Dead Head db-3

by Rosemary Harris

  Dead Head

  ( Dirty Business - 3 )

  Rosemary Harris

  Fugitive Mom. That’s the tabloid headline that has unearthed a whole world of trouble for Paula Holliday. Someone she thought she knew has been revealed to be an escaped convict. Hiding in plain sight—in her own New England town! Wanted criminals and secret identities have always seemed like the stuff of novels or television dramas to Paula. But ever since she somewhat accidentally solved a murder in casino country, Paula has cemented her reputation as a part-time detective. All she really wants to do is get back to her simple, everyday life—keeping her small business afloat and hanging out at the Paradise Diner, owned by her friend and former rock and roller Babe Chinnery. But before she knows it, Paula is wrapped up in yet another case. And as she digs deeper into the investigation, she finds that no one is really who she says she is—including herself…

  Also by Rosemary Harris

  Pushing Up Daisies

  The Big Dirt Nap

  Dead

  Head

  A Dirty Business Mystery

  Rosemary Harris

  Minotaur Books

  Copyright © 2010 by Rosemary Harris. All rights reserved.

  To Bruce, for everything

  Acknowledgments

  Since my first book, Pushing Up Daisies, was published, I’ve had occasion to meet many wonderful and generous people in the mystery community. That community is made up of writers, retailers, librarians, conference organizers, readers, publishers, bloggers—people who just love the genre. They are a tremendous source of inspiration for any new writer, and I am grateful for the support that they’ve shown me.

  In particular I would like to thank Carolyn Hart, Molly Weston, Jane Murphy, Bernadette Baldino, and my indefatigable friend and blog sister (at www.jungleredwriters.com) Hank Phillippi Ryan.

  I’d also like to thank copy editor extraordinaire Martha Schwartz for her exhaustive research and incredible attention to detail. Any errors or omissions are mine and not hers.

  dead head (also deadhead)

  vt 1: to decapitate or

  cut off fading flower heads to promote a second bloom

  2: trucker’s slang for driving an empty vehicle

  n 1: someone who travels without paying, a freeloader

  2: a loyal fan of the band the Grateful Dead

  Prologue

  So many lies. The day you start telling them, you expect a hand on your shoulder at any moment. Every time you open your mouth and the fake history comes out—the fake family, the fake anecdotes. If not the hand, then the stony gaze, as if to say “I know that’s not true” or “like hell you are.” The challenge is anticipated. It may be delivered casually with a slightly puzzled look and a muttered “really?” Or more forcefully by a relentless questioner pressing you for names and dates, distances between the cities where you say you’ve lived, and the names of the schools you say you’ve attended, because miraculously the speaker has a relative in each of them.

  When the challenge doesn’t come—or the hand or the handcuffs that would eventually follow—there’s a whoosh, like a plane slipping through a layer of clouds or a diver breaking the surface, coming up for air. You’re free. And after years of that happening and feeling free, maybe you are. When every trace of who you were has disappeared or been buried and all that’s left is the new person.

  ————

  Everyone remembers the crooked financier who turned himself in to the authorities—the one who stole billions with a decades-old Ponzi scheme. Springfield was abuzz with gossip. The names of those who’d been hit and were quietly deaccessioning boats and pied-à-terres were spoken in hushed tones as if the victims should somehow be ashamed for having been bilked out of their fortunes. People were astonished at the greed and the lavish lifestyle the man’s crimes had supported. At how otherwise smart people had handed over millions of their hard-earned dollars apparently without checking the man out.

  I marveled at how the man had kept the lies straight for so many years—the nonexistent meetings and transactions, the phantom companies, the fictional world he’d created a thousand times more complex and intricate than the one I’d devised—and how it had all come crash ing down around his ears and whether the same thing might happen to me.

  But then, I had no intention of confessing.

  One

  “It’s a false lamium,” I said.

