Murder Unleashed (27 page)

Helen went to the information desk for one more try. A librarian was there, a slender brown-haired woman in a long blue dress. “I’m looking for information on a Lauderdale woman, a socialite and charity volunteer named Betty Reichs-Martin. I’ve gone through the stories in the computer, but I’m wondering if you might have more, maybe something older?”

“Let me check if there’s a paper file,” the librarian said.

She came back a few minutes later and handed Helen a big envelope filled with brittle, yellowing newspaper clippings. Helen sorted through them by date. The newest was dated 1980. The oldest article went back to 1962. It was from the
New York Times
. At first Helen thought the oldest article had been dropped in the wrong envelope. The headline said, HEIRESS ELIZABETH BUCHER TO DEBUT.

But Helen looked again. It was an impossibly young Betty, her hair demurely done in a Grace Kelly twist. She was wearing a creamy full-skirted strapless formal and twelve-button kid gloves.

“Elizabeth Bucher, heiress to the Melody Magic Makeup fortune, will make her bow to society Saturday,” the article began.

Melody Magic. Blind bunnies.

Helen, and every other woman who ever wielded a mascara wand, knew about the Melody Magic scandal. The makeup company made headlines two decades ago for its gratuitous use of rabbits to test its mascara and eyeliner.

The pictures in the exposé had been pitiful. A reporter with a hidden camera had crept into the company’s testing lab and taken photos of rabbits who were blinded or suffering from running sores. The family was branded the “Bunny-butchering Buchers.”

Helen got back on the computer and read about the scandal. The stories went on for months. But here was something interesting. A small story from the business page said that Betty had sold her shares in the company. Helen checked the date. Betty’s timing was incredibly lucky: She’d sold out a month before the scandal broke. After the exposé, Melody’s makeup stock had plummeted, and with it the family fortune. The reaction was so severe that the company had closed its animal lab and promised to switch to cruelty-free testing. It took Melody years to recover from that public-relations disaster. Betty was lucky in another way. She wasn’t called Elizabeth Bucher by then. She was Betty Reichs-Martin. And she was living in Florida, not New York. No one would connect her with the Bunny-butchering Bucher family.

How could anyone hurt helpless animals? Betty had asked Helen. But she knew the answer. For money. Lots of money.

No wonder Betty had devoted her life to helping animals. All her money came from animal cruelty. Helen wondered if that was why a woman as rich as Betty worked knee-deep in those filthy cages. Was that her way of atoning for the maimed rabbits? That gorgeous white debut dress had been bought with bunny blood, and Betty lived off it still.

If Melody Magic was the source of her riches, it was a well-kept secret. There wasn’t a whisper about it in Lauderdale. Margery was a good gossip, but she’d never heard a word. Jeff traveled in the animal-charity circles, but he didn’t know either.

Was Tammie getting tired of Betty’s shakedowns for the shelter? Betty had bragged to Helen about hitting up Tammie for major donations by mentioning Tampa. But Betty had her own secret, and Tammie knew it. Helen had no idea when or how she found out. The real question was: Did Tammie threaten to mention those blind bunnies—and had Betty stopped her?

Give me a reason why Betty would kill Tammie, Margery had demanded. Helen held it in her hand.

She made copies of the articles, then returned them to the librarian. It was almost time to go back to the Pampered Pet.

The afternoon was so weird, Helen wondered if there was a full moon. First there was the young woman with the white Maltese. She wanted her dog dyed pink, to match the pink extensions in her hair.

Then there were two identical toy poodles. Clarice always had pink ribbons and nails. Her sister, Sharise, had green ribbons and nails. Todd brought the fluffy dogs out for the owner, a small bird-boned brunette. The dogs were wiggling and wagging with delight.

“Oh, my God,” the woman said. Ugly creases marred her face-lift. “You mixed them up.”

“What?” Todd said.

“Sharise. You have her in pink. She always wears green. You know she doesn’t look good in pink,” the woman screamed. “Change them now. Sharise is always green. Clarice is always pink. I can’t go out with my dogs looking like that.”

The two dogs yelped and whimpered as Todd took them back to switch their ribbons and redo their nails.

“How can she tell the difference? They look alike to me,” Helen said.

Jeff shrugged.

Next, poor Lulu was pressed in to model for a miniature dachshund that stayed at home.

