Aretha Moon and the Dead Hairdresser: Aretha Moon Book 2 (Aretha Moon Mysteries)

by Linda Ross

“So what do we do now?” I asked Thelma.

  “Get you some Tums?”

  I gave her a look. “My stomach is fine, thank you very much. What did they do at that convent, starve you? You eat like a bird.”

  Thelma smiled. “Pleasures of the flesh. Self-discipline is a good practice.”

  I don’t think I have even a small amount of self-discipline in my life. I’m basically a two-year-old with waning hormones, a driver’s license and an AARP card. I was never one to color inside the lines. I figure I’m lucky I drive within the lines.

  “So do I have to become a nun to get self-discipline?”

  “Why don’t you try meditation?”

  “You mean sit with my eyes closed and not eat at the same time?”

  “I know it’s a stretch,” she said dryly, “but it can do wonders for you.”

  “What does wonders for me is a hot fudge sundae.”

  Thelma shook her head. “I’m surprised you ever think of anything but food. You should just sit quietly and pay attention to your breathing.”

  “Pay attention to my breathing? Why? If I’m breathing why would I want to pay attention to it?”

  “Because it’s calming. It settles your mind and takes you to a peaceful place. Where you’re not constantly thinking about food,” she added.

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Food was one of the great pleasures of life. Sometimes it was my only pleasure. I was suspicious of anything that would take that away. I got another slice of cheesecake to go and took it back to the office with me.

  When Thelma and I walked in Lorenzo was in his office and I could see from his face that something was up. He had that this-is-going-to-be-good look. I glanced at my desk and there sat Avery Turnberry, all three-hundred or so pounds of him. His backside had devoured my chair. I wondered if he ever did meditation. If he did, he’d be thinking about what I was—cheesecake.

  Thelma followed me to my desk, and I did the introductions. Thelma and I pulled up chairs from the adjoining desks and sat. “So what brings you here?” I asked.

  Avery gave a crooked grin. “I saw the article. I’ve been getting phone calls all morning.”

  “Good ones, I hope?”

  “Oh, definitely. I even got an invitation to perform in Quincy this Wednesday night. That’s why I’m here. I thought you might want to come.”

  Quincy, Illinois, was across the river and about fifteen miles away, so, yes, I wanted to come.

  “And they’ll have food and booze, in case you’re wondering.”

  I had been wondering, but I assured Avery that he was the main reason I was coming.

  “Don’t you have a meeting to go to on Wednesday?” Thelma asked in a low voice.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m going to Quincy to see Avery.”

  “Actually it’s Avril when I perform,” he said with a shy grin.

  “Does the name Fat Blasters ring a bell?” Thelma murmured, coughing into her hand.

  “Shhh,” I said. “I’m listening to Avery. What time should I be there?”

  Avery gave me the address and told me the doors opened at seven. He told me to bring Thelma too. Then he left.

  “Seven,” Thelma said. “That gives you time to make the weigh-in before we head to Quincy.”

  I shot her a sideways glare. I had no intention of going to the Fat Blasters meeting. For one thing, I always wore the lightest clothing I had for a weigh-in and a cotton T-shirt and shorts was not something I was going to wear to a nightclub in Quincy in November. And for another thing I was pretty sure I’d gained at least two pounds. That would probably make me the one with the largest gain, which would mean a fine and having to listen to Eileen cluck her tongue like a stuttering chicken. And I’d been the biggest gainer the last weigh-in I made. No, I was skipping the Fat Blasters meeting.

  “I can see it’s a lost cause,” she said, shaking her head. “So what do you want to do now about the Kara story?”

  “I think we ought to go talk to the man who rented her that house. Maybe he saw something.”

  “Okay. I’ll grab my purse and pop in to tell Lorenzo where we’re going.”

  “No, no. You don’t want to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s Monday.” Thelma looked at me as though I was crazy. “On Monday,” I said, “Lorenzo always gets a sub for lunch. A sub with four different kinds of meat, two kinds of cheese, hot peppers, onions, banana peppers and cucumbers.”

