Nothing but Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  She had to applaud her talent at the various voices. Maisy, of course, was her best.

  “I thought he had an alibi.”

  “He did—or I thought he did. He had an at-home massage therapy appointment in Edina, but when he arrived, no one was there.”

  “What happened?”

  “He doesn’t know. She didn’t cancel. The appointment wasn’t made through the clinic, just straight to his office at Ovations Spa.”

  “Did Boone check it out?”

  “Boone went to the address, but the woman said she’d never heard of Jack. Jack says he’s got the appointment written on his calendar at work, but I’ve been banned from the spa, and apparently Boone couldn’t locate it. Who knows if he even tried to find it.”

  Trudi hiccuped, the smallest of sighs, her voice watery. “I don’t understand it, PJ. He won’t even listen to Jack, like he wants Jack to be guilty. I begged him to check out Jack’s alibi and he says he will, but . . .”

  PJ longed to interject, to assure her that Boone was honest. But her own iffy history with him pressed her to silence. Boone hadn’t exactly been honest all those years ago when he’d let the police haul her away.

  Even though he and a handful of others knew the truth.

  “Boone says that the DA is going to try to deny him bail—that the prosecutor’s waiting for him to confess. Jack says he’s innocent and that he had no reason to kill Ernie. But you were there—Jack attacked him in broad daylight, and Boone’s got about ten witnesses to that fact. Jack says that he and Ernie were just doing some investing. That he panicked and wanted to know where his money was. He said they worked it out. You should have seen him, PJ. I didn’t recognize him. My Jack, he . . . he . . .”

  PJ listened to her breathing, knew there was more.

  “The worst thing is that we can’t afford a lawyer. We’re in over our heads. All my families, except for the Hudsons, have pulled their kids, and we’re overdrawn. They gave Jack a public defender, but the lawyer looks like he’s about fourteen. I don’t know what to do.”

  Not for the first time, PJ wished Connie were here. She could take on the case, even just hand out advice.

  Nighttime settled its gray swarthy blanket over the yard and the rain had left a residue of chill that prickled PJ’s skin.

  “I do know one thing: Jack didn’t do this. Someone is trying to destroy our lives.”

  “Who would do that? Do you have enemies?”

  “Not a clue, Peej. Jack is well-respected—his patients love him. They lavish him with gifts—popcorn buckets and plaques and travel books, gift certificates to restaurants. Last year for Christmas one of them even gave him an entire collection of coins from their trip to the Holy Land or Greece or somewhere. There’s no reason Jack would . . . that . . .”

  PJ leaned back, letting the breezes harden her polish. Despite the silence on the other end of the phone, she could almost hear Trudi’s brain assembling the pieces—Jack and Ernie’s poolside brawl, Boone’s apparent investigative apathy.

  But even PJ couldn’t imagine that Jack—the man who’d tickled his baby at the beach, who’d listened to her long, sad tale—could murder sweet old Ernie Hoffman, beloved history teacher. She supposed it could happen—there were plenty of killers living double lives. But she wasn’t going to say that aloud.

  “Guilty until proven innocent,” she said quietly. “Especially in Kellogg.”

  Trudi sniffed, jagged and sharp.

  “Listen, Trude, I believe you. I know Jack’s innocent.” At least she desperately hoped it. “And I know how it feels to have public opinion crucify you before you’ve had your day in court.”

  Only Jack wasn’t going to get off with some smooth finagling by his mother and the country club director.

  “I guess you do know how it feels to have the town staring at you, accusing you, treating you like a criminal,” Trudi said in a tremulous whisper.

  Suddenly the words from the crumpled pew bulletin she’d wedged into her purse flashed in her mind: “To God’s elect, strangers in the world . . . who have been chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father . . .”

  Perhaps God could use her, just a little. In fact, if she stretched her faith, worked out some of the knots, she might even believe that He’d sent her home for this very reason. Chosen . . .

  “Listen, maybe I could . . . you know, nose around a bit.”

  “Oh, Peej, Boone wouldn’t like that.”

