Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) (21 page)

Driving out to Route 35, he finally spoke. “For Christ’s sake, Colleen! What were you thinking?”

“I
wasn’t
thinking,” I told him, sounding contrite. It was nothing but a big, fat lie. I had wanted to know what happened to Dizzie’s jewelry and tried to find out the only way I could. I thought it out plenty. Thinking out the consequences had been where my plan fell short. I had been so careful not to interfere with Ron Haver’s homicide investigation, I never gave serious consideration to the jail time I would have to serve if I was arrested for breaking and entering.

I presented the release at the impound, along with my driver’s license. The other necessary papers, the registration and proof of insurance, were in the car’s glove compartment. Forty-five minutes later, I was signing the paper work.

“It comes to one hundred eighty-five dollars,” the man at the window told me. “We don’t take checks. Cash or credit card only.”

“What’s the extra forty for?” I asked.

“Two days’ storage.”

“But my car hasn’t been here two days! They towed it in Saturday night!”

“Anything over twelve hours is considered a day,” the man informed me, pointing to a chart on the counter listing the various charges.

I did the math in my head. From the time it was towed to the time on the clock in the impound office, it was almost exactly thirty-seven hours. I handed over my credit card.

Ken waited silently for the man at window to produce my receipt. I had never seen him so furious that he had no words.

“I’ll meet you back at the office,” he finally said as he walked toward his car. Then he got in and drove away.

I stopped off at Dunkin’ Donuts for a coffee on my way to work. By the time I arrived at the
Crier
offices, it was past noon. I walked in and spotted Ken’s closed office door. The newsroom seemed unusually quiet. The various editors and reporters sat at their desks and inside their cubicles with their heads down. I knew a few of them saw me come in. I felt like the office pariah.

Okay
, I thought.
So I’m a leper. So what?
I held my head high and walked down the aisle, not glancing back and forth and saying hello like I usually would. I went to Meredith Mancini’s cubicle and sat down. She looked away from her monitor and smirked.

“God, you’re in so much hot water! The big guy’s on the phone with the publisher. I hope he’s pleading your case, Colleen. I’d hate to break in another new stringer.”

“Got any cookies hidden away in your desk?” I asked. “Maybe a bag of M&M’s for when you want to cheat?”

“I’m still on the wagon,” she said. “Do you have that story on the Zumba classes done yet? It might be your last hurrah.”

“Tomorrow morning,” I said. “Promise.”

The door to Ken’s office opened, and he stepped out into the newsroom. It was hard to read his expression, but I thought his demeanor had dropped a few notches below explosive. He came over to Meredith’s cubicle.

“We’ve already shot half the day,” he told me, taking my arm. “Let’s get some lunch.”

* * *

We gave our orders to Vic, the bartender at The Press Box—Scotch neat, for him, and gin and tonic for me, along with two turkey sandwiches on whole wheat bread. For the first time in ages, my mouth didn’t water for something heavy like pastrami on rye. Anything edible would do.

“Am I finished at the newspaper?” I asked after the bartender brought over the drinks. I took a half-glass size gulp, bracing myself for his response.

“Not this time,” Ken said. “But you can’t break the law to get a story, Colleen. It’s unprofessional, not to mention illegal. If you can’t get a story going through more conventional channels, you’re out. As it is, you’ve embarrassed the paper, infuriated the publisher, pretty much alienated both the police department and the prosecutor’s office,
and
you’ve made me regret ever giving you this column.”

I nodded in silent agreement, one of my rare
mea culpa
moments. I knew I was wrong. And I regretted it—somewhat. At the time, breaking into Matthew Oliver’s house seemed to be the only way to get the information I needed. But more than I needed to discover the reason for Dizzie’s death, I needed my job. I knew I had a lot to learn about investigative reporting, and I also knew that my common sense had taken a field trip the minute I walked through Matthew’s basement door.

Vic brought over our bland sandwiches, and I took a small, unsatisfying bite. Ken took a sip of his Scotch. He didn’t bother with his sandwich.

