The Trouble with Tulip (8 page)

“Okay, look right here and smile,” Danny said. “Last one.”

Bradford and his parents stood up straight and flashed their perfect teeth as Danny captured the moment on film.

“Thanks,” he said. “I think that'll do it.”

They clustered together, speaking softly as Bradford crossed to Danny and held out his hand.

“Thanks for doing this, buddy,” he said. “Jo and I sure do appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Danny lied, shaking his hand. “My pleasure.”

His heart heavy, Danny gathered up his equipment and carried it to an empty side room where he could switch out some lenses, load film, and organize his bag before photographing the women. The longer he had spent posing and photographing Bradford and his clan, the more upset he became about the impending nuptials. What was Jo doing?
Was she out of her mind?

It's not that there was anything wrong with Bradford per se. It's just that he and Jo hardly knew each other. Having grown up with three sisters of his own, Danny thought he understood women pretty well. But Jo had always been an enigma in some ways—and in this way most of all. She deserved a lifetime of love and happiness with someone who knew her to the depths of her soul, not just some executive type who happened to meet all of her “Mr. Right” requirements on the surface.

Danny checked the batteries on his light meter as he recalled their biggest argument about it, just a few days before. They had met at the back fence, Jo weeding her flower bed as they talked.

“Bradford is a nice guy,” Danny had said, “and I know your parents were pushing him on you pretty hard, but it's irrational to think you can make a decent marriage out of a six-month relationship. And a long distance relationship at that!”

“Bradford and I have been soul mates since the day we met,” Jo insisted as she ripped up a dandelion root. “You can't even imagine how many things we have in common.”

“With an occasional date here and there, all well planned and thought out and meticulous, how could you even know? I mean, that makes for a nice dating arrangement, but it's hardly the basis for a marriage. Have you ever had a single argument? Does he even really
know
you?”

“Know me?”

“Like,” Danny sputtered, his hands forming circles in the air, “how you spend your free time, what movies you like to watch, what ice cream you choose when there are thirty-one flavors to choose from.”

“Danny, come on. Those things aren't important—”

“But they are, Jo! Some would say they are the most important things of all. What do you know about him? How does he spend his money, do his laundry, study his Bible? What brand of ketchup does he like, what sort of trips does he dream of taking? Did he have a childhood pet?” He was grasping at straws. Thrusting a finger into the air, he added, “Does he love or hate mime?”

Jo stood and put her hands on her hips.

“You want me to cancel my wedding because I don't know my fiancé's stance on
mime?
”

“Yes! No couple should ever get married without knowing that!”

“You're being ridiculous, Danny. And who are you to talk anyway? You've never had a relationship that lasted more than a week.”

“This isn't about me, it's about you. All I'm saying is that if you had any faith in this guy, you'd be eager to take it slow, not fast. You'd want to explore every good thing you have in common and every bad thing that might pop up to cause problems down the road. You'd make plans, negotiate the tougher issues, figure out what each of you will have to do to make this marriage work.”

“We'll cross each of those bridges as we come to them.”

“Have you even decided where you'll live when you come back from the honeymoon? I can't imagine Bradford's going to commute from here to New York City—it's more than three hours each way! From what I can tell, that means you're really only going to have a husband on the weekends—that is, unless you're willing to give up your home and live there.”

“You're talking about logistical problems,” Jo said, avoiding his gaze and bending again to tend to the weeds. This time, as she pulled on them, her knuckles were white. “We're working it out. For the time being, yes, we're keeping my house
and
his apartment.”

Danny studied the top of her head as she bent over the flowers. If she ripped those weeds out any harder, she'd break through clear to China.

“What about spiritually?” he said. “Is Bradford really a man of faith?”

“We're the same religion.”

“I'm not talking about religion. I'm talking about where he is in his personal walk. Is he mature spiritually? Because if he's not, you're making an even bigger mistake than I think you are.”

“He's a Christian,” Jo said defensively. “He gets to church when he can. He's so busy all week, he needs Sunday to rest.”

“Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you're saying? How can you even consider yoking yourself with a man whose faith is at a different level than your own? Do you understand the kind of problems that can produce?”

Jo didn't reply, so Danny lowered himself there on his side of the fence, down on his knees until they were face-to-face. Then he reached out through the fence and put his hands on top of hers, forcing them to be still.

“Jo,” he whispered, practically pleading. “Have you asked yourself what you're running away from by marrying this man?”

The conversation had ended there. In tears, she had jumped up and run back into her house. Then she avoided him for two days.

Finally, last night, just before the wedding rehearsal, she stopped by his house and gave a short and obviously rehearsed speech about how she appreciated his concern but that she knew what she was doing and she didn't ever want to hear his thoughts on the matter again. For the sake of their friendship, Danny had finally agreed.

