The Trouble with Tulip (41 page)

When Danny and Jo were ready to leave the police station, the chief suggested they go out the back way because there were reporters in the main lobby. Apparently, the coroner, afraid it might look as if he had made a bad call in the death of Edna Pratt by first saying it was an accident, had held a late night press release announcing that his own further study had confirmed that the death was, by all likelihood, a murder instead. The middle-of-the-night brouhaha at Jo's house had somehow been connected to Edna, probably from speculation by a neighbor or two, and now the reporters were out in full force, trying to figure out what the story was, exactly, behind Edna's death and Jo's intruder, and how the two were connected.

The chief seemed furious, especially since Simon Kurtz was still at large. His efforts at damage control seemed to include stringing along the reporters, keeping them at bay until the man could be apprehended.

By the time Danny and Jo left the police station, slipping out the back way and to Danny's car unnoticed, the sun was just coming up. Reluctant to part ways, they decided to go for breakfast. Rather than drive around trying to find somewhere that might be open, they headed for a sure thing, the 24-hour pancake house out by the interstate. For Danny, the lack of ambience from the orange plastic seats, vinyl-top tables, and ceiling-mounted television droning from the corner disappeared with the first cup of coffee, it was that good.

As he sipped his coffee and Jo studied the menu, Danny watched her across the table, thinking she was beautiful even with her hair a mess and circles under her eyes. It struck him suddenly that hers was the face he wanted to grow old with. He wanted to spend the rest of his life looking at her across the breakfast table.

“So what are you doing today?” she asked. “You working at the studio?”

He nodded.

“Regeneration is playing this morning at a women's breakfast over at Cornerstone Church,” he said. “I'll be going to the studio after that.”

“Cornerstone Church,” Jo replied. “From what I recall, that was Edna Pratt's church.”

Danny watched her whole face cloud over. He hesitated and then reached out to put a hand over hers.

“Don't do this, Jo. You hardly knew her.”

Tears filled her eyes. She blinked, sending them down her cheeks.

“But she was a fan, Danny. She read the column every day. She collected her favorite tips in a little notebook. Somehow I feel that I
owe
her something.”

“You've given her what you owed her. You've convinced the police of the truth. They'll take it from here.”

“So why do I feel so sad?”

His heart pounded, wanting to say the first thought that sprang into his head:
Because love is staring you right in the face and you don't even see it!

“Because it's been a tough week, Jo. Because in the last seven days you've had to be an expert at a crime scene, get the image of a dead body out of your mind, recover from a failed wedding, get abandoned yet again by your parents, investigate a murder, deal with a surprise pet, and face down an intruder in your own backyard. I'd say you need to go home and put on one of your favorite old movies, watch it, and have a good, long cry. I think you'll feel better after that.”

She smiled at him through her tears.

“Why do you always know the right thing to say to me?” she asked.

“Because I love you.”

His statement sat there for a moment, totally unplanned, totally unavoidable, totally horrifying from his point of view. Why had he spoken so soon?

He held his breath, but from the look on Jo's face, she didn't even understand what he was saying. She merely smiled and patted his arm and said, “Thanks, Danny. You know I love you too.”

Jo couldn't get over how hungry she felt. Maybe confronting potential murderers in the middle of the night did something to the appetite. She only knew that when the waitress brought the modest cheese omelet she had ordered, she asked for a side of pancakes. In companionable silence, she and Danny ate, and she felt grateful to the core that he was there with her. He was such a rock.

When the waitress brought the pancakes, she lingered oddly, looking at Jo. Her behavior was so strange that finally Jo looked up at her questioningly.

“It
is
you!” the woman said. “Are you Jo Tulip?”

It wasn't often that Jo ran into a fan who recognized her, but it was always fun when it happened. She wiped her mouth with her napkin, sat back, and smiled.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “Do you read my column?”

“Column?” the woman asked. “What column? I'm talking about the TV.”

She pointed across the room. Jo turned to look, shocked to see a photo of herself on the television screen. It was one of her publicity photos, and underneath was the caption, “Jo Tulip of Tips from Tulip.”

“What?” Danny cried, equally surprised.

They both got up from the table, crossed the room, and stood directly under the television set, where they could see and hear what was going on.

It was a news story, and they were calling “household hints expert Jo Tulip” a hero.

A hero?

“Miss Tulip apprehended the suspect about four-thirty
A.M
. this morning as he attempted to break into her home here on Oak Street.”