  Thelma looked at me blankly.

  I sighed. “About an hour after lunch it’s like a toxic waste dump in his office. None of us go near him.”

  Thelma gave a humorless laugh. “Is this some office urban legend?”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Right. I’ll meet you at the car.” She headed for Lorenzo’s office, and I saw JoAnn and Marybeth look up in alarm from their computers. Both got up and scurried toward the rest room. Carl was snickering.

  I went outside and waited. Less than five minutes later Thelma came out, and I swear her eyes were watering. “Oh, dear Lord,” she said.

  “I told you.”

  “I don’t think the fumes at the gates of Hell could be that bad. It was like a beauty shop that’s offering free perms.”

  “Come on,” I said, taking her arm. “Let’s get you as far away as we can. You’ve never lived with a man, have you?”

  Poor Thelma shook her head. “I joined the convent while my brother was still young. And our dad had died years before. I had no idea a man could smell like that.”

  Thelma had regained her composure by the time we turned off Highway 79 and passed Kara’s house. I slowed down as we came to the drive to the farmer’s house. The house was a two-story white frame traditional farmhouse, a wrap-around porch circling the front like a belt at a fat man’s waist. The house had seen better days, and one of the porch posts was missing, leaving the roof to sag in architectural depression. It made the house look like it was frowning.

  What gravel remained on the drive crunched under our feet as we picked our way to the front door. Some doors are inviting and some are formal and stand-offish. This one looked like it had gone ten rounds with a crowbar and lost. I peered around the side and saw a big greenhouse in the back yard.

  “What was his name again?” I asked Thelma. She’d tracked it down through a friend in the county clerk’s office.

  “Ralph Pierce. He’s sixty-seven. Unmarried.”

  I rapped on the door, which wobbled under my fist. “Mr. Pierce, could my friend and I have a quick word with you?”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then a man’s voice shouted from inside, “Go away! I’m not talkin’ to nobody! I already told the police that!”

  “We’ll only take a few minutes,” I said. “It’s about Kara’s murder.”

  “I said get out! Get out before I send Puddin’ after you.”

  Thelma and I looked at each other. Puddin’?

  “Is he threatening us with dessert?” I asked.

  “Uh-oh,” Thelma said. “Do you think that might be Puddin’?”

  She pointed to the field to the side of the house, and I stepped back to look around her. I could see something moving toward the house from the end of the field, and it was picking up speed as it ran.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but it’s big.”

  “And fast.”

  “And maybe hungry.”

  “I guess this isn’t a good time, Mr. Pierce,” I said to the door, and Thelma and I hustled to the car. By the time we were backing out of the drive, Puddin’ had gotten close enough that we could see he was a Doberman pincer, a big Doberman pincer.

  “Aren’t they guard dogs?” Thelma asked.

  “I think so. I guess Mr. Pierce thinks highly of his crops.”

  “Yeah,” Thelma said, glancing back at the house. “Can you get us out of here a little faster?”

  By the time we were back on the county road and headed to
town I could see Puddin’ in the rear view mirror, standing at the end of his driveway.

  “I think he’s part horse,” I said.

  “I didn’t even know that dogs came in that size.”

  Back in the office, we sat down at my desk to rethink our strategy for avoiding the Hound from Hell.

  “What we need is a diversion,” I said.

  “What we need is a tranquilizer gun that will take down an elephant,” Thelma said.

  “Mr. Pierce isn’t going to talk to us if we tranquilize his dog. We need to win Puddin’ over to our side.”

  Thelma snorted. “Not likely. If we go back there we’re going to be in the remake of Cujo.”

  “Not if we have the right bait.”

  “Aretha, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “We’re going back with something that will appeal to Puddin’ and Mr. Pierce. Something they can’t resist.”

  “Like two hundred pounds of human flesh? Are you planning on throwing Lorenzo to them?”

  “No, he smells too bad. I have something better in mind.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thelma and I headed back to the Pierce house the next day around lunch time.

