Catnapped! (19 page)

Tuesday

“H
ell, yes, Trish will press charges,” Nancie shouted into her office phone. The lawyer quickly lowered her voice. “Is this conversation safe?”

“Of course I’m safe,” Phil said. “I’m surrounded by Ireland Beach’s finest.” They couldn’t put Phil’s cell phone on speaker, but Helen stood close enough to hear the conversation. They’d been banished to Amber’s hallway.

“No jokes, Phil,” Nancie said. “I’m not in the mood. After what that Amber Waves woman put my client through, I want the cops to throw the book at her—robbery, extortion, failure to report a death and anything else they can think of. She’s looking at maybe fifteen years in prison.

“I’d really like to hang her from a pole by her dyed blond hair. No, I want her head on top of the pole.” And separated from her neck, Helen thought. If Nancie had the power, she would have sent Amber to the chopping block.

Helen couldn’t tell if the lawyer was revved up by the prospect
of clearing Trish’s case or getting rid of a demanding, difficult client. Either way, she’d never heard her so elated.

“Whoa! Calm down, Nancie,” Phil said. “It’s going to take time to sort things out.”

“Calm down? Where the hell have you been?” Nancie said. “It’s almost noon. Trish started calling me at six this morning. She called every twenty minutes until ten o’clock, when I told her to get a drink, pop a Valium or have a friend sit with her, but I wouldn’t take any calls from her for one full hour.”

“How’d she take that?” Phil asked. “Trish is used to getting her way.”

“She wasn’t happy. I don’t mind babysitting clients, but I can’t take the weeping, shrieking and hand wringing hour after hour. It wears me down.”

Helen couldn’t imagine anyone wearing down Nancie. The woman was rock solid, but even granite could crack.

“Where is she now?” Phil asked.

“With Mort’s mother, Cynthia,” Nancie said. “They’ve stayed friends through the divorce. Cynthia’s pretty sensible. She realized the marriage was over, but didn’t want to antagonize Trish for the sake of what she calls her grandcat. She also believed Trish didn’t murder her son. Cynthia’s in town preparing for Mort’s memorial service, and Trish invited her over to choose photos of Mort. That should keep her occupied. But she’s going to be calling me in about seven minutes. This time, I’ll have good news for her. Where do we go to start the party?”

“The Ireland Beach police station, near Oakland Park Boulevard,” Phil said.

“I know where that’s at,” Nancie said.

“Meet us there in about three hours, at three o’clock,” Phil said. “They’re still processing the crime scene. The CSI techs are photographing Justine for evidence. Then she’ll go to the closest
animal shelter to have her microchip scanned and prove that she’s really Trish’s cat.”

“I don’t want Trish there for that,” Nancie said. “She’s too emotional.”

“Especially when she hears they need the photos in case the cat dies or is otherwise unavailable for trial,” Phil said.

“Don’t even say the D-word out loud,” Nancie said.

“Technically, the cat’s evidence,” Phil said. “But they’ll let Trish keep the cat before the trial.”

Helen heard Nancie give a loud sigh of relief.

“Although there’s a uniform here who seems quite captivated by her,” Phil said. “He’s made Justine a cute toy mouse out of string and a crumpled piece of paper.”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t tell Trish,” Nancie said. “She’ll want the string to be woven by Swiss virgins, the paper handmade and everything certified organic.”

“I don’t know,” Phil said, teasing her. “Justine seems mighty attached to her new toy.”

“I’ll forget to deduct the cost of that blotter you owe me if you lose it,” Nancie said.

“You should see Justine,” Phil said. “She’s sitting on her back legs, batting it with her little paws. She’s having such a good time. It would be a shame to deprive her of so much fun.”

“All right, Phil, what do you want?” she asked.

“Permission to bill our client for any red-light-camera tickets we got while delivering the ransom money and following the catnapper to her apartment. We each ran at least two red lights and the tickets are a hundred fifty-eight dollars each.”

“Done!” she said. “Trish can afford it. Submit copies of the tickets with your expenses and make sure to circle the ticket times, so I can prove you were working. Just don’t let that cat out of your sight.”

“Helen will stay with her,” Phil said. “I’m going with the money. I’ve already hit it with my special flashlight and it lit up
like a Christmas tree. The cops are taking the cash to the Fort Lauderdale police to confirm the results before they charge Amber. They’re familiar with SmartWater because of all the test programs the company has with local law enforcement.

“The bad news is Trish won’t get the money back until after the trial.”

