“JJ?” I was floored. My top dentures clamped down so hard in shock, I nearly bit clean through my tongue. It smarted like the devil. “Excuse me for being frank, sir, but asking a good-looking woman over for supper is not going to score you any points with your estranged wife.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.” Percival laughed out loud at his smart remark. He had no idea I not only knew his estranged wife but had also ridden to the store with her.
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. For one thing, I was stunned at having just learned the JJ who’d left a note for Walker might be another one of the residents on Flamingo Road. Secondly, I was even more shocked that the man who’d just proclaimed to feel terrible about cheating on his wife with one neighbor was clearly hoping to do so with another.
“I was just joshing you, lady. You see, my intentions are to keep my relationship with JJ purely platonic.”
“That’s good.” His words sounded sincere, but the wink he’d given me when he’d said his dinner date was easy on the eyes indicated differently. “Just remember that good intentions often go awry. Weird thing is, I’d just heard JJ got married recently and moved to Austin.”
“Nah. You’re thinking about the chick who used to work at the bait stand down at Fulton Harbor. That JJ never lived on the island, much less on our street. I’m referring to J.J. Wallinski. She’s an independent accountant.”
“I see.” What I saw was there were actually two young, beautiful ladies in the area with the same nickname. This JJ was the neighbor Regina had referred to on the phone as Jo Jo, which is obviously from whence the moniker, JJ, was derived. Now I had a fix on the one who’d likely left the message for Walker Reynolds to meet her. Just then the clerk hollered out, “Next!” I don’t know if I was more upset about the fact there was blood pooling in my mouth from nearly biting my tongue off, or excited about the fact I now had a lead on the mysterious buxom blonde named JJ who might’ve been mixed up in the disappearance of the young woman who lived next door to Regina and Milo.
According to Percival’s estranged wife, he had horned in on Walker’s wife. Was he now horning in on Walker’s mistress, as well?
After checking out, and exiting the store, I began to sprint to Suzanna’s car, which I only recognized because I remembered where she’d parked―in a designated handicapped spot she had no legal right to park in. I’d felt obligated to limp all the way to the entrance of the store when we’d arrived. If I hadn’t been certain she’d parked in the closest spot to the front door for her own benefit, I’d have told her being seventy does not make an individual handicapped. In my defense, I’d tried valiantly to talk her out of parking in the spot meant for people with actual physical handicaps.
As I raced through the parking lot, three bags of groceries swung wildly from each arm. By rights, the weight of the six bags warranted being pushed to the car in a shopping cart. But you know how adrenalin can help a mother lift a car off her child? I was so pumped up, I had that same kind of adrenalin pumping through my veins.
As I approached the car, I noticed Suzanna was scrunched down behind the wheel so Percival wouldn’t spot her when he’d exited the store. Fortunately for her, there were at least four other light silver Jeep Cherokees in the parking lot nearly identical to hers.
As I reached for the passenger door, my heart skipped a beat. For it was at that very moment, I realized Percival might have made a truly petrifying Freudian slip after all. When I’d told him I’d witnessed his neighbor hanging by a rope in his own living room, he’d immediately asked if the killer had been identified. Given this was supposedly the first Percival had heard of Barlow’s death, and I’d not said anything to indicate it’d been a murder, I thought his query should have been more along the lines of, “Did he leave a suicide note?”
If Percival already knew Barlow had been murdered and his body staged to reflect a suicide, what else had he lied about? What more did the man know? He was obviously a much better actor than I’d give him credit for. I suddenly wasn’t so certain I wanted to tell Suzanna her estranged husband wanted to patch things up. After all, reconciling with Percival could prove hazardous to the woman’s health. Conversely, if I told her I’d just caught him in an incriminating, or at least puzzling, fabrication and it somehow got back to him, my life could be in danger as well.
