Bubbles Ablaze (6 page)

Outside came the sound of someone having great difficulty climbing the steps.

“My walk-in.” Roxanne handed me the newspaper. “The first in a month. She called this morning.” My cousin ran to the door like a school kid at a birthday party. “Mrs. Wychesko. Come in!”

Mrs. Wychesko, a heavy jowled woman in a ratty raccoon coat and gray plastic rain scarf, entered wheezing. “Those steps, Roxy, they'll be the death of me,” she said, removing her rain scarf and folding it into a little fan. Roxanne introduced us and we nodded and smiled at each other, but I wasn't eager to stick around.

I had important research to do.

Ten minutes later I was in Roxanne's white enamel tub with the green-blue ring around the drain, enjoying a deep, detoxifying bath and reading about Bud Price's plans to further family togetherness through craps.

The article was an update of Bud Price's fight to bring casino gambling to one of the most destitute regions of Pennsylvania. It had been that destitution, Price's excellent salesmanship and even testimony from a few has-been celebrities that prompted the legislature to issue a waiver permitting “limited” gambling on two hundred acres on Slagville's border that Price had purchased from McMullen Coal the year before.

However, Price needed more than the legislature's approval. He needed state building permits—an unfathomable prospect considering his casino was sited for the Dead Zone.

The Dead Zone was a buffer of land between McMullen Coal's active mines and the neighboring town of Limbo, which sat on top of an underground mine fire. The fire had started one Memorial Day forty years ago when a lit cigarette ignited trash and then a band of anthracite. The blaze had been so devastating that the federal government had paid each Limbo resident forty grand to move out.

In turn, the government barred McMullen Coal from digging under the two-hundred-acre buffer area—which later took on
the name the Dead Zone—for fear that new shafts would open pathways to the fire, bringing in dangerous oxygen and causing explosions. That land had been a white elephant for McMullen's company—until Price offered to buy it last year, along with the mining rights, for twenty-five-thousand dollars.

Price had retained numerous experts who testified before state officials that it was impossible for the fire to spread under the Dead Zone, provided there was no underground mining. Opposing environmentalists argued that the fire could turn at any time, new shafts or not, and they painted the picture of a casino full of grandmas at slot machines collapsing into a giant sinkhole faster than the
Titanic
sank into the North Atlantic.

But their valid concerns fell on deaf ears in a region where unemployment hovered at twenty percent. Folks in Slagville wanted a casino that would bring in hotels, restaurants, an amusement park and jobs, jobs, jobs, and they pledged to descend on Harrisburg in busloads until they got it.

The permit proposal was under advisement. State planners were expected to issue a ruling by November—after elections, the article noted.

I studied a photo of Bud relaxing poolside at his estate in the nouveau riche Lehigh suburb of East Hills with wife, Chrissy, who was wearing a teeny-weeny black bikini. Despite her mass of ash blond hair, Chrissy was too old to be a Chrissy anymore. She was at least a Chris, if not a Christine. Her skin was sun-dried cowhide and stretched nearly as tight in a face-lift that was as painful to observe as it must have been to undergo.

The paragraph on Chrissy could have passed for a singles ad. She liked gardening, horses and had recently become involved in the Lehigh Women's League as well as the historical society. In addition to being an avid golfer, Chrissy was a demon on the tennis court and spent every Christmas skiing in Aspen with her daughter, Sasha.

I put down the magazine and soaped up my legs while I pondered the enticing revelation that Stinky and Bud Price were
drinking buddies. I considered Stinky's locked and vacant Lexus. Maybe they arrived at the Number Nine mine together the night before. But why? And why trick Stiletto and me into showing up, too, just to try to blow us up? If Stinky had wanted me to be present, all he had to do was call me up and ask. He didn't have to forge a letter from Mr. Salvo.

Now Price was dead and Stinky was missing. And Stiletto and I had barely escaped with our lives.