  She didn’t really mean the harsh, cutting burst of laughter. “Seriously? Trudi, I’m not the same girl who lived for Boone’s smile. In fact, the guy’s got an overinflated sense of self, if you ask me. Listen, I used to work at a spa. Not as a massage therapist or anything, but I know how they work, and maybe I can just . . . you know . . .”

  “Are you serious? What if you get caught?”

  “I’ll make an appointment to get my legs waxed or something. And I’ll just slip into Jack’s office, nice and quick.”

  “You’d do that for me?” Trudi asked, her voice soft.

  “Yes, I’d do that for you.” PJ got up and retrieved a throw blanket from a basket in the corner. “Ever since I’ve been back, I’ve felt like . . . like I’ve been sucked back in time. Like I’m walking around in my old body, but there’s this new person inside screaming. However, no matter what I do, she’s locked in there, and I’m destined to be the person I left behind.”

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t see the person you left behind. But then again, I never saw the person you did.”

  PJ let those words find her wounds, soothe. “Let’s hope the staff at Ovations don’t see her either.”

  “Don’t get into trouble.”

  “Me? Oh, never, Trudi. Never.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PJ slammed the door to her Bug outside Ovations Salon and Spa, a sleek, silver and pink building where once stood a row of pastel bungalows—one the former residence of one of Boone’s football teammates—now bulldozed and revitalized into commercial zoning a block behind Main Street. PJ well remembered throwing toilet paper into a tall oak, now replaced by the shiny black sign advertising an escape for the body, mind, and soul.

  She just hoped to escape with all three intact. Especially soul. She wasn’t really stealing, though—she had Trudi’s permission. And everyone who went into a spa hoped to come out someone different, right? Except PJ was going in as someone different, thanks to her sister’s swank Vittadini shades, her cherry red lipstick, and a creamy two-piece Ann Taylor suit she probably wore when she was pregnant.

  Surely Connie would have donated it all for the cause of truth.

  “May I help you?” A receptionist the size of a cotton swab, with gleaming gold hair and nails imprinted with pink flowers, smiled at PJ as she entered the cool, perfumed air. Piano music ran its hushed river of calm over the hum of hair dryers and low gossip.

  “I have a ten o’clock therapeutic massage with Jack,” PJ said, not removing her sunglasses, noting the name, Tami, on the girl’s name tag.

  Beyond the reception counter a gallery of hairdressers and manicurists groomed the royalty of Kellogg. Beyond that, through an arched doorway, PJ guessed she’d find the therapy rooms. To her left, a nook off the reception counter housed aromatic oils, lotions, shampoos, hydrotherapy salts for sale.

  She wondered if they were hiring.

  “Jack isn’t here,” Tami said. “Can I reschedule?”

  “He told me his assistant would see me.” PJ pulled her glasses down her nose. “I’ll wait, thanks.”

  Tami frowned. “Just a moment.” Taking her portable telephone, she unwound herself from her seat and clip-clopped on pink sandals through the gallery, toward the back.

  PJ ducked into the supply room off the nook, yanked off the glasses, and affixed a black hair extension she’d picked up at a drugstore that morning. With her hair pulled back in a scarf, the extension snaking down her back, every hint of her red hair vanished. She wiped off her lipstick and
pulled on a pair of pink scrubs she’d found at a uniform supply store, yanking them up under her skirt. Securing the skirt into her waistband, she pulled a smock over her jacket and tugged on a sanitary mask—another convenient purchase from the drugstore—clipping it behind her ears and concealing her mouth.

  Perhaps Matthew was right—her bag was a suitcase.

  Stowing her bag behind a carton of conditioner, she grabbed a bottle of massage oil from the shelf and slipped out of the storage room.

  PJ brushed past Tami as she headed toward the back. She spied her scanning the reception area with a frown and hid a grin as she slipped into the inner sanctum beyond the arch.

  The musical river flowed louder in the back. Three women paged through magazines, having made it past the castle guard and into advanced reception. Well-groomed and prim, one of the ladies looked up at her, and PJ ducked her head as she beelined for Jack’s office, right where Trudi said it would be.

