Smokey Eyes

by Barbara Silkstone

  “You look tired, little fox. You’re gonna get old before your time if you don’t learn to keep your nose out of other people’s business or maybe not get old at all.” Sauce oozed out of one corner of Myron’s mouth and a piece of cheese dripped out of the other.

  “I became a therapist to help people. Sometimes I help too much.”

  Ivy picked at her pizza with a fork. The other time I shared one with her, she chomped down three pieces in less than three minutes. She was being ladylike to impress Myron.

  “So, tell me what you two princesses got yourself caught up in that put you in a witness lineup. One of those suspects looked familiar. I’m gone for a couple of weeks and I come back to a mishegas—a mess.”

  I intended to ask his advice when we were alone. “Nothing we can talk about—now. But we’re not in any danger.”

  Okay, that wasn’t exactly the truth, considering the attack on me in the grotto, but I didn’t want to get him into his protective Godfather mode. The only thing scarier than Myron not protecting me was him protecting me. If he was for real—which was a fifty-fifty proposition—we might be going to the mattresses right here in sleepy Starfish Cove.

  He took another bite of pizza. Cheese stringing down his chin. “I’ll give you one tip. Follow the money.”

  I should have waited until he swallowed. “Do you think the follow the money bit makes sense?”

  “It’s always about the money.”

  Lizzy stood. “That was the end of pizza number one. I have the second one in the oven on warm so here it comes.”

  She opened the oven door and bent over to slide it out. Myron ran his eyes over her backside like a man half his age would.

  I cleared my throat causing him to flush.

  He puffed up like a little rooster. “I shouldn’t look? Far as I know I’m not dead. If I’m dead tell me. Otherwise, I can still look at pretty girls. Right, Ivy?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  Lizzy smiled at him, she didn’t even have to twirl a curl. He reminded me of WonderDog, rolling on his back exposing his belly for her to stroke.

  “I like the way your friend dresses. No offense intended.” He spoke to me as if Lizzy wasn’t listening. “She has a certain thing—you know—a thing! Brings back memories. Doncha’ think she looks like one of them…Charlie’s girls?”

  “You’re thinking of Charlie’s Angels. Finish your pizza. Wipe your mouth.” I handed him a napkin.

  We were done with lunch before two. Ivy was the first to excuse herself with a hairdresser’s appointment.

  “I’ll pick up Heather and then open the shop,” Lizzy said. “It feels strange opening at almost closing time.”

  “WonderDog!” she smacked her thigh with her hand to summon him.

  Puff tumbled off the hound’s head as he jumped to attention.

  Myron’s lips were shiny with pizza grease. “Come see me, little Lizzy. I’m going to be here a while. Got business to sort out.”

  Once we were alone Myron tugged on his collar as if strangling. “I thought they’d never leave. Women just love me to death. I’ll tell you my anxiety problem and then you tell me yours.”

  “You’re gone a couple of weeks and I forget how bossy you are.”

  “I’m supposed to change? At my age? I’ve been a boss since I was twelve.”

  He frowned adding even more wrinkles to his Shar-Pei brow.

  “I don’t like that you got troubles. Forget about my anxiety for now. Let me straighten this out for you.”

  We walked into the living room. Myron settled his creaky bones onto the sofa with cracks and groans. “Olive, this couch is too low.”

  That threw me off. I needed advice about a murder not interior decorating. I lowered myself into the armchair. Puff jumped into my lap and covered her head with her paws.

  “Who’s giving you trouble? You want them taken care of?”

  “Just promise you’ll be discreet. That means you won’t breathe a word. I just need to think with someone who has experience with murders.”

  “I knew it!” he raised an index finger in the air.

  “I have one dead guy worth a pile of money and about five or six suspects. How do I follow the money if I’m not sure money is a motive?”

  A gust of air exited his flabby lips. “This is how you run your cold cream business? Sorting out dead guys? Ya’ coulda’ stayed in New York for this.”

  “Myron! Please. Just answer my question.”

