Bath Bombs & Beyond Read online

  Long before she finished cleaning, I collapsed on the stool to watch her work. When she put away the wand sweeper in the stockroom, coming back with a bottle of water, she leaned against the counter. “All done?”

  In two hours, Etta had replenished the soap plates and tidied the shelves. She waited on several weekend shopping stragglers. In a few seconds, she learned to use the credit card app. Not only had she worked circles around me, she was a technological wiz. “Whew! What a week I’ve had. Can I pay you cash for today?”

  “Cash is good.” Etta beamed. “I’m going to save every penny I make here.”

  “Good for you. Makes me happy to help your cause.”

  I paid her from the cash drawer, but the money reminded me of the recent sidewalk tête-à-tête with Spats. And, of course, I couldn’t tell her I could see and talk to a dead seamstress; it would’ve been more off-putting than sour beans.

  Etta bobbed her ponytail, heading for the door and opened it. “I love the bell, don’t you?”

  “Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

  “Bye. See you tomorrow.” Grinning, she peered back through the door’s glass, waving goodbye.

  I smiled my first genuine smile since I fell off the ladder. Working at the Row wasn’t so bad. We’d had a bad start, but adding Etta to our team, made things seem brighter.

  9

  Welcome

  “I got ice.” I held up a ten-pound bag I bought at a convenience store before I arrived Wednesday morning.

  A dishpan sat on the workbench and Sandy was wearing sensible nursing shoes. “Great we both need it.”

  I filled her in on Tuesday’s slow day. I told her about Teddy’s helping hand and relaying the news of hiring Etta, but I didn’t mention the newest graffiti discovery. If Teddy reported back, she already knew about the addition to the graffiti in the shiplap. If she doesn’t know, she’ll probably notice the R.I.P. when she takes her first potty break. I was sure her opinion wouldn’t be good, but I could wait to hear it.

  “Sounds good. Can’t wait to meet her.” Sandy nodded her approval.

  I left off the part about my scuffle with Mike and the scene between the three people on the sidewalk. She didn’t need a replay of the whole day, since she fretted over the smallest problem.

  Mike Claiborne was a minor problem—a nobody nuisance.

  Sandy wrote welcome on the easel and set it on the sidewalk as two Hot Springs patrol cars buzzed by with their lights flashing without sirens. Sirens meant an emergency was in progress so they weren’t in a big rush.

  Leaning against the doorjamb, I watched the cars pass. “Looks like the boys are in for it this morning.”

  The flashing lights and rushing cars piqued my curiosity, activating my adrenaline junky juices. Watching them go by made me realize how much I missed the department’s excitement.

  “Too bad I wouldn’t type that crime report.”

  Sandy looked up but didn’t say anything about my moment. “Probably some geezer croaking from an acute myocardial infarction.” Of course, she used the technical term for a heart attack.

  “You’re cryptic this morning.”

  The sheriff’s hulking Ford followed the ambulance meandering along. Dick’s slow, awkward arrival sent a clear message—the sheriff’s coming. He didn’t need to hurry, because by the time he arrived, the excitement would be over. In this county, the sheriff acted more like a mop than a cop, cleaning up a crime scene’s loose ends.

  Sandy dusted chalk off her hands. “Yep. I’m a cryptic ol’ woman with busted feet.”

  “C’mon, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” Which meant I’d pour her a cup from the used coffee maker she brought from her storage building. So far, she supplied the shop with the loveseat, a coffee maker and microwave. No telling what else that woman had squirreled away in her secret stash of junk.

  “Thanks.” Limping, she followed me inside. “I already need to ice my feet.”

  We’re a pair. Sandy can’t walk and I’m brain damaged. At least she had sense enough to recognize her problem and rest. My only fix wasn’t smart, I popped ibuprofen like jelly beans.

  At the counter, Sandy lingered over the tablet futzing over the receipts. “Shop looks great.”

  “Thanks to Etta.” The girl had grown on me. Perky and excited by life, her presence tickled an odd feeling I have about my own children.

