The Trouble With Tulip

by Mindy Starns Clark

  What she found was very odd indeed.

  Simon walked out of the restaurant, disappointed that the three-dollar omelet had been dry and overcooked—and that it hadn’t come with anything on the side except a wilted piece of parsley and a soggy orange slice. Feeling full but not satisfied, he crossed from the diner back to the pay phone at the gas station.

  More than anything, he wanted to call Edna.

  Simon knew Edna’s phone number by heart, but he made no move to dial it. Instead, he stood there for several moments, a hand on the receiver, considering the possible ramifications of making the call.

  If Edna went to the authorities on Saturday as she had threatened to do, then calling her now would be a gross miscalculation. Her phone would be silently rigged, ready to track back his number and bust him on the spot.

  But if she’d had a change of heart—if she hadn’t gone to the police after all—then he needed to know. He needed to hear her voice, to hear her say, “Don’t worry, Simon. Come on back. The money’s still in the bank. Everything’s okay.”

  Just imagining it, tears sprang to his eyes. Surprised, he gruffly swiped at his face. He had to admit it: He missed Edna, missed hearing her voice. In a life filled with upheaval and misery, she had been the only constant in his world. Over the years there had been times when he would dial her number only to hear her simple “Hello?” He would hesitate, not wanting to intrude, not wanting to bother, just needing that sound. Sometimes, somehow, she would know it was him.

  “Simon?” she would say into the silence, a sudden softness coming into her voice.

  When that happened, he would always answer, “Yes, Edna. It’s me.”

  Other times, she would simply repeat, “Hello? Hello?” and those times he would gently lay the phone back on the cradle and walk away. He treasured her too much to be a burden.

  In the last few months he had been able to spend real time with her, to get to know her all over again. He still didn’t understand how she could have betrayed him there at the end, but there were many things about Edna he had never understood. At least she’d had the decency to offer him a fair warning and a good head start.

  Maybe he should call her now. Maybe she’d had a last-minute change of heart but had no way to let him know.

  Maybe she’d decided she loved him enough to leave the police out of things entirely.

  Swallowing hard, he lifted the receiver and quickly dialed her number. It rang once, then again, then again.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice said breathlessly. It wasn’t Edna. Simon hesitated, wondering if he had dialed correctly. Who else would answer Edna’s phone?

  Simon cleared his throat and put on his best falsetto, trying to sound just like a woman himself.

  “Hello, is Edna there?” he asked in a singsongy voice.

  His question met with a pause, and instantly his radar was on full alert. Was this a female cop? The next-door neighbor? One of the club members?

  “I’m sorry,” the woman’s voice said. “Are you a friend of hers?”

  Simon’s mind raced. Finally, without a reply, he disconnected the call. Obviously, Edna had proceeded exactly as she had warned him on Friday night. She’d gone to the police and told them everything. They probably already had this number and a possible lock on his location.

  He took off running, despite the fact that he was far too old for that. A bus was just pulling away from the corner, and he reached it and pounded on the side. It stopped, the doors opened, and he climbed aboard. He dropped in the fare and found a seat, not even caring where it might take him next.

  Jo stood in the kitchen and slowly replaced the receiver of the telephone. That was odd.

  She realized she needed a better approach for future calls because Edna probably had friends who hadn’t learned yet of her unfortunate demise. When they call, Jo wondered, how, exactly, should I respond? “I’m sorry, but Edna can’t take your call right now. She’s dead.”

  It just didn’t seem right somehow.

  Mulling it over, Jo returned to the bathroom, where she had just stripped the skirt from the tub to better see what it had been hiding.

  The tub was the old-fashioned, claw-footed kind, and underneath it, right in the center where the tub sat several inches from the ground, was a section of false flooring Jo had accidentally knocked loose with her hand. The whole room was floored with what looked like self-sticking linoleum tile. But there under the tub, four of the tiles weren’t on the floor, they were on a square piece of wood, which she now managed to lift up and slide away, revealing a secret cavity about two feet wide and a foot deep.

  Jo resisted the urge to pull out the items that were inside until running to the cleaning closet and putting on a pair of rubber gloves. Then she came back to the bathroom and carefully took out the three items one by one.

  The bathroom was small, but she laid everything on top of the closed trunk in front of her. When the hole was empty, she slid the covering back over it and watched it drop into place. If she hadn’t bumped it with her hand, she would never have noticed that it was there.

  Jo stood and carefully picked up the three items she had taken from the hole: a small painting, a manila envelope, and a worn, dusty book with a maroon velvet cover. She carried them into the dining area and set them on the table, eager to study the treasures that had been important enough to hide under a false floor in the bathroom.

  15

  Danny was just settling down in the living room to watch the game with his buddies when the phone rang. He passed the bowl of popcorn to his brother-in-law, Ray, and then answered it.

  “You busy?” Jo asked, never one to beat around the bush.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “I need your expertise as a photographer.”

  “Now?” He got up and strode into the kitchen, looking out the back window. There wasn’t a single light on at Jo’s house. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Edna Pratt’s house. Can you come over here?”

