Bath Bombs & Beyond

by Violet Patton

  “What about David Beasley? Will he be charged?” Another reporter asked.

  Dick rocked back on his heels. “No. He’s been released. No charges were filed. He made a statement about his father. He wasn’t sure he killed the girl, but he thought he might have.” For a micron of a moment, Dick’s expression had emotion, but I couldn’t say it was pity.

  What a bombshell. David was the chauffeur and Morris’s son?

  “What was David’s relationship with Miss Lake?”

  “I don’t know. We’re still investigating,” Dick hedged. He knew more about David and Morris Beasley than he was letting on. He wanted to catch the old man without broadcasting every cotton pickin’ piece of evidence in that file. What I’d give to get a peek at that information.

  “What about the bath bombs from Bathhouse Row Soapery? Are they safe to use?” The reporter continued.

  I jolted upright. “Oh no.”

  On the screen, Dick shifted back and forth and looked straight into the camera. He knew I was watching. “As far as I know the bath bombs that killed Miss Lake were tampered with after she purchased them from the Bathhouse Row Soapery. If you purchased a bath bomb from the shop over the weekend, please bring it to the sheriff’s department as soon as possible. This is only a precautionary measure. I’m certain the bath bombs are safe.”

  He looked in the camera again, right at and for me. Thank goodness gracious! He just saved the Row. I didn’t like owing someone, but I would forever be in Dick’s debt, and John Lake’s for arriving with clues about Morris Beasley. If he hadn’t thought to tell the paramedic to tell me to ask Myra, she would’ve died in her tub.

  “Will customers get a refund for the products they purchased from the shop?”

  Yikes! I didn’t see that coming. Of course, we would refund money.

  “The ladies who own the Row are very accommodating and sweet. Just ask, they’ll fix you right up.” Dick coughed and backed away from the mic.

  Sweet? Accommodating? I’m sweet, but I couldn’t admit to accommodating. Sandy was neither sweet nor accommodating, but she’ll do what it takes to reestablish our tattered reputation.

  I clicked off the television and sat back.

  Frankie snuggled next to my leg. Last night, I couldn’t leave him alone and brought him home with me. I let him sleep with me.

  I climbed out of bed. I had things to do and people to see. I was on my way to shower, when Anita knocked on the door using her telltale rap.

  I answered the door. Good thing I hadn’t given her a key to my door. “Come in. You’re making coffee.”

  She held a still simmering pan of cinnamon rolls with a pot holder. In the other hand, I noticed her ratty leather genealogy satchel.

  “Sorry, they’re canned.” She shrugged over the rolls.

  “I love canned.”

  “I hope so.” Anita waddled in with the pan. “Congratulations for being cleared of any wrongdoing.”

  “Thanks. It is a relief.”

  After my shower, I returned to find scrambled eggs and cinnamon rolls awaiting me on the veranda. Our small patios seemed extra small this morning compared to Myra’s opulent pool deck and landscaped lawn.

  I sat at my usual spot at the table.

  Last evening, I was hungry when I left the Arlington. After I found Myra, I didn’t think about eating again, until I smelled the eggs. “Pass the eggs.”

  Anita handed me the plate. “Did you figure out who Morris Beasley was?” I knew she knew something else. I dug into breakfast, grateful Anita thought of me.

  “No? Who is he?” I asked with my mouth full. I’ll never chastise her for talking with her mouth full again. Manners be damned.

  She tsked. “I can’t believe it. Felicity Beasley’s son.”

  “No way?” I shook my head. I remember Felicity. She was a nice woman.

  “Richest folks in town.” Anita pointed down. “The very land we sit upon belongs to the Beasleys.”

  They owned hundreds of acres along Lake Hamilton’s shoreline. The very lights Anita and I watched at night twinkled from condominiums the family had built, including ours. Why would Morris be so desperate for money coming from that family? Maybe he was cut off from inheriting the Beasley fortune. We’ll probably never know those facts.

  “Good thing Felicity is dead. But she’s gonna roll over in her grave. Having a kid murderer.” Anita shook her head. “Guess he’ll get the best defense money can buy.”

