The Trouble with Tulip (14 page)

“Did you see it?” she asked, eyes wide. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“See what?” he replied, motioning for her to hold the door open so he could carry in his heavy drum bags. Their family group was performing in the service, and they had just enough time to set up and run through the song before the sanctuary was opened to the congregation for early arrivals.

“The newspaper!” she said. “You didn't tell me about Jo and the dead body. Poor dear. I can't believe she had to deal with all of that on her wedding day. Well, her
almost
wedding day.”

She held out the paper and Danny took it, skimming the article that was front and center of page 1. “Household Hints Expert Guides Detectives in Investigation,” the headline read. The paper had probably played up the household hints angle because Jo's column was one of their regular features. Danny read the story, which was about how Jo went around the crime scene and explained the oddities to the police. It said nothing about her experience the night before, nor did it mention any suspicion of murder.

“Hi, Danny, how's it going?”

He glanced up to see his sister Denise and her husband, Ray.

“Hey, Danny,” Ray said, “we watching the game at your house tomorrow?”

“Sure. You bring the dip.”

“Are you kidding? You think I'd eat something out of that penicillin factory you call a refrigerator?”

“Oh, yeah,” Danny replied. “You got no qualms about eating all my chips though, huh, Ray?”

Denise opened her case and pulled out her guitar.

“Danny, when are you going to give Marci a call? She really had a good time on your date.”

Danny rolled his eyes.

“I took Marci out as a favor, Denise. Please don't expect me to do it again.”

“You didn't like her?”

“She was nice. But there were no, uh, sparks, you know?”

“Fine. I'll tell her to stop calling you.”

“Thanks. Just don't hurt her feelings.”

Their mother hurried over, microphone in her hand.

“All right, no more chatting,” she said. “They'll be opening the doors in half an hour, so we have to hustle if we want to run through the song.”

One by one, Danny's other sisters came in as they worked to set up their instruments. Forming the group known as Regeneration, the entire family had been making music together for years. When Danny was a boy, his mother's dream was to be like a Christian version of the Partridge Family, a sort of roving band made up of her and her four children. All five of them sang beautifully, though mom Riva sang the lead. The rest of them provided backup vocals, and Danny was percussion, Denise was guitar, Diana was bass, and Donna was keyboards. Danny's dad, a jovial fellow who hadn't a musical bone in his body, served as their manager and number one promoter.

Their family band was good, but they had never found much success beyond the local level. As the kids got older, one by one they lost interest and became involved in other extracurricular activities. Rather than dissolve the group completely, they changed its focus. Nowadays, instead of trying to pursue big dreams of stardom, they were simply committed to practicing one night a week and performing three or four times per month at churches and local festivals. It made for a nice hobby for all of them, and it also served as a way to keep in each other's lives on a steady basis, week after week. Danny enjoyed it because he had a feeling that otherwise too much time might pass between visits. His sisters were all married with kids or kids on the way, and they were a busy bunch.

“Everybody ready?” Riva asked, stepping in front of the microphone. “Let's praise the Lord through song, shall we?”

Danny gave them a downbeat and they were off, launching into the smooth vocal harmonies that truly were a joyful noise.

“Is your car new?” Sally Sugarman asked as they rolled along, running one hand along the shiny leather arm rest.

“No, it's about six years old,” Jo replied.

“Wow, it's so clean. You should see the inside of my car. Most of the time it looks like a tornado came through. But even when it's neat, it's not clean. Not like this.”

“The secret is saddle soap.”

“Saddle soap?”

Jo watched the speedometer reach sixty-five, and then she clicked on the cruise control and took her foot from the gas.

“I have a whole routine I go through, but my best trick is cleaning the seats with saddle soap and a damp sponge. Works great.”

“What else is in your routine?”

“Well, you know those little scratches you can get in the clear plastic?” Jo asked, gesturing toward the dials on her dashboard. “If you rub in some baby oil, they disappear.”

“Really.”

“The biggest mistake I see people make is when they clean the inside of the windows. Most store-bought glass cleaners are ammonia based, but the ammonia can really dry out the plastic, rubber, and vinyl around the glass. For car interiors, I always recommend vinegar in water, like eight parts vinegar to one part water. It works just as well, but it doesn't hurt the lining.”

“I see.”

“There are a lot more steps when you get down to it, but you should always finish off the dashboard with a silicone-free UV-blocking interior protectant. That prevents cracking and fading.”

“Oh.”

Sally seemed to have lost interest, and for the next few miles they rode along in silence.

“I'm sorry,” Jo said finally. “Here you are coming to town to handle your mother's funeral arrangements, and I'm rattling on about car care.”

I'm also trying to keep my mind from Bradford and my own anger
, Jo thought but did not say.

“No,” Sally replied, shaking her head. “Don't be sorry, Jo. It helps to take my mind off this tragedy.”

