Bath Bombs & Beyond Page 10

“I feel just awful about this mess.” Earlier, when I mixed the bath bombs, I left the ibuprofen bottle on the workbench. My head pounded, and I reached for it and popped off the lid.

  “Please don’t take the pills. I want to talk,” Fanny pleaded, adding a spooky moan.

  “No, I don’t want to talk. Show yourself.”

  Teddy had looked at his phone, ignoring me.

  “Please.”

  Fanny flickered into sight. She sat upon the loveseat’s arm next to Teddy. Smoke filtered from her bullet wound. “I love this one. He’s cute. Is he your beau?”

  Did Teddy and I act too familiar with each other? “No, he isn’t. Stop talking.” I set the pill bottle down, despite the throbbing pain behind my eyes. Teddy’s lip curled. He couldn’t follow my weird replies to Fanny.

  “Sitting ain’t talking.” He patted the cushion again. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

  “All right.” Sitting wouldn’t hurt, even though, I couldn’t relax. I went over, kicked off my shoes, folded my knees and curled up beside him. Another text messaged pinged his phone. Fanny fiddled with his hair, pretending to smooth it over his ear. “Don’t do that!” I glowered at her.

  “Do what?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.” Antsy, I fidgeted which made me fall closer to Teddy. I readjusted and put a couple inches between us. “Guess I better unlock the doors for the CSI crew.”

  “Wait until they knock. I bet I know most of them.” Teddy responded to another message.

  “We need damage control. The Row’s reputation is kaput.”

  “Prolly.” Teddy laid his hand on the back of the sofa.

  With my feet under me, I could control how I sat; pushing so I wouldn’t fall into him. The sofa cushions were shabby and soft, but the supports creaked under our weight. It’s a good thing Fanny was weightless. She lounged back, draping her flickering arm behind Teddy’s head.

  I leaned my head against the sofa back again. “Myra’s gonna be fit to be tied.”

  “Yep. You gonna call her?” He put his phone in his shirt pocket.

  “God, no!” I pretended to dial an old rotary phone. “Hello operator. I need Myra. One ringy-dingy, two ringy-dingies. Hey, Myra, sugar, listen. The Row’s bath bombs exploded and killed a woman in Al Capone’s personal bathtub. It’s not that big of a deal. As soon as the CSI crew swipes down the shop for fingerprints and test our products for poison, we’ll be as good as new.”

  Teddy chuckled. “Awkward call, huh?”

  “I’ll say. I’ll call her soon, though. She’s gonna be pissed off.”

  “I bet.”

  Fanny ran her fingers through his hair. He fiddled with his ear. “Ah, yeah. Don’t do that!”

  “Did you see that? He felt it.” Fanny glimmered gleefully.

  “Stop it.” I frowned, shaking my head.

  “You jealous?” She was so close to his ear. Could he hear Fanny’s whisper?

  He scratched his head were Fanny stroked his hair. “She’ll find out soon enough.”

  “True.” With all the text messages flying through the microwave towers, Myra might already know the bad news.

  “Guess I better get.” Teddy hitched himself from the soft sofa. If we sat there too much longer, we might fall through to the floor.

  “What? You’re not leaving? I thought…”

  “I got a message. That side job thing. There’s an issue.”

  “Well, shoot!” I pushed into my shoes. If he wasn’t going to stay...

  “You know what? You can handle it.” He stood, putting on his ball cap. “This place is creepin’ me out, like you said.”

  “See what you’ve done. You’ve run Teddy off.” I climbed out of the sinking loveseat. Teddy grabbed my wrist, and I whirled to a stop in front of him. Feeling his warm grasp, my knees quivered.

  “You haven’t run me off. Why would you say that?”

  I eased my wrist from his grasp. “Oh... I didn’t mean... I wish you’d stay.” I stumbled over an excuse for talking out loud to Fanny. She was going to be my ruin. If Teddy started to believe I was brain damaged, like Sandy did, soon I wouldn’t have an ally inside the soap shop.

  “CSI is taking too long getting here. I’d better get to my other gig.”

  “Oh, pish. So, you are leaving?”

  He moved to one side, heading for the door. “I’m only a text message away. Down the street. You can handle the CSI crew. Nothing too it.”

