Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) (22 page)

The sun was setting, blinding drivers traveling south out on the highway. I shielded my eyes from the glare and felt the anger rise inside me.

“I didn’t write anything about the killer, and I certainly didn’t speculate except to say it probably wasn’t a robbery that had gone wrong. The salon wasn’t open yet, and there was no money in the cash drawer to steal. I understand Matthew has an unshakable alibi, so he obviously couldn’t have killed her. I don’t know how you came to your conclusion about my columns, but you’re wrong. Going to Matthew’s house Saturday night was a big mistake. He was man enough to accept my apology—graciously, I might add. And by the way, I don’t like being followed!”

Derek Oliver looked stunned by my answer. “I wasn’t following you! I saw you inside the store and waited by your car to speak to you.”

“And?” I asked, feeling bolder by the second.

“I’m not getting the impression you’re exactly excluding my son.”

“I’m not excluding anyone. I just go by what I see and the info I get from the police reports, Mr. Oliver. If you have a problem with that, take it up with them.”

Derek Oliver was clearly annoyed by my explanation and wasn’t the kind of man who was accustomed to people being so frank with him, but that was too bad. I had more important things to do than to stand in a parking lot trying to defend myself. The enticing scent of rotisserie chicken wafted up from the yellow plastic grocery bag, begging me to rip it apart with my bare hands and gnaw it to death. I was starving and just wanted to get home.

“You’d better be careful what you write, Miss Caruso. It could get you into trouble.”

“I hope that’s not a threat, Mr. Oliver. There are an awful lot of things I could write but haven’t so far. You don’t want me to start speculating. You’re not exactly above suspicion yourself.”

I unlocked the door and carefully placed the bag in the back seat. Confrontation always made me jumpy, but I thought I had handled the situation well enough. The look of shock on Derek Oliver’s face when I glanced in the rearview mirror made me smile.

Is this what a hard-nosed reporter feels like?
I asked myself. Was I slowly gaining the confidence I needed to be a halfway decent journalist? All I knew for sure as I drove from that parking lot toward my house and my starving children was that I wanted a little more from my job than I was currently receiving—more money, more recognition, and whole lot more respect.

20

Meredith called me on Tuesday afternoon, sounding a little breathless but very excited.

“I’ve got some information for you,” she said. “Big info. I was up half the night doing this. Can you come over to my place later? It’s better if we look it over together.”

I was free all night. The kids were still at school and afterward they would be staying at Neil’s condo for an overnighter—the first school-night visit since the breakup of our little family. I had fussed over them before they left to catch their buses and made them each pack a duffle bag earlier that morning to bring along with them. Neil would be picking them up from school, and they would all go to a matinee showing of the latest superhero movie. After, they would go out to dinner.

Sara had looked sullen about the whole thing. She wanted to be home, free to go mall-hopping with her friends, if they could manage to coax rides from various busy parents or convince the one girl in her crowd who had her license to beg her mother for the use of the family car.

Bobby, not overly thrilled about the overnighter with Neil either, had wanted to shop for a Halloween costume with Dennis Thompson instead. He was still young enough to go trick-or-treating, though I thought it might be his last year for doing so. Next year would bring middle school, and that age group seemed to want to grow up fast.

I had given them both enthusiastic kisses when I sent them off, as if a night with their father was the most extraordinary thing they would ever do in their lifetimes. I honestly hoped things would go smoothly, and that they would be able to make up for lost time.

I waited until a little after five o’clock to drive to Meredith’s place two miles away. Meredith waved down to me from a miniscule terrace with twin planters that contained the last of her dying impatiens, eager for me to climb the steep stairs to her tiny garden apartment.

“I thought you’d never get here,” she said, throwing open her door before I had the chance to knock.

“What’s going on?”

“Plenty!”

The sliding door to the terrace remained open. A refreshing breeze blew in from the east. I noticed Meredith’s desk in the corner of the living room. There were short piles of papers on the floor held down by small, tchotchke-type paperweights. She had set up a folding chair beside her own cushioned office chair. It was clear she had found out something important.

“Thanks for doing this,” I said.

She jumped into her chair and patted the seat next to her. “You’re not gonna believe this. I found Sue Jeffries—lots about Sue Jeffries! She’s really well-off.”

