The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) by Elaine Viets Page A

Roadhouse Grill, a place where patrons could throw peanut shells on the floor, into a chic dark wood and steel restaurant.
    Helen pulled up in the Igloo at the Kaluz valet stand. Cissy was vaping by the entrance, looking like a pile of old shawls. Most of the other customers wore expensive designer casual. Cissy’s fringed outfit seemed out of place at the sleek restaurant.
    Helen handed her keys to the valet and Cissy said, “I snagged us a table near the window. They’ll make me sit outside if I’m vaping.”
    Inside, Kaluz was cool and dark, its two-story windows showcasing the Intracoastal Waterway. The Commercial Street drawbridge, pale gray with a sky blue clockwork underside, looked close enough to touch.
    The hostess showed them to a table by the water, where a streamlined white Hatteras yacht was docking.
    “This restaurant has valet parking for yachts and cars,” Cissy said. “How big do you think that yacht is?”
    Helen, who’d worked as a yacht stewardess, said, “I’d guess maybe seventy feet or so.”
    They watched a bronzed young man in a white uniform help a tanned, leggy blonde off the white boat. Her muscular husband—Helen saw his gold wedding band—carried a baby in frilly pink.
    “Aren’t they a perfect family?” Cissy said.
    “It’s fun to dine with the beautiful people,” Helen said.
    They both asked for white wine. Helen ordered the blue crab salad with mangoes, mandarin oranges, avocados and Key lime vinaigrette.
    “I’ll have a veggie burger,” Cissy said, and Helen hid a smile. After the server left, Cissy asked, “What’s so funny, Helen?”
    “I was wondering what my meat-eating husband would think of something that had quinoa, beets, rice and black beans being called a burger,” Helen said.
    “That’s why I’m glad I’m single,” Cissy said.
    Helen didn’t see the connection. A red needle-nosed go-fast boat blasted under the bridge, setting off huge waves that rocked the tied-up yacht.
    “Whoa,” Cissy said. “He definitely ignored the no-wake warning.”
    “What’s this about you and the police?” Helen asked.
    “A Palmetto Hills detective interviewed me about Annabel’s murder when I came home from class. Crimes against persons detective Burt Pelham. Do you know him?”
    Helen shook her head. “What’s he like?”
    “Fiftysomething. Dyed blond hair. New York accent.”
    “Possibly a retired snowbird,” Helen said. “What did you tell him?”
    “Of course I mentioned Hugo and how he acted that day. I told Detective Pelham that Annabel was Hugo’s ex-wife and he hated her. I can’t believe he stepped right over that poor woman when she was dying in the parking lot and just took off. If anyone killed her, it’s Hugo. He certainly had a good reason after she ruined his career.”
    “But that was years ago,” Helen said. “Why kill Annabel now?”
    “Because her career is taking off and he’s on the fast track to nowhere. You know he follows her everywhere.”
    “I heard that,” Helen said.
    “He’s like a stalker, except Annabel couldn’t do anything about him. But I told Detective Pelham I’m not sure Annabel was murdered. I think she killed herself.”
    “Why would she do that, especially if her career was taking off?” Helen said.
    “You know she had chronic fatigue syndrome. Some days it was so bad, she couldn’t get out of bed.”
    “Lots of people live with it,” Helen said.
    “But Annabel was an artist,” Cissy said. “She was unstable.”
    Helen looked at Cissy, her corkscrew curls bobbing, her fringe floating on the air-conditioning breeze, and said, “You’re an artist, too.”
    “Yes, I am,” Cissy said. “At least, I’m working on it. But Annabel’s chronic fatigue syndrome left her depressed. She’d had a flare-up and was using a cane again. She’d been making the rounds of the specialists and a Miami doctor told her she might have something worse.”
    “What?” Helen asked.
    “Myasthenia gravis, an