I had just finished rinsing my hair when the door slammed downstairs and the distinctive low and mellow tones of Stiletto emanated through the heating ducts. Yipes!

I leaped out of the bathtub, dried off and wrapped my hair and body in Roxanne's hot pink towels. Then I hopped down the stairs.

Stiletto was leaning close to Roxanne, who had the photo album open from which she was removing pictures of Stinky. I heard her remark, “That's when Stinky met Bud Price. Now, I don't know if you know who he is—”

“Roxanne!” I shouted, clasping the pink towel with one hand and waving the other.

Stiletto took in my skimpy covering. “Another distraction, Bubbles?”

“You two know each other?” Roxanne asked, tick-tocking a finger between the two of us.

I landed at the bottom of the stairs. “Roxanne, this is Stiletto.”

“The Stiletto? Like the knife?” She batted her false eyelashes.

Stiletto flashed me a victorious grin. Finally, finally someone had bought that, “Stiletto like the knife” line of his. “My, I've heard all about you from Aunt LuLu,” she gushed. “Didn't I see a profile of you on
60 Minutes
?”

“Only CNN,” Stiletto replied with false humility. “It was more a feature on land mines.”

“You risked your life showing how innocent children played around those hidden underground explosives every day.” Roxanne clasped her hands together. “You were so brave to—”

“Okay, okay,” I said, moving between them. “Break it up. Roxanne, don't you have a client to tend to?” I pushed Stiletto toward the door. “And don't you know this is a girls-only salon, Steve?”

“Don't make him go,” whined Mrs. Wychesko from the chair as Roxy returned to finish rolling up her hair. “He's so cute. He could be our mascot.”

Stiletto tucked the pictures in his back pocket. “I've got to leave, anyway. I have to shoot the owner of McMullen Coal.”

“Oh, please don't!” Roxanne squealed. “Hasn't there been enough violence already?”

Stiletto stared at her like she was loopy and I explained that Stiletto meant shoot photos, not bullets. “You talking about Hugh McMullen?” I asked, seething inside with envy.

“Very good, Bubbles. Don't tell me you've actually been reading the newspapers?”

I resisted an urge to tweak his sore nose. “How did you get an interview with McMullen?”

“He drove into the gas station while I was returning the car. How's that for kismet? If your Visa card hadn't been as worthless as the plastic it was printed on, the AP wouldn't have gotten an exclusive.”

“Exclusive?”

“Esmeralda Greene snagged that, actually. She picked me up at the Texaco and worked her charm on McMullen, got him to say Price shouldn't have been trespassing in his mine. Nice guy.”

Drats, I thought, my hands balling into fists.

He checked his watch. “She's probably finishing up with him now. I better get back there.”

Stiletto gave my bare shoulder a paternal pat. “You'll find after working in this business as long as I have, Bubbles, that some of the best scoops come from just being in the right place at the right time. It's not your fault that you didn't get the McMullen interview first. There are other stories in your future.”

It was all I could do to keep from tearing my hair out. In fact,
I was so furious that I barely heard the
pfft
and Stiletto yell, “Jesus H!”

He winced and slapped the back of his neck. “What the . . . ?”

Before anyone could answer, he had collapsed onto the floor, face first.

Roxy's Homemade Detoxifying Bubble Bath

Jojoba oil is a natural detoxifying agent that can be found in co-ops or health food stores. This bath is nice because it's both bubbly and softens skin. Next time someone makes a crack about you lying about in the bath reading mysteries, note that this is vital to your health and if they want you to live longer they should let you be. So there.

5 ounces of liquid body soap
1 tablespoon of jojoba oil
2 vitamin E capsules, split open
1 drop of vanilla

Mix ingredients in a bowl and return to an old shampoo bottle. (Don't forget to mark clearly.) Dump ½ cup under running warm—not hot—bathwater. Relax and enjoy.

“B
ull's-eye!” Genevieve proclaimed, bringing down her peashooter. “Should've gotten me one of these years ago. Handy little buggers.”

