And Then You Dye

by Monica Ferris

  “Oh, he’d probably be all right, he’d sleep for three days.” Her face darkened as she considered further. “Then he’d steal my TV and sell it to buy liquor, then invite some new friend to come over, and they’d get in a fight and trash my place that you got for me—which I’m getting fixed up so nice—and we’d both get thrown out.” She sucked back a sob. “And you’d be mad at me.”

  “Darn right I’d be mad at you. Right now I’m mad at your friend Donna for telling him where you live.”

  A faint smile tugged at Annie’s mouth. “I guess I’m mad at her, too.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Annie looked away and mumbled, “He’s coming over tomorrow.”

  “You told him he could?”

  “I told him don’t come over. But he thinks I don’t mean it.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  Still looking away, she said humbly, “I want to mean it.”

  “What else did you tell him?

  “I can’t loan him any money.” Annie’s posture straightened and she stuck her trembling chin out. “I got to mean that. I got bills to pay!”

  “Do you really want him to stay away?”

  Annie hesitated, then said firmly though her eyes were filled with pain, “Yes. If I let him stay with me, he’ll have us both back on the street.”

  “All right. Tomorrow you won’t be home. You come out here—no, we’ll come and get you, the buses won’t be running. We’ll pick you up early, you can stay all day. Some of the Monday Bunch are having a picnic and you can join us. Okay?”

  Annie’s face slowly lit up. “Thank you!”

  Betsy came out from behind the desk to take Annie in a strong embrace. “I know that was a terribly hard decision for you to make, a heartbreaking decision.” She stepped back. “Now, be sure to tell the apartment manager that no one is allowed into your apartment when you aren’t there, so Cole doesn’t talk his way in while you’re over here eating brats and watching fireworks tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I’m glad I came out today.”

  “Me, too. We, the women who make bad choices for husbands, have to stick together.” Annie had spoken of the ne’er-do-well husband who abandoned her, and Betsy empathized. Her own ex-husband, while once a college professor, had lost his position after a series of affairs with his students had come to light.

  Annie laughed, though her cheeks were still wet with tears. “Yes, we do. Oh, Betsy, you’re such a good friend to me!”

  “I love you, too, Annie.”

  Betsy sent Annie on her way, then called Connor to tell him to put an extra potato in the pot.

  Twenty-two

  AS in other years, Lars led Excelsior’s Fourth of July parade in his Stanley Steamer, blowing its whistle frequently, releasing steam in great clouds. The family’s Newfoundland, Bjorn, sat proudly erect in the seat beside him. The steamer was followed by a high school band playing John Philip Sousa marches.

  They were followed by two dozen children riding, pulling, or pushing bicycles, tricycles, coaster wagons, doll buggies, and strollers. Very young children were pulled in the wagons by older siblings or parents. Crepe paper, ribbons, balloons, and flags ornamented the vehicles and even some of the children. Some children loved being in the parade, some didn’t seem to understand what they were doing walking up the street in front of all those people, some wept in confusion and fright.

  Emma was very much of the first school. She rode her bike—the training wheels recently removed—with aplomb, and when she saw Connor and Betsy standing with Annie on the curb, she smiled broadly, pointed and waved like a politician spying a major donor in the crowd. She wore a dozen sparkly plastic bracelets on each arm; a garland of red, white, and blue plastic flowers over her silver helmet; blue shorts; and a white T-shirt with an American flag on it. She had decorated her bike herself, very thoroughly, except for the bare spots where some crepe paper rosettes had fallen off.

  Erik, riding in a coaster wagon pulled by his mother, was crying—he wanted to pull it himself. Nevertheless he waved to the people. Jill chose to ignore his tears until near the end, when she lifted him from his decorated wagon and carried him on one arm. Then he stopped crying and waved shyly. He wore denim overalls and a straw hat.

  Everyone met at the bandstand, where free red, white, and blue Popsicles were being handed out.

  “Where’s Phil?” asked Lars, the last to arrive because he had to find a parking spot and then shut down the Stanley, which took about twenty minutes.

