Ginger Snapped to Death

by Catherine Bruns

  "Are you Rachel by chance?"

  She studied me. "That's right. But I don't have anyone scheduled for the rest of the night. Did someone recommend me?"

  I glanced around the shop. There were three stations, with the one to the far left occupied by an elderly woman who had her head wrapped in foil. A woman who bore a striking resemblance to Elvira was adjusting said foil. Other than them, the shop appeared to be empty. "Do you have a couple of minutes to talk—about Damian Ruger?"

  Rachel narrowed her eyes. "Who are you? Cops?"

  I had a sudden urge to laugh. "No. We went to school with Damian." I didn't want to divulge my true identity. "A friend said you were dating him. We're very sorry for your loss."

  She laughed bitterly and placed her hands on her full, rounded hips. "Right. Come on. I know who you really are. Sally Donovan, the one who dated him in high school. The one whose cake server was found next to his body. You hated him for dumping you and accused him of the carjacking to get even." Rachel thrust a finger in my face. "I read the article. I saw your picture in the paper."

  So much for trying to keep anything a secret in this town. "Look. Think about how preposterous this sounds. Why would I be holding a grudge against Damian for 16 years? That's more than half of my life! I'm here because I want to clear my name."

  "We know that Damian wasn't one of her carjackers," Josie said. "Who was the Santa that just left here?"

  Rachel tossed her head. "That old guy? He works for the local mission. They've been good to me in the past when I needed help. He comes in every year for a donation. I don't make much, but always give something. We have to pay it forward, you know?"

  "Do you own the salon?" Josie asked.

  She shook her head. "No. Angie, the owner, will be back by closing, and she hates to see us standing around. If you plan on talking some more, you'd better get ready for a dye job." She studied Josie's beautiful auburn hair closely. "You could use one, honey. Looks like you're getting a few grays."

  "Excuse me?" Josie exploded.

  I didn't see any gray hairs on Josie's head, but knew that I had a few. Mine were probably the result of stress. Being a murder suspect might do it. The customer with the foil on her head was beaming in the mirror at her pink-colored strands. I shuddered and reached inside my purse for a twenty-dollar bill. "Ah, instead of giving Josie a dye job, maybe this will help."

  Rachel's eyes widened at the bill. She glanced around and then snatched it from my outstretched hand. "Okay, look. I don't know who really killed Damian, but I can assure you it wasn't me. I went to his apartment to meet someone."

  Josie frowned. "Meet who? Were you getting back together with Damian?"

  She shook her head vehemently. "No way. I was supposed to meet Farley there, but he got hung up at work."

  The name struck a familiar chord with me. "Who's Farley?"

  "Damian's best friend and my boyfriend. They've known each other for years."

  "Farley Drake? He was ahead of us in school by a couple of years," Josie mused. "I didn't know him personally though."

  Rachel beamed. "The one and only. He's a great guy. Farley doesn't force me to take drugs like Damian did or knock me around."

  "That must make him the perfect boyfriend," Josie said dryly.

  She frowned. "I don't appreciate sarcasm, honey. You can laugh if you want, but he's ten times the man Damian was. That creep was always smacking me around. Then he'd call up the next day and lay on the charm, begging me to come back to him. I ended up in rehab thanks to him, but I'm clean now. There's no way in hell I'd ever go back to him."

  The entire scenario didn't make any sense. "Why would you even step foot in Damian's apartment when he used to treat you like dirt?"

  Josie folded her arms across her chest. "And why would Farley still hang out with a dirtbag who did such awful things to his girlfriend?"

  Rachel glared at us both. "You don't understand. He's changed. I had no interest in Damian romantically, even though he wasn't doing drugs anymore. He was a kinder, gentler man."

  Josie snorted back a laugh, which she immediately turned into a cough. I wasn't buying this bull of Rachel's either. I was sorry Damian had died, but it was hard for me to believe he'd done a complete turnaround.

  "What happened when you got to Damian's apartment that night?" I asked.

