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

by Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa

  I wasn’t in handcuffs and thought I was fortunate not to be. I don’t know if my kids would find any of this amusing, but they might. My mother, on the other hand, would be furious. Between my night with Ken Rhodes and now this, she would curse me out in Italian and drag me off to confession the minute I made bail.

  Officer O’Reilly had a pretty firm grip on my arm. I wondered if he thought I’d try to make a break for it. I looked down at the floor, hanging my head in shame, humiliated by the entire situation.

  “Take Room 5,” the sergeant behind the desk told him. “It’s private enough so you can beat a confession out of her without too many witnesses.”

  I looked up at the man behind the desk. He winked at me and smiled broadly.

  We walked past the squad room, where the desks stood mostly unoccupied. Only two looked as though someone had been recently working at them, with screen savers flickering random images and papers cluttering the desktops. A woman carrying a coffee mug excused herself as she temporarily blocked our way and went into the office to sit at one of desks.

  “Saturday night,” O’Reilly informed me as he guided me further down the corridor. “Everyone’s out on calls.”

  I heard, rather than saw, several voices behind a door with a small wire glass window. Officer O’Reilly didn’t have to explain this area of the police station to me.

  “9–1–1. State your emergency,” a dispatcher said in a loud, clear voice from behind the closed door.

  “I’m in real trouble, aren’t I?” I said to Officer O’Reilly. He responded to the question with a noncommittal shrug.

  We entered Room 5, and O’Reilly hit the wall switch for the lights. This room did look like it came from the set of a crime show. There were four walls painted a calming shade of penitentiary green, one table, three chairs that had been placed around the table, and two more which were shoved into a corner. None of the chairs matched. The floor tiles were scratched and dull. What I didn’t see was one of those two-way mirrors, where a police captain would stand on the other side, rub his chin, and declare to the other detectives, “There’s no way this dame’s gonna talk.”

  Officer O’Reilly pulled a chair out for me. I sat down and waited for him to join me. He didn’t.

  “Am I going to the slammer?” I asked him, my voice tentative.

  I thought I spotted just a ghost of a smile. “The slammer? I hope not, Ma Barker.”

  “Are you going to question me?” I asked in my most convincing timid voice.

  “I’m no detective. Ron Haver wants to talk to you. He’ll be here in a minute. I’d stay with you until you’re released, Mrs. Caruso, but I have to get back on the road and patrol the mean streets of Tranquil Harbor. I’m still on duty. Don’t be nervous.”

  A short time later, Ron Haver, in his usual presentable attire, entered the room. On his heels were Matthew Oliver and his father, Derek. My mouth dropped open, but I managed to get it shut fast.

  “Thanks for calling me, Jimmy,” Ron said to Officer O’Reilly, dismissing him. He turned to me and gave me a look of utter disgust. “Are you crazy?”

  I had no idea how to answer that. Sure, I was crazy, but I wasn’t going to admit to it in front of the Hot Air King and his humorless old man. “Do I need a lawyer?” I asked.

  “What you need is a straitjacket!’ Derek Oliver screamed. “What were you doing in my son’s house in the middle of the night with a flashlight?”

  I knew it wasn’t wise to tell him about my curiosity regarding Dizzie’s jewelry, and I certainly hadn’t thought up any clever, plausible lie to offer as a reason for breaking and entering. I said the only thing I could think of:

  “I believe I’m entitled to a phone call.”

  Derek Oliver threw his arms up in the air and stormed out of the small room. Matthew Oliver followed his father. Ron Haver turned to me.

  “You’re not under arrest yet, so no, you don’t get a phone call. You should have a lawyer present if and when one of the town’s detectives questions you, but I want to ask you something first. Why do you insist on interfering with my investigation? Am I not working fast enough for you and your readers? And don’t give me any of that Fleming-family bull. I’m real familiar with it from dating your sister. I can smell it a mile away!”

  “What a delightful way you have with words,” I said, giving him a smile that infuriated him.