“She won’t care,” Nancie said. “She’ll get her cat, and that’s what counts. The cash is an unexpected bonus. Just make sure the cops understand
all
the money is marked with SmartWater. We don’t want any disappearing from the evidence room.”

“Will do. SmartWater will provide the expert witness to testify at Amber’s trial,” Phil said.

“That kit was a bargain for us,” Nancie said. “Nice work, both of you. I’ll tell Trish the good news. Meet you at the Ireland Beach police station at three.”

From the outside, the IBPD looked like a vacation cottage, painted pink and surrounded by palms and red impatiens. Inside, it turned into a cheap motel lobby decorated with yellowing Wanted posters and a database of dirty fingerprints on the walls and plastic chairs.

Helen and Phil arrived about ten minutes early, but Nancie and Trish were waiting on the orange plastic chairs, along with a third woman Trish introduced as Cynthia Donnelly Draco, Mort’s mother.

Nancie looked triumphant, and Trish was tense but hopeful. Cynthia was harder to read. Helen guessed she was sixtysomething and met her age fearlessly. She saw no signs of collagen, Botox or surgical nips and tucks. Cynthia was as tall as Trish, and her blond hair was expensively shaded with platinum. Artful makeup couldn’t hide the sadness in her eyes or the shadows under them. She shook Helen’s and Phil’s hands and said in a soft, warm voice, “Thank you for finding my son’s killer and helping Trish. She’s the daughter I never had.”

“It’s time to press charges,” Nancie said.

It took more than two hours for the police to get written statements from Trish Barrymore and witness statements from Helen and Phil. Nancie was present when her client and each detective were questioned.

The evidence had already been collected. “You can check the traffic cameras and video on Northeast Thirty-third to verify our story,” Phil said. “I have a recording of the extortion call, but if that’s illegal, you can check Ms. Waves’s cell-phone number for the time of the calls. I believe your CSI techs found the voice changer in her apartment.”

Amber claimed she’d been attacked by Helen and Phil, and her public defender had her scratches and bruises photographed. She insisted on medical treatment for her injuries.

Amber said she was carrying a bag of money that was a gift from her boyfriend, Mort Barrymore, when she was attacked in broad daylight by Helen and Phil.

She could not explain why her gift was marked with SmartWater. After that, her public defender would not let her say anything else. She was arrested for extortion and a satisfyingly long list of charges. She had two previous arrests for prostitution and possession of a Class B drug.

It was after five o’clock when the five—Helen, Phil, Trish, Cynthia and Nancie—were free to go. Phil was anxious to leave. He wanted to get to the Fisherman’s Tale and bribe XD with a steak dinner. The preppie barfly’s signed statement about Zach’s state of mind would be a powerful weapon in their campaign to free Margery. At the very least, in Nancie’s capable hands it would give the jury a good reason to believe that Margery didn’t kill her ex-husband.

Helen promised to take Phil to his car, parked near the Dive Bar and surely decorated with tickets by now. But first she wanted to see Trish reunited with her kitten. She deserved that payoff.

Justine looked like a copper-eyed powder puff when the burly uniformed officer carried her out. He was obviously smitten, if the loopy grin on his face was any indication. Justine licked his huge hands with her scratchy pink tongue. Then she looked up and saw Trish waiting on the other side of the counter.

Justine gave a little squeak.

“My baby!” Trish said, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “My baby’s home!”

She gathered the gray fluff ball into her arms, covering Justine with lipstick kisses. “You’re safe,” Trish said. “You’re free. I’m going to devote the rest of my life to taking care of you and raising you the way your daddy wanted.”

And I am not going to cry because a rich woman got her cat back, Helen thought.

Those tears in my eyes are from allergies, that’s all.

Tuesday

H
elen and Peggy held a sad sunset salute under a sky painted bloodred with veins of molten gold. The pink glow highlighted Peggy’s dark red hair.

“Do you know what causes that incredible sunset?” Peggy asked. “Dust. Red African dust. I heard about it on the news. Sahara Desert dust travels five thousand miles so we can enjoy this spectacular evening sky.”

“We have enough dust of our own,” Helen said. She could see her sandal prints in the powdery layer covering the pool concrete.

“But construction dust is gray and gritty,” Peggy said. “I see Phil hosing down the pool deck every morning before the work crew creates more dust.”

“It builds up if he doesn’t,” Helen said. “He’s doing a good job of supervising the repairs without Margery. The foreman thinks the work should be finished by late September.”

