Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

Neil picked up on my tone. “Really? In my own house? I paid for all this, Colleen.”

I smiled.

Poor Neil
, I thought. He had such soulful brown eyes and thick, brown hair. Bobby looked so much like him, it made my heart ache. But the resemblance between my ex-husband and my darling child was not nearly enough to soften my heart.

“There’s something you have to realize, Neil. This is my home—mine and the kids. You might have purchased it, but I’m paying for it in sweat equity. You left, not me.”

Neil ran his fingers through his hair. It was clear he didn’t much care for my newfound assertiveness. “Yeah. Right. So why aren’t you paying for a new furnace and central air if it’s your home?”

“My lawyer contacted your lawyer. It’s part of the settlement. You take care of the repairs for the next two years. The new units go in tomorrow. I don’t understand why you came by.”

I detected the slight sagging of his shoulders. Not that he in any way resembled a beaten man, but something wasn’t quite right. I waited for an explanation as he slumped into the sofa cushions. “Your lawyer’s a harpy. I’m shelling out money left and right. Sara called me late this afternoon. She wants a new cell phone
and
she’ll be driving soon. She said she wants a car! Can you believe it?”

“She also wants a part-time job after school and needs a way to get back and forth to it. I’ll be taking on the car insurance,” I told him. “This is what happens when kids grow up!”

I realized my voice had taken on an angry tone. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but something made me go to the windows and push the curtains aside and look out. “I notice you’re still driving that new Lexus. If money’s so tight, why don’t you trade in your show-off car for something cheaper?”

“I have to maintain a certain image to look successful. Clients wouldn’t have much confidence in a PR man driving a …”

“… seven-year-old used Nissan Sentra?” I guessed.

Neil got up from the couch and left, too annoyed to even give the kids a quick kiss goodbye. I knew I had flattened his enormous ego and felt pleased with myself for doing so.

“He’s mad?” Bobby asked sheepishly when I rejoined Ken and the kids at the table.

“Oh, no, honey,” I lied. “Your father just thinks the cost of replacing the central air and the furnace is just a bit too high.”

“Sure, Mom,” Sara said. She had been getting more savvy by the hour since Neil left us to move in with the incomparable Theda Oates.

“Is everybody finished eating?” I asked, knowing that the kids’ appetites had vanished the moment they heard me yelling. “If you guys still have some homework, you should go upstairs and finish it. I’ll clean up down here.”

The kids left the table and went upstairs, although not running as they usually did.

“Did our voices carry?” I asked Ken.

“We heard a few things. Not too much. The end of a marriage is never easy.”

I picked up the paper plates and tossed them into one of the empty pizza boxes. Ken gathered the cups and used paper napkins and carried them out to the kitchen. Neil’s visit upset me, though not so much because of his miserly ways. He had always been a bit on the frugal side as far as family finances went, and it was a trait the entire family had gotten used to and even joked about over the years. I knew Neil loved the kids as much as I did. But our bickering wasn’t helping Sara and Bobby feel particularly secure during these tough emotional times.

“I have to stop the shrew stuff,” I told Ken. I tossed the pizza boxes in the trash, feeling close to tears. “I guess I’ll never forgive Neil, but all this squabbling has to end, or the kids will end up hating us both.”

Ken came up behind me and wrapped his strong arms around me. I could feel myself letting go. How long had it been since I was engulfed in a man’s arms? The thrill I felt went far beyond the free pizza. It seemed as though I had been on my own for ages. Under the circumstances, the kids were great company. My parents had been nothing but supportive. In her own strange way, my sister, Kate, had been my champion, and Bevin Thompson was my rock. But Ken Rhodes’s arms were so comforting …

I took a deep breath, refusing to cry. I straightened up and turned to face him. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him as hard as I could. “Thank you,” I said. “Thanks for being here. I hate all this up-in-the-air crap that comes with divorce. I hate being angry all the time …”

His lips gently brushed my forehead. “It’s okay. It gets better. Why, a year from now …”

“… I’ll be laughing about it? I don’t think so.”

“It’ll be okay, Colleen. Things have a funny way of working out.”

