Death of a Domestic Diva

by Sharon Short

  Owen and I were sitting on my couch. Owen was drinking Scotch and water. I’m not a Scotch drinker, myself, but I keep it here for Owen. While Owen got Tyra settled in the apartment next door, I ran down to my laundromat and thanked and paid Chip Beavy for watching my business for the day. Then I locked up my laundromat and came back up to my apartment, where I made us a dinner of turkey hot shots, which is slices of turkey on top of white bread and mashed potatoes, all covered in turkey gravy. I put plenty of salt on mine. If I’m eating comfort food, I want it good and salty. Unless it’s chocolate.

  After we ate, while Owen cleaned up and poured himself a Scotch and me a Big Fizz diet cola, I called Winnie’s house, worried that I hadn’t heard from her yet. Her husband Tom sounded mighty grumpy, said Winnie’s been gone all day on some important research project over at the library, and he had no idea what it was, why it was so important, or when she’d be back. I wondered if she was at the library so long because she was finding out so much about Tyra—or because she wasn’t having any luck finding anything.

  Then, after we sat back down at the kitchen table with our drinks, I told Owen about what all I had learned. We talked really quietly, just in case Tyra could hear us. We hadn’t heard a peep out of her since she’d gone into the spare apartment, so we guessed she’d just gone to bed early after her ordeal the night before. On the other hand, she could be standing with a glass to the wall. The walls are so thin between the apartments, a paper cup would have picked up everything we said.

  Now, Owen sipped his Scotch and shook his head. “I don’t know what gave Elroy the idea that those businessmen from years ago got sick on mushrooms, but that’s all he would talk about.”

  I felt a little guilty—because I knew how he’d gotten the idea. From me. “He didn’t say anything about Lewis or Tyra, or seeing them out there?”

  “No. But I did ask him, directly, what he knew. All he said was that the first time he saw them was when you and he found them together—Tyra knocked out, poor Lewis already shot. And he says he does have a gun, but he doesn’t remember loading it or bringing it from home.” Owen shook his head again. “He didn’t even seem to care when the hospital released him to Chief Worthy. He just kept talking about those damned tuna sandwiches and mushrooms.”

  “Does he understand that Lewis is dead? What he’s being locked up for?”

  “I don’t think reality has hit poor Elroy yet. Maybe the mushrooms, which the doctor at the hospital did confirm they found when they pumped his stomach, scrambled his brains. Apparently, he’s lucky to even be alive, after eating as many as he did, and . . .” Owen sat his glass down on the coffee table. Suddenly, there was a gleam in his eyes. Or maybe it was just lamp glare on his glasses. In any case, he waggled his eyebrows at me. “Do you know your voice is really sexy when you whisper?”

  He moved toward me on the couch.

  “No, I didn’t know that. Now Owen, what am I going to do tomorrow? Tyra expects me to take her to Stillwater, and I want to, because I want to find out why she’s going there, but I can’t keep leaving the laundromat alone or hiring Chip Beavy—who says he has classes at the community college tomorrow anyway, and—”

  Owen shrugged, and the gesture moved him even closer to me. “I don’t know what you’ll do, but I’m sure you’ll think of something. You know, in this light, your hair looks even prettier than usual. I really love this new look on you . . .”

  With that, he pulled me closer and started kissing me.

  I enjoyed his kisses. Enjoyed them so much that I forgot, for a moment, about my worries about Elroy and Lewis and Billy and Paige and Tyra and the Cruez couple and Paradise. Enjoyed them so much that I didn’t care that as Owen stroked my hair, my scalp began to tingle and itch even more. Enjoyed them so much, that I ignored the pounding that started suddenly upon my door.

  But I wasn’t able to ignore Tyra’s yelling, in a panicked tone I would never have thought possible for someone as smooth as Tyra, “Josie Toadfern, you answer this door right now, or else I’m calling the police—you, you thief!”

  10

  “I want my papers back—now,” Tyra said. This was a side of Tyra I’d never expected to see. On television and in Paradise, Tyra had been, by turns, either truly charming or manipulatively charming—but always charming. Now, she was angry, her hands on her hips as she stood in my doorway. But beyond the glare of anger in her eyes, I saw something else. Fear. This sudden switch in Tyra’s emotions was scary, somehow, and I backed up.