Neither woman dared consider the next question: Would their landlady be out of jail by then? Unless Margery was restored, the place wouldn’t be the same. Margery was the Coronado’s life force. Rather than answer, they both drank their wine.

Helen and Peggy were trying—and failing—to cheer each other up.

In the setting sun’s crimson glow, the Coronado courtyard looked like an abandoned battlefield, strewn with debris.

The fight to save their home had been a bloody battle. Their landlady, Margery, was in jail for murder one because Millard Whelan, the Snakehead Bay detective with the permanent bad-hair day, believed she’d poisoned her ex-husband, Zach.

Now the old apartment’s crumbling facade was drilled out, covered with metal scaffolding, and patched with scabrous gray stucco. Piles of rebar, a generator and paint-spattered canvas drop cloths littered the yard. A thin, ashy film drifted on the pool.

Helen and Peggy had carved out a small oasis by the pool. Before they could kick back and enjoy their wine, they had to scrub the dust off the umbrella table with vinegar and water, or it smeared into sludge.

Peggy was dressed for a date with Daniel, her lawyer lover. She carried out her slim black clutch and ankle-strap heels and draped her chair with a dark beach towel to protect her black sheath. Helen had changed into jeans and a gauzy shirt after a long day of dealing with the catnapper and the cops.

Both drank white wine and dragged pita chips through a bowl of hummus.

“Nice dress,” Helen said, “but it doesn’t look right without Pete the parrot patrolling your shoulder.”

“He’s confined to quarters tonight,” Peggy said. “As soon as Daniel arrives, I want to leave for dinner. Now that the case of the kidnapped cat is closed, you can concentrate on catching Zach’s killer.”

“Phil’s working on that now,” Helen said. “He went to the Fisherman’s Tale to persuade XD to give him a statement about Zach’s state of mind.”

Peggy looked puzzled, then said, “Oh, right. Xavier Dave, Zach’s con-man friend who hangs out at that disgusting bar.”

“Frenemy, if you ask me,” Helen said. “I think he helped Mike Fernier, the drug dealer, poison Zach.”

“Why?” Peggy asked.

“Zach refused to give Mike the twenty thou in drug money he owed him after Mike got out of prison. Instead, Zach taunted Mike, telling him, ‘Sue me.’ But Phil and I can’t prove those two killed him, and Nancie, Margery’s lawyer, says a statement from XD that Zach was sick and suicidal will help Margery’s case. So Phil is taking him out to dinner to try to get him to make that statement.”

“I don’t know how hungry XD is,” Peggy said, “but dinner at that dive wouldn’t be much of an inducement for me.”

Helen sipped her wine and scooped up more hummus. She’d missed lunch.

“Phil’s just meeting him there. He’s taking him to a steakhouse, J. Alexander’s.”

“The place on Federal Highway? Daniel loves eating there. He calls it the Man Cave because it has big booths, open fires and slabs of grilled meat. But didn’t you say XD looks kind of scruffy? Can he get in a place like that?”

“It’s Florida,” Helen said, and shrugged. “We’re not known for formal dress here. Where are you and Daniel dining?”

“He wants to try a new restaurant downtown,” Peggy said. “It’s a surprise. He said to dress up and we’d make a night of it. Lately, he’s been working such long hours at his firm, the real surprise is spending a whole evening with him.

“Tonight’s the first time I’ve seen Daniel in three weeks,” she said. “I’m tired of watching old DVDs of
Once Upon a Time.
I’ve seen the first two seasons twice.”

“You like that series, too?” Helen said. “
Once Upon a Time
is good enough to make me believe that fairy-tale characters can be cursed by an Evil Queen, lose their memories and be transported to a small Maine town called Storybrooke.”

“Hey, if Jack Bauer can go twenty-four hours without sleep,” Peggy said, “then fairy-tale characters can be real. Live in Florida long enough, and you’ll believe anything can happen.”

“My favorite actor is Robert Carlyle,” Helen said. “He plays Rumpelstiltskin in the fairy tale and Mr. Gold in Storybrooke. He has an interesting face.”

“I like the brunette, Lana Parrilla,” Peggy said.

“She’s the fairy-tale Evil Queen who’s also the mayor of Storybrooke?” Helen asked.

“That’s her,” Peggy said. “Robert Carlyle is a good actor, but the Evil Queen/mayor has a harder job. She has to be evil without overplaying. I’ve never looked at apples the same way since I saw that show.”

Apples? Was it the wine or the long day? Helen felt something stir in her brain.

