“Oh, I took him home with me. Anita’s dog-sitting him this afternoon.”
“Thanks. When Morris called saying he had something special for me, I wasn’t opposed to meeting him. After all, we had parted amicably. The last thing I expected was Veronica. I heard John had a daughter, but hadn’t ever seen John again. Like a dunce, I invited Morris out to the house. Veronica took a room at the Arlington. Lordy, she was the worst.”
She laid her head back, but looked up quickly. “You know what the horrible part was…?”
I shook my head. “No, what?”
“I almost had another feeling for him. He was charming and attentive, but…”
I couldn’t think of a single thing charming or attentive about Morris Beasley. But then, manipulative murderers often had charming dispositions, which worked to their advantage. Victims trusted their killers—that’s how they were victimized.
“That was, until he started asking for money. He wanted me to float Veronica’s career. I might have real estate, but I’m not flush with that kind of cash. We’re talking big bucks.”
Mentally, I pieced together a timeline. Tuesday night—Morris invited Myra to listen to Veronica sing. Wednesday morning—Etta found her dead. He must’ve been desperate and out of options to kill her so soon. Morris knew John was ill and that he was the beneficiary of his estate.
“When did he ask for money?”
“On Tuesday, I entertained them before the show. We all rode together. His son drove that horrid car.”
She narrowed her eyelids. “I was actually considering helping him out… until I heard her sing. Bless her heart. My heart tweaked for the kid. She was hoodwinked into believing she had a shot at stardom.”
John said Morris kidnapped Veronica. Had he brainwashed the girl into believing she had talent, so he could make money off her? It took a lot of drive and money to become a pop or country singer. Surely, he noticed she didn’t have star power.
“When did he tie you up?”
Myra glared. “I knew you’d ask that. I’m an idiot. Early Thursday morning, I let him back into the house. He was so distraught… I believed him when he said someone killed Veronica.”
“That was—”
“Yesterday. He had stayed with me the whole time. Until he cold-cocked me… tied me up and set the damn poisoned bath bomb on my belly. Good thing I’m so fat, kept it balanced. He sat beside the tub ranting...”
She rolled her eyes. “Good Lord, he was nuts. I think… I think he wanted the bomb to fall so we’d die together. He chickened out and ran away.”
He hid in plain sight. Not one of us thought to search for him at Myra’s house. How could we have known?
“Dick will find him. He left your boat on the dock in Piney.”
“Pfft! And he stole my boat!” Myra chuckled. “I hope he wrecked it. I want a new boat after he touched it.”
“There’s something else.” I paused, staring into Myra’s eyes
“What is it?” She glared at me.
I smiled. “John Lake’s on the third floor. I bet he’d love to see you before… “
For once, Myra was at a loss for words. She softened and relaxed back letting the pillows swaddle her.
“He came hunting for Morris. I think he knew he’d come to Hot Springs asking for money.”
“No, it isn’t possible. John is here?” Myra whispered and rallied, but listened while I finished the telling her about meeting John at the Row, about how weak he was and his love for his daughter. I didn’t mention the fact he was terminal.
“Want me to get a wheelchair?”
Myra lay back. “I’m a mess. How can I?” She was exhausted, working hard to keep up a tough exterior.
“I’ll find one.” I started for the door. “It might be your last chance.”
John was sleeping deeply when I pushed Myra next to his bed. She sat staring at him for a long moment before she reminisced about their unrequited love and he puffed air instead of speaking.
In the end, Morris had bonded them together forever. Myra promised she would find Morris if it was the last thing she ever did. Silently, I vowed to complete her mission.
Finally, John fingered the morphine drip button lying on his chest. “I’m sorry.”
She held his hand until he faded deeper. “Bittersweet, ain’t it?”
Myra’s tenderness toward John strengthened my resolve to find Spats—aka Morris Beasley. He wrecked the Row’s opening and almost my life. He didn’t deserve to be walking around free as a bird.
Myra kissed the back of John’s hand. “I’ve always loved you, John Boy.” He huffed, but was too far gone to reply.
