Wave Good-Bye (7 page)

I was still hung up on the fact Lisa Butterworth was dead. I couldn’t follow what Vonda was saying. “No, Von, what does it mean?”

“You must have been in the parking lot of Snippets around the same time she was killed.”

Chapter Eight

“COME ON. DON’T BE SILLY. HOW COULD YOU KNOW that?” Okay, that caused me to stop eating. Vonda’s news shocked me.

She shot me one of her “duh” glances. “It was all over the radio this morning.”

“You know I never listen to the news. Or read the paper. Especially not since Snippets started running those huge ads for cheap haircuts. I got up, dressed, did laundry, called you, and came right over when you mentioned pancakes.”

“Pathetic.” Vonda pushed her chair back, walked to the front desk, and came back with a newspaper that she tossed down on the table. “Read it and weep.”

LOCAL WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN HAIR SALON

Police responding to an anonymous caller claiming to have heard an altercation around 9:15 P.M. last night were directed to the Snippets Hair Salon, 255 Reynolds Street, where they found the body of a local woman. Lisa Butterworth, 29, 3111 Park Street, was pronounced dead at the scene. A homicide investigation is underway.

“We’ve set up a hotline and we’re asking any citizen who was in the area last night to come in and talk to us,” said Officer Hank Parker, responding officer at the scene.

*    *    *

VONDA RUBBED HER EYES AND SIGHED AGAIN. “THE one night I turn on the answering machine so Ricky and I can make whoopee, and that’s the night my best friend has a total mental breakdown and does really, really stupid things.”

“Geez, she must have been killed shortly after I looked in the window.”

“Are you out of your cotton-picking mind, Grace? You’re their competitor. They could have called the police on you for sneaking around like that. Hank would have loved the chance to get you in handcuffs.”

She grabbed the newspaper out of my hands and reread the article. “Dead. And only six blocks from here. But we have nothing to fear, right? Good old Hank’s on the case.”

Hank Parker is my ex-husband. Six foot three and beefy as a linebacker, the position he played in high school. Also the reason he took a lot of blows to the head. In the twelve years since we’d graduated, Hank had put on a couple of pounds per year, leaving him with a Dunlap, a belly that
done lapped over his belt. My ex lives for the day he gets to shoot someone. The closest he’s come is tasering a couple of drunk college kids back when we lived in Atlanta.

When Hank first applied to the police academy, a sense of pride bubbled up inside me. To hear Hank tell it, he wanted to do good in the world. I wanted to believe he was finally on the right track, that after years of flipping burgers, dropping out of University of Georgia, and knocking around at odd jobs, he’d found his passion.

And, he had. Sort of. Because Hank Parker’s life lost its thrill the day he graduated from St. Elizabeth High School and hung up his Sabertooths letter jacket for the last time. Becoming a cop was his way of getting the ongoing respect and recognition he craved, even if it meant taking shortcuts. Before long, he’d collected phone numbers of cop groupies. Women who needed him to “check on” their houses because they were “afraid.”

At first I chose to look the other way. After all, I was working full time at a small salon in Atlanta, saving money for my time at beauty school, since my income would be cut dramatically, and Hank was still in the academy. But the late-night phone calls from giggling female voices grew harder and harder to ignore. After a while, I couldn’t pretend anymore. The scent of perfume on Hank’s clothes, the lipstick, the fact he’d suddenly taken to washing his own boxers, and his strut told me my husband had gone astray.

But I didn’t want to admit my marriage was a disaster. Especially not when my sister fairly glowed with maternal pride and her husband obviously adored her. So I took to pretending, to making excuses, and I got pretty good at it until the day I forgot my checkbook and came home early. I turned the key in the lock of our small apartment and immediately, every particle in my body stood at attention.
Something was wrong. The stereo Hank insisted on buying was turned down low, with Marvin Gaye growling, “Let’s get it on,” and from our bedroom came a rhythmic squeaking.

“Hank?” I said. His utility belt, his revolver, and his coat draped over the cheap leather recliner he loved.

The noises continued. I followed them down the hallway, past our small bathroom, and when I stepped into our bedroom, I saw Melissa Littleton, his firearm instructor, and my husband doing the nasty.

Of course, Hank blamed it on me. “You don’t understand the stress I’m under. As an instrument of the law, I walk into all sorts of danger every day!”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. You haven’t graduated yet. In the classroom, flying chalk could decapitate a brainless wonder like you.”

By noon the next day, I’d found my own studio apartment, with a foldout sofa for a bed, a bathroom the size of a telephone booth, and a hot plate for a kitchen. None of that mattered. What did matter was that I could finally quit pretending my marriage was working.

For the past three years, Hank and I have been happily divorced. At least I am. Hank doesn’t see it that way. To hear him tell it, we’re still married, just taking a break. A long time-out formalized by a judge in a courtroom, and after that, I mysteriously took back my maiden name. Go figure.

The last time I saw Hank, he suggested we get together for dinner, lunch, breakfast, or just plain sex. Take your pick. I said, “No, no, no, and never ever.
Ever
.”