  Danny pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “You’re where?”

  “Edna Pratt’s house, the lady who died on Saturday.”

  “Why?”

  “Long story. Are you free?”

  Danny glanced at his friends. Two of them were currently throwing popcorn into the air and trying to catch it in their mouths. Somehow, the thought of being with Jo was doubly appealing. Danny knew that he could go. His friends would help themselves to the food, enjoy the game, and let themselves out when they were done.

  “How soon do you want me?”

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  There was an odd look on Danny’s face when he got there, but Jo was too excited to worry about it right then. Taking him by the hand, she led him to the dining table and told him to sit down.

  On the wide surface she had laid out a row of photographs, six in all. Some of the pictures were older looking than others, five in black-and-white and one in color, all 8 x 10 enlargements.

  “Tell me what you see,” she said, taking a seat across from him.

  Pursing his lips, he studied her face for a moment and then looked down at the photos in front of him.

  “What am I looking for?” he asked.

  “Impressions. Thoughts. Talk to me about these pictures. Are they real? Fake? Doctored by a computer?”

  Danny shook his head, refusing to cooperate.

  “Who are the people in the picture,” he asked, “and what are we doing in the home of a dead woman?”

  With a frustrated sigh, Jo realized she would have to elaborate somewhat if he was going to be of any use to her at all. She explained that Edna’s daughter, Senator Sally Sugarman, had hired her to come and clear out all of Edna Pratt’s belongings, get the house listed with a Realtor, and sell her car.

  “We sort of made friends when she came to town,” Jo said, “and she was looking for someone to help, and I, uh, I had some free time this week. So I
took the job. In fact, I’ll cut you in if you want. I’ll need some help with the heavy lifting when the time comes.”

  “Sure,” Danny said, still sounding confused. “Whatever you need.”

  “The main reason I’m here, though, is because I’m going to prove to the police that Edna was murdered. I think these pictures are a pretty good start.”

  “Why? What are they?”

  Jo thought for a minute, and then she stood.

  “Come with me,” she said, knowing if she showed him the hidden compartment under the bathtub, he might be more inclined to follow her leap of logic.

  She led him to the bathroom, pointed under the tub, and told him where to press the tile. Sure enough, it tilted as it had before, and the lid came off.

  “Whoa,” he said, bending down to peer inside the hole. “What is this?”

  “A secret compartment.”

  He stared up at her, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his brain. She knelt down there beside him and held his gaze.

  “Danny,” she said slowly, hoping he would trust her in this. “Edna’s death was not an accident. I really do think someone killed her. And I think this hiding spot helps to confirm my suspicions. The stuff on the dining table came from in there. And I think if we can figure out what it is, we’ll be able to figure out why someone wanted her dead.”

  At first Danny had a hard time concentrating on what Jo was telling him. She was so beautiful, just so beautiful, and he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t really thought much about it before. How had he gone so many years without really seeing her vivid green eyes, her sweet lips, her long neck? How had he not kissed the faint freckles on her nose or run his hands through her gorgeous head of hair? He had fallen and fallen hard. With her being so animated right now, everything about her so alive, it made it even more difficult to concentrate on what she was saying. More than anything, he wanted to stop her talking and shout “I love you! I love you! Don’t you understand? I love you!”

  But he held his tongue. And as she talked and gestured and pulled him into her enthusiasm, he had to force himself to focus on what she was saying. He knew she must have thought he was dense. But she just smelled so nice and looked so good, it was all he could do not to take her in his arms and kiss her.

  He wanted more than anything just to kiss her.

  Danny closed his eyes, thanking the Lord that Bradford had taken off, leaving the opportunity for them to work out a new kind of relationship—eventually. Chances were, Jo loved Danny too; she just didn’t know it yet. He opened his eyes and pushed such thoughts from his mind. There was time for all of that later. Right now she needed him to help her with this puzzle.

  And what a puzzle it was. Jo was going on and on about Edna Pratt, insisting that the old woman’s death had been a murder and not an accident. As he tried to follow her logic, he realized that the way she had invested herself in the situation was so understandable it was almost predictable. Once he figured out what was really going on, he tried to explain it to her as gently as possible.

  “Listen, Jo,” he said, leading her back into the living room and forcing her to sit on the couch. “Let’s think this through. Edna Pratt was a devotee of household hints, particularly Tips from Tulip.”

  “Yes.”

  “She was following a number of those tips Friday night when she made a fatal mistake.”

  “No—”

  “Stay with me here,” he said, not letting her object. “If Edna made a fatal mistake while following your tips, then her death was indirectly caused by you. At least that’s how it feels. But you don’t have to think that, Jo. Everyone makes mistakes now and then. You can’t do this.”

  She shook her head, frustration creating a furrow in her brow.

  “Why are you second-guessing me?” she demanded. “Can’t you give my theory a chance at least?”