  “Uh-huh.” I chewed, thinking about how Morris wasn’t worth defending.

  That is, of course, if Dick ever caught Morris. As of this morning’s press conference he was still on the run. Even if Dick arrested him, and he got out on bail, would he come after me? I shook off the thought.

  “Eggs are fabulous.”

  As briefly as I could, I filled Anita in on what happened to Myra. I didn’t have the patience to answer all her rapid questions and mumbled about being in a hurry.

  When I finished eating, I sent Etta a text: Come to the Row. We need your help.

  Five-seconds later, she replied: Sure. After my shift. She had returned to work at the Arlington after all.

  “I gotta run—” I started to get up.

  “Hang on. I forgot I have something I want to show you.” Anita scuttled inside and came back with her satchel.

  “You need a new bag. That one is worn out.”

  “Yeah, she’s like me, an old bag, worn out but still usable.” She flipped it open, fingering through a sheaf of papers. “Here we go.” She laid them on the table. “Look at this.”

  “What’s that?”

  Anita ran a finger along the page, and tapped on a line. “Right here. I found the Doyle family.”

  “Really? You did? Lemme see.” I leaned over, but the copies were difficult to read. “Did you do an etching of that? It’s terrible.”

  “No, I did not. The copy machine at the genealogy library acts persnickety sometimes. This is the census from 1930. There’s a Robert Doyle, head of household.” She ran her finger down a blurred line. “Wife--Anna Doyle. Children, Charlotte… Robert… Louise… William… and Henry.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. 1930, you say?”

  “Yeah. The 1920 census records were destroyed. Fire, I think.”

  I lifted a brow without saying lots of things were destroyed by fire in the 1920s.

  “That isn't them. Too late.” I shook my head and drank the last of my coffee. “I gotta go... lots to do today.”

  Right then, I didn’t have the patience to hear Anita’s rendition of the history of fire in Hot Springs. I’ll save that conversation for when I’m bored and don’t have anything to do.

  “You sure?” Anita jiggled again.

  “Positive. What are the numbers next to their names?”

  “Their age.”

  “Oh, I see.” I leaned over and double checked the ages. William Doyle, age four and a Henry Doyle, aged one year was disappointing news.

  “That’s two boys. William and Henry. Not them.”

  “So, it isn’t the right family?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. A single person named William Henry born before the ‘30s”

  “When?” Anita asked. “He should be in the 1930s list.”

  “I don’t know.”

  She smirked and grabbed the last cinnamon roll. “It’d help if you could find out when he was born.”

  I hadn’t asked Fanny about Willie’s birthday, but I would, when and if I talk to her again.

  “I’ll keep looking. I can’t stand a mystery.”Anita jiggled her knee.

  “We’ll talk about this again. I’m going to St. Vincent’s to see Myra. I still have questions that need answers.” I stood and patted Anita’s shoulder. “Thanks for breakfast.” I had bigger things to worry about this morning than finding Willie Doyle.

  “My pleasure.”

  I was heading to the hospital. I wanted to talk to John, if he was able, and tell him about what happened with Myra. Someho
w, Myra was involved with John Lake and Morris Beasley, but I wasn’t satisfied with what I knew about their relationships. Only Myra could fill in the blanks.

  27

  St. Vincent’s

  Leaning on John’s hospital bed railing, I touched his hand. “You awake?”

  When I had first touched his fingers at the Row, they were cold and hard, now they felt warm and pliable. The IV fluids had warmed him, giving him an illusion of health.

  “Patti?” He smacked his parched lips. A morphine pump lay across his chest.

  “I have news. Good news.”

  “Capture him? Dimwitted boyfriend?” His voice was as dry as his lips.

  I thought of Ally’s dimwitted boyfriend. He kept my daughter away, and it made me angry. I shook off that thought, for now. “No, it was as you thought… Morris.”

  He pushed the button on the morphine drip. “Still need lawyer. Know one?”

  “I do.” I pulled over a chair and sat. As my mother lay dying, she wanted everything tidied up—her goodbyes said, apologies made and business finished.

  Noisy oxygen hissed.