He laughed. “Sugar, you don’t really mean that. We were so good together, Grace.” And to illustrate, he clenched his fists at his side and gave a few thrusts of his pelvis to the tune of corresponding grunts.

What was I thinking when I married him?

I was thinking I would love to have a family.

“Grace Ann? Hello? Earth to Grace Ann.” Vonda tapped me on the shoulder, bringing me back to the here and now. “You do realize the trouble you’re in, don’t you?”

“Right,” I croaked. “Lisa Butterworth is dead, and I’m Suspect Numero Uno.”

Chapter Nine

SINCE MARTY WASN’T COMING UNTIL TUESDAY, there was no excuse for me skipping church services. News of Lisa’s death dominated all the local radio stations. I’d tried to call Mom, but we’d been playing telephone tag. Pulling into the lot at First Baptist, I spotted my mother’s car. Didn’t take me long to find her inside, because she always sits in the same pew, the third from the front on the right-hand side.

She’d already heard the news. “That’s a shame, isn’t it? I still don’t like what she did, but I would have never wished that on her.” When Pastor Kohler added a special prayer for the grieving family of Lisa Butterworth, Mom reached into her purse, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

“Yes, it’s awful. See you Monday,” I said, as I gave my mother a hug.

“Pardon?”

“I said I’d see you Monday.”

“Oh.”

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“A lot on my mind,” she said.

“Want to talk about it?” I asked, although I hoped she didn’t. I was afraid she’d mention how disappointed she was in me. After all, I was the one who insisted on hiring Lisa Butterworth. Everyone at the salon had good reason to be put out with me.

“Not right now.” Her smile was forced. “Maybe Monday. I need time to think.”

We said good-bye, with me feeling unsettled and down. I stopped at the grocery store to pick up supplies for the week. In the checkout line, I glanced at the Sunday paper. Lisa’s face grinned up at me as I put my eggs, turkey sausage, English muffins, OJ, milk, and lunch meat on the conveyor belt. At the last minute, almost as if it had a mind of its own, my hand reached out and grabbed a copy.

After making myself a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, I brewed a new cup of coffee and sat down to read.

Turns out Lisa had done pretty well for herself, what with her cosmetology degree and going back to school. She’d worked for Snippets for five years, moving up the ranks. Her parents still lived here, but she’d moved all over the eastern seaboard. I guess she’d used her vacation time, and folks’ address, to pull a fast one on us.

Snippets had taken out a quarter-page ad to mourn Lisa’s untimely passing. They would be closed today, Sunday, but open for business as usual on Monday.

Since I’d already ruined my nails, I decided to clean my apartment. The Spic and Span in my bucket had turned brownish with dust and dirt when my doorbell rang.

Alice Rose stood on my front steps, her soft linen pants
in cobalt blue and matching sweater set a stark contrast to my torn jeans. Her blue eyes were dark, a sure sign she was troubled. Whereas I’d inherited our father’s light brown hair, which I spruced up with highlights, Alice Rose was born a platinum blonde. After she had her boys, her hair darkened slightly, so she dropped by the shop for regular lightening treatments. Recently, she decided that long hair was too much trouble, and she demanded that Mom give her a pixie cut like Emma Watson wears. The effect was stunning and brought out her tiny little nose. If Alice Rose had put on ten pounds, it didn’t matter. She was taller than I, so the weight was distributed evenly.

Glancing at the clock, I realized she must have stopped by on her way back from the early service at First Methodist. We’d been raised Baptist, but she switched to the Methodist Church because Wade went there. “Hey, you,” I said and I gave my little sis a hug, inhaling the gardenia perfume she favors.

She embraced me back, although reluctantly. “What is that you’re wearing? Good Lord, Grace Ann. You look like a bag lady and smell like a janitor.”

“Not all of us are lucky enough to have a cleaning lady.” I moved out of my doorway to let her in. Alice Rose had one favorite seat in my house, an old slipper rocker with a cane bottom that had been in our family since the days when genteel Southern women took a seat on the rockers to pull on the slippers they wore indoors.

Running a hand over her face and scrubbing it hard, she rocked furiously, back and forth, as if working off steam. “Don’t start, Grace Ann. You chose a career in hair and mine is in raising two boys. You made your bed and so did I. I’m not in the mood for you to rag on me. Not today.”

Chapter Ten

“WHAT’S UP?” I ASKED MY SISTER.

Sam had been watching Alice Rose carefully, quietly, but she hadn’t noticed him. With a loud squawk, he decided to break into the conversation.

“What on earth is that noise?” Alice Rose jumped to her feet.

“That’s Sam. He’s a rescue parakeet. Sort of.” I explained about his near-death experience. As if to emphasize that he was well and truly on the mend, Sam showed off for Alice Rose, chattering and fussing with his wing feathers.

“He’s precious! Look, Grace Ann, I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have made that crack about what you’re wearing. It’s obvious you’re
cleaning, and when you’re scrubbing, any old thing is good enough.”