Death of a Domestic Diva

by Sharon Short

  “Jeff Smith,” offered Greta, without turning around.

  “Jeff Smith, right. Well, he came in, saw Billy and Jane together. Sat down, started talking, all excited, kind of loud.”

  “What was he saying? Was he upset about Billy talking with his wife?”

  “Can’t say for sure—he was talking in Spanish. Jane seemed to be translating for Billy, and listening to Billy and translating back to Jeff, but she and Billy kept their voices low. He seemed real upset about something, but it didn’t look like he was upset at Billy.”

  “I don’t understand how Paige fits into all of this.”

  Luke shrugged. “All I can tell you is, she came in here late last night, came up to the bar, asked me for a beer, which kind of surprised me, because she didn’t seem the beer type. Up until then, she’d been asking for drinks made a particular way—like a martini, but made with a particular brand of gin, what was it, Greta?”

  “Bombay Sapphire. And some fancy brand of olives I’ve never heard of.” Greta laughed. “Like we’d have anything other than the pimento kind.”

  “Right,” said Luke. “Anyway, Paige seemed really down, asked for a beer without even telling me what brand she had to have. Billy wandered in after that. Sat down, struck up a general conversation with her. Another couple who’s staying here came in, wanted some grilled cheese sandwiches. I went into the back to cook them up. When I came back, Billy and Paige were over there with the Smiths in that corner table. About 1 A.M. I went over, told them I was closing up the bar. Billy and the Smiths were real quiet, but Paige said that was okay, they were all leaving, and she’d pay the room bill for all of them.”

  Why would Paige Morrissey—the devoted employee of Tyra Grimes—want to take off with Billy and the “Smiths”? Why, for that matter, would someone as elegant and sophisticated as Paige want to hang out with Billy? And why would someone as responsible as Paige take off when she knew a film crew would be here in a few days to do the Tyra Grimes show?

  “What about the rooms she reserved for the film crew?” I asked.

  “Film crew? Rooms?” Luke looked confused. “She just had the one room for herself. She never asked about other rooms.”

  “Just the one room, room 213,” said Greta.

  My armpits and forehead went all sticky and tingly. Tyra had never, I realized, meant to do a show here with me at all. She’d put me off when I’d tried to talk with her when she first came . . . and Paige had clearly told me she was going to block rooms for the crew at the Red Horse . . . but she hadn’t asked about rooms at all.

  “Oh look, here’s the show, the Tyra Grimes Home Show” chirped Greta. “When will your show be on, Josie?”

  I looked at Greta, who was gazing at me with her milky blue eyes, squinting as she tried to focus on my face, her own expression all lit up like she was real excited for me . . . the local girl, about to make good.

  I grinned, so she could at least see a shadow of a smile. I was thankful she couldn’t see that my eyes were welling up. And I crossed my toes, since what I was about to say was only a half truth, and said just a little too brightly, “No exact dates yet, Greta. That’s show biz.”

  8

  Luke and Greta let me go through the rooms where Paige, Billy, and the “Smiths” had been staying. They just said, “okay” when I asked to see the rooms and gave me the keys, which was just a little disappointing since I had a whole speech worked out to convince them.

  The good thing was that Rosa Miguelaro—the Rhinegold’s one and only maid—hadn’t cleaned out the rooms yet, so I stood a chance of finding something in the rooms to help me figure out where the whole bunch had disappeared to—and why they’d want to leave together. The bad thing was that Rosa seemed to think that I was there early that week to pick up the laundry. She kept following me around with her cart and thrusting sheets and towels at me. She finally gave up, muttering something in Spanish as she walked off, even though she speaks English.

  Billy’s room was a pigsty—no surprise there. The bed linens were all over the floor, along with damp towels, already smelling mildewy. The bathroom mirror was speckled with toothpaste and shaving cream. The trash can was spilling over with beer cans and pop cans and chip bags and candy wrappers . . . and one Playboy magazine.

  The “Smiths’” room was not too messy and not too neat, kind of the baby bear version of a used motel room. Nothing in there of interest, either.

