Smokey Eyes

by Barbara Silkstone

  Kal was pacing. “Are those women going to make a career out of this?” he muttered.

  “Probably.” I reached for my pink ball cap with our Nonna’s Cold Cream logo and plopped it on his head. “Put your sunglasses on.” I handed him an empty carton. “Carry this against your chest so they can’t see your insignia.”

  “I could just walk out.”

  “Please? No police presence! It would be awful for business.”

  With a sigh of resignation, he adjusted the pink hat, donned his sunglasses and lifted the empty carton.

  “Count to ten before coming out. Walk straight out the door. Call me later if you need me.”

  He snorted.

  I picked up a tray of lip gloss samples, exited the back room, and strode to the counter. The women fluttered over the testers choosing colors and touching them with disposable applicators. If they noticed the tall guy in the black shirt and pink ball cap striding to the door with a carton in his arms, they didn’t mention it.

  The women took up the better part of the morning, but they did spend almost eight hundred dollars between them. It was a good start to the week except for my cold cream mistake. What could I have done wrong?

  I clutched the paper with the name and number of Highlight’s hairdresser as we waved the gals out the door.

  Lizzy turned to me. “I’m starving. It’s after noon.”

  The problem with delivery lunch was it couldn’t smell of pizza, garlic, or fried anything. It had to be virtually smell-less. There was nothing worse than destroying the sweet floral fragrances of our beautifiers with the aroma of garlic or frying oil.

  We ordered two ranch-dressed salads from The Frog Pond. Lizzy and I sat on stools behind the counter and gobbled down our greens and iced tea. My thoughts kept drifting to Brent Toast. This time yesterday he was alive. He had no idea his bullying days—hours—were about to end.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Lizzy said.

  Uh oh! Her thinking often carried consequences.

  She took a long sip of her drink. “I could teach you to swim. I’m a good swimmer.”

  My body tensed. “It’s not for lack of lessons that I can’t swim. I’ve had lessons from the best. Even an Olympic coach tried—once.”

  “Tried?” She stuck a slice of avocado with her plastic fork and pointed it at me. “He didn’t succeed?”

  “The moment water splashes onto my face my body goes into lockdown. My face freezes and I forget to breathe.”

  “Maybe it has something to do with a previous life? You might have drowned.”

  Of course Lizzy would relate my unusual condition to the occult. To her if it wasn’t something one hundred percent normal, it had to be paranormal.

  “I’ve given up. I don’t want anyone to see me gasping like a guppy while trying to overcome a past life or a plain old phobia.”

  “Let me try. We can use Heather as a cover. We’ll pretend we’re teaching her—even though she swims quite well.”

  Using Lizzy’s ward as a cover story wasn’t a bad idea except…I stalled, chewing a mouthful of salad sixty-four times. “I’m afraid that when I freeze and turn into an anchor, I’ll drag you down with me. Besides someone might see us.”

  Lizzy wasn’t about to give up. “Kathy Angel’s hotel, The Billows, is all but deserted. She hasn’t had a guest in months. I’m sure she’ll let us use her pool. No one will see us there. I’ll swear her to secrecy. We’ll close early tomorrow. I’ll get Heather from school at lunchtime. It’ll be a mini-holiday for the three of us.”

  Her sincerity boxed me into a guilt corner. I’ve always been the mentor, the teacher, and protector. How many times had I counseled people about letting down walls and accepting help?

  “Okay. Let’s take the whole day off. We deserve it. Just confirm with Kathy that no one is staying at the hotel. I would die from humiliation if anyone saw me. You have no idea how silly I look when I drown.”

  An image of Kal administering CPR danced in my head. I’d have to move back to New York if that happened.

  Chapter 8

  We cleaned up our lunches and spritzed the air with lavender spray. The background spa music intended to create a relaxing ambience didn’t work for me. Despite my efforts the vision of Brent Toast’s corpse lying on the stern of the Very Crabby haunted the attic of my mind. It would not go away. Nor would the nagging knowledge I had messed up Nonna’s cold cream recipe.

