Just You Wait: A Grace Street Mystery (Grace Street Mysteries)

by Jane Tesh

  I waited until she had driven off before making any comment. “Okay, I give up. What is she doing with those numbers?”

  He was still sitting in the swing with the money in his hand. “I don’t know. I thought she might be working out a horoscope or something.”

  “Playing the lottery?”

  “No. She should never gamble, by the way. Her luck is terrible.”

  “So you didn’t sense anything illegal?”

  “She likes to have her lucky numbers.”

  I indicated the pile of bills in his hand. “Looks like you’ve got a few lucky numbers there, yourself.”

  “I have to admit it’ll help.” He stood up and put the money in his pocket. “On our way to Viola’s, let’s stop by the shopping center.”

  ***

  As it turned out, Suit City had a suit a customer ordered and never picked up. We checked on it and decided it would do for Fred, and the price was right. Then I took Camden by the funeral home where he made the final arrangements, including financing.

  I thought we might have to break into Viola’s house, but as luck would have it, we arrived the same time the neighbor came over to feed the animals. I explained that I’d been hired to find Viola’s killer and needed another look around.

  “That’s good news,” she said. “I hate to think of someone like that still out there. Everyone in the neighborhood’s been jumpy since Viola was found.”

  She took care of the birds while the cats told Camden God knows what. I made a careful search of the living room, finding only pet memorabilia. Camden didn’t want to go back to the basement, so I checked it out. Still nothing but cold stone and dirt. I returned to Viola’s pink bedroom. The books on her nightstand were all biographies of famous actors and actresses and histories of the theater, specifically musicals. In her bureau drawers, I found what women usually keep: undergarments, jewelry, scarves, and neatly folded sweaters. In the closet, her dresses and suits were arranged according to color, her shoes in boxes with labels. But also in the closet I discovered large stacks of scrapbooks, Viola’s entire theatrical career, every newspaper article, every picture, every program, every ticket, and every poster organized by date, starting in the late fifties, when she had the role of Julie Jordan in Carousel. I put the scrapbooks on the bed and went through them until I found the latest one. Here were the roles I’d seen mentioned on the theater webpage—Mother Superior, Aunt Eller, and even a newspaper account of the casting of My Fair Lady, with “perennial favorite Viola Mitchell has been cast as Henry Higgins’ mother” underlined in red ink and carefully pasted into the book.

  Camden came to the door. One of the cats ran in and jumped on the bed. “Find anything?”

  I moved the cat out of the way. “Viola’s scrapbooks. Looks like she saved all her programs and publicity, but I don’t see anything about Arsenic and Old Lace. There are two blank pages right before her My Fair Lady pages, so maybe something was here and taken out. That was the play before this musical, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “As meticulous as Viola was, she would’ve saved the program, at least.”

  “Maybe she hadn’t had time to put that in.”

  “Maybe. You have any luck?”

  “No, the cats are thinking only of food, there’s no way to tell what the birds are thinking, the lizard’s asleep, and the neighbor’s ready to lock up.”

  We looked around Viola’s room one last time in the hopes of finding anything she might have saved from Arsenic and Old Lace, but found nothing. I put the scrapbooks back up in the closet.

  “Someone from the theater might like these. There’s a lot of history in them.”

  “I didn’t see any pictures of friends or relatives anywhere,” Camden said. “Her whole life is in those books.”

  “Don’t you find all this pink a little odd? It reminds me of a teenage girl’s room. And check out the stuff lined up on her dressing table. There must be two dozen lipsticks, perfumes, powders.”

  “Any BeautiQueen?”

  “All pink, no peach.”

  Camden picked up a bottle of cream labeled “Eternal Loveliness.” “Maybe Viola was trying to recapture her youth. Women think they have to look younger.” He held the bottle a little longer. “She hated growing old. She hated playing the mother or the school teacher. She wanted the glamorous roles, like the ones she’d had before. Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, or Maria in Sound of Music.”

