“I’m fine,” he said. “Are they gone?”
“Yeah. She decided on the Pride and Joy package. Not too shabby.”
Tiffany walked closer and slid the paperwork into the “pending” tray. Even from five feet away, Danny could smell her perfume—a cheap knockoff that reeked strongly of citrus.
“You seem really distracted today,” Tiffany said, sliding onto the desktop and twirling a lock of hair around one finger. “Long weekend, maybe?”
“Tough weekend,” he replied. “Jo’s wedding didn’t go exactly as planned.”
He gave his coworker the basic rundown, leaving out the more personal details. The story was all over town by now anyway, so he wasn’t exactly betraying a confidence. Tiffany seemed fascinated by the tale, but then again she was always quite attentive whenever they chatted, all eyes and ears no matter what he was saying. Sometimes he wondered if she was really listening at all, or if her exaggerated reactions were simply some sort of knee-jerk, man-catching response. A lot of what she did seemed quietly calculated, from the clothes she wore to the hints she dropped to the double entendres that filled every conversation. Danny had the secret notion that she kept the heads of her biggest conquests stuffed and mounted over her fireplace like a hunter.
“What do our appointments look like for the rest of the day?” he asked, changing the subject. “I’ve got some new shots of my own I need to get out to the Stock Shop.”
“You’ve got a corporate sitting in half an hour,” she said, “followed by a kid and his dog. Then I think you’re free.”
“Interesting,” he replied. “I’ve had some ideas I want to try with a pet sitting.”
Tiffany shook her head, her little bell-like earrings tinkling among her artfully teased hair.
“Keep it simple, hon,” she chided him with a smile. “I keep telling ya, even as good as you are, you can’t get too creative with this hometown crowd.”
Sally invited Jo to lunch, so they drove back to the funeral home, parked there, and then walked halfway up the block to a small diner. As they waited for their food, Jo broached the topic, once again, of murder.
“Jo, do you really have suspicions about my mother’s death?”
Jo put both hands in her lap and looked at Sally earnestly.
“I do. Sally, I’m convinced your mother was murdered. A woman who was so precise with all of her household knowledge would never do something as elementary as mixing chlorine bleach and ammonia. Never. A lot of folks might make that mistake, but not Edna Pratt. Not from what I’ve seen of her house, of her notes.”
“But why would someone want to kill my mother? She didn’t have any enemies.”
“Are you sure?”
Sally had already told Jo that she only talked to her mother on the phone about once a month or even every other month. If they had such little contact, how would she even know?
“How about the name ‘Simon’?” Jo asked, recalling the heated conversation she had overheard between the Mrs. Chutney and Mrs. Parker at the funeral. “Did your mother know anyone by that name?”
Sally shook her head.
“We used to have a relative named Simon, but he died when I was a child. I’m not aware of anyone else by that name. Why do you ask?”
“Just a conversation I overheard at the funeral. And speaking of the funeral, didn’t you think those two women were a bit odd when we asked how they knew your mother?”
“Frankly, I didn’t notice a thing.”
The waiter showed up with their food. By the time he left the table, Sally had visibly collected herself. There was a hard glint to her eye, though she spoke in soft, staccato tones.
“Jo,” she said, leaning forward, “let me tell you the only thing more inconvenient than having my mother die in the middle of a campaign.”
“What’s that?”
“My mother being murdered in the middle of a campaign. Something like this could derail everything I’ve worked so hard for.”
“What are you saying?” Jo asked softly. “You’re going to sweep this under the rug?”
Sally sat back, patted her mouth with her napkin, and set the napkin on the table.
“You’d better believe it.”
“But Sally—”
“Jo, please. My mom was a normal, small-town gal who liked to swim every day and play Bunco with the girls and occasionally give herself a cucumber-honey facial. Who would kill someone like that? We’ve already determined that nothing was stolen from the house. I know my mother didn’t have any big money or other valuable assets. What other motives could there have been?”
Jo closed her eyes, the certainty of a murder growing more firm in her mind, not less.
“Let’s not discuss it anymore,” Sally said. “Now, I have something for you.”
She pulled from her purse a check, already made out to Jo Tulip, for fifteen hundred dollars.
“Tell me if you think this is a fair amount for the job I’m hiring you to do,” Sally said. “Fifteen hundred up front, with another fifteen hundred to follow when you’re finished. Plus half of anything you can get for my mother’s belongings and a ten percent sales commission on her car. I just want to be rid of this stuff. I did a blue book search of the vehicle, and it looks as though it’s worth about eight thousand dollars. So that alone would be another eight hundred in your pocket once it’s sold.”
Jo took the check from her, nodding.
“Of course,” Jo said. “That sounds more than fair.”
“Good. I want you to go through the whole house, send to me whatever you think might be important—papers, photos, items of that nature. Have her furniture appraised in case there’s anything of value there. Sell the best, donate the rest. Maybe have a garage sale. List her house with a Realtor. Sell the car. That’s it. That’s what I would like for you to do. Are you up to it?”