  A Monday pattern had emerged during the first few weeks of our cold cream shop’s life. Laidback strollers and curious shoppers filled the morning hours. In the afternoon the shoppers carried an entirely different vibe. Ladies who woke late in the day, looked in their mirrors, and realized what a weekend in the sun had done, frantically rushed in for salvation.

  Today was no exception. Three prunish women dashed into the shop, examined all our wares, studied all our pamphlets, and asked myriad questions. How could they look ten years younger by tonight? I’d lost confidence in our miracle cream now that I knew it was lacking the magic ingredient—whatever that was. I took their names and numbers. Once I prepared a proper mix, I’d make sure they received replacements for today’s purchases.

  I wrapped three jars in tissue, tucked each into little pink plastic bags and sent the prunes on their way. The miracle cream would soften their leathery look, but it wasn’t the whole enchilada—the magical cream.

  Lizzy was on the phone with Kathy whispering her way through the need for privacy for my swimming lessons. The bell over the door jangled. A jangle instead of a jingle—a bad omen.

  “Poshookly! It smells like salad in here!” Jaimie Toast bawled.

  The platinum blonde, loaded with rapid-fire insults, dropped her gigantic bag on the counter rattling the glass and tipping the standing mirror.

  I braced the looking glass and then stepped around the display top. Removing Jaimie’s bag, I laid it at her feet and then returned to my post behind the counter.

  Mrs. Chip Toast, would-be heiress and insult empress—more aggravating than amusing. Yet each time I nearly told her never to darken my doorway, she said something so outrageously funny that I—inexplicably to me—forgave her.

  Currently Jaimie was a serious contender for murderess of the week. Should I be talking to her? I didn’t have a valid reason for booting her out of the shop, besides she was a friend. It wasn’t like she was witness tampering because she didn’t know what I heard. She was clueless—I thought.

  I didn’t have to fret about my spilling the beans because conversations with Jaimie consisted of Jaimie talking and her verbal target listening, or daydreaming, or mentally constructing a grocery list. It didn’t matter. Jaimie just kept talking as long as she had an ear in sight.

  I’d tolerate the blather she was busting to let fly to see if any incriminating information was buried in it. Maybe I could solve the case and one-up Officer Kal, Let-Me-Talk-To-You-Like-a-Puppy-in-Training, Miranda. Mentally I buffed my investigative nails and dug in.

  Lizzy hung up the phone giving me a quick nod, but wisely said nothing in Jaimie’s presence. We were set for tomorrow at the Billows Hotel on the beach. Big whoop. Wet face, lashes bent into my eyes, and water up my nose. Nonna was probably sitting on a cloud in heaven shaking her head. Peroni women don’t swim.

  “How’s Chip managing?” I said studying Jaimie’s face.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about the investigation with anybody.” She darted her eyes from me to Lizzy and back. “But you two aren’t just anybody, you’re my best friends. Let’s dish.” She sat on one of the customer seats, folded her hands on the counter, and leaned forward. Let the gossip begin.

  If she said anything damaging, how much of Jamie’s blabbering would stand up in court? I’d hate to have to testify against her. It wasn’t sneaky to let her run on at the mouth because I couldn’t have stopped her with a roll of duct tape. Maybe I could hone in on a clue that would clear her. Or pick up on something she didn’t realize was significant.

&
nbsp; “Were you on the Toast of the Town when Brent was knifed?” I could have been a bit subtler.

  Jaimie shrugged. “Skathers! Who knows when he was pig-stuck? He was alive and yelling when I headed to the clubhouse to use the ladies. My bladder was shaken, not stirred from bouncing over the waves at sixty miles an hour. Those cigarette boats are brutal on the kidneys. That’s why I waved at you. I thought we could walk up together.”

  Before I could speak her loose lip began flapping again. “By the time I got back to the boats I heard Lizzy screaming for help. I jumped on the Very Crabby and together we pulled you in. That’s all I know.” She smacked her palm on the counter.

  Jaimie fiddled with a tester of lip gloss then smeared some on with a disposable applicator. She made fish lips at her reflection in the mirror.

