Bubbles Ablaze (8 page)

I scurried through the dappled light and around rotting tree trunks, my shoes not offering much traction on the fallen leaves. Which is why I nearly slid into a large figure who materialized in my path and grabbed my arm.

“Bubbles,” he said gruffly. “Bubbles Yablonsky.”

I caught my breath. He was a twenty-something man, tall, in a flannel shirt, jean jacket and a white baseball cap that sat on top of his ash blond hair. It was dark in the woods and I couldn't see his face that clearly. He had caught me off guard so I had no option except to say, “Yes?”

“Right.” He let go and touched his finger to the brim of his hat. “Just wanted to know what you look like.”

He took a few steps back and it wasn't until then that I noticed his hand had ever so slightly pushed aside his jacket to reveal a gun stuck in his belt. I lifted my eyes to his in total fright and comprehension of the message.

“Stay safe now,” he said, smirking.

I was going to say something, but as soon as I opened my mouth, I was speechless. He apparently found my shock and obvious fear amusing because he kept on smirking. And kept on staring at me, the branches of the bare trees clicking in the wind, reminding me that he and I were alone. In the woods. Next to a murder scene.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

What
was
I waiting for? I slipped past him and ran as fast as I could, leaping over fallen branches and ducking tree branches, until I emerged in the clearing back at the press conference. I headed straight for the crowd of cameras, tape recorders and shouting journalists, Bon Jovi Butting my way with gusto, ticking off any number of people as I rudely bumped the coroner and kept on going.

I beelined for a satellite truck and turned the corner so that I was hidden by the open rear doors. My heart beat fast and I remembered that I didn't have wheels. Now how was I going to get back to Roxanne's?

“What was that about?” asked a woman's voice on the other side of the van door. There were footsteps on the gravel. Reporters leaving the press conference. “Did you see that crazy blonde in the low-cut number?”

I stared down at Roxanne's suggestive funeral dress.

“Who was she?”

“You don't know?” replied a different woman. “That's Stiletto's flavor of the month. Bubblegum. She's a hairdresser who goes around pretending to be a reporter.”

Pretending? Why I'd . . . the two women had stopped just outside the van's doors. I remained statue still.

“A reporter? Where?”

“Some shopper called the
News-Times
on the Jersey border.”

For her information, the
News-Times
was
not
a shopper.

“You'd think Stiletto would have matured beyond the sex kitten phase,” the first woman said. “Anyway, he's too good to waste on a woman like that.” A soda can popped open. There was a slight fizzing sound.

The other woman took a gulp. “It won't last,” she said, burping slightly. “He just likes the conquest. That's all Stiletto has ever loved is the conquest.”

My cheeks felt hot and I was tempted to turn the corner and give them a Liberty High School locker room special when the woman's friend said, “So how come he hasn't conquered you, Esmeralda?”

Esmeralda? Esmeralda Greene?

“He is damned good-looking, isn't he?” Esmeralda giggled. Funny. I hadn't pictured her as the giggling type.

“Are you kidding? And you know he's always had a thing for you. Remember that time when you two were assigned to cover the war crimes trials at the Hague and you had to share a hotel room?”

“That's not the kind of night I'd forget.”

“And he had to—”

“Shhh,” Esmeralda stifled her. “Here he comes.”

“Hey, Esmeralda. Patty.” Stiletto's voice was calm, coolly casual.

I rounded the van door.

“Bubbles.”

Esmeralda and Patty's faces dropped to the basement. But while Patty's was pink with embarrassment, Esmeralda's remained as cool as her Clinique sand foundation. Her skin was strikingly flawless, not a blemish or dark spot on her face. She was a perfect porcelain doll.

“Have you guys met?” Stiletto asked. “I think you'd really like Bubbles. She's got a hell of a news streak in her.”

Esmeralda and Patty smiled weakly, an expression Stiletto obviously took for kindness. God. Men were so off the planet half the time. Did they have even a spark of intuition?

“Uh, we better get back to New York, Steve,” Esmeralda said. “The national desk wants us for the afternoon meeting. And, as it so happens, I've got the car.”

“Aww shit,” Stiletto said. “Bubbles, what are you going to do? You don't have a way to get into town.”

“No problem,” I said, hooking my arm in his. “You can drop me off at Roxanne's on the way. If that's all right with you, Esmeralda?”

