Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa

  “And?”

  “You were supposed to get it straightened, remember?” Ken said. He reached over and twisted a lock around his finger, tugging gently. “I thought we discussed how beneficial it might be to check out Dizzie’s competition.”

  “Well …” Ken’s hand in my hair left me at a loss for words.

  “Chicken.”

  “I’m not a chicken. I just don’t want it ruined. Maybe I’ll just go for a trim or something. Like you said before, it’s only hair. It’ll grow back.”

  “Doesn’t that straight-hair thing take a while? You’d get more time to talk to Trina Cranford and find out just how much animosity there was between the two hairdressers.”

  “I guess, but I don’t have enough money right now to put out and wait until I’m reimbursed,” I told him. “And if my last statement was correct, I’m close to maxing out my credit card.”

  Ken reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. “About how much does it cost?”

  “A few hundred at least,” I informed him.

  “What?”

  “A few hundred. I’m not making it up. That’s the price for making curly hair straight.” God, it was like I was talking to Neil!

  He picked through the wallet and removed a credit card. “This is corporate. Don’t abuse it.”

  I made a fast grab for it before he could change his mind and left his office. Meredith caught me as I tried to make a dash out the front door.

  “I need that story on flying lessons by Tuesday morning!” she said. “No fooling around! They’re advertisers, and they’ve been calling here wondering why the reporter hasn’t contacted them yet. Willy’s ready to go anytime. Call him and set something up today. Plan on going airborne tomorrow.”

  6

  I met Willy Rojas in the parking lot at Tranquil Harbor Airport early Friday morning. The small terminal was neat and white, with a large window in the front and a good-sized hangar around the back of the building. Nothing surprising there, but what I hadn’t expected were the annuals, still in full bloom, and the meticulously tended lawn with a quaint cobblestone walkway that led up to the front entrance. The runway also looked well-maintained, with no pits or potholes in the asphalt that could ruin a takeoff or a landing.

  “I’ve never been here before,” I told Willy.

  “I never even knew this place existed,” he admitted, lifting his digital Nikon to take shots of the grounds.

  I thought from an advertising standpoint, just the view alone would appeal to readers and potential flight-school students—which was the whole point of running the advertorial.

  We entered the building through double-glass doors and found ourselves standing in the middle of a snack bar with a seating area. An older woman stood behind the counter, filling ketchup bottles. I nodded hello and looked for an office.

  “You looking for Hank?” the woman asked.

  “We’re from the Town Crier …” Willy began.

  The woman cut him off. “He’ll be back in a few minutes. He said to wait.”

  A man stepped out from behind a door marked PRIVATE and came toward us. He looked a little on the young side, clean-cut, and friendly. “Hi! I’m Drake Tuttle! I do most of the plane maintenance here. Hank Barber had to step out for a few minutes—he’s the flight instructor. How about I show you some of the planes? You can take pictures while you’re waiting.”

  “Sounds great,” Willy said.

  We followed Drake through the door and crossed the small, tidy office to get to the hangar, where two planes were being repaired.

  “Oil change?” I asked, thinking the whole setup reminded me of the dealership where I normally brought my old car for servicing.

  “Rigging,” Drake told me. “Yearly maintenance. Can’t do the usual gear swing and a lube on a 310.”

  I looked at Willy. He shrugged.

  “Okay,” I said to the mechanic. “Could you say that again in English please?”

  “Just maintenance for a Cessna 310. Hank will be taking you up in one of these. Twin engine. Nice machine. A real fuel sucker though.”

  I pulled my notebook out and started to write, despite my shaking hand. Cessna 310 was obviously the model of the plane. Twin engine meant two propeller things. Fuel sucker meant it used a lot of gas. I didn’t bother to write about rigging or swinging gears or lubes—whatever those terms meant. I didn’t want to get technical. I wanted the article to be about having fun, or at least as much fun as a person can have being up in the air, terrified, while awaiting the inevitable plummet back to earth.

  “And we’ll be going up in one of these little things?” I asked.