  He slammed his hand down on the table and made me jump. “I’m not interrogating you, Colleen. I’m talking to you as a friend. That’s why O’Reilly called me.”

  Maybe it wasn’t my brightest idea, but I decided I would probably be in a whole new world of trouble for interfering with his precious investigation in addition to my breaking and entering and attempted burglary charge, if I didn’t fess up.

  “Okay. I was looking for Dizzie’s Tiffany bracelet,” I confessed.

  “I figured as much. Now you’re going to have to start praying. If Matthew Oliver decides to press charges, you’re going to have to spend at least one night in jail. Good work, Colleen. Really clever. Let me go talk to the Olivers. If I can calm at least one of them down, maybe you’ll stand a chance of coming out of this okay. If not, you’ll get that one phone call, and you’d better hope you can make bail.”

  Ron left the room. I folded my arms on the table and dropped my head. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for Sara and Bobby to have their mother in the slammer. My best guess was one of two scenarios—they would either be ostracized at school, or one of their friends would start a new betting pool. I hoped for the latter, though who knew how the minds of kids worked nowadays?

  Ron Haver stuck his head in the room. “Matthew Oliver wants to have a word with you,” he said. “May I suggest bending over backwards and kissing his butt if that’s what it takes for him not to pursue this?”

  I wasn’t desperate enough for anything so drastic just yet. I sat up and nodded, determined to give the Hot Air King my best shot and talk my way out of trouble.

  “Hi, Matthew,” I said when he came in. “I’m sorry …”

  “Why, Mrs. Caruso?” he asked, sounding so bewildered, it almost made me laugh. “Why would you do something like that? Do you realize how dangerous it is to break into a house? How … criminal? And what if I was home and had a gun or something—a knife or a baseball bat? Do you know I could have killed you?”

  I guessed it wouldn’t have been pretty. “You’re supposed to be in Atlantic City,” I offered as an excuse. Ron Haver, who had stepped out into the hallway to give us some privacy, stuck his head back in the door and gestured for me to shut up by using his hand to make a slashing motion across his throat.

  “You’re not supposed to be in my house!” Matthew yelled. “It’s trespassing. I know this is all because you think I killed my wife. But I didn’t kill her. I swear to God!”

  “After tonight, I’m beginning to think you had nothing to do with Dizzie’s murder,” I told Matthew. Of course, it was partly my Fleming-ancestry blarney, but another thought came to me, one I hadn’t really focused on until I was on the verge of serving jail time. “Except for the Tiffany bracelet, Dizzie’s trinkets were all in the armoire. If you pawned it, all her jewelry would be gone.”

  “What Tiffany bracelet?” he asked.

  He had to be kidding. “The one she wore on her right wrist with so much pride you would have thought it was a diamond tiara on top of her head.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I don’t even know what it looks like.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could Matthew Oliver not notice a stunning 18-karat gold bracelet that consisted of nine bangles and caught the light in such a way that it made Dizzie’s entire arm glow?

  “Matthew,” I said slowly, so he would understand every word I said. “Dizzie’s bracelet cost her eleven thousand dollars!”

  His expression went from reasonable to dumbfounded. He was finally getting the full picture.

  “Okay, here’s the thing,�
� he began. “We had a deal—me and Dizzie. She loved jewelry. I love gambling. We didn’t question each other. She didn’t know my losses. I didn’t know her—um … extravagances. Eleven thousand dollars? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, I’m really sure,” I told him.

  Matthew gave me a haunted smile. “Payback,” he said. “I dropped six thousand shooting craps at Bally’s one night last year. I guess she found out about it and decided to splurge on herself. It’s okay,” he mumbled, sounding like he was trying to convince himself. “It was her own money. Wow! Eleven thousand?”

  I nodded.

  “If you wanted to know about Dizzie’s jewelry, why didn’t you just ask me? I would never pawn any of Dizzie’s things,” he told me. “With the exception of her wedding ring, I was gonna to give it all to her mother.”

  Ron Haver withdrew his head and left us in peace. Apparently, he’d gotten the information he needed and thought I was doing okay and holding my own.

