Go, Ivy, Go! (12 page)

“Hey, Ivy, glad you called!” Dix said. “I didn’t get back to you earlier because we were running down a bank robber. This guy thought he’d fool us by wearing a long red wig, big dangly earrings and fake fingernails, so we’d be looking for a woman.”

“So did you look for a woman?”

“Crooks may be clever but then slip up on the basics. Rule Number One: if you’re trying to look like a woman, be sure to shave. We nailed him.”

“Good work.”

“Thanks. Is everything okay with you, Ivy? We haven’t heard from you for a while. Are you still hiding out in the boondocks somewhere?”

“Actually I’m back on Madison Street.” I filled him in on the offer on the house and the dead woman in my tub. “I’ve been suspicious that the Braxtons killed her, thinking she was me. But the police seem to think she was here hiding from some personal enemy, and I guess that’s possible. She had kind of a shady past.”

“Don’t let your guard down, Ivy,” Dix warned. “Even if the Braxtons didn’t kill the woman in your tub, that doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get
you
. And don’t let that mutant curiosity gene of yours get you in trouble.”

Leave it to Dix to remember that I’m sometimes a little too curious for my own good.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with that,” he added, “but I was planning to call you even before you called us. Good news, I think. Though I suppose it’s insensitive to call any death good news.”

“Whose death?” I asked.

“Beaumont Zollinger. It happened back in June, but I just found out about it a couple days ago. He got in a fight with another inmate and was stabbed with a weapon made from paper clips the other guy had managed to collect while he was working in the prison library.”

A paper-clip weapon. I suppose you could admire the creativity if not the deadly results.

“Anyway, now you don’t have to wonder if Zollinger might escape or be released from prison and come after you himself.”

I didn’t go into a giddy whirl of celebration, but I couldn’t squash a whoosh of relief. I’d sometimes wondered if Bo Zollinger’s insistence on revenge was what fueled the Braxtons persistent search for me, and now that he was dead maybe their vendetta against me would languish. The family hadn’t looked as if they were in mourning for him today. The gathering had appeared quite festive.

We talked a few minutes more, about the fixer-upper house he and Haley had just bought, and her job at a women’s shelter. He, like niece DeeAnn, said if I needed help or a place to hide out to come to them right away.

Afterward I got a glass of iced tea from the fridge, but it was so hot in the motorhome that I went outside to sit in the shadows under the maple tree to drink it and consider the implications of Bo Zollinger’s death. It didn’t necessarily mean I was any safer than before . . . but maybe it did.

I talked a while with the Lord and this time made two decisions.

Chapter Eleven

I acted on one decision first thing next morning. I called Radison Properties to tell them I’d decided not to sell the house on Madison Street. I punched the numbers in fast before I could change my mind.

I didn’t expect an instant pitch from some company bigwig trying to change my mind about not selling, but I did expect, if not an immediate secretary or receptionist, at least one of those menu things that might eventually result in contact with a live person. What I got was a canned male voice telling me to leave my name, number and why I was calling, and someone would get back to me.

Voice mail isn’t a surprise when you’re dealing with a one- or two-person business, but wasn’t this rather odd for a company that must be involved in millions of dollars worth of property transactions? I had the impression of a lone machine sitting in an empty room behind a locked door. I was so startled that I ended the call without saying anything. I told Mac about the call when he came over a few minutes later. I expected a comment on the peculiarity of this company’s way of doing business, but he instantly jumped on a different aspect of the call.

“What did you call to tell them?”

“That I’ve decided to turn down their offer.”

“Why do that if you’ll be leaving when Lillian Hunnicutt’s killers are nailed?” He tilted his head and eyed me thoughtfully. “Except you’re really not planning to leave, are you?”

Well . . . “I’m keeping my options about the future open.”

“Maybe the fact that you didn’t get hold of anyone is a sign
that what you planned to tell them was a mistake. God’s delaying tactic to give you time to make the right decision.”

A sign was how I’d labeled the end of my library job in California, but I was reluctant to assign
sign
status to this incompleted phone call. Although maybe Mac was right, and it
was
a sign that the decision to stay here was all wrong.

Ivy Malone, you’re going all wishy-washy.
Make up your mind and stick to it!

