Death of a Domestic Diva (14 page)

Maybe, I thought, I should research some tips on removing mold and see if I could use them on the Rhinegolds' carpet and curtains. I knew they couldn't afford replacements.

I gave the bell on the counter a good rap, then stepped over to the display rack and counted my Toadfern's Laundromat flyers—12, same as a month ago. I noted the Antique Depot supply had gone down by two flyers, and Cherry's Chat and Curl's were completely gone. The Dairy Dreeme's, like mine, hadn't changed.

Then I sat down on the red vinyl couch—the side without the crack down the middle of the seat, although that meant having a leaf of the dusty plastic ficus tree resting on my head. I looked out the window, thinking I'd watch for the white truck and Billy, but there were dead flies—six of them—all right beside each other in the windowsill, as if they'd had a little fly accident—a six fly pile-up. That was a bad sign. Greta and Luke always pride themselves on being extra clean. I didn't like the sight, or the thought that soon the Red Horse Motel would be too much for them, and another Paradise business would close.

Luke came into the lobby, with Greta right behind him, staring at me through her thick glasses with her pale blue eyes.

“It's not our laundry pick-up day,” Greta said.

“And you didn't come to the bar door,” Luke added.

“We did give you the right amount of pay last time, didn't we?” Greta asked.

I gave them a little smile, then stood up. “I'm here on a different kind of business. I need to talk with you about my cousin Billy, and another guest of yours, Paige Morrissey.”

At that, Luke's eyebrows went up. “I think,” he said, “we'd better talk in the bar.”

“Yep, Billy left late last night,” said Luke. “Although he didn't really check out.”

We were sitting around a table, the only people in the bar at this early hour on a Sunday morning, drinking freshly brewed coffee. I added plenty of sugar and milk to mine and took a sip—ah. Now that was much better than the cappuccino my laundromat was offering.

Then I considered what Luke had just said about Billy, trying to recall my checkbook balance. “So when Billy left. . . did he, uh, settle up with you?” I took another sip, trying to look casual.

“Well, he didn't leave with his bill unpaid. But he didn't pay for it, either. A lady paid for him. And for herself, too,”

“Pretty lady, Hispanic looking?”

Luke shook his head. “No—although he'd been hanging out with her and her husband. This was a different pretty lady. A black woman.”

Luke tapped Greta on her shoulder. She had the remote aimed at the big screen, her bony arm sticking straight ahead, so the loose wattle of flesh of her upper arm, revealed by the short sleeves of her cotton housecoat, swayed each time she gave a click. She used the remote like she was doing target practice, flicking from station to station.

“What was that pretty black woman's name, Greta dear?” Luke said.

“Paige Morrissey,” Greta said. “Billy's room was number 212. Paige's was 213. Paid two hundred and twelve fifty-seven, including sales tax.”

“For two rooms?” I asked, amazed at the amount. They'd each only been here two nights. But maybe, I thought, Paige was also paying for the rooms of the television show crew that would be coming in a few days. My stomach flip-flopped at the thought of that. With all that was going on, how were we ever going to have a decent filming of the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
?

“She was also paying up for the couple who'd been here for about the past two weeks,” Luke said. “They'd kept putting me off, so I was real glad to get it.” He gave Greta another gentle pat on the arm. “What were their names again, Greta dear?”

“Jeff and Jane Smith. Room 219.” Greta was squinting with great concentration as she clicked at the big screen with the remote, as if she was trying to improve her aim.

“The Hispanic couple?” I said. “They said their names were Jeff and Jane Smith?”

“If that's what Greta says their names were,” said Luke, “then that's what their names were. You know Greta. Gets something in her mind, mind springs shut over it like a steel trap.” Luke put the base of his hands together, then formed half fists and rapped his knuckles together smartly.

“It's not Greta's memory I'm questioning, just that a Hispanic couple would be named Jeff and Jane Smith,” I said.

“I never question the guest's names,” Luke said. “If they say they're Jeff and Jane Smith, then they are.”

“Right. Do you know why Paige would pay Billy's and the, um, the Smith's bill?”

Luke shook his head. “Can't say for sure. But I will say, they all were getting mighty cozy last night in here.”

