Blind Dates Can Be Murder (17 page)

She’d been working multiple jobs for so long that the prospect of a free afternoon and evening was almost foreign to her. Something about it felt weird and uncomfortable and wrong. Almost frantically, she grabbed her purse and pulled out the animals she had made earlier, one by one smoothing and straightening them where they had gotten squashed in her purse. Then she set them up on the dresser and set about making for a few more animals and a tiny split-rail fence with a gate. As she worked, she remembered creating a similar scene for her little sister when they were kids. They didn’t have many toys, but Lettie figured out early on that with a little foil and some imagination, she could make almost anything Melissa asked her to.

“Come on, Lettie,” Melissa would plead happily, “just one more. Make me a tiger!”

Thinking of that moment now, Lettie put down the foil, stood, and began pacing.

Lettie knew there was a pain at her core, a loneliness that lurked deep under the surface, always present and ever ready to come bubbling out. Through sheer busyness she hadn’t been forced to face it for a while, but it was still there. It was always there. Like a companion, it breathed inside of her, threatening one day to swell up and out and simply swallow her whole.

She slowly walked to the window and pulled aside the heavy curtain, releasing a cloud of dust that quickly dissipated in the flow of the rattling hotel fan underneath. Looking out at the parking lot, there was nothing to see beyond an empty cup blowing in the breeze and a few rattletrap cars. Letting the curtain drop, Lettie turned back toward the room. She thought about going to a movie, but that would cost money she didn’t want to spare. Finally, she thought she might go for a walk. At least walking was free.

But not yet. One thing to do first.

Against her own will but helpless to stop herself, she crossed to her suitcase and opened it up, unzipping the flat pocket on the side. She pulled out a mismatched set of photos and sat on the bed, ashamed of her own weakness. Lettie tried not to look at the pictures very often.

Now, she skipped past the ones of her sister, the ones of her old house, her parents, her life in Moore City. Finally, she came to the last one, the one that was rough edged and faded and worn.

The picture of Chuck.

She looked down at it, at the image of the man who swept into her miserable little life when she was only sixteen and promised to take her away and make everything all better. He had taken her away, of course, but it had been like moving from the frying pan into the fire.

Except…

Except, sometimes it wasn’t so bad.

Sometimes it wasn’t bad at all.

Lettie closed her eyes, remembering how it felt to be wrapped up in the arms of the only man who had ever held her, the only man who had ever kissed her. Sometimes if she didn’t think beyond the moment, she could even let herself believe that that was what love felt like. That was the best it could be.

Chuck was a charming man, and when he was sorry for how he’d acted, he treated her like a queen. He brought her gifts and whispered words of love and promised to give up the drugs, the womanizing, the abuse. The day the police came to arrest him for blowing up that building in Moore City, Lettie had cried for hours. They were tears of relief, mostly. She knew he did it, of course; she had figured that soon after it happened, when she smelled the smoky jeans wadded up in the closet and saw the news and learned who the target was. She knew that once he went to prison, she’d be free.

But even now, she had to admit that of all the tears she cried that day, some were simply tears of sadness. Sadness that Chuck would be out of her life.

Sadness at how much she would miss him.

Danny instinctively moved an arm in front of Jo, as if to protect her. This guy looked like a class-A jerk, and the expression on his face was almost scary. Jo thought he was angry because they were late, but just as she started to give an explanation, he stepped outside, softly shut the door, and held up a hand to stop her from talking.

“Miss Tulip,” he said, “my concern is not for your tardiness. It’s for thi…situation… in the newspaper. I’m sorry, but I don’t do business with the mob.”

“What?”

She took the paper from him and opened it to the article. The headline proclaimed “Household Hint Maven Targeted by Mafia.” Danny read over her shoulder the story revealing Frank Malone’s ties with the mob. The article insinuated that the entire incident had been somehow mob related.

“This is ridiculous,” Jo said. “I don’t have anything to do with the mafia!”

“According to the newspaper, you had dinner last night with a man who was a known associate of La Casa Nostra, a member of the Zabaglione family. He ended up dead after dining with you. How do you explain that?”

Jo looked up at Danny, blinking. She took in a deep breath, but before she spoke, Danny put a hand on her elbow protectively.

“Listen, buddy,” he warned. “She doesn’t have to explain anything to you. The guy was a stalker, it had nothing to do with the mafia, and if you think Jo Tulip is somehow connected to a crime family, you can take La Casa and stick it—”

“Please, Danny,” Jo said, handing back the newspaper.

“I was gonna say ‘take La Casa and stick it up your Nostra,’” Danny told her, pleased with his own joke.

“Mr. Trumble,” Jo said, ignoring Danny and speaking in a voice more calm than the situation deserved. “I know what that article makes it look like, but I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not connected. This guy, he posed as my date to get close to me. I don’t know why. He died later of an asthma attack, so the police never had the chance to question him.”

After that, she took a step back toward the car.

