Blind Dates Can Be Murder (43 page)

“Wow!”

“And, of course, if I color my hair red, I’ll have to figure out how to do my makeup to go with it and maybe some different clothes…”

Lettie’s face burned with shame, but she knew she had chosen the right tool for insinuating herself into Marie’s apartment. Immediately, Marie began talking about “winters” and “autumns” and color palettes and contact lenses and Lord knew what else. She really was chomping at the bit to make Lettie over, and the only glitch was when she offered to come over to Lettie’s place to help.

“Space is just so tight here,” Lettie said. “Especially the sink. I wonder if it might be better to do it over there.”

“Yeah, do come right over!” Marie said enthusiastically. “I’ll get out my old Mary Kay stuff and we’ll go to town. Our own little makeover party!”

Their own little makeover party. Lettie was going to kill two birds with one stone: access to cash and a completely disguised appearance. She got directions to Marie’s apartment and then told her she had to do a few things to do first and it might be half an hour or so before she could get there. Then she ended the call, went into the pharmacy, and bought a box of Clairol.

Jo scooted across the floor on her knees. When she reached the knife, she carefully picked it up and flipped it around and sawed through the cord on her wrist. It was slow going because she didn’t want to hurt herself. Finally, she got through the last piece, the whole tangle of cords falling onto her lap.

Rubbing her wrists, the first thing she did was go outside and retrieve Chewie. He was so upset that once they came back in that she just held him and spoke soothing words over and over.

She didn’t know what else to do.

Her house had been demolished, items thrown off of counters and out of cabinets. Though she wanted to walk through the entire place and survey the damage, she was afraid. What if there was yet again someone else lurking in a closet or something?

On the other hand, she couldn’t call the police. Not yet. The man had said no cops, no friends, and not a word to anyone. He had her address book, and he had chosen a name from inside and planted explosives at their home to ensure Jo’s cooperation.

Or had he?

Somehow, Jo didn’t think he’d taken the time to do all of that. The entire attack seemed unpremeditated. From the knife to the cord to the pantyhose, it seemed more as though he had come here, tossed the place and not found the money, and then improvised Plan B.

Still, she had to take him partially at his word. He had swiped her address book, after all. So even if he was lying about the explosives already being in place, there was a fair chance that what he was doing right now was going to the home of someone she knew or loved and planting them.

Whom would he choose? Jo couldn’t think about that. The little book he had taken was simply her kitchen list, not the full file of Rolodex cards she kept out in the office. Even so, it held the names of probably forty people. Friends, neighbors, churchgoers, fellow committee members, relatives, and more. Any one of them could end up a victim of this guy’s greed.

Should she try to call everyone and warn them? If she did, not only would she set off a great panic, she’d be doing exactly what the man had told her not to do. It could backfire, and someone might be blown to smithereens.

No, for their sake, Jo had to tell the police. Only, she wasn’t going to do that over the phone, and she wasn’t going to do it officially. She would find Chief Cooper—who was probably at home by now—and tell him what had happened. He would understand the need for discretion. He would know how to advise her.

“Come on, Chewie,” Jo said softly, leading the dog out of the door. Her purse and car keys were on the driveway near the car, where she had dropped them when the man grabbed her.

She picked them up and unlocked her office with shaking hands. It, too, had been ransacked. From the floor beside the desk, she picked up her Rolodex, which was still intact, and then she left.

Hands shaking, Jo drove across town to the chief’s house hoping she’d be able to find it in the dark. She’d only been there once, riding along with Danny when he’d had to drop off some photographs a few months ago. But she knew which street it was and she thought she’d recognize the house when she saw it.

She swallowed hard, wishing she had Danny with her, watching in her rearview mirror all the way to make sure no one was following her.

Chuck needed a drink. Badly. Considering the amount of money he had taken from Lettie’s hotel room and stashed in the trunk, he could afford even more than a drink. He needed some chemical intoxication after the day he’d had—after the
life
he’d had. He could only hope such things could be found in stupid, picturesque Mulberry Glen, Pennsylvania.