“Hmmm. I don't know. It is a Miata and there's not much of a back seat.” She frowned as though so very disappointed at not being able to help.

“Not to worry,” I said. “I'll squeeze in. Just like a brand-new kitten.”

Esmeralda's Potato and Green Tea Compress

Esmeralda may be a former model and big time New York City journalist, but she'll always be a Slagville girl at heart. Which is why she knows that sometimes the best beauty secrets involve potatoes. In this one the raw potato removes dark circles
under the eyes while the moistened and cool green tea reduces the swelling—for that perfect porcelain doll look.

½
russet potato, grated raw
2 green tea bags
1 drop glycerin
2 pieces of cheesecloth, approximately 6 x 6 inches
2 rubber bands

Soak tea bags in cold water while you grate potato into bowl. Remove tea bags from water and shake off excess moisture. With scissors cut off top of tea bags and empty contents into potato mixture, along with glycerin. Stir.

 

Divide mixture in half and spoon each half onto center of cheesecloth. Scrunch up cheesecloth and secure with rubber bands. You should have two pads of potato and green tea in cloth. Place on closed eyes and relax for a few minutes.

 

Hint
: For extra cooling and faster results, chill finished cheesecloth compresses overnight.

I
t may have been my imagination, but I could swear Esmeralda was trying to kill me. Stiletto, ever the gentleman, had insisted on cramming his photo equipment and himself into the tight back while I sat in the death seat next to Esmeralda. Neither of us was pleased about that arrangement.

Mama's old race-car boyfriend would have applauded Esmeralda for zipping that bright blue Miata of hers up and down the back streets of Slagville, swerving occasionally toward a tree, lamppost or any convenient utility pole on her right. My palms were so sweaty they left marks on the butter-cream leather.

“So how long have you two kids been working together?” I asked, trying to mask the nervousness in my voice. I was dying to tell Stiletto about my visitor in the woods, but I wasn't eager to involve Esmeralda. She'd want to know why I was near the mine entrance to begin with. And that might tip her off to my simmering blockbuster.

“It hasn't all been work, has it Steve?” Esmeralda flipped down the visor and winked at Stiletto. I counted. Her eyes hadn't been on the road for a good two minutes and we, or I should say I, was headed straight for an oak tree. This is what I meant by the trying to kill me part.

“Might want to steer clear of that tree,” Stiletto said.

“Whoops!” Esmeralda yanked the wheel. “Sorry about that, Bubbles.”

“No problem,” I said, gasping.

Finally, Esmeralda pulled up to the Main Mane. Stiletto
leaped out of the rear seat and opened the door for me—the result of my excellent training.

“I'll just be a minute, Esme,” he said.

Esmeralda checked her lipstick like she couldn't give a hoot. But I sensed that deep down she was ticked.

Stiletto escorted me to the door of the salon. “I don't like leaving you, even if you do have Genevieve as a bodyguard.” He put his hand to the back of his neck as a reminder. “I got out of your cousin's salon as soon as Genevieve's back was turned. I was afraid that if I didn't she'd club me with a baseball bat.”

“Sorry about that. Listen, you know the woods by the Number Nine mine entrance? I was walking through there a few minutes ago and I ran into this guy, a—”

“What were you doing in the woods by the Number Nine mine?” Stiletto asked, curious.

“Uh . . .” Oh, that's right. I kept forgetting. Stiletto was working for the dark side. “Just, um, checking out where the explosion had been.”

“
During
the press conference?” Stiletto squinted. “Really?”

Esmeralda beeped the horn. “Come on, lover boy!” she yelled. “If we don't get to the city soon we won't make the party.”

“Party?” I asked. “You're leaving me in the hands of a killer because of a party?”

“Just a stupid get-together.” Stiletto waved it off. “One of our entertainment reporters is throwing it. Esme wants to go because of all the celebrities and asked if I'd take her since I'd be in town.”

I batted my eyelashes. Stiletto cleared his throat and gave it another shot.

“The real reason I've got to go back to New York is because of those damn editors. They're all hopped up about last night. I've got to meet with lawyers and write memos, you know how it is.”

Not good enough.

