Murder in the Pachysandra

by Linda A. Lavid

  Roxanne was standing in the doorway.

  “Take your time. No hurry.”

  Roxanne flashed a smile, disappeared, and ran upstairs.

  Hattie returned to the dining table, opened her purse, and took out the condolence card and pen. As she waited, overhead footsteps crossed back and forth. Voices, one high, one low, spoke indiscernibly. A door opened, someone stomped, another door slammed. Soon light footsteps descended the stairs.

  Roxanne had changed into a pair of black pleated pants and the faintest pink cashmere sweater. A short string of pearls circled her neck. But her hair and face remained the same. The fine clothes and haggard look, were as oddly mismatched as a veiled bride in an old chenille robe. She carried a black lacquered box.

  “Sorry. I have to go out shortly.”

  “Yes, of course. We got to talking and I forgot why I came over.” Hattie held up the card. “I thought it would be nice for everyone on the block to write a few words to Jason’s family. And if you’re interested, I’m also collecting a donation. No set amount. If this is not a good time, I could stop by later or some evening.”

  “Don’t be silly, now’s just fine. I have another twenty minutes. No rush.”

  She sat beside Hattie, took the card and placed it next to the box she had brought. They both looked at each other through the mirror.

  Roxanne’s eyes flitted to her own reflection. “God, I look like hell.” She lifted the lid, took out some lotion and rubbed it on her face. “What did you think of my pictures?”

  “They are remarkable, very becoming.”

  “Illusion. That’s my business. Women come into the shop with pictures of actresses and high-fashion models wanting to look just like them.” She brushed some hair off her forehead, leaned back, and plucked a few hairs from her brow. “It’s comical, especially when the woman is twice the size and double the age. Still I do my best.”

  She took some flesh-colored cream, dotted it on the dark circles around her eyes, and blended it into her skin.

  “I used to tell women to work with what they had. But no one really wants to look like themselves.”

  Hattie sat mesmerized by the transformation that was taking place.

  “It’s the one thing I learned at the club. An arched brow can be penciled in on anyone’s face. Whatever you want, you got it. Shave it, pluck it, draw it in. It’s yours. Luscious lips or pouty ones, no problem. Long hair, short hair, curly or straight, dark, light or anywhere in between, just spin the color wheel and an hour later, it’s done.”

  As Roxanne spoke, she twisted open lids and applied different colors to various parts of her face. With each dab, stroke and puff, her familiar face began to surface. She yanked off the rubber band that held her pony tail and shook her head like a wet dog. Blond highlights glittered as strands of hair curled around her cheekbones and trailed to the nape of her neck. After adjusting the color of her lips, she sat back and said, “Showtime.”

  Hattie peered at Roxanne’s face. Her extraordinarily pretty neighbor was back. “My dear, you look remarkable.”

  Roxanne laughed and fanned her hands in front of her. “God, this place is smoky. Better open a window before my eyes start to itch and I have to start over.”

  She got up and cracked open a window on a far wall. “You know Mrs. Moon I’d love to see you in the shop. Come in anytime that’s convenient. I’ll give you a total makeover with a first-visit discount.”

  Hattie looked at herself in the mirror. Her shrunken head popped up through the collar of her oversized coat like a turtle. She sat straighter. “Oh my. I haven’t been to a beauty parlor in years. I’m too far gone.”

  Roxanne reached for a strand of Hattie’s hair, rubbing it between her fingers. “Don’t be silly.” Leveling her face to Hattie’s, her eyes darted every which way. “You have a lot of natural resources to work with. Healthy hair, even-toned skin. I’d use a warm strawberry color for your hair with a hint of auburn. Then some pinkish foundation, calypso lipstick, and a little ash-brown eyeliner. You’d be as fresh and airy as cotton candy. Think about it, won’t you?”

  Hattie nodded.

  Roxanne reached for the card, opened it, and read what was written.

  “As you can see, Scott and Ralph already signed.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “You’ve heard about their feud?”

