Tressed to Kill (25 page)

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so cold. I smiled into his shoulder. When I pulled away after a long moment, he said, “Why don’t you and your mom and Mrs. Jenkins go home. I heard enough of what Hutchinson and the woman were saying to wait until tomorrow for your statements.”
“Sounds good,” I said, giving him a tired smile. “It’s been a long day.”
He grinned. “You said it. Just promise me I won’t have to come out in the middle of the night because you’re chasing intruders or dodging snakes in your pajamas again.”

Chapter Twenty-four

[Wednesday]

THE NEXT FEW DAYS JUMBLED TOGETHER AS WE gave our statements to the police and then underwent even more grueling questions from friends, family, and the merely curious. My sister Alice Rose popped in for a day to make sure Mom and I were okay and get the scoop firsthand. Marty Shears called me from his hospital room in Atlanta to get the story. He sounded more interested in the conversation I’d overheard between Del Richardson and the man in the cemetery than in Greg and Amber Hutchinson’s murderous plans, although he wrote a story about the decades-old grudge and the obsession with revenge that landed on an inside page of
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
. (Addie McGowan had a front-page article about the murders coming out in tomorrow’s
Gazette
; she’d grilled me about my part in the investigation for three hours on Tuesday.) Nailing Governor Lansky was still Marty’s driving focus. Maybe someday he’d tell me why he had it in for the governor. He was convinced Richardson or Lansky or both had arranged his car accident, and he was redoubling his efforts to nail the governor. He said he’d be back in St. Elizabeth before too long and told me he’d take me to dinner, to make up for missing the Rothmere ball. Sounded good to me.
Simone DuBois stopped by the salon on Wednesday. She knocked timidly on the door and then pushed it open. I was alone. Stella had found part-time work at Chez Pierre, Rachel was at school, and Mom and Althea had gone to Jacksonville for the day to tour a personal products manufacturing facility Althea was considering to produce Althea’s Organic Skin Solutions. I was using the downtime to clean out the shampoo sink, which had been draining sluggishly of late, so Simone caught me jabbing a straightened hanger into the section of PVC piping I’d loosened, prying globs of nasty gook and hair into a bucket.
“How are you feeling?” I asked when I saw who it was. I stood and wiped my hands on a towel.
Simone looked pale, her black hair seeming to suck the color out of her makeupless face. Her slacks hung loosely on her thin frame, and I thought she’d lost weight.
“It looks so empty,” she said, looking around without answering.
“You had us closed down,” I reminded her quietly. “Is Peaches going to be okay?” I asked when she didn’t say anything.
She nodded. “Yes. She has a broken leg and some bruising. She’s got a little doggy cast on one leg, but other than that she’s okay. I can pick her up from the vet this afternoon.” She fell silent again, moving farther into the room. Her hand traced the line of the hair dryer hanging at Mom’s station. “I came to thank you,” she said, looking up. “You and your mom and Althea saved my life. I still can’t believe—” Tears trickled down her face.
“We all make mistakes about men,” I said, trying to comfort her. “I wasted a decade on Hank Parker, for heaven’s sake.”
She shot me a look reminiscent of the old Simone. “My mistake got my mother killed.” The stark statement hung in the air between us.
“Your dad cheating Carl Rowan out of his property set that in motion,” I said. “And Greg’s mother fostering his obsession and his own greedy personality. Greg killed Constance. You are not responsible for your mother’s death, Simone.”
She flapped a hand as if batting away the words and the comfort that went with them.
“Anyway, thank you,” she said. “I owe you. I’d like to help set this right”—she gestured to the empty salon—“if I can.”
I’d already done my research with the State Board of Cosmetology and knew just how she could help. “Call Barbara Mayhew,” I said, leading her to the phone. “Here’s what you say.” And I filled her in on my idea.
Ten minutes later, Simone hung up the phone and gave me a wry smile. “She went for it,” she said.
I beamed. I couldn’t wait to tell my mom.
“This doesn’t mean we have to get all mushy and huggy, does it?” Simone asked with something like her old acerbity.
“I won’t if you won’t,” I promised, thinking maybe Simone wasn’t so bad after all.
“Thank you,” we both said at the same time. I laughed, and Simone shrugged.
I put out my hand, and Simone shook it tentatively. “Maybe you’d like to have a drink with me and Vonda one of these nights,” I heard myself saying. What was I doing? Vonda would kill me. Still, the new Simone looked like she might not be a complete witch.
“Maybe,” Simone said. She pulled the door open and paused on the threshold. “Really,” she said, “thank you for everything.”
I nodded, and she closed the door softly behind her.
