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

by Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa

  Drake Tuttle took a long, thoughtful sip of coffee and grimaced. I wasn’t sure if it was the brew or the information he was about to disclose.

  “Hank’s a big gambler,” he told me. “He’s also a big loser. They might have been having financial problems, but who doesn’t?”

  “Amen,” I agreed, thinking of my own money woes.

  “But something else was going on, too. Leona thought Hank was cheating on her.”

  Hank Barber? I found the possibility of something like that unlikely. Hank was quiet to the point of dullness. He wasn’t totally hideous looking, but he certainly wasn’t the kind of guy women swooned over, either. “Who’s the lucky girl?” I asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. My best guess would be Sue Jeffries. She hangs around the airport a lot. Of course, she keeps her plane here, but she’s very friendly, and she sure can turn a guy’s head—not that I’d ever consider her dating material. She’s kind of old. She must be at least thirty-five, thirty-six …”

  In Drake’s eyes, I was ready for the glue factory.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met Sue Jeffries. What does she look like?” I asked.

  “She’s a lot taller than you, and—excuse the expression—built. Sue wears her hair in a ponytail most of the time.”

  “Like mine?”

  “Well, no, not really. She has this really great hair.” He seemed to consider the words that just left his mouth. “What I mean is, her hair looks kind of windblown or something. And it’s light blond. It’s different, is all I meant. Sorry. I didn’t mean your hair is ugly or anything.”

  I let the slight insult pass and thought about it. Blond hair, a ponytail … it jogged a memory.

  “The wake,” I said. I realized Drake Tuttle had no idea what I was talking about. “I think I saw her at Dizzie Oliver’s wake. She sat beside Hank Barber. A stunning woman. Perfectly groomed, tasteful clothes. Long, lean, muscular legs. That’s Sue Jeffries, the woman who flies down to Atlantic City all by herself when she doesn’t feel like fighting the parkway traffic?”

  “That would be her,” Drake told me. He finished off his coffee and tossed the paper cup in a nearby trash bin.

  I took a sip from my own cup and threw it away. It tasted worse than the coffee I had been making at home lately. I spotted a bench near the flowers out in front of the terminal, about ten feet away from the trash bin.

  “Mind if we sit?” I asked, walking toward the bench without waiting for a response. I would have given anything to have had my notebook in hand.

  “I guess, but I don’t want to get caught talking to you if Hank drives up.”

  I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked out in the distance toward the exit on the highway where the long, private road led to the terminal. “We’ll be able to spot any cars coming this way. I promise Hank won’t catch you talking to me.”

  Drake Tuttle relaxed and sat down beside me. “What else did you want to know?”

  “Do you think Hank and Sue Jeffries were carrying on for a long time, or is this something you noticed fairly recently?”

  “I don’t think they were carrying on at all, but Leona did. Hank was friendly with Sue, polite, but I never noticed anything romantic. Like I said, Sue keeps her plane here. She’s been coming and going for a long time—longer than I’ve been here. I think she’s been after Hank. She’s probably still after him.”

  “How long have you been working here?” I asked.

  “Almost two years.”

  “And she flies down to AC now and then. Does she fly anywhere else?”

  “Sue flies everywhere. There’s a sister she used to visit regularly in upstate New York, but she stopped going there about a year ago. She headed out to Florida a few times to stay with a friend for a couple of days. She goes to Pittsburgh once in a while, but I don’t know what business she has there. I was here one time when she took a friend up for a joyride over the ocean.”

  I remembered the ride I took with Willy when Hank Barber flew us out over the Atlantic and shivered, despite the sun overhead. “Is that something unusual?”

  “Naw. Everyone flies out over the ocean and goes up and down the coastline. It’s typical sightseeing stuff.”

  “The friend she took up for a ride—was it a man or a woman?” I asked.

  “A woman. I didn’t recognize her. Just some friend. She dressed pretty nice—like Sue. One of those types.”

  I thought about it. A plane. Frequent trips to Atlantic City. Flying all over the place. It seemed like such a glamorous, expensive lifestyle. “What kind of work does Sue Jeffries do? Where does her money come from?”