Genevieve, my mother's sidekick in their Lehigh pierogi shop and a certified conspiracy nut, stood in the doorway admiring a thin brown straw clutched in her massive mitt. Her Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker frame was supersized by a bright yellow- and purple-flowered dress and white knee-highs slipping down her tree trunk legs.

“What did you do that for?” I demanded.

“Saved your life, didn't I?” Genevieve said. “Strange man at the door. You half naked. Shoot first, skip the questions. That's my motto.”

“That's not a strange man. It's Stiletto.” I turned his head so Genevieve could see.

Genevieve peered down at him, unconvinced. “Well, his Jeep wasn't parked out front.” As though that provided justification.

“That's because his Jeep blew up,” I said. “Look what you've done. And he fell on his nose, too. He was punched in that nose last night. It's still swollen.”

“Nice going, toots. Serves the scum right.” Mama appeared, looking ridiculous as usual. Ever since she'd fallen for a hard-living race car driver who'd loved her and left her at the penitentiary gates, Mama had adopted a “bad girl” attitude—which took some imagination since Mama's bad girlhood was a good fifty years behind her.

Today her wider-than-it-is-tall frame sported faux leather
pants, Kmart mini boots and a scoop-neck tee that strained painfully over her sagging breasts. Spandex abuse. Head to toe she was in black, except for her lips, which were a smudged crimson. Gone was the grandmotherly coral of yesteryear.

“Hey,” Mama furrowed her wrinkled brow. “I've seen him someplace before.”

“That's because it's Stiletto,” I said, getting exasperated. “Genevieve shot Stiletto.”

“Don't get huffy, Bubbles,” Mama said. “She was just trying to protect you. Kids these days. No sense of gratitude.”

“Amen,” said Genevieve.

Stiletto groaned. I removed a tiny quill from his neck and pinched it between my fingers.

“What is this?” I stood, handing Genevieve the quill.

“Tranquilizing dart,” Genevieve said. “Only, I used up all the free samples they handed out at End Times Survival Camp so I had to improvise. This one's dipped in Sominex. Tripled the dose just to be safe.”

Roxanne and Mrs. Wychesko, apron still around her neck, approached.

“What a shame,” Mrs. Wychesko said, cocking her head. “I liked him much better alive.”

“He is still alive,” I said. “Isn't he?”

“Let's see.” Mama brought back her foot to kick him.

“Stop that.” I pushed her aside. “Have you no respect?”

“I've never witnessed anything like that in my life,” Mrs. Wychesko said. “It was all slow-mo.”

Roxanne was none too pleased. “You can't leave him here for all the world to see. It's not good marketing to have customers lying in the doorway, shot in the neck. Business is bad enough.”

Genevieve leaned down, shoved her size-twenty-two arms under his shoulders and dragged Stiletto across the orange shag rug to the couch in Roxanne's parlor. With a grunt she picked him up and threw him on the cushions, tossing a black and
multicolored crocheted afghan on him as an afterthought. If Stiletto ever spoke to me again, I'd be amazed.

Mama took me aside. “Listen, I didn't raise up an ingrate. When Jane told us this morning that someone had tried to kill you, Genny ripped off her apron and rushed right up here to be your one woman personal security entourage. The least she deserves is a simple thank you.”

She might be dressed like a slut, but she was still my mother. I did as I was told when Genevieve returned.

“Thank you, Genevieve,” I droned, “for shooting my boyfriend with Sominex.”

Genevieve blushed. “Aw, that's okay, Bubbles. It was a pleasure.”

I slapped my head. It was no use.

Mama looked around the salon. “Hell's bells, it's great to be back in my hometown. Nothing like visiting the old stomping grounds of one's youth to feel invigorated again. Biggest mistake I ever made was leaving Slagville for Lehigh. Yessiree. 'Course it's hard to stick around when there ain't no work.”

