by Elise Sax
Lucy elbowed me. “I told you,” she said to me and turned toward Peter. “Gladie has a real talent for death. If there’s a stiff in a ten-mile radius, she’ll find it. She’s like one of those corpse dogs the police have, darlin’. And then once she finds them, she finds the killer. And sometimes the killer finds her! That’s why I came back early. I like to watch her in action and be part of it.”
Peter nodded appreciatively. “So, tell me, Gladie, why is the spy thing inconsequential?”
I was blushing. My face was hot. I wasn’t used to being complimented. “Well, you see, it’s the daffodils that have me questioning the spy thing,” I said.
“Spies can kill in a million different ways,” Peter said, and I got the impression that he was speaking from experience.
“So, why pick daffodils?” I asked. “A spy could have used anything. Umbrellas, killer dog, zombie. But daffodils are a local flower. It’s what this town does every year at this time. Daffodils. So, for me, this murder screams local. A local murder.”
Which didn’t make sense. But none of it made sense.
Peter seemed to think of what I said for a minute. “I think you’re right, Gladie.”
“I am?”
“I think my job here is done, not that I have a job, not that I’m doing a job, and if you say I’m doing a job, I’d have to kill you,” he said with his beautiful smile. He took a sip of his spiked coffee and took a bite of his scone. He made eating and drinking look pornographic, but when a man was so good looking, brushing his teeth became pornographic.
“Let’s let him kill us,” Lucy whispered to me. “I think it might be fun.”
Peter stood and threw down a wad of bills onto the table. “Unfortunately, that means that I have to go. There’s a Bombardier Global 7000 plane with my name on it, sitting on a runway close to here, and it’s itching to take off.”
He buttoned his jacket. Then, he took my hand and kissed it gently. Lucy stuck her hand out, and he kissed it, too. Ruth skipped to our table.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked, desperate.
“I wish I could stay. This would be my go-to place every morning. If I got up in the morning, that is. I don’t usually like life before noon. But I made an exception today.”
Peter winked at Ruth, and she smiled like her whole world had turned into cotton candy.
“I wish we could have more men like you in this ass-backward town,” she said, wistfully.
The door to Tea Time opened, and Uncle Harry walked in with a tall goon. He wasn’t actually my uncle, but he liked me to call him that. He had also just recently married Lucy. Uncle Harry was a short man with no neck, and he worked in a dubious business where men in bad suits smoking cigars was de rigeur.
“Lucy, my beauty, I can’t find my skivvies. I’m walking around with my shlong swinging between my pants legs,” he announced as he reached our table.
“Did you check your suitcase, darlin’?” Lucy asked her new husband, obviously delighted by his presence. Lucy had fallen hard for Harry. It was a real love match, and I had never seen her happier.
“Sonofabitch,” Harry shouted, looking at Peter. “Is that you, Peter?”
Peter slapped his hand against Harry’s and gripped it in a handshake. “Harry, great to see you. I never thought I’d see you in a tea shop.”
Harry shrugged. “I got domesticated, and now I can’t find my drawers. What the hell are you doing here? The last time I saw you, fifteen guys were doing karate chops at your head. I thought you would be dead and buried by now.”
“It was twenty guys,” Peter corrected. “And let’s just say, they’re not doing karate chops, anymore.”
Harry smacked Peter’s back. “I owe this man my life and a few bucks, too,” he told Lucy. “Only man who can outdrink me, outfight Spencer, and outspell my sixth-grade teacher. Most guys with his skills sets don’t have much upstairs, but this guy went to Oxford. Oxford. Can you believe it?”
“Actually, I went to Cambridge,” Peter said.
“That’s good, too, right?” Harry asked.
Peter shrugged. “Good beer.”
“Good beer,” Harry repeated, laughing and slapping Peter’s back, again. “I love this guy.”
“Hey man,” Harry’s goon said to Peter, holding up his right hand. “Look, Peter, the pinky’s held after all this time. Thanks for the medical care. You really saved me in Yemen.”
