Killer Blonde by Elaine Viets Page A

shrugged. “If Detective Mowlby had asked me, I would have told him what I suspected, but he didn’t bother. I was just a secretary. What did I know? Besides, the cops weren’t looking for a killer. They knew the staff didn’t like Vicki, but most people don’t like their bosses. Mr. Hammonds’s memo didn’t mention that Vicki had stolen Minfreda’s ideas. We all followed the CEO’s lead. We didn’t mention it, either.
    â€œAfter a while, Val quit pushing the police and they quit asking questions. Val was thrilled to have that snappy little Mustang convertible. I don’t think she missed her mean little sister much. I sure didn’t.
    â€œThe way I figured it, if Vicki was buried in a landfill somewhere—and I didn’t know that for sure—she brought it on herself.”
    â€œSo Vicki got the death penalty for stealing?” Helen wished she didn’t sound so sanctimonious.
    â€œNo, she got it for attempted murder of a career, the worst possible corporate crime. That kind of killing has no recourse under the law, but it does irreparable damage. A smart, talented young woman would have been unemployable if Vicki had had her way—not that I’m saying Minfreda murdered that lying slimeball of a boss.”
    Margery lit another cigarette. The yellow flame illuminated her face for just a minute. She was grinning, but I couldn’t tell if she was laughing at me.
    Helen sat in the heavy silence and wondered: Did Margery really add those details to make her story more realistic? Or did she actually touch that dead foot with the sad pink polish?
    The dropped high heel . . . she could have made that part up, maybe. But the warm foot and the pink toenail polish sounded too real.
    Helen could feel the hair go up on the back of her neck. It was midnight, and she was drinking white wine with a woman who’d helped a murderer get away.
    Maybe I should be glad, Helen thought. Maybe if the cops come for me, Margery will help me escape, too.
    No, that couldn’t be right. Margery didn’t see anything.
    Okay, she was an accomplished snoop. Most good office managers were. Helen had seen some sterling examples at the Coronado. She could imagine her landlady loose in an office. Margery would enjoy her power over the confidential files. She’d like being wallpaper and watching the little personal dramas.
    Margery had known there was going to be a confrontation that night. Did she sneak back to the office with some trumped-up excuse? Did she see a murder instead of a fight?
    Did she watch, hidden behind a desk, while Minfreda moved the body—or did she help?
    She remembered Margery’s careful wording:
I missed the dramatic moment.
Not,
I didn’t see any murder.
    Did Margery miss the murder, but see the corpse? Was that why she knew those details?
    Did she watch her battered boss go headfirst down the chute into eternity? Did she throw plaster and wallboard on Vicki’s grave, instead of roses and dirt clods?
    Your imagination is wilder than a college kid on spring break, Helen scolded herself. Margery is a law-abiding citizen. She’s seventy-six years old.
    But Helen saw her landlady on the chaise lounge in the silvery moonlight, smoking cigarettes and swilling wine, wearing sexy purple shoes. Margery was not your sweet old grandmother.
    â€œDid you . . . .” Helen started to ask, Did you help move the body?
    But the words died on her lips. Margery fixed her with a look that made Helen feel like a butterfly on a pin.
    Margery wouldn’t actually commit a murder, Helen decided. But she might keep silent if she approved. Margery might believe that old Southern defense, “She needed killing.” Margery didn’t always believe in the law, but she always believed in justice. Justice said Minfreda should have had that job.
    â€œDid I what?” Margery demanded.
    Suddenly Helen was nervous. The moon gave