  Sandy and I are big time empty nesters. Sandy’s daughter, Lila, moved to Milwaukee with her lawyer husband. My son Craig drives an eighteen-wheeler for CalArk, which meant he was in California more than he was in Arkansas. My daughter, Ally—we were estranged at the time. Long story short, I didn’t like her boyfriend and he hadn’t liked me. Ally made her choice, but I knew she’d be back when she tired of him.

  Sandy rested her chin in her palm. “She’s a treasure, isn’t she?”

  I’ve always believed everything happens for a reason. Etta happened, and she saved our old lady lives. Sandy and I weren’t decrepit, but we weren’t spring chickens either.

  Etta’s ability to work circles around us was invaluable, but she might have just filled a void in the wide-open spaces in our lonely hearts. Sandy often mentioned having a grandchild, but I’d given up hope, my kids were too busy for children. Etta couldn’t pitter-patter, but she could chatter like a magpie. Which might be as close as either of us would come to having a grandchild anytime soon.

  “She is. I’m going to start a batch of bath bombs. I didn’t get to it yesterday.”

  Before opening day, I thought I made plenty of bath bombs, but they sold amazingly well, much to Sandy’s chagrin. She’s more posh soaps and bubble baths than me. I love the exploding lusciousness of the bath bombs and their fizzy exuberant colors. They’re fun to make as well.

  I got out the square tub I picked up at a dollar store and the extra-large measuring cup. Gathering the ingredients, I set out the bulk bags of Epsom salts, baking powder and citric acid. We bought mica powder for the coloring and enough scents to produce a plethora of exotic bath bombs.

  Making bath bombs wasn’t much different from mixing a cake. At first, I used olive oil as a carrier for the scents, but I switched to the more luxurious coco butter for a silky-smooth finish. I measured equal parts Epsom salts and baking powder, adding the right amount of citric acid.

  Picking through the scented essential oils, I yelled, “What’s the flavor of the day?”

  “The Champagne on Ice bin is near empty. So is Death Star,” Sandy yelled back.

  “Death Star isn’t a flavor, it’s a shape.” Death Star was a specialty mold with crevices and mountains almost like a real planet.

  Sandy peeked over the swinging door. “Yeah, but everyone loves them.”

  I had purchased several shaped bath bomb molds. Among the grandmotherly type customers, the Death Star bath bomb became an instant success. Colored with black and blue mica coloring, they exploded into lovely pleasing swirls of dark sky and roiling clouds. They flew off the shelves like bombarding Starfighters into the bags of grannies who wanted to score big with their dirty grandchildren. We had girly pink and green bath bombs, but they didn’t sell as well as the favorite Death Star. Even the dirty little girls loved them.

  “Think I’ll go with something new.” Wild creations swirled in my mind.

  Since I didn’t have many hobbies, I don’t crochet or fiddle with African violets or meddle in other folks’ business— much—I had become an Epsom salts and baking soda artiste.

  “Don’t go too overboard.” Sandy has never colored outside the lines before, so plain vanilla would be overboard for her.

  I split the base bomb mixture into two huge metal bowls.

  In one bowl, I added lime essential oil; in the other, I added cherry. Mixing the batches, I then added green color to the lime-flavored bowl, red to the cherry.

  The last step took finesse. I eyeballed the melted, but cooled coco butter, pouring and mixing by hand, until the mixtures reached the perfect consistency. Too wet
and the bombs would never dry. Too dry, they would crumble coming out of the molds.

  Before I started mixing the mixture by hand, I put on a pair of rubber surgical gloves, another treasure Sandy brought from her storage building.

  The bath bombs concoction couldn’t be mixed with a spoon, so I dove in, adding plenty of elbow grease.

  “Smells yummy.” Sandy came into the stockroom. “Sugar free?”

  “Always. Sonic Cherry Limeade.”

  “My favorite!” She rummaged around in a bulk box on the shelving, found what she wanted and carried several lotion bottles away.

  Teddy built a special wooden rack to dry the bath bombs, and I stacked the bath bomb molds onto it. A few minutes later, I had made thirty-six bath bombs molded—eighteen each of the large and small balls—and set them to dry. After they cured for a day, I would teach Etta to shrink-wrap and seal them with a gold Row sticker.

  “Ehh gahd! Jaysus. That stinks.”