“It can't be easy for you.”

“It's not. And it comes at a really bad time. I'm up for reelection in two months. This is the last thing I have time for right now.”

Jo blinked, startled by the harshness of her statement. Her mother's death was a tragedy because it was…
inconvenient?

“At least the funeral home has been very helpful,” Sally said. “We made most of the arrangements over the phone yesterday, and if we can get the final details ironed out this evening, they're going to go ahead with a small memorial service tomorrow morning.”

“That's fast.”

“Well, I'm not expecting a big crowd. I just want to get it over and done with as soon as possible.”

Over and done with as soon as possible. Was that a fitting end for anyone?

“I didn't know your mother very well,” Jo said finally.

“She sure knew you. She knew your column, at least. She never missed it.”

“I gathered as much. What was she like, as a person?”

Hesitantly at first, Sally began sharing about her Pittsburgh childhood. Jo was surprised to hear her describe Edna as an unaffectionate, remote woman who was more concerned with keeping a clean house than with showing love to her only child. According to Sally, her father had a bit more parenting skills, though he, too, was dead now.

“My dad passed away about ten years ago,” Sally continued. “My mom ended up in Mulberry Glen when she remarried a few years later, and then her second husband died of lung disease a few years after that. She's been alone since. He didn't have any children, so the house went to her and now to me. Her lawyer agreed to meet with me this afternoon. I'll know more of the details then.”

“What will you do with the house?”

“Sell it, of course. You think I want to move to Mulberry Glen, Pennsylvania?”

Jo didn't respond, and after a moment, Sally seemed to realize how she had sounded.

“Oh, gosh, I'm sorry,” she said. “There's nothing wrong with your town. It's just that I have a whole life down in Texas. I'm happy there. I've got a strong career and a great husband and two wonderful kids. It's just very difficult right now to take time out from my campaign to come up here and settle all of these details. My mother was in perfect health, so I doubt she had done much to prepare for her death. I guess I'll have to hire someone local to clear the house out for me, sell her car, things like that.”

“Sometimes it can be therapeutic to clear out the possessions of a loved one who has passed away,” Jo said. “After my grandmother died, I handled all of her old papers and belongings, and it gave me a real sense of closure. I even came to gain a whole new picture of her. I found a box of love letters in the attic to her from my grandfather, and I treasure them.”

Sally took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly.

“Ah, but that's the difference,” she said softly. “You treasure them because you obviously treasured your grandmother. My situation's a lot more complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Because I most certainly did not treasure my mother. Didn't even like her very much. It's a lot harder to follow up behind someone who's died when your overall feeling is that you just want to be done with it and out of there.”

11

S
imon sat on Wiggles' porch for hours, waiting for the man to get home. Simon knew he could have easily picked the lock and made himself at home inside, but he didn't want to start things off on the wrong foot. He really needed a friend right now.

Finally, he heard the distinct rattle of Wiggles' old station wagon. He stood and waited as it rumbled up the street, over the patch of weeds that served as a driveway, and to a stop beside the bungalow.

“You still got that old heap of junk?” Simon asked with a grin as his friend got out of the car.

Wiggles looked the same as always, short and stooped and pasty, with a few long strands of hair that fought to cover his white head. True to his name, Wiggles' body nearly vibrated from head to toe with steady tremors, the aftereffect of a bad case of childhood meningitis.

“Well, Simon,” Wiggles said, slamming the car door. “Ain't seen you in months.”

“Yes, I've been busy. But that's over now. Thought I'd see what's going on here in Florida.”

Wiggles came up onto the porch and began the long, excruciating process of pulling out his keychain, finding the house key, and sliding it into the lock. Simon learned a long time ago not to rush Wiggles or offer to do it for him. In certain ways, the man could be very stubborn.

“You looking for somewhere to crash?” Wiggles asked, never one to beat around the bush. “ 'Cause it don't come free and your word ain't worth the sound it makes coming out of your mouth.”

“I know, I know,” Simon said. “Sorry about that. I really did mean to send you what I owed you.”

“It's never too late to pay the piper.”

Simon reached for the wad of cash in his pocket, most of which he had already taken out and slipped into a few well-placed, hidden pouches in his suitcase. He peeled off a twenty from what was left and held it out to Wiggles.

“Nice try,” Wiggles said, glancing toward him and then returning his attention to the door lock. “You owe me sixty. Plus another hundred up front if you're planning on staying here this week.”

“You drive a hard bargain, my friend.”

“And I know darn well you don't show up here unless you got no place else to go. A hundred sixty pays back what you owe me and gives you a week's lodging. Deal?”

“How 'bout a hundred fifty?” Simon said. “For old times' sake.”

Wiggles eyed him suspiciously.

“Sure,” he said finally. “A hundred fifty. But that means you gotta take out the trash and do all the dishes—the whole time you're here.”