  The Loud Mouth of the South might think her story floated, but I didn’t. She was on the Toast of the Town before she helped Lizzy pull me in—at least I thought so.

  Lizzy was right. I couldn’t see Jaimie stabbing a guy to death. Talking him to death was a different matter. I continued to pick her brains hoping to find a kernel of truth that might save her from being arrested. “Tell me about that Grayson guy. Do you think he could have killed Brent?”

  “For a new business partner he sticks his nose into the family matters a heck of a lot. He accused me of reconciling with Chip for his inheritance. My snookum gets a carload of money next month. His grandmother didn’t want him to inherit until he’d reach the age of commonsense—thirty-five. That’s what the old girl called it. The age of commonsense. Hah!”

  Was it Grayson who called Jaimie a gold digger?

  Jaimie flicked her right hand in the air. “Grayson the busybody is down here for a short visit. Something to do with beachfront property.”

  She cut me one of those wicked Jaimie looks. “He’s single if you’re interested. But first you’d better do something about those scrapes on your face. You look like you were in a catfight.”

  “Not interested.” I leaned into the mirror on the counter to get a better look at my face. In the afternoon light I looked as if I’d been dragged over pavement nose-side down.

  “That was cruel!” Lizzy snapped.

  Jaimie stood and adjusted her sundress. “If I had spinach on my teeth I’d want you to tell me.”

  She reached down and picked up her monster bag. “Gotta scoot. Meeting Chip at the funeral home. The cops won’t release Brent’s body, but we can make all the other arrangements. My father-in-law was well known. I’m thinking a full buffet brunch and viewing.”

  I leaned over the counter and grabbed her hand. “Any Brent enemies on that guest list?”

  She exhaled. “The man was the boss of the billion dollar Toast Family Fund. Plus, he stood to get a chunk of the inheritance Chip is waiting on.” She slapped her hand over her mouth.

  Her eyes darted from me to Lizzy and back. “A bilious billionaire is bound to be the bane of the beaches.” She wiggled her fingers at us and made ready to leave.

  The bell jingled and Sandy Hair stepped into the shop! He blinked, adjusting his eyes from the sunlight.

  The Loud Mouth grew suddenly silent. Jaimie cut an angry look at me and then gave Lizzy a matching glare. She was dead wrong if she assumed we invited him.

  She strutted past him.

  “Jaimie.” Sandy Hair said, distaste in his tone.

  “Grayson.” She nodded coldly. Once Jaimie was behind him where he couldn’t see her but we could, she made a throat-cutting motion and stepped out the door.

  With his sandy hair, square shoulders, and lined face, Grayson looked like a retired surfer—with a hefty trust account. His tan bespoke suit and custom cobbled wingtips were a statement of good taste and old money.

  “Grayson Cod. We haven’t been formerly introduced.” He presented his hand to Lizzy. They shook. Then he locked eyes with me and extended his hand again.

  My peripheral vision is not so hot. I was busy watching his eyes and misjudged the location of his fingers. Embarrassingly I clutched the air between us.

  Were they the eyes from the Very Crabby? Was Grayson Cod the villain who left me hanging over the precipice of death? Was I going to make good on my vow to coat him in honey and plant him in an anthill? I squinted to get a better look.

  Chapter 9

  “I’m not here for cold cream.” Grayson’s voice was deep and manly—like a knife?

  It was a good thing we’d had that big sale in the morning because the rest of the day was turning out to be a dud. Our fellow snoops, witnesses, and maybe even the killer were lining up like we were giving clues away. No buyers—just brain pickers.

  “We didn’t get a chance to speak after the tragedy,” Grayson said. “I want to be certain you’re both okay.” He looked pointedly at me.

  Why the concern for the welfare of two strangers? Did he fear one of those strangers hung close enough to hear or see the killer?

  “Obviously you’ve researched us since you’re in our shop. What should we know about you, Mr. Cod?”

  “I like a person who gets right to the point,” he said. “Brent Toast and I are in a land deal together. Nothing that would cause someone to want him dead—at least not that I know of—but I want to be certain. If I’m wearing a bull’s eye I need to be prepared.”

  There was a crackle of tension in the air.