  He gave away his other gig’s location. Along Central Avenue, there was enough beer to fill a battleship and then some.

  “Sure thing.” I hardly believed he had an important spy mission elsewhere. I’m not his mother, so objecting to his plans wasn’t appropriate.

  “Later, girlfriend.” Teddy let the security door bang shut. I stood flabbergasted, reeling from his use of girlfriend. I wasn’t his girlfriend, and would never be.

  He's so impetuous.

  “Did you hear me?” Fanny appeared beside me.

  I shook off Teddy’s comment, knowing I had more important things to worry about... like deadly bath bombs. “No, what did you say?”

  “My boy, Willie. Can you find him…? Find out what happened to him? I’d… I’d like to know if he lived—”

  “That’s right, you asked earlier, didn’t you? You’re wondering if he lived happily ever after.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Fairytale and love stories have happily ever after endings.”

  “Love stories? A fairytale?” Her Irish brogue sounded more pronounced than before. Stress must affect a ghost as well as humans.

  “Like a leprechaun.” If she was a figment of my brain-damaged imagination, how am I creating an accent when she speaks? Just when I start to believe I’m only imagining her, she shows me something else.

  “Not that. Jaysus! No leprechauns. That’s the devil’s work.”

  I found a pen and sticky note pad on the workbench. “Tell me his name. I’ll see what I can find. But not until this bath bomb problem goes away.”

  “His name? William Henry Doyle.”

  13

  Nacho Cheese Doritos

  I went home. What else could I do?

  After the CSI crew finished, I locked the Row, leaving everything the way they left it. I hadn’t straightened or fussed over the mess they made. Good thing Sandy left, she would’ve stressed me out more than the crew.

  They even brought Hector, the department’s cadaver dog, trained to sniff out a dead body. That was overkill, considering Hector was a drooling bloodhound as big as a baby bull. He took one sniff of the shops scents, sneezed and flopped under a showroom table.

  The crew bagged, boxed and catalogued, carting off bath bombs, salt scrubs, and every ounce of the bulk supplies. Anything which wasn’t factory prepared was suspect. Which meant I too was a suspect since I handled the bath bomb production.

  I drove through Taco Bell, ordering tacos to satisfy my stress induced, instant-gratification needs. Carrying my sack filled with three Nacho Cheese Doritos Loco Taco Supreme© tacos and a super-sized soda, I mounted the stairs to my humble abode. The three-story complex has an elevator, but as long as I could climb the stairs, I would for my heart and thigh’s sake.

  With my key in hand, I spotted a torn bit of lined notebook paper taped to my door. I’m giving sticky note pad to all my neighbors for Christmas this year.

  “Dang it! Don’t use tape on my door. Anita!” I knew I wouldn’t be able to slip past Anita, my next-door condo dweller, who made it her business to know my business.

  The note read: Call me! I have something important to tell you. Anita adored her police scanner, and the note meant she’d heard about the bath bomb fiasco.

  I left the note stuck to the door and entered my peaceful sanctum, jonesing for tranquility. One thin wall separated me from the biggest drama queen in Hot Springs, so I tiptoed into the condo. I dropped my keys on the old Singer sewing machine I used for a foyer table. Craig and Ally’s photo r
eminded me it had been months since he visited and even longer since I’ve seen her. On rare occasions when she was alone, Ally would video chat with me, but never for long enough. Her deadbeat boyfriend had strict control over her every move.

  My empty nest happened at the same time Dalhart and I called it quits.

  After my ex-husband and kids moved out, I filled my spare time with my mother until she passed away. I bumped into Anita often because she delivered baked sweets to my mother, ignoring the fact she had diabetes.

  Now, Anita reminds me of their adventures. They were two peas in one pod. Until my mother couldn’t travel any longer, they made Branson, Missouri their destination vacation. Anita drove mother’s old car—the pod—until the wheels fell off… literally. The wheel fell off when they pulled into Mother’s drive coming home from their last trip to Branson.

  I took Mother’s keys away and they pouted for months.

  When I purchased this shiny new condo, lemme tell ya, it was a shock to learn Anita purchased the unit next to mine. Like a good busybody, there was no rest for Anita. She stuck her nose into every cranny of gossip in this town. This evening, she was ready to share the juicy tidbits she’d learned from her police scanner.

