Blind Dates Can Be Murder (3 page)

“Didn’t you see my photo at Dates&Mates?”

“Oh,” he said, looking a bit startled. “Of course. That too. Did you see mine?”

“They told me you hadn’t had yours taken yet.”

“Good,” he said. “I mean, I
just
had it done, so I guess it ain’t in the system yet. But you, you don’t look nothing like your picture in the paper.”

Jo bit her lip and studied him. The photo in the newspaper was actually of her grandmother, taken when she first created her daily newspaper column, Tips from Tulip. Jo had inherited the column last year when her grandmother died, but Jo had kept the original photo in place for continuity’s sake.

“That photo’s from 1948,” Jo replied. “I—”

“No kiddin’?” Brock coughed, interrupting her. “I guess that means you’re lying about your age too. Geez, you musta been young when they snapped that picture.”

Jo nodded, swallowing the rest of her comment, mentally composing her complaint letter to Dates&Mates:

To Whom It May Concern: Your service is a joke, and not only do I want my money back, I want everyone’s money back. I want your company cited for incompetence, I want all of your employees to write me a letter of apology, and as long as you’re at it, I want you to invent a machine that reverses the rotation of the earth so I can get the last half hour of my life back!

Her date began coughing and wheezing again. For about the fifth time since sitting down, he pulled his inhaler from his pocket and put it in his mouth.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he hacked between breaths. “My asthma’s been getting worse by the day. Inhaler don’t seem to help much.”

“No problem.”

“This is so embarrassing, and here I am trying to make a good impression.”

A good impression? He’d have made a much better impression if he’d been
anything at all
like his profile described!

“Your Dates&Mates profile said that you’re from Charleston, South Carolina. How come I don’t hear any accent?”

He shrugged.

“I been gone from there a long time. It fades away after a while.”

“Really.”

“Anyway, speaking of your column,” he said after he’d gotten his breathing under control, “I gotta tell ya, I’m a big fan. In fact, you’re such a celebrity in my family, I can’t believe I’m sitting here across from you.”

“Yes, the column has been around for a while,” Jo said, trying once again to explain. “My grandmother created Tips from Tulip and kept it going for more than fifty years. Once I graduated from college, we did it together. Then, when she got really ill, I took over completely. Now that she has passed away, I do it by myself. I also have a website and a few related projects under development.”

Jo didn’t add that in the last six months she had worked hard to update her column and her image, becoming more visible, branching out into other media, and modernizing the topics she covered to make them more relevant to today’s man and woman.

“My sister,” he said, “she likes letters about stains. She’s got like this vengeance against dirty laundry.”

“Stains can be a challenge.”

“One of her favorite dresses, she got dye on it, like this pinkish-purple dye. Can’t get it out to save her life.”

“Dye is particularly tough,” Jo said, relieved to see the waiter approaching with their main course at last. She only had to suffer through the meat and potatoes—and maybe dessert, if he insisted—and then this date would be over. “Dye is specifically made
not
to come out. So when you need to remove it, you’re sort of stuck.”

The waiter set the plates down, offered fresh pepper, and twisted the pepper mill over their food.

“What’s the matter?” Brock asked the waiter. “Can’t afford to buy more than one pepper shaker?” Once the waiter walked away, Brock smirked. “What’s with that, anyway? The prices they charge, you’d think they could afford to let you shake out your own pepper.”

Jo kept silent, taking a bite of the filet mignon that was, thankfully, quite good. If she could focus on her meal, she just might get through this.

“Irregardless, like I was saying,” Brock continued, “you got any Tips from Tulip for my sister’s dress? She’s just about given up.”

“Dye on a dress? It’s probably hopeless, but I have a few things she could try.”

Jo went through the list, counting off on her fingers the solutions she might suggest, depending on the fabric: color remover, bleach, three percent hydrogen peroxide.

“But tell her to start with the ‘big drip’ treatment,” Jo said. “That’s what I call it, anyway. You stretch the fabric over a big bowl and secure it with a rubber band. Then you put the bowl in the sink, turn on the faucet where it just drips, and let it drip directly on the stain all night long. Sometimes, that’s all it takes. Just tell her to make sure it’s cold water.”

“Cold water. Got it. Thanks.”

He went into another coughing fit at that point, but this time the wheezing didn’t let up. He whacked the back of his inhaler and made a few quick squirts into the air then looked up at Jo, his eyes wide.

“I think it’s empty!” he gasped. Then he clutched at his throat and fell to the floor.

Lettie would have preferred simply to disappear, without offering an explanation for her absence. But if she did that, they might grow suspicious too soon. Better she give a reason why she wouldn’t be back, even if it made management angry.

She waited until closing time and then sought out the manager at the other register.

“Um, Mr. Wallace?” she said softly, waiting until he was finished counting out the pennies. “I have to talk to you.”