  Paige’s room was as neat as if Rosa had already been there—the bed made perfectly, the countertop and mirror gleaming. Even the stuff in the trash can was neat—one newspaper, two cough drop wrappers and five tissues all folded into careful, exact squares, with three cotton balls right in the middle, like a trash can sundae.

  But poking out of the newspaper folds were some ripped up papers. That intrigued me. The newspaper, cough drop wrappers and tissues were all folded—yet these papers were ripped up. Paige didn’t seem to be the kind who’d rip up something.

  I pulled out the scraps of paper. They were just ordinary sheets of paper with neat handwriting on them—Paige’s handwriting, I was guessing. I spread them out, stared at the pieces as if I was studying a jigsaw puzzle, feeling only mildly guilty at snooping into someone else’s private trash. After all, my town was going nuts, my cousin was acting even stranger than usual, one Paradisite was in jail for murdering another Paradisite—all of which was related to Tyra’s showing up in town in response to a letter I’d sent her. If something in her assistant’s trash could help me figure out what was going on and set it back right, then fine. I’d have to just snoop.

  Some of the paper pieces had gotten wet and were all smeary so I couldn’t read them. I threw those scraps back into the trash can. What was left didn’t quite add up to enough scraps to create a full page, but I studied them anyway.

  One piece, from the top left corner of a sheet of paper, clearly said, “Dear Tyra:” while the remaining scraps had phrases like “I’ve been loyal; however. . .” and “can no longer support. . .” and “salmon, deboned,” and “illegal. . .” and “when this comes out. . .” and “walnuts” and “this action not justified . . .” and “regretfully, I must. . .” and “popcorn.”

  I decided the food words must have been from a shopping list and the rest from a letter Paige had started to Tyra. But what could she no longer support? What action was unjustified . . . and illegal? Something she had done? Or something Tyra had done . . . or was about to do? The scraps hinted that she wasn’t feeling totally loyal to her boss, and yet, last night she’d said she’d do anything for Tyra. And what about the lie about the stain being cocoa instead of mud?

  I picked up all the scraps, even the ones with food words on them, and wrapped them up in a page of the newspaper. By the time I did that, Rosa was in the room, revving her vacuum. I stood, carrying the packet of scraps carefully, and squeezed past Rosa at the door. She held a towel out to me, as if there might be some hope I’d take at least a little laundry with me.

  But I just smiled at her and trotted back to my car.

  Now, I wish I could say that on the drive home, the whole of my mind was puzzling over what all I’d just learned.

  But the truth is, the minute I was by myself, in my car, driving back toward Paradise, not having to smile at Rosa or talk more to the Rhinegolds, I found myself stewing over just one thing I had learned: Tyra had only used me as a cover to come to Paradise. She’d never planned to bring a film crew to Paradise, to do a show here. I wasn’t going to be on the Tyra Grimes Home Show. I wasn’t going to share my stain expertise with the world. I wasn’t going to be a celebrity—complete with my new, puffy, strawberry blond do—for even five minutes.

  And the truth is, I found myself crying, just a little, just a tear or two. I thought I’d achieved something for myself, for Paradise, but my dream had turned out to be just a fantasy. I was a failure, a fool, a wishful thinker, a chump. I knew just how Winnie felt about Tyra Grimes. She was, just like Winnie had said, a terribl
e person who’d come to our quiet little town, and then terrible things had started happening.

  I caught my breath at that. Those were pretty much the words Lewis had used to describe Tyra when I’d first brought up the whole idea of getting on the Tyra Grimes show as a way to get Paradise on the map. As it turned out, all in all Tyra was pretty likable, if a bit fussy for my taste. Yet, Lewis had also said that if Tyra Grimes came to town, blood would flow. And it had. It had been his. And now Elroy Magruder was in jail for Lewis’s death . . . although I suspected Paige.

  That brought me around to living up to my duties in this investigation. I frowned with concentration, trying to think as I drove on the narrow country roads.

