Chapter Fourteen
We cleaned up and then both headed out on our own errands. I was sort of glad to spend the rest of the day out of the shop. I felt the weight of the information Cheri had shared and not being able to help in any way.
After a busy day, I’d spent a good part of my evening digging in my backyard. Wearing some gardening gloves I’d found in the garage, I’d used the knife Mrs. Pickett had given me and worked my way through a small section.
But as I worked my mind kept returning to Cheri Wheeler and the secret she’d kept for so many years. Why she’d chosen me, who had no history with any of the people involved, was beyond me. But maybe that was exactly why. Maybe the fact that I had no ties to any of them made it easier.
It was also possible I just happened to be the one who was there when she couldn’t take it any longer and her resolve cracked wide open.
I dug at the roots of the thistles and the dandelions and filled a box with them. The thistles were mean and I was glad for the gloves. I still wasn’t completely clear on why I needed to send Creeping Charlie packing. He was green and not pokey like the thistles, and didn’t seem like such a bad weed. But Mrs. Pickett had been unyielding that if you gave him an inch, he’d take a mile, so I worked my best to dig up the roots as she’d recommended.
Exhausted from my time crawling around in my yard, once I cleaned up I was too tired to pick up where I’d left off with Daddy’s A Fictional Memoir. When I got back to it I wanted to be able to savor it.
Dragging my box of weeds back to the garage, I called it a day. I showered and crawled into bed, falling asleep almost immediately. But it was a fitful sleep. I dreamed about being chased by large green knife-brandishing aliens who kept trying to steal food from me. It didn’t take an expensive shrink to tell me what was going on with that. The weeds, Mrs. Pickett, the investigation, the secrets.
Of course, it also could have been coming down off that sugar-buzz from the Better Than Robert Redford cake.
Whatever the cause, my lack of sleep made it hard to get up and get moving the next morning. I hit snooze more than once.
“Good morning, Ernest.” I greeted my feline stalker, who swished his fluffy tail and walked away, appalled that his dish had been sitting completely empty while I languished in bed.
I filled his dish and started my coffee without attempting further conversation. Somehow I knew he wouldn’t be impressed with my crazy bad dreams. Maybe it was the head-turned-away, talk-to-the-paw stance that clued me in.
A quick toast and coffee later, I dressed for the day and headed out. Taking my to-go mug with me, I turned Big Blue toward downtown. A quick peek showed no Mrs. Pickett; I had hoped the little crotchety lady was up early and had checked out my handiwork in the backyard.
Crazy, I know, to want praise from someone who was never going to be a fan, but there you have it.
I arrived before Dixie and lined up my to-do list for the day.
My cell rang just as Dixie walked in the back door. Her dog, Moto, was with her this morning, and I reached in my desk for some dog treats I kept stashed in a drawer, as I answered my phone.
“Sugar, honey, I need a favor.” Greer sounded out of breath. I prayed for no further drama at the Good Life.
“What do you need, hon?” Moto took the treat from my hand and then proceeded to show his appreciation with slobbery doggie licks. I looked up at Dixie, who just smiled at my dilemma.
“What a sucker you are,” she said as she crossed the office to the bathroom and came out with a handful of paper towels.
I mouthed “thanks” and attempted a one-handed wipe of the slobber.
Greer continued, “I have my monthly hair appointment at Tressa’s Tresses and the Good Life van is out of service. If I don’t make this appointment I’ll have to reschedule.”
“Do you need a ride?” I asked.
“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble. The last time I had to reschedule it took three weeks before I could get in. If I have to wait that long again, I’ll be looking like Sasquatch.”
I didn’t think Greer would ever look like a big hairy woodland creature, but I totally got the not-wanting-to-miss-an-appointment dilemma. I was still making the drive to Des Moines every six weeks to Anna, my favorite Salon W stylist, and would not want to have to reschedule.
“It’s no trouble at all.”
I finally had my hand cleaned up and patted Moto’s head. “What time is your appointment?”
“It’s at ten o’clock.”
“I’ll pick you up.” I told her. “Is fifteen minutes beforehand enough time?”
“Yes, it is. Thank you, Sugar, you’re a lifesaver.”
“See you at about nine forty-five, then.” We said good-bye and I pressed the button to disconnect the call.
“Something from the attic? Another missing senior? Some other emergency at the senior center?” Dixie raised a brow.
“No, she needs a ride to her hair appointment.” I moved some papers from the edge of my desk. Moto was attempting to get on my lap and my stacks of papers were about to become a victim of his rambunctiousness. “If she can’t make today’s appointment, she’ll have to reschedule.”
Dixie smiled. “I have to agree that is an emergency.”
“You’re right it is.” I finished up a couple of things, made a call to Liz about the schedule for the Crack of Dawn cookbook, and checked the time. Just enough time to pick up Greer and get her to Tressa’s.
* * * *
The salon was busy. There were three chrome-and-leopard-print chairs in the center area and all three were occupied. Tressa was just finishing up with a lady I recognized from the antique shop, though how Tressa worked so quickly with her long glitter-tipped nails was beyond me.