  PJ dug the key from her pocket. Yes, she had learned to pick a lock when she worked as a locksmith apprentice, but perhaps that would attract some attention.

  The key turned. PJ resisted the urge to look over her shoulder as she slid into the office. Furtive looking only created suspicion should someone else be watching, right?

  She turned on the light and warmed up the computer as she paged through the Day-Timer on Jack’s desk. There, neatly penned in tight handwriting, were his Tuesday appointments. PJ scribbled them all down just to be thorough but circled the telephone and address of his 10 a.m. appointment—Carol Billings.

  The computer had just begun to hum when a knock at the door nearly shot her out of her scrubs.

  She didn’t move, didn’t even breathe as she stared at the humming computer. Hurry, hurry. According to Trudi, Jack also kept a journal of his daily activities on his computer. Wouldn’t that be worth sticking around to find? Especially if he had something about a missing appointment with Carol Billings?

  Another knock.

  PJ glanced at the door—don’t look!—and then, of course, it opened. She froze.

  Tami blinked. “I . . . uh . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Jack had sent a replacement today. We canceled all his appointments.”

  PJ waited for her to point a finger—you, you, the missing redhead!—but Tami only stared at her, waiting for a response.

  God bless her face mask. “Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll go home.”

  “No.” Tami looked so apprehensive, PJ squelched the guilty urge to tell her not to worry about the ten o’clock customer who had disappeared in the lobby. “Can you take Denise Hoffman? She has a ten o’clock herbal wrap scheduled, and Marianne is running late.”

  Denise Hoffman. That name rang alarms in her head, but she couldn’t place it. The computer continued to whir.

  “I’ll put her in the Arizona room.”

  Swell.

  Tami closed the door with a soft click, but PJ’s pulse ratcheted up to high.

  A wrap?

  Would that, by any chance, require her to touch people?

  Especially their skin?

  Maybe she didn’t need the computer files. As she stepped out into the hall, the side exit light, the one with the red fire escape handle, neoned.

  Right then, Boone’s voice kicked in: “Denise, his son Tucker’s wife, found him on his massage table at his home.”

  Denise Hoffman? Daughter-in-law of the deceased?

  PJ found the Arizona room and cracked open the door. There, standing with a towel wrapped around her caramel-colored birthday suit, was her patient.

  Recognition hit her like a line drive to the cheap seats. Denise Franklin, homecoming queen and girlfriend to Tucker Hoffman.

  Tucker Hoffman, son of Ernie.

  And reaching even further back, PJ pinpointed a shady memory of Tucker getting arrested. For assault? Had he done time in juvie hall? Because he’d been two years younger than she was, it was a gauzy memory at best.

  Denise shivered. “Could you close the door?”

  “Oh, of course.” PJ closed the door with a soft click, sealing her fate. Thankfully the stainless steel shelf next to her held a clipboard with the treatment listed. PJ grabbed it, pretending to read, but questions streamed through her mind. When did Denise find Hoffman? Where was the massage table? Where was Tucker when his father was killed? Were he and Denise the sole beneficiaries of the estate?

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, exiting to find the correct body spread. Five minutes later she returned, armed with lemon and sage cream, cellophane, and rubber gloves. Getting a wrap was like having your body buttered, then wrapped tight and left to cook, the herbs seeping into your skin to rejuvenate it.

  PJ knelt before Denise, held her breath, scooped out a handful of spread, and began to apply it to her long legs.

  Jack had better be innocent.

  “Are you related to Ernie Hoffman?” PJ asked, the rest of her body treatment dependent upon Denise’s answer.

  Denise nodded, her hands still over her upper carriage. PJ noticed a fresh manicure as she glanced up at her, catching her answer.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” She finished one leg and moved on to the next. The fragrance of lemon and dusky grass lifted off the cream, and it had the texture of cooked oatmeal. PJ tried not to think about it.

  “Thank you,” Denise said.

  “What a horrible thing to happen.”

  Denise nodded, then, as if catching herself, said, “Actually, we all knew he was in over his head. Probably a couple of loan sharks after him.” She shifted her weight. “I just can’t believe he’d get himself in so far.”

