Free Killer Blonde by Elaine Viets

Helen thought. I’ve been on the run for more than two years, and I haven’t exactly announced it to the world. Even Margery doesn’t know. Then Helen thought about the afternoon she’d caught her husband with their neighbor, Sandy, and how she’d picked up a crowbar and smashed her world. And I’d do it again.
    Helen shrugged. “Makes sense that Minfreda wouldn’t talk,” she said. “But how did you figure it out? Did you see her hit Vicki?”
    â€œNo, I missed the dramatic moment.” Margery stopped then, and her silence was louder than anything she’d said. Helen saw the slow burn of her cigarette. She wished she could see Margery’s face.
    â€œI put it together from the evidence I found,” her landlady said. “First, there was the resignation letter in Vicki’s typewriter. I saw it when I got to the office the next morning. I knew there was something off about it. Vicki was a terrible typist.
    â€œMinfreda, on the other hand, was excellent. She’d tried to type in a clumsy manner, but the letter looked like a good typist trying to be a bad one. She had a steadiness to her touch that bad typists don’t have. The letter had to be Minfreda’s work.
    â€œI also found a shard of the WORLD’S BEST BOSS coffee cup under Vicki’s desk. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Minfreda saw me do it, but said nothing.
    â€œPlus my plastic typewriter cover was missing. And there was a dime-sized spot of blood on Vicki’s desk. I wiped it up.”
    Helen was shocked. “You removed evidence of a murder.”
    â€œShe could have had a nosebleed.” Margery blew smoke, which Helen thought was appropriate.
    â€œThe ripped-up carpet and the old curtains were in the back hall when I left work that night. The next morning I got there before the construction crew came on, but the curtains and a huge pile of debris were gone. The janitor didn’t throw things down that chute. It wasn’t his job.”
    â€œNo one reported that the trash was gone?” Helen said.
    Margery gave one of her Seabiscuit snorts. “You can’t steal trash. Dumping debris is hot, sweaty work. Who’s going to complain because someone did his work for him?
    â€œI talked to the night guard, Sam, and got some interesting information. Sam told me that Vicki left about twenty to nine, before the cleaners arrived. Sam was a fat old guy, who slept at his desk most nights, but he kept an eye on the pretty women.
    â€œâ€˜Queen Vicki was her usual snobby self,’ he said. ‘Didn’t bother saying good-night to me. I’m not important enough to notice—but she expects me to put my ass on the line for her if she’s attacked.’
    â€œâ€˜That’s Vicki all over,’ I said. ‘But she sure likes to get noticed. Did you see those weird earrings she was wearing?’
    â€œâ€˜Can’t say I did,’ Sam said. ‘Her face was hidden by that big pink scarf, like she was Julie Christie avoiding her adoring fans.’”
    Helen was confused. “What earrings?” she said.
    â€œI made them up,” Margery said. “I wanted to see if Sam had really noticed her face. When he said that, I knew he didn’t see Vicki leave. He saw her pink coat and scarf walk out the door.”
    â€œThat doesn’t prove anything,” Helen said.
    â€œThere’s more,” Margery said. “Sam told me Minfreda came back for her car at midnight, like it was big gossip. He couldn’t wait to tell me that part. ‘That nifty little black suit was half-torn off her, too,’ he said. He’d thought she’d had a hot date, the old lecher.”
    â€œDate? That sounds like date rape,” Helen said.
    â€œYou’re looking at it thirty years later,” Margery said. “Anyway, I knew for a fact Minfreda wasn’t seeing anyone. That young woman was married to her job at