It isn’t wishy-washy to change your mind if you’ve made a bad decision,
I argued with myself. But I kept getting tangled up in which decision, to stay or to leave, was the bad one here.

“Are you going to call them again?” Mac asked.

“I think maybe I’ll talk to someone who’s already dealt with them first.”

“Good idea.” He didn’t ask how I intended to do that. Good, because I didn’t know. “So, are we going Braxton hunting again today?”

“I have some shopping I’d like to catch up on.”

“Want some help?

“I can manage.” Did he realize I was avoiding telling him what I was shopping for?

“Would you like to use the pickup? It would be easier than chasing around town in your motorhome.”

I figured Mac would disapprove of what I intended to buy, so I didn’t feel comfortable borrowing his pickup to do it. “Thanks, no. The motorhome will be fine.”

He said he’d probably spend the day on internet research for a new article he was thinking about doing.

I didn’t set out to do any full-scale snooping—really I didn’t— but it occurred to me that I could slip into Braxton Furniture and maybe pick up some helpful information about Braxtons even if I didn’t intend to buy there. I figured the store would be the furniture equivalent of Bottom Buck Barney’s bottom-of-the-line used car sales, with immediate fumigation of any item purchased there required, but I was wrong. I didn’t have to look at price tags to know the minute I stepped into the store that this was high-end stuff, way above my price range. A fact emphasized by the way the clerk with her heels and elegant angled blond bob sailed right past me to offer a welcoming, “May I help you?” to a fortyish couple in matching walking shorts.

I was momentarily miffed, then did a one-eighty reversal to pleased. Invisibility in full working mode! So what did I want to do with it? Prowling through office files might be a little iffy even for an invisible LOL, but I tried out several expensive beds and loftily gave them the Goldilocks
too
hard
or
too
soft
rating.

I strolled around and tried out sofas with prices that suggested the framework must be made of exotic wood grown on some exclusive tropical island, and the fabric woven from fairy hair by industrious elves with an excellent union providing top wages and elf benefits.

Then I spotted a sign, “Economy Smart Shop,” with a sign pointing to a basement stairs. Braxton Furniture’s snooty way of saying
bargain basement
? Curious about what this store considered “economy,” I headed that way.

I checked the price of an overstuffed chair. Overstuffed with what? Hundred dollar bills? At that price it should be. Not my idea of
economy.
I moved on and immediately stumbled over a pair of feet in the aisle. I managed to pick myself up before I hit the floor but not before giving the feet a good whack. I started to apologize but then realized that wouldn’t be necessary. The feet were attached to long legs, and the legs attached to a flexible-bodied young man slumped on a beige sofa. For a moment, I thought—
oh, no,
another dead body.
But then I realized that the young man was merely asleep, making vulnerable, snort-whistle snoring noises with his head thrown back. Some neighbors used to have a beagle that sounded just like that.

I started to tiptoe away, but his eyes popped open and he jumped to his feet.

“Can I help you?” Apparently I wasn’t invisible to him, but he blinked several times as if I was out of focus. His dark slacks were rumpled and his white shirt scrunched sideways. A red tie flopped over a shoulder. He also had one of those little dabs of whiskers under his lower lip, the ones that look like the wearer should use a napkin to wipe away a hairy dribble.

“You work here?” I asked, surprised. He looked more like a customer trying out a sofa and accidentally drifting off to sleep. Or maybe a non-customer who’d just sneaked in for a nap in the kind of furniture he couldn’t afford.

“Yeah. Sure. I work here. I was just, uh, resting.” He fumbled with the red tie. “Can I help you?” he repeated.

“No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway. I’m looking for a new mattress, but the prices here are a little steep for me.”

“Maybe you oughta shop somewhere else, then,” he grumbled. Feeling guilty because he’d been caught napping? Or maybe he resented having that nap interrupted. Not a guy who was ever going to earn a Salesman of the Year award.

“Maybe you ‘oughta’ sleep somewhere else,” I snapped back. “In fact, maybe I
‘oughta’ clue
your employers in on your ‘work’ here.”

