Found Dead in the Red Head Read online

  From underneath the workbench I pulled a gift box, eyed the bath bombs and soaps, and reached for a bigger box. “It’ll need shrink wrap.”

  When I first made the gift boxes, I was all thumbs, but now I can make one in my sleep. Fluffing crinkled gold filler into the box, I arranged the bombs, loofa, lotions and soaps and closed the box lid, cutting a perfect length of ribbon, I sealed all with a Row sticker.

  Since waiting on slow-moving customers wasn’t my cup of tea, but mixing bath bombs was, we fell into a natural flow of who did what in the shop.

  If I help customers, Fanny flits and glimmers around the showroom tables, disturbing small items, chattering like a magpie, and I can’t focus without fussing at her troublemaking antics. More than a few customers gave me looks which meant they thought I was off my rocker, blurting unrelated answers to questions they couldn’t hear.

  Sandy complains like a grumpy steadfast old woman, but she knows how to take care of a person. She uses her nursing micro-management bedside manner, convincing our customers are our only customers. They soak in her chitchat sweet talk like medication, sees her loving smile and don’t notice the dollar signs dancing like sugar plums in her eyes.

  The doorbell tinkled, and Etta spoke gently, greeting Sandy and the customers.

  Soon our guests would arrive, and I did not want to work while we visited over cider and cookies.

  “Hey girl,” Etta said, stripping off her wooly knitted cap, shaking out her shiny lank of dark brown hair. “I’m freezing.”

  “Get under the throw.” I nodded at the loveseat. “It’ll warm you up.”

  “Gotta go first.” She went in the bathroom, and I looked up at the tombstone etching hanging on the wall beside the bathroom door.

  After my fall and epic denial about Fanny, I asked Anita to research in the county’s genealogy records for anything on her life. She came up empty finding anything on Fanny or her son, William Henry Doyle, but she found her tombstone in the cemetery.

  Etching headstones was Anita’s hobby. In the spring, before it gets too hot and humid, she and her historical cronies tour cemeteries, picnicking among the headstones, speculating on how people died and etching their stones with parchment paper and charcoal sticks.

  It floats their boats, but I’m glad Anita did not invite me along on those sojourns. In the past, she’s gotten me into some fine pickles taking part in her many clubs and association events.

  The etching was so beautiful, Anita and I hung it on the wall. Every day it reminds me of Fanny’s existence, and that I’m imagining her presence.

  Etta flushed and came out of the bathroom. “I’m tellin’ ya. Belly is a wicked old man.”

  “Huh? Belly’s far from wicked. What ‘d he do?”

  She motioned like she was drinking something, flopped onto the loveseat, crunching the afghan under her chin. “He’s a bit tipsy.”

  Listening to her, I waved the heat gun over the shrink wrap. Although I perfected the gift box process, talking and waving the heat gun still tripped me up, so I waved it carefully replying to her.

  “You think so?” I put away the heat gun and stuck a Christmas ribbon the box. “He’s known for his love of drink.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before you made me ride in the stupid bathtub?”

  Twinging, I picked up the box heading for the showroom. “Guess I didn’t think of it. Besides you were only going a snail’s pace. You could’ve walked beside the bathtub.”

  She rolled her eyes. Like I said, she doesn’t enjoy my mothering, but smothering her gives me a purpose in my childless life.

  “It was too far.” She shivered, huddling under the throw.

  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t be cold.” Putting on my best chipper face, going out I faked a smile. “Ho. Ho. Ho. Merry Christmas.”

  Chapter 3

  The Bathtub

  For the next hour, the Row rang with good tidings and cheer as our guests enjoyed the small gathering. They complimented the shop’s decorations and bought Christmas scented soaps and lotions. Customers came and went, dropping money into our cash register like merry little shoppers.

  I tested Sandy’s doctored cider and made sure it wouldn’t harm anyone. Anita’s delightful gingersnap homemade cookies went well with the cider.

  Myra arrived decked in an ugly Christmas sweater.

  “That’s the ugliest Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen.” She spun showing it off.

  She smirked. “That’s why I’m wearing it. I thought so too.”

  I handed her a teacup of cider. “Thanks. Nice china, by the way. Where’s that man?”