  I reached through the railing and held his hand. “Do you need a drink?”

  “No swallow” He looked toward the television hanging on the wall. “Watched news. Not David. Only Morris.”

  “Uh-huh. David wasn’t involved.” I told him about finding Myra, making sure he understood she was safe. I left off the part about Morris escaping in Myra’s boat. It sounded too impossible to be true.

  When I finished he muttered, “Sweet Myra. Grand voice.” Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “Loved her. No time of day.”

  He loved Myra? What a delicious tidbit of news. One wall in her living room was covered with photographs from her singing career. In the old photos, Myra was an exotically beautiful young woman. In my mind, I scanned them trying to remember seeing a photograph of Morris or John, but couldn’t remember a photo of either of them.

  “I had a funny feeling you knew her. I never heard her sing. She was finished singing by the time I met her.”

  At her many parties, she often entertained by playing recordings of her songs, but they did not do her power as a singer justice.

  “Sorry. Missed out.” The morphine kicked in and he faded. I let go of his hand and went over to the window.

  Below the hospital window, Hot Springs bustled with life ignoring what was happening in this room. On the far mountain, the Hot Springs Mountain Tower rose above the valley. Every summer, I had made a point of taking Craig and Ally up the tower. Afterwards, we would picnic, and seeing the tower made me long to see them.

  They had grown up too quickly.

  Where was Ally? I wanted her back from her controlling boyfriend.

  With my back turned wishing I could change things, I listened to John’s shallow breaths. It hurt hearing the finality of his life.

  Etta’s description of Veronica’s body in the bathtub haunted me. Morris had stuffed a washcloth into her mouth. He must have knocked her out to keep her in the tub. Through her nose, she sucked in poisonous rat poison gas and couldn’t call for help, even if she had time.

  She died right quick.

  He took a ragged breath, saying, “Morris filled Veronica with big dreams. She believed him…”

  I stared at the busy street below. “I saw him. He kneed her into the car. She was carrying a loose wad of cash. David… was driving the car. They got into a tussle over her. Me…” I almost said me and Fanny. “I watched them from the shop window. I’m so sorry I didn’t call the police. I would have saved her life.”

  I wanted my apologies accepted before he left.

  I turned to see if he heard me and his face was peacefully slack. I hurried to his side and touched his arm hoping he hadn’t died while my back was turned.

  “John?”

  With his eyes closed, he whispered, “Morris risked everything he had on Veronica. Would’ve killed her anyway.”

  He lifted a finger. “In my valise… my will. Need lawyer.”

  “Sure. I know someone.” I set his valise on the bed and opened it. Odd he’d think to bring along his will to search for his daughter’s murderer.

  I searched in the bag and held out the paperwork. “Is this it?”

  He didn’t look at the papers. “Morris Beasley secondary beneficiary. Veronica gone. Don’t want him to get my money.”

  I didn’t ask why Morris Beasley was his beneficiary.

  “Morris blew money. Always broke. Wanted Myra help finance career.”

  I stepped back and folded my arms across my chest understanding the truth.

  Everyone who had heard the girl’s performance said she wasn’t talented. Myra had an ear for the gift. Veronica wasn’t gifted. It would’ve been a mistake to financially back a singer without true talent.

  Myra said no. Morris had nothing to lose after killing Veronica. So, he trussed her up and put a poisoned bath bomb on her belly. He hadn’t killed her outright; he wanted to torture her.

  “I know a good lawyer. I’ll call him.” I laid John’s will on the bedside table. “Listen, I gotta go see Myra.”

  “Sounds delightful. Wish I could. Say hey.”

  There were still missing details. I was counting on Myra to fill me in on the rest.

  Getting off the elevator, I searched both ways. Until Morris was captured, I would always be looking over my shoulder.

  On the floor below John’s, I heard Myra swearing long before I got to her room. She wasn’t happy.

  Surrounded by pillows, boutiques of balloons, and a mountain of flower arrangements sitting on the window sill, Myra sat like a queen upon an uncomfortable throne with her cell phone to her ear. I was happy to see she wasn’t highly damaged by her foray in the bath tub.

