rough.”

Marcella threw back her head and laughed. “You know Rob and the truth are strangers. How could I inflict that kind of damage? I only weigh ninety pounds.”

Marcella and the truth had only a nodding acquaintance, Helen thought. She was used to sizing up women from her time working in dress shops. Lots of fourteens claimed to be sixes. The Black Widow weighed one-forty minimum. But she had a point. Rob was bigger, stronger and younger than his wife.

Marcella took Helen’s careful silence for agreement. She was spinning the martini goblet faster. The lemon sliver bobbed around. “I can tell you what I’ve found out so far. He was in contact with someone in your department.”

“Customer care?” Helen said. “Who was it?”

“I have no idea. But he slipped that person cash. Small amounts—a thousand here, two thousand there.”

“That’s big money when you make eleven bucks an hour,” Helen said. “Do you know the name of this person?”

“No.” The martini glass was whirling on the ends of Marcella’s blood-tipped fingers.

“What extension did the person use? I can identify the employee that way.”

“She—I’m assuming it was a woman, it usually was with Rob—used a pay phone on the club grounds. I don’t know what he was buying from her.”

“Drugs?” Helen said.

“Rob was a drinker,” Marcella said, and downed a third martini.

“You know that. I’m sure she was selling information. And he was buying.”

She picked up the fourth martini and wrapped her blood-tinged fingers around the stem.

“The club files contain all sorts of information,” Helen said. “Credit card numbers, car license plates and VIN numbers, billing records, home addresses and phone numbers, office addresses and vacation homes, the dates when members are in Florida and when they’re traveling.”

As she rattled off her list, Helen felt sick. The dates when a rich person was away from home were closely guarded—and extremely valuable to burglars. They’d want to know the best time to spirit away the art, jewelry and silver.

No wonder the Black Widow wanted to know what her husband was doing. Society could overlook Marcella disposing of a few unimportant husbands. Stealing from her rich friends was unforgivable. If Rob had brought thieves into their protected world, Marcella would be ostracized.