Murder Unleashed by Elaine Viets Page B

same way. Maybe he didn’t have a girlfriend. Why the careful wording? Was his ass-grabbing an act? Fort Lauderdale was the gayest city this side of San Francisco.
    “Boyfriends?” Helen said.
    That got a reaction. “Francis is not gay!”
    The lady doth protest way too much, Helen thought, but she let the subject go. “Do you have Francis’s new address?”
    “Why do you need it?” Willoughby sounded suspicious. Was she still afraid Helen would cross over to the enemy?
    “In case I want to follow him for surveillance,” Helen said.
    Willoughby liked that idea. She handed over the address.
    “One last thing. Do you have a photograph of Francis?”
    “Why?” Willoughby said. She still didn’t quite trust Helen.
    “I’d like to ask around at the mall and see if anyone can identify him.”
    Willoughby went to a cherry-wood secretary near the window. She opened a slim drawer and took out a silver-framed photo. It had been lying facedown. Helen saw it was a wedding photo of Willoughby and Francis. Willoughby was radiant in white lace and ribbons. Francis had no more expression than the plastic groom on a wedding cake. What had the beaming bride seen in him? Was it only money? Helen studied his blank face. It was the man who’d felt her up. She’d definitely given Barkley to Francis, but Helen didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.
    Willoughby slid the photo from the frame, then took a shiny pair of scissors from the same drawer. They had to be at least ten inches long. She cut the groom out of the picture with one swift, sharp stroke.
    “Here,” she said. “Take this.”

CHAPTER 11
    W aiting for a hurricane was like sitting on death row, Helen decided. She knew the lethal hour, but still hoped for a reprieve. Hurricanes were as unpredictable as governors, and subject to as many unseen pressures.
    Maybe the monster storm would suddenly swing up to Palm Beach. (Dear God, please hit the rich for a change, instead of the poor mobile-home dwellers.) Maybe it would head even farther north to Orlando. (Smite Disney World, o Lord.) Or go south into the Keys. (They’re used to it.) Best of all, let it blow harmlessly out to sea. Please let it hit anywhere, anyplace, but my place.
    That was the prayer for the hurricane-zone dwellers, and Helen recited it when she left Willoughby’s house.
    Yes, she needed a hurricane to make her plan work. But now that she was getting a taste of the oncoming storm, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with it. The wind battered the palm trees and sent trash in swirling circles. Flying particles of sand stung her eyes. Street signs flapped and hummed, ready to pull loose and fly like Frisbees.
    Helen felt restless and uneasy. She did not want to go home. Phil was still in Washington, and she couldn’t face her lonely apartment. It was only five o’clock. She had Francis’s picture stashed in her purse. Helen caught a bus to Sawgrass Mills Mall.
    The bus ride took nearly an hour in vicious traffic. Cars scurried like scalded roaches through red lights, over yellow lines, into wrong lanes. Pickups flipped off anyone who was in their way. SUV drivers yelled into their cell phones and ran pedestrians out of the crosswalks.
    Helen’s bus lurched past gas stations with angry, honking lines at the pumps. At one gas station, Helen saw a burly man take a swing at a guy who blocked his access. For once she was glad to be riding the bus.
    At last she reached the sprawling Sawgrass Mills Mall. The bus let her off at the Pink Flamingo entrance. Each entrance was named after a different tropical animal—Pink Flamingo, White Seahorse, Yellow Toucan. As she approached the doors, recorded reminders said, “You are entering the Pink Flamingo entrance. . . .”
    For Helen, the mall was a preview of hell, where she would forever long for what she could not have. Her shoes were resoled and her black Escada pants were shiny with age, but the mall’s designer styles, even heavily