  “Loan sharks? I thought they caught the guy.” PJ kept her voice easy.

  “I don’t know. He had a broken neck, and I found him on his massage table. But the house had been ransacked. I know Jack. I recommended him to my father-in-law.” She shook her head. “He’s not a killer, and the way Ernie was spending Tucker’s inheritance, I have to wonder what really happened.”

  PJ said nothing.

  “He probably lost it gambling. He was always online. I have to admit, I wondered if he had an addiction. I had to beg him to come over on Sundays for dinner. You’d think a widower in his twilight years would want to spend time with his son and grandchildren.”

  PJ rolled out the cellophane, starting at Denise’s ankle and winding her way up her legs. “Was anything stolen?” she asked as she wrapped Denise’s thighs together, averting her eyes as much as possible. Perhaps she’d leave the backside for . . . later.

  “Who knows? He had a desk safe, and it had been smashed open, but what did he have to steal? He knew the names of all the Roman Caesars and their descendants, but he didn’t give a second thought to his own offspring. Or his future.” She made a sound that PJ labeled as disgust. “If it wasn’t for Tucker bailing him out over and over, he’d have lost his house.”

  PJ buttered Denise’s stomach, which she didn’t have to suck in. PJ tried not to hate her for that. Denise had the stomach of a surfer while PJ had been born with a little poochy thing. Still, she had to respect her a little too, because PJ would never stand in the near nude letting someone butter her body just so her skin could be supple.

  “Didn’t he have a pension from the school?” PJ stood to butter and wrap her upper body.

  “Should have. He kept telling Tucker that he had a nest egg.” She glanced at PJ, her expression hard. “Yeah, that’s right, his nest egg was me and Tucker.”

  The bitterness in her tone stung PJ, and she frowned.

  Denise caught her look. “I’m sorry,” she said as she lifted one arm. “It’s just that the last time he and Tucker talked, they had a fight. Tucker is so grief-stricken, he hasn’t gone out of the house since Monday.”

  “They had a fight?” PJ wrapped her torso tight, then handed her a Kleenex as tears began to stream down her face. She looked like she needed a hug but, well, she was naked, even if wrapped in cellophane.

  “Just that morning. It wa
s horrible. Tucker went over, stood on the front porch as they argued. The entire neighborhood probably heard them. Tucker is horrified that this is his last memory—his dad slamming the door in his face.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  To PJ’s surprise, Denise’s eyes turned glassy. “We asked him to move in with us. To sell the house and not worry about finances. He refused. It’s not like we’re made of money—Tucker is a math teacher and a football coach. We barely make ends meet. But with the recession, we were hoping we could pool our resources.”

  Which begged the question, how did she have the extra cash to get buttered?

  PJ eased her onto the table, more questions spinning in her head—or perhaps that was simply the redolence of lemon. Still, if Ernie was bankrupt, why had she seen him hanging out at the golf course? Did Jack suspect him of misinvesting his money? or losing it?

  The memory of Ernie’s smile and Davy’s slurp of an ice-cream cone made PJ’s chest tighten. She placed a heated mask over Denise’s eyes and turned down the lights. “Someone will be in to check on you in thirty minutes.”

  PJ slipped out of the room and caught a glance from yet another needy client. Dumping the empty butter dish and cellophane box in the sink, she whipped off the gloves and strode for Jack’s office. She printed his journal for last week and tucked it under her shirt. She’d call in a half hour and ask for Denise . . . and someone would find her.

  PJ snuck back to the supply room, shucked off the scrubs, grabbed her bag, and exited the spa.

  Was Tucker big enough to put his dad in a headlock, maybe accidentally . . . kill him? Could their argument be a motive for murder?

  And would Denise Hoffman leave a tip?

  * * *

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  So many options . . . where to start? She was out of macaroni and cheese. Vera was chopping up what looked like a squid on Connie’s countertop. Davy was starting to look like a sausage in his Spider-Man jammies, now covered with chocolate ice cream. And she had yet to find the runaway library book from Fellows.