“My dog is about Lulu’s size,” the blond owner said.

Lulu stood patiently on the counter while the woman tried on collar after collar. Red leather, silver, black, gold, and pink stripes—they were all rejected. The final indignity was when the woman put a cowboy hat on Lulu, then stepped back and said, “I don’t know if it will work. Your dog’s nose is longer.”

Helen actually felt sorry for her rival.

After that, a man named Rick came in with his Boston terrier. The man wore black. His head was shaved and he had a silver earring. Alice, the Boston terrier, had a smart red leash.

“Alice needs a coat for New York,” Rick said.

Jeff showed him a plaid Burberry. “This is a very classic look,” he said.

Rick said, “Alice is a girl. I want her in a girly outfit.”

Helen stared at Rick. This man had to live with stereotyping all his life, and now he was doing the same thing to his dog.

Jeff brought out a pink coat covered with rosebuds. Helen thought it looked silly on a Boston terrier. The dog’s head drooped. Alice seemed to agree.

“Sweet,” Rick said.

But he made poor Alice try on red, blue, and beige coats before he settled on a black one.

Helen liked it better than the pink, but she didn’t think it looked very girly. Rick seemed to read her thoughts.

“What can I say? She’s a New York dog,” he said. “New Yorkers wear black.”

Helen was not surprised when Lucinda the dog-collar woman came in at two thirty. She seemed to belong to the day. Lucinda’s eyes were pinpoints. She was high on something, and had the T-shirt to prove it. GOT BLOW? it said.

Lucinda’s low-rise designer jeans almost didn’t rise to the occasion. They were trimmed with pink daisies. Her pink high heels were either really cheap or really expensive—maybe both.

“Where’s your friend?” Jeff said.

“I left him at home,” Lucinda said. “He gets worried when he’s left behind. It’s good for him. Men should be tortured, don’t you think?”

“Frankly, no,” Jeff said, and smiled.

“Well, I do. After all, that’s what they did to us women for, like, centuries. It’s time we got ours.”

Lucinda was in a mood to shock. Jeff and Helen let themselves look more outraged than they actually were, hoping it would encourage her.

“Is Toddie here today?” she said. Her eyes drifted toward the grooming room, but Helen couldn’t tell if Lucinda was really looking for Todd or having trouble focusing.

“He’ll be back in tomorrow,” Jeff said. “He’s taking the rest of the day off.”

“I bet he’s working harder than he works here.” Lucinda smiled slyly. “Toddie is such a gigolo. Not that I’m criticizing. That boy makes a lot of lonely women happy.”

“Was he ever one of your boys?” Jeff said.

“No, I like them fresher. Toddie’s been around a little too much. A boy can pick up some nasty bugs that way.” She stared off into space.

“Lucinda?” Helen said, bringing her back.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. Todd can get it up with women over fifty. In fact, he seems to prefer the old ones, if they have money, of course. Lately he’d taken up with Tammie.”

“Is she fifty? The papers said she was forty-five,” Helen said.

“No. She was a well-preserved fifty-one. Pickled in alcohol. I couldn’t figure out what Todd saw in her. Tammie didn’t have any money of her own, and she didn’t give gifts. People gave her things. Toddie should have known better. She was going to be very poor, very soon. Her husband was in the market for someone new.”

“Like you?” Jeff said.

“Oh, no,” Lucinda said airily. “Kent’s way too old for me. Anyway, I’m not the marrying kind. But his parties could be fun on the right night. That little Hispanic housekeeper is hotter than a jalapeño pepper. You pay her enough and she’ll do absolutely anything.”

I did pretty well for fifty bucks, Helen thought.

Jeff didn’t have to fake shock anymore. Whatever Lucinda was on took away the last of her inhibitions, and she didn’t have that many to begin with.

“But the best things in life are free, like they say. I met the most surprising people at Tammie and Kent’s.”

“Who?” Helen said. She made it sound like a challenge. They’d managed to steer Lucinda to the right subject without much effort.

“Like Willoughby and Francis Barclay, owners of the yuppie puppy.”

“They were into threesomes?” Helen said. Now she was surprised. And shocked.