He glanced up at her and then back at the money tray.

“What? You want a raise already? You only been here two weeks.”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, but I have to give my resignation.”

That stopped him cold. He put his hands on the counter and gave her his undivided attention—his
angry
undivided attention. Uncomfortable under his gaze, she adjusted her glasses and tilted down her face, letting her bangs fall forward.

“Your resignation?” he barked. “You’re telling me this now?”

She nodded.

“I’m so sorry. I checked my answering machine on my break, and it looks like I’m gonna get custody of my kids. I gotta get home to Oklahoma right away.”

That seemed to soften him just a bit. She found that stories about kids were the best. In truth, Lettie had no kids—and no plans for any, either. But if management had children themselves, it always seemed the best route to go.

She’d also never been anywhere near Oklahoma. That was her estranged husband’s home state, however, so at least she knew enough about it to answer questions if they came up.

“Well, I understand,” he said grudgingly. “But I hate to see you leave. You’re a hard worker.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied. She knew he was just being kind. She wasn’t
that
hard of a worker, intentionally so. Wherever she went, she strove for mediocrity, striking that perfect balance between being just good enough at her job that they wouldn’t fire her prematurely—and just bad enough that they wouldn’t miss her too much, nor remember her very well.

“When are you heading out?”

“I was thinking tonight, or maybe in the morning. I hate leaving you in the lurch like this.”

“We’ll get through it,” he replied, returning to the cash. “Summer’s almost here. I’ll have plenty of applicants soon as school gets out.”

Lettie nodded, right hand in her pocket, fingering the skimmer disc. With the other hand, she reached into her left pocket and pulled out three shiny little figurines, all made from aluminum foil. She had made them on her lunch break, a nervous habit that over the years had become a sort of hobby for her.

“Uh, you said your daughter likes horses, right?” Lettie ventured.

“Obsessed. She’s obsessed with the stupid things,” he answered.

“These are for her.”

Mr. Wallace glanced up and saw what she was holding and took them from her, a soft smile coming to his face.

“Where’d you get these?”

“I made ’em,” she shrugged. “I like to make animals with aluminum foil.”

He held one up and studied it.

“They look so real. You an artist or something?”

“No, sir. I just do it for fun.”

“My son collects frogs. You think you could make him a frog?”

“Sure. There’s a little leftover foil in the trash can. I’ll dig it out.”

“Hey listen, don’t do that. We got foil in aisle nine. Take a roll.”

“A whole roll? I only need a little square.”

“So use the square and keep the rest. Consider it a going away present. You can make a zoo for your own kids.”

Lettie nodded, thrilled at his generous gift, guilty that she had lied. Mr. Wallace wasn’t such a bad guy.

“Hey, Lettie,” he said after she had retrieved the foil and was cutting off some squares to keep in her purse. “You’ll have to give me a forwarding address for your paycheck.”

Lettie nodded to herself, ready with the temporary information. Little did he know, the disc in her pocket held enough financial data to provide hundreds of paychecks and then some.

Too bad most of the profit would go to her boss.

Brock Dentyne thrashed around on the floor, his face a vivid red. Across from them, a woman was so startled she dropped her goblet, which left a splash of scarlet-colored wine down the front of her blouse.

“Nine one one, how can I help you?” a voice said over the phone.

“I need an ambulance,” Jo said. “Quickly. Asthma attack.”

Jo rattled off the address of the restaurant and held on while the operator dispatched emergency services. In the meantime, Brock was still down on the floor, with several people stepping toward him, trying to help. The hospital was only a mile or so away, but Jo knew it could take a few minutes before an ambulance was on the road. Once the call was finished, she stood helplessly by. There wasn’t much she could do, considering that the man’s inhaler was empty.

“Doesn’t anyone here have asthma?” she asked loudly to the restaurant at large. “We need another inhaler!”

“I do, but only when it’s cold outside,” said one person.

“Just when I get around my grandchildren’s gerbils,” said another.

A woman from the next table over was trying mouth-to-mouth, but it wasn’t working.

“His airway is completely blocked,” she said, sitting back on her heels.

“Check his pockets,” Jo said suddenly. “Maybe he has a second inhaler.”

The waiter hesitated and then gamely began patting Brock down as he continued to jerk around on the floor. Jo knew it was probably useless, since Brock would have pulled it out if he’d had it.

She refused to believe that there was nothing she could do to help. She was
Jo Tulip
, after all, all-around resourceful gal in any kind of crisis. Her mind racing, Jo wondered if a tracheotomy might get the man breathing again. Feeling desperate, she grabbed a clean knife and a drinking straw from the table just as a man strode toward her from across the room. He wore the Western uniform of the restaurant, but with the added distinction of thigh-high leather chaps and a “Manager” tag on his shirt pocket.

“What are you doing?” the fellow demanded, his eyes wide.