Exhausted, she asked to be taken back to her room, and I wheeled her to the elevator. The nurses helped her back into bed, and when she was settled, I left her to her peace.
28
The Row
I had one last thing to do before I returned to the Row. My former divorce lawyer met me in John’s room. Within an hour, John’s estate was divided. I suggested local charities and Hot Springs entities that I knew would appreciate a donation, and John agreed without hesitation. Anita’s Camellia Society would never know their benefactor was John Lake.
In the big scheme of things, it wasn’t much money. Which made me wonder why someone would kill Veronica for so little? Maybe Morris’s motive wasn’t money, it was revenge against John and Myra. He probably knew he was Myra’s second choice, and after she rejected his offer to promote Veronica, he lost his mind.
After the lawyer left, I settled into a chair, wondering what was next. John relaxed, breathing easy. His business was complete. I squeezed his hand, even though I didn’t want to wake him. Slipping out without saying goodbye didn’t feel right.
“I’m going to the Row. We can reopen. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
He squeezed my hand. “One last thing. Give Myra Veronica’s ashes… mine.”
I swallowed, not wanting to leave, but I knew I must and patted his arm. “I will. See you later.”
“Hope so.”
Unlocking the Row’s back door made my heart sing. I had almost given up hope on every reopening the shop. Well-wishers stopped by, dropping off bath bombs and visiting with Sandy and me. A trickle of our girlfriends stopped to gossip with the town’s most notorious bath bombers. We greeted them with open arms, giggling as they cheered us on.
Dick wouldn’t return the stock he sent to toxicology, and frankly, I didn’t want it back. Tainted rang loud and clear in my head, and I wasn’t taking a chance on the old bombs. The supplies Sandy reordered while she was laid up with plantar fasciitis were delivered. We were officially back in business.
When the bell rang about the time Etta should arrive, I was elbow deep mixing bath bombs. Sandy greeted the girl and it thrilled me to hear them talk.
“Hey.” Smiling, Etta pushed through the doors.
“Hey you, wanna help?” I sighed, relieved to see her looking so chipper.
Mica coloring packets were fanned across the workbench. “Pick a flavor and color.”
“Urrr… maybe not. What else can I do?” She eyed the bath bomb mixture and backed up a bit.
As an impressionable young woman, she won’t ever forget the nightmarish scene in the hotel suite. It was the kind of thing that creates lifelong phobias.
Measuring citric acid, I asked, “Ever fallen off your bike?”
“Yeah.” She folded her arms, casting me an I don’t want a motherly lecture look.
“What did you do after you fell off?”
“Cried.” She chuckled, but glanced at the mica color packets.
“But you got back on, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, eventually.”
“Pretend the Row is your bike and get back on. Come ride with me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m never going to get over it. Guess I need to sweep.”
She got on the bike and loaded the sweeper wand with a clean cloth. “I told my mom. She just s
hrugged. Didn’t even care.”
“She cares. Probably couldn’t handle the news.”
“Yeah. I got the mother of all nut jobs.” She sniffed and began to sweep.
“All daughters think their mothers are nut jobs.” Ally thought I was a nut job, but I wouldn’t tell Etta that.
When I was her age, my mother was a nut job. She was a hot Southern mess, always going to the country club teas, dressed to kill and styling a Jackie Kennedy bob, which she wore the rest of her life. Gossip was her full time job; the juicier the better, giving fuel to her burning desires to know other folks’ heartaches. She knew everything about everyone, and then some.
Lordy, I missed my nut job. What I wouldn’t give for five more minutes of my mother’s nosy nuttiness.
Etta asked, coming around the workbench. “You ever heard of Hogs and Dogs?”
I noticed the tissue paper flutter as she went by. “No, I don’t think I have.”
Where was Fanny? Had my concussion healed enough that I could no longer see or hear her?
“It’s a freakazoid motorcycle club. Mostly women riding Indians with doggy seats. It’s real dumb. My mom’s Shih Tzu, Sadie, rides along with her. Some nut jobs got Harleys.”
I stifled a giggle. A motorcycle riding Shih Tzu?