  “Which man?” There were plenty of men she could mean. Right now, Teddy was her favorite man because he butters her up knowing she pays well.

  “The one dragging my bathtub. Is this stuff spiked?” She sniffed before she took a sip. “I don’t like plain cider.”

  “Yes. He’s pulling, not dragging our bathtub.”

  Myra flitted a hand. “No matter. I need a word with him.” She moseyed into the display window and toasted with her teacup. “That tub’s gonna look grand sitting here, won’t it?”

  Weeks ago, Myra hired Teddy to demo in the basement bowling alley. He knocked down a temporary wall, if a wall built in the 1920s could be called temporary, and found a secret boudoir behind it. Inside the old room there was a moldy vanity with a crazed mirror which set beside an opulent two-person cast iron enamel bathtub. Other than a few things on the vanity, we found no evidence of who or whom used the secret room.

  “Good grief, that’s the original hot tub.” Myra snarked, but she wanted the tub. “We can’t leave it down here. It’s too wonderful. I must share it with Hot Springs.”

  Both titillated and abhorred, Myra named the secret spot the Love Shack and fell deeper in love with the one-of-a-kind claw-footed tub.

  She insisted Teddy bring it up from the basement. Bringing the heavy tub out of the basement was no small feat, he hired extra help and rented a hoist. They managed with a wench, block and tackle to hoist it from the basement, but Teddy learned a new vocabulary, swearing she’d pay him triple what he quoted her for the job. She only giggled at Teddy’s newfound words which could’ve melted the tub’s enamel, agreeing and said whatever it took.

  That’s how our makeshift, impromptu bathtub float came about. It wasn’t out of the basement before she decided the glorious bathtub needed to be shown off in the Rotary Club annual Christmas parade. She made a few quick calls, paid the entrance fee with a credit card over the phone, and volunteered me to decorate it.

  “What tub? A wash tub in my window? Bloke. I won’t like that.” For a change, Fanny sat quietly sewing in her favorite spot and watched lingering passersby look into our display window.

  “Don’t worry. It won’t be in your way.” I hadn’t told her we were planning on putting it in the display window. Although, it would take up the entire space, and she’d have to sit or float in it or find another spot to rest.

  Myra flashed me a look. “In my way? I hardly think so. We’ll say it belonged to Mae West. Nobody will know otherwise. It is a mystery tub.” She tittered heading for the crock pot of cider.

  Fanny stabbed the air with her sewing needle. “Mae West. That broad never took a bath in her life. She better not show-up here, I’ll jab her good.”

  “Shush. Go back to sewing. Mae West won’t show up here.” Fanny was bad enough without having a bawdy cabaret singer haunting the shop and getting on my nerves.

  “Come, let’s talk.” Myra browsed around the display tables picking up soaps, sniffing them and handing them to me.

  “I guess you know come spring, the renovations will start on the condos.” She rolled her eyeballs up. “I’m so excited. I sold two and one leased already. It’ll be busy, busy on this corner of Central Avenue.”

  “Hang on let me get some bags.” I remembered she told me the new renovations would start soon, but it slipped my mind. I bagged the soaps I was holding, grabbed a couple
more bags and helped her fill them.

  Jabbering, she continued talking about her building plans. “I think I have the space next door rented.”

  She jerked her chin toward the brick wall dividing the Row from the other retail space on the ground floor. “It’ll be a high-end dress shop. No touristy T-shirts. It’ll fit into our plans nicely.”

  “Huh-uh. That sounds wonderful.” I concurred a dress shop next door would be nice.

  “I’ve found a guy who says he can restore the bowling lanes. Won’t that be cool to have the gangster’s bowling alley open, and the pizza parlor?”

  I heard her dream of restoring the basement, but never thought it would become a reality. Crashing bowling pins and cooking pizza under our feet sounded horribly nerve-racking. “Will it be open during the day?”

  “Uh-huh. Tourist will love bowling where Al Capone once bowled. It’ll be a big draw.”

  I listened, trying to remain neutral as she carried filled bags to the workbench, coming back to shop for more.

  “Of course, I’ll need gift boxes. Gimme a pen. I’ll write names on the bags.”