“I already know she’s rich. She owns part of Body Beautiful.”

“That’s not all she owns,” Meredith told me. “Take a look at this.”

Meredith called up a page on her computer. Sue Jeffries’s name popped up on at least a dozen links, with twelve more pages of links to follow. “I printed out some of the articles. They mostly refer to obituaries.”

“From what Drake Tuttle told me out at the airport and my own quick research, I gathered she was a widow.”

“Sue Jeffries is a widow, all right. Several times a widow.” She bent down and retrieved a pile of printouts from the floor. “Feast your eyes on these.”

I flipped through the papers. Suzanne Sutton Jeffries had been married to Alexander Jeffries—the owner of a small airport in the Pittsburgh area. “I guess Sutton is her maiden name. Drake Tuttle did mention she used to fly to Pittsburgh on occasion.”

“Sutton’s not her maiden name. And I’ll bet Drake Tuttle told you she used to fly to Florida, too?” Meredith asked.

I thought back to the conversation I had with the young airplane mechanic. “As a matter of fact …”

“Pensacola! Look right here.” She pulled out another paper from her stack. “Suzanne Sutton. Her husband, Max Sutton, owned a midsize airport just outside of Pensacola—before the poor guy died, that is.”

“She owns two airports from two different husbands? Talk about taking the good with the bad,” I said. “Is there any mention of how these guys died?”

Meredith pulled out a few sheets of paper from one of her piles. “I printed these out for you. Her last husband, Alexander Jeffries, died in a horrible accident. It seems he walked face-first into a moving propeller.”

“Dear God! How gross is that?” I took the printout and read the article.

“The one before Jeffries, Max Sutton, died as the result of a little skydiving mishap. Any guesses about who might have packed his parachute?”

“I have a pretty good idea,” I told her.

“Did Drake Tuttle happen to mention any other places Sue Jeffries used to fly to?”

I tried to remember. “Well, he did say she used to fly to upstate New York to see her sister, but she hasn’t done that in over a year … dear God! Trina Cranford is from Albany! That’s upstate New York. Do you think they’re related?”

Meredith typed in Trina Cranford, Albany, New York.

And there it was, as plain as day. Trina Cranford and Suzanne Cranford. Their parents were listed as John and Alicia Cranford, also of Albany. There were high school links and college notations—various accomplishments, including a pilot’s license for Suzanne and a beautician’s license for Trina. I should have known, should have seen it all along. Their bone structure, body type, even their height was so similar. They had an out-of-the-area accent—Trina’s more noticeable, but Sue had a slight accent, too. They had both used the same annoying, condescending phrase when they addressed me—
my dear
.

“Sisters,” Meredith agreed.

“So, Sue Jeffries is a black widow,” I told Meredith, who nodded in agreement. “She marries men and takes over their businesses for herself. She’s a good business woman. She turns the companies around if they’re marginal, and works to improve them if they’re lucrative.

“Trina moved down here a little over a year ago and opened Trina’s Tresses. It’s not an airport, but she’s not a pilot. She likes hair, and she’s following in her big sister’s footsteps. But why kill the wives this time? Why not coax Matthew and Hank to leave their wives, marry them, and then knock them off? They’d be the beneficiaries in the wills after they were married. The businesses would be left to them—and it sounds like those two sure know how to turn a business around to make it profitable.”

Meredith appeared to think it over. “Divorce is iffy, Colleen. Suppose the businesses had to be split fifty-fifty in a divorce settlement? Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe Hank Barber and Matthew Oliver weren’t looking for more romantic greener pastures. Maybe they actually loved their wives. The sisters needed Dizzie and Leona out of the way—permanently!”

“These girls would be willing to wait for the guys’ broken hearts to heal if there was enough money involved. I get the feeling if Matthew and Hank walked into a propeller after nuptials to those two, there would be plenty of cash to pay off any gambling losses, with enough left over to live comfortably ever after.”

I reached inside my purse and found my cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Meredith asked.

“Trina Cranford. I’m making her work on my hair tonight. I think I’ve got her!
We’ve got her!
And we’re getting her highbrow sister, too.”

A stylist picked up the phone at Trina’s Tresses. I insisted on speaking directly to Trina.