  She sat down in one of the station chairs and clasped her hands in her lap. "I saw the cop cars out front, but that didn't bother me. There's always some loser getting in trouble over there. So, I went up the back stairway to Damian's pad. When I got near his apartment, the cops told me I needed to leave. They wouldn't tell me what was going on either. And then I saw her."

  "You saw who?" Terror seeped into my bones, and for a brief second, I was afraid she might indicate me. 'Tis the season for paranoia.

  "Magnolia." She spat the name out as if it were venom. "That cheap tramp was standing by the door of the apartment, sobbing on some good-looking cop's shoulder. What a freaking phony. It wouldn't surprise me if she killed Damian."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Josie and I exchanged glances. "Why would Magnolia want to kill Damian?" I asked.

  Rachel shot me a funny look. "Because she thought he was seeing someone behind her back—namely, yours truly. She's always been jealous of me."

  I shook my head, hoping the action might settle the pieces of this puzzle in my brain. "Okay. Let me get this straight. You dated Damian. Now you're dating his friend Farley. Magnolia was back to dating Damian, but in turn she thought he was dating someone behind her back—you. Am I missing anything?"

  She studied her French manicure and then pinned me with a direct gaze. "The article said that your cake server was found next to his body. It seems crazy that you'd kill him because he dumped you back in high school, but I have a friend who did something similar. She's up for parole in 20 years."

  I sucked in some air. Forget the cake server as a weapon. When I found Jerry Maroon, I might choke him to death. "What else do you know?" A picture of Josie's gingerbread cookies with the strawberry icing entered my mind. "Was anything else found at the crime scene?"

  Rachel shrugged. "I'm not sure. They wouldn't let me in the apartment, so I couldn't see what was going on. When I got back to my car, a body was brought out on a gurney, and I knew it had to be Damian's."

  "But you couldn't be sure that it was his body," Josie pointed out. "What if Damian had killed someone in his apartment and left the body there?"

  Rachel glanced slyly at me. "Damian told Farley that you still had the hots for him after all these years. It's the first thing Farley mentioned when I saw him earlier today."

  These people were all nuts. I knew that drugs could affect one's brain, but did it also render them completely senseless? How could they possibly believe such a dumb story? A tremor of fear shot through me. Both these women had a motive to kill Damian, so what would stop them from lying about seeing me at his apartment that night? It would only be my word against theirs. "Any idea who else might want Damian dead?"

  She gave me the evil eye. "I just told you that it was Magnolia—unless you really did do it."

  Josie held up a hand. "Okay, let's play a game. Pretend for a minute that neither Magnolia nor Sal killed Damian. Is there anyone else who wouldn't mind putting Damian six feet under?"

  Her tone was patronizing and made me wince. I loved Josie dearly, but she was not always the most subtle person when it came to interrogation tactics.

  Rachel wrinkled her tiny nose, the diamond embedded on one side winking in the bright light from above. "Yeah, I guess. He had his share of enemies. Damian may have owed people money for drugs, although he's been clean for a while. Maybe Farley would know."

  "Where can I find him?" I asked.

  "Give me your phone number, and I'll ask him to call you. No guarantees though. He's a very busy and important guy."

  The mystery man had me intrigued. "What does Farley do for a living?"

  Rachel puffed ou
t her chest with an air of importance. "He works at Colwestern's Car Wash. He's the manager." She tossed her head proudly. "I get free car washes."

  "Lucky you," Josie muttered. "All the fringe benefits."

  Rachel glared at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  I gave Josie a slight nudge in the side. "Uh, is there a chance that Farley—" Walk softly, Sal. "Was he involved in Damian's line of work too?"

  She shot me a look of utter disbelief. "Of course not. I mean, maybe a little recreational use every now and then. Heck, we all do it, right? But Damian—when we dated—he'd get angry after he used. He once hit a cop and landed in the slammer for a couple of months. And then one time he got pulled over for speeding, and the cops found a stash in his car. Damian was a good-looking dude, but not very bright. There was a time when he'd do anything to get drugs—even kill for them. That's what addiction can do to a person."

  Josie and I exchanged glances. "He killed someone?" I asked.

