Death of a Domestic Diva (3 page)

That stopped him. He looked at me, his russet eyebrows pushed up near to his hairline. “What? What did you say?”

“Maybe it wasn't the tuna,” I said again. I was making stuff up, hoping to get us off this topic and back to the map. “Probably something else altogether. Maybe something on the land they were surveying.”

“Like, like what?”

“I don't know. Uh, maybe poison ivy. Or wild mushrooms. Maybe they had some for a snack and that made them sick.”

Elroy started crying. “That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in twenty years.” I patted him on the shoulder.

“Can we please get back to the map?” Cherry said.

“Can I please have my shirts now?” Lewis said.

“Can you all please quiet down so I can watch the end of my show?” said Mrs. Beavy.

We all looked over at Mrs. Beavy, who was standing below the TV. I glanced around. Wendy Gettlehorn and her children had already left—and I hadn't even noticed. At that moment, Billy emerged from my storeroom, towing my vacuum cleaner.

But then Mrs. Beavy pointed up to the TV. “See? You all have been yapping so much, it's been hard to hear the show. But here's my favorite part.”

We all—even Lewis and Billy—looked up at the television. A commercial for toilet paper ended, giving way to the end of the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
. Tyra appeared, her face, haloed in auburn hair, filling the screen.

“Today we've discussed the wonders of napkin folds—how with just a few minutes of extra effort you too can add a touch of grace to all your meals—whether a sit-down dinner for twenty or a breakfast buffet for one hundred—with how you present your table linens.” Never mind that none of us would ever host such an event. We were still entranced with her. “Try these tips in your own home,” Tyra beamed. “And let your daily living be . . . simply wonderful!”

Cherry sighed. “Isn't she great.”

“The greatest,” Mrs. Beavy agreed.

“I learned how to display my pop bottle collection for best decorative effect from her,” Elroy said.

I stared at him. Elroy, a Tyra Grimes fan?

Then Billy said, “Hey, Josie, that reminds me, I've been meaning to show you this!”

He started unbuttoning his denim shirt—which made me a mite nervous, because truth be told, I wouldn't put it past him to shave some design into his chest hair to demonstrate the prowess of the Cut-N-Suck—but what he actually showed us was a red T-shirt, with the Tyra Grimes logo—her name in fancy script, with a swirly line below it—emblazoned on the chest.

“Uh, Billy, where'd you get that? Tyra Grimes doesn't put out clothing. Just stuff for the home.”

“Ah, that's where you're behind the times,” Billy said. “I was at the Red Horse Motel's lounge last night.” Somehow, my cousin the Cut-N-Suck distributor and former preacher never minded admitting he liked going to one of Paradise's two bars (not every non-antique industry is a monopoly in Paradise)—and the only one that comes with motel rooms.

“Met a nice little lady, with a pretty little accent, says she's in the area on vacation. She told me how she had a supply of these T-shirts. So I got two. One for me. And one for you! I, uh, have yours up in my apartment.”

“Ooh—a signature line of Tyra Grimes clothing,” Cherry cooed. Then her eyes narrowed as she peered at Billy. “How is it this woman has Tyra Grimes T-shirts for sale?”

“Said she has special connections to Tyra Grimes's company and it's okay for her to sell them, kind of like a promo. They were expensive, coming out ahead and all, but since you're being so kind, Josie, as to let me stay rent-free, I dipped into my savings money.”

What I should have done was get annoyed at Billy for spending money on T-shirts when he claimed he couldn't pay rent.

What I did instead was get an idea.

“I've got it!” I hollered. “We need something fast that'll make everyone else notice Paradise—make the world think of us as important, right? Help get us back on the map? Get people to come here, visit our antique shops, visit the lake, right?”

Everyone—except Lewis, who was staring at Billy—looked at me. I went on, “Well, I'm a stain expert, right? I could go on the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
and share all I know about getting out stains. People won't want stains on their new Tyra Grimes T-shirts, will they? Maybe she could even come here to do the show—an on-location kind of thing. She's done that before at restaurants and stores, so why not at a laundromat? And Tyra is so famous that her coming here to do a show would get Paradise a lot of attention. I'd mention Licking Creek Lake and the antique stores in town. What do you all think?”