We broke contact, reluctantly on my part. There was work to be done and no time for romance or self-pity. I went to the sink and filled the glass pot to the top to make fresh coffee. “We’ll need some pretty strong stuff to keep us conscious tonight. I’m so full, all I feel like doing is taking a nap.”

“Me too,” he agreed.

I waited for the coffee to brew, then carried two steaming mugs to my cluttered desk in the den. Ken brought in a kitchen chair, so we could both read my story directly from the monitor. I pulled up the article and sat back. The gentle, caring Ken Rhodes turned into the editor Ken Rhodes in an instantaneous Dr. Jekyll-and-Mr. Hyde move. It didn’t take long for him to rip the story apart.

“You can mention the shoe in the evidence bag,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe change it to a sandal, which suggests it was a woman’s body.”

“Everybody in town knows it was a woman,” I mumbled.

“That doesn’t matter. You can drop some subtle hints about how the body may have reached its final destination, though make it clear that the cause of death is pending the medical examiner’s conclusions.”

“Sure.” I hit the backspace key to wipe out the phrases I had so painstakingly written.

“The rest of it looks okay.” He took a sip from his mug and grimaced. “You make lousy coffee.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Is my vague description of the body okay, or does that have to go, too?”

“
Severe traumatic injuries
is okay; maybe a little redundant,” Ken said. “The part with the woman not being immediately identifiable is the right way to go.”

I smiled. At least I had gotten something right.

I saved the file and started an email to the newspaper so that Ken would have the story on hand the moment he needed it.

“Don’t forget to attach the file,” he reminded me.

I opened a list and searched for the file. Not only did all of the file names look unfamiliar, I couldn’t even remember what file name I had used to save the story.

“For God’s sake, Colleen! No wonder you still print out your stories and bring them up to the office. Your computer files are a mess. You don’t even have a separate folder for your
Town Crier
stuff.”

I gave Ken my very own patented stupid expression, which told him all he needed to know. “You have no idea at all how to do that, do you?” he asked.

“Give me a few minutes. You’re making me nervous. I’ll find it.”

“Close it all out and reopen the Word program. It’ll come up on a list automatically under recent files. Print it out, so I can take it with me. Wait until I’m gone before you try to attach it to an email. I can’t stand to watch you fumbling with it. Meanwhile, I assume Matthew Oliver will be out here in the morning to resolve your heating and cooling problems. As I said, I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation with Neil. Let’s see if we can work out some questions for you to ask the Hot Air King regarding his deceased wife.”

I grabbed a pad out from beneath a pile of junk mail on my desk and found a pen in the drawer.

“You said Matthew came out to the house a few days ago, but he didn’t say much. He might be more willing to talk now that a few more days have passed.”

I called up the weather on the computer screen. “It’s supposed to be in the mid-eighties tomorrow. Hot enough work installing a furnace in the basement and a new air unit outside in the sun. I’ll make a big pitcher of iced tea and make sure good old Matthew Oliver is plenty hydrated. If he keeps coming into the kitchen to get a cold drink, I can get him to talk.”

“Use the hair angle to get him talking. Ask him if Dizzie’s Salon will go on without her,” Ken suggested.

My hand automatically went to my hair. Though it wasn’t inordinately humid outside, the curls still magically happened. I wondered if my unruly mane reminded him of the salon.

“You never went to get your hair straightened out at that Trina’s Tresses place,” he said, confirming my hunch.

“Next week for sure,” I told him. “Seriously. Next week. I have enough to do without going there and worrying if I’m going to come out bald.”

Ken pushed back the kitchen chair and stood. “Just make sure you get Trina to work on you. Try to fit whatever she says about Dizzie Oliver into your next column.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“And remember, you still have to finish that story for Meredith about the flying lessons.”

I nodded. How could I forget?

“And Colleen …”

“Yes?”

His voice softened. “Don’t beat yourself up over Neil and the kids. Cut yourself a little slack, okay?” He took the sheet of paper with the airport body story from the printer tray and started for the door.

“Thanks,” I called out after him.

“Anytime,” he replied before leaving. I watched him go, wondering if he would figure into my future in some way more significant than being my employer.