“Interesting? And Indians are… what? Local Native Americans?”
I knew she was talking about a woman’s motorcycle club, but I wanted to keep Etta talking. It was cheaper than a psychologist.
She huffed. “I told you about my mom’s Indian?”
“Ah, sort of. What’s that again?”
“An Indian is a motorcycle. Women rider’s love them. Long time ago, Indians were more popular than a Harley.” Even though I suggested getting back on the bike to Etta, I wasn’t good at riding a bike, much less a motorcycle but she didn’t need to know that either.
“I see. Guess I can Google it.”
“Yeah. Do. She spends so much time riding, she’s never home.” She pooched her lips bigger.
“She cares.” I changed the subject. “Come pick a scent. We’ll call it Etta’s Favorite.” I waved my hand over the scented oil selection distracting her.
“Whatever.” But she picked through the packets.
While Etta picked a color and scent, I rubbed my bump. The fluid underneath was less squishy and it didn’t hurt when I touched it. Feeling it made me miss Fanny.
Etta picked up a scented oil bottle. “How about blackberry and cream? I loved my grandma’s blackberry cobbler.”
“Sounds fabulous.”
I mixed the colors and scents while Etta cleaned, eyeing the batch as it transformed into a luscious dark blue mixture with swirls of white for the cream.
Sandy peeked over the swinging doors. “How are things going? I’m putting out the easel. What do you want it to say?”
“Welcome. Nothing wicked, please.” Sandy smiled, which was rare, and backed away from the doors.
A few minutes later, she opened the door to put out the easel.
Etta was dusting the showroom, and she ducked through the doors, waving the feather duster, yelping. “Watch out. We got another bee in here.”
I stripped off my stained gloves and waved them at the bee. “Shoo. Get outta here.” Heavy with pollen, it buzzed over the sweet-smelling bombs.
I swatted at it harder, never intending to harm it. It buzzed madly over the swinging doors heading for the delicious smelling soaps.
“Shoo! Get off that.” Sandy yelled, shooing it.
The bell tinkled again, I heard Anita say, “Hey, y’all. I met the nicest guy.”
I knew Anita was jonesing to come to the Row. I hadn’t officially invited her, but she didn’t need an engraved invitation.
Frankie slipped under the swinging doors, sniveling he headed for the loveseat like he owned it.
I pushed into the showroom. “Why am I not surprised to see you? What happened to you?” Anita’s heavy genealogy satchel hung off one shoulder, and her face was flushed and ugly. In her other hand, a reusable shopping bag was stuffed with rolled white papers.
“I’ve been at the cemetery.” She daubed sweat trickling behind her ears and the front of her T-shirt was damp to her waist.
“Let’s get you some water.” Sandy crooked her head toward the stockroom.
“What on earth for? It’s blazing hot today.”
Anita grinned. “When you mentioned etchings, I got a big idea.”
“C’mere.” I guided her through the swinging doors.
She spotted Frankie, took his cue and sat beside him. She sank deep into the sofa cushions. “Wow. I’m going need a wench to get out of this thing.”
Etta had followed us into the stockroom and was putting away the duster. “I’ll help you out.”
Sandy opened a bottled water and handed it to Anita. “Here.” Her lips twitched. “Did you leave that dog in the car?”
Anita gave her an evil eye. “With the windows rolled down.”
The bell tinkled and Sandy rolled her eyes, but exited without another admonishment. Once again, we were saved from a sharp tongue-lashing by the bell.
“Gimme a moment.” Anita took a long swill of water.
“Sure. Why were you at the cemetery?” I asked.
“Uh. It took longer than I thought.” She dug into the sack. “You’re gonna be so tickled. I found Fanny Doyle.”
Chills climbed my arms. “What? What did you find?”
From the shopping bag, she pulled crisp rolls of white waxed paper. “I’ve made plenty of etchings before, but this one turned out fine… so fine.”
During Anita’s many forays with the Daughters of Civil War Veterans, she and her cronies visited Confederate cemeteries and made a practice of etching grave markers. Over time, Anita’s tombstone etchings had become masterpieces of primitive art.
