The Trouble with Tulip (6 page)

Simon Foster had exactly twenty-three dollars in his pocket. In the privacy of a dirty gas station bathroom in Baltimore, he counted it out again, just to make sure. Who would have thought he'd end up like this? Especially when things had been going so well. It was his bum luck. He always had bum luck, when it came down to it. This mess with Edna was just the latest in a long line of good deals gone bad.

At least he managed to get out of Mulberry Glen without incident. But now he needed seventy-five dollars for the bus if he wanted to continue on to Jacksonville, where he could crash with a friend and wait to see if he'd be able to get that money out of the bank on Wednesday. If that didn't pan out, Simon figured he could still hide out there and probably get in on whatever action his Florida buddies had going on. He always had been a valuable member of any team.

For now, though, he would have to go solo. Gingerly, he balanced his suitcase on the bathroom sink and opened it up. The valet bit would have to do. There wasn't really time for anything else.

From the hastily packed jumble of clothing he pulled the red valet jacket, black pants, and white shirt. Once he was dressed, he fished around in the front pouch for the blank address forms and slipped them into his pocket. Everyone pulled the valet trick, but his came with a twist. He always had been a cut above the rest.

He closed the suitcase and unzipped the back, where he kept the folded valet sign. Luckily, he hadn't ditched it the last trip. He just never knew when it was going to come in handy.

The mirror over the brown-crusted sink was cracked, but he did the best he could combing his hair. He had already taken the time to shave that morning, thinking of his father's old adage: A clean-shaven man is always more likely to be trusted.

Simon had already scoped out the perfect spot, a corner right up the street near several swanky restaurants. If the right mark came along, he could be done and out of there in a matter of minutes. One of the restaurants, called the Tea Parlor, seemed especially promising. Who but old ladies would be going out for tea?

He needed somewhere to stash the suitcase. Walking out of the bathroom, he went behind the gas station and slipped it between a thick row of bushes. Then he carried his sign to the corner, opened it up, and waited.

5

W
ho's writing your column while you're on your honeymoon?” the hairdresser, Lola, asked, poking Jo in the head with a bobby pin. “Surely you won't be dashing off helpful hints from the beach in Bermuda?”

“We're running some old classics all week,” Jo replied, watching her reflection in the mirror as her elaborate hairdo was slowly taking shape. “It's been kind of fun, going through the archives.”

Though Jo's mind was still on Edna Pratt's murder, once everyone else had gotten their questions answered, they seemed eager to change the subject. It was as if no one wanted to taint Jo's special day with talk of death or murder. Instead, they were hopping from subject to subject, mostly related to the wedding.

Now Lola had brought up the column. Despite Jo's modest success—and modest income—the girls at the salon always seemed to think of her as a celebrity. She supposed she was one, of sorts, though she doubted the competition she presented was keeping Heloise up nights. Jo didn't mind the “celebrity” part of her work: the personal appearances, the occasional television spot, and her once-a-week radio show. Mostly, though, she just liked writing her column, helping people get a handle on clutter and mess, and experimenting with new cleaning methods. That was the best part.

“What's up with your mom?” Lola asked Jo under her breath. “Looks like she's driving my girl nuts.”

Jo glanced back toward the manicure area, where her mother was pointing at one of her nails, berating the manicurist.

“My mother is kind of a perfectionist,” Jo whispered.

“Understatement of the year,” Marie added.

“I guess that's why we're all glad she lives in New York,” another bridesmaid quipped softly.

“Well, at least she sprang for a limo,” Lola said. “That thing makes my joint look swanky just by being parked out front.”

“You should see the driver,” Marie giggled. “He's a real cutie-pie.”

Though Jo's maid of honor, Marie, was not a raving beauty, there was something very attractive about her. Marie and Jo had been friends since high school, and even back then, the short, buxom brunette had been turning heads. Marie dated some, but she hadn't yet found anyone she wanted to settle down with. She didn't seem to mind; these days her bigger focus was in trying to get her real estate career off the ground. So far, Marie had listed three houses but had yet to sell one. Jo wondered if the housing market in their town would ever be robust enough to support another full-time Realtor. Mulberry Glen wasn't exactly a hotbed of commerce and growth.

“I didn't see a ring on his finger,” one of the married bridesmaids commented.

“I noticed that,” Marie replied, grinning. “He's so yummy I almost skipped my hair appointment just to sit out there in the limo and keep him company.”

Jo's mother, Helen, joined them at that moment, her manicure finished, her hair ready for the final step.

“Don't be ridiculous, Marie,” she chided. “At your age you should never date a man you aren't willing to marry. You never know when you might fall in love.”

Helen sat in the chair at the end of the row. Her stylist removed the curlers and began working with her hair.