  Tyra scooted forward, matching me step for step. We did our Tyra-mad, Josie-nervous shuffle, all the way back to my couch. When I hit the couch, I went down hard, right on a spring that had long ago sprung. I winced.

  With a sideways glance, I saw Owen tiptoeing off to the kitchen. I figured he was either going to call 9-1-1 or grab a skillet to whack Tyra over the head for me. My hero.

  But then, suddenly, Tyra collapsed onto the floor, clasped her hands together in a prayerful pose, and as she stared up at me, started crying. Apparently, scared had won out.

  “Ple-e-e-ase,” she wailed. “You have to give those papers back, Josie. Look, I’ll pay you for them. I’m begging you—”

  I looked over at Owen, who was holding the phone near, but not quite to, his ear, as if he had frozen in mid-movement from shock at Tyra’s sudden mood change. I sighed and shook my head at him. Bringing the portable phone with him, Owen came into the living room, sat down next to me, and took my hand. I moved closer to him, partly to get my tailbone off the couch spring, and partly because I just wanted to be near him.

  “I need those papers back,” Tyra went on. “You don’t understand how important they are! You have no idea how many lives will be affected—no, ruined!—if I don’t get them back!”

  I had a pretty good idea that one life in particular would be ruined—hers. I also had a pretty good idea who had the papers, and it wasn’t me. It had to be the Crooks duo. Or . . . the thought gave me a sudden shiver . . . maybe Paige had taken them the night before, while she’d been in Billy’s old apartment adjusting Winnie’s decorating efforts to more closely match Tyra’s taste. I wasn’t sure which option would be worse.

  In any case, Tyra’s belief that I had these papers seemed to give me some power over her. I guessed that they had something to do with the T-shirts and the forced labor camp.

  “I’m open to negotiation, Tyra,” I said.

  She snuffled, still prone on the floor.

  “I can get your papers back,” I added, “but you have to promise me something first.”

  “Anything! How does five thousand dollars sound?”

  I stared at her. Five thousand dollars sounded like a lot of money.

  Tyra took my silence as a challenge. “Okay, ten thousand, then? Or, look, I have this fur, a really nice one, mink, I could give you that and—and—” Tyra started yanking at the big diamond cluster ring she wore on her right hand.

  I wrinkled my nose. This was getting distasteful. “I don’t want money or a fur or a ring,” I said. Well, the money and ring part sounded okay, but I needed information, and material things couldn’t distract me. “What I want is information,” I said. “Why don’t we start with you describing these papers to me—”

  Tyra stopped yanking at her finger and wailing, sat up suddenly, and stared at me. “You mean, you don’t actually have my papers?”

  “I have a pretty good idea who does have them. But, um, to be sure, I’ll need you to describe them to me.”

  Tyra snuffled, calmer now. Owen, always the gentleman, offered her a tissue. She blew her nose. Then she said, “Apparently I’ve made a mistake. If you don’t know what the papers are, then you must not have them.” She stood up, gave us a wavery smile, and started backing up to my door. “Forget this little outburst. I’m not sure what came over me. I must just be really shaken from all that’s happened, you know . . .”

  “Fine,” I said, standing too. “We’ll just call the police, then. Report these p
apers stolen . . . you can give them a nice, detailed description of what these papers are all about.”

  With that, I grabbed the phone from Owen.

  Tyra stared at the phone in my hand. “Oh, no, please don’t. They’re just papers that have instructions on various napkin folds. You know, the parson’s fold, fan fold, pope’s hat fold. . .”

  I shook my head. “C’mon, Tyra. I know those papers are about something more important.” I made a show of starting to punch numbers on my phone’s handset.

  Tyra surprised me yet again, lunging forward and grabbing my phone. I hung on as she jerked it, and me, toward her.

  “Please don’t call the police,” Tyra said. The pleading in her voice was edging back over to anger.

