Bubbles Ablaze (16 page)

“See now, when they permanently expelled me they found a shotgun in my truck. For rattlesnake hunting.”

“That was stupid. That could get you fifteen years in jail.”

Zeke turned toward me. “She always this way?”

“Exhausting, isn't it?”

We were saved by G, who had given up on the nose ring. It hung forlornly from the airbag and G had shoved a wad of Burger King napkins into his nose to stem the bleeding. He was some sight with the orange crew cut and baggy jeans that hung so low on his hips, his red plaid boxers peeked out. He kept having to pull up his jeans with one hand while keeping his other hand on his nose.

“This place is awesome. Dead trees. Smoking earth,” G said. “It's so Blair Witch.” Crimson patches were spreading across the Burger King napkin.

“You know,” Zeke said, “you could've pushed that car out of the hole yourself. It wasn't that hard.”

“No way, man. I could never have pushed that thing.”

“Strapping boy like yourself. Go on.” Zeke reached out and squeezed his muscle. “How much can you bench? At your age I was pressing five hundred.”

G gazed dully. “I don't know. I've never lifted weights.”

“That's pitiful. We're gonna work on that, starting with a three-mile run at six a.m. tomorrow.”

His eyes widened in total terror.

“Now let's see about that car.” Zeke put his arm around G's shoulder, leading him off. “What is it exactly? I don't believe I've ever come across that model before.”

G sheepishly admitted that it was a Teen Safety Car designed to carry only one passenger, run on electricity and not to exceed fifty-five miles on the highway. He had leased it from the insurance company.

Zeke launched into a tirade about the namby-pamby, overregulated society of car seats, bicycle helmets and safety belts while G accidentally gave himself a wedgie by pulling up his boxers instead of his jeans.

When they were out of earshot, I asked Jane how she knew so much about Mexican jails.

“ 'Cause of G,” she said. “G's decided against going to Europe to pick grapes because he thinks it's been done. So we were looking into harvesting coffee in Mexico. Then my research showed that there are four thousand Americans in Mexican jails on charges ranging from possessing a thimble of pot to waving an American flag. That's tough because Mexico's governed by Napoleonic law, which means you're guilty until proven innocent, which also means that once you're thrown in jail you can languish there for years, even decades.”

“And?”

“And G said he wasn't worried. He never waves an American flag.”

My stomach lurched.

“By the way,” Jane prattled on, “thanks for calling him up here to help out with the investigation. G was really flattered.”

“Excuse me?” I said, glancing over at G who was leaning against the Teen Safety Car, adjusting his underwear.

“That's what G said, that you called him to Limbo because he was so good in finding things. Like the marijuana plants, remember that? Of course, when it comes to marijuana, G could find it blindfolded.”

I considered Professor Tallow. Stable. Mature. European. Good job. Great benefits. No indication of hallucinogenic drug use. So what if he was a little creepy and thirty years older than my daughter? Women do better with men who are a little older.

I
wasn't too confident that they'd actually ever seen airbags before at the Slagville Texaco, where we dropped off Jane and G to repair the Teen Safety Car. After a few telephone consultations with the automaker in Detroit, the Slagville mechanics had a vague notion of what to do. Whether or not the bags would ever work again was another matter.

There was still the outstanding issue of my editors and what one might call their silent fury. Silent because I hadn't called the
News-Times
yet. But no matter how angry Mr. Salvo might be about my story switch, he would have to be pleased that I had conducted an exclusive interview—including notes, thank you very much—with Hugh McMullen. McMullen's own confirmation that he was a murder suspect was the icing on the cake.

Genevieve took my Camaro to the A&P to pick up groceries for dinner after she and Zeke had decided it wasn't safe for me to get behind the wheel. Not that it's ever safe for me to get behind the wheel. While Zeke drove me back to the Main Mane, I considered how best to break the news to Mr. Salvo.

“Boy, you were quiet,” Zeke said as he helped me out of the tow truck and onto the sidewalk in front of Roxanne's salon. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital, anyway.”

“I'm fine,” I said, climbing the steps. “I was just thinking.”

“Thinking, huh.” Zeke stopped me at the door and lay his arm casually across my shoulder. “Just what I've been searching for. A woman with beauty and brains. Not to mention guts.”

In the late afternoon light Zeke's flawless features glowed with the kind of vigor that only the young, virile and
testosterone-laden possess, but rarely appreciate. This man could turn on granite. He was pure sex, from his wild hair and capable shoulders to the faded outline of his wallet in his back jeans pocket. I wasn't too tempted. After all, I was chaste, a model of perfect feminine control. And I had other romantic interests worth waiting for. At least I hoped I did.

I politely removed Zeke's arm. “Stiletto. Remember him?”

“Hey, I wasn't making a move.” He held up both hands. “Anyway, it's not like you're his property, right?”

“True.”