  The paternal look on his face morphed into a steely countenance I’d never seen.

  “Unless it’s passion, it’s always money. Period. If you find yourself in between somebody and the money, you call me—anytime, night or day.”

  He covered a yawn.

  He cracked his knuckles. “The dead guy was legit?”

  “I’ve no idea. He wasn’t well liked but he had a lot of money and about to inherit more.”

  “Being liked is no guarantee of long life. Not being liked is even a worse guarantee. His lawyer’s not gonna talk to you. Same with his bankers. You could get to his family—sometimes they ain’t bright enough to know when to be quiet.”

  Jaimie came to mind.

  “He got any business partners?”

  “One that I know of. His name’s Grayson—comes across all sharp edges.”

  “Ooo! Ooo!” He hopped up from his seat as if his pants were on fire. “His first name is Grayson, right?”

  Myron’s reaction alarmed me so much I jumped up, dumping poor Puff on the floor. “Cod is his last name.”

  “Oh my little shiksa. You got a shark on your tail!”

  Chapter 21

  Myron’s words sent spider-like prickles crawling on the back of my neck.

  He bobbed his head as if congratulating himself. “I recognized him at the gym where you were doing that crummy lineup. Just couldn’t think of his name.”

  “Is Grayson a hit man? If he killed Brent, why is he still sticking around? Does he have another target? Maybe it’s a BOGO.”

  “He’s worse than a hit man.”

  “He’s a lawyer?”

  “He’s a private eye—known for getting his man or woman. He’s a high-priced operator—even has his own jet. I watched him testify once. Not a guy to mess with.”

  Maybe the only way to solve this crime was to get close to Grayson Cod. But how do you warm up a cold fish? “Any advice on how to pick his brains?”

  “Stay away from Cod! Don’t pick!”

  “I have to. People I care about are caught up in this. I have to pick his brains. Besides once I start something I can’t stop until it’s done.”

  When Grayson Cod had approached Lizzy and me we blew him off. I needed to make up with him.

  “I’ve got to get to the shop. We’ll deal with your anxiety issues later. Meantime take a walk on the beach. Have Ivy join you.”

  “You just sent my anxiety meter through the roof with your stubbornness and you want I should take a walk?” He yanked up his white linen trousers—a perfect match to his white patent leather loafers. “I gave you my advice. Take it or leave it but if this guy, or anybody else, gives you a problem I’m only an elevator ride away.”

  I locked the door behind him. Five minutes later I’d fixed myself into a semblance of me, slipped out of the condo, and legged it to my car. I was at the shop by three.

  “Auntie Olive!” Heather launched herself at me almost knocking me off my feet. Her kindergarten tumbling classes had left her with a love of tackling.

  “Look at these.” Lizzy spread slips of paper on the counter. “They were all wedged in the mail slot. Orders for cold cream. It’s pretty bad when customers have to leave us notes. I can’t help thinking about how many slips may have blown away.”

  “I feel guilty enough.” I raised my hand to stop her. “Right now there’s no way around it. We’re knee deep in a murder investigation that comes first.”

  “Who got murdered?” Heather chirped.

  Lizzy scooted her
snoopy little ward away from the counter. “Take WonderDog in the back room and sort those gift boxes by size. I’ll check on you in a few minutes.”

  “Neglecting our business is knotting up my insides but with Jaimie at the top of the suspect list we can’t turn our backs. I’d hate to see her charged with murder just because I overheard her arguing with Brent Toast.”

  I tucked my purse in the drawer behind the counter. “Before I look at those orders, I have to tell you two things. First—according to Myron, Grayson Cod is a big deal private dick.”

  Lizzy looked as if she wanted to crack wise, but thought better of it. “I’ll bet Brent hired Cod to pose as a partner when he was really a bodyguard.”

  I was just about to tell her about my mistake with the miracle versus magical cold cream when the bell over the door jingled.

  “Grams!” my partner stepped around the counter and ran to hug the tiny elderly lady tottering into the shop.