I hoped so.

* * *

I returned to my desk, feeling melancholy, and scribbled a few thoughts down on the pad of paper before turning my attention back to the computer. There was already a draft of the email I would be sending Ken Rhodes, and I called it up. It took fifteen minutes, give or take an hour, to find the story about the body in the field. I attached it to the email and sent it, then went to the kitchen to eat a celebratory Twinkie.

I found Sara rummaging through the refrigerator, looking for apples. Of course, there were none. I needed to make a food run, but the last few days had been so busy, there hadn’t been time. I suggested water, of which there was plenty. Sara wanted something more.

“There’s never anything decent to eat in this house,” she complained.

I looked at her skinny legs and thin arms. The kid had always been a picky eater, but she’d been on a healthy-eating kick for months and months now, which meant she wouldn’t touch most of the items that were staples in my house. Even if I jammed the refrigerator with what
I
considered healthy choices, I knew she would snub them.

“Maybe you can add a little more variety to your diet,” I suggested. “A baked potato once in a while, a piece of salmon, or even a turkey burger …”

“A baked potato?” she asked incredulously. “Carbs are killers, Mom.”

“Brown rice won’t kill you. And you did eat that slice of pizza.”

“I guess brown rice is okay,” she said reluctantly. “I don’t know about the salmon. Did Mr. Rhodes leave?”

“You’re changing the subject,” I said.

“He’s nice, Mom. Really nice.” She gave me a small, shy smile. I waited for more. “And
sooo
good looking!”

“Yeah, sometimes he can be very nice,” I added. “But he’s only a friend, honey. Don’t get your hopes up.” I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince her or myself.

She grabbed a bottle of water and let out a huge sigh as she made her way back to her bedroom. The discussion about her diet and my love life had ended for the day.

10

Though it was the very last day of September, the heat and humidity made it feel like the beginning of August. The brief reprieve from the oppressive heat that Tranquil Harbor had enjoyed the day before was nowhere to be found. Weather forecasters warned tri-state area residents that temperatures would remain near ninety for at least a week—a true Eastern Seaboard Indian summer.

The Hot Air King’s truck pulled up in front of the house at twenty to eight, before the kids were out the door.

“Get moving, everyone!” I called upstairs.

With the heat, nobody really felt much like hurrying. Sara dragged herself downstairs and took her sweet time in the kitchen. She downed a cold glass of apple juice and took a granola bar from the box in the cabinet.

“Is that all you’re having?” I asked her.

“It’s too hot to eat anyway,” she mumbled, pulling at the shorts and tank top she’d chosen to wear that day.

“Isn’t that outfit a little skimpy for school, Sara? I don’t want to get a phone call to come pick you up.”

My lovely daughter rolled her eyes. “It’s a billion degrees out there. What do you want me to wear—a snowsuit?”

Pick your battles
, I told myself.

Bobby came down from his room in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He grabbed a granola bar, and I poured a glass of milk for him. I reminded him to take a vitamin but didn’t lecture Sara about taking hers. For the past six months, she had been on a no-meat kick and claimed all vitamins contained trace amounts of animal products.

Another non-battle
, I thought.

The kids had barely gotten out the door when Matthew Oliver and his helper stepped out of their HAK truck and walked up the driveway. They looked slightly wilted, which would strengthen my plan of plying Matthew with lots of cold, refreshing iced tea and plenty of chitchat about Dizzie.

“How are you this morning?” Matthew asked.

I held the front door open for him and his helper. They each carried heavy tool boxes and looked more ready for bed instead of the beginning of a grueling day wrestling with a bulky furnace and air unit.

“I’m hot, thank you,” I told him. “Hopefully it will be cooler here by nightfall?”

Matthew chuckled and handed me a square of yellow cardboard with large black printing on the front. “Stick this in the front window. It’s a permit to do the work on your air systems. And don’t worry. If everything goes as planned here, you should be nice and cool by tonight.”

I closed the door and let out a sigh. I hoped nothing would go wrong. Of course, when it came to home repairs, it seemed like something
always
went wrong.