There was a silence. A long silence.

And then Cherry started laughing. “Oh, you do beat all,” she said, hooting and fanning herself with her hand. “Someone as wonderful and important as Tyra Grimes, wanting you on her show? Why, she probably knows a dozen other stain experts she could ask on. Your plan just won't work, Josie!”

Then she left.

Elroy shook his head sadly. “As wonderful as it would be to have her here, I think Cherry's right. No one important ever comes to Paradise. But maybe if I get a petition going to send to our state rep . . .” Then he left, too.

Mrs. Beavy looked at Billy. “Billy? Will you please help me get this basket out to my truck?”

“Sure, Mrs. Beavy,” Billy said. He shot me a sympathetic look, then picked up her basket. They left, too.

Just Lewis and I were still in my laundromat. I sighed. “I'll get your shirts,” I said. I didn't even want to know what Lewis thought of my plan.

But suddenly Lewis grabbed my arm, forcing me to turn back and face him. “Don't do it,” he said, through clenched teeth. He was pale and shaking. His face was red, his mouth tight, his nostrils flaring—a 9-1-1 emergency waiting to happen. “Don't even think about getting that . . . that woman to come to our town. If she does, I'm warning you, Josie, blood will flow. It'll be on your hands. And that's a stain you'll never get out.”

With that, he stormed out the front door, not even taking his shirts.

I rubbed my arm where Lewis had grabbed me. Everyone else was so sure Tyra'd never want to come to Paradise or have me on her show, but Lewis—who I'd never seen so worked up before—was all in a lather at the very thought of me trying to contact Tyra. Strange. Maybe Hazel had fed him one too many Tyra-inspired quiches. Lewis was definitely a steak-and-potatoes guy.

But I wasn't about to let go of my idea for getting on the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
. . . no matter what anyone else said . . . so I told myself to forget about Cherry and Elroy's naysaying and Lewis's weird temper tantrum.

But I wouldn't forget it for long. Not when his prediction of bad things happening if Tyra came to Paradise started coming true—and everyone started blaming me.

2

There are some things that are just plain true about living in a small town, population 2,617.

One is that wherever you go, you see someone you know. And the worse your appearance, the more people you see. Want a minireunion with the junior-high teacher on whom you had a crush? Or with your best customers, or your old flames? Just get real depressed, have an acne breakout, and run out to the Quick Mart for the only fast fix for depression: a mega-sized block of chocolate. You'll meet everyone from your past and present.

Another truth about small town life is that word gets out fast when something new happens. Such news falls into two general categories. If it is Shocking-News-About-a-Tragedy- That-Everyone's-Glad-Didn't-Happen-to-Them, small town folks will generally (after passing the word) pitch in to help to make things better for the tragedy's victim(s).

If the latest rumor instead falls in the category of Shocking-News-About-Someone-in-Town-Acting-Even- More-Ridiculous-Than-Cousin-Billy-at-the-Red-Horse-on- Friday-Night, the news will spread even faster . . . and everyone will then want to confirm this news with you.

News about my plan to get on the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
fell into the second category. Soon Paradisites—some of whom even had their own washers and dryers—were coming into my laundromat and saying things like, “Hey, Josie, we hear you have some highfalutin idea of going onto the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
to tell how to get lipstick out of collars. Will this be an X-rated show? Ha-ha-ha.”

So for the next two days, I hid.

At home, I didn't answer the phone. Or the doorbell. I even refused to go out with my boyfriend, Owen.

At my laundromat, I stayed back in my combo supply room–office. Sat at my desk and caught up on reading my back issues of
Laundromat Today
. Worked on the monthly column I do for the
Paradise Advertiser-Gazette
, “Josie's Stain Busters.”

I admit, I was pouting. Because I'd given my all to the people of Paradise, laundrywise. Running a monthly Super Seniors Saturday where I went around to all the shut-ins and gathered up their laundry to do at half price. Building up my stain expertise, so I could give one-on-one laundry consulting to my customers. Writing the monthly column—for free.