“If you were married, absolutely.” He moved in closer. “But you're not. You're free. Or . . . are you?”

Damn, this kid was good for a church boy. I didn't recall men with lines like that when I was twenty-three. Then again, when I was twenty-three I was working two jobs and caring for a self-centered husband and a five-year-old.

“Listen, Zeke . . .”

The front door flew open. Roxanne stood there wearing a hot pink chiffon blouse, skin-tight pants and cleavage, cleavage, cleavage. This outfit didn't just happen. It had been concocted. She must've seen Zeke through the side window, checked a catalogue to see what all the well-dressed hookers were wearing these days, and done a quick change.

“Hell-o handsome,” she cried, grabbing Zeke by the hand and yanking him inside. “Don't just let him stand there. Invite the gentleman in, cousin.”

I traipsed behind her into the salon where Mama was waiting—an oversized rolling pin in her hand.

“Oh, no. Don't tell me you're on safety patrol now, too?” I asked.

Mama jutted her chin at Zeke. “Who's the cowhand? You want I should clock him?”

“No way, Aunt LuLu,” Roxanne protested. “He's the bodyguard Steve Stiletto hired to protect Bubbles. He stopped by this afternoon and we had a perfectly delightful chat. Seems some
hideous individual stuffed mashed potatoes in this poor fellow's tail end.”

“Tailpipe,” Zeke corrected.

“Tail whatever.” Roxanne snuck a quick glance at Zeke's behind.

“Roxanne's right,” I said before leaping into a detailed explanation about how Zeke had pulled me out of the church. My head was pounding by the time I finished, as though my body remembered the CO poisoning and decided to play the part.

“Aw, shucks,” said Mama. “Anyone who sticks his neck out for Bubbles is like family.” She lowered the rolling pin.

“Practically kissing cousin,” agreed Roxanne. “Won't you stay for dinner, Zeke?”

As though she thought this would be tempting, Mama rattled off the night's menu: meat loaf with ketchup sauce, frozen green beans, the always present applesauce, milk (iced tea for the adults) and, ahem, mashed potatoes.

“No, thanks,” said Zeke. “I think I've had enough mashed potatoes.”

But Mama wouldn't take no for an answer and despite his polite declines, Zeke ended up literally picking Roxanne's fingers off his wrist so he could leave. Roxanne watched him from the storefront window and pouted when he climbed into the truck.

I went upstairs to take a detoxifying shower with Mama's homemade rose-scented glycerin soap. When I emerged clean, wet and naked, I found Roxanne sitting on the vanity in a veil of steam.

“Pardon me for busting in like this,” she said, swinging her legs, “but I gotta know if I have carte blanche.”

I modestly held a towel to my chest. “Carte blanche for what?”

“Like you don't know. Zeke. I wanna date him.”

I slipped into pink thong underwear I'd brought for my night with Stiletto and felt sad. It was so wasted on Roxanne. “You can't date Zeke. You're married.”

“Doesn't feel that way. Stinky's been gone for weeks. I have got to get me some loving or I am going to burst.”

I snapped the elastic of my thong. “You're not even divorced . . . or separated.”

“I'm not talking about getting remarried. I'm talking about getting me a man to hang around the house. After the break-in today, I realized I need Stinky for more than the sex. Having him around made me feel safe, Bub. Even if all he did was gnash his teeth about McMullen.”

“He was wasting his gnashing. McMullen doesn't give a hoot about coal.” I told her about McMullen's immature temper tantrum in the church. “I think it might have been him who locked me in the chapel.”

“Boss boy.” Roxy hopped off the counter. “They're all that way, aren't they? I remember when McMullen's brothers used to come back from college every Christmas and strut around town like they owned the place, even though they hadn't done a lick of mining in their lives. That's why I love Stinky. He's college educated, but he's real, you know? Down-to-earth.”

“He's coming back, Roxanne. Heck, I bet he's already back in Slagville. He told Jane that I was to meet him at some hoagie joint. Is there a hoagie joint in town?”

“Not that I know of. Is that a matching bra?”

“Ten ninety-nine for the complete set at JC Penney,” I said, shifting the pink cups. “One more reason you can't date Zeke. He's too young for you.”

“Like hell that stud's too young. I'm forty—just hitting my sexual prime and Zeke's on the downside of his. Oh, you're not going to wear that, are you? It is Mrs. Price you're meeting, you know.”

“Mrs. Price?” I zipped up the side of my beige leatherette miniskirt. “What're you talking about?”

“Didn't you get the message?” Roxanne leaned into the mirror and inspected her eyebrows. “You're supposed to meet her at eight p.m. tonight at the inn, room 500. She said she was returning your call.”

