Blind Dates Can Be Murder (35 page)

“What did you do?”

“Took the money and ran. Ran all the way to Frankie’s father’s farm. It’s out in the country. Would you believe it took a month and a half for that dye to wear off our hands? I never been so tired of two other people in my life. Every day for six weeks, all we could do was hang out and work the farm and wash and scrub and try to get the stupid stuff off. We actually fought each other over who was gonna do the dishes every night, because we knew that probably helped. In the end, Frankie ordered this stuff off the Internet that was supposed to get hair dye off the hands of hairdressers. It was okay. The stains had faded enough by then that it was better than nothing. In the meantime, I had to conduct my entire business over the phone. If we hadn’t had Frankie’s father to do the grocery shopping and stuff for us, we’d have starved to death.”

“Weren’t people suspicious?”

“Nah. We told everybody we was at a fat farm. Then we had to drop thirty pounds each while we was there so they’d all believe us once we came back.”

Mickey laughed at the memory.

“Why is it so funny?” Chuck demanded.

“Because there was nothing else you could do
but
laugh. See, dye don’t wear off cash like it wears off skin. The skin, it’s a living organ. It sloughs off and replaces itself eventually. Not so for money. That dye was stuck on there forever.”

“So why’d you hang onto it, then?”

“Oh, come on. You think I’m gonna throw out a mil five with the day’s garbage? We hid the cash out at the farm and decided to wait and see if we could ever come up with a way to get the dye out. Frankie was obsessed with it. He talked to me about it all the time.”

“So close and yet so far,” Chuck said.

“Yeah. That was it, exactly.”

“When did the money disappear, Mickey?”

“Friday. Long story.”

Chuck crossed his arms and sat back in his seat.

“I got time. Let’s hear it.”

Lettie sat across from Tasha, taking notes as the woman spoke between bites of her lunch. A true multitasker, she was incredibly organized and efficient, and Lettie found herself wishing she were a real employee in a real, permanent position—and not just a scam artist who was there for the quick money. There was something about this job she thought she could learn to love—the way the office was set up, the level of responsibility, the people she’d be working with.

Still, it was perfect for her needs now too. In the three years of working for Mickey, Lettie had never gotten into a system and stolen data so quickly. Usually, she waited a week or so until they got comfortable with her before she even tried to breach security. But this was different. The clock was ticking.

Now or never
.

“At some point before Wednesday I’ll have to get our tech guy in here to show you how to access the national Dates&Mates database. We post our new profiles there twice a week.”

Tasha bit into a pickle, which released the pleasing scent of vinegar and cucumber into the room.

“National?”

Tasha swallowed her bite and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

“Yes. Dates&Mates is a chain. You didn’t know that?”

Lettie’s mind raced. If she could access the national database, there was no telling how much data she could grab. She’d have to come back here for one more day. Tonight, after work, she would seek out an office supply store and pick up some more flash drives. She could steal more data than she or Mickey had ever dreamed of!

This was just too easy, like taking candy from a baby.

Jo’s cell phone rang as she pulled into her driveway. It was Brock Dentyne, calling to set up a date for later in the week.

Jo parked and let Chewie out of the car, her mind racing as she led the dog to the backyard and let him in through the gate. She didn’t know what to say. She liked Brock, she thought he was nice, she thought he was handsome and friendly and fun. And they certainly had a lot in common.

But she also thought she owed it to Danny not to go out with anyone else until she figured out how to respond to yesterday’s declaration of love.

“Well, Brock,” she hedged as she walked into the house and set her purse on the counter, “since you and I met for lunch on Saturday, my love life has become a little more…um…complicated. I need to figure a few things out about someone else before I go out on another date—with anyone.”

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “The ex-fiancé showed up and wants one more trip to the altar?”

Jo was startled. Had she told him about Bradford? Her mind racing, she tried to remember the few conversations they’d had. She was almost positive the subject had never come up.

“It’s in your blog, Jo,” Brock said, as if he were reading her mind. “I logged on yesterday to see if you put the bit about having lunch with me, and it was all so interesting that I ended up going back through the archives and reading everything. I have to tell you, I wanted to get to know you before, but at this point I’m positively enthralled. You are one fun and fascinating lady!”

Jo was flattered—though she still didn’t feel right going out with him, not with Danny’s words swimming ceaselessly through her head.

“Thanks.”

“Would you take down my phone numbers? Just in case? I’ll give you my cell and my apartment.”