  I heeled out of my shoes, put the tacos on a plate, grabbed a napkin, jostled the super-sized soda, and with one finger, opened the sliding glass door. I never lock the patio door. A thief would need a cape and be able to leap tall buildings to get into the condo from the patio, and with Anita next door, I had a built-in security system.

  Two-seconds after I set the plate on the table, Anita opened her sliding patio door. Dressed in her formal floral printed muumuu, she came out onto the balcony, beaming. “Thank goodness. Home at last. I’m dying over here.”

  Hummingbird feeders, potted plants, Mexican souvenir knickknacks, Martha Stewart pillows, and Pioneer Woman pottery decorated Anita’s balcony. My sparse balcony furnishings were economic. With an everyday close-up eyeful of her dreadful eclectic style, I appreciated my patio’s lack of cluttered foo-foo.

  Anita was an old school, tea party socialite entertainer. Undeterred by the condo’s small rooms, she could squeeze six good-sized matrons onto her balcony and entertain them until the cows came home. After several tenants complained of her ruckus filled girly parties—I called security—she slacked off inviting her groups to the condo.

  “Don’t die. Come on over.” I jerked my head toward the door. “Door’s unlocked.”

  Anita grinned from ear to ear. “I don’t want to bother you.”

  “Yes, you do. C’mon.” Before I begged her twice, Anita disappeared through her open sliding door.

  After I told her I wouldn’t take the elevator unless I was in a wheelchair, Anita never used the elevator again. To get to my door, she’d huff and puff down the stairs, cross over and climb up three floors. An easy jaunt for a spry old lady on a gossiping mission.

  Doors opened and closed, and in about a minute and a half—Anita was jogging—she set a chocolate cream pie on the table.

  “I made pie.” Southern social etiquette mandated guests should never arrive empty-handed. She took that mandate to an extreme, and my waistline was proof of Anita’s good manners.

  “How nice.” I took a big bite of taco.

  Anita twittered. “I heard about the shop getting closed. You’re all over the news.”

  Ouch! She already knows Dick shut down the shop.

  “Uh-huh. News travels fast in this steamy little town.” Good thing I didn’t tell her about falling off the ladder. She’d spread the news about town like mustard on rye bread.

  Anita wiggled with glee. “You know me. I have my inside sources.”

  I did know her well. She was the fly on the wall everyone ignored when they whispered secrets. “Taco? It’s all much ado about nothing.” I pushed the plate toward her.

  Anita shook her head about the taco. “Pfft. Nothing? A murder in the Arlington. Sure.”

  I stopped mid bite, putting my taco down. “What makes you think it was murder?”

  “Beautiful woman. Jealous boyfriend. Adds up.” Anita puckered her best poochy lip look.

  “Is that the skinny?” Anita loved it when I talked dirty police lingo.

  Her leg jiggled.

  “It sure is.” I leaned back, took a deep breath and allowed her to talk… I couldn’t have stopped her anyway.

  She prattled on about what she heard on the evening news broadcast, her police scanners and from her network of gossipy friends.

  Fishing, I asked, “Did they identify the girl?” Dick hadn’t revealed the victim’s name, standard procedure this early in the investigation. Too bad she hadn’t used a credit card, I would’ve known her name.

  “No, not yet.”

  “What jealous boyfriend?” I asked.

  “I heard she was fighting with her boyfriend in the lobby of the hotel.” She picked at the pie’s crust.

  Which made sense, except the man who shoved her into the Lincoln was old enough to be her grandfather. He wasn’t her boyfriend. She was far too sophisticated for the head-banging, airhead chauffeur. He was only a boy, but you never knew in relationships. Was she playing both men? If one found out about the other, things could’ve gotten ugly. It got ugly, outside the shop and inside Al’s suite, and now the woman was dead.

  “There’s no way,” I mumbled over taco. “It was suicide; I feel it in my bones.”

  “Uh-uh. No suicide.” Anita cataloged thatAnita cataloged the thought, savoring the possibility. thought, savoring the possibility. She loved her gossip, sending smoke signals and rapping out Morse code over the proverbial back fence. “Your bones? Sugar, these things happen. Finished?” she asked, reaching for my third taco.

