“He’d been eavesdropping on the salon,” I blurted. “Stinky was listening from the basement.”
“Ain’t that a pisser?” Roxanne said, slipping into Pennsylvania vernacular. “What a sense of humor that clown has.”
“Did you ask him if he’d been eavesdropping?”
“See now, there’s the worst part. I got so mad at him that I broke my promise and went down to the basement. You wouldn’t believe what I found. Wires. Tubes. All these canisters and—this is the strangest part—blow-dryers.”
“Blow-dryers?”
“I counted twenty of them, though others were in pieces.”
“Did you ask him what he was doing with all those blow-dryers?”
Roxanne shook her head. “Didn’t have a chance. I was too mad. When Stinky came home from the Hole, I was waiting with that stuff in a pile and his bags packed at my feet. Then I read him the riot act. Cuz, I really went to town.”
She started tearing up again. “I told him it was bad enough, the years of fake dog doo and the nut jars with springing snakes. I didn’t like his little pranks. Still, I had tolerated them. But this, listening in on clients and then pretending to blackmail them, this was too much. It wasn’t just tasteless and cruel, it stood to ruin my business.”
“You were right, Roxanne,” I said, handing her a tissue from a box on the counter. Your business has been ruined, I caught myself from adding.
“I wasn’t right. I was wrong. I lost my husband and now I’m alone. I was stupid.” She dabbed her eyes. “How could I have been so stupid?”
I rubbed circles on her back. “Roxanne, I do something stupid every day.”
“Yeah, but you can’t help it,” she said. “You’re Bubbles. You bleached your eyebrows in junior high school and ended up in the emergency room.”
I dropped my hand. Perfectly innocent mistake. How was I to know Clorox could make you blind? Wasn’t bleach, bleach? “So what was his response?”
“He was stunned.” Roxanne blew her nose. “He was so . . . crushed. Stinky took his bags and left. He said, ‘I should have left a long time ago.’ That was the last I heard from him. Until Donohue called me this morning and said you’d seen his Lexus at the Number Nine mine.”
I twirled the glass ashtray, thinking of Stinky. Then a bell rang in what some people consider a very large space between my ears. “Hold on. What buddy did he meet at the Hole?”
“Bud.”
“Okay.” Let’s try it again. “What bud?”
“That was his name, Bud. He was a car salesman, I think.”
A mouthful of supersweet coffee log-jammed in my throat. With great effort I swallowed it and said, “Bud Price?”
Roxanne’s eyes opened wide. “You know him?”
Even though I was a tad sketchy on Bud myself, I related what Stiletto had told me and Roxanne snapped her fingers. She slid off the stool and skipped over to the magazines on the coffee table, pulling out a copy of yesterday’s Slagville Sentinel newspaper. She opened it to a feature on Bud Price and a picture of him standing at the entrance of a mine, a roulette wheel in his hand. He was dressed in the same pink Izod shirt I’d seen on the corpse.
I gasped. “That’s him! That’s the man I saw shot dead last night.”
“Gosh. It never occurred to me that they were one and the same.” Roxanne stared at the newspaper. “Guess I should start reading the paper instead of buying it just for the customers. Mostly I skip to the coupons and ‘Dear Abby.’ ”
Must be genetic.
The headline read: “Price Sure Casino Is Safe.”
Outside came the sound of someone having great difficulty climbing the steps.
“My walk-in.” Roxanne handed me the newspaper. “The first in a month. She called this morning.” My cousin ran to the door like a school kid at a birthday party. “Mrs. Wychesko. Come in!”
Mrs. Wychesko, a heavy jowled woman in a ratty raccoon coat and gray plastic rain scarf, entered wheezing. “Those steps, Roxy, they’ll be the death of me,” she said, removing her rain scarf and folding it into a little fan. Roxanne introduced us and we nodded and smiled at each other, but I wasn’t eager to stick around.
I had important research to do.
Ten minutes later I was in Roxanne’s white enamel tub with the green-blue ring around the drain, enjoying a deep, detoxifying bath and reading about Bud Price’s plans to further family togetherness through craps.