He drove around for a while, finally running across what looked like a trucker bar out near the warehouse district. He parked, went inside, and ordered four glasses of Scotch. He didn’t want to run out anytime soon.

He sat at the end of the bar, next to the wall, and tossed back the first two glasses so fast he nearly started choking. But then he could feel the heat, the tingling in his extremities. The third drink he took much more slowly, looking around the room as he did, sizing up the people inside.

The place was dark and smoky, with a long bar, a good bit of seating, and three pool tables near the back. Country western music played over the speakers, and most of the men there were grizzled and hard. The women were even harder.

It wasn’t difficult to spot the dealer; they were usually the only ones in a bar who
didn’t
look drunk or stoned. There was a guy with shaggy hair, kind of young, who seemed to be circulating through the crowd, speaking to folks here and there. He seemed like a man doing business. Chuck caught his eye and nodded, and after a while the guy ended up on the bar stool next to him.

“How you doing?” the fellow asked. “Having a good night?”

“It could get better,” Chuck said.

“You dirty?”

“I’d like to be. Can you set me up?”

They were quiet for a few moments, watching as a woman teasingly struggled with a man over a pool cue. She finally wrestled it from his grip, but as she took her shot, he started tickling and grabbing her, distracting her so much that she knocked in the eight ball and cackled in laughter.

“What’s your preference?” the guy asked Chuck, flashing a smile. He wasn’t a bad-looking kid, but he had a few missing teeth, and the ones that were there were a dark yellowish brown.

“Something to take it down,” Chuck replied. “I need to relax. You got any red beans and rice?”

Slang for a combination of barbiturates and muscle relaxers, it was an unusual request, but the pusher seemed to know what he was talking about.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied, sliding off the stool. “A hundred bucks. But not here. You know Twinkle Donuts?”

Chuck nodded, having passed the place half a block away.

“Meet me around behind the dumpsters in five minutes.”

“Make it fifteen,” Chuck said, lifting the fourth glass and trying not to slur. “I want to finish my drink.”

“I’m sorry it took so long to get here,” Lettie said. “I-I had a little trouble finding the place.”

That was a lie. She’d spent the last half hour racing there from Moore City and had located the apartment complex as soon as she got into town.

“No problem,” Marie said. “It gave me time to change and get settled after work.”

Lettie stepped into Marie’s apartment, not surprised to find that it was warm and pleasing and attractively decorated. It also smelled nice, and Lettie realized that there were little bowls of potpourri here and there around the living room. Along one wall, there was a stack of brown boxes with the Girl Scout logo on them.

“Your apartment is beautiful,” Lettie said.

“Nah, but thanks,” Marie replied. “I just moved in last month. I still have a lot to do.”

The place did seem kind of sparse, though the pieces of furniture and the pictures on the wall that were there so far had obviously been chosen with care.

“So is that the color you picked?” Marie asked, gesturing toward the bag in Lettie’s hand.

“Yeah,” she replied, handing it over. She had grabbed it so quickly from the shelf that she was kind of afraid to see the color again. But as Marie pulled out the box, Lettie decided it wasn’t so bad.

“You’re sure you want to do this tonight?” Marie asked, studying the box. “I only ask because a color change this drastic really ought to be done by a hairdresser.”

Lettie had been afraid she might say that.

“To be honest,” she told her, “I, um, I can’t afford a hairdresser. It’s do it myself or not at all.”

Marie seemed to understand. She led Lettie to the kitchen, dumped the contents of the box on the counter, and picked up the directions.

“Then let’s figure it out, shall we? This ought to be fun.”

The man who opened the door in response to Jo’s knock looked like an older, shorter version of the chief. Jo glanced back out at the decorative garden flag that said “Cooper.”

“Hi, I’m looking for Harvey Cooper? The police chief?”

“That’s my son,” the man said. “Harvey Junior. He lives next door.”

“Thank you.”

“You might find him out in his garage, though.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Jo climbed down the front steps, took Chewie and her Rolodex from the car, and made her way across the lawn to the garage next door. She tapped on the side door, which was slightly ajar, and pushed it further open to see the chief’s legs sticking out from under an antique car.