Blind Dates Can Be Murder (10 page)

He stepped forward, and Jo reached out to shake his hand.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“You can call me CJ.”

“Okay, CJ, here’s what I need you to do.” She gestured toward a nearby table, where she had stacked a variety of linens, bedspreads, and comforters. Then she pointed toward another table, which was empty. “I want you to pretend that table is a bed and that it’s time to make the bed. Choose anything you’d like from this selection of coverings. And don’t try to impress us. Just do about as good a job here as you usually do at home.”

“Okay,” CJ said, “but that’s assuming I ever make my bed at home.”

The audience chuckled.

“I’m sure you have made a bed at some point in the past,” Jo replied, smiling.

“Sure,” he said, heading for the linens.

“The point of this exercise,” she told the class, “is not to teach you the proper way to make a bed. We’ve all been shown that before, right?”

Small murmurs, nodding heads, and rolling eyes were her answer. From what Jo had seen, there was nothing messy people hated more than being taught, yet again, the “right” way to do any sort of housekeeping.

“No,” Jo continued, “I’m here to show you that if you are a naturally messy person, you are probably never going to conquer bed making in the conventional sense. That’s why the single most important step in making your bed isn’t tucking in the sheet or smoothing out the pillowcase—it’s choosing the proper bedding materials in the first place.”

She glanced at CJ, who had finished putting on a bottom sheet and was now struggling with the top sheet.

“Let’s face it, if you’re not a natural at this stuff, your sheets will always be wrinkled. Your pillows will always look messy. Your goal should be to choose the biggest, thickest comforter you can find—but not one speck bigger than what will fit in your washing machine. That way you can clean it periodically, but in the meantime, the thickness of the padding will hide the messy bedding underneath.”

“Okay,” CJ said finally, and it was obvious that he hadn’t been listening to her. He had ignored all of the comforters and instead chosen the thinnest bedspread on the table, which he had spread over the blanket and pillow. “I’m done.”

Jo approached the finished bed, wondering if she had ever seen such a mess.

“I think it’s safe to say,” she quipped, studying his lumpy handiwork, “that CJ was never in the military.”

Lettie took the exit for Mulberry Glen and soon found herself driving down a series of charming tree-lined streets. The homes weren’t big here, but there was something appealing about them with their well-tended yards and mature landscaping and the occasional stone fence. Mulberry Glen looked like the kind of place where people put down roots, where they played Frisbee in the park and joined the PTA and had tea socials after church on Sundays.

It looked like the kind of town Lettie had fantasized about when she was a child, living with her parents near Philadelphia in a tiny apartment attached to a dry cleaner, across from a Chinese restaurant. Their apartment always smelled like a mix of Lo Mein and cleaner fluid, and the sounds of the pressing machines would hiss through the walls from early in the morning until late into the night. Sometimes Lettie would lie in bed making little foil animals and imagine living somewhere beautiful, somewhere green and abundant and friendly. Somewhere like here.

“Maybe in Tegucigalpa,” she said out loud, making a promise to herself that she knew might not be true. If only she didn’t have to become a fugitive from her own country, all because of Chuck.

All because of Chuck
, she repeated to herself as she found the place she was looking for in the downtown area and turned into the parking lot. Dates&Mates. For someone whose life had always been messed up because of one man or another, she found the thought of a dating service incredibly depressing. As far as Lettie was concerned, life was much more peaceful and safe and quiet without any social interaction at all—especially not with the opposite sex. She knew there were some good guys out there, but the men in her life had never brought her anything but misery and pain. That had been her sister’s experience too.

Still, Lettie had a job to do, and if that meant working in a dating service—or signing up with it as a client—she was willing, as long as she didn’t actually have to go out on any dates. She’d do what Mickey had asked her to do, and when she was done, she’d take her money and run.

And run and run and run.

5

C
huck Smith sat with the phone in his hands, staring through thick glass at his lawyer. The attorney was smiling, and despite the fact that he was locked up behind bars, Chuck began to smile too.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Chuck said, gripping the receiver tightly. “Are you sure?”

“They fixed their mistake. That means you’ll be out on Monday.”

Chuck sat back, his mind reeling. He was jamming out twenty-one days early? All because three years ago some stupid clerk forgot to credit him for part of the time served prior to his conviction?

He couldn’t believe it. For three years he had been counting the days until he was released. Now his lawyer had brought him the gift of almost an extra month, a month Chuck had been insisting he was owed all along.

“I want to sue the judge for the mental anguish of thinking I’d have to serve that extra time,” Chuck said. “I been saying all along that they calculated my sentence wrong.”

The lawyer’s lips pinched together tightly.

“The prison calculates your time, Chuck, not the courts. Give it up and go home. They make sentencing adjustments all the time.”

Once the lawyer was gone, a corrections officer led Chuck back through processing. As Chuck stripped for the mandatory cavity check, his mind was filled with the implications of what this meant.

He was getting out on Monday!