  I grabbed my throat with my dirty glove. “Holy Fanny! Don’t scare me like that!” Bath bomb crumbs fell into my neckline. “Look at what you made me do!”

  “I told you when you take those red pills, you can’t hear me.”

  I swiped my face with my sleeve so I wouldn’t get Epsom salts up my nose. I had before, and lemme tell’ ya, it wasn’t pleasant.

  “Sorry. I forgot.” That wasn’t true. I took too many red ibuprofens knowing they blocked my ability to see and hear Fanny. I needed some peace from her constant chatter.

  “That’s a lie. I know liars.”

  “Where are you? Show yourself.”

  “I’m over here. Hey!” In full Technicolor, she glimmered into view, more beautiful than ever. A pretty shop ghost wasn’t so bad, and she didn’t rattle chains or moan.

  “Shush. You’re too loud.”

  I stripped off the dirty gloves and tossed them into the trash bin. With my bare hand, I swiped the crumbs to the edge of the workbench, grabbed the bin, and held it under the lip of the table. In one big swoop, I cleared the crumbs.

  Sandy turned into the stockroom with her hands on her hips. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

  “That’s my new normal. It isn’t a crime.”

  Sandy clucked. “Yeah, well you don’t need to yell.”

  “Was I yelling?” I asked, pretending to pinch an invisible something off the workbench.

  “Yes, you were. It’s irritating.”

  She rummaged underneath the workbench and found an unopened packet of white bags. “Remind me to order more bags than last time. We’re already running short.”

  “Okay.”

  She jerked her nose toward the showroom. “Keep it down, would’ ya? Don’t let customers hear you.”

  She left the stockroom, and Fanny popped into sight. “Stop it popping up like that. You’re getting me into trouble. Go away.”

  “I won’t go. I want to go to the Beyond.”

  I flecked bits of crumbs into the trash. “Hush-up or I’ll send you there… fast.”

  Fanny’s invisible toe tapped softly. “Can you help me get to the Beyond?”

  “Remind me what the Beyond is?”

  She shimmered beautifully and it wasn’t hard to enjoy the show. “What’s with the Technicolor?”

  “What do you mean?” Fanny asked. “Tech—what color?”

  I couldn’t explain Technicolor. “Sometimes you’re in color. I mean… I can see colors. Other times, you’re only flickering in black and white. Sorta hazy.”

  “It’s… ah… I don’t rightly know. The Beyond is where everyone like me goes.”

  “Who’s everyone? You mean like an AA sponsor? Someone to talk to?”

  I’ve known more than a few people who’ve needed Alcoholic Anonymous sponsors. Lots of deputies at the department got warnings about their drinking problems, either they sobered up or were suspended without pay. Teddy took early retirement instead of subjecting himself to a sponsor. He wasn’t a sharing kind of man. I doubt he could withstand the rigors of being a detective without the pleasure of a beer. Inside the intensity of working at the department, rigors and pleasure went hand in hand.

  “Remember, you’re the first living person I can talk to. What’s AA? What’s a sponsor?”

  “Someone to help you. Never mind.” AA sponsorship was too complicated to explain.

  “That’s a good idea. Can you help me?”

  “Heaven’s no. Tell me about the Beyond?” If she could ask forty questions, I could ask a few, too.

  Her colors faded a bit. “The Beyond is like Heaven. I think.”

  “Sure. How can I help? Don’t know where Heaven is located. How about you?” I chuckled, trying to be funny, but she faded more into the hazy moody way she looked when I first saw her.

  “I must… ohhhhh.” Fanny moaned loudly and my arm hairs prickled. Just when I thought she wasn’t a typical ghost, she proved me wrong.

  “Be quiet. Sandy’s gonna hear you.” I’m truly batty, telling my imagination to be quiet. But she was so loud, I expected Sandy to peek into the stockroom.

  Fanny paced in front of me. “I must find my boy Willie. I can’t rest until I know he’s safe.”

  “Who’s Willie?” I sprayed the workbench top with a spray bottle to highlight any invisible flecks of bath bomb mixture.

  She brightened and fluttered the tissue papers. “He’s my boy. He was right there!”

