remembered that Margery had a khaki work shirt with BILLY on the pocket. She knocked on Margery’s door. Helen could hear her landlady’s TV going. “. . . in the Blood and Roses Murder. We’ve learned that the death dress cost three thousand dollars at Millicent’s bridal salon on Las Olas.”
Her landlady was wearing her purple chenille robe and red sponge curlers. “Thought that might be you. The TV people are all over your shop, shooting the dresses in the windows,” Margery said.
“I’m trying to keep them from shooting me. Can I borrow your BILLY work shirt?”
“Here.” Margery handed her the shirt, still warm from the iron. “I’ve already dug it out. I thought you might need to wear it again. I have to tell you, Billy never worked this hard in his life.”
Helen was afraid to ask who Billy was. She took the shirt. Back in her apartment, she put on her khaki pants and sensible shoes. She packed a cardboard box, threw in the City Times paper to read at lunch, and taped the box shut. She carried a clipboard under her arm.
Millicent’s back parking lot was swarming with TV trucks. They paid no attention to the box-bearing Helen. She rang the doorbell just before nine. “Express package delivery,” she yelled.
A harried Millicent answered the back door. “I didn’t order—”
“Millicent, it’s me. I don’t want to turn up on TV.”
Millicent gave her a shrewd look. “Come on in. But how are you going to wait on customers in that outfit?”
Helen pulled a dress, her good shoes, pantyhose, and purse out of the cardboard box. “Voila!” she said.
Millicent managed a smile. She’d had a bad weekend, too. Thick concealer couldn’t quite hide the dark circles under her brown eyes. Her high heels were scuffed. One bloodred nail was chipped.
“The police interviewed me for two hours,” Millicent said. “Desiree told them I had a fight with her mother Friday night.”
“Are you a suspect?” Helen secretly hoped she was. She hoped the police had lots of suspects to keep them busy.
“I don’t know,” Millicent said. “But Desiree found out the cops talked to me. She says the estate won’t pay my bill until my name is cleared. She told me, ‘It’s just a precaution. I don’t want my mother’s murderer to profit.’ ”
“That’s lousy,” Helen said. “After all you did for her.”
Including maybe kill her mother.
Millicent ran her bloodred nails through her white hair. “Helen, what am I going to do? I need that money now. What if the cops never catch the killer?”
Helen was saved from answering by a ringing phone.
“It’s probably another reporter wanting to see the death dress—that blasted rose gown,” Millicent said.
“I’ll tell them to get lost,” Helen said. “You look like you could use some coffee. Why don’t you make us a pot?” Millicent was so upset, she didn’t notice her employee was ordering her around.
Helen scrambled for the phone. “Millicent’s. How may I help you?”
“You can die, that’s how!”
“Excuse me?” Helen said.
“How can you do this to my mother?” the woman shrieked. “I’ll ruin you. I swear to God. I’ll sue. I’ll—”
Helen winced. “Desiree, is that you? This is Helen. What’s wrong?” Besides the fact that your mother was murdered at your wedding.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. I’m calling about your disgusting ad in the City Times .”
Helen struggled to make sense of this. The hangover didn’t help. “What ad?”
“The ad that makes my mother’s murder into a joke,” Desiree screeched. “Are you so greedy you have to sell dresses over her dead body?”
Helen wished her head wasn’t pounding. She wished this call made sense.
“Desiree, we never advertise in the City Times. Let me take a look at the paper. I’ll have Millicent call you right back.”
“Don’t bother,” Desiree said. “I’m calling my father. He’ll sue you into the next century. Millicent will be lucky
Her landlady was wearing her purple chenille robe and red sponge curlers. “Thought that might be you. The TV people are all over your shop, shooting the dresses in the windows,” Margery said.
“I’m trying to keep them from shooting me. Can I borrow your BILLY work shirt?”
“Here.” Margery handed her the shirt, still warm from the iron. “I’ve already dug it out. I thought you might need to wear it again. I have to tell you, Billy never worked this hard in his life.”
Helen was afraid to ask who Billy was. She took the shirt. Back in her apartment, she put on her khaki pants and sensible shoes. She packed a cardboard box, threw in the City Times paper to read at lunch, and taped the box shut. She carried a clipboard under her arm.
Millicent’s back parking lot was swarming with TV trucks. They paid no attention to the box-bearing Helen. She rang the doorbell just before nine. “Express package delivery,” she yelled.
A harried Millicent answered the back door. “I didn’t order—”
“Millicent, it’s me. I don’t want to turn up on TV.”
Millicent gave her a shrewd look. “Come on in. But how are you going to wait on customers in that outfit?”
Helen pulled a dress, her good shoes, pantyhose, and purse out of the cardboard box. “Voila!” she said.
Millicent managed a smile. She’d had a bad weekend, too. Thick concealer couldn’t quite hide the dark circles under her brown eyes. Her high heels were scuffed. One bloodred nail was chipped.
“The police interviewed me for two hours,” Millicent said. “Desiree told them I had a fight with her mother Friday night.”
“Are you a suspect?” Helen secretly hoped she was. She hoped the police had lots of suspects to keep them busy.
“I don’t know,” Millicent said. “But Desiree found out the cops talked to me. She says the estate won’t pay my bill until my name is cleared. She told me, ‘It’s just a precaution. I don’t want my mother’s murderer to profit.’ ”
“That’s lousy,” Helen said. “After all you did for her.”
Including maybe kill her mother.
Millicent ran her bloodred nails through her white hair. “Helen, what am I going to do? I need that money now. What if the cops never catch the killer?”
Helen was saved from answering by a ringing phone.
“It’s probably another reporter wanting to see the death dress—that blasted rose gown,” Millicent said.
“I’ll tell them to get lost,” Helen said. “You look like you could use some coffee. Why don’t you make us a pot?” Millicent was so upset, she didn’t notice her employee was ordering her around.
Helen scrambled for the phone. “Millicent’s. How may I help you?”
“You can die, that’s how!”
“Excuse me?” Helen said.
“How can you do this to my mother?” the woman shrieked. “I’ll ruin you. I swear to God. I’ll sue. I’ll—”
Helen winced. “Desiree, is that you? This is Helen. What’s wrong?” Besides the fact that your mother was murdered at your wedding.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. I’m calling about your disgusting ad in the City Times .”
Helen struggled to make sense of this. The hangover didn’t help. “What ad?”
“The ad that makes my mother’s murder into a joke,” Desiree screeched. “Are you so greedy you have to sell dresses over her dead body?”
Helen wished her head wasn’t pounding. She wished this call made sense.
“Desiree, we never advertise in the City Times. Let me take a look at the paper. I’ll have Millicent call you right back.”
“Don’t bother,” Desiree said. “I’m calling my father. He’ll sue you into the next century. Millicent will be lucky
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