meetings. Petitioners come into the blue-carpeted horseshoe to talk. They have exactly five minutes to state their case; then a red light flashes on in front of the mayor’s desk. Wilma will appear next.”
Wilma was a curvy brunette in a tight-fitting white bandage dress that made all the male commissioners’ eyes bulge—and possibly another body part. Only Wilma’s father shifted slightly in embarrassment and stared at the paperwork in front of him. The commissioners let Wilma continue to state her case against Sunny Jim for nearly two minutes after the red warning light was on.
“He built that business because of me,” she said. “I’m the one who risked skin cancer standing out in front of that trailer, attracting customers. I’m the one who posed for the video on the Sunny Jim Web site. I built his business, and then when our marriage fell apart, he went on working without me. When his license is renewed, I should have a share of those profits. I worked for them. Gentlemen, I stood in the sun and sweated for that man.”
“Miss Wilma Jane, we’ve known you since you were knee-high to a sandpiper,” Mayor Timmons drawled. “But, honey, we can’t help you. Anything you get from Mr. James Sundusky is a matter for the civil courts and should have been settled when you divorced the man. Does your decree say you’re entitled to a percentage of his future income?”
“No,” Wilma Jane said. Her voice was so low, Helen had to see the two letters appear on the computer screen to be sure she’d said them.
“I’m sorry,” the mayor said, “but you have no claim on Mr. Sundusky anymore. But let me congratulate you on your January nuptials. I’m glad you’ve found a man who appreciates your . . . um . . . intelligence.”
Helen snorted.
“What’s so funny?” Phil asked.
“Mayor Timmons couldn’t take his eyes off her double IQ the whole time she spoke,” Helen said. “Wilma may be mad at her ex, but I doubt she’d kill an innocent tourist—or hire a hit man to do the job, either. She’s looking for more money, not to ruin Jim.
“I learned some things today, too, when I had a late lunch with Joan Right,” Helen said. “She’s a server at Cy’s. Joan says there was a diver under the pier when Ceci died. She videoed it, but I couldn’t see anything. Well, one thing: if it was a diver down there, he moved faster than any human I’ve ever seen.”
“Interesting,” Phil said. “Maybe I need to see if Randy or his sidekick Buzz have had a sudden increase in their income—or if any local divers have been spreading money around the beach bars.”
“I guess Ceci’s husband is no longer a suspect,” Helen said, “now that Detective Ebmeier released Ceci’s body so he could take her home.”
“The detective said Daniel Odell wasn’t a suspect,” Phil said. “But this is Riggs Beach, remember? I want to do some checking up on Detective Ebmeier. We don’t know if Ceci had any life insurance. The detective could be getting a payoff from Ceci’s husband.”
“And I found out Commissioner Frank the Fixer desperately needs cash,” Helen said. “His kid needs dental work and the seawall around his mansion is crumbling. Why is the commissioner called Frank the Fixer, anyway?”
“He owns a TV repair shop near the beach,” Phil said.
“Do people still get TVs fixed?”
“Not enough so Frank can afford a waterfront mansion,” Phil said.
“So what do we do tomorrow, partner?” Helen asked. “I thought I’d check out Cy’s two Riggs Beach shops. I may be forced to do recreational shopping.”
“I’m looking at another day in the beach bars, knocking back beer and looking for that diver,” Phil said.
“You’re getting paid to drink,” Helen said. “Tough job.”
“It takes discipline,” Phil said. “I have to drink enough to look like I’m sloshed while still being able to follow conversations. It took years to build up that kind of tolerance. Now I’m
Wilma was a curvy brunette in a tight-fitting white bandage dress that made all the male commissioners’ eyes bulge—and possibly another body part. Only Wilma’s father shifted slightly in embarrassment and stared at the paperwork in front of him. The commissioners let Wilma continue to state her case against Sunny Jim for nearly two minutes after the red warning light was on.
“He built that business because of me,” she said. “I’m the one who risked skin cancer standing out in front of that trailer, attracting customers. I’m the one who posed for the video on the Sunny Jim Web site. I built his business, and then when our marriage fell apart, he went on working without me. When his license is renewed, I should have a share of those profits. I worked for them. Gentlemen, I stood in the sun and sweated for that man.”
“Miss Wilma Jane, we’ve known you since you were knee-high to a sandpiper,” Mayor Timmons drawled. “But, honey, we can’t help you. Anything you get from Mr. James Sundusky is a matter for the civil courts and should have been settled when you divorced the man. Does your decree say you’re entitled to a percentage of his future income?”
“No,” Wilma Jane said. Her voice was so low, Helen had to see the two letters appear on the computer screen to be sure she’d said them.
“I’m sorry,” the mayor said, “but you have no claim on Mr. Sundusky anymore. But let me congratulate you on your January nuptials. I’m glad you’ve found a man who appreciates your . . . um . . . intelligence.”
Helen snorted.
“What’s so funny?” Phil asked.
“Mayor Timmons couldn’t take his eyes off her double IQ the whole time she spoke,” Helen said. “Wilma may be mad at her ex, but I doubt she’d kill an innocent tourist—or hire a hit man to do the job, either. She’s looking for more money, not to ruin Jim.
“I learned some things today, too, when I had a late lunch with Joan Right,” Helen said. “She’s a server at Cy’s. Joan says there was a diver under the pier when Ceci died. She videoed it, but I couldn’t see anything. Well, one thing: if it was a diver down there, he moved faster than any human I’ve ever seen.”
“Interesting,” Phil said. “Maybe I need to see if Randy or his sidekick Buzz have had a sudden increase in their income—or if any local divers have been spreading money around the beach bars.”
“I guess Ceci’s husband is no longer a suspect,” Helen said, “now that Detective Ebmeier released Ceci’s body so he could take her home.”
“The detective said Daniel Odell wasn’t a suspect,” Phil said. “But this is Riggs Beach, remember? I want to do some checking up on Detective Ebmeier. We don’t know if Ceci had any life insurance. The detective could be getting a payoff from Ceci’s husband.”
“And I found out Commissioner Frank the Fixer desperately needs cash,” Helen said. “His kid needs dental work and the seawall around his mansion is crumbling. Why is the commissioner called Frank the Fixer, anyway?”
“He owns a TV repair shop near the beach,” Phil said.
“Do people still get TVs fixed?”
“Not enough so Frank can afford a waterfront mansion,” Phil said.
“So what do we do tomorrow, partner?” Helen asked. “I thought I’d check out Cy’s two Riggs Beach shops. I may be forced to do recreational shopping.”
“I’m looking at another day in the beach bars, knocking back beer and looking for that diver,” Phil said.
“You’re getting paid to drink,” Helen said. “Tough job.”
“It takes discipline,” Phil said. “I have to drink enough to look like I’m sloshed while still being able to follow conversations. It took years to build up that kind of tolerance. Now I’m
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