  “Just like this one,” Drake said. “They’re not so little. Do you have a problem with flying?”

  “Not at all,” I lied. It wasn’t like I had a phobia or anything. It was just that I preferred really big planes with attendants and drinks and, of course, those little screens on the back of the seat in front of me, so I could watch last year’s big-screen blockbuster to keep my mind off of crash landings. I could have just killed Meredith and Ken for making me do this.

  We followed Drake out of the hangar doors to view more planes. Some, I noticed, had single propellers and seated only two people. These looked tiny and terrifying. Two others were similar to the plane Drake was working on inside the hangar—twin propellers and able to hold four people.

  “We’re going up in a Cessna 310, right?” I asked, wanting to make sure I at least got the model right for the story.

  “Unless you want to go up in one of those Cessna 150s. Of course, they only seat two, so one of you will have to sit on the wing,” Drake joked.

  A tall, slender man in his thirties strolled out from the hangar and came over to join us. “I’m Hank Barber,” he said.

  “Willy Rojas,” Willy said, reaching out to shake hands. “This is Colleen Caruso. She’ll be writing the story. I’ll be taking the pictures.”

  “How do you do,” I said, sounding rather formal. I wasn’t at all sure about this guy. He looked kind of scruffy, with two days’ worth of dark growth on his cheeks and chin. I had noticed him at Dizzie’s wake. He was seated behind Matthew Oliver, and I remembered thinking at the time how disheveled and out of place he looked. Of course, having crisp clothes and a clean-shaven face wouldn’t necessarily make one a good pilot, I reminded myself, though I thought someone who flies would be a little more—meticulous.

  “I’m gonna pop into my office for a minute before we take off,” he said, then disappeared back through the hangar.

  “A man of few words,” I muttered.

  “Hank’s been going through a tough time. First his wife walks out on him, and then his best friend’s wife dies,” Drake explained. “But Hank was never Mister Personality anyway. He’s kind of a quiet guy. Not mean or anything, just not overly friendly.”

  “Matthew Oliver is his best friend?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Freaky, huh? You’re not putting any of this in your story, are you?”

  “I would never write something about Hank’s private life without speaking to him first,” I said, skirting the issue.

  We thanked Drake, and Willy strolled away to take pictures of the various planes. Hank Barber returned and guided us to one of the four-seaters.

  “Did Drake tell you about the plane?” Hank asked.

  “He did. We have the particulars. You’ll need to tell us about the lessons.”

  We climbed into Hank Barber’s Cessna. Willy rode shotgun, next to the pilot. I crawled into the back, feeling claustrophobic and petrified.

  “Better buckle in,” Hank advised when he started the engine.

  Yeah, as if I would have forgotten to do that.

  We taxied to the runway and my blood pressure, I was sure, skyrocketed. Okay, I thought, I’m having a stroke. Fine, just let me have it before we leave the ground! I didn’t want to die up in the air, buckled into the backseat of a flying minivan.

  “Very cool!” Willy remarked
as we picked up speed.

  I smacked the back of his head. “Oh, shut up. I want my mother!”

  We were off the ground seconds later, climbing our way into the wild blue yonder. I bit my bottom lip and watched as the hangar shrank, getting smaller and smaller. Willy’s red Jeep looked about the size of a kid’s wagon in the parking lot. I began to panic.

  “Can we go back now?” I asked in a very shaky voice.

  “Back?” Hank asked, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? We’re flying out over the ocean, so Willy here can take his pictures. You wouldn’t believe the view!”

  So, I thought. Now you decide to get chatty?

  The plane made a long, slow turn and we headed southeast. Beneath us was nothing but the beautiful sapphire ocean. Willy pointed out some fishing boats far offshore, and Hank descended to get a closer look.

  “I know how to swim!” I told the two men confidently, thinking that if we ditched, I’d at least have a fighting chance.

  Both men turned in their seats to look at me.