  “Oh, yeah. I hear about everything at the shop. Who’s sleeping with who, what so and so said to the other so and so. It’s my live and in-living-color soap opera, twenty-four seven.”

  “It must be interesting being so involved.”

  “I suppose. But I’m not looking forward to tomorrow. Since this nightmare, I’m running on empty.”

  “I know exactly how you feel.”

  Roxanne poised the pen and began to write in large flourishing strokes.

  Hattie had never met anyone like Roxanne who had a chameleon-like quality that went beyond her ever-changing looks. Who would have thought that within ten minutes a person could change from being so emotionally distraught to being so seemingly calm and collected?

  Roxanne stopped writing as another pair of footsteps rattled down the stairs.

  “Bailey,” she called out. “Say hello to Mrs. Moon.”

  Bailey blinked vaguely at Hattie, mumbled something and quickly disappeared. Moments later, cupboard doors slammed. “What am I supposed to eat?” he demanded.

  “Boys,” Roxanne whispered, “do they ever grow up?” Without responding to Bailey’s question, she added, “And how’s that cute son of yours.”

  Hattie grinned. “Howie? Oh, he’s fine.”

  “Mother!” Bailey yelled.

  Roxanne seemed to be thinking of what else to write. “Be with you in a minute,” she said with distraction.

  Bailey barreled into the room with a kitchen knife in his hand. “Tit for tat, Mother?”

  Roxanne glanced up. A worried look broke onto her face. “What are you doing?”

  “You gonna fix me something or do you want me to slice my wrist?”

  Hattie waited for someone to laugh. No one did. Instead mother and son stared at each other.

  “Bailey, put that down. We have company.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re very popular these days.”

  Roxanne ignored him and gave Hattie the card. “Here you go, Mrs. Moon.”

  Hattie read, My thoughts and prayers are with you during this difficult time. Roxy and Bailey Pastelle.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “As far as a donation, I’ll be sending the family flowers.”

  “How thoughtful.” Hattie stood. “I must be going.”

  “Bailey, wasn’t it nice to see Mrs. Moon?”

  Bailey’s bloodshot eyes looked directly at Hattie. Suddenly, a slow lopsided grin appeared. “It’s been real.”

  On the way out, Hattie reached and gave him a pat. “Take care of yourself.”

  Roxanne led Hattie to the door. “Don’t worry about Bailey. He’s prone to theatrics.”

  Hattie nodded but felt uncomfortable. Bailey was a troubled young man.

  Once outside, Hattie reached for the stair railing and stopped. Bailey’s voice emptied from the window Roxanne had opened.

  “Prone to theatrics, Mother?”

  “Go pack your stuff. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Like hell. This is no joke. You’re eighteen. If you don’t go into rehab, you could end up in jail.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “Bailey, I can’t take this anymore.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Don’t talk to me that way.” Roxanne’s voice cracked.

  “Sure. Bring on the crocodile tears. Your dramatics are getting better every day.”

  Chilled by Bailey’s taunts, Hattie wrapped her coat tighter and proceeded down the steps.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was another godawful night. No wolves this
time, but hours of tossing and turning. Hattie glanced at Orin’s old office clock long since repositioned on an end table next to the couch––3:22––when another number dropped into position with an insipid click––3:23. Her thoughts continued to tumble along dark, endless corridors.

  To think she could conduct an investigation was folly, an old woman’s delusion. What did she know about crime? Drugs? Evidence? What did she know about a murderer beyond Perry Mason, Alfred Hitchcock? She was over her head. Way over. Look at her. On the couch, wrapped in an afghan, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, watching, of all ridiculous things, a clock with flipping numbers. Hattie sat upright, jostling Lucy from her curled spot. She glanced at Orin. “I can’t do this.”

  In the darkened room, her husband’s dim reflection echoed the usual response––not a peep.

  Hattie sighed when an inner voice said, no harm in trying. She asserted aloud, “But I’m clueless. Literally.”