“You’re taking the heat for this, aren’t you?” I said.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it. All will be forgiven, even if it’s not necessarily forgotten.” He finished his drink and picked up the sandwich, then put it down. Apparently he wasn’t much into the healthy-eating thing either. “The publisher said you can stay on with one condition. You’re going to mention your little dalliance with the law in your next column—the pretending Matthew forgot to tell his father
you were just there to feed the cat
version of course.”

“What?”

“Do you want to keep working or not?”

“Yeah,” I told him, reluctantly.

“You have to bring it out in the open. After all, the whole town probably knows about it now anyway. You don’t really have a choice. It’s news, even if you weren’t arrested. And it does involve Dizzie’s husband. Don’t forget a big apology for the inconvenience to him and his father. I’ll even overlook a plug for the Hot Air King’s business. That should make him a little happier with the paper.”

Ken paused in thought for a minute. “You might want to throw in a warning about turning on lights and not using a flashlight when doing a friend a favor and feeding his cat, so that people don’t think you’re robbing the place. And giving a pat on the back to the local police for the great job they’re doing wouldn’t hurt, either.”

He paused again then nodded. “Add a little tie-in with your columns over the past few weeks. That should cover it.”

I saw what he was getting at. “The publisher thinks the story will increase the paper’s circulation, right?”

Ken grabbed my hand and held it. “It does make some sort of cockeyed sense. Actually, my guess is the
Crier
’s readers will be laughing their heads off.”

I understood exactly why the publisher thought mentioning my misunderstanding and almost-arrest would be a great idea. The website would get tons of hits. The advertisers would be so very pleased when the readers who noticed their ads patronized their businesses, helping to justify the advertising dollars they spent week after week in order get foot traffic into their establishments. I would have to write the lie—that I went to Matthew’s house to feed his cat, and the entire escapade with the police had been nothing more than a misunderstanding.

“How am I supposed to do this?” I asked, not nearly as pleased as I had been mere moments before. “It’s like writing my own obituary!”

* * *

Rhodes dropped me back at the office close to 3:00 p.m. Rather than go inside, I went straight to the Sentra. The kids would just about be getting home from school. I felt I needed a little quality time with them.

Bobby and Sara both rushed in a few minutes after I arrived home. As usual, they went straight to the refrigerator. Sara poured herself a glass of orange juice. Bobby took a bottle of water and grabbed two Twinkies from the box in the cabinet.

I noticed they both wore identical looks of delight. I knew they were dying to tell me about their day.

“Okay,” I said. “What were the kids saying at school?”

“My friends think you’re cool,” Bobby told me. “I have a criminal mom.”

“Okay.” A criminal mom. What could be cooler than that? “And what about you?” I asked Sara.

“We were thinking about starting a new pool, but I’m not gonna do it. Everybody’s wondering how many times you’ll get yourself arrested before the end of the year.”

“But I wasn’t arrested!” I told her.

“That’s why I’m
not
doing the pool!”

Sara was always a smart one. It was a pretty good bet on her part that I wouldn’t allow myself to get arrested—at least not until after the new year. She pulled out her cell phone and went out onto the patio. I knew another texting session had begun.

Bobby headed for the front door.

“Where are you off to?”

“I’m going across the street to see Dennis. I like his games,” he said.

“But it’s beautiful outside. Why don’t you guys shoot some baskets in the driveway? You don’t want to waste the day, do you?”

My son looked at me like I had gone insane. “We’re playing Xbox, Mom,” he told me.

“Dinner’s at six,” I said, remembering the wise advice I gave myself when dealing with Sara—
pick your battles
. “Don’t be late.”

I went into the den and turned on my computer. I needed to outline my Saturday night fiasco, and the Zumba story wasn’t likely to write itself. It took forty minutes to type up my notes about the misunderstanding at Matthew Oliver’s house. I was able to knock off the Zumba thing in less than an hour. I saved the story, printed out a hard copy, and—for once—found the correct file to attach to the email I would send to Meredith Mancini.

With that out of the way, I decided to do a little online investigating. My best friend next to Bevin Thompson—Google—helped me along. I typed in a name—one I felt certain wasn’t much of a suspect anymore. Other than references to heating and air conditioning, as well as links for obituaries and newspaper stories about Dizzie’s death, nothing much out of the ordinary turned up for Matthew Oliver.

