Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) (18 page)

“I understand Leona Barber was your partner in this venture, with Derek Oliver as a more-or-less silent partner,” I said, hoping to catch Ms. Jeffries off guard. “What happens now?”

“I haven’t spoken to Leona’s beneficiaries about it yet,” she told me. “I suppose it all depends on what Hank and Derek plan to do with their part of the business.”

“Would you like to keep it going? How is this place doing? Is it lucrative? Would you be able to run it alone?”

Sue Jeffries stood and looked at me like I was a medieval inquisitor. “I’d rather not get into the particulars with you,” she said. “The business end of Body Beautiful is my concern, not yours, and certainly not of any concern to your readers.”

I knew I had to tread lightly. Body Beautiful was, of course, an advertiser. The
Crier
couldn’t afford a dissatisfied customer while ad sales were down.

I put on my very best schmoozy persona. “Of course it isn’t. I was just hoping you’d be able to keep this place going. After all, from the looks of your class, it certainly seems to be working. And you’re a walking advertisement for Body Beautiful.”

Sue reached down and patted my hand. “Cut the bull, my dear. I left my wading boots at home today.”

I cringed. Another younger woman had just talked to me like I was her grandmother. I let Trina Cranford get away with it. For the sake of the newspaper, I had to let Sue Jeffries get away with it too.

After the interview, Willy helped me out to the parking lot. I couldn’t help but wonder what I had accomplished inside Body Beautiful, except to get the scoop on cardio health, pull a muscle, and alienate Sue Jeffries.

“This is how I’ll walk when I get old,” I said to Willy, limping along.

“And the days are going by faster and faster,” he told me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means none of us are getting any younger.”

That was easy for him to say. Willy was a good-looking kid, twenty-six if he was a day, with no responsibilities and his whole life ahead of him. I was hurtling toward middle age at the speed of light, recovering from an ugly divorce, and facing financial limbo in my future. My writing career wasn’t exactly taking off, and I had arrow-straight hair, thanks to my own stupidity. Yes, my night with Ken Rhodes had been a bright spot. But I couldn’t let myself depend on him to be my salvation. I still wasn’t sure how he felt about me, or how I felt about him, for that matter. It was still too new for any of that. I reminded myself to be careful what I wished for, that it might come to fruition.

My only salvation was the kids, and they were depending on me to keep them fed, clothed, and on the right track so their future wouldn’t be as dismal as my own.

Some role model I had turned out to be.

“Willy, I have to figure out these murders,” I said. “We get two murders in Tranquil Harbor, and somehow everyone involved is connected, but I’m not getting the full picture.”

Willy opened the Nissan’s door for me and I slid behind the wheel. “It’ll come to you,” he said. “Are you able to drive?”

“I pulled my left calf,” I told him. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll meet you back at the paper. Talk it over with the boss, maybe Meredith too. Three heads are better than one.”

I slipped the key in the ignition and started the car. “I don’t think so. I’m hitting the beach. I’ll figure it out down there.”

* * *

The municipal lot was completely empty. The beach in Tranquil Harbor stretched a little over two miles, yet there wasn’t another soul in sight. The gulls were there, of course, screeching their odd bird laughter. They flew nearby, hoping to steal a crust of bread or a discarded french fry.

“Sorry, guys,” I called out, showing them my empty hands. “Maybe next time.”

I hobbled on the sand to the water-line, slipped off my sandals, and rolled my pants up above the knee. I waded in, though technically I supposed I could get arrested for doing so. There were no lifeguards and the beach had been closed since Labor Day, the official end of summer in the shore communities.

I could feel my calf muscle loosening. The cold water helped. I thought maybe I should stick my head under the water to help unknot my brain as well. Aside from the obvious reasons, there was something about Sue Jeffries that irked me. Could anyone be that perfect? She had looks, money, and ambition—not to mention a glamorous lifestyle. What would a woman like that see in a guy like Hank Barber?

And two murders! In Tranquil Harbor? It would be laughable if it hadn’t actually happened. The only connection between the two victims was that their respective husbands were friends. I knew I had to get home and write it out, get something down on paper to focus on. There had to be a common denominator, whatever that was.