“You have to do something with my hair, Trina,” I told her when she came on the phone, making myself sound irritated and exasperated by the impossible straightness of my locks. “It has to be tonight! People are making fun of me everywhere I go! I can’t take it anymore!”

I detected the insulted tone of her voice. “Your hair is lovely. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Fine. Next time someone jokes about it, I’m telling them exactly where I had my hair done,” I threatened.

I was told come by at 8:00 p.m.—closing time. Trina assured me she would work on me personally. I hung up and turned to Meredith.

“You’re not going to confront her alone, are you?” Meredith asked, concerned.

“Not alone. I’ll make a few more calls. Ron Haver, for sure. Maybe I’ll call Willy Rojas for good measure. But first, I’m calling Ken Rhodes.”

“I’m going with you,” Meredith said.

“No you’re not,” I told her as I punched in Ken’s number.

“But you can’t just walk in there …” Meredith protested.

I held up a finger to quiet her when Ken answered his phone. “It’s Colleen,” I said quickly, knowing I sounded awfully clandestine. I checked Meredith’s computer for the time. “I need you to go inside Trina’s Tresses at exactly 8:05 tonight. Can I absolutely depend on you to be there? I have your story!”

21

I pulled into the side lot at Trina’s Tresses at ten to eight and parked next to the only other vehicle there—Trina’s car, I supposed. The last of the sunlight had vanished for the day, though it wasn’t as completely dark as it would be in less than two weeks, when the clocks would fall back to standard time. The streetlights popped on one by one out on Bay Boulevard. There was plenty of street parking, as most of the businesses along the tony street had closed at six.

Further on down the block, I heard the laughter and chatter of the young people who gathered in the outdoor seating area of a new, trendy eatery, Food For Thought, hoping to fit in the last of sidewalk dining before the cold fall days began. Their presence comforted me, making me feel like I wasn’t alone.

I sat in the car for a few minutes to gather my courage, then rolled up the window, slung the strap of my pocketbook over my shoulder, and stepped outside. According to my watch, it was nearing 8:00 p.m. I knew I could rely on the timepiece. My mother had made such a fuss about it when she gave it to me last Christmas. It was expensive, jeweled, waterproof, and supposedly gave the right time down to the nanosecond. Best of all, it was small enough not to appear too gaudy. I generally checked the time on my cell phone and had no real need for a wristwatch. In that parking lot, however, I was glad I had stopped by my house to retrieve it.

I walked toward the salon’s street entrance. Half a block down, I spotted an unmarked county car and caught sight of a man with well-cut hair gazing in his rearview mirror from within. Though it was too dark outside to make a positive ID, I knew the man was Ron Haver. He had promised he would be at Trina’s, even if I didn’t share my reasons why I wanted him to be there.

Three doors down, a man idled in front of Applegarth’s Antiques, checking out the various vintage collectables behind a pane of glass decorated with cardboard pumpkins and witches on broomsticks—a very tall, well-built, dark-haired man with streaks of gleaming silver that caught the light from a nearby lamppost. My muscles un-tensed at once. Ken Rhodes was on the scene.

Inside Trina’s Tresses, the lights were low, and the salon looked closed for the day. I pushed open the unlocked door and stepped inside. There was no clink from an overhead bell as in Dizzie’s salon. I was greeted with total silence.

“Trina?” I called out. “It’s Colleen Caruso!”

A muffled, “Over here,” came from the back of the salon, where the sinks for rinsing and shampooing were located.

I didn’t want to go back there. It felt too much like déjà vu. Dizzie’s Salon. The sink filled with water. I made myself take a step, then another. Ken Rhodes had my back, I reminded myself. By now, Ron Haver was probably right outside the door. I turned to look behind me. I knew it had to be 8:05, but Ron was nowhere in sight.

“Trina?” I repeated.

“Come on back,” she said, and I knew it was Trina because of her accent. “Let’s put a few curls in that super-straight hair of yours.”

I took a few more steps, more confidently this time. Could I be wrong? Could Meredith and I both have been wrong? Maybe Trina was nothing more than an honest hairdresser wanting to correct a styling mistake. Had we jumped to the wrong conclusion?