by Carol Schaal
“We’re not competing with anyone,” Sarah finally said. “So why, why would someone want to delay our opening?” She rubbed her nose with the back of her glove, smudging more dirt on her face.
“And our store wasn’t the only one in danger,” I said. “If the fire really had caught, it could have burned down several shops on this block.”
“No, I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t happen. Firewalls were, they were required for the stores way back when to keep, to make sure fires don’t spread.”
“That’s a relief, and not even something I thought to check on when I bought this place,” I said, and internally winced at my words. Would that make Sarah feel like I was rubbing it in? But she didn’t react, her thoughts no doubt still on the damage the shop had sustained.
“At least we’re each other’s alibis,” I said in a meager attempt to lighten the mood.
“Great,” Sarah said. “That means they won’t believe either one of us.”
We looked at each other. Sarah grinned. I blame it on her. I started to laugh, then both of us were laughing so hard we were crying.
Smithal walked up, looked at us in surprise, and smiled. “Shock will do that,” the insurance agent said. “But I hope it makes you feel better. And I’ll contact some construction companies first thing in the morning to get the process rolling.” He looked at his watch. “That’s only a few hours from now. I’ll try to get a couple out here for bids right away. And I’m going to walk around and take pictures of the damaged merchandise.”
He hesitated, then shared the bad news. “Don’t take this as gospel, but even if a company can start work right away, from my experience, I think it’ll be at least a month before you can open.”
Sarah and I looked at each other.
“Guess we’ll have to go get all those grand re-opening signs back,” Sarah said. “And, and announce a fire sale.”
Smithal shook his head as Sarah and I burst into hysterical laughter again.
29
Before I fell into bed that morning, I texted Cassandra, telling her about the fire and suggesting she not give her notice at Waves End for another couple weeks, as the Bathing Beauty opening day was obviously going to be later than originally planned.
After less than six hours sleep, I dragged myself to the fire station. Sarah was already there, sitting on a hard plastic chair, her face clean now but pale. We were ushered to the office of Captain McDougall, whose trim, middle-aged body looked none the worse for wear despite his long hours of work the previous evening and that morning.
“We’re a small department, so I am also the arson investigator,” he said. “My report will be forwarded to the Alleton police, and they’ll probably contact you soon with more questions.”
When he asked where Sarah and I had been yesterday, I was careful not to look her way as we alibied each other, afraid I would start laughing again. The captain didn’t remark on our statements but took careful notes. If suspicions got too intense, I figured the local police could check and find some proof of our innocence, like what time I picked up the pizza, or what cell phone towers said about my location when Sarah had called about the fire. Maybe one of my neighbors had seen Sarah arrive or noticed her car in the visitors’ outside parking lot. And experience told me that the insurance company would do its own investigating.
We were no help when Captain McDougall asked us who might want to burn down the store. Enemies? Business rivals? The phrase “random killer” entered my mind, but I didn’t go down that crazy street.
When we left the fire department office, Sarah suggested we return to my condo and discuss our options for a different opening date. “I also have an idea I want, I need to discuss.”
She didn’t elaborate, but I wondered if she would ask me about my unsanctioned visit to her house.
At the condo, coffee for her, tea for me, we sat across from each other at my dining room table. We each flipped through the photos we had taken earlier that morning of the interior of Bathing Beauty. Our insurance guy, Smithal, was true to his word and had contacted a couple of renovation firms. We were scheduled to meet with them at the shop the next day.
Sarah pointed to the photo showing the back corner of the shop, an area that would need extensive renovation work. It also was what we both thought of as an awkward space because it did not flow smoothly from the front of the shop. The office took up the other corner, and customers had to move to their left, around the office, to find the area.
Sarah opened her laptop and hit a couple of keys. She turned it to me and I saw an architectural blueprint of what appeared to be a foyer leading to a smaller room.
“This,” she said, pointing to the enclosure, “would be a spray-tan booth. Customers could, they would disrobe in the outer foyer, which is enclosed, enter the smaller booth and, and be sprayed with a tanning solution. That would take only a few minutes. Once it’s done, they go back into the outer area, put on a moisturizing lotion and get dressed.”
She looked at me, her eyes questioning. “I think it’s a great service for all the winter-pale people who, who don’t want to hit the beach looking like the white belly of a fish. I also think it would be a hit for all seasons, because most women these days don’t wear nylons, but, but they don’t want to show up with pale legs.
“I, I checked all the Alleton beauty salons, and none of them offers this service.”
She leaned back, crossed her arms, and shrugged her shoulders. “What do you think? We already have to renovate that section of the store, so it would be an easy change.”
“I like it,” I said, my mind immediately turning to financial considerations. We would need two bids from the renovation companies, one for repair of the corner and the second for the redesign. We’d pay the difference that the insurance wouldn’t cover. But it could work.
Sarah raised her clenched fists in a victory cheer. “I’m so glad,” she said. “I suggested, I talked about this with my mom, but, but she was never one for moving forward.”
Before any sense of celebration could overtake the room, Sarah closed her laptop, took a deep breath, and stared at me, eyes narrowed. “And perhaps, maybe now is the time for you to tell me why you were at my house Monday. A neighbor saw your car in the driveway.”
