Free Dying to Call You by Elaine Viets

car she remembers was the yellow Honda in the drive next door. But what was Laredo’s car doing there?”
    “Maybe your sister parked it over there so Hank wouldn’t see her coming,” Helen said.
    “Why would she do that?”
    Savannah had created more questions and found no answers. “I’m going to scrub floors at Ms. Patterson’s and see if I can find out anything more.”
    “I’ll call Steve and see if I can get that charity bartender’s gig,” Helen said.
    “At least we’re making money while we’re detecting.”
    Savannah dumped her soda can in the trash. “Back to work.”
    Helen called Steve from a pay phone. He wasn’t there.
    “Call back after eleven tonight,” a woman said. She slammed down the phone.
    Helen’s life seemed to be nothing but phone abuse, personally and professionally. In the boiler room, she hadn’t made a sale all morning. She longed for the quiet of survey duty. But Vito had put his foot down: “No sales, no surveys.”
    Tonight, she was working the boiler room.
    The jittery Nick was not sitting next to her. He did not show up for work. Helen wondered how much longer he would last. Shellie, a bouncy blond cheerleader type, took his seat. Helen found her more irritating than the junkie.
    Shellie oozed enthusiasm, squealing with delight when she said, “Yes, sir, Tank Titan is guaranteed to help reduce large chunks, odors and wet spots.”
    Helen felt a mean, secret satisfaction when she heard Shellie say, “Ewww. That’s disgusting.” She dropped the phone like it was covered with slime.
    “What did he want?” Helen said.
    “A blow job. Vito’s got to take that line about wet spots out of the sales pitch.”
    Helen was taking her own lumps. A Texas woman screamed, “It’s eight fifteen at night. We’re getting ready to settle into bed. We’re tired. We don’t appreciate calls this late.”
    They packed it in early, deep in the heart of Texas.
    Bill, the next caller, was rested and ready. Helen was halfway through her spiel when he said, “You have a good product there, Helen, but I have a better one. Have you ever thought of exploring the Amway opportunity? I could sponsor you. I’m an IBO—independent business owner, and—”
    “Uh, thanks, Bill. I gotta go. My doorbell’s ringing, Helen said. The words came automatically. It was what she always said to telemarketers, back when she had a phone.
    Helen didn’t think the night would ever end. But it finally did. At ten twenty, she was sitting out by the Coronado pool with Peggy and Margery. The lights on the turquoise water were as romantic as ever. The palm trees whispered night secrets. But Helen did not enjoy her evenings there anymore.
    Fred and Ethel, the new tenants in 2C, infested her enchanted place. Even the most harmless conversation triggered one of their diatribes.
    Tonight, they were smugly swigging root beer. Helen, Margery and Peggy were drinking cheap white wine. Pete was sitting on Peggy’s shoulder with his head under his wing. He couldn’t stand Fred and Ethel, either.
    Conversation was a struggle. There were long, uncomfortable silences. Peggy broke one by saying, “I think the starter’s going on my car. I’m going to need a new one.”
    “That’s what you get for driving a foreign car,” Fred said.
    “You pay for that foreign prestige. Nothing beats American-made. That’s what I always say.”
    Helen didn’t see much prestige in Peggy’s green Kia, but she couldn’t say that without hurting Peggy’s feelings.
    “American-made isn’t what it used to be,” Ethel said. Her eyes were small and hard as BBs. “You ask me, it’s the American workers. They want too much money for too little work.”
    No one asked her. The conversation lay there like a dead fish.
    Margery, who usually had an opinion on everything, puffed quietly on her Marlboro. Peggy said nothing. Even Pete stayed silent.
    Helen studied Ethel’s tightly permed hair. How did you get a style like that, she