Death of a Domestic Diva

by Sharon Short

  Now, Owen didn’t seem to mind the table being crowded. He was on his third stack of chocolate chip pancakes.

  Winnie was grouchy, though, which I did chalk up to the table’s condition. Winnie likes things neat, orderly, and with space in between them, if possible. So now, Winnie was poking a finger on the to-do list in the middle of the table. Owen had dripped syrup on the paper, so Winnie’s finger stuck for a few seconds each time she poked it, pulling up the paper. Then she’d shake her finger and the paper would fall away with a little “tick” as it unstuck.

  “I don’t like number three,” Winnie said, poking in a little ticking rhythm. “After all, ‘Interview widow about Lewis’s possible connection to Tyra Grimes seems a little ghoulish just one day after he’s murdered, don’t you think?”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to take a tape recorder and stick it in Hazel’s face, Winnie,” I said. “You just need to nose around a bit. Hazel trusts you to handpick the romance books she reads every week. Maybe you could run a few books over to her—sort of as a service to the bereaved to help distract her from her woes.”

  “And slide in a few questions while I’m checking out her books? Let’s see—‘So Hazel, did your dear dead husband have a liaison going with Tyra Grimes? Maybe he just ran up to New York so he could ask her a few questions about funeral etiquette and they became friends? Ooh—look—I got you the latest romance with that hunky model on the cover, Jason Afire!’”

  I scratched a tingly spot on my scalp with the erasure end of my pencil. “Winnie, what has gotten into you? This is research. You love research.”

  “You’re not giving Winnie time to mourn,” Owen said, around a mouthful of chocolate chip pancake.

  Now, I’d never considered that Winnie might be mourning Lewis’s loss. It was hard, in fact, to imagine that anyone—besides maybe Hazel—would mourn Lewis. He’d had a monopoly on funerals that kept him in business, but he was too outspoken for most people. Too likely to tease people when he shouldn’t—people like poor Elroy.

  Still. . . the image came back to me of Lewis just yesterday morning, outside my laundromat, comforting a lost little girl, helping her find her mother, while everyone else was too busy protesting my cousin Billy’s anti-Tyra demonstration to even notice the little girl. It was a tender side to Lewis’s character that surprised me, because I’d never seen it before. I figured hardly anyone had ever seen it before. And it bothered me that I—and no one else, either—would ever see it again.

  So I put a hand on Winnie’s arm. “You’re right. We need to mourn Lewis. But one of the best things we can do for him is to try to figure out. . .”

  I stopped. Both Owen and Winnie were staring at me, bewildered.

  “She’s not mourning Lewis,” Owen said. “She’s mourning Tyra—or at least the image she had of Tyra.”

  Winnie burst out crying, snatched up a paper napkin, and blew her nose. “I idolized Tyra Grimes, you know! And then you . . . you . . . had to bring her here . . . and I had to hear her assistant say Tyra thought the redecorating I did in Billy’s apartment was banal. I did it just for her, and with her-her-her prod-d-ducts too . . .”

  I looked over to Owen for help.

  “It is a human tendency,” he said, “to idolize people like Tyra, people who seem to have all the answers, no problems, and the consummate knowledge of how we can best run our homes and lives. Tyra taps into a fundamental need in all of us—the primal need to feather our nests, so to speak, as well as the need to be accepted by the group—by our tribe, if you will. Furthermore—”

  I put a hand up. “Owen, please. I get it. Someone like Tyra comes along, tells us how to decorate and be tasteful and homey and all that. Then we turn around and idolize Tyra, who turns out to be—”

  “A pig! She’s an ungrateful pig!” Winnie wailed.

  I thought that was a little extreme. Tyra was tireless in her efforts, which in my book made her tiresome, although no one else in Paradise seemed to mind. Even Winnie wasn’t annoyed by Tyra’s desire to make over everything, just hurt by the criticism of her decorating. And who knows, I might not have found Tyra’s efforts tiring if I hadn’t been so upset by her picking out the orange stitching on my quilt.

