The Trouble with Tulip (38 page)

“A million dollars?” Jo cried.

“We were allowed to share this with only our closest, most trusted friends,” Mrs. Chutney said. “Louise and I thought about it, and we decided that if we could find ten people who would each give a hundred thousand dollars, then we would have our million. Simon said that with that much money, he could make enough formula for ten people.”

“A hundred thousand dollars
each?
” Jo asked in dismay.

“As of last week, we were almost halfway there,” Mrs. Chutney said. “Then Edna died and Simon disappeared, and we didn't know what to think.”

“But you had already given Simon your money?” Danny asked.

“Four of us had. But the rest were ready to come on board pretty soon. He was supposed to do another demonstration of the metal into gold first for the ones who hadn't seen it.”

Jo reached into the bag next to her chair and pulled out the metal pin Danny had retrieved from the jeweler.

“Was this the item he was going to transmute?”

“Yes,” one of the women said. “It's mine. Simon told me he needed it ahead of time so that he could do some measurements and calculate how much of the formula would be necessary for the transmutation.”

“I'm sorry,” Jo said, reaching into the envelope and producing the second pin. “The truth is, he just needed enough time to bring it to a jeweler and have a duplicate made in gold. Using an old magician's trick, he was going to make it look as if he was changing one into the other right in front of your eyes.”

Pandemonium broke out in the room. Several of the women began to cry.

“Ladies,” Danny said, trying to get them to quiet down. “The police can help you if you'll let them. May we give them a call?”

The women took a quick vote. It was unanimous.

Before they had a chance to change their minds, Jo rushed into the kitchen to get the police on the phone. Danny was relieved because once the cops opened an investigation about this fraud, then they might be willing to take a second look at Edna's death as well.

Jo returned to the living room a few minutes later, assuring them that the police chief himself was on his way. The women talked and cried among themselves until there was a knock at the door, and then it was flung open.

Louise Parker stood there, eyes wild, breathing heavily.

“Ladies!” she cried, holding up one hand. “Not a word to anyone! I've spoken to Simon, and he's assured me that everything is right on schedule.”

Iris Chutney stood, visible trembling.

“Too late, Louise,” she cried. “We've already spilled the beans. The police are on their way.”

25

J
o had to leave for the radio station before the chief was ready to start taking statements. She told him they were welcome to use her home until they were finished, but he said no thanks, that he wanted all of the women to relocate to the police station where they could do it more officially. His deputies took the names and addresses of the ladies present and then began herding them toward their cars.

Poor Louise Parker was beside herself. Though it had taken a while to convince her of the truth, once she was presented with all the evidence, she had finally given in. Now she was clamoring for justice more vigorously than the rest, even inviting the police to trace back the phone call she had received from Simon a little while before.

While Jo was glad that the scam was finally getting some official attention, she felt really bad for Sally Sugarman. The Texas senator was not going to be happy when she learned what had happened. Then again, if Edna was indeed murdered, surely Sally would want justice to prevail in the end. Maybe if the story stayed local, the voters in Texas would never have to know the truth about Sally Sugarman's mother or uncle—or the swindle they had tried to pull.

The chief thanked Jo before leaving and asked her to come by the station later as well to give her own statement.

“I'll come as soon as my radio show is over,” she said. “In the meantime, I'm just glad you're willing to consider that Edna's death wasn't an accident after all.”

She started to climb in the car, but he stopped her.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said. “I'm not going there. We're investigating a con game, not a murder. None of this evidence leads me to change my mind.”

“But, Chief, you see what the woman was involved in. Whether she was a victim or a perpetrator, you can't tell me her death isn't suspicious considering all that has come to light.”

He glanced toward the last car full of women and then looked back at Jo.

“And who killed her, Miss Tulip?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Do you think one of those sweet ladies did her in?”

“They might have,” Jo said defensively. “Money can be a powerful motivator.”

“Yes, but none of those women even knew they were being swindled until today. So much for a motive.”

“What about Simon? He could have killed his sister. He had motive.”

“You're the one who told him Edna was dead. Why would he try to call her on the phone if he had killed her? Nope, as far as I'm concerned, Edna Pratt was doing some housecleaning, mixed the wrong chemicals, passed out, hit her head, and died. End of story.”

“What if someone wanted to test her immortality?” Jo asked. “What if they wanted to check their investment, make sure it was genuine?”

The chief shook his head, taking a step back.

“I'll keep an open mind,” he said. “But we won't open her death as a murder investigation unless we get some hard proof or a confession.”

A confession would be good! That was what Jo prayed for as she drove toward the radio station. It was about ten miles outside of town, a right turn off of the highway and then down a long dirt road. She reached the small brick building just fifteen minutes before she was to be on the air, the closest she had ever cut it.

Her laid-back producer didn't seem concerned, however, which only served to remind her what a small-town market this was. If she hadn't shown up today, he probably would have just put on a “best of” tape—and no one listening would have even cared.

Jo grabbed a bottle of water, sat in the booth, spread out her papers, and waited for her cue. They had done some promos last week, and every advertisement they had run promised that today's subject was camping.