“Give me a minute,” I said. I got up, went into the bedroom and picked up a medium-sized box, wrapped in bright blue paper with a white bow on top. I caught sight of my face in the mirror, pale and drained, and forced a smile to my lips. Back in the living area, I set the box on the table in front of Sarah.
“Go ahead and open it,” I said, “then I can explain.”
She carefully removed the bow and unwrapped the paper, opened the box, and reached in to pull out the object inside. About seven inches high and five inches wide, it was swathed in tissue paper. She pulled off the tissue paper and looked at the object, then placed it on the table in front of her.
I reached across the table and dropped a penny into the small platter that was held up by a miniature cast iron pig, who was sitting on a log. I pressed down the small lever coming out of the pig’s back. The pig’s arms lifted the platter, and the coin dropped into the pig’s open mouth with a soft clunk.
I pressed some buttons on my phone and showed Sarah the screen. The first picture was of her pine desk, the mechanical piggy bank sitting on top. I revealed the next five pictures, each a close-up of the bank.
“I know how much that bank means to you, because it was a gift from your dad,” I said. “And the owner of one of the booths at the antique mall said he thought he could take a piece of this bank that he had in stock,” I pointed to the one on the table, “and replace the broken section of your bank. Then yours would work. You’d have a bank that would be mostly the original one your dad gave you, with a minor tweak so the pig would take the coin.”
Sarah just kept looking at the bank. “I went to your house to take the pictures of your bank,” I said. “And I’m sorry if it seems like a stupid idea. May
be you don’t want a hybrid of the bank. And I was going to give it to you to celebrate the re-opening of Bathing Beauty, but you needed an explanation of why I sneaked into your house …”
Sarah touched the mechanical piggy bank and looked over at me. She blinked away tears. “That is, that is one of the most wonderful, thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me,” she said. “And I, I would love it if the antiques guy could fix mine. Unlike my mom, Dad always believed change could be a good thing. He, he would think your idea is a grand one.”
I brushed away my own tears. Yes, I had meant to do it as a surprise for her, and I hoped it would make her happy. But I knew those good intentions were mixed with my own agenda, and a lot of my own happiness was because I had gotten away with my illegal home invasion and had not damaged our relationship.
Although her heartfelt reaction of thanks made me feel like a swine rolling in filth, I did not regret my actions.
30
“I love my grandbabies,” Aunt Raelynn said when I called her after Sarah left, “but sometimes they can be sour pickles.” She puckered her face at the screen, then grinned.
I made the video call to update her on the latest disturbing events, but before launching into my tale of disaster, I was anxious to hear about a life where normalcy reigned. Raelynn didn’t disappoint, regaling me with her day’s domestic crisis.
“One of the twins’ friends just got a cat, and Taralynn and Darlene think life would be perfect if I adopted one. I explained that a cat would not be perfect for their grandpa’s allergies, and their faces just crumbled. Tara yelled ‘It’s not fair!’ and stomped outside, where she threw stones at the playhouse. Dar sulked on the sofa, muttering about how she never gets what she wants. And I’m the big bad wolf.”
I threw back my head and laughed at Raelynn’s garbled metaphor.
“Then what?” I asked. “Ice cream? A guinea pig? Long existential discussion of how life isn’t always fair, and you must suck it up, buttercup?”
“Nah,” she said. “Hugs and kisses and a dance around the table to ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’” She stood up and attempted a Mick Jagger move, one so bad I choked on my chamomile tea.
“Hey, sweet pea, it made ’em laugh. Eased the pain. When their mom picked them up, I figured it was her and my son’s turn for the full-scale frontal attack. And how about you? Is that detective still giving you a hard time?”
I wiggled in the recliner, trying my best to look relaxed, hoping my aunt wouldn’t freak out over my news.
“More on that later, but here’s something wonderful. Do you have room for a temporary guest? I’m flying to Tampa for a visit in a week or so, and if you put me up for a few days, I’ll repay the favor by teaching you how to move like Jagger.”
Raelynn leaned close to the screen. “Ah, sweetie, what happened? Are you giving up the shop?”
I grimaced. “No. Somebody set fire to the store, and we have to delay the opening until we do some rebuilding. We’re looking at early or mid-March now for the grand re-opening.”
“Wait! Somebody set fire to your shop? Vic, tell me true now. Are you safe? What’s going on?”
I told her. About the death of Dennis. About how the suspects in his death were limited to the people at the private wake for Bernice at Waves End gallery. About how Maccini had discovered my past. And about how I was snooping around.
“Even Maccini can’t figure out how the two deaths might be connected,” I told her, “and I can’t either. Nothing makes sense.” I took a sip of my now-cold tea.
“Okay,” said Raelynn, who had listened carefully during my recitation. “I’m not going to tell you to stop detecting. You never listen anyway.” She smiled to take away the sting of her words. “But I do have a question. Could there be two killers? Maybe someone you don’t know killed Bernice. Then maybe one of your Alleton circle killed Dennis for a completely unrelated reason. Sounds like his wife or his son might be suspects.”