The article was an update of Bud Price’s fight to bring casino gambling to one of the most destitute regions of Pennsylvania. It had been that destitution, Price’s excellent salesmanship and even testimony from a few has-been celebrities that prompted the legislature to issue a waiver permitting “limited” gambling on two hundred acres on Slagville’s border that Price had purchased from McMullen Coal the year before.
However, Price needed more than the legislature’s approval. He needed state building permits—an unfathomable prospect considering his casino was sited for the Dead Zone.
The Dead Zone was a buffer of land between McMullen Coal’s active mines and the neighboring town of Limbo, which sat on top of an underground mine fire. The fire had started one Memorial Day forty years ago when a lit cigarette ignited trash and then a band of anthracite. The blaze had been so devastating that the federal government had paid each Limbo resident forty grand to move out.
In turn, the government barred McMullen Coal from digging under the two-hundred-acre buffer area—which later took on the name the Dead Zone—for fear that new shafts would open pathways to the fire, bringing in dangerous oxygen and causing explosions. That land had been a white elephant for McMullen’s company—until Price offered to buy it last year, along with the mining rights, for twenty-five-thousand dollars.
Price had retained numerous experts who testified before state officials that it was impossible for the fire to spread under the Dead Zone, provided there was no underground mining. Opposing environmentalists argued that the fire could turn at any time, new shafts or not, and they painted the picture of a casino full of grandmas at slot machines collapsing into a giant sinkhole faster than the Titanic sank into the North Atlantic.
But their valid concerns fell on deaf ears in a region where unemployment hovered at twenty percent. Folks in Slagville wanted a casino that would bring in hotels, restaurants, an amusement park and jobs, jobs, jobs, and they pledged to descend on Harrisburg in busloads until they got it.
The permit proposal was under advisement. State planners were expected to issue a ruling by November—after elections, the article noted.
I studied a photo of Bud relaxing poolside at his estate in the nouveau riche Lehigh suburb of East Hills with wife, Chrissy, who was wearing a teeny-weeny black bikini. Despite her mass of ash blond hair, Chrissy was too old to be a Chrissy anymore. She was at least a Chris, if not a Christine. Her skin was sun-dried cowhide and stretched nearly as tight in a face-lift that was as painful to observe as it must have been to undergo.
The paragraph on Chrissy could have passed for a singles ad. She liked gardening, horses and had recently become involved in the Lehigh Women’s League as well as the historical society. In addition to being an avid golfer, Chrissy was a demon on the tennis court and spent every Christmas skiing in Aspen with her daughter, Sasha.
I put down the magazine and soaped up my legs while I pondered the enticing revelation that Stinky and Bud Price were drinking buddies. I considered Stinky’s locked and vacant Lexus. Maybe they arrived at the Number Nine mine together the night before. But why? And why trick Stiletto and me into showing up, too, just to try to blow us up? If Stinky had wanted me to be present, all he had to do was call me up and ask. He didn’t have to forge a letter from Mr. Salvo.
Now Price was dead and Stinky was missing. And Stiletto and I had barely escaped with our lives.
I had just finished rinsing my hair when the door slammed downstairs and the distinctive low and mellow tones of Stiletto emanated through the heating ducts. Yip
es!
I leaped out of the bathtub, dried off and wrapped my hair and body in Roxanne’s hot pink towels. Then I hopped down the stairs.
Stiletto was leaning close to Roxanne, who had the photo album open from which she was removing pictures of Stinky. I heard her remark, “That’s when Stinky met Bud Price. Now, I don’t know if you know who he is—”
“Roxanne!” I shouted, clasping the pink towel with one hand and waving the other.
Stiletto took in my skimpy covering. “Another distraction, Bubbles?”
“You two know each other?” Roxanne asked, tick-tocking a finger between the two of us.
I landed at the bottom of the stairs. “Roxanne, this is Stiletto.”
“The Stiletto? Like the knife?” She batted her false eyelashes.
Stiletto flashed me a victorious grin. Finally, finally someone had bought that, “Stiletto like the knife” line of his. “My, I’ve heard all about you from Aunt LuLu,” she gushed. “Didn’t I see a profile of you on 60 Minutes?”
“Only CNN,” Stiletto replied with false humility. “It was more a feature on land mines.”