“Mouth,” the C.O. said once Chuck was naked and had taken his place on the green footprints that were painted on the floor.

Chuck opened his mouth so the C.O. could check inside for hidden contraband. Cavity search was always required after a visit, even a visit from a lawyer. The C.O. finished with his mouth and checked his ears before going around back.

“Hands to the floor.”

Chuck placed his hands on the green painted handprints, blanking out his mind as he always did, thinking about the fact that he had done his time the hardest way possible, as his own man, without joining a gang or becoming anybody’s victim.

He had been on alert, day and night, for three years.

For three years, he had avoided being killed or raped or set up by his fellow inmates. He had avoided offending some brain-dead Scarp or Blood or Mack Gangster Disciple. He had avoided getting caught up in the neo-Nazi, white pride machine. No one had taken offense at anything he said or did, or didn’t say or do. He had dodged the bullet all day, every day.

“Clear,” the C.O. said, pulling off his gloves. “You can get dressed.”

Chuck pulled on his prison uniform, thinking about how he had done all of this in spite of being sleep deprived every single night, in spite of not being able to know whom to trust, in spite of being at the mercy of the C.O.s—who were sometimes stand-up guys, sometimes not.

He was led to the yard, outside, where the guys in his dorm were getting their daily hour and a half of fresh air. The exercise area was enclosed by concrete walls on all four sides, and the ground was bare dirt with a few weeds but no grass. Up above, at least, was sunshine. Blessed sunshine. Yard time was the best part of Chuck’s day.

As usual, Finch the Pinch was tossing homemade dice in the corner, and Wheels and the gang were at the other end of the bare yard, arm wrestling for cigarettes. There was always an air of agitation and stress when the men were out together. Chuck lived it. He was used to it. But he’d be so glad to be done with it.

“Hey, XP,” Wheels called to Chuck. “How bout a round for store credit? Just you and me?”

Chuck swallowed down his excitement, deep down, plucking a tall weed which he clinched between his teeth. Slowly, he sauntered toward Wheels and the guys that surrounded him.

He wanted to tell them that he was getting out on Monday, but he didn’t dare. Someone might decide to make his last night or two in the joint memorable in more ways than one.

“No, thanks. I’m not feeling too good,” Chuck said, sitting on the dirt, his back against the concrete. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the sun pour down across his face.

The day Chuck was transferred to this housing unit, the guys in his tier had nicknamed him “XP,” which was short for explosives. They had seen him on television after the bombing. They had known who he was before he ever said a word. Back then, his sentence had stretched out in front of him like an eternity. Now he had reached the end.

Monday. He’d be out on Monday.

As he tuned out the constant noise that surrounded him, Chuck thought about what he might do first, once he was free. He had some business to tend to, but first he wanted a drink of really good Scotch. He wanted a big steak, maybe prime rib.

Most of all, though, he wanted to find his wife, Lettie, and make up for lost time.

Class ended promptly at noon, but at least a third of the students clustered around Jo once it was done. They had questions and compliments, and clearly they had been pleased. Jo was happy; she had done a good job, and her students seemed eager to get home and put some of her ideas and suggestions to work.

The group dwindled down until there was only one person left, a man in his late forties with silver hair and a dignified air. He stood ramrod straight, and though he wore the casual garb of polo shirt and khaki pants, his mannerisms were stiff and formal.

“Miss Tulip?” he asked, stepping toward her.

“Yes?”

“Peter Trumble,” he said, holding out a hand to shake hers. “I genuinely enjoyed your class.”

“Thank you. I hope you’ll be back next week.”

“Actually, I was wondering if we could talk. I have a business proposition for you. Do you have a moment?”

Jo glanced at her watch, trying to calculate how much time she would need to freshen up for her lunch date. Before she could reply, Peter Trumble pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to her.

“I’m currently renovating a home out in the country about halfway between here and Moore City,” he said as she studied his card, which identified him as
Peter Trumble, CPCU, ARM, ALCM, CIC
—whatever all of that was—and, underneath his name,
Risk Management Consulting
. “To be honest, I am of the opinion that some of your cleaning methods might be incorporated in my renovation. I’m wondering if you might be willing to do a bit of consulting for me.”

So the consultant wanted to hire her as a consultant. Though she often pursued such opportunities, with all she had going on she simply didn’t have time.

“Mr. Trumble,” she replied, handing him back his card, “while I’m flattered that you’ve asked, I’m going to have to decline. Currently, I’m not doing any consulting. I’m just too busy.”

His mouth formed a straight line, and Jo had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t used to hearing the word no.

“You weren’t too busy to teach this class,” he said. “I’m sure I can pay you much more than you’re earning here.”

“To be honest, I’m only teaching this class because it’s not an end in itself. I’m using it as the basis for some theories I have about cleaning. I’m working on a book, and I thought that teaching might allow me to explore some of my ideas, get some feedback, and generally clarify my thoughts.”