“Look, I came here as a favor to you. If you don’t want my services, I’m just fine with—”

“No, no, no, I believe you,” the man said, his voice sounding like he didn’t. “It was just a bit unnerving to have you coming to my house while I’m reading about your dinner with the mob. Please. Come on in. We’ll have some coffee. You can tell me more about it. And call me Peter, please.”

Reluctantly, Danny followed Jo’s lead. She seemed to want to go inside, so he went also, but he wasn’t happy about it. As far as he was concerned, they should just cut their losses and go.

Of course, after a while, he was able to relax his opinion just a bit. The house was indeed beautiful and, fortunately for Jo’s purposes, more conventional-looking on the inside than the out. It might serve nicely indeed. The decor had obviously been done by a professional, and the whole place featured dramatic, earthy tones of green, soft orange, and deep purple. Peter gave them a tour, and as they walked, Danny was already framing some photographs in his mind.

Their tour ended in the living room, and just as Peter suggested they sit, a woman emerged from the kitchen carrying a coffee service on a tray. She was a gorgeous Asian woman, with jet-black hair, a sleek figure, and a business suit straight out of
Vogue
. Peter introduced her as Ming Lee, his architect.

“Now that you’ve had the nickel tour,” Peter said, “maybe we can start over. Ming has been as concerned as I have about this mob business. Do you mind telling us what happened? If you’re going to be working extensively inside my home, I think I have the right to know.”

Lettie drove until she found the town park. She thought she had spotted it earlier, and she was pleased with herself that she’d been able to work her way over there and find it again. She parked in a row of cars, got out, and started down a wide, paved trail. It felt good to walk. She was proud, too, that she had forced herself to put the picture away and stop thinking about Chuck. Her relationship with him was from her life before. As long as she stayed strong, he would never be a part of her life again.

She didn’t own sneakers, but her brown work shoes weren’t so bad. She felt a little silly among all the joggers in their shorts and running shoes, but it didn’t really matter. Who was looking at her, anyway?

As she walked, Lettie hoped to find someone who might want the tiny menagerie she had stuffed into her pockets. She passed a playground area where groups of children were running and climbing on a large, colorful structure. Walking to a nearby picnic table, Lettie sat and quietly set up the scene. She had made a little farmer with a pitchfork to complete the tableau; when she was finished she had to admit that it was very, very cute: a barnyard full of animals, just waiting for little hands to come and play with them.

From there Lettie walked for a while, finally taking a break on a park bench next to the tennis courts to watch the people play. Some were better than others, though they all seemed to be having a good time. She was watching a yellow ball fly back and forth, back and forth, when she realized that a woman was sitting on the next bench over, gazing her way.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare,” the woman said, “but I’m trying to figure out where I know you from.”

Lettie glanced at her to see an attractive brunette of about twenty-five, with perfect teeth and a friendly smile. She didn’t look familiar, but still Lettie was mortified. What if the woman had worked with her on a previous job, one where she pilfered data from customers? Lettie stood, ready to run if necessary.

“Oh, wait, I’ve got it,” the girl continued. “Were you at Dates&Mates this morning?”

Lettie nearly gasped in relief. She had seen her at Dates&Mates. No big deal.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

Without invitation, the woman switched over to Lettie’s bench and sat. She was wearing a white tennis outfit, and in her hands were a tennis racket, a can of yellow balls, and a bottle of water. After an awkward pause, Lettie sat again as well.

“My name’s Marie,” the woman said, giving Lettie a warm smile. “I have a standing tennis date every Saturday, and the gal I play with is always late.”

“That’s too bad,” Lettie said, adjusting her glasses.
Why is this girl talking to me?

“Well, I don’t know why, but I make it worse by being chronically early. It’s an issue of mine. Even when I know she’s going to be late, I show up early.”

Maybe she’s just friendly
.

“B-better early than late, I guess,” Lettie ventured.

“That’s true. Isn’t it funny how some people are chronically late and some people are chronically early, but hardly anyone’s ever just on time?”

She continued to prattle on, and Lettie relaxed somewhat as she spoke, realizing that this Marie person was simply chatty and friendly, probably talking out of boredom more than anything else. That was fine as long as she talked about herself. That she did, going on and on about her old tennis racket and her bad serve and how that was okay because playing regularly had seemed to whittle an inch from her waist, even if she wasn’t all that good of a player. And besides, she’d picked up some tennis tips from the friend that she played with and the park was so nice, especially now that spring was almost here.

Eventually, though, she turned the conversation to Lettie, asking when she had signed up for the dating service and what she thought about it. Lettie hesitated, wishing for once in her life she could have a normal conversation without having to censor her own words to adjust for the all the lies that came with her job.

“I just signed up today,” she said finally. “I don’t know if anything will come of it. How about you? Have you had any dates yet?”

Marie said not yet, and then she launched into an elaborate tale about how she and her girlfriends recently went down and signed up together.