  Rome wasn’t built in a day.

  Hattie chided herself. “Tiresome cliché.”

  And what about the others?

  She pulled the blanket to her chin. “Others?”

  Does a murderer only kill once?

  Hattie froze. Until now, this possibility never occurred to her. Okay. The die was cast. She’d have to bumble along the best she could. “But how?”

  Stay with the knowable.

  “The knowable. And what would that be?”

  Another number on the clock clicked when Hattie’s mind did the same. It wasn’t a what, it was a who. Jason. He left a trail of breadcrumbs, not after he ended up in her yard but before. Certainly, someone at some time had seen him. She just needed to retrace his steps, and go backward, not forward. She bit the inside of her lip. Sure, she was bound to run into people like Mr. Emerson, suspicious and ready to slam the door, but who could blame him? Except for the few people on her block, no one knew or had seen Hattie in years. Then it came to her––the perfect place to ratchet up the investigation.

  Within minutes she closed her eyes and fell sound asleep.

  “Ma, which one would you like? The wristband or the necklace?”

  Hattie didn’t like either. “Howie, I’m not sure I need all this stuff. There’s already a button on the machine.”

  “I know. But you may not always be near the system. You could fall in the bathroom or down in the basement.”

  “Mrs. Moon, your son’s right. It’s really important to have one of these buttons on you at all times. They also come in different colors, styles.” He opened a briefcase. “There’s a really nice pink one. Very popular.” He pulled out a beaded necklace. “It’s lightweight and you hardly notice the button.”

  Hattie reached for it. “I’m supposed to wear this at all times?”

  “Ma, you agreed.”

  “I know Howie. I remember. But the necklace is…”

  “Is what?”

  “What if I take a shower?”

  “Good question!” the man said. “Every personal alarm is waterproof.”

  Hattie nodded. “I see. And if I wear the necklace to bed is there any chance of it strangling me? I toss and turn a fair amount.”

  The man beamed. “Mrs. Moon, all our pendants have a breakaway clasp.”

  “Oh. But what if I have a stroke and can’t push the button.”

  “Mrs. Moon we have special sensors that automatically notify us if you fall. You don’t even have to use the button.”

  Hattie smiled. She’d have to remember to throw herself onto the floor if she felt odd. “My, you certainly have thought of everything.”

  “Almost everything,” Howie said. “Ma, you got to wear it.”

  “But certainly not in public. Right?”

  “Actually, you could go outside. The signal is good for 300 feet.”

  “Yes. But there must be a limit. Say I go out to lunch.”

  “Ma, when’s the last time you went out to lunch?”

  “It could happen.”

  “We got that covered to. You’d have to go mobile, but it’s an easy transition.”

  “Mobile?”

  “It’s a wireless device Mrs. Moon. Works with your cellphone service.”

  “Howie, how do we get cellphone service?”

  “Ma. How about we deal with one thing at a time.”

  “Sounds good,” Hattie said.

  The salesman clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s give it a whirl. Ready?”

  For the next ten minutes, Hattie turned the machine on and off, pressed different buttons and talked to a disembodied voice. She walked from the living room into the kitchen with Howie and the man in tow. They climbed the stairs into her rarely-used bedroom and did more tests.

  “By George,” the man said. “I think you got it.”

  Back in the living room, Howie beamed. “This is great! We should have done this years ago.”

  Hattie smiled politely. Yes. But they hadn’t and there had to be a reason.

  After the man left, Hattie looked at Howie. “Why are you suddenly so concerned for my safety?”

  “Ma, I always worry about you.”

  “But why now? In two days, you’ve nailed the basement windows shut, fixed the back fence, and got me this personal alarm system. Does this have to do with Jason’s death?”

  Howie took a deep breath. “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “But Jason, according to you and everyone else, died from an accidental overdose. Meanwhile you’re reacting as if there’s imminent danger. What are you not telling me? What do you know?”