  Drake shrugged. “I doubt she has a regular job. I get the feeling she’s divorced or a widow, but I don’t know for sure. Maybe her husband left her plenty of money, or else her family might be loaded. Who knows? I don’t pay much attention to that stuff. I try to keep my mind on my own wallet, if you know what I mean. No sense wondering about who has money and where it comes from. It can make you crazy.”

  Pretty smart, I thought, even after the stupid remarks he made earlier about old people and ugly hair.

  It seemed as though Sue Jeffries would have a lot to offer a man—especially one who loved to fly and owned a marginally successful airport. Hank and Sue? They did look ridiculous seated together at Dizzie Oliver’s wake, but stranger unions had taken place, I was certain. I needed to learn a little more.

  “Has Hank ever confided in you about how the business is doing?” I asked.

  “I don’t know about the books,” Drake admitted, “but I do know he complains constantly about rising fuel costs.”

  “So this whole business with flying lessons and the planes coming and going, isn’t all that lucrative?”

  “It’s okay. A pretty good living, I’d say, but with Hank’s gambling …” He shrugged and looked up toward the highway and the increasing traffic. “Do you think we can end this now? I really don’t want Hank coming back here and catching me talking to you.”

  I stood to leave. “Of course you don’t. Thanks for your help. I won’t print any of this. I promise.”

  Back in my car, I took the long road back to the highway and drove straight to the newspaper office. I parked the car in the lot and tore through my pocketbook for a pen and my notebook. I wanted to get down everything Drake Tuttle told me before it flew out of my head. Try though I might to deny it, one persistent thought ran through my brain—maybe I was wrong. Sue Jeffries could have flown the plane, while Hank Barber tussled with Leona.

  I went inside the building. I was eager to share my theory with Ken Rhodes, but wasn’t all that keen to actually see him. I wasn’t sure how to act after the intimate night we had shared, despite the pep talk Bev had given me earlier in the morning. I had faced awkward moments before in my lifetime. I braced myself for another one. Meredith glanced up at me as I walked by her cubicle. She was about to say something, but didn’t. I continued on. I didn’t feel like chatting anyway.

  “Your face is red,” Ken said, glancing up at me while I stood in his office doorway. “Are you embarrassed? Is that what made you sneak out this morning?”

  I stepped in and quickly closed the door behind me. “Shh. I don’t want the whole office to know about this.”

  He chuckled, a rarity for him, and stood up from his desk. “Lighten up, Colleen. You’re not married anymore.”

  “Yeah, but this is different. You’re my boss. How’s it gonna look?”

  “In the office, it’s business as usual,” he said as he walked toward me. “Outside is another story. And believe me, nobody cares how it looks. ”

  “My mother sure did!” I told him.

  “I’m sorry about that.” He smiled and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I’m not going to pretend last night didn’t happen, and I won’t let you pretend nothing happened either.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but he leaned down and kissed me. My words melted along with my body as his arms slipped aroun
d my waist, and I leaned into his kiss.

  It was a full minute, or maybe even two, before he pulled back, and I started to regain my senses. Afraid my body might lurch right back into his arms totally on its own accord, I dropped into the chair that was facing his desk.

  “You have a very loose interpretation of ‘business as usual,’ you know,” I said.

  He smiled.

  Is it hot in here? I asked myself. I pulled my notebook from my purse, and noticed my hand was shaking a little. “I just had a long talk with Drake Tuttle out at the airport. He thinks Leona Barber suspected Hank had a thing going with a rich woman named Sue Jeffries. She keeps her plane out at Tranquil Harbor Airport. Drake said it seemed like the woman was more interested in Hank than the other way around.”

  Ken nodded and moved to gaze out the window at the mostly nonexistent view. “Why would they kill Leona just for suspecting an affair? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense to me!” I told him.

  He turned to look at me. His expression made my heart skip a half-beat, but only half. Then he smiled, one of those amused kind of grins, which meant he wasn’t taking me seriously.