To calm my fears, I reminded myself the man could have spoken before realizing his question didn’t make sense. He was hyped up for his dinner date that evening, and perhaps a little distraught at the news of his neighbor’s death. A mix-up like that could just as easily been an indication of inattention as it was of guilt. No different than me asking Regina if she’d heard who the anonymous tipster was.
I made a quick decision to say nothing about my conversation with Percival to Suzanna on the trip back to Rockport. I’d put the exchange I’d had with him in my back pocket for now, so to speak, and maybe I’d dig it out for a future discussion with Suzanna if and when the situation called for it.
As I fastened my seat belt, Suzanna said, “Looks like Percival’s cooking dinner for some new woman. Did you happen to notice what he had in his arms before I pulled you around the corner? Steak, baked potatoes, and wine is the exact meal he cooked for me on our first date.”
I didn’t think it’d be wise to tell her he’d informed me he’d invited her neighbor, Jo Jo Wallinski, over for supper, because, according to him, he felt sorry for her. Repeating Percival’s statement about keeping his relationship with JJ strictly platonic would hardly ease Suzanna’s angst. The stark evil in her eyes was absolutely chilling as she turned to gaze at me. It was as if I were peering into her core, searching for a soul and finding nothing. Nothing but a vast void, like a black hole in our solar system. I was unable to respond to her remarks.
As she resumed speaking, she turned to stare out the windshield again. Her tone made the hair on my arms stand straight up. I felt as though she’d forgotten I was even in the car. Her vehemence made it seem as if she was making a vow to herself. “You’d have thought he’d have learned his lesson the last time. I refuse to be cast aside like leftover meatloaf and replaced by some cream-filled cupcake. I’ll find out who she is, just like I did last time, and make sure she doesn’t―”
Suddenly she stopped speaking and glanced over at me as if I’d just jumped into her Jeep with the intention of carjacking her. Without speaking, Suzanna then turned and watched intently as Percival maneuvered his Subaru out onto Wildcat Drive. He'd parked in the far corner of the large parking lot. After he was out of sight, she asked, “Do you mind if I go back in and grab a few things? I’m completely out of butter and eggs and don’t have a single tablespoon of bath dust left.”
Although I was confused about her need for bath dust, assuming it must be similar to bath salt, I nodded. “Of course I don’t mind. Is it all right if I wait here?”
It was, so I completed a word puzzle on my phone while I waited for her to purchase the items she needed. She returned in about twenty minutes, carrying two bags of groceries. “I was lucky enough to get the last bag of bath dust.”
“How fortunate.”
“I also picked up a copy of James Patterson’s latest. You can borrow it after I’ve finished it, if you’d like. Once I start one of his books, I can hardly put it down.”
“Thanks, but I’m more of a cozy mystery enthusiast. I guess it’s because I can relate to amateur sleuths solving murder cases.” I hoped Suzanna didn’t put two and two together following my last comment. I quickly changed the subject. “Did you know Walker is having the construction crew add on a small library to their house for Reilly? He’s holding out hope she’ll return home safe and sound, and wants to surprise her with it if she does.”
“Ha! That’s a good one!” It was the first time I’d really seen Suzanna laugh so heartily that she snorted in amusement.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What’s so funny?”
“Reilly would get as much u
se out of a library as I would a home gym. I doubt she’s read anything since she dropped out of high school, except maybe a Victoria’s Secret catalog.”
“Oh. That’s interesting.” I wasn’t sure what to make of Suzanna’s comment. Why would Walker want to surprise his wife with a library if she wasn’t an avid reader?
“She does have a huge selection of CD’s though. Always fancied herself a rock star on the brink of making her big break into the music industry. She always acted as if she was the next ‘American Idol’ just waiting to be discovered. Maybe it’s supposed to be a music library, because it sure isn’t for her book collection.” Suzanna’s remarks cleared up my confusion because they seemed reasonable.