  One leg of Lizzy’s bellbottom pant legs wrapped around the other, the tangle caused her to stumble, but she caught herself by falling onto her grandmother—without knocking her over.

  Lizzy looked back at me and laughed. “I know why bellbottoms became extinct.”

  Big as a minute, Grams Dingler wore a yellow, pink, and green print mini dress circa 1970s. Height challenged, the hem of Gram’s dress fell below her knees. Her skinny bird legs encased in yellow patterned tights ended in vintage canary flats. The tights matched her buttery crocheted gloves, while a cream-colored fedora with Reporter written in bold letters on the hatband covered her blue-white hair.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the grandmother’s tree.

  Grams switched an eight and a half by eleven folder to her left hand the better to return her granddaughter’s hug.

  “Not a good way to run a business, girls! The sign in your window says nine to three.” Her voice sounded like crackling paper. “This is my third trip here today. Finally I find you in!”

  The dear little lady opened her folder, pulled a pencil from behind her ear and climbed onto one of the client stools. “I’m on the job right now so no chitchat. Strictly business.”

  “What job?” Lizzy looked stumped but I wasn’t fazed. I’d come to expect the unexpected in Starfish Cove.

  “I’m the new reporter for the Silverfish Gazette. Our slogan is—Catch the news before it crawls away.” She handed us each a business card with a single multi-legged bug printed on the upper right corner. Whoever named the publication should have been whipped with a flyswatter.

  “Lizzy, you gals are sitting on top of the biggest story to sweep the Cove since your ex husband bit the big one last month. Give me an exclusive and I can promise you a half page ad in next month’s edition.”

  “Ehh…” Appreciative words eluded me. I wasn’t excited about an ad in that funky little paper.

  “Did I mention the ad’s in full color? Next month is our special coupon edition!”

  Notorious for gossip culled from the green benches of St. Petersburg, Grams Dingler might know more about the Toasts than she realized. Her social circle was made up of tattletales. Her tiny tabloid, supported by ads for geriatric supplies, was the source of all the news unfit to print.

  “Tell us what you know, and we’ll see if we can add to it.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Grams played it close to her concave chest. She who spoke first—spoke first. The silence lasted all of one minute.

  “Okay. Here’s what I know,” she said. “Brent Toast set his sights on The Billows Hotel. Sup-pos-ed-ly he’d do anything to get it—even hired a rat wrangler to load the place with vermin.”

  She gave us a so-there nod.

  Grams wasn’t finished. “Toast was a crumb. He had every member of the Chamber of Commerce jumping like frogs in a frying pan.”

  Lizzy and I exchanged looks and snickered.

  “He pulled lots of slimy tricks to force The Billows out of business. Word was once it closed its doors he would offer that Angel gal ten cents on the dollar.”

  “Kathy Angel told us that her brother Sonny is here in the Cove to help her get the hotel up and running.”

  Grams shook her head. “Old news. Can’t be done. The Billows is too far gone, and the Chamber is supporting the redevelopment plans.”

  She seemed pretty positive. Green bench gossip was notoriously reliable. Grams raised one eyebrow expectantly.

  “Here’s a tidbit for your paper. Someone tried to drown me in The Billows’ pool.”

  “Hot dog!” She jotted a few notes in her folder. “When was this?”

  I sprinkled in some details.

  “You must know something critical if someone tried to bump you off.” She pinned me with her eyes.

  A giggle stuck in my throat. Bump me off. Fine language for a southern lady—which was what Lizzy had led me to believe Grams was.

  “Have you heard there’s a ghost in the hotel?” I asked.

  She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and yawned. “You might talk to your friend with the big mouth about the ghost. Don’t you have anything else for me? We’re talking news not gossip,” she said with a straight face.

  “I think that about does it. There was a lineup today, but nothing came of it.” I wasn’t about to tell her about the knife.

  Grams closed her folder with a sigh and slid from the stool. “Keep the lines of communication open, girls. You might get lucky and trip over some ad worthy info.”