  “You’re getting all this from a bottle?”

  “Pretty much.” He picked up a jar labeled “Turn Back the Clock,” and then a container of “Everlasting Radiance.” After a few minutes, he said, “Yep. They’re all tuned to that same frequency.”

  None of this helped my case. “All that proves is Viola, like millions of women, didn’t like getting old.”

  ***

  As we got in the car, I wondered if Taffy had heard from the Spider’s Web. “Care to take a side trip to Myers? I want to see if Taffy got the job.”

  Taffy was at the cosmetic counter in Myers, earnestly assuring a skeptical woman about the latest makeup trends. When she saw us, she waved us over.

  “Randall, Cam, tell Mrs. Hoover how good she looks in April Rose and Velvet Magic.”

  Since I didn’t know what Mrs. Hoover looked like without the alien pink cheeks and too much eyeliner, it was hard to judge. Camden thought of a tactful answer.

  “That’s a very complimentary shade.”

  Mrs. Hoover preened for a while in one of the counter mirrors and must have been satisfied with what she saw. “I’ll take it.”

  Taffy took her money and put her purchases in a bag. “Thank you.” As soon as Mrs. Hoover left, she beamed. “I got the job!”

  “That’s great, congratulations,” I said.

  She started closing lids on little round containers. Mrs. Hoover must have tried the entire line of exotic rouges. “Cam, you mustn’t tell Charlie, but I’m performing at the Spider’s Web Saturday night.”

  “Don’t you think Charlie would like to know?”

  “He’ll only cause a fuss. If it isn’t jazz, he’s not interested.” One of the containers slipped. Camden caught it as it skittered across the counter.

  “You’re not leaving the group, are you?”

  “I haven’t decided what I want to do. It’s important for me to branch out and try new things.” She took the container. “Thanks. Do you think Ellin would be interested in this color? It’s Sweetheart Pink.”

  “Ellie and I are having a little difference of opinion right now.”

  “It can’t possibly be as different as me and Charlie.”

  Not unless Charlie is making the piano play by itself. I picked up one of the little tubes of lipstick. It was called Windswept Coral. I had no idea the wind swept underwater. “Taffy, what do you know about BeautiQueen?”

  “We don’t carry it. You have to buy it at one of their parties.”

  “But so far as quality how does it compare with the brands you have here?”

  She shrugged. “It’s all right. I would say their skin care products are very good. That’s what they’re known for mainly. That and the distinctive peach color.”

  A woman came up to the counter. Her makeup had such a high gloss finish, she glowed like a pearl. “Do you have any High Five Fingernail Polish?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll show you.” Taffy gave us a little wave. “Gotta get back to work, fellas. Remember, the gig at the Web is a secret.”

  We went back to the car. “Lunch at Baxter’s?”

  Camden hesitated. “We’ve got all that food at home.”

  “But we don’t have any Baxter’s barbecue.”

  ***

  Baxter’s is an ordinary little brick building with plain wooden chairs and tables, a few plastic booths, paper napkins, and plastic forks and knives.
You’d never guess this restaurant served the world’s best melt in your mouth barbecue. We settled into our favorite booth and ordered two lunch specials.

  Camden reached for the sugar packets. “You going to tell Charlie about Taffy’s new job?”

  “I’m going to try to convince him to come to the show. I think if Taffy sees him there, she’ll be happy he made the effort.”

  “What if it throws her off?”

  “I’m pretty sure this is too important to her. If he’s sitting there, smiling, offering support, then my work will be done.”

  “And if she tries to behead him with the mike stand?”

  “Then I’ll step in for the rescue.”

  Our order came. We spent the next few minutes in barbecue heaven.

  Camden wiped barbecue sauce off his mouth and chin. “Don’t let me go home without a paper for Fred.” He stopped. “Oh, man. I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He pushed the rest of his lunch aside. “I keep thinking it’s some sort of joke. I’ll get home and Fred’ll be there, cranky as ever. It’s like a test. Let’s see how you react to someone’s death. Okay, you passed. We were only kidding. He’s really alive. Here he is.”