  “I haven’t even had the chance to look at Dizzie’s jewelry yet,” Matthew continued. “I just dumped all the jewelry the police gave back to me in the armoire. I found her cross and chain for the undertaker for the wake. I never noticed if anything was missing or not. How would I know? I already told that detective out there …”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking aloud. “So Dizzie was wearing her jewelry when she was killed. Whoever killed her stole the Tiffany bracelet.”

  “Now you think it was a robbery gone bad?”

  “I’m not sure what I think, but I don’t think it was you. I’m really sorry for breaking into your house, Matthew. I’m not trying to work against you—I’m just trying to help Dizzie. I know that sounds odd. But I feel like I owe her since I’m the one who found her. And I swear, I won’t go anywhere near you or your house ever again. I really feel terrible about all this. And after you gave me a break on the air unit and the furnace …” I trailed off, not sure I was even making sense.

  Matthew just stared at me for a minute then shook his head. He slowly rose from the chair and went to the door. “Detective Haver, could you come in here please?” he said.

  Ron Haver walked over to the table and sat down in one of the mismatched chairs.

  “Mr. Haver,” Matthew began, “I forgot that I had asked Mrs. Caruso to stop over at my house to feed my cat while I was away.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ron said.

  “My father lives across the road and saw the flashlight inside the dark house. I forgot to tell him she’d be there. Naturally, he called the cops. It was all a misunderstanding. There’s no reason to press charges. Can you make this all go away?”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised by such a creative lie. This was the guy who blew superimposed smoke from his nostrils in his cable commercials—his own idea, I felt certain.

  “I can make it go away,” Ron said, stealing a sideways glance at me. “Thanks for clearing things up, Mr. Oliver.”

  “Great! Let’s all go home and go to bed now,” Matthew suggested as he walked toward the door.

  “Matthew,” I asked. “Why did you come back so early?”

  “I lost a bundle in AC and thought it was better to call it quits. Donald Trump is rich enough. He’s not getting any more of my money!” he said before he left the room.

  “I’ll give you a ride home,” Ron Haver told me.

  “Just give me a ride to Matthew’s house. I’ll drive myself home,” I said.

  “No good. Your car isn’t there. The police towed it from Matthew’s driveway. It’s at the impound.”

  Oh great! I thought. I knew that was bound to cost me big bucks. “Would you mind taking me over there?” I asked.

  Haver shook his head. “It’s closed now. They’re closed on Sundays, too. You’ll have to wait until Monday morning.”

  19

  “Are you out of your mind?” my tiny mom asked me. Her voice was shrill, and she looked like she was ready to take a bite out of me. She had been lying in wait for me inside my kitchen, like a tiger biding her time until she could pounce.

  I tossed my purse on the table and pulled out a chair to rest my weary bones. “I’m not in the mood, Ma. Please don’t start.”

  “Don’t start? Don’t start! Who do you think you’re talking to? Don’t start. I’ll give you don’t start!”

  I half expected a smack in the back of my head. It would have been less painful, I’m sure. Her tongue lashing was far worse.

  “I raised her right, didn’t I?” she asked, looking toward heaven, pleading with God, all the angels, and every single saint. When she didn’t get an answer, she looked at me. “How can you embarrass your family this way? And the kids? And yourself! First you stay out all night, then you get yourself arrested …”

  “I wasn’t arrested. Matthew Oliver didn’t press charges.”

  “Aren’t you the lucky one!” my mother said. “And the car?”

  “They’re holding it for ransom at the police impound. I can get it bailed out on Monday morning.”

  “I’m not driving you there,” she said. “Get Kate to take you. Do you have the money for the ransom or what?”

  “I have it.”

  “I always thought that out of my three kids, you were the one with a head on her shoulders,” my mother sighed as she pulled open the sliding door and stepped outside.

  I got up, slid the door shut, and watched her go through the shortcut in the backyard to her own house. She was right, of course. I was irresponsible. I was also incredibly stupid for breaking into Matthew’s house.