I HAD BARELY DUCKED UNDER THE SINK TO REATTACH the PVC when I heard the door jingle open again. “Down here,” I called, thinking Simone had forgotten something.
A heavy tread approached, and I saw two feet shod in wingtips that Simone wouldn’t wear if she were a bag lady and her only other option was barefoot.
“You have many talents, don’t you?” an amused voice asked. “Beautician, investigator, plumber. Is there anything you don’t do?”
“Brain surgery,” I said, scooting out from under the sink to see Special Agent Dillon smiling down at me. “Also calf roping, surfing, and anything that requires math more sophisticated than two plus two.”
He reached down a hand and helped me to my feet. A warm feeling seeped through me at his touch. “Let me see if this works,” I said, pulling my hand away and turning to the sink. I twisted the taps on and stooped to look under the sink. No drips. Yay. I turned the taps off again and watched the water drain freely. Double yay.
“Want some coffee?” I asked. Dillon hadn’t moved while I tested the sink, and now he was uncomfortably close in a really comfortable way.
“Sure,” he said after a moment, and backed off a few steps so I could get past him.
I scooped coffee into the pot and poured in the water. The first drip hissed onto the burner before I slid the carafe beneath the stream. Watching the pot fill, I asked, “What brings you out this way?”
He propped himself against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “I wanted to let you know we matched Amber Falstead Hutchinson’s fingerprints to the ones we took off the shovel at the cemetery. She saw you leave and decided to take the opportunity to make another stab at getting rid of you. The shovel being by the grave was just serendipitous, she said.”
“Yeah, that’s the word I would’ve chosen.” Being knocked into a grave by an assailant who wanted to bury me alive entitled me to a little sarcasm.
Dillon raised a brow at my tone, but kept going. “She also admits to buying the cottonmouth from some seedy character who works on the river and breakfasts at Doralynn’s. She’s the one who wrote the ‘MYOB’ note, too, although Hutchinson apparently made and threw the Molotov cocktail and broke in here to plant the sword.”
“Sounds like they were made for each other,” I observed. Selecting a blue earthenware mug from the cabinet, I filled it from the steaming carafe and passed it to Dillon. Our fingers brushed.
“That’s too bad,” he said, blowing on the coffee, “because I don’t think the state goes in for his and her adjoining cells.”
Special Agent Dillon had mentioned the sword; something about that still puzzled me. “How come Constance had the sword in her car that night? I was sure she’d given it to Philip for his birthday. He was my favorite suspect for a while.”
“According to Philip and Simone, their mother was planning to give it to him at his birthday party, which was scheduled for Friday evening. They cancelled, of course, after Constance was murdered.”
We were silent for a moment, contemplating twists of fate. At least, I was thinking about how differently things might have turned out if Constance had given Philip the sword on his actual birthday. Then it wouldn’t have been in her car when Greg confronted her Wednesday night.
“What did Greg say about the night his father and William Jenkins disappeared?” I asked, hoping he had seen or heard something that might give a hint as to where Carl and William ended up.
“Nothing other than what he already told you,” Dillon said. “His dad came home with William that night and announced he was going to ‘have it out’ with Philip DuBois about the land deal. He stomped out of the house, Jenkins following him, and that’s all he knows.”
I sighed. “I was really hoping he might know more. For Althea’s sake.”
“I know.” He set his mug down on the counter.
Reluctant to let him leave for some strange reason, I asked, “What will happen to Philip DuBois and Del Richardson?”
“Nothing.”
I slanted a look at him, and he shrugged. “There’s no proof they did anything wrong. I know Shears is convinced they engineered his accident, and the mechanic says it looks like the brake line was cut, but there’s absolutely no evidence pointing toward Richardson or DuBois, much less the governor.”
“So Richardson wins.” I thought with frustration of Richardson’s infuriating contention that he never lost.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Dillon said. “The town voted against his store. Well—”
“So this is where Marshal Dillon rides off into the sunset, right? On his white horse?”
“You’re thinking of the Lone Ranger,” he said. “My horse is black. An Arabian named Groucho. Maybe you’d like to meet him sometime?”
“Sure,” I said casually, although my heartbeat doubled. “Sounds like fun, Marsh.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you started calling me John, Grace?”
“If you prefer, John-Grace.” Hey, anybody who named his horse Groucho ought to appreciate a little “who’s on first” kind of humor. I suppressed a grin.
John rolled his eyes. “Soon,” he promised, and left.
MOM AND ALTHEA CAME BUSTLING IN HALF AN HOUR later, talking knowledgeably about packaging and labels and price per unit. I had called Stella and Rachel, catching them on their lunch breaks, and the three of us were waiting for them.