“Why wouldn't I want to marry him?” Marie asked. “We'd have some gorgeous kids, that's for sure. And just think, we could go on all our dates in a limo. How romantic.”

“Oh, that's silly,” Helen said, squinting her eyes at the mirror. “As I've always said, it's just as easy to fall in love with a CEO as it is a plumber.”

“Hey!” Lola cried. “My George is a plumber.”

Jo felt her face burning red. Leave it to her mother to insult her hairdresser and friend.

“No offense, darling,” Helen said. “Some plumbers make a very nice living, I'm sure. But I know Marie's mother would rather see her with a doctor or a lawyer than a limo driver.”

“My mother wants to see me with someone who will treat me right and love me forever,” Marie replied, surprising Jo with her forthrightness. Marie had always stood up to Jo's mom better than anyone. “As for how he earns his living, I'm quite sure she wouldn't care.”

“I don't know about that,” Helen said, tossing her head regally. “Ask her some time how much she
really
enjoys living on a fireman's income.”

If Jo's face got any more red, she thought she might explode. Every nerve longed to berate her mother, to say
Enough!
Instead, she held her tongue, clenching her teeth. She rarely stood up to her mother.

She certainly didn't need to get into it today.

Simon turned down the first two customers who pulled up in front of him with their blinker on. One was a couple and the next was a teenage girl. In both cases he apologized and said the valet lot was full.

Finally, something looked promising. A gorgeous black Caddy pulled over and the passenger window smoothly rolled down. Inside were two elegantly dressed, silver-haired women.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, putting on his most charming smile. He might be in his sixties with gray hair of his own, but he knew how to work a pair of old biddies. Soon they would be putty in his hands. “Will you be coming to the Tea Parlor today?”

“We're doing some shopping first,” the driver said, leaning toward him. “But that's where we'll be ending up.”

“That's good enough for us. I can take your car from here, or I can drop you at your choice of stores.”

“Ooo, that sounds nice,” the passenger said. “Let's get him to take us to Wellington's.”

“Wellington's it is,” he said, discreetly kicking down the valet sign and then coming around and opening the driver's door. He helped the woman climb out and move into the backseat, and then he slipped behind the wheel, taking the time to buckle his seat belt and adjust the rearview mirror. Above all, he wanted to give the impression that he was a careful individual not prone to recklessness.

Fortunately, there was some heavy traffic in the downtown strip that gave him more time to work it. He chatted them up for a few minutes, making plenty of eye contact and paying several compliments. By the time they were halfway up the block, he had indeed won them over.

“Oh, before I forget,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “The Tea Parlor is having a drawing today. A free trip to Can—to Canada.”

He had almost slipped, saying Cancun. But that wouldn't appeal to these women. He went on to describe a lovely weekend getaway to Banff and Lake Louise.

“You just fill out this form and give it back to me. The drawing's in about three hours. Will you be at the Tea Parlor by then?”

“I'm sure we will,” the passenger said, passing one of the slips to her friend in the back and filling out her full name and address on another. “We just have an hour or two of shopping planned.”

“Well, if by some chance you win and the manager needs to notify you right away, will there be someone at this address to answer the phone?”

“My son lives with me,” the passenger said. “He should be home all day.”

Scratch that one
, Simon thought, trying not to wince.

“No one will be at my house,” the woman in the back volunteered. “I live alone. But I could give you my cell phone number.”

“That would be fine,” he said. “Whatever way we can reach you best.”

He pulled to a stop in front of Wellington's and helped them both out of the car.

“You ladies have a lovely morning of shopping and we'll see you back at the Tea Parlor in a few hours. Take your time.”

They thanked him and one of them slipped him a five.

He grinned as he drove away, loving this particular con. It never ceased to amaze him that folks would actually tip him to steal their car and rob their house.

“These came out great,” Chief Cooper said, flipping through the series of 8 x 10 photos that Danny had brought in. “So much detail.”

“Yeah, that's the new Fujichrome film I've been trying. Very sharp.”

“These are works of art,” the chief continued. “Very impressive. Like something outta
Ranger Rick
magazine. Do they even make
Ranger Rick
anymore? My kids always loved that. Lots of close-ups of frogs and squirrels and stuff.” The chief set the pile of pictures on the desk, an image of the smeared-white face of Edna Pratt on top. “The autopsy's almost finished,” he continued. “Pretty soon we'll know for sure if it was murder or an accident.”

“Jo's convinced it was murder,” Danny said.

“I know,” the chief replied, “but as nothing was stolen, I'm having trouble finding a motive. According to all of the people we've spoken with, Mrs. Pratt didn't own anything of real value other than a few small pieces of jewelry—and they're all accounted for.”

“How about what Jo saw and heard last night?” Danny asked. “Have you questioned the other neighbors?”