“I’m having dinner with Tami in about an hour,” I told Raelynn. “After she heard about the fire, she called and invited me over. Should I ask if she or D.J. are killers?”
My aunt blew a raspberry at the screen. “You are shortening my life, dear. So promise me, for real, that you won’t take unnecessary chances. Two murders are not a laughing matter.”
I drew a cross over my heart. “I promise,” I said, then switched the conversation to possible dates for my upcoming visit. Raelynn might disagree with me about what “unnecessary chances” means, and I wasn’t about to get into that discussion.
31
After that phone call, which didn’t resolve any of my fears but did make me feel better, I put on some warmer clothes and headed out to Tami’s place.
Her neighborhood was quiet, most of the houses showing the blue light of television screens through front window curtains. The smell of beef stew wafted out as Tami opened her door. Dressed in a dark orange sweatshirt and blue jeans, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, eyes underscored with black smudges, shoulders slumped, she looked ready for a long nap.
“Come on in,” she said, her voice soft. “I’m just finishing the stew, so we can eat right away.” She took my jacket, which still smelled of smoke, and wrinkled her nose. “That must have been a shock. All that work, and a damn fire.”
She led me to a dining area just off a kitchen that featured dated almond-colored appliances and offered me a chair at an oak table marred by scratches. “I’ll get the stew. You want a beer?” A few minutes later I dipped a piece of sourdough bread into a bowl thick with meat, potatoes, and carrots, the hearty dish soothing my battered soul.
“This is just what I needed, thanks Tami. You doing okay?”
She took a swig of beer. “D.J.’s a big help. He’s hurting, too, but some of his female friends from school are doing their part to make him feel better.” She grinned. “Sometimes I still can’t believe he’s my boy. Den and me would look at family pictures and wonder how us two produced what one of his high-school girlfriends called ‘a dreamboat.’”
The rest of the meal passed quietly, and Tami and I eased into a comfortable companionship. We both ate a generous portion of what Tami said was her mother’s stew recipe, and I eventually stopped, sated. At Tami’s suggestion, we moved into the living room. It reminded me of Bernice’s front room, the furniture outdated, frayed, and lumpy in the wrong places. Tami perched at the end of a sofa, I sat in a chair, my bottle of beer on the table beside me, and finally broached the subject I was most interested in. “You heard anything from the police yet?”
Tami’s reaction ended the easy-going atmosphere. “Do you know that Maccini guy? The detective?” I nodded. “Do you know what he asked me?” I shook my head no. “That big jerk wanted to know where I was the day Bernice died. And where Dennis was, too. Do you freaking believe that? Dennis is dead, and this damn cop wants to know if maybe Den was out killing Bernice a week before he died.”
I wanted to know the same thing and was thrilled to find out Maccini had asked, even if Tami was so angry about the question that she could barely spit out the words. “We both were at the shop that day, of course, but he wanted some sort of proof. We had to go to the store, and I had to dig out receipts, some signed by Den, some by me, and do you know how that made me feel, my husband dead and this cop didn’t care a bit about that.”
She pounded on the arm of the sofa with her right fist, steamrolling through the outrage of that interview.
“After the jerk decided Den and I had not killed the Dragon Lady, he started in on me, and what had I been doing at the wake and did I give Den any poison and you know I’ve heard you two argued a lot and maybe you thought life would be better without him, and he went on and on like that until I stood up and told him to get the hell out of my sight, and you know what he said, like I should forget he was accusing me of killing Den, he said ‘So sorry ma’am, just doing my job, and I know you would want to help me find out who did these murders.’ And let’s
not forget what they pulled with that damn search warrant.” Tami, inhaling deeply, finally ran out of steam.
I wanted to ask her about D.J. and his alibi but knew she would shut me down cold, so instead I reached over to take her hand, trying to offer some comfort. The look of fury I got made me yank my hand away and scoot back in my chair, increasing the distance between us.
“And you,” she said, “Miss So-Full-of-Sympathy, I gotta think this all started happening once you got to town and talked Bernice into selling the store to you even though her daughter was the one who deserved it and even though Den and I offered a more than fair price ’cause we wanted to move onto the main drag. Maybe that Maccini needs to ask you all those stupid questions ’cause I got plenty of things I’d like you to explain.”
Tami’s unexpected onslaught was like a slap in my face. Apparently, Maccini wasn’t the only one she held a grudge against. But she hadn’t asked a question and I was afraid to contradict her perception of my purchase of Bathing Beauty. The last thing she would accept was an argument from me, but I didn’t know what to say that would ease her acrimony. Instead, I reached over and picked up the bottle holding a few remaining swallows of beer and cradled it in my hands while willing my heart to beat more slowly.
I threw Tami a quick look, fearful of what I might see, but she was staring off into the distance, her breathing regular, her face calm, her hands relaxed on her lap.
I finished off the beer, set the bottle back on the end table, and cleared my throat. “Ask me what you want,” I said, holding my hands out, palms up. “But first I will tell you Maccini talked to me several days ago, same as he talked to Sarah and pretty much the way he talked to you. He’s a jerk to everyone.”