Blind Dates Can Be Murder (13 page)

When Lettie had finished answering the questions, she met with a matchmaker named Vicki who went over the application with her. Vicki explained how Lettie’s results would be tabulated and compared with all of the men in the database in a search for the perfect match. For any matches that turned up, both parties would be contacted, given a photo and general profile, and, if they wanted to proceed, a date would be arranged.

Lettie listened to the woman go on and on about all the successful matches they had made in just the few months since they had opened, but she knew they wouldn’t find anyone for her. No one in a town as nice as Mulberry Glen could ever be a match for her.

“Very well,” Vicki said, reaching for the phone. “The next step is to have your photo taken. Our photographer is here today. Let me give him a buzz and see if he has any openings.”

Jo walked into the police station, Styrofoam box and paper cup in hand. She asked for the chief, and as she waited for him, she sat in a hard plastic chair and sipped the coffee, the lunch she had been unable to share with Brock growing cold in its container. For some reason—probably because of her busy, busy morning—she was famished and eager to be finished with police business so that she could eat.

“Hey, Jo,” the chief called loudly, making her jump. Much to her dismay, a small splash of coffee fell on her shirt.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, putting everything down and reaching into her purse for a napkin. She dabbed at the stain, but it was dark and spreading.

“Let me guess,” the chief said, coming to a stop in front of her. “You need to take care of that spot first before you find out what we’ve discovered.”

Relief flooded Jo’s mind. She didn’t want to be type A about it, but with that particular fabric, the stain had to be attacked quickly or it would be hopeless. And it was one of her favorite shirts.

“I’ll only be a second,” she told him, standing. “Do you by any chance have any salt?”

With a roll of his eyes, the chief retrieved a saltshaker from the break room and gave it to Jo. She headed for the women’s restroom and went to work, pouring a small pile of salt onto the counter, wetting a paper towel, and dabbing it into the salt. Jo worked at the stain with the damp salted towel, relieved to see that most of the coffee was coming off. As Jo was working, a uniformed policewoman came out of a stall and began washing her hands. She was short and very cute, and Jo recognized her from the investigation last fall, when she was involved with the murder of her neighbor.

“Hey, you’re the tip lady!” the officer cried, as she obviously remembered Jo too. “I’m Monica O’Connell. I worked on the Pratt murder.”

“I remember.”

“So what are you fixing now?”

Jo explained about removing coffee stains, and Monica seemed fascinated by the use of salt on a damp rag. Apparently, spilled coffee was quite common around the station.

“Fortunately,” Jo continued, “since this shirt is a sturdy white knit, I’ll be able to get the rest of the stain out tonight by dissolving two denture-cleaning tablets in warm water and soaking it for a while.”

Monica was amazed and began quizzing her on other potential stains. Being a cop, Jo would have thought she would want to know about things like blood and dirt and gunpowder, but she was more concerned with basic stains such as fruit juice and tomato sauce.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Monica said finally, shaking her head. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“Nah. The real miracle would be to come up with a way for women to stop spilling things on their chests in the first place.”

Jo dropped the damp paper towel into the trash and then dabbed at the shirt with a fresh one, just to dry it off.

“By the way,” Monica said casually, “how’s your neighbor? Danny, is it?”

“He’s fine,” Jo said, a bit confused until she saw the wistful expression on O’Connell’s face. It was a familiar look, one she had seen on countless women over the years. “Did you date him?” Jo asked. At some time or another, Danny seemed to have dated half the town.

“No,” the officer replied, looking into the mirror and fiddling with her bangs. “He’s dreamy, all right, but I’m not really into the artsy type. I like cops, Marines, crew cuts. You know, spit and polish.”

“Spit and polish,” Jo repeated, dropping the dry towel into the trash can and scooping the leftover salt into the container as well. “That is definitely not Danny.”

“I know. But you know what? He’s still a doll. If he ever cleaned up his act, I’d be all over him like the peeling on a potato.”

“Excuse me. Is this where I’m supposed to be?”