  Lizzy dropped a lip gloss container. It hit the wooden floor with a clink.

  “The Starfish Cove police department is a small town operation. I’m not sure they are up to the task of finding Brent’s killer. I’ve taken on the inquiry myself.”

  I cut him off. “What qualifies you to do that and don’t underestimate the Mirandas.”

  He glanced around the shop, his expression unreadable. “Just tell me what you know. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Grayson Cod was overbearing. He thought he could buy information. “Whatever we know, we share only with the Mirandas. We know our rights.”

  By the look on his face, he wasn’t used to being denied.

  “You’re in Starfish Cove checking on your investment. Maybe you didn’t like what you found. Next to spouses and lovers, business partners commit the most murders.”

  Lizzy stepped to my side.

  An almost visible thundercloud gathered over his head. “It’s a mistake not to cooperate with me. You discovered Toast’s body. All I wanted to do was compare notes with you. Since you see fit not to cooperate I’ll remember your attitudes. Good day ladies.”

  Grayson Cod left in a huff.

  We watched his dark sedan pull out of our parking lot. Lizzy said, “Is that true about business partners committing murders?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? I made it up.”

  “It’s three o’clock. Time to call it a day!” Lizzy’s cheerful tone didn’t match the worry on her face. She took off her smock and hung it up. I did the same.

  “I’m going home to cuddle with my kitten. This has been a nerve-frying day to say the least.”

  I handed Lizzy a sheet of copy paper and a pen. “Your handwriting is better than mine. Tape a note to the inside of the door.”

  She gave me a puzzled look.

  “Closed all day Tuesday. Gone swimming.” I wiggled the pen at her.

  “Yay! You’re really gonna let me teach you!” Lizzy took the pen and printed out the message. She taped the sign to the glass door and we locked up.

  “See you tomorrow at The Billows. Kathy expects us at ten.” She raised one eyebrow. “You do own a bathing suit?”

  “You’re pretty snarky for a swimming teacher. I have a suit—I think.”

  Finally! The chance I’d waited for since hearing Ivy’s awful news. I broke the local speeding laws and drove forty mph in a thirty-five mph zone in my eagerness to tear into Nonna’s files.

  Chapter 10

  After a short tummy-rub with Puff—me rubbing her—I popped open a small can of salmon pate and scooped it into her bowl. While sh
e was occupied, I slipped into what had been Nonna’s office. The gold-painted box of cosmetic recipes sat on the tippy-top shelf. I inched it down letting it tumble into my arms.

  I cleared off a section of the desk and lifted the neatly labeled folders one at a time from the box to the desk. Nonna’s system was goof proof but still I managed to mess it up. I must have left some brain cells back in Manhattan.

  The miracle cream folder was innocuously labeled Cold Cream (Night). It would never attract the attention of a formula thief. I took out the single sheet of the night cream recipe and spread it on the desk. I read it sentence by sentence sliding my finger along the lines so as not to miss a word. I was certain I had memorized it correctly. Recalling how excited I was when I first saw the recipe, it amazed me that only four weeks had passed. Time flies in Starfish Cove.

  As I nibbled on my thumb in frustration, I noticed the bottom of the paper was folded up in a thin almost unnoticeable crease. I peeled the edge to reveal a message in tiny hand printing.

  See sealed folder in gold box for information on preparing magical cream.

  In my eagerness to whip up the first few batches of cream I failed to notice the folded message regarding the magical cold cream. I tipped the gold box to a slant and found the folder lying at the bottom. My hands shook a little as I ripped it open and found Nonna’s message.

  Olive,

  Miracle Cold Cream is not Magical Cold Cream. In order to make the fountain of youth cream, you need the addition of honey from Digby’s Bees. You must buy no more than a quart at a time, as it has to be fresh when you mix it. One quart should last two or three months. (See super-secret recipe below.)

  Digby is a beekeeper in Merryvale, a farming community about fifty miles from Starfish Cove. Please refer to the map I’ve sketched. It should be fairly clear. You can’t turn Miracle cream into Magical cream without it. It’s the missing ingredient. No other honey will do.