  “I don’t know about this,” Thelma said. “I’m afraid one of us is going to lose a leg to the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Your only dog experience is with an aging poodle.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” I said.

  I sounded confident, but I wasn’t positive this would work. I thought I could take care of Puddin’, but Mr. Pierce might prove more difficult. I was hoping I had that contingency covered. Thelma was holding the apple pie I’d picked up that morning.

  I pulled into the driveway as slowly as I could so as not to make too much noise on the gravel. But dogs have excellent hearing, and big dogs apparently have super hearing. Puddin’ came from behind the house, ears pricked forward. As soon as he saw the car he began barking, and if I could speak canine I would swear he was threatening to tear us limb from limb and then eat us with a side of car tire.

  “He’s not happy to see us,” Thelma said in a small voice.

  “Yeah, well, he doesn’t know us yet.” I watched him circle the car warily, growling. I waited until he was in front of the car again and I slowly lowered the window.

  “What are you doing?” Thelma cried in a husky whisper. “Inviting him in to rip us apart?”

  With the window half down, I reached into the paper bag I’d jammed down next to my seat and pulled out a hot dog. I broke off pieces and began tossing them away from the car. Puddin’ was on them almost immediately. He gobbled down all five pieces I’d thrown, then looked expectantly at the car. I tore up the rest of the hot dog and tossed those pieces out. He scarfed those down just as quickly and then moved closer to the car. There was no growling, and he definitely looked less intimidating. I tossed out more hot dog pieces and that got me a tail wag. Then he trotted up to the window and put his paws on the door to look in. He licked his lips and wagged his tail some more.

  “Good boy,” I crooned, tossing some more hot dog pieces away from the car. When he went after them, I said to Thelma, “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Thelma said. “You open that door and he’ll hijack the car. A dog that big can probably drive.”

  I ignored her, grabbed the pie and got out of the car. Puddin’ looked over his shoulder without much interest and went back to the hot dog pieces. I started for the porch and heard Thelma get out of the car. She scurried up next to me, crossing herself.

  We were climbing the porch steps when I heard Puddin’ behind us. I was afraid to look, but then I felt a warm muzzle push my free hand. I scratched behind his ears, and he sighed.

  I knocked on the door, and a moment later a cranky voice called, “Nobody home!”

  “It’s Thelma and Aretha, Mr. Pierce. We’re from The Spyglass. We just want to ask you a few questions about Kara Koch.”

  “Go away or I’ll let Puddin’ loose.”

  “He’s already loose, Mr. Pierce, and I think he likes us. Besides, we brought pie.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then the curtain on the window by the door shifted. I saw a weathered face look out, topped with a few tufts of white hair. Two big round eyes looked glazed, as though he’d watched Nightmare on Elm Street one time too many.

  “What kind of pie?” he asked.

  “Apple,” I said hopefully.

  The face at the window disappeared, and the door opened.

  Thelma, Puddin’ and I stepped over the threshold into a living room that looked like an old set from a 1950s TV show. The braided rug was faded and sprouting threads as though slowly going bald. The sofa actually had plastic slipcovers. I didn’t think anyone had plastic slipcovers anymore except for Momo. The two overstuffed chairs facing a tiny TV might have been overweight women in flowery dresses, crouching on the floor.

  Mr. Pierce led us into the kitchen, and—lordy!--I could smell chocolate. I was beginning to like this man and his steroidal dog.

  He gestured to the chairs around the table. “Let’s cut that pie.”

  “No point in small talk,” Thelma said to herself.

  When I sat down, Puddin’ sat next to me and put his head on my leg. I rubbed him absently as I watched Mr. Pierce fish a big carving knife from a drawer. He got three Corelle plates and forks from a strainer in the sink. He didn’t seem to have much in the way of cutlery. The forks were all different patterns and were that light metal that you can bend if you lift a heavy piece of cheesecake.

  The kitchen itself looked worn. There was a sagging curtain over the window above the sink, and where it dipped down I could see some green plants on an enclosed porch.