  “Look, wouldn’t figuring out what Tyra’s up to make you feel a little better?” I said. “I mean, it probably won’t help you go back to seeing Tyra as perfect again, but at least you’d be helping get at the truth. Like a research project.” Winnie’s big on research projects, especially genealogy. She’s helped any number of Paradisites trace their roots.

  Winnie perked up. “Well, ma-maybe.”

  “Okay, then. You know Hazel Rothchild better than any of us. Maybe start by asking her where Lewis went last night—anything you can get out of her about his activities. Then work into asking Hazel if she knows of any past connection between Lewis and Tyra that might explain why Lewis didn’t want her to come here in the first place—maybe even why Tyra came. My theory is that Tyra really came here for some reason other than putting me on her show—my letter just gave her an excuse to come to Paradise.”

  “A cover?” Owen suggested.

  “Yeah, a cover, for whatever else she’s up to here. Winnie, you’ll also need to see what you can find out about Tyra Grimes’s past.”

  “You mean, like her childhood?” Winnie was frowning, but she was also calm again. I could tell she was already working this out like a research problem.

  I grinned. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a job, too.”

  I told them about the red T-shirts I’d seen in the old orphanage building and about the report on Tyra possibly being indicted on forced labor charges.

  “So I figure Tyra being here might have something to do with that.”

  “Yeah,” Winnie said. “Maybe she had someone hide the T-shirts here—the terrible pig! Exploiting workers!”

  I sighed. Winnie was starting to sound like Billy. “We don’t know that that’s true. But I think Billy might know something about it, maybe from the lady he got the T-shirt from to begin with. So I’m going out to the Red Horse, track him down, see what I can find out from him.

  “While I’m there, I need to talk to Paige. I hate to say it, but I have to wonder if she knew about some connection between Lewis and Tyra, and was afraid Lewis was going to reveal something that would hurt Tyra. She did say she’d do anything to help her boss, and her sweater had a mud stain on it, which could mean she’d been out at the site where I found Lewis, Tyra, and Elroy.” I shook my head. “I don’t like to suspect her of murder, but. . .”

  “Well, she certainly didn’t seem to care that my feelings got murdered,” Winnie said.

  I ignored her, looked at Owen. “I’ll need your help, too.”

  “Whatever you want, my dearest.”

  I was tempted to suggest he clean up the sticky dishes on the table. Instead, I said, “While I’m off tracking down Billy and Paige, I need you to go up to Masonville General Hospital and talk with Elroy. You’re a good listener, so at first just listen to what he has to say. He’ll probably want to repeat the whole spoiled tuna fish story to you. But after that, you can start asking about what happened last night. Hopefully he’s feeling better enough to give a little more information.”

  “Shouldn’t he be telling all that to the police?”

  I sighed again. For a bright man, Owen can sometimes be awfully dim. “Of course. And he probably is. But the problem is that the police are already convinced that Elroy killed Lewis because they want to believe Tyra’s story. That’s why we need to do this digging. We all know Elroy couldn’t kill a fly. So we need to figure out what really happened. What Tyra or Paige, or both of them, didn’t tell us . . .”

  “Yeah, the pigs!” Winnie said. “It’s up to us to find the truth! To reveal the truth—”

  My telephone rang, and I jumped up to answer it, so I didn’t get to hear the rest of Winnie’s rant. But after the brief call, my ears were ringing anyhow. I returned to the table and sat bac
k down between Winnie and Owen, feeling worn out even though it was only 9 A.M. This deputizing and investigating work was a lot harder than I’d expected—and I hadn’t even left my apartment yet.

  Winnie and Owen were discussing research methods Winnie might be able to use to dig into Tyra’s past, but they stopped when I sat down, looking at me expectantly.

  “That,” I said, “was Tyra Grimes. Seems Paige is missing.”

  “Missing?” Owen and Winnie chorused.

  “Missing,” I confirmed. “As in not at the Red Horse Motel. Not answering her cell phone. Nowhere to be seen. And not picking Tyra up at Masonville General. Tyra’s been released, and she’s anxious to get out of there.”

  “I can pick up Tyra and interview Elroy while I’m up at the hospital,” Owen said.