I walked back onto the sand very slowly, hoping the cold water had been enough to ease at least some of the pain in my calf. A small ache lingered, but it was better than the white-hot throbbing I’d felt on the floor in the Zumba class. When I finally reached the parking lot, I was greeted by a Tranquil Harbor squad car. My young friend, Officer O’Reilly, stuck his head out the open driver’s side window.

“What’s going on, Mrs. Caruso?”

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“Were you swimming or just wading in the bay?”

“Wading. I thought the cold water would help my calf. I pulled it in a Zumba class.”

O’Reilly smirked. “No offense, but you don’t look like the Zumba type.”

“Apparently I’m not,” I told him, reaching down to massage the muscle.

“Why are you taking Zumba classes? You’re not fat!”

I was on the verge of loving the kid. “Thank you, but I was covering a story. I’m not into self-torture.”

“You met Sue Jeffries?” he asked. He opened the door and stepped out of the black and white. “I heard she’s taking over for Leona Barber. She’s part owner of that workout place. Did you know?”

“I just learned about it today,” I said, settling against the squad car for support. “Any thoughts about it?”

“I’ve got plenty of thoughts.”

“Like, what kind of thoughts?”

“Like, is this off the record?” he asked me. “I’d hate to lose my job because I talked to you.”

“Yes, of course. I won’t mention your name. I won’t even mention there’s such a thing as a source in my column. I just need something to go on. A little something. A snippet.”

“Okay. Well, it’s about the widowers. You know, Hank Barber and Matthew Oliver?” Officer O’Reilly came beside me and leaned against the car. He looked straight ahead as he spoke. “It seems both guys were having some financial difficulties.”

I could understand Hank Barber being on shaky financial ground because of his gambling losses, but Matthew Oliver, the Hot Air King? It didn’t seem possible.

“Those Olivers have more money than God,” I told him. “Why on earth would Matthew be feeling the pinch? His business makes money hand over fist!”

“He loses money hand over fist too. Both of them do. They gamble, Mrs. Caruso, and I’m not talking a hundred here and a hundred there. They’ve lost thousands and thousands. Ron Haver sure seemed interested in their finances.”

“Did Ron get a court order to go over their business records?” I asked.

James O’Reilly shook his head. “Insufficient cause for a search warrant. He’s working on it, though. What that man needs is an assistant prosecutor who’s friendly with a big-hearted judge to sign it for him,” he told me. “Off the record.”

I wanted to hug him but didn’t dare. “Off the record,” I agreed.

“There’s something else,” he began. “I heard you were interested in Dizzie Oliver’s jewelry. She was wearing bracelets on her wrist when you found her body.”

“I didn’t know for sure until Ron Haver told me he returned all of Dizzie’s jewelry to her husband.”

“Yeah, but did you know that the really expensive bracelet you’re so interested in wasn’t listed as one of her personal effects?”

I wanted to reach out and kiss him. “You are such a sweetheart,” I told him.

“Sweetheart or not, if you mention my name in your column, I’ll have to shoot you,” he warned me.

“I won’t tell a soul,” I promised.

He got back in his squad car and quickly closed the door. “By the way, if we ever run into each other on a dark, stormy night again, you don’t have to wait to make sure I’m okay before you leave.”

I nodded.

“I’m an officer of the law, you know. I have a gun and everything.”

“I realize that,” I said.

“But thanks, Mrs. Caruso. I appreciate you looking out for me just the same.” He stuck his arm out the window and high-fived me, then started his car and drove off into the sunset.

17

I drove straight home from the waterfront and turned on my computer, keeping my little chat with Officer O’Reilly in mind. I went straight for Craigslist and searched the jewelry listings that were posted over the past several weeks. Nothing even remotely similar to Dizzie’s gorgeous bangle bracelet turned up. I made a mental note to check out the few area pawn shops and antique businesses, though I doubted anyone would be stupid enough to bring in such an easily traceable piece of jewelry.

I thought about the rest of my conversation with James O’Reilly—financial woes. Of course, everyone had them, from the wealthiest family in Tranquil Harbor to the lowly, struggling saps like me. I could understand someone like Hank Barber being concerned about money, but Matthew Oliver? That seemed to be reaching. Still, Matthew would have somehow benefitted from his wife’s death. I felt certain he would have inherited her salon, whatever life insurance she may have had, and her extensive collection of baubles.

But it was Dizzie’s missing Tiffany bracelet that bothered me the most.