  Rachel shook her head. "Nah. He was a murder suspect last summer, but the cops cleared him. Funny how he cleaned up his act right after that—or said he did. Guess he finally learned his lesson."

  Now she had my attention. "Really? What happened?"

  Rachel glanced out into the mall's concourse and gave a sudden start. "Uh-oh. That's my boss. If you're not getting your hair done, you need to leave."

  I handed Rachel one of my business cards right before a woman with spiked, purple hair entered the salon. "Please have Farley call me. And if you think of anything else that might help, would you get in touch?"

  She eyed me sharply and nodded. "Hell, if you're handing out twenties, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

  When we exited the shop and stepped into the main concourse, I almost ran right into another Santa. He grinned and tipped his hat at me. "Merry Christmas, little lady." He stared down at my protruding belly and grinned. "And company."

  "Good grief." I blew out a breath. "They're everywhere."

  "What'd I tell you? That's why I don't like to bring the kids here," Josie remarked. "It's too confusing. Are we done for tonight? I have to get home soon so that Rob can leave for work."

  We were near the front entrance. "Yes, I'm tired anyway." And depressed, but didn't add that part.

  "Oh crap," Josie said as we got into the van. "I must have left my wallet at the bakery. Do you mind if we stop there first so that I can grab it?"

  "Of course not." Wearily, I closed my eyes and settled back against the headrest. The walking had done a number on me, and I was ready for dreamland.

  Josie started the engine. "I can come pick you up after work tomorrow if you feel like doing some more sleuthing. That is," she said with a grin, "if Baby Donovan doesn't make an appearance by then."

  I wondered how many women had babies in prison cells. Maybe I'd google it when I got home. "I don't have much choice. We could plan for five o'clock and catch Santa before he leaves for the night." I opened my eyes and stared out the window at the lighted candy canes displayed on a front lawn we were passing. The next house had a giant Frosty the Snowman waving from its rooftop. Christmas was almost here, my favorite time of year. The season for perpetual hope, which I needed desperately right now. "If someone accuses me, I'm done for. You might as well get out the orange jumpsuit."

  Josie opened her mouth to say something, but the buzzing of my phone cut her off. I glanced down at the screen. The number was local and familiar, but I couldn't place it. "Hello?"

  "Sally, it's Adam. Adam Greensburg—Brian's partner."

  My mouth went dry. Why was he calling me? Whatever the reason, it couldn't be good. "Uh, hi. What's up?"

  "I wanted to give you an update on what's going on," he said. "Brian asked me to phone you. We think the Jolly-less Santas are still in town. In fact, the convenience store over on Broadway was hit about two hours ago. The surveillance camera caught two Santas driving away in a beat-up Ford."

  I clutched the phone tightly behind my hands. "I don't understand. How do these guys keep getting away with this?"

  "They probably have someone helping them behind the scenes," Adam said. "Maybe a former employee who knows the layouts of these stores. Don't worry. We'll catch them. By the way, Brian asked me to deliver a message to you."

  Oh joy. "Gee let me guess. He said for me to stay out of it and to let the police handle everything."

  Adam chuckled into the phone. "I guess you do know him pretty well." He paused for a moment. "Look, I know how terrifying this must be for you, especially in your condition, but you have to trust us. We're trained to find criminals like these. One way or another, we'll get them." He clicked off without another word.

  The phrase "one way or another" bothered me. Did that mean they'd catch these guys, but not before I was locked up behind iron bars?

  Josie glanced sideways at me. "What's up?"

  I relayed what Adam had said. "It sounds like going to the mall tomorrow could be a smart move on our part."

  "Is there anything else you remember about the Santas?" Josie asked. "Ear piercings? Cologne smell? Bad breath?"

  The breath mention triggered my memory. "One of them smelled like peppermints. I know it's not much to go on. Oh, and remember, I told you about the cream-colored beard. I wish I could think of something else."