I couldn't completely hide—sometimes the coin trays jam on the machines, and sometimes people need change. So I made up an answer for people who made jokes about the complete impossibility of someone like me getting on the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
.

I told them I had connections.

That shut people up, whether they believed me or not.

And it was kind of true, me having connections to Tyra Grimes. I'm best friends with Winnie Porter. She runs the Mason County Public Library Bookmobile, which comes through Paradise on Wednesdays.

Not that Tyra and Winnie were old buddies, or even knew each other, or had even heard of each other—well, of course, Winnie'd heard of Tyra. Winnie adored Tyra.

But I wasn't exactly lying, either. I knew that if anyone could find a more direct connection to someone famous and popular and important like Tyra Grimes, it would be Winnie Porter. I've seen her find out everything for people, from “what to feed your pet hissing cockroach” to “paper towel crafts for young scouts.”

Now, since I'd hatched my plan to get on the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
on a Monday, I had a couple of days to work on my letter to Tyra Grimes before seeing Winnie. By Wednesday morning at 2
A.M.
, I finally finished the letter.

I went to bed, and got up again at 7
A.M.
, SO I could go meet Winnie at her first bookmobile stop in Paradise—out at Ed Crowley's place on Sweet Potato Ridge Road. She gets there at 8
A.M.
, which some folks might think is pretty early to have a big red-and-white bus pull into your driveway so you can look over books and magazines, but Ed's a farmer, and by the time Winnie gets to his place he's just finished up with the hogs and cows. Ed's an avid reader, too, so he's always glad to see Winnie.

Winnie's got a few other stops to shut-ins before she pulls up in front of my laundromat at 10
A.M.
, but I wasn't about to give her this letter and ask her help in a public place like a bookmobile—not after all the ribbing I'd been getting.

So my plan was to get out to Ed Crowley's place before Winnie, then get back to my laundromat in time to open up by 9
A.M.
It was going to be tight.

I had a quick bowl of Cap'n Crunch, then pulled on my jeans and one of my business T-shirts with the logo “Toadfern's Laundromat—always a leap ahead of dirt,” and made a to-go cup of instant coffee, then piled the books I had to return on the front seat of my car, then carefully put my letter to Tyra Grimes on top of the stack of books. It looked so perfect there, in its clean white envelope, with nice black letters on the front: To—Tyra Grimes. I'd left space for Tyra's actual address, once Winnie had found it for me.

I had to smile, just looking at it.

Then, after three or four tries, I got my ten-year-old Chevy started, and I pulled out of town, going kind of slow and looking around at Paradise, still quiet and asleep. I grinned to myself, feeling a tickle of excitement. I grinned at the lovely tree-lined streets—named, cleverly, after the trees themselves: Elm and Maple and Birch. I grinned at the pretty houses—little two-stories, most all bearing porches with swings.

All is forgiven, dear Paradise, I thought! I was determined to get Tyra Grimes to come here, to get Paradise some attention, to get us back on the map. It would be a fresh start for all Paradisites, young and old! And I, Josie Toadfern, would make it happen! Soon, life in Paradise would never be the same!

After all, it seemed like nothing could go wrong on such a beautiful spring day. Bright blue, cloudless sky. Birds singing. Trees leafing out. Nice little breeze, just right. Sun shining. Just like the day Mrs. Oglevee had told us about, when those founding fathers of ours had had a picnic lunch here, decided to stay, and called it Paradise . . .

The likeness should have served as a warning.

I swear I wasn't really speeding.

At least, not as much as Chief John Worthy said later, although I couldn't be too sure, since the speed gauge on my car doesn't work anymore. Still, it didn't
feel
like I was speeding—more like I was just in a hurry.

But about two miles out from Ed Crowley's place, I heard the siren behind me. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Chief John Worthy right behind me and gaining fast.

Well, what I actually saw was a blue-and-white Police car. And it could have been any of the four officers at the Paradise Police Department. But something in my gut—which was feeling all hollowed out and queasy—told me that with my luck, it was Chief John Worthy.

Now, on this one little spot on Sweet Potato Ridge, there are three quick rises and falls, right in a row.