  I plastered on a smile. “Well, aren’t you the diva?” Seeing all the well-wisher’s gifts, I wished I had stopped by the gift shop.

  “Listen, I gotta go. Get on it, would you?” She clicked off the phone call. “I heard he got away.”

  I bit my lip. “Yep. Slippery little murderer.”

  She punched off the television. Scowling, she chuffed. “Did you see Dick’s announcement?”

  She was lucky I found her, but anger was a good symptom of her speedy recovery.

  Epic purple and blue bruises circled her wrists. The duct tape had chaffed her face, and her lips were scabbed. It was a good thing I didn’t just rip the duct tape off her face, she would’ve been much worse off.

  Myra eyeballed me. “What took you so long? Nobody checked on me.”

  I lifted a brow. What was I supposed to say? I forgot about you in the melee. “Things happened so fast… I couldn’t…”

  She waved me off. “Yeah, yeah. No matter. The important thing is to get him. Do you have any leads? Dick is useless, as usual.”

  “Nope. I’m hoping he doesn’t come after me.”

  I told Myra the details about what happened outside the shop, adding in Mike Claiborne’s role. When I asked if she saw the Sentinel’s headlines, we chuckled about my terrible front-page splash. I left off the fact Mike bribed me with a photo of Fanny. For now, finding Morris was more important than revealing I could see dead people…technically one dead person, and some hazy dancers at the Southern Club.

  “So, why did you end up with him at the Arlington?” I needed to connect the dots between what brought Morris Beasley to Myra.

  Myra glared, shaking her head, stalling. “Huh! He was sorta my high school sweetheart.” She fiddled with the edge of the sheet. “Morris Beasley is… my ex-husband.”

  Both eyebrows danced across my forehead, I hadn’t expected that answer. If the situation wasn’t so sad, it would’ve been funny. I reached behind me, feeling for the chair I knew was there, grabbed its back and sat.

  I puckered to keep from smiling.

  “Don’t you dare laugh. Shocked, ain’t you?” Myra blushed. She found a lip balm in the covers, cranked it up and smeared it onto her damaged l
ips.

  “I’ll say.” I bit my lip. “It isn’t funny—” Ex-husbands are bothersome. One that was a murderer would top the troublemaker list.

  “Get outta here!” She waved at the door, but I didn’t move. She didn’t really want me to leave, and I knew it.

  “Anita told me Morris was Felicity Beasley’s son.”

  “True. God, she was a beast.”

  I smiled, because I had liked the woman, but I wasn’t married to her son. Felicity was an old school gentile with Southern belle engrained into her soul. Myra can be bombastic and brash. They would have clashed.

  “Never mind that old hide. Back when,” Myra began anew. “Gimme that thing.” Her thermal water jug sat on the rolling tray table across the room. I jumped up and handed it to her.

  “They said to drink lots of water.” She held the jug, and I noticed the palsy in her hand.

  “Back when I was a real singer, we formed a group. Morris was a drummer. Me, John Lake, Veronica’s father, and Morris toured for a while. John played guitar. Pretty good too.” That explained John’s out of style punk rocker look that morphed into gothic and black lipstick.

  She paused as tears welled. Myra was a rock and watching her tear up made a lump form in my throat. “You don’t have to…”

  “No, I need to talk. You see, I was young and stupid and worshipped John.”

  She paused, letting her head fall back; she winced and stared at the tiled ceiling. I squirmed, but tried not to react. Did she know he loved her too?

  I waited because blurting that he was upstairs... and dying wasn’t the most important thing to do.

  “We were a trio playing Vegas. Boy, did I think I was something else. John liked the skinny girls. So, when he didn’t want anything I had, I settled on Morris. We got married in Vegas. John moved on to London. It was the 70s, you know.”

  “I bet you were surprised to see Morris.”

  “I’m tellin’ ya.” She took a drink and put the cup between her knees. “We divorced a short time after we were married. I couldn’t abide his… his face. We didn’t fight or nothin’. It was a quickie marriage and a much quicker divorce. Frankly, I haven’t… oh, hell, what happened to Frankie?”