  Howie raised his hands. “There’s nothing to tell. I don’t know any more than you.”

  “It seems like you might, and I’d have to agree with you.”

  “Agree with me?”

  “He didn’t die of an accidental overdose. He was murdered.”

  Howie reeled back. “Murdered? Jeez, Ma. If I actually thought Jason was murdered, you’d have to get the heck out of here.”

  Oops. So much for getting her son involved. She quickly changed the subject. “Have you spoken to Ted?”

  “No.”

  “I spoke with him the other day. He hung up on us.”

  “Us?”

  “Muriel and me.”

  Howie rolled his eyes.

  Hattie wanted to tell Howie about Ted’s sordid past but didn’t want to implicate Roxanne. She wouldn’t play a part in that nonsense.

  “Ma, he’s just doing his job.”

  “Doing his job? And what would that be? Collecting a paycheck?”

  “There are protocols in investigative work. You can’t jump to conclusions or make assumptions. Police work is complicated.”

  It was Hattie’s turn to roll her eyes.

  “By the way, I spoke with Ralph. The fence is fixed. He also raked up the leaves.”

  Hattie sat up. “Did he mention if he found anything?”

  “There was no sign of Jason’s baseball cap.”

  Hattie leaned back. The darn hat had to be somewhere. If it wasn’t on her property could it be on the other side of the fence?

  “Listen, Ma, I know this whole thing with Jason is upsetting, but you’re going to have to leave matters up to the professionals.”

  Hattie smiled politely and changed the subject. “I took the condolence card over to Roxanne’s yesterday. She asked about you.”

  “Me? Really?”

  “Yes, she said ‘how’s that cute son of yours?’”

  “She called me cute?”

  “Exact words.”

  Howie stared off. “Wow.”

  “We had an interesting visit. She offered me a makeover with a discount.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Yes. Very generous. In fact, I’m thinking of going over to her shop later this morning.”

  “But I can’t take you.”

  “Howie, you don’t have to take me. It’s right around the corner. Besides you’re always complaining I don’t get out enough. It’ll be fun. She’s very talented wi
th makeup. An expert, I’d say.”

  Howie sighed. “Listen, this may not be the best idea, but maybe Muriel could join you.”

  “Yes! Oh, she’d love that!”

  “Promise me the two of you will behave.”

  “What could happen in the middle of the day?”

  Howie’s eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Muriel was sitting on the couch, cocooned in her red down coat. “Can’t wait to go over to Roxanne’s. Kick ass idea. What made you think of it?”

  “It was something she said yesterday. How the salon is the hub of activity, like a soap opera. What a better way to investigate. Just plant ourselves down for a couple of hours and see what we can find out.”

  Muriel’s eyes gleamed. “Yeah. Going undercover.”

  Hattie recalled Howie’s concern about Muriel. She looked at her friend. “But subtle, like flies on the wall.”

  “Most def. Two Mata Haris. So what kind of stuff should we pay attention to?”

  “We got to find out if anyone talked to Jason.”

  Muriel nodded. “Critical.”

  “And if not that, whether they saw him and what they saw.”

  Muriel clapped her hands. “Got it, Sherlock.”

  Hattie looked over a couple of hats––one black, the other red.

  Muriel continued. “Guess what? Ralph let me into his house yesterday.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “You know sometimes he can be abrupt.”

  “Yes. I’m aware.”

  “Have you been inside his house?”

  Hattie shook her head. “Not in years.”

  “He’s a collector, just like me.”

  Hattie settled on the red hat. Old people, she decided, looked more cheerful with some color.

  “Well, not particularly new things. His living room is a workshop. All kinds of tables, parts of things and tools lying around. The room could use a woman’s touch.”

  Oh boy. There’d be coconuts on the moon before Ralph would let a woman decorate.

  “Anyway, he was happy about the pie. He said he’d have it for dessert after dinner. I thanked him for helping me the other night and reassured him there was no need to worry about me.”

  “How nice you got to visit.”