  “Go ahead.” I sat back in the chair to slurp soda. “You still doing genealogy stuff?”

  Among Anita’s favorite social clubs were the Happy Hookers Crochet Club and the Hot Springs Daughters of Civil War Veterans. Not only was Anita nosy, she was a crackerjack crochet master who loved to take part in Civil War reenactments. She would dress like Scarlet O’Hara, squeezing her size fifty waist line into a threadbare Southern belle reproduction dress. Anita gave up the corset and crinoline, but she wore a crochet shawl, which might’ve been her great-great-grandmother’s antebellum tablecloth. She asked me if I wanted a shawl like hers, but I politely declined.

  She loved her clubs and crochet, but she lived and breathed genealogy.

  “Ever heard the name Doyle?” I asked.

  She took one big bite of the taco. She chewed, holding up a finger, cocking her head and when she was about to talk, I said, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  Swallowing, she said, “Lemme see. Doyle? Maybe?”

  Other times, if I asked about a Hot Springs surname, she spouted family history like a walking Arkansas encyclopedia.

  “Why you asking?” She took another bite of taco.

  When it came to Anita, I was a blabbermouth. After my mother passed, she became my pseudo mom, and I used to tell my mother everything. If I wasn’t careful, I might blab to Anita about Fanny. If I told her I could see, hear and converse with a Technicolored ghost, who could prick a person’s derriere with a sewing needle, she’d be shocked. Although, mother would have been delighted to learn a simple bump on my noggin had given me superpowers.

  She chewed politely before she spoke. “I’ll snoop around. You know me and my genealogy.”

  I smiled. “Yes, I do. That’s why I’m asking.” Like Teddy, Anita had a talent for making me smile.

  “Does it have to do with the suicide victim?” She asked and poked the last bite of taco into her mouth.

  “Oh, heaven’s no. Pie?” I asked, cleaning a dribble of Taco Bell hot sauce off my shirt. “I’ll get the pie server and plates.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we had eaten half of the pie. Southern etiquette dictates every good Southern girl must eat any pie when offered. If you don’t eat it, you will not be offered pie a second time an
d banned from future church picnics.

  Anita spent a good part of the time I ate pie speculating about the trouble at the Arlington. I didn’t mention Etta, Dick, or the crime scene investigators. The less I added to Anita’s forgone conclusions the better.

  She drummed her nails on the table, her usual signal she was finished visiting.

  “You can leave the pie.”

  Anita smiled, happy with the idea. “Always. Guess I’ll go.” She didn’t move a muscle to leave.

  Along the lakeshore, lights twinkled in the twilight and we both sat back to enjoy the show. Our view from the third floor was spectacular in the night.

  I stacked the pie plates, clearing the table. Anita wiped her dirty pie fork with her napkin. She had some old fogy ideas left over from her depression era Southern grandmothers that rankle nerves. If I didn’t watch her, she’d put the fork in the cutlery drawer without washing it

  “Let me have that.” I took the fork and asked, “You ever seen a ghost?”

  She looked up, giving me a squinty-eyed glare. “Hush you. Don’t talk about such things.”

  “Do you mean yes or no?”

  “No. My Grandma Emma swore she could see spirits.” She fiddled with the neckline of her muumuu. “Scared me. I was an impressionable young lady.”

  “How so?” I asked, sitting back wondering when and how Anita was young or impressionable. I was interested in Grandma Emma, Anita hasn’t mentioned her before. No doubt, she had stories to tell about the grandmother’s opinion of spirits and ghosts.

  Anita sat back musing. “She was a cantankerous old woman. Chewed tobacco and spit into a spittoon. Made me gag.”

  “Interesting. I’ve never met a woman who spit tobacco. How’d you know she could see ghosts… spirits?”

  “Dunno, she just said she could. When I was a kid, I watched her hold a séance in the living room. She called it the parlor. My mother tanned my hide for peeking. Never did it again. Why’d you ask about ghosts?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing. You know, just curious. We found an old signature carved into the bathroom wall. Myra said it might be the old proprietor of the shop. The Doyle woman. I’m thinking she died around 1929.” I hedged adding the date without saying exactly how I knew when Fanny died.