Danny looked up to see a woman hovering in the doorway, looking like a deer who might bolt any minute. She wore a shapeless tan dress that hung loosely over her body like a gunny sack. Her hair was stringy and brown, with a layer of bangs that covered half her eyes. Under the bangs, she wore wide, thick glasses. She wasn’t exactly homely, but she certainly didn’t know much about bringing out her natural beauty—if there was any to be found under all of that dumpiness.

“Are you here to have your portrait taken?” Danny asked, giving her an encouraging smile.

“Yes,” she said in a soft voice. “I signed up for Internet dating, and they said I had to get my picture taken.”

“This is the place. I just need a few minutes to set up.”

“Of course,” she said softly, bolting toward a nearby couch. She sat, perching on the edge of the cushion, hands on her knees, staring straight ahead. Sitting there, she looked like a little mouse. A mousy little mouse.

Danny unwrapped a new pack of film and attempted to make some light conversation. If she would relax a bit, her photos would come out much better.

“So have you ever done Internet dating before?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No, but I’m new in town,” she said. “I thought this might be a good way to get to know people.”

He slid film canisters into the slots on his belt.

“Where are you from?”

“Here and there,“ she said, placing her palms against each other and pressing them against her knees. “I’ve been living in Moore City, but I’m thinking I might prefer small-town life.”

“What do you do?”

“Secretary,” she replied. “Temping, mostly.”

“Ah.”

He worked silently for a few moments, locking the camera onto the tripod and making note of his camera settings.

”In fact,” she said, “it looks like I might start working here soon. Do you like it?”

Danny shrugged, explaining that he was a freelance photographer and only did this as a side job.

“I’m not complaining, though,” he added. “They pay well, and it’s simple portrait work for people who want to look their best. I come in once a week, on Saturday mornings, and they keep me busy.”

Danny finished setting the camera and turned his attention to the screen and the stool. Glancing at the girl, he decided to start with the brown background, hoping it would warm up the pallor of her skin.

“What’s your name?” he asked, waving her toward the stool.

Nervously, she stood and walked quickly there, perching again on the edge, looking as though she might flee at any minute.

“I’m Lettie,” she said.

“Well, Lettie, my name is Danny,” he told her. “How about we get some photos of you for your dating profile? It’s time to capture you on film.”

He might be capturing her on film, but Lettie knew job one as soon as she worked there was to go into the computer and delete her pictures and her file! The last thing she needed was her own image on record.

Still, for now, Lettie let the guy pose her, adjusting a hand here, a tilt of the chin there. He was adorable, all blue eyes and shaggy brown hair and friendly warmth. He was the kind of guy most girls usually went for, though to her, she’d rather know him simply as a friend—if she ever let herself have friends.

“All right, Lettie,” he said, going to the camera and standing behind it. “I want you to look right up here and give me your most winning smile.”

Her most winning smile. Trying not to grimace, she pulled off her glasses, parted her lips, and bared her teeth, wondering how ridiculous she must look.

This was much harder than her usual job assignment because it put so much attention on her. She was at her worst this way—and at her best when she could fade into the background and simply disappear from view.

“Okay, relax,” the photographer said, not snapping the picture. “Just look up here without smiling and we’ll try a few serious ones first.”

She did as he said, soon relaxing enough that she was able to smile more naturally. She followed his directions, tilting here and turning there, trying to be a good sport about it.

“Beautiful!” Danny said, snapping several in a row as she tilted her head up just a bit and let herself smile.

Beautiful? Lettie knew he was lying, but for just a moment, she closed her eyes and let herself pretend it was true.

Chief Cooper handed Jo a piece of paper, a printout from the computer about Frank Malone.

“This is from NCIC and CLEAN,” the chief said, “the national and state criminal record services. This stuff came through last night, but I didn’t want to tell you about it until we were able to get more information.”

“Frank Malone had a criminal record?”

“A fairly extensive one. Petty stuff, mostly, but he’s been in trouble most of his life, starting when he was just a teenager.”

Jo scanned the list, not understanding all of the convictions.