  Babe Chinnery folded her muscular arms, appraised the plant, and said simply, “If it’s not a lamium, why in hell do you keep calling it one?”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem to be.”

  “Thank you, Yoda.”

  The woman had a good point. She usually did. Despite the rock ’n’ roll outfits, the hair color that changed with the New England seasons, and the boyfriend twenty years her junior, Babe had more common sense than most of the people I knew. It was a perfectly legitimate question and I couldn’t answer her.

  “Don’t give me a hard time. I’m just a gardener, not Linnaeus.”

  “Who’s Lin-ay-us?”

  “Some Swedish guy who named plants,” I said. “Don’t worry—there won’t be a quiz. I was just trying to dazzle you with my smarts.”

  “Consider me dazzled.”

  In fact, Linnaeus hadn’t named this plant. There was a lot of deception in the garden. Beautiful plants that were poisonous to the touch. Things that look like one thing but were something else—false spirea, false hellebore, false Solomon’s seal. I suppose it’s accurate to label them false, but why not just call them what they are? When I’m queen, I’ll change that and give them all their own lyrical, poetic names, like Kalmia latifolia or Platycodon grandiflorus or a new favorite, nicotiana ‘Only the Lonely’. Roy Orbison would be so pleased.

  “Trust me, you don’t want real lamium in these planters. You said you want more yellow. This may not look like much now, but when this baby flowers, believe me, it’ll be yellow.”

  Babe squinted and walked around the parking lot. She held a nursery catalog near each planter to visualize what it would look like next year when it was in full bloom. I resisted the urge to tell her the images in the booklet were almost as unrealistic and unattainable as the ones in the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Why burst her bubble? Optimism was a critical ingredient in any garden.

  Babe had specifically requested yellow because that color would work with the diner’s new hot-pink shutters. Not exactly ye olde New England color scheme found in regional magazines, which always wanted to call red, Betsy Ross red, and blue, Heritage blue, as if the building’s occupants all wore knee breeches and white hose and were called Lemuel or Goody. But Babe was not your garden-variety New Englander and the colors worked for her—a little punk rocker, a little Caribbean beachcomber—to go with the lakeside setting and the tiki-bar feel of the place.

  “Damn,” she said.

  What now? She stood at the far side of her outdoor café, looking perturbed. Behind the lattice and the flaking hand-painted HOMEMADE DONUTS sign stood the small utility shed where Babe stored her trash cans and where a Dumpster was temporarily parked. The top and side doors of the shed were open, and the industrial-sized cans beside it had been knocked over.

  “They can’t be bargained with. They can’t be reasoned with. They don’t feel pity or remorse or fear. And they absolutely will not stop.”

  Where had I heard that?

  “Raccoons.” She smacked the side of the shed in frustration. “How can they have lifted those rocks off the top?”

  “Beats me. The rock trick works at my place. You want me to help clean up?”

  “Nah. I shouldn’t do it now, either. I’m needed back in the kitchen. I’ll take care of it tonight. Just chaps my butt, though.
Look at this—papers and food scraps strewn all over.” She hauled off and kicked one of the rocks that had held down the top of the shed, and it bounced off one of six metal cans lined up in formation behind the shed.

  “What are you saving the empties for?” I asked. “Deposit?”

  “They’re not empty. It’s WVO—waste vegetable oil. I leave it out for the people with the fat wagons.”

  I’d read about the fat wagons, or French frymobiles. Serious environmentalists or loonies, depending on which side of the gas pump you stood, reconfigured engines to run on waste vegetable oil; and, apart from making their cars smell like a death wish–sized tub of onion rings, it sounded like a good idea. Maybe it was a diet strategy, too. Perhaps if you smelled fried food all day long, you were less likely to eat it.

  “You think it was one of those guys?”