  “Who? Where?”

  She floated over to the security door. “Over here by the window.”

  “There’s no window there.” A boarded-up window had been where we installed the security door.

  “He’d climb in and out the window.” She stood like she was looking out of it. “He went out to play. I never saw him again. I got shot…”

  She faced me, and her sweet expression plucked my heartstrings. I could understand her plight. Willie was orphaned. One-second, you’re alive, the next—boom, you’re gone. A mother’s most poignant desire would be to make sure her child survived.

  “If I find Willie, will it satisfy your soul and you’ll go… away…. I mean… go to the Beyond? Oh, whatever. Heaven. I suppose that’s where you want to go.”

  I watched the residual bath bomb crumbs activate on the workbench and hatched a plan to help Fanny find Willie. “Others have gone. I can’t say what happened… they never came back to tell me what the Beyond was like.”

  Sandy stepped through the swinging doors carrying an empty carton, and she snapped impatiently, “You’re talking to yourself again.”

  “Sorry. Whistling while I work.” I whistled, wiping the workbench with a dry paper towel grabbing the fizzy bits of melted salts.

  “I heard you saying weird stuff. Cut it out, you’re trying my patience.” She had only heard my side of the conversation as I muttered odd things like Beyond, Willie, Heaven and AA sponsor.

  The bell tinkled. Sandy perked happily. “Oh goody, more shoppers.” She put the empty carton by the trashcan and hobbled out. As she pushed through the swinging doors, she stopped and smiled. “By the way, I sent the email. The girls will be here this afternoon. Get spiffy.”

  10

  Bath Bombs

  I had completely forgotten about the semi-open house we planned to christen the shop. There’s nothing better than giggling girlfriends admiring your hard work. Most of our friends who we invited, we would see at funerals or weddings. So, the new shop offered a delightful respite from our usual meeting places.

  Our friends brought friends and all afternoon we had a steady stream of cheerful women slathering lotion samples onto themselves and each other. Everyone oohed and ahhed over the soaps heady scents and the lotion’s lusciousness.

  Sandy called the lotions potions and the bath bombs wicked, and they all flew off the shelves. The girls almost cleaned the cake plates of the delicious soaps, loaded bath bombs into shopping bags, and bought every loofah in the bin. Tonight, there would be lit candles and glasses of bubbly champagne around plenty of lu
xurious bath tubs.

  “This shop is much better than a funeral,” one of Sandy’s friends exclaimed.

  The friend with her sniffed a bar of soap. “Yeah, I like this way better than preacher potatoes.”

  As the girls left, carrying overstuffed bags, Sandy handed out business cards with a ten percent discount printed on the back. “Here’s two discount cards.” She hugged each guest and their friends. Sandy acted so nice, her cheerfulness gave me hope that one day she’d grow a real heart. “One for you and one for a friend. Pass them out.”

  After our last invitee left, Sandy announced, “Wasn’t that fun? My feet are burning. I’ve got to sit down.” She hurried for the loveseat and her dishpan to ice her feet.

  My cheeks ached from smiling so much I hardly noticed the throb behind my eyes. With Sandy off her feet, I waited on a few more customers and cleaned the front counter.

  When the bell tinkled announcing Etta’s arrival, believe me, I was ready for her help.

  “Hey, you.” Her ponytail wasn’t bobbing and she frowned deeply.

  “Hey y’all. Did you hear?” Her chin crumbled as she put her purse underneath the front counter and plopped onto the stool.

  After Etta’s first day, I realized she was an open book, telling everything she knew and then some. Considering her vivid confessions about her wannabe singer sister and motorcycle mama, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear more gossip about the pair.

  “No, dear. I haven’t heard. What are you talking about?”

  “I found… I found a dead woman in the bathtub.” Her voice quivered and a big tear rolled down her cheek.

  “What?” I rocked back shocked. Not in my wildest dreams would I have thought she’d say that.

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry.” I hugged her shivering shoulders. That explained why the police cars rushed up Central Avenue this morning. They were heading toward a crime scene in the hotel.

  She boohooed, stuttering. I squeezed her harder but let go to grab the tissue box from underneath the counter.