Found Dead in the Red Head Read online

  Found Dead in the Red Head

  A Bathhouse Row Cozy Mystery

  Violet Patton

  Copyright © 2019 by Violet Patton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Family, friends and pets are my inspiration. Be careful. What happens to you might end up in a book.

  Love 'ya!

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  Desert Oasis Cozy Mysteries

  Alpaca My Bags

  Wool Over Your Eyes

  Ain't No Llama Drama

  No Prob Llama

  Bathhouse Row Cozy Mysteries

  Bath Bombs & Beyond

  Found Dead in the Red Head

  Dogs Riding Hogs

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 1

  The Bathtub

  “Pardon me,” I squeezed between the parade goers on the sidewalk, stepping into the street as the first snowfall of the season drifted from the evening sky.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted. “You better get back here! You’re gonna get lost!”

  Fanny turned, looking back but moved on.

  Magic happened the day I fell off a step-ladder in front of the Row, I woke with the ability to see, hear and talk to a ghost. Since then, we’ve become fast friends and determined she could experience life through me and vice versa.

  She loves the holiday, but I’ve developed a near fatal case of bah humbug. I can’t wait for the season to pass.

  Across the street near the promenade, carolers sang, ringing bells heralding in the holiday. People jumped as Fanny worked the crowd, poking her sewing needle into the unsuspecting victims. She glanced around looking for me, and I waved, motioning for her to come back. Ignoring me, she paused flashing her Technicolor image in unison with the ringing bells.

  On the corner, twinkling lights and ornaments hung from the snow-covered branches of a spruce planted on the promenade. Nearby, faux candles lit the Arlington Hotel’s windows which were decorated with evergreen garlands and red ribbons. All afternoon, dry snow dusted Central Avenue with a Christmasy look and the ringing bells created a very charming atmosphere.

  Children jammed in front of the adults on the sidewalks scrambling to catch hard candy thrown from the parade floats. The high school band performed showing off their marching skills. Almost every club or Hot Springs association entered a homemade float in the parade.

  A father held a little girl on his shoulders, she wore a red fancy Christmas coat, stood in front of me.

  “Ugh! Sorry. Please let me by.” I pushed by him, bumping into another fellow, who harrumphed but moved away.

  The men scooted over letting me pass as the horse-drawn Daughters of Confederate Soldiers carriage rolled up the avenue. Anita, my next-door condo dweller, rode in it, decked in her infamous faded, threadbare green satin Southern belle period costume (she secretly believes she’s Scarlet O’Hara) wrapped in her great-something-grandmother’s crochet tablecloth. She calls the ugly thing a shawl, but I know better.

  She waved, yelling and tossing hard candy to the children. “Patti! Come ride with me.”

  Hustling, I hurried to catch the slow-moving carriage, grabbed its handle and stepped up. “Scoot over.”

  “You better not fall.” She grabbed my wrist. Since I fell off the stepladder on the Row’s opening day, she warned me a dozen times about falling.

  I landed in the seat beside her, and she yelped. “Ouch!”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, noticing Fanny’s glimmer floating alongside the carriage.

  “Wow! Static electricity snapped me. It still hurts.” She rubbed her hip.

  “Yes, it’s the cold air. Makes things sharp.”

  A northern cold front rushed in dropping the temperature and sucked the moisture from the air, giving us our first December snowfall, and yet winter was weeks away.

  I waved, shooing Fanny away from the carriage, but she floated into it.

  “It’s so much fun.” Tempting me, she pretended to poke the driver.

  “Don’t, you’ll spook the horses. Go home. Get off the carriage.”

  She pouted into a grayscale. “No, I won’t go. They don’t know what stings them.”

  The crowd gave her plenty of victims, and she delighted in poking fun and her needle into the unsuspecting targets. Giggling, she floated away glimmering like a lonely firefly on a cold winter night. Thank goodness, Anita yelled at a friend who waved from the sidewalk and didn’t hear me talk to Fanny.

  I pulled Anita’s flowing overdone skirt across my knees. “Isn’t the snow nice? I’m freezing, though.” I rubbed my hands together trying to warm them.

  Anita looped her gloved hand into my elbow, arranging one of her many crochet afghans over our knees. She came prepared for a blizzard. “I’m just glad it wasn’t an ice storm. That would’ve been a big downer.”

  “I don’t love ice, but it is peaceful when it happens.”

  Warm Gulf of Mexico tropical air flowing north, and freezing Arctic air barreling south often collide over Arkansas which makes for a perfect ice storm. Many winters, those storms will bring Hot Springs to a calm, winter wonderland standstill.

  “Here. Toss candy at the kids.” From underneath her hoops, Anita produced a box of hard candy. “It’ll warm you up.”

  “Do I have too?” I whined like a child because I wasn’t interested in Christmas candy.