  Twinging, I handed her a pen, even though I dreaded making more gift boxes.

  Two weeks ago, our website went live, and since then its swapped us with online orders. If it keeps up, we must hire another employee to keep up with the holiday orders.

  Luckily, more guests arrived, drawing my attention away from Myra. In a break between open house visitors and customers, Sandy and I leaned on the front counter, taking a breather and she casually looked at the orders Etta processed.

  “Guess Myra’s doing her Christmas shopping?” Looking me in the eye, she winked showing off the dancing dollar signs twinkling in her eyes.

  Behind us, Fanny flickered. “She’s a rich one, ain’t she?”

  “Yes, she’s rich.” I answered both questions.

  Sandy tittered. “The more the merrier.”

  Myra visited with other guests, enjoying their company and the cider before she hugged us goodbye. “Tootles chickadees. I’ll be back to pay my bill.”

  Sandy asked showing her out. “We’ll get them ready for you. Do you want us to deliver them?”

  I cringed, not only would I make the gift boxes, she’d probably make me deliver them, too. .

  “Oh, darlin’s. That’d be divine.”

  Chapter 4

  Belly

  Just before eight, Belly arrived rebel-rousing and bellyaching about the cold, hollering “Hey y’all. Merry Christmas.”

  He reached for the air horn hanging from his belt loop, but Fanny, timing her jab with precision, poked the jolly fellow in the rear end.

  “Holy Mother!” Belly shrieked. “I’ve been stabbed.”

  “Gahd! He’s a yank.”

  “Hush, he is not. How you doing ol’ man?” I hugged his neck, curling over his protruding belly.

  His real name is Belmont Walker, but everyone calls him poor old Belly. He’s far from poor, his vintage car restoration company made him wealthy.

  “Fair to middlin’,” Belly said rubbing the spot where she poked him. I glared, warning her off as she attempted a second incoming poke. “Don’t you dare, I’ll banish you.”

  “Ha! You can’t. I’ll just disappear.” Fanny faded, and I sighed relieved she left me in peace. “Good. Go pout.”

  Belly poked out his bottom lip, pushing on his cigar stub and popping his candy cane striped suspenders. Without a sturdy pair of suspenders, a man with a belly like Belly’s can’t keep his britches up. “Girl, I don’t pout.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean you. Cider?” I asked, heading for the steaming crock pot.

  “C’mere, sugar tit.” He breathed a fragrant mix of cigar and whiskey squeezing my shoulders a second time. Etta was right, he’d been nipping a bottle of liquid holiday cheer. “For an old broad, you look as sexy as ever.”

  “Oh, stop it. You.” I laughed because he calls all women sugar tit. I don’t condone his bad language but tolerate it somewhat. Chastising him wouldn’t do any good, he’d only crank up his insults, which he believes are compliments, to a higher level.

  I poured him a cup of cider, hoping the sugar would sober him up and asked him. “Where’s the bathtub? Myra was asking.”

  I was glad she left before Belly arrived, she would have occupied his time. “When Christmas is over we’re putting it in the shop. Supposedly a friend of Al Capone’s installed the tub for a girlfriend near the bowling alley downstairs.” I pointed down and his gaze followed my finger.

  “Hell’s bells, its attached to the MINI Cooper. Parked down yonder in the parking lot.” He pointed toward the public parking lot south of the shop. “You think I dropped that dinosaur off at the museum?"

  “It’s a historical tub. We’d like to keep it."

  He snickered. “Oh, you know me. I wouldn’t damage a valuable piece of Hot Springs’ atrocity with a hair on my head.” During the bathtub loading process onto his tow truck, Myra pushed his buttons, giving him instructions on how to load the bathtub without harming it.

  “Oh, stop it. You’re bald.” I enjoyed his silly joke. These trying days, he was one of the few people who could still make me laugh.

  “My point.” Belly held out his little finger, mocking the fancy teacup.

  “The teacups belong to Myra. Don’t get crazy with them.” They weren’t valuable, but breaking one wouldn’t set well with our main benefactor. I’d hate for Myra to raise our rent because of their tête-à-tête over the old bathtub and a broken teacup.