“Absolutely, Sally. Even more than you could imagine.”
13
Simon found the toy in a thrift shop: a wooden rocking horse so old and used that most of the paint had worn away. Perfect.
He paid the three-dollar price, carried it outside, and walked to the end of the block. There on the corner was a bar, a dump that didn’t even have a name, just a few neon beer signs in the window. Simon went inside. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he walked to the barstool most visible from the front door, set the rocking horse on the stool, and then sat himself on the next one over. The bartender was chatting with a gal at the end of the bar, but after a moment he came to Simon, wiped the shiny wooden surface in front of him, and asked him what he was having.
“Jack Daniels,” Simon said. “Neat.”
Simon had never been much of a drinker, especially not hard liquor, but he needed to look as though he belonged there. Once the drink came, he slouched down and focused all of his attention on it. He wasn’t rude, but he also attempted no conversation with the bartender or the lady at the end of the bar. He simply sipped his drink and occasionally glanced at the game on the television in the corner.
“Hey, buddy,” the bartender finally said, gesturing toward the horse. “What’s with the toy?”
Simon glanced at the horse and then back at his drink. He shrugged.
“I just bought it at that thrift shop down the street. Thought my grandson might like it.”
The bartender chuckled and the woman giggled.
“It’s lookin’ a little used, ain’t it?” the woman said.
Simon glanced at it and then at her.
“Yeah, well,” he said, “maybe I’ll slap a coat of paint on it ’fore I give it to him.”
He was quiet again, focusing on his drink and the TV. They went back to talking to each other.
After about ten minutes, Simon stood.
“Hey,” he said to the bartender, “you got a john?”
“In the back,” the man gestured. “Second door on the right.”
“Thanks. I’ll leave the horse here if that’s okay.”
Simon followed the directions to the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him. Checking his watch, he waited exactly five minutes, trying to listen. He couldn’t make out the words, but he definitely heard a third, higher voice. Finally, when it was time, he flushed the toilet, ran the faucet, and came out.
When he got back to the bar, the bartender’s demeanor had changed considerably, as had the woman’s. They both looked at him with interest, exactly as Simon had anticipated. Everything must have gone perfectly with Wiggles.
“Listen, I was thinking,” the bartender said, “that’s a pretty good toy, actually. I bet my kid would like it.”
Simon played dumb.
“That’s too bad. I think it was the only one they had in the store. They had some other good toys there, though.”
“I was thinking I might buy that one. From you. I’ll give you ten bucks for it.”
“Ten bucks?” Simon cried. “That’s what I paid for it at the thrift shop.”
“Fifteen, then,” the man said. “Five extra bucks to make it worth your while.”
Simon shook his head and took a sip of his drink.
“It may look faded and old to you,” he said, “but I really think my grandson’s gonna like it. I’m gonna paint a little face on it and everything. I couldn’t part with it for a lousy fifteen bucks.”
“Twenty bucks,” the bartender said.
“No way, I—”
“Each,” the woman added.
“Hey!” the bartender cried, looking at her. “You mind?”
She crushed out a cigarette and gave him a meaningful look.
“We said we’d go in on it to-ge-ther,” she told him slowly. “How ’bout fifty bucks, mister? Final offer.”
Simon looked at the horse and then back at them.
“Fifty bucks for this piece of junk?” he asked.
“Cash,” she said. “Twenty-five from each of us.”
“Plus my drink on the house?” Simon asked.
“Sure, why not?” the bartender replied, glancing at the door.
Simon stood, lifted the horse onto the bar, and held out his hand.
“You got it,” he said as they dealt the dollars onto his palm. “The toy is all yours.”
He walked out of the bar, down the street, and around the corner, where a rattletrap of an old car was waiting for him. Climbing inside, Simon sat and then grinned.
“Fifty bucks,” he said, handing half of it to Wiggles. “What’d you tell ’em?”
Wiggles pulled away from the curb, shakily pocketing his share of the cash as he drove.
“That I was a rare toy collector and that it was worth two or three hundred dollars. They think I’m out looking for an ATM machine to get that much cash and come back and make you an offer.”
“The greedy idiots tried to take advantage of me.”
“Yeah,” Wiggles said with a laugh, turning onto the highway. “Too bad I ain’t coming back—and that the toy ain’t worth more than a few bucks!”
After lunch Jo checked her voice mail and found a message waiting from her agent, Milton.
“Hey, doll, I know you’re on your honeymoon right now, but I thought I’d leave this for when you get back. We got the final word on the syndication deal, and I wanted to talk to you about it as soon as it’s convenient for you.”
Of course, this was the moment Jo had been waiting for, the opportunity to recover her lost newspaper markets and vastly increase her income from the column. She called Milton’s office right away and made an appointment for in an hour. That gave her just enough time to drive to Moore City, find a parking garage, and walk to Milton’s building.
Jo had known Milton most of her life, and she trusted him implicitly. Her biggest dread was of his retirement, which would be coming in the next year or so. She had thought him old when she was a little girl. Nowadays, he was practically ancient.