Peter shook the goon’s hand with the intact pinky. “It’s nothing that the average Joe wouldn’t have done for you, Roscoe. And let’s keep the Yemen thing under wraps, okay?” he said with a congenial smile.
The goon blushed. “Sure thing, Peter. Whatever you say. And I owe you one.”
It was like a Goodfellas reunion in a tea shop.
Peter crouched down and whispered in my ear. “I’m throwing it back to you, Miss Marple. I’m off to save the world…again. So, here’s a gift for my new favorite woman: Mike was at Bird’s Hair Salon on the day he was killed. Thought you’d like to know.” Peter stood up and faced his adoring fans. “I’m going to say goodbye to my little brother, and then I’m outta here,” he said and then he was gone.
Like Batman.
We all stared at the door for a minute, waiting, perhaps, for him to change his mind and grace our presence once again. But he didn’t return. The international man of mystery had left the building.
Uncle Harry drove away with the goon to buy underpants, and Lucy and I walked over to Bird’s salon. Bird was the queen of upkeep in Cannes. She adhered to the religion of beauty maintenance and gave my grandmother a house call once a week to do her hair and other necessities. Recently, Bird had had a run-in with a bad diet and had now sworn off all diets.
“What the dickens is happening over there?” Lucy asked as we approached the salon. There was a group of people on the sidewalk outside, and they were yelling at each other.
“It’s the Daffodil Committee,” I told her. “There’s a flower controversy this year.”
“What a crazy town. I can’t believe I left on that honeymoon. What was I thinking? They don’t have this stuff in Thailand.”
Meryl, the blue-haired librarian, was among the group on the sidewalk. “What’s going on?” I asked her.
“The Committee has split into two sides. There’s the white side and the yellow side,” she explained. “It’s the Civil War all over again. Brother against brother. No uniforms yet, though.”
“Isn’t the daffodil show tomorrow? Is it still going to happen?” I asked.
Meryl shrugged. “Cannes has hosted the daffodil show since my grandmother was a little girl, but I’m not sure we’re going to have one this year. Morris won’t let one white daffodil in, and the white daffodil supporters say there’ll be no show without some white.”
“What do you want?” I asked. “White or yellow?”
“I don’t know. I just like the margarita bar after the show. Real lime. Delicious.”
Lucy and I pushed our way past the flower feuders into the salon. Inside, everything was different. I mean, different than the salon used to be. Bird’s salon used to be a utilitarian shop with nicely painted walls and pictures of perfectly coiffed people on them.
Now, Bird’s salon looked more like an ashram. Like the Beatles were going to walk in at any moment. Brightly colored fabric was draped on just about every surface, and the employees were dressed in saris. Indian music was being piped in through speakers, and psychedelic lightbulbs had replaced the normal ones.
Besides the way she was dressed, Bird was exactly the same. She had lost the weight she had gained the month before, and she was doing the hair of three clients at once. Not only did she do good hair, she did it fast and didn’t sit down for twelve hours a day.
My timing was perfect. I had arrived when her three clients of the moment were all in various stages of getting their gray dyed. So, Bird had a moment to talk with me.
“I have three minutes, Gladie,” she told me. “I have my meditation and y
ogic centering to do before I pull through Sybil’s color.”
“You redecorated,” I said.
“It’s my new diet. The Diet of Zen. I’ve already lost ten pounds. You should try it, Gladie.”
I sucked in my stomach. Eating with my grandmother had given me a mushy middle. “I was thinking of watching what I ate,” I told her.
She put her hands on my cheeks and looked deep into my eyes. “It’s not about what you eat. It’s about what’s eating you. You need to clear your chakras and manage your chi.”
It sounded painful.
“Bird, did you join a cult?” Lucy asked.
“No, it’s a diet. A new way of life. Listen, Lucy, when’s the last time you saw a fat yogi?”
She had a point.
“Gladie, let me know when you want to start, and I’ll give you the rundown,” Bird said. “Okay. Gotta get back to Sybil.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “I have a question. The man who was murdered. I hear he was in here the day he died.”
“That jerk?” Bird asked.
“That’s the one.”
“Yep. He wanted a shave. I do that, too, you know.”