“And then there's my exploded identity to repair,” he
continued. “I've got no license, no credit cards. Even the key to my apartment was attached to the one in the Jeep, so it's been blown up. I've got a lot of boring ends to tie up. Figured you'd rather stay here, get your car fixed, hang out with your cousin.”

What? Stay in a run-down coal town? With someone out to kill me? With my black-leather-wearing Mama and her friend, the Sherman tank with breasts? Eating meat-loaf dinner at four-thirty and watching full-volume
Wheel of Fortune
and going to bed at eight? Yes. I'd much rather be here than at a celebrity party, I thought.

But all I said was, “I see.”

“On the bright side,” he said, “I talked to the Passion Peak folks. Since your stuff is there and you were nearly killed, they agreed to let you stay tonight for free.”

“It won't be much fun alone.” All those mirrors. All that cellulite.

“Why don't you invite your mother to stay? She might get a kick out of it.”

Esmeralda leaned on the horn again and Stiletto kissed me quickly on the lips. Then he jogged back to Esmeralda's car. The two of them zipped off, Esmeralda's hair shimmering golden red in the breeze and me feeling like Cinderella. Then I thought, my
mother
? Why would I bring my mother to a lovers' hotel?

Instantly depressed, I opened the door to the Main Mane and stopped still. The place was a mess! It reeked of permanent solution and shampoo.

Through the white haze of hairspray, I counted three women on the couch with curlers, foil and caps. Another was dripping in the sink while Roxanne was busily finishing the comb-out on a client so wizened she looked more like a prune than a woman. But what was Genevieve doing at the manicure table with—no, Lord, say it's not true—an orangewood stick in her hand, pushing back some poor client's cuticles with short, sharp thrusts.

“Bubbles! Am I glad to see you!” Roxanne shouted, palming a sweaty frizz of hair from her forehead. She tossed a comb on the
pink vanity and yanked the top off a jumbo-sized Final Net, spraying madly. “It's a zoo in here. The phone's been ringing off the hook. Genevieve's offered to do manicures, but I could sure do with another stylist.”

“You bring that hunk Stiletto?” Roxanne's client the human prune asked. The three women on the couch lowered their magazines and the one at the sink raised her head.

“No,” I said, closing the door. “He's gone back to New York.”

“Damn.” The prune snapped her fingers. “Darla Wychesko said he was bodacious.”

“Oww!” yipped Genevieve's victim. She snatched back her hand and pinched her finger to stop the blood. “That's live skin.”

“What do I know? I usually trim 'em with the vegetable peeler.” Genevieve sighed and opened the Band-Aid box. “You want Elmo this time?”

Roxanne flew to the cash register and rang up the prune's bill. “I've got to talk to you, Bubbles, before Mrs. Manetti's timer goes off.” The cash register binged and the prune handed Roxanne a twenty.

“Is it true what they're saying,” Roxanne said, counting out change, “that Stinky's a murder suspect?”

“We should talk alone.” I pulled Roxanne into her parlor and closed the door. There I gave her the lowdown from the press conference about how Stinky had been described by authorities as some disgruntled, homicidal ex-employee, and Roxanne started to cry.

“Reporters have been calling all morning. I had to remind myself that you were a reporter and that you were decent and some of them might be decent, too, but they're all bastards. I caught a photographer shooting photos in the front window. Like a Peeping Tom. The thing is that all the attention seems to have brought in business. I'm booked. It's like I'm a one-woman freak show.”

I gathered Roxanne in my arms and let her head rest on my shoulder. After rubbing her back, I asked, “Do you remember
what you told me this morning about Stinky having a fit over the Number Nine mine maps not being updated?”

She lifted her head and fumbled for a tissue. “You made a pinky promise not to tell.”

“I know. But listen, Roxanne, I think you should let me write a story about that, before Stinky is completely discredited. I measured the distance from the Number Nine mine to the Dead Zone and I realized something. Is it possible McMullen was robbing coal from under the Dead Zone, the land Bud Price owned? Vilnia told me that Stinky was fired from McMullen because he discovered something there he wasn't supposed to. This could be it.”

“Stinky wasn't fired.” She blew her nose. “He quit.”

“Details.”

“I don't know,” she said, sighing. “Let me check the box.”

“The box?”

“Where Stinky keeps all his documents and correspondence and maps. You know Stinky. He was a stickler for documentation. I keep it in the guest bedroom dresser.”