  I considered. Tyra had asked for me to pick her up. There’d been no question in her mind that I’d just come get her—and somehow, there’d been none in mine. Tyra had that affect on people. I shook my head to clear it. Maybe it would be a good idea to break Tyra of assuming that whatever she wanted to happen should happen. Maybe without Paige, she’d be more vulnerable. . .

  Paige. Where was Paige? Last I knew she was on her way back to her room at the Red Horse—the very place where Billy was staying. My scalp suddenly felt itchy again. I scratched it—hard—while I said, “Okay, Owen, you talk to Elroy, then get Tyra. I’ll take care of two things at once also. I’ll go to the Red Horse—try and track down Billy, and see if anyone there knows where Paige might have gone off to.”

  The Red Horse Motel, out on Route 26, was a hot spot back when travelers used state routes more often, before interstate highways drew all the traffic. It still had the original sign outside that said “RED HORSE MOTEL,” with a little picture of a red horse, and “ALL UNITS HEATED!,” and “VACANCY,” with a “NO” to the left that was never lit. But now the Red Horse Motel was just a run-down stopping spot on a strip of country road.

  Luke and Greta Rhinegold, who’d been very young newlyweds when they’d built the place in 1948, still ran it, still lived in a small apartment over the office. Twenty years ago, they’d added a small sign, right below the original one: “ALL UNITS AIR CONDITIONED!” Ten years ago, when they couldn’t find any help for the family-style restaurant, and Greta’s failing eyesight made it too hard for her to cook, they converted it to a bar with pool tables and game machines and a few tables and chairs, a bar where Luke serves drinks and sandwiches.

  I go out twice a week to get their linens. They’re a nice couple, no kids, always together. And they always insist on paying me when I pick up the laundry, and tipping me when I drop it off. I always put the tip (two quarters, without fail) in the “Save the Children Federation” can they keep on the bar.

  I parked my Chevy in the lot in front of the office. The center of the building was two stories, the first for the motel office, the second for the Rhinegolds’ apartment.

  Sticking out from each side of the two-story center was a single-story row of units, like blocky wings that had somehow landed this strange brick bird, and left it grounded there. The doors—once a bright red—were faded, the brick weathered, making the whole structure look like it was molting.

  My car brought the lot’s total to three. No sign of the truck that Billy had hopped into with the mysterious woman. I knew I didn’t have to check behind the Red Horse for the truck—all scruffy woods back there.

  I had Paige’s now perfectly clean sweater in my backseat. I decided to leave the sweater in the car for now.

  I always go to the back entrance to the bar, because that’s where Luke and Greta usually are even in the middle of the day, watching their favorite soaps on a big-screen TV or talking or playing cards. But today I was here on a different kind of business.

  So, I went into the lobby, furnished with a pamphlet display rack, a couch, a fake tree in the corner, and a TV tray holding a coffeepot, and about enough space left over for two people to stand, assuming they liked each other a lot. I hated to admit to myself that Tyra was right—the front lobby smelled moldy, with an overtone of chlorine, even though Luke had rented a backhoe and filled in the outdoor pool with dirt about twelve years ago. (Greta plants petunias out there every year, sticks out some plastic patio chairs, and advertises it in the Paradise Advertiser-Gazette as a “romantic English garden, suitable for teas and wedding receptions.”)

  Maybe, I thought, I should research some tips on removing mold and see if I could use them on the Rhinegolds’ carpet and curtains. I knew they couldn’t afford replacements.

  I gave the bell on the counter a good rap, then stepped over to the display rack and counted my Toadfern’s Laundromat flyers—12, same as a month ago. I noted the Antique Depot supply had gone down by two flyers, and Cherry’s Chat and Curl’s were completely gone. The Dairy Dreeme’s, like mine, hadn’t changed.

  Then I sat down on the red vinyl couch—the side without the crack down the middle of the seat, although that meant having a leaf of the dusty plastic ficus tree resting on my head. I looked out the window, thinking I’d watch for the white truck and Billy, but there were dead flies—six of them—all right beside each other in the windowsill, as if they’d had a little fly accident—a six fly pile-up. That was a bad sign. Greta and Luke always pride themselves on being extra clean. I didn’t like the sight, or the thought that soon the Red Horse Motel would be too much for them, and another Paradise business would close.