Oh, boy. How relevant to the average American woman.

The clock ticked straight up to two o'clock, the producer pointed at her through the glass, and she was off and running.

“Hello, friends, it's camping time. Want to keep ants off the picnic table? Forget the bug spray. Just put the table legs in water-filled coffee cans and you're good to go! Stay tuned for more Tips from Tulip after this.”

The music cued up and Jo sat back in her chair, catching her breath and focusing for the show. Even when it was an off topic like this one, she still enjoyed it. Maybe she really should work on increasing her radio exposure.

The hour went by quickly. One caller suggested pouring some rice in a tackle box to keep out moisture. That gave Jo an opening to suggest that whenever little ones come along on a fishing trip, the hooks should be kept in a childproof container, like an old medicine bottle.

One caller wanted to know how to get sap off a tent, and Jo went through the process of rubbing the sap off with margarine and then cleaning with a light dish soap.

“Here's my favorite tip for the campsite,” she said, “one you'll thank me for later. Bring along a hula hoop and a shower curtain, rig it up on a tree branch, and you have an instant dressing room. Throw in an inflatable kiddie pool, and it becomes your own private bathtub.”

She told one caller how to make waterproof matches by dipping match heads in candle wax, and then she suggested that every camper should bring along the perfect fire starter in a plastic bag: cotton balls dipped in petroleum jelly.

“They don't take up much room,” Jo said. “And you'll be really glad you have them if it rains and all your kindling gets wet. Speaking of kindling, save the lint from the dryer. It's flammable, makes perfect fire starter, and, best of all, it's free.”

Mildew was a big topic, so she went through the steps for getting mildew off a tent.

“Trust me, folks, you don't want to clean your tent with harsh chemicals, like bleach or even ammonia. It needs a little more tender loving care than that.”

As Jo went down the list of dos and don'ts, she couldn't help but think of Edna, with her fatal mix of bleach and ammonia. Someone else had to have combined those chemicals on purpose when Edna wasn't looking. But who? How? When?

All along Jo had had a hunch that Edna's brother had killed her. Now, however, she was starting to doubt that theory. Edna's death had hurt Simon in this con game, not helped him. All of his victims were turning on him, and apparently he was on the lam. Plus, he called her after her death, as if he thought she were still alive. So why did he leave town? Was he the one Jo heard Edna arguing with the night she was killed?

Suddenly, Jo had a thought, and it was so all-consuming that she could barely finish the segment. When they went to a commercial break, she told the producer she'd be right back, ran outside where she could have some privacy, and called Danny on her cell phone.

“I've got forty-three seconds,” she said quickly once he was on the phone. “Call the chief and ask him to call the coroner. Danny, every time I think about Edna inhaling those fumes and passing out, I wonder how someone could have mixed them right there in front of her without her even noticing. But what if those chemicals were mixed
after
she was dead? What if someone whacked her on the head to kill her, and then, to cover it up and make it look like an accident, poured bleach into the ammonia? Tell the chief to make sure the coroner examined Edna's lung tissues. Because if she never inhaled those fumes, then his theory about her passing out from the homemade mix of cleaners just doesn't hold water. Gotta go!”

Jo made it back to the booth just in time, and she went immediately to a call so she could catch her breath.

“Tips from Tulip, you're on the air.”

“I want to know how to keep our sleeping bags from getting all musty smelling over the winter,” a woman said.

“Well, I'm glad you asked,” Jo replied, consulting her notes and trying not to sound flustered. “I've got three suggestions for you. First, store them in a cool, dry place, like a closet—never the basement. Second, when you're finished with them for the season, don't roll them up too tightly or they won't have room to breath. Finally, when you do roll them up, slip a fabric softener sheet down inside. Follow those three steps, and your sleeping bags should keep smelling fresh all year long.”

Danny finished at the studio, gave his statement to the police downtown, and then rushed home, afraid of what he might find once he got there. Jo had asked if she could lock Chewie inside his guest bedroom during the meeting at her house and the following radio show. He had agreed, not really thinking, but now all sorts of questions ran through his mind, primarily: Was the dog really housebroken?

When he came inside, Chewie began barking immediately. Danny had to admit that it was fun to come home to something other than a quiet, empty house. He went to the back bedroom and opened the door to find the dog, tail wagging furiously. It didn't look or smell as if there had been any accidents. On the other hand, there was something odd all over the top of the bed. After petting Chewie and rubbing him behind the ears, Danny stepped closer to see. Yellow blobs littered the surface of the bedspread, and after a moment, he realized what they were: little pieces of foam rubber.

“Hey, boy, where's the pillow?” Danny asked. As if in reply, Chewie's stomach growled loudly. Danny's stomach was growling, too, so he led Chewie to the kitchen and set about making himself a bagel. He called Jo as it was toasting.

“How's Chewie?” she asked. “Did he survive there by himself?”

“Yeah. I think he ate one of my good foam rubber pillows, though,” Danny replied, reaching for the leash, which Jo had left on the table. He clipped it to Chewie's collar. “There's tiny pieces of foam all over the bedspread.”