  “Pish on Myra.” Belly grinned, caressing the dainty cup. “Tell me about Ally?”

  I cut him a look. “You go first. How’s Walker?”

  “Heck. Guess he’s okay. Who knows with young people?”

  I pulled him toward the workroom, if we were to talk about family problems, I wanted privacy. Inside the swinging doors, I pointed at the loveseat. “Go sit. I’ll get cookies.”

  He toddled over, snorted and fell into the loveseat’s too-soft cushions.

  “Ugh. Help, I’m trapped.”

  The sofa braces creaked under his weight. Any day now, it would break, and hopefully I wouldn’t be sitting there when it happened.

  “Stay there. Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

  “Heck! I can’t move. Meeting a fellow soon. Picking up a car late.”

  “Never fear, I’ll be done with you soon.”

  We were practically family before the kid’s big breakup, and I wanted to hear any news about Walker or if he’d heard from Ally.

  Walker and Ally dated since high school. For years they planned to marry, but life kept getting in their way. Their breakup was like a death, I grieved longing for what I believed would be grandchildren and happily ever after.

  Toting a plate of Anita’s cookies, I came back ready to talk about our children. Maybe he’s heard something about Ally? “I can’t make coffee?”

  “Don’t need none. Come sit.” He patted the cushions.

  I held out the plate. “Here. Eat something.”

  Belly noticed the mountain of bags setting on and around the workbench. “You got your work cut out for you, don’t ya?”

  Huffing, I let the breath I was holding escape. “It’s not much. I’ll whistle while I work.” We sold more tonight than we did during a good week, and I’d never get finished without help.

  He whistled before he took another cookie. “I got a man pickin’ up a 1959 Ford pickup. It’s a beautiful thing. It’d make a grown man cry. If I was a foolish young man, I’d steal that beauty for my own.”

  “Who’s pickin’ it up?” I nibbled a cookie realizing I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “A sheikh. You know, one of those guys who wear red-checked tablecloths on their heads. Looks like picnic time.”

  I giggled since we were alone, but Belly’s politically correct filter was broken. He didn’t have many filters, what he thinks comes out of his mouth.

  “Tell me what Walker is up too?�
� I successfully dodged his question about Ally.

  “He’s okay.” Belly seemingly sobered up. I think he sometimes acts drunk so his bad behavior won’t be questioned. “Running the online business as usual. Some days he can’t keep up. We don’t talk much unless it’s about car parts.”

  Not only did Belly own a successful car restoration business, he and Walker built a website where they buy and sell original and rare car parts worldwide.

  “We did talk about Bangor, though. Having trouble with a picker. Kid’s bringing in stolen parts. Bad news.” He tsked, shaking his head.

  I nodded understanding how stolen parts could quickly ruin an honest dealer’s reputation. One minor screwup, like a dead singer floating in poisoned bath bombs, could send shock waves through his customers.

  “Was it the kid you were yelling at the other day? On the phone while we ate pizza?”

  I needed help decorating the tub, and I asked Muriel, Etta’s mother, to assist in the dumb project. Muriel turned out to be a cheerful companion along with being a multi-talented bathtub decorator.

  “Yeah. He’s an idiot, but more honest than most Floyds. I’m trying to help him out. I’ve had my eye on Gretchen Floyd’s junkyard. She’s a wonder, that one. She won’t give me the time of day.”

  “Eww. Not the Floyds?”

  I remember the Floyd gang. Their menfolk, fathers, sons, cousins and uncles were regularly arrested by the sheriff’s office. Stealing car parts were minor misdemeanors compared to the reports I’ve typed about the family’s moonshine and drug misdeeds. More than a handful of Floyds graduated to committing murder before they were invited to visit an Arkansas State Prison.

  I’ve run into Gretchen, the matriarch of the clan, a few times myself. Cantankerous and worse than a junkyard dog, she keeps an iron claw wrapped around her Floyd menfolk.

  “She’s gotta be a hundred years old.”

  Fanny squeezed between me and Belly, he grunted, scooting over. “She is. But witches live forever.”

  “Dead isn’t that much fun,” Fanny said. “Ghosts live forever too, until they go to the Beyond. After that, I haven’t heard what happens next.”