“Nothing,” Helen said. “Maybe she’s already used the poison.”
“If it existed anywhere but in the mind of her housekeeper,” Phil said.
“Maybe she was hiding those outré outfits,” Helen said. “Some of these clothes are costumes. How do we find the real Blossom? Aren’t you doing a background check on her?”
“I’ve been too busy working here,” Phil said. “I should have asked. How was Arthur’s funeral?”
“I got through it,” Helen said, and shrugged. “Had a slight problem with a drunken uncle. Violet was well behaved, except for an outburst against her stepmother in the limo after the burial, and nobody but Margery and me heard that. Violet doesn’t have Blossom’s charm, but we shouldn’t discount what she says.”
“She’s not getting a discount,” Phil said. “She’s paying full price.” He kissed Helen slowly, backing her against a chest of drawers while he unbuttoned her blouse. Helen kissed him back, then pushed him away.
“Not here,” she said, buttoning her blouse again. “What if Blossom finds her minister and her estate manager in a steamy embrace? We’re not supposed to know each other.”
“We’re not getting a chance to know each other,” Phil said. “You leave tomorrow on the yacht and I won’t see you for a week.”
“Then let’s hurry and pack Arthur’s things,” Helen said, “so we can be together tonight. I have to tour the yacht at three.” She thought that sentence sounded romantic.
She led the way to Arthur’s dressing room. A foot-high stack of flat boxes and packing supplies was piled on the carpet.
Phil unfolded a box and taped the bottom while Helen pulled suits off hangers.
“These look handmade,” she said. “Amazing details. Even the cuff buttons have real buttonholes. They aren’t stuck on the sleeves for show. The fabrics are gorgeous.” She lined the box with tissue paper, folded each suit neatly and packed it between more paper while Phil taped a second box.
“Blossom said I could choose the charity,” Helen said. “What about a homeless shelter?” She labeled the first box “Men’s Suits” and Phil taped it shut while she filled the second.
“Many shelters don’t take clothes,” Phil said. “They’re swamped with cast-off clothes. Florida has lots of old people and their clothes are donated when they die.”
“Too bad,” Helen said. “The city could have homeless men in hand-tailored suits and Turnbull & Asser shirts. Look at this.” She held up a shirt with a white collar and pale pink pinstripes.
“Good way to get the homeless hassled by the police,” Phil said. “Why don’t we give the clothes to Out of the Closet? They’re a chain of thrift stores. The proceeds help people with AIDS.”
Six boxes later, the suits and shirts were packed and Phil was emptying Arthur’s underwear drawers.
“Was Arthur a boxers or briefs man?” Helen asked.
“Boxers.” Phil held up a pair of dark blue boxers and read the labeclass="underline" “Hanro Fishbone cotton boxers.”
“He had good taste for an old guy,” Helen said.
“Or a young one,” Phil said.
“Those boxers sell for about seventy-five dollars each,” Helen said.
“I just packed a thousand dollars’ worth of men’s underwear,” Phil said. “They didn’t feel like plain old tightie whities. On to the socks.”
Phil opened a narrow drawer and whistled. “Look at these. Paisley, striped and tartan. Socks with clocks.”
“Beautiful,” Helen said. “Your socks are so plain. You either wear black or white.”
“Reflects my view of the world,” Phil said. “They’re easier to pair if I stick to two colors. Matching up these patterns would make me dizzy.”
“I doubt Arthur did his own laundry,” Helen said. “Did he make his money or inherit it?”
“Blossom told me this is his childhood home, so I guess he came from big bucks and made more,” Phil said. “Hey, look what’s under these paisley socks.”
He lifted out a wedding photo in a mother-of-pearl frame. The groom was a twenty-something Arthur Zerling. The bride wore white satin with shoulder pads and carried a bouquet of honeysuckle.
“I’ll bet she’s Violet’s mother,” Helen said. “Honeysuckle was a pretty thing. She and Arthur made a handsome couple. I wonder why Arthur hid that wedding picture. Did he still love his first wife—or regret his second marriage?”
“Honeysuckle was a major part of his life,” Phil said. “Maybe he didn’t want to hurt Blossom’s feelings by displaying his first wife’s photo.”
Helen opened the top drawer of watches. “They’re all at two o’clock,” she said. “Someone kept these old-fashioned watches wound. Look, Phil, this platinum Rolex Oyster is engraved on the back. It says: To my love on our first anniversary. We have all the time in the world—HZ. That’s so sweet. HZ has to be Honeysuckle. I’m giving this watch to Violet. She should have this memento of her parents.”
“Does Blossom know you’re doing that?” Phil asked, packing more socks into the box.
“She said I could dispose of the watches any way I wished,” Helen said.
“Really?” Phil lifted one eyebrow.
“She never said I couldn’t give that watch to Violet.”
“But you didn’t ask, did you?” Phil said.
“No.” Helen’s eyes shifted away.
“Because you were afraid she’d say no,” Phil said.
“I can’t predict what she’d say,” Helen said, and looked her husband straight in the eye.
“Ever study the spirit versus the letter of the law, Reverend?” Phil asked.
“Didn’t have time,” Helen said. “I was ordained in the click of a mouse.”
“If you give Violet that watch,” he said, “what will you do when she runs and shows it to Blossom?”
“Violet’s not getting the watch until this case is closed,” Helen said. “If we prove Blossom killed her father, it will be her parting gift.”
“And if we don’t?” Phil asked.
“Then it’s a consolation prize,” Helen said.
CHAPTER 13
“Ahoy!” Helen called, as she stood at the back of the yacht. Was that the right way to hail a ship’s crew?
From the rear, the Belted Earl was about thirty feet wide and looked like a triple stack of elegant porches. The lowest deck was tea-colored teak with rattan furniture upholstered in the colors of the Caribbean Sea: light blue, azure, turquoise and navy. A clear plastic railing was a shield against the workaday world.
Half a dozen white yachts were anchored at the concrete dock on a branch of the New River, protected by an open metal-roofed shed. Helen saw uniformed staffers polishing brightwork and carrying cases and crates aboard. She thought the sleek Belted Earl made the other yachts look tubby.
“Hello? Anybody home?” she tried again.
The deck doors burst open and a slim blonde in white shorts and a polo shirt waved and said, “Hi! Are you Helen?”
She flashed a cheerleader’s smile, ran lightly down the gangplank and held out her hand. “I’m Mira, chief stewardess of the Belted Earl. I’ll show you where you’ll be working and sleeping—if you get any time to sleep. We cruise at nine tomorrow night and the captain will see you at seven thirty.”
Mira had small, doll-like features and a muscular, compact body. Her blond hair was pulled back with a two-toned silver barrette. Helen followed her along the narrow teak deck until Mira opened a door. Helen stepped over the raised threshold into a kitchen bigger than her own.