  “He and Trey are guarding our spot on top of the hill,” said Doris. Members of the party had started arriving early in the morning to search out a good spot on the Commons, and when one was decided on, they marked it with folding chairs, ice chests, picnic baskets, and a magnificent big charcoal grill.

  “When are the fireworks?” asked Erik, who had loved them at Disney World, the bigger and louder the better.

  “Not until dark, hours and hours from now,” said Jill.

  “How long is hours and hours?” he asked.

  “Long enough for you to eat hot dogs and potato salad twice!” said Lars. “And take a nap!”

  “I’m not sleepy!” objected the child.

  “No, of course you’re not,” said Jill. “But maybe later you will be.”

  “I’m hungry,” announced Emma, having fed half her Popsicle to Bjorn.

  “And on that note,” said Bershada, “let’s eat.”

  Annie, on hearing the picnic was a potluck, had insisted on contributing something, so on her way to Excelsior in Connor’s car, they had stopped at Cub Foods. She went in to the deli section and picked up a big carton of mixed chopped fruit.

  Betsy had mock-scolded her. “You brought fruit? Not even fruit with a gooey sweet dressing? Well, all right, if you don’t mind being the only person who brought something healthy!”

  Annie had laughed, proud to be different.

  And her choice was popular. Even Erik took a spoon and fished around in the clear plastic container for a red grape, which he ate with relish.

  Trey, Bershada’s boyfriend, had started the charcoal burning while everyone else was at or marching in the parade, so there was a minimal wait for the protein part of lunch.

  They ate and talked, then stretched out on blankets or sat in canvas chairs to talk some more and watch the children play. Other picnickers brought their children by, and one of them had a soccer ball. Soon some sort of game whose rules were a bit fuzzy was started and played to exhaustion.

  “Who won?” Lars asked Emma when she came back to his blanket, Erik close behind her.

  “I did!” she declared. “And so did Paul, and Russo. Airey scored one!” she concluded scornfully. Airey was Erik’s nickname, bestowed by herself, but now universal.

  “I maked a point!” boasted Erik. His pale blond hair was darkened around his forehead by perspiration.

  Jill gave the two of them bottles of water and had them sit down on a blanket in the shade to rest. Inside five minutes they were both sound asleep, Bjorn between them.

  Things grew quiet. Down in the bandstand, a group of five musicians was playing classic rock, but not loudly. Over on the baseball diamond, a pickup softball game was under way, but the diamond was halfway across the park from the hilltop, so the cheers were muffled. Somebody not too far away was playing a hot flamenco guitar.

  The group began to break into smaller groups for conversation. Annie and Alice seemed to have struck up a friendship based on comfort-food recipes; Connor, Phil, and Trey—who had discovered similar tastes in off-color jokes and elaborate puns—huddled out of earshot; Lars and Jill talked politics and shared cop stories with Betsy; Bershada and Patricia were doing needlework and talking children and grandchildren; Peter, a hardworking attorney, was asleep on his own blanket no
t far from Erik and Emma.

  “I think you should consider getting a concealed carry license,” Jill was saying to Betsy. “I’ve got one. Lars and I could go with you when you buy a gun and give you shooting lessons.”

  “I don’t want a gun. It might make me more willing to take chances, make me feel all brave and macho.”

  “Mine doesn’t,” said Jill.

  “Yes, but you got used to carrying a gun when you were a street cop. And now that you’re not on and off duty, how do you decide when to stick it in your purse? Only at night? Only when going through a bad neighborhood? Never to church?”

  “I don’t carry it in my purse. What would I do if a purse snatcher grabbed it and ran off? I carry it on me. And I always carry it. Because you never know.”

  “You mean you have a gun on you right now?”

  “This very minute.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Of course you don’t. I don’t intend for it to be seen.” Jill was not fat, but she was curvy. Still, Betsy could not detect a curve that wasn’t Jill—and Jill wasn’t wearing an outsize man shirt or sloppy-loose jeans, but a white knit short-sleeved shirt with broad blue horizontal stripes, and blue capri pants.