“There are lots of apples in that show,” Peggy said, “especially in the Storybrooke scenes. The mayor usually has a big bowl of shiny red apples on her office desk and in her kitchen.”

Apples, Helen thought, feeling more alert. Who else had apples in their kitchen? Think. “Doesn’t the Evil Queen bake something with the apples?” she asked.

“Snow White eats a poisoned apple given to her by the Queen,” Peggy said. “And the mayor bakes something. A pie?”

Pies. Where had Helen heard about apple pies? It was important. She could feel it. She tried to make the connection.

“Not a pie,” Peggy said. “A turnover. The mayor makes a poisoned apple turnover in one episode. She wants to kill Emma, the woman who’s supposed to save Storybrooke from its evil spell. Instead, Emma’s boy, Henry, eats the poisoned pastry, winds up in a coma and she waits for him to wake up.”

Wake up! That’s when Helen had the answer to the nagging puzzle.

“Apples!” she said. She felt sparks flying from her head. “That’s
it. That’s what killed Zach. Poisoned apples! His buddies Mike and XD didn’t poison him.

“I think it was Daisy who was slowly poisoning him. And she did it with apples—by baking them into pies! Zach had two of Daisy’s apple pies in his freezer. Phil and I found them when we searched his condo. One pie had two slices missing.

“Oh, this is perfect. Perfect. Susan—she’s part of Daisy’s weekly dancing group—said Daisy gave Zach an ultimatum. He walked out on her and then he begged Margery to take him back. But Zach still wanted his apple pies, and Daisy still baked them for him. Susan said she told Daisy to get a backbone and tell him to get lost. But Zach came to Daisy’s house to pick up his pies. She was convinced she could charm him back into her bed.

“But that’s not what Daisy was up to,” Helen said. “She was slowly killing him. Making him drive all the way to Delray Beach to get his dose of poison. Her plan turned out better than she imagined. Zach died in his Snakehead Bay condo. The police did a halfhearted search of Zach’s condo and cleaned out the fridge, but left the pies in the freezer. The detective saw Margery killing weeds in this yard and pinned Zach’s murder on her.”

“So Margery was blamed for Zach’s death,” Peggy said. “She’s going on trial for murder.”

“Not if we can stop Daisy. Her homemade apple pies are still in Zach’s freezer,” Helen said. “We have the evidence to free Margery. Nancie can get an independent lab to test them for poison.”

“Then the police can arrest Daisy,” Peggy said.

Helen set down her wineglass, her face pale as plaster. “Oh no! She’s leaving tonight for Australia. What time are the flights? Can you get a direct flight to Down Under from here?”

Peggy took her iPhone out of her purse. “My boss went to Australia last year. He flew to San Francisco, and from there to Australia.”

She checked her screen. “Let’s see. There’s a flight to San Fran
leaving Fort Lauderdale at ten twenty-nine tonight. Or Daisy could fly out of the West Palm Beach airport at midnight.”

“It’s almost six-thirty,” Helen said. “It will take me forty minutes to an hour to get to her house in Delray, if I don’t get snarled in traffic. I have to stop her from leaving. If she finds out we’re onto her, she’ll never come back to the US.”

“Helen, stop!” Peggy said. “You can’t confront a killer alone. I’ll go with you.”

“I’ll be okay,” Helen said. “I won’t eat anything at Daisy’s house. You go out with Daniel. I have to get there before she leaves the country.”

“No!” Peggy stood up and blocked her way. “Call Phil. Now.” Helen had never seen her friend so determined. “He can meet you at Daisy’s house. Don’t be stupid. Here.” She found Phil’s number and handed Helen her cell phone.

“Helen!” Phil said. She could hear what sounded like soft chatter in the background. He sounded relaxed and expansive. “We’re finishing dinner in the bar at J. Alexander’s. The steaks were good and everything is signed and sealed.”

“Glad to hear it,” Helen said. “But I think I know what really happened to Zach. He didn’t kill himself. He was murdered, but not by his drug-smuggling buddies. Daisy did it.”

“His old girlfriend?” Phil said. He was alert now.

“I’m almost sure of it. You’ve got XD’s suicide statement as backup if I’m wrong, but I’m betting Daisy poisoned him with those pies we found in his freezer. I’m heading to Delray to stop her before she skips the country.”

“I’m signaling for the check now,” Phil said. “I’ll drop XD at home and then hit the highway for Daisy’s house in Delray. Promise me you won’t do anything till I get there.”

He hung up before Helen could say yes.