  “It can be pretty unreal.”

  “I miss him, Randall. I know he grumbled a lot and was set in his ways, but you knew Fred was going to be Fred, no matter what. He was part of the family. Part of my family.”

  His carefully constructed family that kept changing. “Want me to find you another old codger?”

  I thought my flippancy might be too much, but he gave a slight grin. “You’ll do for now.”

  Our waitress paused at the booth, a pitcher of iced tea in her hand. “Something wrong with the order, Cam? You’re usually ready for seconds by now.”

  “No, it’s fine, thanks.” He handed her the tray. “Could you wrap it up for me? I’ll take it home.”

  “Sure thing. More tea?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  She filled our tea glasses, took the tray, and left.

  I got up. “I’ll get a paper anyway. I want to check the sports page.”

  Outside Baxter’s was a row of newspaper machines featuring the Parkland Herald, as well as smaller papers like the Masonville Tribune and the Celosia News. The headline in the Tribune declared “Council Locked on Pork Issue,” which sounded kind of messy. “Local Man Grows Big Tomatoes” was the lead story in the Celosia News. But the headline that caught my eye was in the Herald: “Parkland Man Found Dead in Hotel.” The name George Mark McMillan leaped off the page. I quickly scanned the article, my heart somewhere around my shoes. McMillan had been found dead at the Green Palms Hotel. The official report was suicide.

  Damn.

  I hurried back inside, sat down in the booth, and folded back the page. “Look at this.”

  Camden read the article, his eyes growing wide. “Good lord.”

  “Apparently, I wasn’t the only one looking for George.”

  “It says the police believe he shot himself.”

  “And how likely is that? Steal a big pile of cash and then kill yourself?”

  “We need to let Folly know right away.”

  I called Mrs. Harper, hoping to hell she didn’t have anything to do with this. But then, wouldn’t Camden have picked up on it? Maybe not. His brain was concerned with the wedding, the show, this telekinesis thing. Maybe she should have given some of those lucky numbers to George.

  She sounded properly shocked. “Oh, my God. Mr. Randall, what on earth is going on?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. You said you left a message for George. Did he ever get back to you?”

  “Yes, he did. I told him I was sadly disappointed in his behavior and I expected him to come home with the full amount he’d stolen, that he couldn’t get away with it, and I was willing to give him a second chance. He seemed very surprised I’d been able to find him, which was what I’d wanted.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He sounded very contrite. He said he never meant to cause me such anxiety. He still had all the money, and he said it wasn’t what I thought, at all. He was going to explain everything when he got back.” She choked on a sob. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “Do you want me to find out more about this?”

  “Oh, my, could you? Yes, by all means. I want you to find out exactly what happened. Please go to Clearwater. I’ll reimburse you for your travel expenses.”

  I closed my cell phone. “George called her and apologized and said he was going to explain when he got back to Parkland. She wants me to investigate. We’ve got to put Viola’s case on hold for a while. Are you going to be okay with the funeral and everything?”

  “I can handle it.”

  We went home, I packed an overnight bag, went to the airport, and caught the first available flight to Clearwater.

  Chapter Eleven

  “How kind of you to let me come.”

  To get to Clearwater from Parkland, I had to fly to Tampa by way of Atlanta and then drive twenty miles. I got to Clearwater around five thirty. The hotel clerk at the Green Palms wasn’t the man I’d spoken to on the phone, but a perky little redhead, who was very forthcoming in more ways than one.

  She leaned over the desk, giving me an unobstructed view of cleavage. “I’ve never seen such excitement. There was all this commotion, and reporters everywhere and people wanting to check out, like they thought they’d be next. It was real exciting.”

  “How did he die?”

  “It was really gross. He shot himself. I don’t think there was much left of him. The newspaper printed these pictures.” She pulled a brightly colored tabloid from under the desk. “See?”