  Luke came into the lobby, with Greta right behind him, staring at me through her thick glasses with her pale blue eyes.

  “It’s not our laundry pick-up day,” Greta said.

  “And you didn’t come to the bar door,” Luke added.

  “We did give you the right amount of pay last time, didn’t we?” Greta asked.

  I gave them a little smile, then stood up. “I’m here on a different kind of business. I need to talk with you about my cousin Billy, and another guest of yours, Paige Morrissey.”

  At that, Luke’s eyebrows went up. “I think,” he said, “we’d better talk in the bar.”

  “Yep, Billy left late last night,” said Luke. “Although he didn’t really check out.”

  We were sitting around a table, the only people in the bar at this early hour on a Sunday morning, drinking freshly brewed coffee. I added plenty of sugar and milk to mine and took a sip—ah. Now that was much better than the cappuccino my laundromat was offering.

  Then I considered what Luke had just said about Billy, trying to recall my checkbook balance. “So when Billy left. . . did he, uh, settle up with you?” I took another sip, trying to look casual.

  “Well, he didn’t leave with his bill unpaid. But he didn’t pay for it, either. A lady paid for him. And for herself, too,”

  “Pretty lady, Hispanic looking?”

  Luke shook his head. “No—although he’d been hanging out with her and her husband. This was a different pretty lady. A black woman.”

  Luke tapped Greta on her shoulder. She had the remote aimed at the big screen, her bony arm sticking straight ahead, so the loose wattle of flesh of her upper arm, revealed by the short sleeves of her cotton housecoat, swayed each time she gave a click. She used the remote like she was doing target practice, flicking from station to station.

  “What was that pretty black woman’s name, Greta dear?” Luke said.

  “Paige Morrissey,” Greta said. “Billy’s room was number 212. Paige’s was 213. Paid two hundred and twelve fifty-seven, including sales tax.”

  “For two rooms?” I asked, amazed at the amount. They’d each only been here two nights. But maybe, I thought, Paige was also paying for the rooms of the television show crew that would be coming in a few days. My stomach flip-flopped at the thought of that. With all that was going on, how were we ever going to have a decent filming of the Tyra Grimes Home Show?

  “She was also paying up for the couple who’d been here for about the past two weeks,” Luke said. “They’d kept putting me off, so I wa
s real glad to get it.” He gave Greta another gentle pat on the arm. “What were their names again, Greta dear?”

  “Jeff and Jane Smith. Room 219.” Greta was squinting with great concentration as she clicked at the big screen with the remote, as if she was trying to improve her aim.

  “The Hispanic couple?” I said. “They said their names were Jeff and Jane Smith?”

  “If that’s what Greta says their names were,” said Luke, “then that’s what their names were. You know Greta. Gets something in her mind, mind springs shut over it like a steel trap.” Luke put the base of his hands together, then formed half fists and rapped his knuckles together smartly.

  “It’s not Greta’s memory I’m questioning, just that a Hispanic couple would be named Jeff and Jane Smith,” I said.

  “I never question the guest’s names,” Luke said. “If they say they’re Jeff and Jane Smith, then they are.”

  “Right. Do you know why Paige would pay Billy’s and the, um, the Smith’s bill?”

  Luke shook his head. “Can’t say for sure. But I will say, they all were getting mighty cozy last night in here.”

  I lifted my eyebrows at that. “Cozy, how?”

  “Sitting at that table over there—” Luke poked a finger at a table in the farthest corner. “Huddled over their beers. They weren’t talking loud, but they were mighty intense about something. Hushed up right fast whenever I came by.”

  “Was this the first time you’d seen them together?”

  Luke thought for a moment. “First time all four of them were together. Billy’d spent a lot of time a few nights ago just with Jane Smith. I hadn’t seen her husband since they’d checked in, and I thought maybe he’d taken off. Thought maybe Billy and Jane were getting a little close, a little fast, if you know what I mean. Then night before last, the fella, um. . .”