  I felt like crying, but I heard the sound of my daughter’s light footsteps coming down the stairs.

  “I suppose you heard all of that,” I called out.

  “I’d have to be deaf not to hear it,” Sara said when she came into the kitchen. “Actually, I was sitting on the top step when Grandma was yelling at you.”

  “You were spying on us?” I asked. I felt annoyed, even if I did the same exact thing when I was young to my own parents.

  “Just eavesdropping, Mom. Don’t feel too bad. You can have my fifty dollars! You don’t even have to pay me back. It’s worth it just to hear Grandma scream at you.” Sara was grinning from ear to ear.

  We both laughed. She was growing up. My sullen daughter was actually developing quite a sense of humor.

  “I have the money, sweetheart. You need to get to bed now. It’s late. Is Bobby asleep?”

  “Like a rock.” She kissed my cheek and went upstairs. I realized she was at least an inch taller than me. When had that happened? It seemed like I’d been a head taller than her for forever. Next, she’d have to bend down to kiss me.

  I reached out and grabbed the kitchen phone. I really didn’t want to call Ken Rhodes. After the encounter with my mother, I didn’t think I could take being yelled at again, but I had no choice but to let him know what had happened. I punched in the number and after two rings, Ken answered.

  “I heard all about it,” he said, without even waiting for me to say hello. Someone had told him, most likely Ron Haver. “I’ll pick you up early Monday morning. Think you can stay out of trouble until then?” he asked.

  I hung up on him.

  * * *

  Ken’s SUV still had that new car smell. I climbed in and cracked open the window. Because I hadn’t had a new car in ages, the scent nauseated me.

  He sat, expressionless, behind the wheel. I tapped his arm to make sure he was still breathing.

  “Don’t push it,” he said, unsmiling.

  “Okay,” I mumbled meekly.

  He drove straight to the Tranquil Harbor police station. “Go inside and get a release for the car,” he told me. “I’ll wait here.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but I went to the desk and explained to the desk sergeant exactly what I needed. After filling out the necessary forms, I exited the building with the release in hand. Ken’s mood hadn’t changed. I wondered how long it would last before I was forgiven.

  Driving out
to Route 35, he finally spoke. “For Christ’s sake, Colleen! What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t thinking,” I told him, sounding contrite. It was nothing but a big, fat lie. I had wanted to know what happened to Dizzie’s jewelry and tried to find out the only way I could. I thought it out plenty. Thinking out the consequences had been where my plan fell short. I had been so careful not to interfere with Ron Haver’s homicide investigation, I never gave serious consideration to the jail time I would have to serve if I was arrested for breaking and entering.

  I presented the release at the impound, along with my driver’s license. The other necessary papers, the registration and proof of insurance, were in the car’s glove compartment. Forty-five minutes later, I was signing the paper work.

  “It comes to one hundred eighty-five dollars,” the man at the window told me. “We don’t take checks. Cash or credit card only.”

  “What’s the extra forty for?” I asked.

  “Two days’ storage.”

  “But my car hasn’t been here two days! They towed it in Saturday night!”

  “Anything over twelve hours is considered a day,” the man informed me, pointing to a chart on the counter listing the various charges.

  I did the math in my head. From the time it was towed to the time on the clock in the impound office, it was almost exactly thirty-seven hours. I handed over my credit card.

  Ken waited silently for the man at window to produce my receipt. I had never seen him so furious that he had no words.

  “I’ll meet you back at the office,” he finally said as he walked toward his car. Then he got in and drove away.

  I stopped off at Dunkin’ Donuts for a coffee on my way to work. By the time I arrived at the Crier offices, it was past noon. I walked in and spotted Ken’s closed office door. The newsroom seemed unusually quiet. The various editors and reporters sat at their desks and inside their cubicles with their heads down. I knew a few of them saw me come in. I felt like the office pariah.

  Okay, I thought. So I’m a leper. So what? I held my head high and walked down the aisle, not glancing back and forth and saying hello like I usually would. I went to Meredith Mancini’s cubicle and sat down. She looked away from her monitor and smirked.