“How come you're here, anyway?” I asked Mama. And how soon will you be leaving, I wanted to add. “Don't tell me you're part of my security entourage, too.”

“She's looking for the Nana diary,” Genevieve cut in.

“The Nana diary?”

Mama's kohl-lined eyes narrowed with suspicion. “At my last visit up here someone swiped Nana Yablonsky's diary, the one that contains all our best pierogi recipes.”

“What if it gets in the hands of Mrs. T?” Genevieve asked, crossing herself at the mention of the doyenne of the flash-frozen potato ravioli. “She's right in Pottsville. She could make a killing on your grandmother's secrets.”

I doubted Mrs. T was willing to risk her empire on Nana Yablonsky's gut-wrenching venison and vinegar specialties.

“Point is, we gotta find out who stole the Nana diary and get it back.” Mama pointed to my towel. “What were you doing? Taking a bath while Stiletto was hot on the investigation?”

“I was dirty. It was gross in that mine.”

She stood on tiptoe and cupped my chin. “You listen to me, sweetie pie. If you want to find the filth that tried to kill you and your man, then you got to get some dirt on your pretty polished nails.”

“I'm gonna call Mr. Salvo,” I said, removing her hand from my chin and strolling over to the telephone. He wasn't in the newsroom this early, so I left a message on his voice mail about last night and how to reach me at Roxanne's.

Then I called my salon boss and best friend, Sandy, at my other place of employment, the House of Beauty, on Lehigh's south side. It made me homesick to hear the blow-dryers and happy chatter in the background.

“I wondered when you were going to call. This place has been frantic with gossip,” Sandy shouted into the phone. “Is it true someone's out to kill you?”

“I don't know. That's why I thought I'd stick around in Slagville to find out. Also my alternator's busted.”

“Take all the time you want. Tiffany will fill in. Honestly, Mrs. Coleman will be relieved.”

“I thought Mrs. Coleman dreaded Tiffany.”

Sandy stopped blow drying. “Yeah. But Tiffany doesn't have a price on her head. Mrs. Coleman was worried she'd be blown away if you were doing her hair and the hitman showed up.”

Mrs. Coleman watched too much HBO.

“By the way, Martin wonders if the explosion could have been spontaneous combustion. Sometimes he comes across that in the bakery. Bread has too much yeast and boom!”

Thank you, Sandy's wacky baker husband. “It was a mine, Sandy, not a doughnut.”

When I hung up, Mama was right behind me, hands on fake-leather hips.

“Now I suggest you find something decent to wear and hurry up or we'll be late.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Madame Vilnia's.”

“Good idea,” Roxanne said, rolling the last curler into Mrs. Wychesko's hair. “She knows everyone and everything in town. If the person who lured you up to the Number Nine mine last night is from Slagville, Vilnia will know who it is. Wear the black knit hanging in my closet, Bubbles. My funeral dress. Madame Vilnia likes women to be modest. No pants. That goes for you, too, Aunt LuLu.”

“I ain't changing for nobody,” Mama said.

I protested that visiting local hags was not a way to research newspaper articles, but Mama and Roxanne would have none of it.

“What you should be worried about,” Roxanne advised as I climbed the stairs, “is where you're going to get a live chicken at this last minute's notice.”

Having been unsuccessful in rounding up a breathing bird, Mama and I had been forced to stop off at the A&P to purchase our gift for Vilnia. I lobbied for an African violet or scented candles, but Mama was adamant. It was poultry or bust.

“I hope this works.” Mama pouted at the four-pound Perdue Oven Stuffer Roaster on her lap. “Usually Vilnia likes them alive. Back in the old country the wise women got only living chickens as payment for their services. Vilnia's gonna be insulted when she sees someone else snapped the neck first.”

My stomach turned. Between Roxanne's oversugared coffee, Chief Donohue's doughnuts and chicken decapitation, I was ready to puke.