Greer’s stylist, Maxine, had the chair in the middle. And in the third spot, Ashley, the youngest of the stylists, placed strips of foil with uncanny accuracy between layers of long dark hair, giving the young woman she was working on the look of a space alien.
Though much more modern, Tressa’s salon reminded me in so many ways of the beauty shop my mother used to frequent in her hometown of Searcy, Georgia. I couldn’t recall the name of the salon but the smells and sounds were the same. The swish of the water, the blare of the blow dryers, and the chatter of the ladies. I smiled, thinking of how some things change and still stay the same. Though Mama probably didn’t go there anymore. She undoubtedly had transitioned to the latest “It” spot in downtown Atlanta.
“I’ll be with you in just a few minutes, Greer,” Maxine called from the center chair, where she was teasing the life out of a head of blue-toned hair.
“You thinking of a blue-look?” I whispered to Greer.
“Not on your life.” She grinned. “Though I did see a commercial where two ladies get purple hair and go skinny-dippin’ and it looked like fun.”
I laughed. “You let me know if you ladies decide to go that route, and I’ll be ready with bail money.”
“I’m afraid us old ladies skinny dippin’ would give Sheriff Terry a heart attack.” Greer giggled at the thought.
“Ready for you,” Maxine called, motioning Greer to her chair.
I turned to go, but Maxine’s blue-haired customer stopped me.
“Wait right here.” She held up a finger. “I’ve got something for you.” And then she was gone.
I looked around to ask who the woman was, but everyone in the place was busy. I wasn’t in a big rush. I guessed I had time to wait.
I sank into a plush cheetah-print chair in the waiting area just inside the door.
There was a stack of magazines with teasers to articles like “Healthy Recipes for the Holidays” (it wasn’t clear which holiday), “How to Travel Safely with Your Pet” (pretty sure Ernest wasn’t into travel), and “Overhaul Your Diet and Your Life” (I was pretty happy with my life, but my diet probably could use some help).
There were also some loose pages from the last edition of the St. Ignatius Journal.
I picked up one of the sections of newsprint. The weekly newspaper was one of the many things I loved about my adopted hometown. I checked the headlines, which announced a hearing about some zoning issue. Below the fold was an article on the upcoming city council meeting, and another about the baseball team, which had been having a successful summer of tournaments. The Blotter on the next page listed calls to the Sheriff’s Department. I skimmed those. In the past week there were multiple traffic stops, a call because of cows blocking a road, a couple of fender benders, one loud party, and a few reports of vandalism.
No elders skinny-dipping in the list. For now.
I flipped to the editorial page, which often was packed with as much drama and angst as a soap opera. There was an op-ed piece about wind turbines. I’ll spare you the obvious tilting at windmills references, but suffice to say both pros and cons were long-winded. No anonymous op-eds were allowed, so I hoped the Ms. Pro and Mr. Con, who so strongly disagreed, were more civil when they passed each other on the street.
“Oh my gosh, Sugar.” Tressa suddenly swooped in with her usual bear hug and then plopped down into the chair next to me. She must have finished the antique store lady while I was knee deep in local news.
“Your hair is just so classic.” Tressa reached over with sparkly-tipped fingers and fluffed the top. “I know you have a girl in Des Moines who does it, but if you ever decide you’re ready for a change you just let me know.”
“Uhm, thanks.” I reached up to touch my feathery bob. I thought “classic” was meant as a compliment.
“Jeepers, I am so tired!” She slumped back in the chair and pushed an errant lock of vibrant red hair off her forehead. “I’ve been going since seven o’clock. I had an early appointment with Gretchen. She insisted on being worked in.”
I hadn’t noticed it when she’d been working on the lady, but seeing Tressa up close it looked like she either was fighting a bad cold or she’d been crying. Plenty of eye makeup had been utilized in an effort to cover it up, but the signs were there.
I set the paper aside and touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She straightened up, smile pasted in place, head held high. “I’m fine!”
“Are you sure?” I held her gaze.
Suddenly all of the bravado went out of her and she collapsed back into the plush of the chair, covering her face with her hands.
I waited.
She dropped her hands from her face. “You’re right. I am not okay.” She blew out a breath and touched her fingers to the corners of her red-rimmed eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Man trouble,” she whispered. “You see, a little while back I started hanging out with Nick Marchant.”
Newsflash, Tressa. Everyone in town knows about you and Nick
“But you’re married, right?” I tried to keep my tone nonjudgmental, but seriously she was married and they hadn’t exactly been discreet.
“Bud and me had already been having trouble and when Nick showed up back in town and was so nice to me…” Tressa’s voice thinned and I feared tears were next.
She gulped some air and continued. “We’d always been close, Nick and I. And when he got back, he came to see me before he even went to see his father and his brother.”
“He did?” That tidbit was a game-changer. “You two were close?” I prompted.
“In high school, we were like this.” She held up two crossed sparkly-tipped fingers.
“I thought he dated Dixie.” I watched her face. “And Cheri Stoller,” I added.
“Gosh, no.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Dixie was just to break up her and Terry. And Cheri was to break up her and his brother. He was never serious about either of them. It was all about the competition.”