They cut to the reporter, who was standing in front of Jo's house. From all appearances, it looked like a live report.

“Armed with flammable liquid and a butane lighter, Miss Tulip and a neighbor held the suspect at bay until police could arrive to take over at the scene and make an arrest.”

“A neighbor!” Jo laughed, poking Danny in the ribs. “That's you.”

“Shut up,” he teased.

“In custody is this man,” the reporter said, and then a mug shot appeared on the screen, a younger, unscarred version of Angus Young. “Fred Jackson has been working at both Mulberry Glen High School and the Golden Age Retirement Village in Mulberry Glen under the name of Angus Young. In truth, he is a convicted felon, having served a ten-year sentence in Florida State Penitentiary for first-degree murder.”

Jo gasped. The chief had said Angus was an ex-con, but she had never dreamed his crime was murder. The scene changed to a shot of the Golden Acres sign.

“Those who worked with Jackson here at Golden Acres describe him as a kind and gentle man who was good with the residents. There are no suspected incidents of foul play at the facility, and police have not released any information about Jackson's motivation for the murder of Edna Pratt. The chief of police in Mulberry Glen is expected to give a statement to the press in the next few hours. In the meantime, this is Suzie Chin, reporting from Mulberry Glen. Back to you, Jim.”

The television switched to a different story, and Jo and Danny both realized that everyone in the place was staring at them. Then they all applauded.

“Breakfast is on the house, honey,” their waitress called. “Good for you for being so brave!”

Jo swallowed hard and looked at Danny, eyes wide.

“I guess we're heroes,” she said, grinning.

“I guess we are,” he agreed.

“Or at least I am,” Jo added. “You're just a neighbor.”

27

D
anny reached Cornerstone Church at the same time as his mother. Together they began unloading their equipment, bringing it into the fellowship hall where the breakfast would be held. Once they had brought everything inside, he slipped into the bathroom to shave and change clothes, glad he kept an electric razor in his car's glove compartment for just such a situation.

His mom was full of questions about the news report she had seen on TV that morning. As they set everything up on the stage at the end of the room, he explained quietly, though he had to start over each time one of his curious sisters arrived.

Fortunately, Danny realized, since he had been identified as only a “neighbor” on the news report, none of the women at the banquet would know of his involvement. That saved him from more repeated explanations, for which he was quite grateful once they opened the hall doors and women began pouring inside.

Edna Pratt's murder was the topic of the day. It was all the church women could talk about as they stood waiting in line for the buffet. Regeneration wouldn't be playing until after the meal was over, so Danny listened a bit from his table near the buffet line, curious to hear what the gossip might be. From what he could tell, most of the women hadn't known Edna personally. They were just shaken by the thought that someone—anyone—in calm little Mulberry Glen could have been murdered.

“I praise God that Edna came to know the Lord just before she died,” one of the women said. “Murdered or not, I sleep easier at night knowing that's one soul that went straight to heaven.”

The comment struck Danny as odd. Edna had come to know the Lord
just before she died?
How did this woman know that?

She was standing behind the buffet table in a white apron, scooping out hash browns onto each plate. Danny leaned over and asked his mother who the woman might be, and she replied that it was Cora Pepperdine, the pastor's wife.

When she ran out of hash browns and went into the kitchen, Danny excused himself and followed her.

“Need help carrying something out, Mrs. Pepperdine?” he asked, trying to act as if he belonged there.

She flashed him a worried smile as she lifted the foil covers on several containers, saying that that wouldn't be necessary since apparently the hash browns were all gone.

“I hope no one is disappointed,” she said. “I guess I made the serving sizes too big. And call me Cora, please.”

“Well, the line's almost finished anyway, Cora,” he replied. “And there's still plenty of other food out there.”

He didn't want to hover, but he didn't want to leave either. Mostly, he wanted to engage her in a conversation.

“Would you like some help taking out the trash?” he offered, gesturing toward the overflowing cans.

“Good idea.”

They chatted as they bagged the trash and carried it outside. She asked about the band and he complimented the facility and the next thing he knew, they were at the dumpster, tossing in the big plastic bags.

“Before we go back inside, may I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I couldn't help but overhear you say that Edna Pratt came to know the Lord just before she died. Were you friends with Mrs. Pratt?”

“Her late husband was a member here,” the woman replied, “but she hardly ever came.”

“Then how do you know she found faith there at the end?”

“How do I know?” she asked, smiling shyly. “Because I was there.”