  “Hey! Are you crazy? For God’s sake, watch the road!” I told Hank. For the first time since meeting him, I saw him smile.

  After ten minutes of boat shots, shoreline shots, and the boardwalk in Asbury Park, I completely lost my composure and began to beg.

  “Please, can we go back now? Drake said these things suck up a lot of fuel, so you’ll save money if you’re not up in the air too long. I’m really sorry, but I think my heart’s going.”

  I knew I was babbling, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I really, really didn’t want to be in that plane.

  “You do realize landing is the most dangerous part of flying, right?” Hank asked.

  “I don’t care if we crash and burn! As long as it’s on terra firma!” I insisted.

  Willy chuckled, and Hank Barber began another slow turn to take us back to the airport. It took barely five minutes before we were circling to come in for a landing.

  Willy continued to snap away, taking pictures of the trees in the distance, the highway, and the expansive field surrounding the landing strip. I focused on him to take my mind off of our descent. He took a couple of shots, pulled the camera away from his eye, looked down, and then lifted the camera to get a few more shots.

  “I think …” he began.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “A little airsick, buddy?” the pilot asked, concerned.

  “Maybe a little,” Willy told him as the plane touched down as softly as a mother kisses her baby’s toes.

  The plane came to a complete stop, and we climbed out. I resisted the urge to drop to my knees and kiss the ground, though Willy looked so unsteady on his feet, I was sure he would.

  “You don’t look so good,” I told him, taking his arm.

  “And you look a little green around the gills yourself,” he said. “Jesus, Colleen. Did you have a stroke? I’m not kidding.”

  “Your reporter had a panic attack is all,” Hank told him. “I’ve seen it before. Stop off for a good stiff drink on your way home. You’ll feel better.”

  My legs were wobbly, and I felt light-headed, though I was pretty sure Hank Barber was right. It probably was nothing more serious than a panic attack. Besides, at that point, Willy concerned me far more than my own shaky nerves.

  “Mr. Barber, would it be okay to come back early Monday morning to do a sit-down interview about the flying lessons and the flight instruction classes? I really think I need to get Willy home, or to a bar or something.”

  The instructor agreed. “I’ll just run inside to get you some brochures. We can go over the basics on Monday. We could even do it over the phone, if that’s better for your schedule.”

  I remembered the story was due on Tuesday morning. “Either way,” I told him.

  When I had the brochures in hand, Willy and I headed straight for his Jeep in the parking lot. I wasn’t sure if he was okay or not.

  “Do you want me to drive you back to the newspaper? I can find somebody at the office to come back with me to pick up your car.”

  Willy shook his head. “Neither of us should be driving. I think we’re both too shaky, but take your car and follow me to The Press Box. I need a drink. We both need a drink.”

  “Maybe you’ll feel worse if you have a drink,” I said.

  “I’m not sick, Colleen. I just want to calm down and review the pictures I took when we were landing,” he told me, holding up his camera. “I think I saw something in the field, and I’m pretty sure I got a good shot of it.”

  “What do you think it was?” I asked.

  Willy’s complexion went completely pale, and I thought if he didn’t get that drink soon, he’d fall over dead on the spot.

  “I think I saw a body!”

  7

  The Press Box, a stand-alone place near the Town Crier offices, was more or less the official bar of the newspaper staff. There was no ambiance at The Press Box, and it certainly didn’t possess even a shred of family atmosphere. Sure, you could get a sandwich or a burger there. The grub was pretty good as far as bar food went, but there was nothing on the menu that was tempting or exciting. The inside was dark and on the dreary side. Guys stopped in during the day for a cold brew—generally blue-collar types who couldn’t face the remainder of their workday without a little booze in their system. The rest of the regular clientele consisted of frustrated teachers and, of course, journalists fighting deadlines. Once in a while, the Crier’s advertising department and accounting people would pop in for a liquid lunch, especially on those frustrating days when sales were down, and it looked like jobs might be lost.

  Willy and I took an empty booth and ordered drinks from Vic, the cheerless, ever-efficient bartender, and reviewed the photos taken with Willy’s Nikon.