  “Maybe they actually were carrying on, Ken. And I’ve been thinking a few more things, too,” I continued. I slouched in the chair, interested in speaking my mind while trying to push away memories of the events from the night before. “Sue Jeffries sat with Hank Barber at Dizzie’s wake. They both seemed to be offering a good deal of support to Matthew Oliver. Here’s something else: Hank and Matthew are such good friends. Sue Jeffries might not be involved in Leona’s murder at all. Maybe …”

  Ken interrupted me. “You’re thinking those two buddies plotted one of those Strangers on a Train-type murders. Did you know that’s pretty common? You kill my wife, and I’ll kill yours. It’s been done many times before—even in New Jersey. In Hoboken, I believe.”

  Okay, maybe my new idea hadn’t been the most original explanation for the two deaths, but I was still highly suspicious of all three of them. “Something’s up with those guys. You have to admit it’s unusual. Two friends, and both of their wives managed to get themselves killed two weeks apart. That’s odd—even in New Jersey.”

  “Did you consider a motive? I mean a real, solid motive?” Ken asked me.

  “I don’t know. Hank and Matthew are both big-time gamblers. They’re not very good at it. They suffered heavy losses. Did they want insurance money? Their freedom? Maybe Matthew was fooling around and wanted to get rid of Dizzie. Or maybe he wanted her business.”

  Ken shook his head. “Colleen, the guy is a local celebrity. He’s the Hot Air King. What would he do with a hair salon? In my next life, I’m coming back as a heating and air conditioning guy. With the exception of plumbers, they’re the most necessary workers on the planet. They make tons of money—unlike journalists.”

  My eyes immediately sought out the gaudy Rolex on Rhodes’s wrist. “Give me a break!” I said.

  “What would Matthew want with Dizzie’s business?” he asked. “How much is it worth?”

  I thought it over. “Plenty. It’s the best salon within a twenty-mile radius.”

  “It was the best. Without Dizzie, I imagine it will become just another hair place.”

  “But the reputation is there. It’s already established. Maybe he wanted to sell it off to a chain place—or maybe to Trina Cranford! She did speak kindly of Matthew the day I had my hair appointment at Trina’s Tresses.” I touched my ponytail, way too straight in my opinion, and remembered again why I never wanted anyone connected with Trina’s salon to touch my hair—including the little airhead who did the straightening job. “And there’s also the question of Dizzie’s bracelet. That really bothers me. I mean, Ron said he returned a bunch of bracelets to Matthew, but he wasn’t specific about which bracelets he returned. If someone didn’t steal the Tiffany bangle, and Matthew kept it, well, that’s fine. But it was worth eleven thousand dollars. I’ll bet it was insured. He could have fenced it and collected on the insurance. That would be a double payoff.”

  Ken grinned from ear to ear. “Fenced it? You sound like Sam Spade. Okay. Look into it. Just be careful. You have an annoying habit of getting in over your head. Meanwhile, we need another column. Think about something connected to the murders that won’t get us sued for libel.”

  I jumped up and left Ken’s office before he could move in for another kiss. I needed a clear head. I went straight to Meredith Mancini’s cramped little cubicle. She always had something on her desk to eat, and I was famished. I didn’t spot the usual box of Twinkies, and for some reason, her stash of M&M’s seemed to be missing from her top left-hand drawer.

  “Where did you hide the snacks?”

  “No more snacking for me,” she informed me. “I’m trying to eat healthy.”

  “Why?” I asked. The kid editor weighed no more than my Sara. I couldn’t imagine what brought on this blatant food defection.

  “I have high cholesterol!”

  I could sympathize. My own numbers hovered around the borderline. Still, they weren’t quite high enough to frighten me into sensible eating. But I wasn’t in my mid-twenties. Poor girl! “Does this mean no more feasts at Domingo’s Enchilada Palace, or will you forgo the cheesy things and just stick to salads and sangria?”

  “If I drink enough sangria, maybe I can stand the salads.” She paused a moment and studied me. “Tell me what’s on your mind. What happened in the big man’s office?”

  “Nothing,” I told her, trying my best to look nonchalant or at least not guilty.

  “Yeah, something’s wrong. I can see it in your face. Is it the murders? What’s going on? You’re worried about something. Did someone threaten you?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing like that.”

  She flipped a thumb in the direction of Ken Rhodes’s office. “Trouble with the office hunk?”

  I said nothing. This brought a huge smile to her face.