“You risked your life showing how innocent children played around those hidden underground explosives every day.” Roxanne clasped her hands together. “You were so brave to—”
“Okay, okay,” I said, moving between them. “Break it up. Roxanne, don’t you have a client to tend to?” I pushed Stiletto toward the door. “And don’t you know this is a girls-only salon, Steve?”
“Don’t make him go,” whined Mrs. Wychesko from the chair as Roxy returned to finish rolling up her hair. “He’s so cute. He could be our mascot.”
Stiletto tucked the pictures in his back pocket. “I’ve got to leave, anyway. I have to shoot the owner of McMullen Coal.”
“Oh, please don’t!” Roxanne squealed. “Hasn’t there been enough violence already?”
Stiletto stared at her like she was loopy and I explained that Stiletto meant shoot photos, not bullets. “You talking about Hugh McMullen?” I asked, seething inside with envy.
“Very good, Bubbles. Don’t tell me you’ve actually been reading the newspapers?”
I resisted an urge to tweak his sore nose. “How did you get an interview with McMullen?”
“He drove into the gas station while I was returning the car. How’s that for kismet? If your Visa card hadn’t been as worthless as the plastic it was printed on, the AP wouldn’t have gotten an exclusive.”
“Exclusive?”
“Esmeralda Greene snagged that, actually. She picked me up at the Texaco and worked her charm on McMullen, got him to say Price shouldn’t have been trespassing in his mine. Nice guy.”
Drats, I thought, my hands balling into fists.
He checked his watch. “She’s probably finishing up with him now. I better get back there.”
Stiletto gave my bare shoulder a paternal pat. “You’ll find after working in this business as long as I have, Bubbles, that some of the best scoops come from just being in the right place at the right time. It’s not your fault that you didn’t get the McMullen interview first. There are other stories in your future.”
It was all I could do to keep from tearing my hair out. In fact, I was so furious that I barely heard the pfft and Stiletto yell, “Jesus H!”
He winced and slapped the back of his neck. “What the . . . ?”
Before anyone could answer, he had collapsed onto the floor, face first.
Roxy’s Homemade Detoxifying Bubble Bath
Jojoba oil is a natural detoxifying agent that can be found in co-ops or health food stores. This bath is nice because it’s both bubbly and softens skin. Next time someone makes a crack about you lying about in the bath reading mysteries, note that this is vital to your health and if they want you to live longer they should let you be. So there.
5 ounces of liquid body soap
1 tablespoon of jojoba oil
2 vitamin E capsules, split open
1 drop of vanilla
Mix ingredients in a bowl and return to an old shampoo bottle. (Don’t forget to mark clearly.) Dump ½ cup under running warm—not hot—bathwater. Relax and enjoy.
Chapter 6
“Bull’s-eye!” Genevieve proclaimed, bringing down her peashooter. “Should’ve gotten me one of these years ago. Handy little buggers.”
Genevieve, my mother’s sidekick in their Lehigh pierogi shop and a certified conspiracy nut, stood in the doorway admiring a thin brown straw clutched in her massive mitt. Her Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker frame was supersized by a bright yellow- and purple-flowered dress and white knee-highs slipping down her tree trunk legs.
“What did you do that for?” I demanded.
“Saved your life, didn’t I?” Genevieve said. “Strange man at the door. You half naked. Shoot first, skip the questions. That’s my motto.”
“That’s not a strange man. It’s Stiletto.” I turned his head so Genevieve could see.
Genevieve peered down at him, unconvinced. “Well, his Jeep wasn’t parked out front.” As though that provided justification.
“That’s because his Jeep blew up,” I said. “Look what you’ve done. And he fell on his nose, too. He was punched in that nose last night. It’s still swollen.”
“Nice going, toots. Serves the scum right.” Mama appeared, looking ridiculous as usual. Ever since she’d fallen for a hard-living race car driver who’d loved her and left her at the penitentiary gates, Mama had adopted a “bad girl” attitude—which took some imagination since Mama’s bad girlhood was a good fifty years behind her.
Today her wider-than-it-is-tall frame sported faux leather pants, Kmart mini boots and a scoop-neck tee that strained painfully over her sagging breasts. Spandex abuse. Head to toe she was in black, except for her lips, which were a smudged crimson. Gone was the grandmotherly coral of yesteryear.