I next typed in Hank Barber’s name and hit the enter key. Tranquil Harbor Airport links, as well as obits and stories about Leona’s death, sprang from the screen.

On a hunch, I tried Drake Tuttle, whose name produced nothing more than a few references for the airport, a listing for Harbor Regional High School, and a brief account from the
Town Crier
in 2010 about how he had saved a little girl from drowning in the bay.

“The kid’s a hero,” I said to myself, dismissing him completely from my mental list of suspects.

I was ready to shut down when I had one more thought. I Googled Sue Jeffries and found several references and one obituary, both out of state, in addition to one that listed her as part of the staff at Body Beautiful in Tranquil Harbor. Of course, most of the references weren’t my Sue Jeffries at all, but some, I felt certain, pertained to the Zumba instructor.

I checked the time. I still had to run to the grocery store to get something for dinner. There were four loads of laundry waiting to be washed. I picked up the phone and called Meredith’s cell.

“I just sent you the Zumba story, but I have a big favor to ask. Are you really busy tonight?”

“Not much,” she told me. “It’s not like I can sit around on my fanny watching TV and eating a big bag of potato chips anymore.”

“I think I found something interesting with Sue Jeffries. She’s a widow. From Pittsburgh. Her dead husband owned an airport there. What do you think?”

“That’s freaky,” Meredith said.

“The thing is, I’m swamped tonight. Would you mind going online and doing a little research?”

She gave me an enthusiastic, “No problem!”

With that settled, I went out back and told Sara I was running to the store. “Chicken tonight,” I told her in a tone that said I wouldn’t take no for an answer. “It’s healthy. You really need to expand your diet.”

“Okay,” she said, screwing up her face. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

* * *

I drove to ShopRite to buy our dinner. The fastest, tastiest thing I could think of was those rotisserie chickens they make in-house. The smell of them hit me the minute I walked through the automatic door—mouth-watering, non-garlicky, and never burned to a crisp. I made a beeline toward the rear of the store and grabbed a nice, plump bird. Along with potato salad from the deli department and a package of prewashed salad from the produce aisle, we would have a nice, balanced meal.

I waited in the ten-items-or-less checkout line. I was fifth in line, and there were three people waiting behind me. Apparently everyone had the same idea. We all had something premade in our handheld baskets.

“Another gourmet dinner?” Helen Gordon, a PTA mom of generous proportions, asked me as she scanned my order.

“Beats cooking,” I told her.

“Amen to that, toots.”

“I’ve got a ten burning a hole in my pocket. Will I get change or do I have to owe you?”

“You’ll have plenty to spare. Relax. How’s that Lucinda Maynard working out for you? The Nut Cracker has such a great reputation, I thought you’d be rolling in dough by now.”

The woman standing in line behind me sighed, apparently annoyed by the chitchat. I flashed her a dirty look and turned my attention back to Helen. “She’s done okay by me. I’m just watching my pennies now.”

“Find yourself a nice sugar daddy while you’re watching. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

I let her get away with the comment because she didn’t know a hunk sugar daddy already existed for me, and I had known Helen since the fourth grade. True to her word, I came away from the checkout with a whole two bucks back. I felt like I had hit the lottery.

Walking toward my red Sentra, I spotted a man standing near the car’s trunk. As I got closer, I recognized the salt-and-pepper hair, the apple-shaped midsection, and the lack of height. It was Derek Oliver, Matthew Oliver’s father.

“Mr. Oliver,” I said cautiously. “How are you?”

“How do you think I am?” he asked. “Between your columns and the break-in Saturday night, I figure you’re trying to pin Dizzie’s death on my Matthew. He should have pressed charges. I would have.”

I couldn’t imagine how he knew the red Nissan was mine. I guessed he noticed my car parked in his son’s driveway the night I broke into Matthew’s house and spotted the
Town Crier
sticker in the back passenger window. Still, him turning up in the parking lot where I happened to be shopping alarmed me.

I thought over the two columns I dedicated specifically to Dizzie’s murder. There was nothing in them to suggest the identity of the killer at all. Of course, the break-in was another story.