As Suzanna exited the grocery store’s parking lot, she reached toward the dash, hit a button, and soon a country song filled the air. The song seemed to be the perfect segue for her to change the subject. She sounded eerily cheerful as she said, “Speaking of music, you can see George Strait’s vacation home on Curlew Drive from my back deck. Sometimes you can see George himself, which is why I leave a pair of binoculars on the counter.”
“That’s nice,” I said. And totally creepy.
I avoided the subject of Suzanna’s missing neighbor for the return trip. Instead, as we rode along, we chatted about our pets. I shared a few humorous stories about Dolly, before she told me how she’d accidentally acquired Rascal at a rummage sale.
“I assumed the box marked ‘chinchilla’ referred to a fur coat, not an actual hyperactive rodent. I guess I should have questioned why the box had small holes in it.” Suzanna chuckled as she explained.
I laughed in response, not sure if she was pulling my leg or not. However, it would explain the strange creature I thought I’d seen scurrying out from under her marble-topped table the first day I’d met her. “Is the bath dust for Rascal?”
“Yes. Chinchillas bathe by rolling around in it just like they would roll in volcanic ash in their native South America. They have oily skin and the dust absorbs the dirt.”
“I see. How interesting. The idea of rolling around in dust or ash to get clean seems very peculiar to me.” But then, the idea of keeping a large rodent as a pet seems even stranger, I could have added. “Do chinchillas make loving pets, like our Dolly does?”
“Oh, hell no!” Suzanna replied. “If you tried to cuddle with Rascal, you’d likely get your ear bitten off. The one and only time I attempted to pet him, I ended up at the urgent care center getting thirteen stitches under my armpit.”
“Ouch!”
“No kidding. I don’t think most chinchillas are as antisocial as Rascal, but he’s loving in other ways. Just not physically.”
“That’s good,” I replied. I wasn’t sure what other ways a pet could be loving, but decided not to ask. Maybe Rascal was her emotional rock.
“Did you know a chinchilla can live as long as twenty years in captivity?”
“Really?” I asked. “I had no idea.”
“It’s true. That damned nuisance might actually outlive me. Or, more likely, he’ll be the death of me.”
“Maybe you should have a rummage sale of your own and try to unload Rascal on some other unsuspecting bargain hunter.” We laughed together even harder at my suggestion.
“You are a hoot, Rapella!” Suzanna reached over and slapped my hand in a friendly fashion. “I’m so glad you showed up on my doorstep peddling MRE’s.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘peddling’, but I’m glad we’ve gotten to know each other too.” I couldn’t help but like Suzanna. She had a wonderful sense of humor and appeared to sincerely enjoy having me tag along. Before long we were turning right onto Flamingo Road. I thanked her for letting me ride with her so I could pick up the food items that I hadn’t added to the grocery list I’d given Regina a few days earlier.
Suzanna smiled as she came to a stop in her driveway. “You are most welcome, Rapella. I appreciated the company.”
The truth behind Reilly’s disappearance seemed to be growing more curious all the time. Although I prayed she wasn’t involved, Suzanna had a motive to eliminate Reilly Reynolds. She’d even voiced a thinly veiled threat against any woman her husband took a fancy to. She didn’t really seem the type capable of violence. But then, neither did Rip, and I’d just recently witnessed him whacking a vole on the head with a shovel after he’d caught it chewing on the leather shoe he’d left by the front steps to the trailer. I supposed anyone could become violent if push came to shove, with the rare exception of a saint like Mother Teresa. If she’d found a vole chowing down on her footwear, rather than beat it to death with a lawn tool, she’d have been more likely to bake it a loaf of fresh bread to nibble on.
I wasn’t sure who I could trust at this stage in my investigation. So, until I could eliminate Suzanna and her estranged husband as suspects in Reilly’s disappearance, I vowed to keep mum about my desire to get to the bottom of the situation. Better to be conservatively cautious than recklessly share information with people who might have skeletons in their closets I’d yet to discover. Although I didn't know it at the time, I actually would find something alarming in someone's closet before long.