  Who were the “Smiths,” really, and why were they in Paradise? Why had Billy suddenly decided to protest Tyra—with the same hatred that Lewis Rothchild had seemed to have for her? It couldn’t be just over losing his apartment. Why had Billy hooked up with the Smiths . . . and why would they want to hook up with him? More baffling, how was Paige connected with any of them . . . and why did she apparently leave with them and abandon Tyra, the employer she’d just hours before seemed so dedicated to?

  Most baffling of all was why Paige and Tyra had come to Paradise in the first place, since it was now clear that it hadn’t been to do a show with me. Somehow, I’d managed to write Tyra at the right time with a show idea that gave her an excuse to come here. But why had she needed an excuse to come here at all? After all, a celebrity coming to Paradise might be unheard of—even a little weird—but it wasn’t illegal.

  I got so caught up in my thinking, I didn’t realize I’d missed a turn and was just a mile from the old, abandoned county orphanage. The T-shirts . . . maybe a closer look at them would reveal some clues.

  I pulled up the dirt lane and saw the old white truck the “Smith” couple had been driving, pointing opposite to me, parked on the side of the lane.

  I stopped my car, got out, and went up to the truck slowly, just in case someone was crouched down in the truck, hiding. But no one was in or near the truck. Then I saw the rear of the truck was tilted down nearly to the ground. Looked like the suspension was shot.

  I guessed that the truck had been abandoned here, but I drove up the rest of the lane slowly and looked around warily. I parked in the shrubby area where I’d parked the last time I was here—that seemed like forever ago, now—and hiked up to the crest overlooking the orphanage. At least this time I was wearing jeans and a shirt instead of a bathrobe.

  I took a long look around. I didn’t see any activity but it was possible the Smiths were in the orphanage. I doubted it though. It was pretty obvious they’d been here, but had to abandon their truck.

  I knew I should go on to the orphanage, check out those T-shirts right away. But I had a little more thinking to do. Maybe because of the mood I was in after my big let down. Maybe because I’d pushed aside the memories on my last visit here, memories I hadn’t taken out and examined in a long, long time, even though I come out here every now and again, just because it’s peaceful, just to think. I even bring Guy here sometimes because it’s one of the few places he likes to go on outings away from Stillwater.

  So instead of heading straight to the orphanage, I stared down at the old building. In my mind I was watching something else, too.

  Me, age nine. Sitting at the kitchen table after school in the home of the then Chief of Paradise Police. Hearing Mrs. Hilbrink tell me how Chief Bernie Hilbrink had had a heart attack.

  Me, sipping milk and eating chocolate chip cookies and taking in the news—not sure what heart attack meant, but sure that it was bad, because Mrs. Hilbrink’s face was slick with tears.

  Me, not wanting it to be bad, because I’d grown happy with the Hilbrinks. I called them Chief and Mrs. Hilbrink even though I’d been living with them ten whole months by then—after my mama ran off when our trailer burned down and everyone suspected her of arson and she left me and a letter I never got a chance to read on the Hilbrink doorstep. But in my heart I dared to think of them as . . . Dad. And Mom.

  And since the Hilbrinks didn’t have any kids and had started talking about adopting me, it seemed safe to dream that maybe I could stay with them and be part of a proper family. After all, it was always nice and warm at their house, and Mrs. Hilbrink baked the best chocolate chip cookies, and started making me cute little dresses, and helped me catch up on my reading, so I could go to school for the first time in my life. I loved school. And I loved how Chief and Mrs. Hilbrink were always extra nice to me, like I was someone fine.

  But it turned out that “heart attack” was very bad, because a few days later, Chief Hilbrink died. There was a huge funeral at Rothchild’s Funeral Home. All of Paradise turned out for it, because everyone loved Chief Hilbrink. And then, the next day, Mrs. Hilbrink said she was sorry, but she just couldn’t stay in Paradise without the Chief, and she didn’t think she could raise a child by herself, so she was moving on out to California, where she was going to live awhile with her sister.

  So I came to the Mason County Children’s Home and stayed for six months until Uncle Horace and Aunt Clara took me in.