  “I’ve been hungry for apple pie,” he said, sitting down and plunging the knife into the center of the pie. He basically cut the pie into three pieces and passed them around. He reached around to a rolling metal cart by the wheezing refrigerator and put a baking pan on the table. “Help yourself to the brownies.”

  I didn’t need a second invitation. I used my clean fork to scoop up one and put it beside the large slice of pie. Thelma cleared her throat, and when I looked at her she nodded her head toward the sink.

  “I know there’s a weigh-in tomorrow,” I said, “but I’m having a brownie anyway.”

  “You should stick to the pie,” she said, raising her brows and nodding toward the sink again.

  I ignored her and bit into the brownie. It was really fudgy, and I sighed, which made Puddin’ sigh.

  “I don’t much care for the police,” Mr. Pierce offered around a mouthful of pie, “but you said you’re from that newspaper, right?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “The Spyglass. We’re writing about the Kara Koch murder.”

  “I like The Spyglass, especially the horoscope.”

  I looked at him over the brownie, hoping that he wasn’t an Aquarius. “What’s your sign?”

  “Sagittarius. I’m the outdoor type. Last week’s horoscope said I was going to have a run-in with the law, and, sure enough, a couple of cops came to the door about that murder.”

  “What happened?” I asked. I was starting to feel more relaxed as I downed the last bite of brownie. I reached for another one, and Thelma cleared her throat. I ignored her.

  “What happened was that I told them to get lost. Puddin’ told ‘em too.”

  “Who’s a good boy?” I crooned to Puddin’, who looked up at me adoringly. Thelma sighed heavily.

  “You should have seen ‘em hustle to their car.” Mr. Pierce chuckled, and I found myself chuckling along with him. I could just picture Puddin’ chasing them off, like a canine hillbilly after the revenuers.

  “Did you know Kara very well?” Thelma asked, and I suddenly remembered why we were there. Odd that I’d forget something like that.

  Mr. Pierce shook his head, the white tuft on top swaying like a dandelion seed hea
d in the wind. That made me giggle, and Thelma shot me a look.

  “I never trusted her,” he said. “She’d come and go at all hours, and there were always men in and out of there. I didn’t want to get involved in that kind of stuff. One night I saw a man come staggering out of the house there only half dressed. He was shouting at her. Called her a bitch. I couldn’t hear everything, but he hollered something about he didn’t want nothing to do with any psycho with a knife.” Thelma and I exchanged a look.

  “You wouldn’t know who it was?” Thelma asked.

  “Sure. I always got the license plate number anytime I saw some strange car there.” He got up and opened a drawer, then rummaged in it until he came up with a piece of paper. “I got a friend at the DMV,” he said. “I wanted to have a list in case there was ever any damage there. You won’t say anything to the police, will you? I don’t want to get my friend in trouble.”

  “No, no,” we both said at once.

  I reached for another brownie, and Thelma started nodding toward the sink again. For some reason, that made me giggle.

  Mr. Pierce handed the list to Thelma, and she asked if she could copy it.

  “Sure, if it will help. The guy who was hollering about her being a psycho is the fourth one down.

  Thelma pulled out her cell phone and took a picture of the paper. “This is a big help,” she told him.

  “Like I said, I like The Spyglass. You going to mention me in the story?”

  “Sure,” Thelma said.

  “Just don’t say anything about my crops.”

  Thelma nodded sagely, and I chewed my brownie, wondering what was so secretive about corn and soybeans.

  “Was there ever any other trouble there?” Thelma asked.

  Mr. Pierce leaned back and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Not too long ago I saw some woman there. I’d seen her there a couple of times, but this time I could hear shouting when she left. She’s on the list there.”

  “You’re very thorough,” Thelma said.

  “Well, I like to know who’s in the neighborhood, if you know what I mean. I was kind of worried when that lawyer guy and his wife built a house up the road, but they never bothered me.”

  “Did either of them ever go to Kara’s house?”