“Hey, don’t do that,” he said, awake and alarmed now. He ran a hand around the back of his neck and wiggled his jaw as if it were still asleep. “They’re already unhappy because I’ve been late a few times, and my dad’ll kill me if I get fired.”

“Why don’t you get to work on time?”

“I never wanted to work here anyway.”

The words
non sequitur
aren’t in my everyday vocabulary, but they fit here. I gave him a closer appraisal as he un-scrunched the shirt around his body.

“Summer job between college years?” I guessed. “You had in mind lounging by a pool and hanging out with your friends all summer, but your dad said you had to get a job?”

He shrugged, but the evasion of his eyes told me I’d nailed it.

“You should appreciate Braxton Furniture’s generosity in giving you a job.”

“They only did it because my dad made some deal with them.”

Deal? Interesting. “I used to know some Braxtons,” I ventured cautiously. “Drake Braxton, I think it was. He was in construction.”

“That’s Dirk’s father. Dirk and Emily own the store.”

Alarm twitched the muscles along my spine. I doubted if most of the Braxtons could pick me out of a lineup of LOLs, but my image was probably branded on Drake Braxton’s vengeful mind. In spite of the twitch, I risked another question.

“Does he ever come in the store?” I glanced around uneasily, half afraid I’d find his beady eyes peering through an oversized arrangement of phony greenery nearby.

“I’ve seen him in here a couple times.”

Okay, time for me to get out before Drake Braxton chose today to be another of those times, and I found myself in the river wearing concrete shoes. I took a moment more to ask, “Is Emily the elegant looking blond woman upstairs?”

“That’s her. Dirk’s the guy with the diamond ring big enough to put your eye out if he flashes it at you.”

The answer, at least semi-snarky, suggested he may have some issues with his employers.

“It was a rather close-knit family back then, but I heard . . .?” I let the question drift off, giving him a chance to fill in with information that might be useful. It was unlikely a sleep-on-the-job employee would know anything, but sometimes the most unlikely people
do
know something.

“Yeah, everyone’s gung-ho on family stuff. Though—” I thought he was going to toss out something really juicy, but he broke off and eyed me warily, as if suddenly realizing gossiping about his employer’s family might not be the smartest idea.

I offered gossipy encouragement. “I think some family member even went to prison for something.”

“Yeah. Uncle Bo.”

Uncle
?
“
You’re
a Braxton or Zollinger?”

“Zack Braxton.”

I did a mental head slap. I should have guessed he was family. They were tighter knit than bulletproof underwear. They might grumble about each other, but Braxtons took care of their own and closed ranks against outsiders.

“So who are
you?”
he challenged.

I wasn’t about to identify myself as a person who had helped send Uncle Bo to that prison. I hastily changed the subject. “I don’t suppose you know of a furniture store with prices more suitable for someone on a tight budget?”

“There’s Reece’s Thrift Furniture out on Monroe. They have cheap stuff.” Said with appropriate Braxton disdain, of course.
He might resent having to work here, but Braxtons stood up for Braxtons. They shared an admirable family unity. Except I’
ve been the unfortunate target of that unity.

“Okay. Thanks.”

I scurried to the stairs but paused at the top step to glance back. Zack Braxton was wide awake now. He watched me with an eyebrow-scrunched speculation that made my twitch of alarm jump to a full-blown shiver. I liked him better when he was asleep, making boyishly vulnerable snorts and whistles. Now he looked every inch a Braxton. And not at all vulnerable.

***

I located Reese’s Furniture, but the faintly musty smell of their beds and mattresses turned me off right at the door. I found a couple other places and finally, about mid-afternoon, a store with a fresh, new-furniture scent and fairly reasonable prices. I was looking at sofas on my way to the mattress area, trying to decide if there was any way I could afford both, when a helpful saleswoman suggested a sleeper-sofa. Hey, great idea! She opened one up for me, and I tried the mattress and gave it a Goldilocks seal of approval. We arranged for delivery the following day.

On the way home I stopped at a hardware store for some gardening tools. I also spotted a pocket knife almost like one Mac had lost a while back and bought it for him. After that I went into a big, all-purpose drugstore to pick up some of that expensive pink hand cream I sometimes indulge in, although I had to drive out to the far end of the parking lot to find a space big enough for the motorhome..