  Jill, noting Betsy’s up-and-down survey, laughed. “Don’t worry, it won’t fall out the bottom of my pants leg. And it’s not tucked away in a place I can’t get at very fast and easy.”

  “What do you think about carrying a gun? I mean, is it like life insurance?”

  Jill laughed again. “Life insurance only kicks in when you assume room temperature. My little thirty-eight is life assurance. Remember, when seconds count, the police are just minutes away.” She made a face to show it was an angry kind of joke.

  “All right, I understand, I suppose. But I’m still not going to buy one.”

  Jill shot a significant glance at Lars and shrugged. “That’s your decision.”

  “Lars,” Betsy asked, “what do you think about a wife who goes about armed?”

  “Same as she thinks about me, I guess.”

  Betsy stared at him. “You, too?”

  He nodded, smiling, and patted his side toward the back. “Me, too.”

  The steamboat Minnehaha—which was not a paddle wheeler, but a restored antique whose engine was powered by steam—let loose its breathy whistle. The boat was running brief tours, just out and around the Big Island and back. It was on its return trip, and a young couple passing by stopped to watch it make its way to the dock. They were making cynical remarks about the state of the world, sad to hear in a couple so freshly facing tomorrow. As they started back on their way, the young man said, “I hear the euro was seen at Disney World last week wearing a Make-A-Wish T-shirt,” and his girl laughed harshly.

  “Poor things,” said Betsy when they were gone.

  “Yeah,” sighed Lars, drawing the word out. “Were we ever so lacking in illusions?”

  “I’m sure we thought so,” said Jill.

  “Hello, Betsy!” said a new voice, and they all three looked up to see Marge Schultz, resplendent in pink shorts and pink sleeveless shirt, smiling at them. She continued, “I ate so much I decided I’d better walk some of it off. Isn’t it a nice day?”

  “It’s a splendid day,” said another new voice—Connor’s. He came to stoop by Betsy’s chair.

  “Marge, this is Connor Sullivan. Connor, this is Marge Schultz.”

  “How do you do, Ms. Schultz?” said Connor, rising and extending his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Connor,” said Marge, her eyes moving speculatively between him and Betsy as she took his hand. “Please, call me Marge.”

  “Did you see the parade, Marge?” asked Connor.

  “Yes. The children were sweet. It’s so nice the town does that parade just for them. But I do find Sergeant Larson’s steam car kind of scary. All that smoke! I was afraid it was going to blow up and kill half the band following behind it.”

  “Naw!” said Lars. “That’s not smoke, it’s just steam, coming out the whistle. Why, if I didn’t let off steam like that, no one would hear me coming!”

  Betsy said, “It’s true, Marge, there’s no engine sound when it’s moving. And it’s very safe. Lars takes the children for rides in it all the time, and he wouldn’t do that if it wasn’t safe.”

  “All the same, I’ll keep my distance, thank you,” said Marge. “I see you’re here with a big group. Who are they, Betsy, employees?”

  “No, mostly they’re a stitching group that meets Monday afternoons. Who are you here with?”

  “Three employees and their significant others. We do this every year.”

  “That’s nice.” Betsy’s annual party for employees came in December.

  Jill said, “Betsy told me you have some beautiful hydrangea plants for sale.”

  Marge nodded. “They’re young ones, in pots, but suitable for transplanting in your yard, if that’s what you’re wanting.”

  “Betsy said some of them are pink and some blue. Is there a difference between them besides color?”

  “No, actually they’re the same variety, Endless Summer. It’s naturally pink”—she smiled, tilted her head a little sideways, and touched the collar of her shirt—“of course; but you can turn the blooms blue with a product called Color Me Blue. If you have a blue hydrangea, I can sell you some Color Me Pink.”

  “What is it, a dye?” asked Betsy.

  “No, they’re two different chemicals, harmless to the plant, but they change the pH of the soil around it, and hydrangeas are sensitive to pH. Alkaline makes pink, acid makes blue.”