  “See this?” Willy said, clicking to one of the photos. “Take a good look. What does it look like to you?”

  I looked at the small screen and squinted. “I don’t know. It’s long, yet it looks like it’s crumbled or something. Could someone have shot a deer?”

  “In the middle of a field?” Willy asked. “Gee, that’s sporting.”

  Vic came by with the drinks, and Willy swallowed a mouthful of his double vodka martini. I sipped at my gin and tonic—regular tonic, not diet. Vic didn’t believe in using low-calorie mixers.

  “Okay, go over a few more shots and see if you got it at a better angle,” I told him.

  Willy pulled up a few more pictures taken from a slightly different perspective and stopped at one in particular. “Ah-ha!” he said. “See? See?”

  I did see something. A deer? What had I been thinking? It looked more like a body, but I couldn’t be certain. “You have to download them and see if you can enhance the shot, or enlarge it. Can you do something with them to make them clear? Do you have software that can do things like that?”

  “Tons of programs expressly for that purpose,” Willy said. “Give me a minute to finish my drink, and we’ll go.”

  “Are you okay to drive?” I asked.

  “Are you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m not even finishing this,” I told him, pushing my glass aside. “I’m still shaking just from being up in that flying coffin. I need a Xanax or something—something better than gin.”

  “The only thing better than gin is vodka,” he told me and then drained his glass.

  * * *

  Ken Rhodes and Meredith Mancini joined me at Willy’s desk. We looked over Willy’s shoulder as he went through the process of enlarging the shot and adjusting the focus.

  “Has anyone been reported missing?” Meredith asked. “Are the police looking for someone from the nursing home or the hospital who might have wandered off?”

  Ken shook his head. “I haven’t heard anything.”

  “There aren’t any posters up, and there wasn’t anything on the news. Wouldn’t one of the beat reporters be onto a story like that?” I asked.

  “They would,�
�� Ken said. “None of them are.”

  “So maybe it is a deer, or a very big dog. Maybe even a cow,” Meredith suggested.

  We all turned and glared at her.

  “A cow?” Ken asked. “In the middle of an empty field? How do you figure it got there? I know, maybe it hitchhiked six miles from the nearest farm and someone shot it.”

  Meredith blushed a deep, embarrassed crimson. “Maybe it had mad cow disease, and it walked there and just died.”

  Willy turned his attention back to his computer. I laughed. Ken Rhodes didn’t. Meredith’s innocence was lost on him.

  “Hold on! Got it! Take a look at this!” Willy said.

  We leaned in closer to get a better look at the monitor. Although the image was still grainy, it sure looked like a person. I could definitely discern a scrap of clothing—some sort of beige patterned print—but most of the body was obscured by the dying grass and weeds in the field. I couldn’t imagine how Willy spotted this on our descent, but he did have a sharp eye.

  “I’ll call the police and have them meet us at the airport,” Ken told us. “Are you two okay to drive?”

  Willy seemed fine after his double martini, but I didn’t want to take any chances riding along with him. As for me, my nerves were still on edge. “I think we’ll let you drive us both,” I said.

  “Print out a few of those shots to give to the police to help them locate the body,” Ken instructed Willy.

  “I guess I’ll have to stay here and hold down the fort,” Meredith whined. “Sometimes I wish I was still a reporter.”

  * * *

  For the second time in a little over two weeks, I had the pleasure of seeing young Officer O’Reilly. He grinned broadly when he saw me get out of Ken Rhodes’s SUV. I waited for the inevitable.

  “Hello again, Mrs. Caruso! I’m so surprised to see you!”

  “How are you, Officer O’Reilly?” I inquired politely.

  “Very good, thanks. I’m a little worried about job security though,” he said. “Have you considered joining the force?”

  Ron Haver was also waiting in the airport’s small parking lot, leaning against his county sedan. “Can you give us a general idea where you spotted this supposed body?” he asked when Willy and I approached him.