“Sure,” she said, sliding open the kitchen drawer and taking out her little leather address book. Though she doubted she would need the information, she flipped to the D section and wrote in his name and the contact numbers he gave her. Once that was done, as they talked, she also retrieved from her purse several business cards she had collected lately—those of Peter Trumble, Ming Lee, and Tasha Green at Dates&Mates—and entered their information as well.

Brock didn’t seem to sense her distraction as she multitasked; he was more concerned with describing some of the fun dates they could go on if she was willing to see him again. She remained firm, however, and finally he seemed to get the message.

“Well, if it’s the fiancé who’s entered the picture,” he said, “then I hope you kicked him to the curb.”

“No, it wasn’t Bradford. Someone else. Someone…close to me.”

“Ah,” he said. “Then my guess would be the photographer. From Friday night. What’d he do? Give you an ultimatum? Ask you to be exclusive?”

Jo gathered up the business cards and returned them to her purse, thinking she could detect a hint of sarcasm in Brock’s voice.

“What makes you think it’s him?”

“Without question, the guy’s hung up on you. Anybody could see that.”

Anybody but me, apparently
.

“But, hey, listen, I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes,” he continued, backing off, “especially not someone you consider a friend.”

“Thanks, Brock, I appreciate that.”

“No offense, but I hope things with this other guy don’t work out. Keep my numbers, just in case.”

Jo smiled in spite of herself. She closed the address book and set it back in the drawer.

“You never know, Brock,” she said, sliding the drawer shut. “We’ll see.”

“The money, Mickey,” Chuck pressed. “Where’d it go?”

Mickey grunted, pointing toward the bottle of Scotch at Chuck’s feet.

“That’s my liquor,” he said, as if he had just noticed it.

“Have some,” Chuck replied, handing it over.

Shrugging, Mickey pulled a shot glass from the drawer, filled it, and tossed it back.

“Doctor said I ain’t supposed to drink,” he said. “But what does he know?”

“The money, Mickey. Keep talking.”

Mickey filled the shot glass again, and drank.

“Fine. Last Thursday night I was out at the farm, playing poker with Frankie and some of the guys,” he said. “When we was done and all the guys were gone, Frankie and me, we went down to the basement to look at the money.”

“He kept it in the basement?”

“Yeah, but hidden down in these big pickle jars. His father was canning pickles back when we first hid out on the farm, and we had found a way to hide the money in small jars inside the big jars, surrounded by pickles. No one ever suspected. Anyway, we was just standing there looking at the jars, talking. He said he was ‘pursuing an idea’ about how to get the stains out. I didn’t pay much attention. Frankie was
always
pursing an idea about how to get the stains out. Nothing ever worked.”

“So what happened?” Chuck asked, wishing he could rewind his life and get out of prison one week earlier. The money may have been stained then, but at least it still existed.

“That was it. I went home. The next night I’m watching TV and all of a sudden they’re flashing a picture of Frankie on the news! Seems he went down to Mulberry Glen, kidnapped some guy who was on a blind date, and took his place.”

“
What?
”

“That’s what they said on the news. He had dinner with this young babe, all of about twenty-five or so, and then he had a severe asthma attack and died.”

“What do you think that was about?”

Mickey’s eyelids began to droop. Chuck reached for the Scotch and took it back before the man could get drunk.

“The babe was a household hints expert, name of Jo Tulip,” Mickey continued, perking back up. “Writes a column for the newspaper, Tips from Tulip.”

“I’ve read that before!” Chuck said. “Learned how to slice an onion without tears.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mickey said. “How’s that?”

“You do it under water.”

Chuck explained the process of slicing the onion deep inside a pot filled with water.

“It’s a little harder to slice that way,” Chuck said, “but there’s no fumes at all. Works better than anything I ever tried. Once it’s all peeled and cut up, you just pour out the water and use the onion.”

“Under water,” Mickey said, nodding. “Clever.”

“Anyway,” Chuck prodded. “Why did Frankie do that, kidnap somebody?”

“I don’t know for sure. My best guess is that Frankie got it in his head that this Jo Tulip, this household hints expert, musta known a secret for getting the dye out of the money. He musta told her about the cash before he died, because when I sent Ziggy and Tank to the farm late that night to clear all his stuff out before the cops showed up, the money was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Every one of them jars had disappeared. We ain’t been able to find nothing since.”