“But then he left and you married Bud.” Tressa was such a sweetheart. How could she not see what an awful comment it was on Nick’s character that he’d done something like that?
“Nick was off to college and I was off to beauty school. We decided to see other people and it became clear he was never coming back to St. Ignatius.” Her eyes focused on a point in the distance. “But then when he did come back after all these years, the spark was still there and I thought…” Her voice trailed off.
“Things are not working out like you thought?” I never could understand the fascination with bad boys, but maybe it’s just me.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. He could never stick with anyone for any length of time before. Why did I think he would now?”
“You think he’s seeing someone else.” I’ve also never understood the faulty rationale when someone who cheats on their spouse is shocked when someone turns around and cheats on them. But I kept my highly opinionated views to myself.
She suddenly focused and looked around at the busy shop. “I have to get back to work! Thanks for listening, Sugar. I’m sure it will all work out.” The pasted-on smile was back and just as quickly as she’d swooped in, Tressa was back at her station, chatting up her next client.
I stood and almost ran into the blue-haired woman who had returned.
“Thanks for waiting.” She handed me a typed recipe card. “Lark said you needed clarification on my recipe and I’ve been meaning to get this to you and I kept forgetting. I hope it’s not too late.”
“We’re still putting everything together, Mrs. Travers.” I took the card. “I’m sure this will help.”
I let Greer know she could either call me or just walk down to Sugar and Spice when she was done. Then I headed back to the shop.
* * * *
Dixie was at the counter with a vintage cookbook propped open. She looked up as I entered.
“Max was just here. He stopped in with some framing ideas.” She waved a hand at the wall. “I told him you were the one with the classy taste in this partnership and so I was leaving all those decisions up to you.”
“Sorry I missed him.” I was, too. Maybe if we ran into each other more often the weirdness would pass.
“I told him you were at Tressa’s and would be back in a few minutes, but he couldn’t wait. Something he was doing for the Quilt Guild. I think maybe photos for their catalogue.”
“I got held up because Mrs. Travers asked me to wait while she ran to get this typed version of her recipe to give us.” I laid the card on the counter by Dixie’s reading material.
She picked it up and looked at it. “I think we already have this one, don’t we?”
“We do but it was the one where we couldn’t read the handwriting,” I said. “I think this will help.”
That’s great.” She looked me over. “I see you escaped from Tressa’s without being dyed or sheared.”
“I did. Still my old self.” I touched my hair where Tressa had fluffed it. “It looked like Tressa had been crying.”
I gave Dixie the Cliff Notes version of Tressa’s man trouble.
“She’s right, Nick only dated me to get back at Terry. He couldn’t stand that although Terry had none of the Marchant family advantages, he managed to be a standout.” She bit her lip. “I was so stupid I couldn’t see it at the time.”
“We were all stupid in high school.” I gave her a hug. “The important piece of information she shared is that Nick came to see her before he even went to see his brother and father. That means he was in town when Alma was killed.”
Nick is a jerk,” Dixie said, “but I can’t imagine him as a killer.”
No one likes to imagine anyone we know is a cold-blooded killer. But the fact remained that Alma’s death was not accidental. Nor was it a random killing. Everything so far pointed to that it had to be someone who knew her. Someone we all knew.
“If he was involved in Alma’s death, even if it was accidental, he didn’t give aid. He didn’t come forward.” I pointed out. “And now with what we know about him being Dustin’s father…”
Greer walked in while we were talking and we cut short our discussion. Greer was one
sharp cookie and I didn’t want to run the risk of accidently breaching Cheri’s confidence. The secret she’d kept all these years was her secret to keep or share.
After I dropped off Greer at her place, I walked over to Alma’s, hoping Cheri might be there working and that we could talk.
She wasn’t there and the place was locked up tight. Walking back to my car, I tried her cell but had to leave a message.
I still held out hope that Cheri could be convinced to, at the very least, share her story with the sheriff. He had to have all the information, every single piece, if he was to figure out who killed her mother.
Chapter Fifteen
When I arrived at the shop the next morning, Dixie already had coffee brewing. I started to make a comment about her coming over to the dark side, but something in her face stopped me.
“What’s up?” I asked, trepidation creeping up my spine. It was clear something was wrong.
“Nick Marchant was found in the city park this morning”—she stopped and took in a gulp of air—“dead.”
“What?” My question echoed in the quiet. “How?”
“Shot.” She covered her face with her hands and then rubbed her temples.
“Someone shot him?” I tried to focus.
Dixie ran a hand through her hair. It looked as if she’d been doing that for a while. “They think he may have shot himself.”
I thought about that for several minutes.
“Who found him?” I didn’t know why that mattered, but I needed details as I tried to make sense of the news.
“Grace Nelson. She was out early this morning walking her dog.”
“That must have been a shock.” I reached over and put my hand over Dixie’s and left it there for a few minutes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said with a gulp that told me she really wasn’t.
“I’ve been thinking. Maybe you were on to something with what you’d been saying about Nick. About him being back in town earlier, and lying about being at Alma’s place. What if he was the one who killed Alma?”
“You think that might be the reason for his suicide?” It was true, he had lied. But we didn’t know why he’d lied.
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