  “Looking for what? I leave all the good stuff out. There’s no need to go through the trash. And most of them aren’t poor. One guy has a Mercedes fat wagon. He just hates paying for gas. For some it’s the carbon footprint; for others it’s the dependency-on-foreign-oil issue. I think the Mercedes guy just wants to relive his radical youth. It kills him that he’s turned into his dad. I’m happy. They recycle my garbage. And it makes me feel less guilty for not having traded in my SUV for a Prius, like I told my sons I would.

  “No,” she said, rubbing the hand that was still smarting from the ill-advised smack. “These were four-legged culprits with glow-in-the-dark eyes and pointy little noses. I’d think they were cute if I saw them on the Nature Channel, but not in my parking lot!”

  I empathized; I felt the same way about deer. In a national park, Bambi. In my garden, Godzilla.

  In the years since we’d become friends Babe and I had transformed the glass-and rubbish-strewn parking lot outside the Paradise Diner into a tropical oasis. Never mind that this part of Connecticut frequently saw ten to fifteen snowstorms a season. Babe chose to live on island time. She had made her own rules and blissfully ignored convention for so long that people in Springfield rarely commented on it anymore, unless it was to acknowledge her latest makeover—her current look featured spiky blond hair and fingernails the color of Granny Smith apples.

  We walked back to the planters. She circled one anemic lamium, moved it slightly to the right, and gave it careful consideration before giving it a thumbs-up. The plant had made the cut. We reenacted the same pas de deux with each perennial and shrub every planting season, and she’d never yet turned down one of my suggestions.

  “Why do you do this,” I asked, “when you always say yes?” I made a note to order six more false lamiums from the nursery.

  “I just don’t want you to think I’m a pushover.”

  As if that were likely.

  I’m Paula Holliday, sole proprietor of Dirty Business, formerly known as PH Factor, but the longer I did it the more dirt I dug up, so I changed the name and it caught on. It was also my intentionally vague way of saying that I’m not a licensed landscape architect and I’ll do pretty much anything garden related from long-range design plans to houseplant care.

  The traditional property maintenance business had all but disappeared these days. People were cutting back, and I’d had two clients stiff me for an entire summer’s work last year by moving out and neglecting to leave a forwarding address so that I could send them a final bill. Anna Jurado, my part-time bookkeeper, felt responsible, but it was my own fault. I should have read the telltale signs—the tag sale, the rented Dumpster, the “Oh, no, we’re just doing some fall cleaning.” Right, and I’m just doing this because I’m a madcap heiress waiting for my inheritance to come through.

  The good news was that those two miscreants inspired my latest professional brainstorm—the quickie curb-appeal face-lift. Makeup for your home. With all the for sale signs dotting the area, these instant-gratification jobs had turned into the most lucrative and least-labor-intensive part of my business. I suppose I had cable television to thank.

  For three to five hundred bucks, depending on the size and selling price of the house, I’d sweep in with a horticultural Band-Aid for a plain house—containers, annuals, and a few small trees. Pumpkins and ornamental kale in the fall. Just about the only thing I couldn’t orchestrate was a thin wisp of smoke emanating from the chimney to give it that final Norman Rockwell touch. If you lived here you’d be happy, warm. Your house would be filled with the smell of homemade bread or apple pie. Your kids wouldn’t smoke pot or give you a hard time. And all your in-laws would be people you’d actually hang out with if you had a choice. All courtesy of a few plants, a vivid imagination, and a fondness for Norman Rockwell.

  At the Paradise, on the other hand, that wasn’t required. Not that Babe had anything against Norman Rockwell, but she saw my work at the diner as a calling card—not unlike the display gardens at a flower show. Babe had insisted I put Designed by Dirty Business signs on the planters as a way to drum up business. It had worked for the past three seasons, and I had my fingers crossed for next year.

  I allowed myself to think about a vacation. I hadn’t had one since leaving my old job, but once my assets and debits were on speaking terms I was heading to Jost Van Dyke. I’d lie in a hammock and read the water-swollen paperbacks—thoughtfully left by previous travelers—that smelled of the sea and suntan lotion. And the biggest decision I’d have to make was which high-calorie local drink to order, the painkiller or the bushwhacker.