I lifted my eyebrows at that. “Cozy, how?”

“Sitting at that table over there—” Luke poked a finger at a table in the farthest corner. “Huddled over their beers. They weren't talking loud, but they were mighty intense about something. Hushed up right fast whenever I came by.”

“Was this the first time you'd seen them together?”

Luke thought for a moment. “First time all four of them were together. Billy'd spent a lot of time a few nights ago just with Jane Smith. I hadn't seen her husband since they'd checked in, and I thought maybe he'd taken off. Thought maybe Billy and Jane were getting a little close, a little fast, if you know what I mean. Then night before last, the fella, um. . .”

“Jeff Smith,” offered Greta, without turning around.

“Jeff Smith, right. Well, he came in, saw Billy and Jane together. Sat down, started talking, all excited, kind of loud.”

“What was he saying? Was he upset about Billy talking with his wife?”

“Can't say for sure—he was talking in Spanish. Jane seemed to be translating for Billy, and listening to Billy and translating back to Jeff, but she and Billy kept their voices low. He seemed real upset about something, but it didn't look like he was upset at Billy.”

“I don't understand how Paige fits into all of this.”

Luke shrugged. “All I can tell you is, she came in here late last night, came up to the bar, asked me for a beer, which kind of surprised me, because she didn't seem the beer type. Up until then, she'd been asking for drinks made a particular way—like a martini, but made with a particular brand of gin, what was it, Greta?”

“Bombay Sapphire. And some fancy brand of olives I've never heard of.” Greta laughed. “Like we'd have anything other than the pimento kind.”

“Right,” said Luke. “Anyway, Paige seemed really down, asked for a beer without even telling me what brand she had to have. Billy wandered in after that. Sat down, struck up a general conversation with her. Another couple who's staying here came in, wanted some grilled cheese sandwiches. I went into the back to cook them up. When I came back, Billy and Paige were over there with the Smiths in that corner table. About 1
A.M.
I went over, told them I was closing up the bar. Billy and the Smiths were real quiet, but Paige said that was okay, they were all leaving, and she'd pay the room bill for all of them.”

Why would Paige Morrissey—the devoted employee of Tyra Grimes—want to take off with Billy and the “Smiths”? Why, for that matter, would someone as elegant and sophisticated as Paige want to hang out with Billy? And why would someone as responsible as Paige take off when she knew a film crew would be here in a few days to do the Tyra Grimes show?

“What about the rooms she reserved for the film crew?” I asked.

“Film crew? Rooms?” Luke looked confused. “She just had the one room for herself. She never asked about other rooms.”

“Just the one room, room 213,” said Greta.

My armpits and forehead went all sticky and tingly. Tyra had never, I realized, meant to do a show here with me at all. She'd put me off when I'd tried to talk with her when she first came . . . and Paige had clearly told me she was going to block rooms for the crew at the Red Horse . . . but she hadn't asked about rooms at all.

“Oh look, here's the show, the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
” chirped Greta. “When will your show be on, Josie?”

I looked at Greta, who was gazing at me with her milky blue eyes, squinting as she tried to focus on my face, her own expression all lit up like she was real excited for me . . . the local girl, about to make good.

I grinned, so she could at least see a shadow of a smile. I was thankful she couldn't see that my eyes were welling up. And I crossed my toes, since what I was about to say was only a half truth, and said just a little too brightly, “No exact dates yet, Greta. That's show biz.”

8

Luke and Greta let me go through the rooms where Paige, Billy, and the “Smiths” had been staying. They just said, “okay” when I asked to see the rooms and gave me the keys, which was just a little disappointing since I had a whole speech worked out to convince them.

The good thing was that Rosa Miguelaro—the Rhinegold's one and only maid—hadn't cleaned out the rooms yet, so I stood a chance of finding something in the rooms to help me figure out where the whole bunch had disappeared to—and why they'd want to leave together. The bad thing was that Rosa seemed to think that I was there early that week to pick up the laundry. She kept following me around with her cart and thrusting sheets and towels at me. She finally gave up, muttering something in Spanish as she walked off, even though she speaks English.