  “Oh my God! I knew it! You looked so nervous when you first walked in. Tell me all about it. Roses? Cheap motel room? Expensive suite in Atlantic City? Fess up!”

  I could feel my face flushing. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it just yet,” I said.

  “Fine. See if I care, though I guess if I can’t have him, I’m glad you did.”

  I sighed. “By the way, there’s something else.”

  “In addition to a night of ecstasy?” she asked.

  “Yes, in addition to … Do you remember months ago, when Ken Rhodes first came to the Crier?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said you thought he might have been a hit man in a previous occupation.”

  “You shot down that theory pretty fast,” Meredith reminded me.

  “Well, there’s more to his background than I thought,” I told her. “This is between you and me and my best friend …” I thought about it second. “… and maybe my mother, if she ever gets over me staying out all night.”

  “This is beginning to sound like a cast of thousands.”

  “I learned something last night that gave me the creeps,” I said. “You have to promise …”

  “For God’s sake, Colleen! Just spit it out!”

  “Ken Rhodes was married,” I whispered. I sat on the edge of her desk and bent over, like a schoolgirl telling a secret. “His wife was murdered.”

  “I told you something was up with him. Didn’t I tell you? Just look at him. That hair, those eyes, his body … you get the picture. Or should I say got the picture?”

  “Maybe I should give Ron Haver a call,” I told her. “He’d know about it. Or maybe I should call my brother. They were college friends. Talk about bad luck.”

  “For you, or Ken Rhodes’s wife?” Meredith quipped. “Tell you what—I’ll do a little research tonight. I don’t want to do any online searches in the office. He might walk by my cubicle and catch me checking out his past. Besides, I think those two tech guys in IT can track the websites we visit
here. They’re big mouths, both of them.”

  We were all big mouths at the office, but that wasn’t the point. It might embarrass Ken Rhodes if he knew everyone at the paper was aware of his past, hard-nosed newspaper man or not.

  “Let me know what you find,” I said.

  “Can do.” She flipped through a notebook on her desk. “Meanwhile, I’m giving you another assignment. As soon as I saw it, I thought of you. They’re offering hour-long Zumba classes again over at Body Beautiful—that highbrow women’s fitness place down by the waterfront. Are you interesting in covering it for the Health and Fitness section? You haven’t gotten independently wealthy in the past few months, have you? I’m sure you can still use a little extra cash.”

  I stuck out my hand, waiting for Meredith to copy down the assignment on a bright yellow Post-it. “My finances have improved dramatically, but I stink at handling money and can always use more. I’m not much into physical fitness lately though, even if I did lose a few pounds. I hate to sweat. It’s so—sweaty!”

  “You don’t have to do Zumba. Just talk to the instructor,” she said, handing me the note. “The woman at the front desk is Belinda. She sounds like a peach over the phone.”

  “Why hour-long classes again? And what made you think of me, out of all the stringers, for this one? You should be covering this. You’re the one with the high cholesterol.”

  “I’m an editor. I don’t do that stuff anymore. And the reason you’re writing up this place is because I thought you’d have more than a passing interest. They’re offering the classes again because they have a new instructor.”

  “What happened to the old instructor?” I wondered.

  Meredith smiled sweetly. “She died recently.”

  “Dear God, you don’t have to look so pleased about it. Apparently Zumba doesn’t automatically guarantee a long, healthy life. That must be one killer class.”

  “It’s definitely a killer class,” Meredith informed me. “Leona Barber was the previous instructor.”

  16

  Body Beautiful didn’t quite live up to my expectations. Actually, I didn’t know what to expect when I visited the fitness center early on a Thursday afternoon. I thought it would have more of a spa atmosphere, or something along the lines of the waiting area at Trina’s Tresses. The entrance and the reception area seemed tastefully decorated and appeared antiseptically clean. There was lots of white, from the fresh-cut flowers in a clear crystal glass vase on the counter to the tall, blindingly white stack of highly absorbent towels on a cart near the corner. The woman I was to meet, Belinda, stood behind a stomach-high counter. She wore a white golf shirt and white, stretchy-looking pants. Belinda looked more like someone who would take my temperature at the doctor’s office or maybe even try to sell me car insurance on the internet than someone who ran a gym.