  “Shotgun Suicide,” the lurid headline read. The story inside didn’t add much to the existing facts. There were pictures of George before and after. More gore than I cared to look at.

  “Do you remember Mr. McMillan? Did you ever speak with him?”

  “Oh, I remember him,” she said. “He had the worst pickup lines I’ve ever heard. One time he even stroked his moustache like some villain in an old movie and said, ‘May I get you drunk, my fine young thing?’ And he kept going on and on about this beauty cream he was inventing that would keep women from ever having wrinkles again. What a character.”

  “Did he have any visitors? Anybody ask about him?”

  “A woman called and asked to leave a message.”

  That would’ve been Folly Harper.

  The clerk rearranged her bosom in case it had escaped my notice. “And one time there was this man he was talking to.”

  “Did either of them seem angry or upset?”

  “No, just talking. They acted like they were old friends. I thought they might even be brothers. They were going fishing. Then Mr. McMillan came over to the desk to say something stupid to me.” She batted her eyes. “I’ll bet you don’t ever say anything stupid.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t believe how stupid I’ve been.” I glanced at the tabloid again. Another article about a dog that channeled Elvis made me remember George’s doberman. “You’ve been very helpful, thank you.” Leaving the clerk with her breasts intact, I stopped by Happy Tails to inquire about Danger.

  ***

  The waiting room at Happy Tails looked like finals for the Westminster Dog Show, one of every breed yapping, whining, or quivering in their carriers, a pug, a beagle, a poodle, even a Great Dane sitting majestically in the corner.

  I had to raise my voice so the receptionist could hear me over the racket. “I’m a friend of Mr. McMillan’s. I wanted to check on Danger. Has anyone come for his dog?”

  “I’m sure someone did.” She checked her computer. “Yes, his cousin, Mrs. Lucy Warner, picked up Danger yesterday. Terrible thing to happen. The world today. People are cra
zy, you know?”

  A cousin? “Well, that’s a relief. Thanks very much.” And where might she be? “Did she say she was taking Danger back to Kansas with her?”

  “No, she said something about North Carolina.”

  “Oh, yes. I keep forgetting she moved. Thanks.”

  On my way out, I sidestepped a basset hound and a fuzzy terrier that made a lunge for my ankle. So George had a relative in NC. That made things easier. As for the man he met at the hotel, his fishing buddy, I’d check and see if George did have a brother. If so, why didn’t the brother ID George and claim his dog?

  ***

  The first thing I did when I got back to my hotel room was call Folly to ask about George’s family. She told me George was an only child, and she didn’t know any cousins, but she thought there might be a relative living in Parkland. I hoped this relative was Lucy Warner, as it would make my investigation a whole lot simpler. I told her I was still gathering information and would give her a complete report when I returned. Later that night, as I watched the news, I found out a few more details. George McMillan had been alone at the time of the shooting, and the lower part of his head was missing. His hands had been badly burned, a result, the report said, of the gun exploding as he shot himself. Damn, what a cheery little detail. I wondered if George really meant to make such a mess, if he really meant to commit suicide, or if there might be something missing in this case besides his chin.

  George’s body, personal effects, and his SUV had been claimed by Lucy Warner. The police were satisfied that this had been a suicide. Florida wasn’t my territory, and I didn’t have a Jordan Finley on the Tampa police force to grudgingly let me snoop around. At the moment, there was nothing else for me to do except go home.

  ***

  The early flight out of Tampa was delayed, so I didn’t get back to Parkland until after three on Tuesday. I’d missed Fred’s funeral and Viola’s memorial service.

  Kary and Camden were sitting on the porch. The yellow signs the funeral home had put in the street with “Slow – Funeral” and “Thank You” had been taken away, but the wreath of white flowers was still on the door. Kary was in a rocking chair, and Camden sat in his usual place in the porch swing. They looked weary but calm, as if they’d run a long way together and finally crossed the finish line. I’d often thought they could be sister and brother. That’s how they felt about each other.