  “Yes. It’ll put you in the spirit,” Anita said, shivering. I grabbed a handful of candies and tossed them over the side of the carriage, making sure they fell far enough from the carriage wheels.

  “Belly’s bringing up the rear as usual. He’s getting a kick out of pulling your bathtub.” She aimed at a kid standing in the street, tossing a candy at his feet.

  “Yeah. I’m out here checking on Etta. I talked her into tossing soaps.” That was a good enough excuse to use rather than saying I was chasing a ghost.

  Anita smiled. “I know. She complained, but I told her to suck it up and have fun.”

  Over the years, Anita told me to suck it up. Sometimes it worked, but this Christmas season my blues deepened into a true case of melancholy.

  It’s been weeks since Ally answered her phone, her voice message box was full, and I couldn
’t stop fretting over her whereabouts. Had her new manipulative boyfriend convinced her I am evil personified? It happens, but she’s never cut me off before. Many times, I considered reporting her as a missing person, but I don’t know from where she was missing. She kept her location very secret from everyone who knew her in Hot Springs.

  “I’m so cold I might miss open house.” Anita cupped her gloved hands blowing hot air into them. “Wonder what the temperature is?”

  Sandy got the big idea of hosting a semi-open house. Nothing fancy, just cookies and cider since many of our friends would be downtown for the parade. She went overboard buying holiday decorations, spending too much money, so she figured we might as well have a party.

  “Okay miss the party. I wish you’d come, though, it’ll be fun.” Frankly, I didn’t care if she came or not, but she wanted me to beg her to come.

  Anita scowled, shrugging. “Ouch! You’re cranky tonight. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

  She tossed more candies onto the street. “Hear that? Belly’s blowing an airhorn. That man’s crazy. Getting a kick out of pulling your bathtub.”

  I giggled in spite of my blues. “I hear him. He’s a noisemaker, for sure.”

  Belly Walker volunteered to pull our bathtub—it’s actually Myra’s—with his vintage MINI Cooper clown car, the Red Head. He donates his time, money and his silly car to many philanthropic associations in town, and he famously creates fun for everyone everywhere he took it.

  “Belly’s stopping by. You should enjoy that.” Anita rubs Belly’s fur the wrong direction. If he sees her coming, he runs the other way.

  “Pish! He’s the last person I want to see.”

  “Have it your way. Thanks for baking the cookies. They are delicious.” Anita was the most convenient baker in our condo unit, and if I bought cookies instead of asking her to bake, she’d be insulted.

  “My pleasure. Anytime.”

  I searched the sidewalk, but didn’t spot Fanny’s glimmer among the applauding crowd.

  We had ridden quite a distance from the shop, and I stood. “I better get back. Sandy will wonder what happened to me.”

  “Cheer up, would ‘ya? You’re such a downer Debbie. Careful. Don’t fall.”

  I grimaced and hopped off the slow-moving carriage. “Stay warm. See you later.”

  It would be an hour or more before Anita got back to the shop, which would give me plenty of time to cheer up.

  Chapter 2

  Hard Cider

  We rode several blocks south of the soap shop, so I walked in the street toward the Row instead of punching through the crowd to use the sidewalk. By the time I reached the shop’s front door, the numbing cold chilled me despite my heavy jacket. I huddled close to the crowd hoping to catch some warmth while I waited for Belly’s vintage MINI Cooper to pass by.

  Santa’s sleigh would pass by last, and Belly’s Red Head always held the honorable position before the sleigh. I don’t know if people come to see Santa or Belly’s performance, because he got more cheers than Santa.

  Dressed like a derelict Santa wearing a tacky fake white beard, Belly stood in the car’s sunroof, shouting Merry Christmas between airhorn honks and blowing a police whistle. I waved, but he was too busy to notice me.

  Every year in the parade, he pulls something uniquely funny with his miniature car. At the last minute, we were lucky he hadn’t found something else to pull yet. Tickled at the prospect of pulling his first bathtub, he jumped on the idea and doing us, actually me, he was almost like family, a big favor. We would’ve been in-laws if Walker, his son, hadn’t broken off his relationship with Ally.

  Bundled like a snow-woman, Etta sat on the side of the big bathtub, tossing cellophane wrapped soaps into the crowd. Tossing soap was another of Sandy’s big ideas. It was expensive to use our sample soaps, but they were cheap advertisements. Sandy instructed her to throw a few carefully aimed soaps, spreading them thin.

  I shouted to get her attention. “Hey Etta!”

  “Patti! I’m freezing.” She rubbed her arms and puffed hot breath into the cold air.

  “I know. It’s almost over.” That’s how I felt about Christmas.

  My epidemic empty nest syndrome flared. How many Christmases would pass before I got used to being alone, without my children? Etta made up for my loss, but she didn’t enjoy my mothering.