“Oh, yes. Willoughby loved them. The husband, I’m not so sure about. It was his idea in the beginning. He brought wifey to the first party. But when she really got into it, Francis didn’t like that. He wanted to be in control. I think he only came back to watch her—and not for fun, if you know what I mean. He didn’t want his wife running off with someone else. I tried to get them to bring the dog, but they wouldn’t.”

Jeff’s eyebrows went straight up and stayed there.

“But Tammie’s last party wasn’t fun. I was bored doing the same old people. I only showed up for the blow, and it had been stepped on so many times it didn’t have any kick. Francis moped around while Willoughby partied. He drank too much. He talked and talked to that little housekeeper, but they didn’t do anything. Mostly Francis sat there like a lump. About midnight he wanted to leave, but Willoughby didn’t. They had a big fight, and he finally stormed off alone. Willoughby stayed behind.”

Lucinda was picking at the GOT BLOW? T-shirt. Jeff and Helen waited patiently until she started talking again.

“They were all fighting that night, Tammie and Kent, too. Kent dragged her into the marble master bath and they had a screaming session. I heard something glass hit the wall and break. The marble walls and floors distorted the voices and made them echo, so I wasn’t sure who was talking, but it was clear they were both angry. I heard someone yell, ‘Get rid of her, or you’re dead.’ ”

“Was Kent giving an ultimatum to his wife?” Helen asked.

“Maybe. But then, she could have been giving one to him. You can’t tell who’s doing what at Tammie and Kent’s.” Lucinda smiled and ran her tongue around her lips.

“So then what happened?” Helen said.

Lucinda yawned and stared at nothing.

“Lucinda?” Helen said.

“Oh. Yeah. I left with my boy and found a new one and we had our own party. Kent and Tammie didn’t know how to have a good time, but I do. It’s so important to be seen with great-looking guys. Says a lot about you, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Helen and Jeff agreed.

“Have you been to any parties there since?” Helen asked.

“No,” Lucinda said, and sighed. “Death is such a turnoff.”

“It’s no fun at all,” Helen said.

“
L
ucinda is from another planet,” Jeff said. “The Creature from Planet Sex,” Helen said. Jeff laughed, then fiddled with price tags and folded stock that didn’t need it. He’s embarrassed by that silly woman, Helen thought. And so am I.

But I wanted to know. And what did I learn?

Helen wasn’t sure. The dead Tammie was everywhere, no matter who she’d talked to. She’d found out about Tammie and Betty from Lourdes, the housekeeper. Now Lucinda added other angles—or triangles: Tammie and Todd. Francis and Tammie. Francis and Lourdes. Tammie and Kent, threatening bloody murder.

Who was the woman the couple had argued about? Was she the reason that Kent killed Tammie? Why did the touchy-feely Francis spend so much time talking to Lourdes? Was he looking for a shoulder to cry on? Was Lourdes looking for a rich American husband? Why did Willoughby want to stay at Tammie and Kent’s party? Why did Francis want to go home?

Tammie, Tammie, Tammie, everywhere she turned. Sharp-tongued Tammie picked fights, insulted people, ruthlessly shopped for sex partners. She gave everyone a reason to kill her.

Helen felt like she was following the dead woman in the dark. She was stumbling around, raising more questions and finding no answers.

“Were we the only ones in Lauderdale who weren’t invited to a Tammie and Kent threesome?” Jeff said.

“Kent invited me,” Helen said. “It’s just you.”

“Kent is a pig,” Jeff said. “Can you imagine throwing a sex-and-drug party right after your wife is killed?”

“How about throwing your dead wife’s ashes off a bridge without a memorial service? He dumped Tammie like a full ashtray,” Helen said. “Kent told me funerals were depressing. I’ll tell you what’s depressing—partying in the house where his wife died. I bet he does it on the chaise longue where she was rammed with those scissors.”

Jeff winced.

“Kent killed her,” Helen said. “I know he did. Only a murderer would be cold enough to treat her that way.”

“What about Francis? Still think he killed his wife?” Jeff said.

“Definitely. Here’s how I see it. Francis stole the dog. Willoughby confronted him. Francis lost his temper and killed her. Look at his behavior at the party: Francis fought with Willoughby, then left without her. I bet that’s when she filed for the divorce. The timing is right.”

“Yeah, but your source is Lucinda, and how good is that?” Jeff said. “Did you see her eyes? She was drugged to the gills. What do you think she was on?”