Seventeen
At what seemed like the middle of the night, I was jerked awake by the sound of a loud rapping on the trailer door. I instinctively reached over to feel for Rip, only to discover he was already out of bed. I glanced over at the alarm clock and sat straight up when I saw it was nine-fifteen. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d slept so soundly or so late in the morning.
As I’d gotten older, I’d noticed a large percentage of senior citizens tended to take great pride in being early risers, as if getting up with the chickens was worthy of a badge of honor. Most of them, however, failed to mention they were in the sack before eight each evening, while younger folks were just sitting down to supper or curling up on the couch for several hours of primetime television viewing. I almost hate to admit that Rip and I fall into that early-to-bed, early-to-rise category except, of course, on Friday nights when Rip thinks watching Blue Bloods is worth burning the candle at both ends. As a career lawman and loyal fan of Tom Selleck, it’s my husband’s favorite show.
Just for the record, I’m more of a Jeopardy enthusiast. I can manage to exude a tremendous amount of smugness after coming up with the correct question to the final jeopardy answer even though I’ve just yelled out twenty-seven consecutive wrong responses during the first two rounds of the show. Rip usually leaves the room before Alex Trebek has even introduced the three contestants.
I slipped on a cotton shirt and blue capris over a pair of stretched-out white undies and one of the two bras I owned that were purchased in the last decade. Our sex life was way beyond the buying of sexy lingerie that made me feel like Raquel Welch but probably made me look like Pee Wee Hermann in a bikini. At this stage of my life, if my undergarments were comfortable and bleachable, they were good enough. Suddenly, I heard Rip’s deep baritone voice through the bedroom door as he questioned a visitor in the living room. “I’m sorry. Who’d you say you are?”
In response to Rip’s query, I recognized Suzanna’s much higher-pitched tone as she replied, “I’m the next-door neighbor. I’m here to see Rapella.”
I cracked the door open. “I’ll be right out. Give me just a moment.”
After applying lipstick and running a comb through my salt and pepper hair a few times to tone down my bed-head appearance, I walked out like I’d been up and about for hours to find Suzanna alone in the living room. It was not typical of Rip to leave a stranger by herself in our personal living quarters. I can’t think of anything in the Chartreuse Caboose anyone would want to steal, but he had a tendency to act as if he was responsible for protecting the crown jewels, which were being stored in our food cabinet between the Cheerios box and a jar of dill pickles.
“Good morning, Suzanna,” I greeted my guest. “Did my husband happen to say where he was going before he left? I didn’t hear the door close behin
d him.”
“You should have,” Suzanna replied. “He left three times. The first time he told me to make myself comfortable and walked out. The next couple of times were to retrieve his car keys off the counter and then to retrieve his wallet off the end table. He didn’t mention where he was headed, but he drove off in the old truck.”
“Yep! That definitely sounds like my Rip. What you just witnessed was a preview of coming attractions. You have roughly three decades before you begin spending half your time searching for the pair of glasses perched on the top of your head. And most likely no more than four or five years before you need those same spectacles to read the expiration date on a carton of milk. Oh, and FYI, don’t ever refer to that hunk of junk he drives as an old truck in his presence. He likes to think of it more as a classic automobile.”
Suzanna smiled once again, but the amusement didn’t quite reach her light green eyes. Her eyes looked red and weary as if she’d been up half the night crying. She appeared anxious. Something definitely had the pretty woman feeling out of sorts.
“Is something wrong, Suzanna? You look upset.”
“My mother had a stroke early this morning.”
“Oh, I hate to hear that, my dear.”
“Thanks. I’ve been rushing around getting ready to head home to be with her. My sister and brother will be meeting me there as well. But I am Mama’s medical power-of-attorney, so I need to be there to make any important decisions regarding her health.” I thought it sweet she still referred to her mother’s residence as “home”, even though she was probably within a year or two of turning forty and had undoubtedly been out on her own for many years.
Ripped Apart (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 5) Page 16