  I yanked back, pulling Tyra toward me now. “Oh, yes, I’m calling the police. The papers were stolen from my property, so it concerns me, too.”

  Tyra yanked. “If you know who has them, then why don’t you just tell me? I’ll pay you a handsome sum, and—”

  I pulled, and we tug-o-warred again over top of my coffee table. “For all I know, by leading you to those papers, I’ll be aiding and abetting you in some crime.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “What am I supposed to think? You’re being so guarded about those papers. Yep, we’re calling the police. It’s time we reported Paige missing anyway.”

  “Don’t be silly. Paige disappears like this all the time. Usually, she does leave me a note, always something ridiculous, like she’s gone to find work that’s truer to her ideals, as if saving the poor masses from decorating and entertaining mistakes isn’t enough of a mission for anyone . . .”

  This was interesting information about Paige, adding new insight to the ripped up letter I’d found in Paige’s motel room. But it didn’t fit what Paige had said about doing anything for her boss. Maybe Tyra was lying.

  In any case, I wanted to know why these papers were so important. So, I hollered, “Don’t try to sidetrack me! Either we’re calling the police, or you’re telling me what’s on those papers and why you really came to Paradise!”

  With that, I gave my hardest pull yet, and the phone went flying up in the air. Unfortunately, my Big Fizz diet cola, which was right between us, also went flying up in the air—and landed on Tyra. She yelped, lost her balance. Her arms flailing, she grabbed wildly for something to help her steady herself. What she ended up grabbing was my hair.

  Suddenly, she went down with a thump and another yelp, landing on the floor on her butt.

  I yelped, too, at the sudden sore spot on my head. My hand went to the spot, and found smooth skin.

  And then we all stared at the fistful of my hair that Tyra clutched in her hand.

  The chunk of hair was missing from the right side of my head. I rubbed my new little bald spot while I stared at the hair in Tyra’s hand. What was really weird was that my head felt better where my hair was missing.

  The awareness that she had yanked out a handful of my hair seemed to have calmed Tyra down.

  So there I was, a chunk of hair missing from my head, staring at the famous designer who’d given me a bald spot, who was, herself, drenched in Big Fizz diet cola.

  I had two choices. One was to run out of the room. The other was to use this to my advantage to get Tyra to talk to me.

  I held out my hand, staring pointedly at my lock of hair in Tyra’s fist. She handed my hair to me, like she was letting go of a snake.

  I waggled my lock of hair at her. “This,” I said, “constitutes proof of assault and battery by you on my person. And I really will call the police and file charges against you if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

  Tyra looked up at Owen, tears in her eyes. “She started it!”

  Owen sighed. “I think,” he said, “you’d better talk to Josie. I’ll get you a towel.”

  “My blouse . . . I’ll have to pretreat it with something . . .” Tyra started.

  “No,” I said wearily. “Cola’s a tannin stain—like coffee, and tea. Putting soap directly on it will probably set it in. Go change, then we’ll wash the blouse in warm water. That’ll probably do the trick. If not, there’s always all-fabric bleach.”

  Tyra stared at me and echoed what Paige had said the night before. “You really are a stain expert!”

  Hah. I’d finally bested Tyra Grimes at something.

  A bit later, we were all back at my kitchenette table—Tyra changed into another blouse, her blouse washing down in my laundromat, the cola dabbed up off my carpet. . . and my lock of hair, wrapped up in a paper towel, and stuck in my pocket—just in case I needed to get it out again as a reminder to Tyra of my threat to file assault and battery charges against her. I’d have to think later about what to do about my new bald spot.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s get down to business. First things first. Why did you accuse Elroy of killing Lewis?”

  She looked at me evenly. “Because he did. Just like I told Chief Worthy.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think you’re covering for someone.”

  Tyra gasped and looked away. I leaned forward. “Was Paige out there that night?”

  “No,” Tyra said too quickly. “No . . . and besides . . . Paige would never do anything like that. I mean, she’s tough, but. . .” She shook her head. But there was a moment of fear in her eyes, much like I’d seen earlier.