Matthew Oliver never said anything about Dizzie’s jewelry, and Ron Haver had been especially tight-lipped about the missing piece, going so far as to threaten me with jail time if I so much as mentioned it in my column. I wasn’t sure if he could actually arrest me. There
was
freedom of the press, after all. Unfortunately, I was more than the press. I had been a witness too.

I Googled
interfering in an police investigation
and was rewarded with links to various law firms in the state that took on cases like obstructing the administration of the law, commonly called obstruction of justice. I clicked on one of the links and learned I could get up to six months if convicted, with up to eighteen months if whomever classified such things considered my obstruction a fourth-degree crime. I wondered if it was worth risking my kids living full time with Neil for six months, or worse, with my mother and father. But I fully intended to find out if, in fact, Matthew currently had possession of Dizzie’s bracelet.

Before deciding on my next step, I had to check out Matthew Oliver’s whereabouts.

I heard the sliding door in the kitchen open and shut. “We ate at Grandma’s house, in case you’re interested!” Sara called out.

Dinner,
I thought.
And my kids!
I had slowly been turning into a terrible mother. I left my desk and went to the kitchen and my ever-cheerful daughter.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Sara,” I told her sincerely. “I was caught up in something and forgot all about it.”

“Did you find another body?” she asked in her best sarcastic voice.

“No. Not today. How many did you bet on me finding in your pool again? I keep losing track.”

Sara pulled out a chair and ungracefully plopped herself down. “If I’m gonna win this, you have to be done finding bodies until the end of the year. I’ll stand to lose fifty bucks.”

I slid out a chair and eased myself into it. “You have fifty dollars?”

Sara shook her head. “No, you can’t borrow it.”

We both laughed, a rare moment in our little household. “Listen, Sara, I have to ask you something. I’ll need you to stick around the house for the next couple of days. I might be in and out a lot, and I want to make sure Bobby’s okay. Do you mind? Am I interfering with your plans?”

She sighed. “No plans. No nothing.” She ran her fingers through her lovely blond hair, so much like her Aunt Kate’s that she could have been her daughter rather than mine. “I’m not really seeing much of Christian Grasso lately. Not since he’s discovered Ginger Gallagher.”

I was shocked. “Ginger’s your best friend.”

“
Was
,” my daughter informed me.

I got up and went behind her chair. Though she was getting older, I thought a little motherly love might help. I bent down and wrapped my arms around her, then kissed the top of her pretty head. “If he prefers Ginger Gallagher, then he’s the one who loses out. Not you. You’re meant for better things.”

* * *

Saturday morning, I took a step toward correcting my bad parenting skills of late by making the kids a real breakfast. I snuck over to the grocery store while they were still asleep and picked up the fixings for a fruit salad with nuts for Sara. For Bobby, I cooked a plateful of silver dollar pancakes—the special breakfast I’d always made for them on birthdays and holidays as well as when they’d had friends over for sleepovers.

“You’re awesome, Mom!” Bobby told me, drizzling bottled syrup over his plate. Sara even nibbled on a pancake in addition to her fruit salad, lured into breaking her food rules by nostalgia, I believed.

It wasn’t much, but I was counting fixing my kids breakfast a point in the win column.

I had rather hoped to have plans for the night, something along the lines of an honest-to-God date. I had no idea where I stood with Ken Rhodes. Were we dating or not dating? Was our night together a one-time thing, or was he regretting it, or was he just giving me space? I was sure the mature adult I was supposed to be would have had a conversation with him and discovered the answers to these questions, but I didn’t know how to ask or even if it was proper dating etiquette to ask. It had been so long since I’d dated that the styles I’d worn back then were now coming back into style. At any rate, since an invitation from Ken Rhodes for a night of romance had not been forthcoming, I’d have to occupy myself with trying to make some headway into Dizzie’s murder.

A quick outing later that morning to the few pawn shops in the area crushed my hopes of finding Dizzie’s bracelet in their jewelry inventory. I also visited the only antique shop in Tranquil Harbor—Applegarth’s Antiques on Bay Boulevard. The proprietor, Laura Applegarth, showed me her entire gold collection. The Tiffany bracelet wasn’t part of it, which didn’t surprise me. Only someone who was brain-dead would bring in such a piece after murdering a local victim.