“Hey,” Mama furrowed her wrinkled brow. “I’ve seen him someplace before.”
“That’s because it’s Stiletto,” I said, getting exasperated. “Genevieve shot Stiletto.”
“Don’t get huffy, Bubbles,” Mama said. “She was just trying to protect you. Kids these days. No sense of gratitude.”
“Amen,” said Genevieve.
Stiletto groaned. I removed a tiny quill from his neck and pinched it between my fingers.
“What is this?” I stood, handing Genevieve the quill.
“Tranquilizing dart,” Genevieve said. “Only, I used up all the free samples they handed out at End Times Survival Camp so I had to improvise. This one’s dipped in Sominex. Tripled the dose just to be safe.”
Roxanne and Mrs. Wychesko, apron still around her neck, approached.
“What a shame,” Mrs. Wychesko said, cocking her head. “I liked him much better alive.”
“He is still alive,” I said. “Isn’t he?”
“Let’s see.” Mama brought back her foot to kick him.
“Stop that.” I pushed her aside. “Have you no respect?”
“I’ve never witnessed anything like that in my life,” Mrs. Wychesko said. “It was all slow-mo.”
Roxanne was none too pleased. “You can’t leave him here for all the world to see. It’s not good marketing to have customers lying in the doorway, shot in the neck. Business is bad enough.”
Genevieve leaned down, shoved her size-twenty-two arms under his shoulders and dragged Stiletto across the orange shag rug to the couch in Roxanne’s parlor. With a grunt she picked him up and threw him on the cushions, tossing a black and multicolored crocheted afghan on him as an afterthought. If Stiletto ever spoke to me again, I’d be amazed.
Mama took me aside. “Listen, I didn’t raise up an ingrate. When Jane told us this morning that someone had tried to kill you, Genny ripped off her apron and rushed right up here to be your one woman personal security entourage. The least she deserves is a simple thank you.”
She might be dressed like a slut, but she was still my mother. I did as I was told when Genevie
ve returned.
“Thank you, Genevieve,” I droned, “for shooting my boyfriend with Sominex.”
Genevieve blushed. “Aw, that’s okay, Bubbles. It was a pleasure.”
I slapped my head. It was no use.
Mama looked around the salon. “Hell’s bells, it’s great to be back in my hometown. Nothing like visiting the old stomping grounds of one’s youth to feel invigorated again. Biggest mistake I ever made was leaving Slagville for Lehigh. Yessiree. ’Course it’s hard to stick around when there ain’t no work.”
“How come you’re here, anyway?” I asked Mama. And how soon will you be leaving, I wanted to add. “Don’t tell me you’re part of my security entourage, too.”
“She’s looking for the Nana diary,” Genevieve cut in.
“The Nana diary?”
Mama’s kohl-lined eyes narrowed with suspicion. “At my last visit up here someone swiped Nana Yablonsky’s diary, the one that contains all our best pierogi recipes.”
“What if it gets in the hands of Mrs. T?” Genevieve asked, crossing herself at the mention of the doyenne of the flash-frozen potato ravioli. “She’s right in Pottsville. She could make a killing on your grandmother’s secrets.”
I doubted Mrs. T was willing to risk her empire on Nana Yablonsky’s gut-wrenching venison and vinegar specialties.
“Point is, we gotta find out who stole the Nana diary and get it back.” Mama pointed to my towel. “What were you doing? Taking a bath while Stiletto was hot on the investigation?”
“I was dirty. It was gross in that mine.”
She stood on tiptoe and cupped my chin. “You listen to me, sweetie pie. If you want to find the filth that tried to kill you and your man, then you got to get some dirt on your pretty polished nails.”
“I’m gonna call Mr. Salvo,” I said, removing her hand from my chin and strolling over to the telephone. He wasn’t in the newsroom this early, so I left a message on his voice mail about last night and how to reach me at Roxanne’s.
Then I called my salon boss and best friend, Sandy, at my other place of employment, the House of Beauty, on Lehigh’s south side. It made me homesick to hear the blow-dryers and happy chatter in the background.
Bubbles Ablaze Page 5