Holy hell, I thought. Mr. Salvo was going to pee in his pants. He lived for documents.

“I can get it when we get a break.”

Mrs. Manetti's timer dinged.

“So you want me to write a story?” I ventured carefully. “A story that could be published tomorrow?”

Roxanne hesitated at the door and was silent for a minute. Then she said, “If it'll help my Stinky, absolutely.”

Yes! I pictured Esmeralda boogying the night away with Stiletto and heard Mama's admonition: Slow and steady wins the race. Mama was big on slow and steady, being rather slow—if not always steady—herself.

Roxanne opened the door and Mrs. Manetti, who must have been eavesdropping, fell in. “I wondered when you were going to get to me,” she said. “I don't want my hair turning orange.”

Roxanne apologized and I dialed Mr. Salvo from the front desk phone as a heavyset woman entered. “I'm here for a
makeover. I won the raffle.” She handed me a blue raffle ticket from a Ladies Auxiliary fundraiser. “Louise Lamporini.”

I glanced down at the scrawl on the appointment book. Sure enough. Louise Lamporini at one.

Mr. Salvo picked up the phone on his end. “Salvo,” I heard in my ear.

I looked pleadingly over to Roxanne, who pointed to the other women on the couch and shrugged. “No way,” she said. “It'll take me forty-five minutes to get to Louise. I'm way behind schedule.”

“Uhh, can you wait,” I said into the phone.

“That's not acceptable,” Louise said, folding her large arms. Despite her extra weight, she was a striking woman. Strong, not fluffy. “I've got to get back to work.”

“Who is this?” Mr. Salvo asked.

“It's Bubbles. I've got a hell of a story.” I turned back to Louise. “I can do the basics. Foundation through eye shadow and a bang trim.”

“Aww Christ.” It irked Mr. Salvo when my other life as a hairdresser intruded. “Don't tell me you're doing that girlie stuff.”

Louise glanced at her watch. “Okay. But we have to do it fast. I've got to be back at my desk in a half hour.”

“I don't have time for this,” Mr. Salvo said. “Call me back.”

“Hold on.” I led Louise over to an empty chair. Roxanne pulled open a drawer to reveal the makeup supplies. “You want bold or neutral?” I asked.

“What?” Mr. Salvo said.

“Not you. I'm doing a makeover.”

“Neutral,” Louise said. “I'm at work, remember?”

I pinned Louise's hair back and began to dab her face with a cotton ball to clean it. “You hear about what happened to me?”

“What happened to you?” Louise asked.

“Yeah, I heard,” said Mr. Salvo. “A little tip? If I ever send you on assignment, it will never be by fax. I've been in this business for over twenty years and I never, not once, heard of an editor sending a reporter to cover a story by fax. What were you thinking?”

“So glad to know you're safe and sound, Bubbles,” I said, shaking out foundation onto my fingertip. “What a horrible ordeal you went through.”

“Oh, don't start with the guilt trip. I've left dozens of messages on your answering machine at home, making sure you were okay. So what's the big story?”

As I blended in the foundation lines, I filled in Mr. Salvo about the press conference and the documents Roxanne reportedly possessed. By the time I was finished, I had applied a transparent brown lipstick and mentally written the lead to the story.

“Wow,” Louise said, examining herself in the mirror. “I want that lipstick.”

“Next week. You can work on that story next week,” Mr. Salvo said. “In the meantime, I want to inform you of a change in the schedule. You're on for Sunday day shift. I'm thinking of sending you to the Catasauqua Republicans' annual barbeque.”

“What?”

“This lipstick,” Louise said, holding up the tube. “I want it. How much?”

Roxanne, aware of my growing desperation, came to the rescue and led Louise over to the makeup counter. I focused my attention on Mr. Salvo.

“You're not going to tell me this story is out of our circulation area, are you?”

“No,” he said. “Lehigh Steel has a historical connection to McMullen Coal and the other coal companies in that area. Hell, the Lehigh Valley Railroad physically connects the two. Our readers will definitely be interested in what you've got. Just not tomorrow.”

This man was becoming impossible. Almost as bad as his evil boss, Dix Notch. “But we could run an exclusive proving that Carl Koolball was a bona fide whistleblower who is now being smeared by McMullen Coal who may have been robbing coal to avoid state oversight. Are you telling me you don't want that?”