  What makes me sad every time I thought about those six months in my life wasn’t that the home was such a bad place to be. No one was mean to me. I had some chores, but none of them were hard. I had plenty of food. I had clothes. I even had some toys. There was a big library, where I discovered my love of reading and read most everything, and lots of things twice, like Black Beauty and Little Women and the Chronicles of Narnia. It’s just that I was very, very lonely there. And alone. Two separate things, alone and lonely. And I was both. Alone can be okay, if it’s for a time, and if it’s what you want. But I had thought being alone—and feeling lonely—would never end.

  Some of that feeling came back now, as I stared at the orphanage. A big old hungry maw of loneliness, wanting to swallow me whole again.

  Then I thought of Elroy, and poor Lewis, and Tyra, and a mix of worry and sadness and anger filled the hole, kept me from tumbling into a pit of self-pity, moved me into action. I walked down the hill, being careful not to slip on the grass that was still wet from the previous night’s rain. I climbed over the fence, trying to figure out how I could get in and take a closer look at those T-shirts.

  But I didn’t need to be clever about how to get in. As soon as I looked up after my climb over the fence and focused on the building, I saw the back door was hanging open.

  I stepped in, to the smell and grit of dust and dirt, pulled out my flashlight, and shone it around. And found nothing there except the dust and dirt. The red Tyra Grimes T-shirts were all gone.

  9

  They were there when I got back to my apartment, waiting for me.

  Not the T-shirts, of course.

  But—them. A man and a woman, who would end up adding even more trouble to an already stirred-up pot of it.

  He was tall, dark-haired, cute. She was petite, blond, cute. They were both in their mid-thirties, and they looked professional even though they just had on jeans and knit shirts and rain jackets. I think it was their shoes. They had on tan leather shoes and white socks—but not chunky athletic socks. Smooth knit socks. Professional people—people of a certain suburban middle class nature—always wear socks and shoes like that with jeans.

  I didn’t recognize the man or the woman, which meant they weren’t from Paradise. (Of course, the shoes were proof of that anyway. Paradisites wear sneakers with their jeans, unless they’re going hunting, in which case they wear hunting boots.)

  They stood in front of my door, grinning at me with grins that were big and eager and a little surprised, like the grins the scientists in khaki-colored clothes and funny bowl-shaped hats have when they sneak up on cheetahs or orangutans or other wild creatures on those public TV nature shows.

  The woman stepped forward, holding her hand out, and said in this tone that was hushed with great reverence and awe, “Are you . . .” she paused to gulp—“are you Jo
sie Toadfern? The Josie Toadfern? The stain expert?”

  Now, I have to admit that her saying that, in just that way—especially after all the teasing I’d gotten when I first declared my plan to get on the Tyra Grimes Home Show, and after all that had happened since Tyra had come just yesterday, and after learning today that she wasn’t really going to have me on her show—I have to admit that the woman talking to me like that, all reverent and awed and impressed, got to me.

  So when the man stepped forward and said they really, really, really needed to talk to me, I said okay. And then I did something really, really, really stupid. I invited them into my apartment. After all, I told myself, maybe they were newlyweds and they’d found me because they knew only I, in all of the world, could help them with something important, like maybe how to get a pesky coffee stain out of the heirloom quilt they’d gotten from her aunt.

  As it turned out, they were really Steve and Linda Crooks, former investigative reporters, now freelance writers working on a book, one of those tell-all, no-holds-barred, unauthorized biography-type books, about Tyra Grimes.

  We were drinking glasses of iced tea at my table when they told me this.

  “We’d like your help with the book,” Steve said. “Your insight into Tyra’s character, your observations about her, that kind of thing.”

  Linda leaned toward me, practically quivering with excitement. “You could really add a whole new dimension to our book. The depth we’re looking for. Of course, we’re hoping we can quote you . . .”

  “Now, Linda,” Steve said. “Don’t be too pushy. Maybe Josie would rather be quoted anonymously.”

  “Oh no, you can use my name,” I said hastily, then stopped. What was I saying? I was agreeing to something without really thinking it through . . . but me, Josie Toadfern, in a book? Maybe that would be important enough to help get Paradise back on the map, since I obviously wasn’t going to get Paradise any attention by going on the Tyra Grimes Home Show.