Billy's room was a pigsty—no surprise there. The bed linens were all over the floor, along with damp towels, already smelling mildewy. The bathroom mirror was speckled with toothpaste and shaving cream. The trash can was spilling over with beer cans and pop cans and chip bags and candy wrappers . . . and one
Playboy
magazine.

The “Smiths'” room was not too messy and not too neat, kind of the baby bear version of a used motel room. Nothing in there of interest, either.

Paige's room was as neat as if Rosa had already been there—the bed made perfectly, the countertop and mirror gleaming. Even the stuff in the trash can was neat—one newspaper, two cough drop wrappers and five tissues all folded into careful, exact squares, with three cotton balls right in the middle, like a trash can sundae.

But poking out of the newspaper folds were some ripped up papers. That intrigued me. The newspaper, cough drop wrappers and tissues were all folded—yet these papers were ripped up. Paige didn't seem to be the kind who'd rip up something.

I pulled out the scraps of paper. They were just ordinary sheets of paper with neat handwriting on them—Paige's handwriting, I was guessing. I spread them out, stared at the pieces as if I was studying a jigsaw puzzle, feeling only mildly guilty at snooping into someone else's private trash. After all, my town was going nuts, my cousin was acting even stranger than usual, one Paradisite was in jail for murdering another Paradisite—all of which was related to Tyra's showing up in town in response to a letter I'd sent her. If something in her assistant's trash could help me figure out what was going on and set it back right, then fine. I'd have to just snoop.

Some of the paper pieces had gotten wet and were all smeary so I couldn't read them. I threw those scraps back into the trash can. What was left didn't quite add up to enough scraps to create a full page, but I studied them anyway.

One piece, from the top left corner of a sheet of paper, clearly said, “Dear Tyra:” while the remaining scraps had phrases like “I've been loyal; however. . .” and “can no longer support. . .” and “salmon, deboned,” and “illegal. . .” and “when this comes out. . .” and “walnuts” and “this action not justified . . .” and “regretfully, I must. . .” and “popcorn.”

I decided the food words must have been from a shopping list and the rest from a letter Paige had started to Tyra. But what could she no longer support? What action was unjustified . . . and illegal? Something she had done? Or something Tyra had done . . . or was about to do? The scraps hinted that she wasn't feeling totally loyal to her boss, and yet, last night she'd said she'd do anything for Tyra. And what about the lie about the stain being cocoa instead of mud?

I picked up all the scraps, even the ones with food words on them, and wrapped them up in a page of the newspaper. By the time I did that, Rosa was in the room, revving her vacuum. I stood, carrying the packet of scraps carefully, and squeezed past Rosa at the door. She held a towel out to me, as if there might be some hope I'd take at least a little laundry with me.

But I just smiled at her and trotted back to my car.

Now, I wish I could say that on the drive home, the whole of my mind was puzzling over what all I'd just learned.

But the truth is, the minute I was by myself, in my car, driving back toward Paradise, not having to smile at Rosa or talk more to the Rhinegolds, I found myself stewing over just one thing I had learned: Tyra had only used me as a cover to come to Paradise. She'd never planned to bring a film crew to Paradise, to do a show here. I wasn't going to be on the
Tyra Grimes Home Show
. I wasn't going to share my stain expertise with the world. I wasn't going to be a celebrity—complete with my new, puffy, strawberry blond do—for even five minutes.

And the truth is, I found myself crying, just a little, just a tear or two. I thought I'd achieved something for myself, for Paradise, but my dream had turned out to be just a fantasy. I was a failure, a fool, a wishful thinker, a chump. I knew just how Winnie felt about Tyra Grimes. She was, just like Winnie had said, a terrible person who'd come to our quiet little town, and then terrible things had started happening.

I caught my breath at that. Those were pretty much the words Lewis had used to describe Tyra when I'd first brought up the whole idea of getting on the Tyra Grimes show as a way to get Paradise on the map. As it turned out, all in all Tyra was pretty likable, if a bit fussy for my taste. Yet, Lewis had also said that if Tyra Grimes came to town, blood would flow. And it had. It had been his. And now Elroy Magruder was in jail for Lewis's death . . . although I suspected Paige.