Sighing deeply, he slung a camera strap over his shoulder and headed toward the bridal room, knowing that it still didn't mean he had to like it.

Simon Foster chose the busiest line in the D.C. terminal, the one with the most harried and distracted-looking teller. When he asked for a one-way ticket to Jacksonville, he was careful not to make eye-contact or to do anything memorable. Though he doubted the Baltimore cops would do much more than take a theft report from the old biddies, it never hurt to cover his bases. It might also be smart to unload the gold jewelry as soon—and as locally—as possible.

The bus didn't leave for two hours, which gave him enough time to go out and find himself a pawn shop or a jeweler. As he made his way outside and down the grungy sidewalk, Simon marveled at how different working a con had become since he got older. With his silver temples, wrinkled face, and neat mustache, people were more inclined to trust him than they ever did when he was young and handsome. No one expected old folks to lie. Be cranky, maybe, or snap at nearby children. But they were generally considered trustworthy. As a professional grifter, he found that his age had become one of his biggest assets.

Simon passed a jeweler with a sign in the window that said “We Buy Gold.” As he went in, he stooped a bit, slowed down, and shuffled his steps. The more they thought he was an honest old fellow selling off his widow's bangles, the less trouble he'd have—and the more likely he was to get a decent price.

It took a bit of haggling. But Simon was educated about gold and jewels, and once it became obvious that he knew his stuff, the jeweler offered him a fair amount. He paid Simon in cash, which added another five hundred to the cash he'd already acquired. All in all, this wasn't shaping up to be such a bad day after all.

If only he could know how things were playing out with Edna in Mulberry Glen.

Danny knocked on the door of the bridal room. Jo was usually so organized and calm and efficient that Danny was surprised to find total chaos inside.

“I've got the egg and the cornmeal!” the pastor cried, brushing past Danny and coming into the room with a brown paper bag in his hand. “My wife wanted to know if we were cooking up some fried catfish.”

The women laughed. Jo took the bag from him and Danny watched as she set it on the counter next to a bottle of nail polish and an iron. Jo looked beautiful from the neck up, but instead of a wedding gown, she was wearing one of the church's choir robes. Her gown was hanging nearby, and Danny gasped when he saw a giant rip and a big black stain halfway down the skirt.

“Don't panic,” Jo said, hearing his gasp and looking up at him. “We had a little accident, is all.”

“What about the photos?” he asked.

“We'll have to do them after the ceremony. Right now I've got some threadless mending to do. Everybody, if you can't get quiet, then get out.”

They all settled down and watched, fascinated, as Jo went to work. She began by spreading the netting over an ironing board and then, using fingernail polish, she glued the tear back together again.

“What are you doing?” someone asked softly.

“You can't sew netting or it makes an ugly seam,” Jo explained. “So I'm using this instead. The fingernail polish acts like a glue. Once it's dry, the tear will be almost invisible.”

Danny began to snap photos of Jo in action, thinking a few candid shots might be useful down the line. She might even be able to capitalize on this in the paper: “The Smart Chick Uses Household Hint Knowledge to Save Her Big Day.”

By the time Jo was finished with the netting, the iron was hot and ready for the next step. Jo cracked the egg, separated the white, tossed the yolk, stirred it up, and then used the spoon to paint the egg white on the back of the fabric, right over the tear. She cut a small strip of matching linen from an inside seam of the dress and then placed it on top of the gooey wet area, and pressed it with the hot iron.

“I call this invisible mending,” she said simply, glancing up to see everyone's eyes on her. “It works on certain fabrics as long as you do it before there's been much fraying.”

Danny shook his head, proud of the odd storehouse of knowledge inside Jo Tulip's astounding brain. It was no wonder her column was on the verge of national syndication. She could do anything, often with nothing more than a few ordinary household items.

When she finished and turned the material over, the repair was, indeed, nearly invisible. Jo attacked the stain last, smoothing out that part of the material on the ironing board and then pouring cornmeal all over the big black smudge.

“The milled grain should absorb the grease,” Jo explained, this time not even looking up to see who was watching. “We'll give it as long as we can to just sit there and absorb, and then we'll scrape it off and work at the stain with the toothbrush. Hopefully, we'll get it all. In the meantime, Danny, may I speak with you in the hall?”

He nodded, a sudden hope surging in his chest.
Please, God, has she decided to call this wedding off after all?

She took his elbow and led him from the room, an urgency to her stride. They walked together to the end of the hall, out of earshot, and then she spoke.

“Danny, I have to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“The police. Have you talked to the police? I'm dying to know the final word on Edna Pratt's autopsy.”