  “Amazing,” said Jill. “Okay, I’m going to have to come in tomorrow or the next day and buy a couple of plants. I just love those huge bloom clusters. They look great in people’s yards, and they look fantastic in dried winter bouquets, too.”

  “Yes, they do,” said Marge. “I look forward to seeing you.” She nodded at the others and went on her way.

  “She seems a nice lady,” remarked Connor.

  “Yes, but there’s something sad about her,” said Jill with compassion. “And who wouldn’t be, with a police detective suspecting you of murder.” She turned to her husband. “Mike surely doesn’t really think she murdered Hailey Brent?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” replied Lars, nodding toward a figure climbing the hill in their direction.

  Jill and Betsy looked to see Mike Malloy, wearing a red, yellow, and green Hawaiian shirt and tangerine shorts, lifting one arm in a wave.

  “We were just talking about you,” said Lars, grinning wickedly at his wife.

  And she boldly said, “I was saying I don’t see how you can possibly think Marge Schultz murdered Hailey Brent.”

  “She remains on my list of suspects,” said Mike, calmly.

  Jill said, “I hope Betsy can prove she didn’t do it.”

  Connor gave Betsy a significant eyebrow lift, and Betsy said, “Oh, all right.” She turned to Mike and said in a voice so low he had to lean toward her to hear it. “I have good reason to believe Marge Schultz and Pierce McMurphy were having an affair.”

  “Wow!” said Jill.

  “Where did you hear that?” asked Mike, suddenly looking very much like a police investigator, despite the shirt and shorts.

  “I overheard them talking.”

  “They had the conversation in a place where they could be overheard?” Mike sounded disbelieving.

  “No, they thought they were alone. I was in Hailey Brent’s backyard, near the fence between Hailey’s place and Green Gaia. Pierce was there ostensibly to buy a blue spruce, but Marge wanted to talk to him, to encourage him to get moving on his plans to divorce Joanne.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Jill.

  “Now wait,” said Betsy. “It seems to me that the p
erson to kill in that unhappy triangle would be Joanne. Marge insists that no one—no one—knew of the affair.”

  “You found out—and you did it while standing in Hailey’s backyard,” Mike pointed out.

  “Mike,” said Betsy, “you’ve interviewed Joanne McMurphy, right?”

  “Yes. A very strange-tempered lady.”

  “Do you know how she came to be that way?”

  Mike nodded once. “I talked to her husband, too. I remember that car accident—my Uncle Vince was a highway patrolman and talked about it for years afterward. He rode up on it and was surprised to find two live people inside. He helped get them out of that car, which was like a wadded-up piece of aluminum foil. They’re a pair of walking miracles, despite her mental problems.”

  “Do you think she could have murdered Hailey?”

  “If the gun used was sitting in that basement where she could grab it easily, yes.”

  Betsy nodded. “Yes, that’s what I think, too. She told me she’s careful not to have a weapon at hand. Did Hailey by some peculiar chance have a gun permit?”

  “No. But you don’t need one just to keep it in the house.”

  Jill said, “Hailey Brent loved gossip. If she knew about Pierce and Marge’s affair, why wasn’t she spreading it around instead of keeping it a secret? Especially if Marge or Pierce knew she knew?”

  “That’s right,” said Betsy. “So maybe Marge is right, Hailey didn’t know.” But Betsy remembered the dyeing demo and Hailey’s strange, cruel hint that Marge stole the flowers she brought to be made into a dye bath. No, Hailey knew something. But what?

  Mike went on his way, newly burdened with the information, and Betsy fell into a troubled reflection.

  But before she could talk some more about it, Philadelphia came by with her husband Allen and their two lively children, Chloe and Mitchell, nine and twelve. She introduced them to Betsy, who in turn introduced Jill and Lars. Allen was quiet, almost shy, smiling behind his dark beard, keeping his hands in the pockets of his shorts. Philadelphia’s blue-green hair was done up in spikes. Their children, dressed alike in jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts, were patently impatient to move along—until Mitchell saw the big black dog. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “What kind of dog is that?”