  “But don’t you see?” he said. “To satisfy your own conscience, her death has to be a murder. Because if it was an accident, then you’d be indirectly culpable—and that would be too difficult to swallow. Let it go, Jo. Maybe it really was just a simple mistake by an old woman, nothing more. The car was a coincidence. The argument you overheard was a television left on too loud.”

  Danny’s words sat there between them. He felt terrible for what he’d had to say, but she was so worked up he really didn’t think he had much choice. In the long run, it seemed the kinder thing to do.

  “Thank you,” she said finally, her voice much more calm.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied softly.

  “No, I mean thank you,” she continued, her voice growing stronger, “for the amateur hour at the psychiatrist’s office.” She sat forward, eyes blazing. “Listen to me, Danny Watkins. I don’t need your pop psychology to explain away some irrational urge I have to justify culpability.”

  “Jo, I—”

  “I’m not an idiot. I know what I’m seeing. There are things about this woman’s death that don’t add up. Yes, part of it is just my own gut instincts. But instincts are a good place to begin. You can either be my friend and go with me on this, or you can get out of here and leave me alone.”

  Danny swallowed hard, surprised at the rage in her voice. He knew she’d had a tough few days—a tough year, really. Maybe he had been wrong to try and nip this in the bud. At least she was showing some enthusiasm for something—and in the wake of her failed wedding, wasn’t that a good thing?

  Besides, he admitted, no way was he going to walk out of here now.

  “Okay, Jo,” he said finally. “I will suspend my disbelief for the moment and listen to your reasoning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “As long as you understand that I’m not on board with what you’re saying about the woman’s death. Not at all.”

  “Fair enough. Come look again at the pictures. I promise you, they’ll change your mind.”

  Jo led Danny back to the dining room and waited as he sat in front of the photos. She moved behind him and watched over his shoulder as, one by one, he picked up each shot and studied it extensively. Jo had tried to place them in what seemed like chronological order based on the clothing and the nature of the pictures, but she wasn’t sure if she had gotten it right or not.

  The first picture was old and faded, the edges frayed, a posed portrait of a man sitting stiffly in a chair. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with silver hair and mustache, his stern expression typical of the photos of that era.

  “This is a daguerreotype,” Danny said softly. “One of the earliest forms of photography.”

  “How early?” Jo asked.

  “Probably the late eighteen hundreds. Maybe eighteen-fifty at the earliest. It’s in pretty good condition, except for the edges.”

  He set it down and picked up the next one. It was a picture of about ten soldiers, probably Civil War era, resting beside some cannons. The soldiers seemed to be wearing the torn and dusty uniforms of the Union army. There was nothing very remarkable about the photo other than historical interest in the subjects.

  “This one looks vaguely familiar,” Danny said, putting down the Civil War shot and picking up the next one. It was a shot of a woman in a street car, looking directly down at the photographer. “Do you recognize her?”

  “No,” Jo said. “Should I?”

  “She was a minor celebrity of some sort,” Danny said, “though I can’t place who she was right now. Something about her face, though, is recognizable. I’d swear I’ve seen this picture before.”

  Sturdy and middle-aged, the woman in the photo wasn’t attractive but there was something quite arresting about her piercing, exhausted gaze. Her image stood out much more vividly than those of the men who were sitting on the streetcar beside and behind her.

  The fourth photo was obviously from a sporting event, probably the Olympics. It featured a man about to thrust a javelin, with several rows of spectators clearly visible behind him. Though also black-and-white, the contrast
was greater, the image sharper, than the others. Danny said that judging by the quality of the print, it probably dated to the 1930s.

  The next photo was in color, though the colors were muted and dull.

  “I’d say this was an early version of Kodachrome,” Danny told her, turning the picture toward the light. “Probably from the nineteen-forties.”

  In the shot, a group of men, all wearing overalls, were standing near a field of some crop.

  “What are they growing there?” Danny asked.

  “Looks like sugarcane to me,” Jo replied.

  All of the men sported mustaches and straw hats, their skin worn and tanned like farmers.

  Finally, he picked up the last photo, a shot of a family sitting on a front stoop. There were several adults and two children, a girl of about nine or ten and a boy a year or so older. They were all dressed in the clothing of the 1950s or early ’60s. The picture was nothing special, a black-and-white image probably taken after church one Sunday as they sported their pillbox hats and spiffy suits.

  “Okay,” Danny said, setting down the photos. “What do you want to know?”

  “We’ve got pictures here,” Jo said, taking the seat across from him again, “that cover a range of about a hundred years, right?”

  “Sure,” Danny said, looking back and forth at the six enlargements in front of him. “Give or take a few years.”

  “Then look at them again,” Jo said, a gleam in her eye. “Tell me what they all have in common.”

  Danny frowned at her but seemed to accept the challenge as he once again turned his attention to the photos. It took him a little while, but finally it was like a lightbulb went off over his head. His eyes widened and he gasped.

  “The man!” he said, picking up the oldest photograph, the one he had called a daguerreotype. “This man. He’s in every one of these pictures!”

  Jo nodded, grateful he had finally caught on.

  “Always about the same age, the same guy,” she said, grinning. “Silver hair and a mustache.”