Etta asked, “Who’s Fanny Doyle?”
“My friend who’s dead.” I stopped before I made another mistake.
Anita smirked. “I’ve got lots of dead friends.”
“You know what I mean.” I nodded at Anita and said to Etta. “She used to have a shop here. She carved her name in the bathroom wall. I asked my friend… Anita here, to investigate her history.”
“Help me up, young lady.” Anita handed me the roll and put out her hand at Etta. “Let’s unroll it on the table.”
The waxed paper was damp and I carefully unrolled it onto the workbench.
The etching of Fanny’s headstone showed a tall pillar with a fat cherub holding a rosebud sitting on top. Trailing from the cherub, ornate vines curled around the stone meeting curlicues that surrounded the words: Our Fanny, dearly beloved.
She wasn’t a forgotten woman. Someone must’ve loved her dearly to erect such a lovely stone.
“Wow? I can’t believe it.” The paper started to roll up and I weighted it with the scissors.
Anita waved a hand over the paper. “Be careful. Don’t touch the wax pencil. It’ll smear. It’s the grandest, isn’t it? So tall. I asked the gardener... he was the cutest thing… I should fix you up with him… to hold the paper while I etched.” She clucked like a proud mother hen.
Etta read. “Francine Mabel Doyle. Born: January 31, 1899. Dublin, Ireland. Died: October 29, 1929.”
“The stone was covered in lichen, but it’s a beautiful white marble. I wanna clean it with bleach. Can you help?” Anita asked.
“Our Fanny,” I uttered, shaking my head. “Yes, I can help.”
My Fanny was real. She wasn’t a figment of my imagination. “I’m so… so… I don’t know what to say.”
Sandy slipped into the stockroom and gruffly asked, “What’s this nonsense all about?”
“Pattianna asked me to help with a little genealogy.” Anita ruffled. “That’s what friends are for.” She glared at Sandy, but Sandy stood her ground. It’d take more gumption than Anita had to intimidate her.
Sandy’s hands flew to her hips. “Ump! Is this about the old signatu
re in the bathroom wall?”
“Ah, yeah, it is.” I admired the etching again, but it was about so much more. Fanny wasn’t just old graffiti, she was all too real for me to dismiss with an ump.
This etching proved… what did it prove? Did it prove I could see, hear, and talk to a ghost? No. Did the pressure on my brain from whacking my head on the sidewalk cause me to hallucinate the whole event? Maybe.
Fanny’s signature and now the headstone etchings might be as close to knowing what happened to Fanny as I would ever get.
“Guess I’ll go.” Anita huffed. She removed the scissors and the paper began to roll again.
“Wait!” I put up a hand. “Let’s pin it to the wall, over there…” I didn’t want to dismiss Fanny so easily.
I pointed to a blank spot on the wall next to the bathroom door. “It’s a fine conversation piece. If someone uses the bathroom, they’ll ask about it. I can’t show them her signature in the shiplap. She’s all too real, don’t you think?”
Sandy faltered, drooping a shoulder. She wasn’t as tough as she wanted people to believe. “Well… have it your way. Don’t make it a regular tourist trap though. We got enough around here already.”
Anita grinned, grumbling something under her breath.
“Here.” I grabbed the tape dispenser. “Help me.”
The bell tinkled and Sandy huffed, “Guess I’ll wait on customers while you two dillydally with wallpaper.” She turned through the swinging doors, greeting customers with an amiable lilt.
“Don’t mind her. She’s not that bad.”
“I almost…” Anita shook her head trailing off. “Oh, never mind. I love the idea of hanging it on the wall.”
29
Justice
We hung the etching, and I admired the work of art. Twofold someone worked magic on the stonework, once when the stonecutter carved it and again when Anita so expertly etched its fine details. I’d never pooh-pooh her love of genealogy or the Confederacy again. That might be pushing my limits. But, I won’t wear an antebellum crochet tablecloth to the next Daughters’ ball. (I tagged along once, acting as her chaperone, but that’s another story.)
Bath Bombs & Beyond Page 20