A few months ago Milton had taken on a partner, a woman about thirty years his junior, to whom he was showing the ropes. Her name was Annette and their intention was for her to slowly take over the business. Jo liked Annette well enough, and she seemed to know her stuff, but no one could ever replace Milton. He wasn’t just the man who managed Jo’s column, he also did her bookings for television and radio, sort of an all-purpose literary/entertainment agent and publicist. There weren’t too many guys like Milton around anymore.
Jo stepped into the office, greeting Annette with a handshake and Milton with a strong hug and a kiss to his cheek. It felt leathery and paper-thin, which made her sad.
“What are you doing in town?” he asked, sinking heavily into his chair. “Shouldn’t you be on your honeymoon?”
“Canceled.”
“Canceled the honeymoon or canceled the marriage?”
“Both. Bradford had a last-minute change of heart.”
“You’re kidding,” Annette said, pulling up a chair on Milton’s side of the desk. “Are you okay?”
Though Jo wasn’t eager to discuss it, they seemed genuinely concerned. She gave them the short version of what had happened, knowing how pathetic it sounded in the retelling.
“I couldn’t wait to hear the news about the syndication deal,” Jo explained, “so here I am. Now that the wedding’s a wash, I’m eager to get back to work on my column.”
Their response wasn’t exactly what Jo had expected. Rather than give her news that would match her optimism, they shared a glance that told her all was not well.
“Is something wrong?”
Annette averted her eyes and Milton sighed heavily, folding his hands on the desk.
“It’s not working, kiddo,” Milton said solemnly.
“Not working?”
“The household hints angle. The syndication deal fell through, but it’s not just that. Your markets are down, Jo. We’ve had about ten more cancellations in the last month.”
“Ten?”
“Honey,” Milton said, looking as if this were breaking his heart, “in your grandparents’ heyday the column was carried by more than two hundred newspapers.” He reached for a file on his desk and opened it. “Right now, Tips from Tulip is in twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three?” Jo asked in a small voice. “That’s all?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She looked away, feeling the terrible weight of her grandparents’ legacy crashing to the ground around her. She had failed them. Miserably.
“I’ll do better,” she said hopefully. “What happened with syndication?”
Milton began paging through the file, reading out comments he had scribbled there.
“‘Old fashioned.’ ‘No interest level.’ ‘Not applicable to our readers.’ They all basically said the same thing. This is the twenty-first century, Jo. Nobody cares about household hints any more—at least, not in any of the desirable demographics.”
“Desirable demographics?”
“Young women, eighteen to thirty-nine. They don’t care. We live in a disposable, use-it-and-toss-it age. Who has time to bother with the old-fashioned way of keeping house?”
“My column has plenty of regular readers,” Jo protested.
“Yes, white-haired old ladies!” Annette said, obviously unable to hold her tongue any longer. She also reached into the file and pulled out some clippings of the Tips from Tulip columns. “Jo, last week alone you referred to witch hazel, borax, and glycerin. Who the heck even knows what those things are anymore? Women today are juggling jobs, kids, households. They don’t have time to rinse out and reuse their baggies.”
“It would be a better world if they did,” Jo said softly.
“But they don’t. You’re out of touch. You’ve lost relevance to today’s women. Sweetie, you don’t even have a website!”
Jo nodded, stunned at this turn of events. She always had felt a little out of step with the rest of the world. This just confirmed what she’d
known all along: She had no idea what “normal” really looked like. Maybe she never had.
“What can I do?” she asked finally. “Is it time for me to call it quits completely?”
Milton closed the file and sat back in his chair.
“You should probably start thinking in those terms,” he said kindly. “At least start making plans for some alternative source of income. The column isn’t going to be worth doing if you lose many more markets.”
“An alternative source of income?”
“You teach home ec, don’t you?” Annette asked. “Can you support yourself with that?”
“It’s just part-time. For fun.”
“Well, you have a little time, I think,” Milton said. “You should be able to muddle through for a while.”
“What about everything else?” Jo asked. “The speaking engagements? The radio?”
Annette nodded.
“Glad you asked. Your radio show has strong ratings, actually, and your television appearances have always gone well. I suggest you focus on those markets, capitalize on the fact that you’re young and beautiful and smart.”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“The whole Smart Chick thing,” Annette added. “‘Chick’ is a good word, very now. If you could find the right angle, we could even pitch a book for you. You just need to find your focus, Jo, change your media, and come up with some way to offer relevance to young women.”
“And if I can’t?” Jo asked. “What if there’s no relevance to be found?”
Milton leaned forward, putting a wrinkled old hand on hers.
“Then at least you could say you gave it your best shot, dear. You had a good ride.”
“This business gets tougher all the time,” Annette added. “You can’t imagine how hard it is to carry a successful column for as long as you have. The failure rate for attempted syndication is tremendous.”
Milton squeezed Jo’s hand, and after a moment she squeezed back.
The Trouble With Tulip Page 11