I swung Genevieve's boat of a Rambler into the patch, an outcropping of run-down row homes on the outskirts of Slagville that had been built once upon a time by the mining company for its laborers and their families. The homes were painted every color of the rainbow, as if to counteract the dark and dusty life of the pitch black mines. Compact, well-tended gardens in the back
yards brimmed with autumn pumpkins, carrots, spinach and broccoli.

Mama grabbed the roaster and we climbed the stairs. We rang the doorbell and waited in the cool air. The patch was in a hollow, damp and cold. I pinched the plunging cleavage of Roxanne's “modest” black dress, which clung to my every nook, curve and cranny. If this is what Roxanne wore to funerals, what was her New Year's Eve getup? Pasties?

The door opened and a doddering man in gray pants and a white T-shirt answered. He removed a set of old-fashioned headphones, the kind from the public library, and ushered us in without a word. We entered a dimly lit living room lined by wood-paneled walls and numerous family photos. A gigantic La-Z Boy faced a wide-screen television. A game show played on what I thought was mute until I realized that it was attached to Mr. Vilnia's headphones.

He pushed on the swinging door into a white kitchen where a woman sat at a table cutting carrots. There were various pots boiling furiously on the stove and the oven light was on, revealing a bubbling apple crisp. The room was a steam bath of cooking carrot, cabbage and apple.

“Visitors,” he announced.

“Well, don't just stand there,” the tiny woman barked. “Let them in.”

“Yes, dear,” he mumbled, waving the way for Mama and me to enter. Then he turned like a zombie and returned to the game show.

Clutching the carrot knife, Madame Vilnia stood, so short she and Mama were eye to eye. She was rounder than my mother (if that were possible) and older. She wore a gray tweed dress, bifocals and large plastic pearls at her flabby neck. Her lips were a bright shade of carnation, unlike my mother's bloodred ones—of which Vilnia clearly disapproved.

“Long time, no see,” Vilnia said. “I heard you were back in town.”

Mama raised her nose and sniffed. “Do I smell Zupa Kartoflana with mint?”

“So what if you do?” Vilnia circled Mama slowly, taking in the hot-dame biker package. “Seeing you, I remember that there's a reason why women shouldn't wear slacks. Your legs look like knockwurst. Only one woman could pull it off and she's dead.”

“Jackie O,” Mama said, getting misty eyed. “Come to think of it. . . .”

Oh, no. I wasn't going down that road again. I yanked the Oven Stuffer Roaster out of Mama's hands and thrust it toward Vilnia. “For you.”

“Not another chicken.” Vilnia's shoulders drooped. “Can't you come up with anything else? There's a Bed Bath & Beyond in Wilkes-Barre, you know. You two ever hear of napkin rings?”

“I knew we should have brought candles,” I said.

“It cost eight-fifty, that chicken,” Mama said. “In the old country a professional gossip would've been proud to get Perdue.”

“Old country, mold country.” Vilnia opened the Frigidaire and tossed in the gift. It joined a half dozen frozen roasters. “This is America in the twenty-first century. Palm pilots. No-fog showers. Refrigerators in drawers. Get with it.”

Mama poked her in the chest, right under the pearls. “No one tells me to get with it, sister.”

“This is your sister?” I asked. “I didn't know you had a sister, Mama.”

The women quit their bickering. “Let me venture,” Vilnia said. “This is Bubbles.”

“I told you Vilnia was good,” Mama said, dropping her finger. “She knows everything.”

“Including who killed Bud Price? And where Stinky is?” I asked. “And if he was the one who tried to kill me and Stiletto? And if he sent me the bogus fax?”

“Kid comes with tall orders,” Vilnia said to Mama.

“I blame TV. You got cake?”

“What do you think?”

We sat as Vilnia put out coffee cups and unwrapped an Entenmann's cinnamon crumble cake.

“Here's the skinny,” Mama said as Vilnia served us each a slice. “Bubbles got a fax from her editor ordering her to cover a press conference at the Number Nine mine, where a businessman has been found stabbed.”