Dying to Call You by Elaine Viets Page A

eyes. “You look terrible. What happened?”
    “I heard a murder last night.” Helen told them the story over a generous glass of wine.
    “You’re not sure it was a murder,” Margery said. “You’re not even sure the woman was dead.”
    “She’s dead,” Helen said. “Nobody sounds like that and lives.”
    “Well, you’ve found the sister,” Peggy said. “That’s a relief. Your part is done. She can turn it over to the police.”
    “No, it’s not,” Helen said. “Laredo’s missing. The police won’t investigate it. They think she took off. I need to prove to myself she’s dead. I heard a woman die. Do you know how horrible that is? Don’t you get it?”
    She could see Peggy frowning in disapproval. She could feel Margery doing the same thing. She started talking before they could object. “Tomorrow, I’m going to Gator Bill’s restaurant to see that waitress, Debbie. Savannah’s talking with the neighbors in Hank Asporth’s area to see if they noticed her sister’s car. She’s also going to follow Hank around and see where he goes.”
    “Sounds like you got the hard part,” Peggy said. “And the expensive part. Even if you just have a drink at Gator Bill’s, it will cost you twenty bucks.”
    Pete gave a disapproving squawk.
    “Savannah’s taking a day off work to follow Hank. That will cost her a lot more than twenty bucks.”
    “Are the cops hassling you about this?” Margery said.
    “No. As far as they’re concerned, nobody was murdered.
    I’m just a crazy woman who made a hysterical call. They checked it out and saw nothing. Case closed.”
    “Then why can’t you let it go?” Margery asked. “You don’t know this Laredo woman. She sounds like someone who’d leave town for no reason. She’s a waitress living in a double-wide. She doesn’t have any roots.”
    “I heard a woman die,” Helen said. “I didn’t make it up.
    And I don’t walk away from murder.”
    “Hush,” Margery said, looking toward the parking lot.
    “Here come the new neighbors in 2C, Fred and Ethel Mertz.
    I don’t want these nice, down-to-earth folks to hear you talk about murder.”
    Ethel was about sixty. She had a chunky body, tightly permed gray hair, and a T-shirt with prancing cats on it. The back of the T-shirt showed the cats’ butts. Helen figured that was as down-to-earth as you could get.
    Fred was wearing a baseball cap that said, I’M RETIRED—DON’T ASK ME TO DO ANYTHING, and a T-shirt that didn’t quite cover his expanding belly. Helen stared at his massive gut.
    The flesh was firm and smooth, like a prize gourd. The rest of him was lumpy, as if he’d been constructed of modeling clay. He had a jowly face with a knoblike nose. More lumps for chins, arms and knobby knees.
    Fred and Ethel declined Peggy’s offer of a glass of wine.
    “We don’t believe in strong drink,” Ethel said. “We’re high on life.”
    “Awwk,” Pete said.
    Helen felt the same way. “What are you retired from, Fred?”
    “I sold pre-owned cars.” Of course. Helen should have recognized that insincere smile. “Ethel worked for the IRS for thirty-eight years. What do you do?”
    “I work for Girdner Sales,” Helen said.
    “Never heard of them,” Fred said, as if that counted against the company. “What do they do?”
    “We’re a telemarketing firm.”
    “A telemarketer?” Fred said. “You know what I tell telemarketers? ‘Why don’t you give me your home number, honey, so I can call you at eight in the morning?’ ”
    He looked pleased with himself, as if he’d said something clever. Helen heard that routine twenty times a day.
    “I hang up on them. Hard,” Ethel said. “I want their ears ringing like my phone.”
    Helen wondered why people felt compelled to tell her the ugly things they did to telemarketers. She didn’t tell Fred what she wanted to do to used-car salesmen—especially the one who sold her that hunk of junk she drove to Florida. Nor did she tell Ethel that she