“What’s going on?” Althea asked, setting down a shopping bag. “If you don’t look like the cat that’s swallowed a couple of canaries with a mouse chaser, Grace.”
Stella looked at her watch. “I’ve got a one o’clock client,” she said, “and it’s a twenty-minute drive. What’s your big surprise?”
“What if I said you don’t have to go back to Chez Pierre because Violetta’s is reopening tomorrow?” I asked with a huge grin.
Total silence and dumbfounded expressions met my announcement.
“What do you mean?” Mom asked cautiously, blinking at me from behind her glasses.
“I mean that I’ve found a way to get Mrs. Mayhew to let us start doing business again,” I said, “and Simone called her and she agreed.”
“Simone?” Althea said suspiciously.
I nodded. “Look. I’ve got a Master Cosmetology license, so we can post that and legally operate the business under my license. It’s still your shop, Mom,” I said, forestalling the objection I saw in her face. “We don’t have to change the names on the business license or anything.”
“Are you thinking of cutting hair on your own while I’m at beauty school?” Mom asked, knitting her brows. “That could be a year, Grace. You’d be awfully busy.”
“Nope. You don’t have to go to beauty school.” I paused to let the suspense build. “State law says you can either get your license by going to an approved cosmetology school,
or
you can do three thousand hours as an apprentice. Well, you can be my apprentice, right here in your own shop! And Mrs. Mayhew has agreed, with Simone’s prompting, to let us backdate a lot of the required hours, so you really only have to log hours for about six months before taking your exam.”
I looked around at the stunned faces. Althea was the first to speak. “Well, hallelujah,” she said, slapping her knee. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Rachel set her cauldron earring to swinging when she jumped up. “Well, I’ll be here, like, tomorrow afternoon, right after school lets out, okay? Gotta run. I haven’t studied near enough for my geometry test next period.” She trotted out, ponytail bouncing.
Stella stood up next, relief on her face. She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “Well, thank goodness. I’ll give Chez Pierre my notice as soon as I get back. I guess I’ll need to work out the week, if that’s okay? It doesn’t seem right to leave them in the lurch.”
“Of course it’s okay, Stel,” Mom said, rising to give her a hug. “It’s the right thing to do.”
Stella hugged her back hard. “I can’t say I really took to the folks at Chez Pierre. Oh, they’re nice enough, but they’re not family.” And with a misty smile, she followed Rachel out the door.
“Oh, shoot,” Althea said, pushing to her feet. “We’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?” I asked as my mom came over to hug me.
“Thank you, Grace,” she said.
“I only did it so I could have a job again,” I said, hugging her back.
“Late for Walter’s groundbreaking,” Althea said. “Come on.”
“His groundbreaking?” I trailed Althea and Mom out of the shop.
“Well, the start of his demolition—whatever you want to call it. He’s starting his renovation today, and we promised we’d help just to get him started. Good thing you’re dressed for it,” she added, eyeing the jeans and old tee shirt I’d donned for plumbing.
Great. I had better things to do with my afternoon than swing a sledge hammer, but I followed them down to Confederate Artefacts anyway. Walter greeted us at the door, atwitter with excitement. If it hadn’t been for the mustache, I wouldn’t have recognized him. He was wearing overalls and a henley shirt instead of his Confederate uniform. The room behind him was empty of artifacts, only faded spots on the walls showing where weapons and frames had hung. Plastic sheeting covered the floor, with a wheelbarrow positioned in the middle of the room. Three sledge hammers and a large toolbox made up the rest of the room’s contents.
“We’re ready to start,” Walter said, gesturing at the empty space. “The carpenter will be here tomorrow, so we have to complete the task today. You can’t believe how much I’m saving by doing the demolition myself!”
Hm. Himself plus three unpaid slaves. I didn’t really mind helping him, though, so I said, “Where do we start?”
“That wall.” He pointed to the wall separating what had been the display area from the back offices. “The contractor tells me it’s not load bearing, so have at it. Here, you might want these.” He gave us each goggles and blue dust masks to fit over our faces. “Maybe Miss Althea should take the first swing,” he said, “since it’s her building.”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “It’s your project. I might be good for pulling out drywall, but I’d put myself in the hospital if I tried to swing that sledge hammer. You do the honors.”
With a huge grin that made his mustache tickle his cheeks, he hefted a sledge hammer and swung at the wall. A gaping hole appeared, and a cloud of white dust filled the air. I coughed. Mom picked up one of the other sledge hammers and swung it like a croquet mallet at the wall.