  Tyra, I thought, was covering for Paige. But if she wasn’t—if instead, say, the Cruez couple had come after her and instead accidentally killed poor Lewis, why wouldn’t she say so? I’d have to get to the Cruez couple in a moment.

  For now I had another question for her. “Tyra, why did you come to Paradise in the first place? Did it have something to do with Lewis?”

  Tyra looked surprised and then laughed. “Lewis? Heavens, no. I never met him until I got here. I only came here to do a show with you on stain removal techniques.”

  I shook my head. “I was out at the Red Horse Motel today—Paige never booked rooms for a film crew. You never intended to have me on your show. So why did you really come here?”

  Tyra frowned. “I thought you wanted to know about my missing papers?”

  Now that, I thought, was interesting. She’d rather talk about her missing papers than why she’d really come to Paradise.

  “Okay,” I said. “I have a hunch your papers and why you came to Paradise are related, but we can start with the papers.”

  “You know about my designer T-shirts?” Tyra said.

  “Sure.”

  “Well, the papers have to do with their manufacturing at a—a plant in California. The papers are legal documents and letters from my attorney, because, you see, there have been a few, um, labor problems at the plant. Something about whether or not the workers are actually, uh, legal to work in this country.” She gave a nervous laugh. “It’s so unfair! I’ve never even been out to the plant in California—I delegate all that. I pay people to oversee things like manufacturing.”

  “So you’re saying that you didn’t know that illegal labor practices were going on—”

  “No, of course not! All I did was hire some plant managers and tell them to get the T-shirts made as cheaply as possible.” She stopped, considering what she just said, then smiled. “While preserving quality, of course. I wouldn’t want anything bearing my name to be shoddy.” Tyra sighed, impatient all of a sudden. “Beside, no one ever thinks about how or where the clothes they are wearing are made, do they? Do you know where your jeans were made—under what conditions? Or your shoes? Or your T-shirt?”

  “Uh, no,” I said. “But it seems to me that as the owner of your business, you’d care about—”

  Tyra waved a hand at me. “Like I said, I delegate all that. My role was to design the T-shirts, and the other clothes that would go with them. I’m the talent behind the operation.”

  I wondered just how much talent it takes to design a T-shirt. A T-shirt, it seems to me, is just a couple of squares of cloth with two sho
rt sleeves sticking out of them. In fact, once upon a time, a T-shirt, I remember my Aunt Clara saying, was considered underwear. Now people pay big bucks to wear T-shirts with other people’s names on them, and I had no doubt that people would pay big bucks to wear Tyra Grimes’s T-shirts, too.

  And I couldn’t blame her for wanting to cash in on people’s willingness to be walking advertisements for her. After all, I’d had T-shirts printed up with my slogan—Toadfern’s Laundromat, Always a Leap Ahead of Dirt. I’m the only one who wears them, but even so, it makes a nice statement. Still, I didn’t see that it takes much effort to design a T-shirt, other than to say, “Make them red and put my name on them in a fancy script.” But I decided not to comment on that.

  “What people would care about is that the T-shirts have my trademark name on them,” Tyra was saying. “That’s what people care about. And what I cared about was getting them done quickly and at a low overhead.”

  “So it’s not your fault that maybe they aren’t being made with legal labor, under lawful and fair conditions, because you delegate that part of the operation.”

  “Exactly!” Tyra looked genuinely pleased that I understood. She had this tendency, I was noticing, to mistake understanding for approval. “So you can see why I’d want these papers back. If they get out to the media . . .”

  She suddenly looked worried again.

  I considered what Tyra had just told me. I didn’t for a minute believe that she had told me everything, or that she’d innocently and naïvely turned her business over to someone else to run. She struck me as someone who’d want to control every aspect of her business. My gut told me that she probably knew exactly what was going on, had approved it, probably even ordered it. And my gut told me that those papers showed exactly that.

  I started to bring up Ramon and Aguila Cruez . . . but a warning bell went off in my head. If I did that, she might get scared and run. And if she ran, then we might not ever get to the bottom of who had really killed Lewis—and Chief Worthy would just let poor old Elroy languish in jail, and chalk Lewis’s murder up to resentment over being taunted about tainted tuna fish.