“Blossom got away with murder,” Helen said.
“Not yet,” Phil said.
The Jeep cruised down Military Trail, a wide street dotted with car repair shops, pawnshops and Latino supermarkets. Tucked between them were small cinder block restaurants, painted bright turquoise, yellow or red.
“See that Mexican restaurant there?” Phil said.
“The one with the big Closed sign?” Helen asked.
“That’s where Blossom killed her boyfriend,” Phil said. “Right now the docs think Zack died of food poisoning after a Mexican dinner. I know Blossom poisoned him. I saw her. I just didn’t realize it. The restaurant was unfairly shut down. I’ll give you the details over dinner. You’re going to help me prove she’s a killer.”
“Do I get dessert?” Helen asked.
CHAPTER 34
Tacos al Carbon looked like a late-night fiesta. A square of asphalt behind the Jiffy Lube on Military Trail was strung with lights and packed with people. Young women in vivid clothes looked like they were finishing—or starting—a night at the clubs. They chatted and flirted with young dark-haired men. Older men and women in uniforms and scrubs had the weary look of workers heading home. Some placed orders in rapid Spanish. Others spoke slow “gringo Spanish” or English.
All were there with one purpose—to celebrate real Mexican food.
Helen saw yellow taco trucks with red awnings on one side of the lot and a yellow brick building on the other. A sign promised ROASTED CORN.
Diners picked their drinks out of white plastic coolers and bellied up to the trucks to put in their orders and pay. Phil parked the Jeep in the back of the crowded lot and said, “I know what I want. What can I get you?”
“A chicken burrito,” Helen said. “And guacamole.”
“You want a beer?” he asked, poking through a cooler.
“Water,” Helen said. “We have to meet the captain at seven thirty tomorrow morning.”
“Quick! That couple is leaving the picnic table at the end of the lot,” Phil said. “Snag it.”
The young Latino couple was still gathering their trash when Helen claimed the table. She watched Phil juggle two brimming paper plates, a bottle of water, a beer and an aluminum container with a white paper bag on top. Once the food was safely on the table, Phil pulled a wad of paper napkins from his pocket.
“You’re good enough to serve on the high seas,” Helen said.
Her chicken burrito was as big as a rolled hand towel and crammed with white meat. Phil’s was the same size, but oozing brown gravy. He happily bit into it.
“What did you get?” she asked.
“Lengua,” he said. “That’s a tongue burrito.”
She shuddered.
“It’s seriously good,” he said, taking a swig of beer. “Tastes like delicately flavored, slightly chewy beef.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Helen said.
He took the lid off the aluminum container. Thick chunks of ripe avocado were covered with drifts of queso blanco—white cheese. He dug into it with a tortilla chip from the grease-spattered bag. “Try this guacamole,” he said. “It’s like avocado fudge.”
“It’s like avocado cream with cilantro,” Helen said. “Tell me how Blossom killed Zack before I fall into a Mexican-food stupor.”
“Zack’s last meal wasn’t nearly as good as this one,” Phil said. “This time, I was disguised as Rasta Man. The couple drove to the restaurant I showed you. I followed Blossom in my rental car. Zack got there first and took a table outside. They ordered tacos, salsa and chips. Blossom fussed over Zack, dipping tortilla chips into the salsa and feeding him. He loved it. He drank beer and she had margaritas.
“He excused himself to use the men’s room. While he was gone, Blossom asked for more chips and salsa. When the salsa came, she sprinkled something on it from a little bottle. I thought it was extra hot sauce. The table had a rack of hot sauce bottles. I watched her put the bottle in her purse and figured she was stealing it.”
“When Zack came back, she kept kissing him and feeding him chips and salsa. He’d eaten most of the salsa and she was snuggled up to him.”
“Quite a change from the furious woman in the Deerfield Beach bar,” Helen said.
“She seemed in love with Zack,” Phil said. “That’s where I made my mistake.
“Zack was pretty drunk by now. He put his arms around her and said, ‘Baby, I know it’s too soon, but I love you. I can’t live without you. I don’t want to rush you, but I want to marry you. I’ve known you since San Diego. You’re smart and ambitious. I’ll do anything for you. I already have. I helped you get your new identity. I followed you here and then I stayed away because you asked me, though it nearly killed me. I love you. I need you. You can pick the date, but please say yes.’
“She hesitated a bit, then batted her eyelashes and said, ‘Yes, but on one condition.’
“‘Name it,’” he said.
“‘I’ll marry you after a year’s mourning for Arthur,’ she said. ‘Will you wait for me?’
“Zack was all over her then, kissing and saying she’d made him the happiest man in Florida. He ordered more drinks. They kissed and toasted and talked about where they’d hold the ceremony. Blossom said she wanted to get married on the beach.”
“Again?” Helen said. “Her beach marriage to Arthur didn’t work out so well for the groom.”
“I doubt if Zack was thinking of Arthur,” Phil said. “He was sloshed. Blossom asked if he could make it home alone. Zack said he was fine. He knew which roads to take to avoid the cops.”
“Blossom paid the bill and walked Zack to his car. He kissed her good night so hard he practically dented the car. She waved good-bye. I followed her back home.”
“Two days later, I read a brief item in the Sun-Sentinel about a Zachary Crinlund of West Hills who was taken to the hospital at two a.m. with seizures and vomiting. He’d called 911 from his apartment. Zack lapsed into a coma and did not regain consciousness. The news said Zack’s death was probably food poisoning. I think she poisoned him. That wasn’t hot sauce Blossom sprinkled in his salsa. I watched her kill him.”
“With the help of the suicide tree?” Helen asked.
“Different symptoms,” Phil said. “I’m going to keep looking for that poison, too.”
“In a fifteen-thousand-square-foot house?” Helen said. “That’s impossible. You’re also searching for the seed of the suicide tree, and you haven’t found that, either.”
“It’s there,” he said. “Both those poisons are. I know it. Whatever she’s using, she won’t throw them away.”
“I don’t understand why she’d keep them. That’s stupid,” Helen said.
“Murder has been easy for her,” Phil said, “and she’s gotten away with it twice—at least that’s what she thinks. Killing anyone who gets in her way is becoming a habit. She murdered poor old Arthur for his money. She killed Zack when he tried to pressure her into marriage. Now I bet she’s setting her sights on Violet, who hired a tough lawyer. She’s going to try to make friends with Violet.”
“It won’t work,” Helen said. “Arthur’s daughter can’t stand her. Violet can’t even say her stepmother’s name.”
“Blossom is a convincing actress,” Phil said. “When I watched her, I thought she was in love with Zack. We need to be careful. If she makes any overtures to our client about burying the hatchet, we can’t let Violet become her friend.”