  “Hot cider.” I waved, reminding her of our mini-open house after the parade party.

  Etta tossed soaps at the kiddos nearby, one kid picked up a soap, stripped off the cellophane wrapper and took a big bite.

  “Yuck!” He spit the bite at my feet.

  His mother moved forward holding out her palm. “Gimme that. What’d I tell you about putting stuff in your mouth?”

  “But Mom! It’s soap.” He wiped his tongue on his sleeve.

  “Well, it’s about time someone washed your mouth out with soap.” She wrangled him by the shoulder pushing into the crowd behind me. I grinned, cheered thinking of washing Craig’s mouth out with soap. I hadn’t done it, but during his terrible prepubescent years he needed it.

  Santa’s sleigh passed by ringing jingle bells, and Boy Scouts tossed more candy to the already overdosed kids. Hopefully, only one kid ate our soap. Having another poison incident related to the Row would be the end for our budding shop—Dick would shut us down quicker than Santa could get stuck in a chimney.

  I stomped my feet, knocking on the Row’s glass door. Sandy sat behind the counter, and she looked up.

  Earlier, when we realized the parade crowds might overwhelm the shop, Sandy locked the door. Over exuberant, Fanny chattered and frittered from the Row wanting to watch the parade. I made an excuse and chased her outside, knowing I wouldn’t catch her. Thankfully Sandy opted to stay inside in the warmth, and I needed a break from her and the shop.

  “There you are! It’s about time,” she said, hurrying to unlock the door.

  Invitingly, the bell over the door tinkled, and I felt safe at home once again. Since opening the soap shop, I spent so much time in the Row it felt more like home than my condo on Lake Hamilton.

  “Smells like Christmas in here.” I worked on a smile so, she wouldn’t notice my blues.

  “Doesn’t it?” She moved out of the door so I could get past her. “I turned the cider down. It was boiling.”

  Outside the shop, the parade goers and revelers walked both ways on the sidewalks. In no time, they would abandon Central Avenue on this cold December night.

  “Boiling sounds wonderful.” I peeled from my jacket, gloves and scarf as the doorbell tinkled again, and two ladies poked their noses into the shop. “Y’all open?”

  “Of course.” Sandy waved them in. “We’ve got hot cider.”

  I gave her a look, and she nodded as I went into workroom.

  My teeth chattered, and I flopped onto the shop’s very used loveseat and pulled an old crochet afghan over my legs.

  Cold seeped from the dank basement below the shop’s wooden floor, but the space heater Sandy brought from her storage unit barely made a dent in the chill.

  “Hey! Wasn’t that fun?” Fanny glimmered into sight, poking the air with her sewing needle.

  “Holy! Don’t scare me like that.” Her sudden vivacious appearances are still shocking when she pops in out of nowhere. “Stop that. Don’t poke with your needle. You’re gonna get caught stabbing people.”

  She rested on the loveseat’s arm, tamping down her glowing colors. “Pooh. I don’t stab people. I’m only sparking’ them. They need to start living. People don’t know how short life can be.”

  “So true. We have no idea, do we?”

  Since meeting Fanny, I’ve contemplated life and death. Her version of death wasn’t much different from mine. You’re alive one second, bam the next you’re dead. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t mind death, she only longs for her child and won’t rest until she finds him.

  She faded into a grayscale mope. “I was only poking fun.”

&n
bsp; “Poking people with a needle isn’t fun.” I admit, I did enjoy Dick Strand and Myra’s expressions when she first poked them. It was also big realization for Fanny as well, poking people delighted her to no end.

  I yawned, listening as the women shopped, and Sandy bantered with them. She is the shop’s official blabbermouth, don’t tell her a secret, she’ll blab before you put a period on the sentence.

  Sandy came into the workroom. “Taking a nap? Can you fix a quickie gift box?”

  She put three bath bombs, a loofa, two polishing lotions and several scented soaps on the workbench. “Like now.”

  “Boogers, she’s bossy.” Fanny whisked from the room. She doesn’t jive with Sandy’s overbearing remarks and leaves the room when Sandy enters it.

  Reluctantly, I flung off the afghan and stood. I couldn’t lie about while our guests partied, I didn’t want them to know about my lacking Christmas spirit.

  “Whew. I feel dizzy.” She did appear woozy, she puffed turning ashen and put both palms on the workbench.

  “Whew! I’m drunk with Christmas spirit.”

  “Ha! Did you spike the cider?”

  “Nope. Well, a pinch. It needed a little kick.” She straightened her shoulders, shaking off her spell. “I’m fine, just too much fun for an old lady.”

  “Don’t drink anymore cider. You’ll look stupid swinging from the chandeliers.” “Excuse me, I never look stupid.” Sandy said as the bell tinkled. “Oh, no! More shoppers.” Plastering on the smile she reserves for customers, she cheerfully went to greet them.