“Did he say anything, like that someone wanted him dead?” Lucy asked.
“He was a jerk. He said my salon was for pussies. I shaved him, anyway.”
“That’s it?” I asked, disappointed.
“That’s it,” Bird said and walked back to pull through Sybil’s color. We followed her.
“Did he eat anything?” Lucy asked. “Like flowers? Did he eat any flowers?”
Bird stopped what she was doing and stared at Lucy. “Did he eat any flowers? No. He didn’t even eat a hamburger, and I’m pretty sure he would have eaten beef before he chowed down on flowers. Damn it. I forgot to meditate.”
“Did he mention anybody while he was here?” I asked.
“Nope,” Bird said. “I mean, nobody except for that new woman in town. The retired one.”
My skin prickled, and blood raced in my veins. “You mean Cynthia?” I asked.
“That’s the one.”
Lucy and I exchanged looks. Cynthia had spoken to Mike on the day he was killed, before I had taken her to the conference to meet her match. That meant she had known Mike. The image of her bumping into him right before he died flashed through my mind.
The idea that my match was a killer threw me. Being a matchmaker was a very personal thing. I was helping people fulfill their hearts’ desires. Now I was faced with the fact that Cynthia had lied to me and could have been involved in a man’s murder. I felt betrayed.
I was so deep in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice when the Daffodil Committee worked its way into the salon. They were loud and angry, and it turned out that their anger was directed at Sybil, who was getting her color done. It turned out that Sybil was ground zero for the white daffodil movement. I should have known because she had a bouquet of them in her lap and white daffodils painted on her palazzo pants.
“Get back!” Bird shouted at the flower people.
The head of the committee, Morris, pushed his way to Sybil. “Saboteur! J’accuse!” he yelled, pointing his finger at her with his arm outstretched.
“White daffodils are now. Yellow daffodils are stale. They’re the past. Hail to the future!” she announced from her chair.
“How dare you!” Morris yelled, affronted. His face had turned red, and he was sputtering when he talked.
Sybil raised her bouquet over her head in a threatening gesture. “Get back or I’ll bouquet your ass, Morris. I’m through with taking your yellow daffodil shit. You’ve been a bully for years, but now we’re taking back the power. Power to the white daffodils! Power to the white daffodils!”
“Wha…uh…nah…aagh!” Morris burst out and in one swoop of his arm, grabbed Sybil’s bouquet and threw it into the waxing area of the salon.
“Okay, that’s it,” Bird announced. She opened a drawer and took out a gun. “Back away from my customer, Morris, or I’ll shoot you full of holes!”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Morris growled.
“Oh, wouldn’t I? Nobody gets in between me and beauty!” Bird growled back. She pointed the gun at Morris.
“Now, Bird,” I said, but it was too late. Bird let loose and started shooting.
CHAPTER 11
You know me, dolly. I think it’s always time to fall in love. But sometimes it’s not. Sometimes before you get the answer, you got to get to working. Shoe leather. Wear out those feet, taking the steps to get to where you want to go. Actually, that’s a good lesson for life, too. Shoe leather. Look at me, bubbeleh, I’m a philosopher! Call me the Dalai Lama.
Lesson 94, Matchmaking advice from your
Grandma Zelda
“Bird, you’re Zen! You clear your chakras and manage your chi!” I shouted, but she continued shooting.
Lucy and I hit the deck. Half of the Daffodil Committee ran from the salon, but none of the salon’s customers budged. They continued getting their hair done, getting pedicures, manicures, and waxes, like nothing was out of the ordinary. Like it was a normal day at the beauty shop.
Bird kept shooting. I didn’t want to watch, but Lucy peeked.
“My God, Morris is bulletproof,” Lucy gasped.
I looked. Bird had shot Morris at least three times, but he wasn’t hurt. “Oh, geez, she’s shooting blanks,” I said.
Lucy and I got back up. “You’re shooting blanks,” Morris growled at her.
“Of course, I am,” Bird said. “I’m trying to get you to lay off my customer, but I’m not psychotic. I keep my gun handy with plenty of blanks to shoo off creeps like you.”