  She glanced at the display on the counter. “As long as I’m here, I’d like a jar of miracle cream. Put it on my account. Also, one of those free samples of under-eye stuff.”

  “Are people talking about our eye cream?” Lizzy asked.

  “They’d talk more if you advertised. But yes. You’ve got yourselves a winner.”

  With a wrap of tissue, I stuck her cream and the tiny sample in one of our pink plastic bags and handed it to Grams with my best wishes.

  Lizzy walked the Silverfish ace reporter to the door. She waved as Grams pulled out of our lot, gravel and sand spinning from the wheels of her faded gold-toned Buick.

  “Jaimie knows something about the ghost at the hotel?” Lizzy returned to the counter, a puzzled look on her face. “That’s not good—for Jaimie.”

  “Let’s not talk for a bit. I need quiet to sort through my thoughts. I’m working on a plan to stop Jaimie from going down for the murder of her father-in-law. We have to save her if she’s savable.”

  Grayson Cod was a key player. What was the notorious investigator investigating? His partnership with Brent Toast didn’t feel right. I had counseled a few private detectives in the past. They were lone wolves avoiding partners. Joint ventures with anyone put them at risk. A gamble they usually avoided.

  Speaking of partners, it was time to tell Lizzy about my recipe screw up.

  Chapter 22

  I followed Lizzy behind the counter and watched while she separated the orders. It was time to confess my recipe mistake. I should have told her days ago but solving Brent’s murder and staying alive had become fulltime jobs.

  “What we have here are four requests for large jars of miracle cold cream. I think you have to make a new batch. We only have the small containers.” She clicked on the lights in the showcase.

  “Partner, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” I bit my lip. “We’ve been selling the wrong version of Nonna’s cold cream as the fountain of youth.”

  Lizzy gave me the look I normally reserve for her—wide eyes and a grimace.

  “From the first batch, I had it wrong. In my excitement I didn’t read the entire recipe. The miracle cold cream in not the magical cream.”

  “I thought the words were interchangeable? Don’t they mean the same thing?”

  “That’s where I made my mistake. Miracle cream is amazing with its super healing properties. But it’s not the fountain of youth that magical cream is. Ivy called it to my attention a few
days ago.”

  “You should have told me right away.” She looked at the counter display. “We’ve sold a lot of jars of miracle. I haven’t had any complaints yet, but I hate to disappoint people.”

  “The recipes are almost the same. The missing ingredient is a rare kind of honey that comes from a secret supplier. I was able meet the beekeeper and get what we need.”

  “What do we tell our customers?”

  “I’ll personally call each one. Confess my mistake, beg their forgiveness, and give them a free jar of the magical cold cream.”

  “Since we’ve opened the doors—and before that, thanks to Ivy—we’ve sold over a thousand jars.” Lizzy shook her head. “It’s going to take you forever to brew replacement cream plus new stock.”

  I threw back my shoulders and lifted my chin. “I’m a Peroni. We laugh in the face of working our butts off.”

  My partner looked dubious.

  “We’ll hold a Grand Opening. Give goody bags with lip gloss, body wash, and scented soap. And whoever bought a jar of Miracle will get Magical. I promise to make a huge batch starting tonight if I have the energy.”

  Based on the number of orders a gallon of Digby’s honey might be required.

  “I’ll leave the invitations up to you,” I said. “Let’s set the date for the first of next month. By then the murderer will be behind bars, Jaimie will no longer be a suspect, and we can devote ourselves to Nonna’s Cold Cream.”

  Things always work out for the best—usually.

  “Let’s button up the shop. If my plan for tomorrow comes together, I’ll call you before nine tonight.”

  She gave me a mock salute. “I look forward to hearing the dress code, chief!”

  Home never felt so good. I wrote a note and taped it to the outside of my door on the chance Myron or Ivy came calling.

  Exhausted. Please don’t ring. I’ve gone to bed early.

  Unable to concentrate on the magical cold cream recipe, I tucked it into the gold file box. Solving Brent’s murder became priority. If not for Puff begging to be fed, I would have forgotten my own dinner.