  She patted my hand. "You're probably trying to shut it all out because you were so scared. We'll find those bozos, don't you…" Her voice trailed off as she pulled into the alley behind the bakery. My father's car was parked in her usual spot. "Uh, Sal, why is your father here? At six o'clock on a Friday night?"

  "Who knows?" I unbuckled my seat belt. "Maybe he needed a fortune cookie fix."

  Josie frowned. "Did you give him the alarm code? There's no way I'd forget to set—"

  "Yes," I interrupted. "Dad's had it since he had his book signing here. But it's not like him to stop in without telling me first." Oh no. That's when I remembered about the blogging class.

  Josie swore softly under her breath as she unlocked the door to the kitchen. "What's he doing? Having another signing without telling us? Nothing about that man surprises me anymore."

  This would. "He's teaching a class on blogging for the local college in the apartment upstairs."

  She looked at me in amazement. "You're joking!"

  "Don't I wish. But I thought he was planning to hold the classes on Saturday mornings. At least that's what he told me. Maybe they're baking fortune cookies." I tried to laugh it off, but Josie was having none of it. Please, please, don't let him do anything crazy. "I'm sure everything is fine."

  She snorted as we made our way to the staircase. "Right. Your father doesn't cause problems. That's like saying it will never snow in Buffalo again."

  Muffled voices could be heard from the upstairs apartment. Oh boy. "Here goes nothing." We started up the stairs. I was slow and breathing heavily before we even made it up halfway. I almost expected my water to break from the exertion.

  Josie brought up the rear. "Take your time. I'll catch you if you fall."

  What a cheerful thought. "If this doesn't put me into labor, nothing will," I panted.

  We peered into the open doorway of the apartment. Although currently vacant, it had seen its share of action in the past two years since we'd reopened at this location. Gianna had rented the apartment for a while, and then a friend of Nicoletta's ran a business here briefly before meeting her untimely demise. My father had used the space for a book signing that I was certain was unlike any other author's. The combination living and dining room were now filled with three rows of desks and chairs. All were occupied.

  "Hello?" I said, trying to catch my breath. Nine heads looked up from their laptops.

  "Hi, baby girl!" My father came over to greet us. "I know you weren't expecting me here so soon, but I thought I'd do an introductory class tonight since everyone was available. I didn't think you'd mind, because it was after hours."

  "Domenic, you're certainly full of sur
prises," Josie remarked.

  My father puffed out his chest in an exaggerated manner and spread his arms out wide. "Class, I'd like you to meet my daughter Sally Donovan and her head baker, Josie Sullivan. Sal's the big round one. As you can see, my grandchild is late arriving. But as we all know, Italian babies come whenever they darn well feel like it."

  I struggled not to roll my eyes. "Dad, you've got such a way with words. Remember, this baby is also part Irish."

  He waved a hand dismissively. "Ah, the Italian side always dominates."

  With unabashed curiosity, I glanced around at Dad's "students." I wondered where he'd had the desks delivered from. They looked brand new. Maybe they'd been sitting in the basement of a friend's funeral parlor. Maybe he'd be teaching a class on embalming next. One never knew with my father.

  Each student had a laptop and a copy of my father's book, How to Plan and Enjoy Your Funeral, on top of their desk. My father was using the dining room table Gianna had left behind as his work desk at the front of the room. A chalkboard on wheels stood next to it. He'd written on the board in large block letters, The Art of Death Blogging.

  Kill me now.

  My father's students varied considerably in age, with at least sixty years between them. The youngest student looked like he might still be in high school, while the oldest could have been my father's dad. That particular student was none other than Nicoletta's main squeeze, Ronald Feathers. He was hard of hearing, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing where Nicoletta was concerned.

  He peered at me through his bifocals and winked. "Hi ya, cutie. Haven't popped yet, huh?"

  My father rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. "Yep, that's me. Always full of surprises. Hey, you girls are just in time to see what everyone is working on." He rapped his ruler on the table. "How about it, gang? Mind if Sally takes a peek at your blogs?"

  "Dad, that's not necessary," I demurred, not wanting to see what they were writing about. Most likely it concerned death, funerals, or any other morbid topic my father could think of.