Murder Between the Covers by Elaine Viets Page B

home yet, so she’d only heard about the animals. This was a step forward in their relationship.
    “Helen,” he said, “why don’t you let me buy you a phone?”
    Helen did not want to be in any phone company computer. She’d be too easy to trace.
    “Thanks, Rich, but I’d rather not.”
    “Don’t let your pride get in the way. I know you can’t afford one, but I can. You can keep it with you and then I can talk to you anytime I want.”
    Anytime he wanted. The phrase lodged uneasily in Helen’s mind. Would that also be anytime she wanted? She could see Margery in the kitchen, pacing impatiently back and forth, smoking a cigarette, the red tips of her fingers and her cigarette glowing in the evening shadows.
    “I can’t talk now, Rich,” she said. “I’m tying up Margery’s phone. I’ll see you tomorrow night at six. Your roses were still gorgeous this morning.” She hung up.
    “Everything OK with lover boy?” Margery said. She blew a wreath of smoke.
    “Just fine.” Helen had a feeling her landlady knew she was lying. “Gotta go.” She almost fled out the door to avoid talking about Rich. She ran straight into a wall of heat. Even at six-thirty, it was a force. Helen liked it better than artificially chilled rooms. She was ready for a cool drink by the pool.
    Pete and Peggy were already out there. Helen waved at them, but Peggy didn’t respond. She was staring into space. She hadn’t been herself since the murder.
    Why should she? Helen thought. Peggy had found a dead man in her bed. Once the police tape came off the door, would Peggy ever sleep in that soft, sensual bed again? Or would she always share it with a bloating corpse?
    Helen was worried about her friend. Peggy seemed drained and lifeless. Her dark red hair was flat, and her long elegant nose seemed more beaklike than ever. Maybe a glass of wine would cheer her up.
    “Want a drink?” Helen called across the courtyard.
    “Yes,” Peggy said. She sounded like she was sleepwalking. Pete let out a raucous squawk. “Don’t bring any crackers. He’s getting fatter.”
    Helen opened her apartment door and was hit with the funeral-parlor scent of dying flowers. She’d turned off her air conditioner when she went to work that morning, to save money. The heat must have roasted her roses. The dropped petals looked like spots of blood on her coffee table. Rich’s gorgeous gift was dead too soon.
    Helen sighed, threw the roses in the trash, and dumped the water down the sink. Then she slipped into shorts, found two wineglasses, and pulled a new box of wine out of the refrigerator. Out by the pool, she poured them both drinks.
    Peggy took a sip and made a face. “What flavor is this?”
    “‘Blush pink,’ ” Helen said, reading the name on the box.
    “It should blush if it’s trying to pass itself off as wine. Tastes like Kool-Aid. Who made it—Jim Jones?”
    “Guess that explains why it was on sale,” Helen said.
    Peggy set her wineglass down by her cordless phone. “I’m expecting a call,” she said. “I’ve got this great idea for winning the lottery, this special system. I’m waiting for some information so I can choose my lucky numbers.”
    “Another system?” Helen asked. “Why is this one different?”
    “Because I’m going to win this time. I’ve figured out what it takes. I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it before it comes true. But this phone call will change my life.”
    The more she talked about the lottery, the livelier Peggy became. When the phone rang a few minutes later, both women jumped. Peggy grabbed the phone and scrambled to hit the talk button. She listened a moment, then said, “Yes, I am.” She stared at the phone for a second before she snapped it off.
    “Wrong number,” she said. “Some woman asked, ‘Are you Margaret Freeton?’ When I said yes, she hung up.”
    “That doesn’t make any sense. If it was a wrong number, why would she know your name?” Helen said.
    “You