“But…” Morris began. Bird cut him off with another round of gunfire. It was an elaborate way of kicking someone out of her place. But if nothing else, it was a hell of a racket, and dejected, Morris gave up trying to talk to Sybil.
With the argument over and the shooting done, Lucy and I walked outside with him.
Lucy said something, but my ears were ringing from the gunfire.
“What?” I yelled. She moved her lips again. I could make out something about weird and crazy.
I nodded. “It sure was crazy!” I yelled.
“What?” she shouted back.
The three of us rubbed our ears. Finally, I could hear, again.
“That woman is batshit crazy,” Morris complained. “I wish she would go back to a high carb diet. She was a much nicer woman when she was eating potatoes.”
I wished she would eat potatoes, too. Dieting sucked balls. If I couldn’t eat potatoes, I might have shot people with blanks, too.
“What?” Lucy shouted.
“Crazy!” Morris yelled back at her, moving his finger in a circle by his head.
“What?”
It occurred to me that I had the daffodil expert in front of me, and I could get information from him. “Morris, do you know anyone who does things with daffodils?” I asked. “Chemistry sort of things with daffodils?”
“Are you talking about the poison? You’re the third person to ask me. Cops keep trying to tarnish the reputation of this beautiful flower. I’ll tell you what I told them: Nobody who loves daffodils would ever use them to kill a person.”
“What?” Lucy shouted.
Luckily, five minutes later, Lucy could hear again. She drove us to Cynthia’s house because we planned to grill her on what she had been doing with Mike on the day of his murder.
Lucy parked her Mercedes in the driveway. It was empty, with no sign of Cynthia’s car, which made me nervous. We got out and rang Cynthia’s doorbell. Nothing. No answer.
“Keep a look out,” I told Lucy.
“Why? What are you going to do?”
I took my lock picks from my purse. “We’re going to do some snooping. I’m tired of minding my own business and playing nice.”
“Holy crap. You can pick locks? You’re amazing!” She gave me a hug, and I hugged her back before returning to my lock picking. It too
k me less than a minute to open the door. I had a real gift for breaking and entering. At least I had a fallback career if the matchmaking didn’t work out.
Inside, the house looked the same. There were no dirty dishes in the sink and no sign of life in the house. “Gladie, come on in here,” Lucy called from Cynthia’s bedroom. “Look at this,” she told me when I walked into the room. She had opened the closet. “Nothing but one pair of stirrup pants and a polyester shirt with two-inch-thick shoulder pads. Gladie, Cynthia has taken a powder.”
I searched her drawers and the medicine chest in her bathroom. Yep. Everything important was long gone. Cynthia had left, and she probably went with Sidney Martin, the man I matched her with.
What a coincidence.
We went back into Cynthia’s kitchen. Since it was lunchtime, and we didn’t think that Cynthia would miss some ham and bread, we made sandwiches with chips, grapes, and Diet Coke.
“I don’t think they left on their cruise, yet,” I said, munching a barbecue potato chip. “They just met.”
“The killers are on the lamb,” Lucy said thoughtfully, taking a bite of her ham sandwich. “Fleeing the authorities on a cruise. That’s nice for them.”
I looked for dessert and came up with a half-empty package of Oreos. The dead end was frustrating for me. Cynthia was my last clue, and now she had vanished. It was looking like the Mike Chantage murder was never going to be solved.
“I wish she had ice cream,” Lucy said, opening the freezer. “Nope. Nothing but fish sticks and frozen peas. Damn. We should have had the fish sticks, Gladie. That would have hit the spot.”
There was a loud knock on the door, and we both jumped.
“Oh lawd, they came back from their cruise,” Lucy whispered, her eyes wide with fear.
“They wouldn’t knock on their own door,” I said. I put my finger against my lips and shushed her. I tiptoed to the front door and peeked through the peep hole, just as there was another loud lock.
It was Detective Pitbull Pretty.
Shit.
I tiptoed back to Lucy.
“Cynthia Andre, open up, or I’ll break down the door!” Detective Big Mouth Panties yelled.