  In the meantime the Paradise Diner would serve as my Caribbean surrogate. Earlier in the season, Hugo Jurado and I had turned one corner of Babe’s parking lot into an outdoor café, something sorely missing in suburban Springfield. Hugo was Anna’s husband and my part-time helper; sometimes it seemed as if they were the brains of the business and I worked for them instead of the other way around.

  Springfield’s downtown had evolved, even in just the few years since I’d arrived. We had an art house movie theater and an all-night deli, but further out of town Babe’s and the Dunkin’ Donuts were the only two gastronomic and social destinations. Double D had the edge on the coffee, but no one could touch the donuts at the Paradise.

  Hugo and I had constructed wooden flower boxes two feet high and four feet deep creating a modular enclosure for a twenty-by-twenty-foot area in the front of the diner. In the spring and summer the boxes dripped with colorful annuals and perennials, and Babe wanted to extend the season with a fall display that included shrubs and ornamental grasses. All of them were a charming counterpoint to Babe’s deliciously trashy message marquee and neon sign, where one of the bulbs was always burned out or smashed. I half suspected that kids came by at night when the diner was closed and tossed rocks at the lightbulbs, to help Babe maintain the diner’s slightly seedy look, or maybe it was Babe herself, who knew?

  She had added picnic tables and unmatched tag-sale umbrellas, so now in addition to being a must stop for every trucker in this part of the state, the shabby chic café was attracting the Main Street Moms who had previously been too timid or too snobby to venture in, preferring the overpriced gourmet bakery three towns away.

  One or two curmudgeonly regulars had grumbled that Babe was tarting up the place, but just as many appreciated the new and better-looking faces. The early shift of day laborers and long haulers who camped out at Babe’s—whether they were hungry or not—was now followed by clusters of suburban matrons, sometimes with their kids, fresh from soccer or ballet or dressage. Sometimes they overlapped.

  “When you pay my bills,” she told the complainers, “you can tell me how to decorate and who to serve.”

  I didn’t pay her bills either, and she rarely paid mine, except for materials. For the most part, Babe and I had an in-kind arrangement. I worked on her outside space and she let me use a corner booth at the Paradise as an informal office where the coffee kept flowing and Pete number two (so named to distinguish him from Babe’s late husband) used me as a guinea pig for new recipes. It was an arrangement that suited me fine despite
the three or four pounds I’d put on since I had relocated to Springfield from New York City and our unspoken agreement had started. And Babe’s bulletin board was my private ad space, touting my services to residents and small businesses up and down the Merritt Parkway, which brought Babe many of her non-truck-driving customers.

  This was a far cry from Babe’s previous life twenty or so years earlier when she was a backup singer traveling with a band and the dear departed Pete number one. Late in the day when there were no kids around, she would let slip one of her more outrageous anecdotes, and she never failed to gather a crowd at the diner’s counter, leaving most of her listeners feeling Walter Mittyish for living vicariously through her adventures instead of getting off their butts and having some of their own. Once in a while a story sounded suspiciously like something I’d seen in a movie or read in a novel, but if she was embellishing, who cared? Who didn’t relive the past and burnish some stories to make herself seem smarter, hipper, and funnier? And she told the stories well, with enough brio and detail to make you feel as if you’d been there with her, partying with rock stars and dancing on yachts.

  “I miss it sometimes,” she’d said, “traveling with the Jimmy Collins Band. A different city every week. Hell, sometimes every night. That was a lifetime ago. I have no complaints. Somebody once told me there are only two stories: a man goes on a journey, and a stranger comes to town. The first half of my life, I went on the journey. Now I’m here and the people who come to the diner are the ones who come to town.” A bittersweet smile had crossed her face when she said it, and I wondered if she was thinking about Pete number one and how they had come to this town so many years ago.