“Shoot. And here I was looking forward to calling in my story and hitting the hay. I'm beat.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they were heresy. Everyone had been clamoring for an interview with Chrissy Price. Those other reporters would have jumped at the chance. Then again, those other reporters hadn't slept on an uncomfortable steel foldout cot next to two snoring broads in a sex hotel the night before and on a jailhouse bed the night before that.

“You sure it was Mrs. Price, Roxanne?”

“Most definitely. Said you had to come. Said she didn't know who else to call. If you ask me, she sounded absolutely panicked. You have to go see that woman, no matter how tired you are.”

After I was dressed, with a tasteful application of fawn eyeliner, black-brown waterproof mascara and blushing pink on my lips, I went downstairs and called Mr. Salvo with an update. This was not a phone call I looked forward to making.

“Salvo,” is how he answered the phone.

I cleared my throat. “Hi, Mr. Salvo. It's me, Bubbles.”

“Bubbles?”

“Bubbles.”

“Wait. I gotta put you on hold.” The next thing I knew I was listening to an a cappella version of “More Than a Woman.”

In the next room, Jane, G, Mama and Genevieve were setting the dinner table and engaging in an argument about Celtic stones and dowsing. Mama insisted that the so-called Celtic rocks had been merely left over by farmers a few generations before and that Professor Tallow was a hysterical ignoramus.

Jane countered by pointing out that the dowsing rods had spun furiously when they were placed on top of the pointed standing stones or directed toward the opening of the cellars so their placement couldn't have been haphazard.

“Professor Tallow has a theory that it's a magnetic field,” Jane said, placing a dish of baked tofu on the table. Her substitute for
meat loaf. “That's why the Celts arranged divining stones on those spots, for purposes of spiritual observance and astronomy.”

“Like that Jamaican fortune-teller on TV,” G declared, his nose still slightly bloody from the afternoon's mishap.

Mama brought over the bowl of beans. “That's astrology, genius, though dowsing is just as kooky, if you ask me.”

“I beg your pardon.” Genevieve stopped pouring iced tea. “I'll have you know that dowsing is a perfectly respectable science. I used a dowser to find my first well. The cherry branch in his hand bent so low to the ground that the bark ripped right off.”

“Ah, you're lame-brained, too,” Mama said, motioning for everyone to sit down. I signaled for them to eat without me.

Mr. Salvo was back on. “You still there, Bubbles?”

“Yeah.”

“You're fired.”

I gripped the edge of the phone table. “Okay.”

“And you're working Sunday. No one gets out of the Sunday shift. I don't care if they're dead, their corpse still has to call all the police departments and find out what's going on. Understand? You're working, but you're fired.”

“Makes sense.”

“Don't you ever, ever, ever pull that stunt on me again,” he said. “Where did you learn a trick like that? Six months ago, you didn't even know what a slug was. You were some clueless hairdresser clicking around the newsroom. Now you're using our computerized editorial system to sneak your story onto the front page. I'm just waiting for McMullen's lawyers to sue us.”

“I think they're preoccupied with other matters.”

“Like what?”

“Like Hugh McMullen is the prime murder suspect. The bullet that killed Price came from his gun, a Smith and Wesson he kept in Pittsburgh, and McMullen was in Slagville when Price was murdered, although he doesn't have an alibi.”

Mr. Salvo was quiet. Roxanne was up from the table. She
opened the coat closet and handed Genevieve two metal coat hangers for cutting and bending into dowsing rods.

“Of course, you'll have to call him for a reaction,” Mr. Salvo said, clearly reining in his enthusiasm. “Can't just say the company was closed so McMullen wasn't available for comment, like you did in today's story. I'd have never let that cheap shot slip past if I'd been on the desk.”

“I did get McMullen's comment about the murder investigation. In fact,” I paused for dramatic effect, “
he
was the one who told me he's a suspect.”

“You're yanking my chain.”

“I am not. McMullen's a mess. He looks like death warmed over and the only reason he spilled his guts was because he thought I could put him in touch with Stinky Koolball.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Uh . . .” I was loathe to tell Mr. Salvo that Stinky had stopped by my house in Lehigh. Brought up so many icky legal and ethical questions. “Because I'm the cousin of Stinky's wife.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay. Twelve inches and no more. Keep it short, sweet and accurate,” Mr. Salvo said. “Get that Chief Donohue at home and tell him you're going with the story no matter what. He'll have to either confirm or deny that McMullen's a suspect. Call it in and let's talk at eight-thirty.”

Genevieve had started a slow march across Roxanne's living room floor, holding the dowsing rods in front of her like they were loaded pistols.

“Can't talk at eight-thirty. I've got an exclusive interview with Chrissy Price over at The Inn in Glen Ellen.”

Pound. Mr. Salvo's fist hit the news desk. “Why didn't you say so? What's gotten into you up there in Slagville? First you get privileged documents, then the head of a major coal company admits to you he's a murder suspect and now you're meeting with Bud Price's widow? You handing out the payola or what?”