Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) (14 page)

How could he look so good so late in the evening?
I wondered.

I entered the condo and closed the door behind me. “Nothing happened to me. I just thought I should tell you right away—I found Leona Barber’s missing sandal.”

Ken’s face went lead-story serious. “Are you kidding me?
You
found the sandal? Where?”

I sat down on the leather sofa in the living room, not waiting for an invitation. “I went out to the airport with Bevin tonight. It was around back, in that grassy area behind the hangar. The police never looked there. They spent most of their time searching the field where they found Leona’s body.”

Ken had been there the day the police searched the field. “I remember. What made you look out back near the hangar?”

“A hunch, I guess. I just figured it was odd that they found her wearing only one sandal. I thought maybe there was a struggle getting her into whatever plane she got herself tossed from, and her shoe fell off. I saw a few of those smaller planes out back near the hangar. Did you know they leave planes out in the rain?”

Ken sat down in a big, comfortable-looking leather lounge chair. “The hangar isn’t all that big. Did you think they shove all the planes together inside like patio furniture cushions every time it rains?”

“I guess not. But if there’s ever a really strong wind, what’s to keep those tiny planes from getting blown into the field?”

“Sometimes they blow over, but most of them have chocks, I’m sure,” he told me.

“Chucks?” I asked.

“Chocks. They’re things they shove against the wheels to keep …” He saw the puzzled look on my face. “They’re usually yellow. Some of them look like those wedges that you put under doors to keep them open. You didn’t see those?”

I shrugged. I didn’t really take any notice. Out at that airport, my main concern had been Leona’s sandal, not the particulars of aircraft upkeep. “Anyway, the planes all looked like two-seaters. Don’t you think it’s unlikely that Leona did a swan dive from a two-seater—especially if she struggled enough to lose her shoe getting into the plane? There must have been three people inside—Leona, of course, one person to fly the plane, and someone else to push her out.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “You really gave this a lot of thought, Colleen. I’m impressed.”

I shouldn’t have smiled, but I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t every day that Ken Rhodes gave a compliment.

“Of course, the police came,” I told him. “But we didn’t get arrested. That nice cop, James O’Reilly, spotted our flashlight while he was cruising out on the highway. He always treats me like I’m his senile great-grandmother.”

“Gee, Colleen, I can’t imagine why,” Ken said.

“He went back around the building and put the sandal in an evidence bag.”

“You waited for him to make sure he brought it out, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, well, that, and I didn’t want to drive away and leave the kid all alone in the pouring rain. No wonder he spotted our flashlight from the highway. It’s so dark and spooky out there.”

“He’s an adult, Colleen. You know, a big boy—with a big gun.”

“I realize that,” I said. I shivered and shifted my weight. I had changed my pants, but neglected to change my underwear. I was afraid the wet would leak through, and the back of my thighs would stick to the leather sofa.

“Are you having a problem?” Ken asked.

“Some of my clothes are still a little damp in spots,” I admitted.

“Would you like a towel to sit on?”

I held up my hand. “No, thank you. A damp bottom isn’t exactly a catastrophe.”

“Not for you,” he quipped. “I’d like to get everything that happened tonight on the computer before it starts to fade from your memory. I suppose you didn’t take notes out at the airport.”

“In the pouring rain?” I asked.

“Maybe in the car after you found the sandal?”

“No.”

“Too bad. We’ll just have to rely on your razor-sharp memory,” he said, then paused to consider what had just come out of his mouth and shook his head. “Dear God, we’re in trouble, and we haven’t even started the story yet.” He got up and went down a short hallway and came back with a big, fluffy towel. Ken tossed it to me. “Sit on this. I don’t know how to get water stains out of leather sofas.”

I looked around the room. Everything was in order and sparkling clean. The place appeared way too fastidious, especially for a single guy. I wondered if my rock-hard boss had obsessive-compulsive disorder. What had he thought of the chaos in my house the night we came home with the pizzas? He must have had an internal meltdown when we were working at my desk in the den.

I slipped the towel under me, feeling like a puppy who couldn’t be trusted on the furniture. “There isn’t much to tell. I wish I’d thought to get a shot of the sandal, though, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. It was really dark out there, and the rain was coming down hard. The picture would have been worthless.”

Ken got up from the chair and went toward the kitchen. “I’ll put on some coffee. Meanwhile, would you go into the den and get my laptop? You can set it up on the coffee table.”

I ventured down the hall in search of Ken Rhodes’s den and couldn’t resist taking a peek inside his bathroom. It looked way cleaner than mine—all black and white tiles, with brushed-nickel faucets and hardware. Everything looked polished to the hilt.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder,
I thought. Either that or he had a service come in every day to shine the place up. As impressive as his pristine digs were, I couldn’t envision Ken Rhodes doing the Soft Scrub-and-Windex routine.

I continued on and got a look at Ken’s bedroom though the open doorway—roomy and very masculine, with dark wood furniture and a huge down duvet that covered the bed. I noticed some prints above the headboard. They looked very abstract, like various geometric shapes in beige, tan, and brown. No socks on the floor, no old cups on the night stand, not even anything in the little trash can.
OCD
, I reminded myself.

Such a neat person. And so annoyingly organized.

The puzzle pieces to Ken Rhodes suddenly lined up in front of me. Perfectly dressed. Immaculately groomed. Every room in his home in pristine condition. Oh my God, was Ken Rhodes
gay
?

That’s nothing more than a stereotype
, I told myself.
You can’t go around believing in clichés.

Still, it would be just like me to throw myself at a gay man.

I found the den behind the final door. The room was twinkling clean. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could concentrate in such a sterile environment. A treadmill stood against a wall close to a window. Some sort of odd-looking weight contraption had been set up in the opposite corner. This was where Ken Rhodes kept his mind sharp and his body rock hard. My breath sped up just imagining him on the weight bench, a dumbbell in hand. This room, more than the rest of the condo, defined him. Strong, professional, in control.

Apparently, my brain couldn’t quite figure him out … but my body knew
exactly
how it felt about Ken Rhodes.

I spotted a laptop atop a polished wood desk near the door. I picked it up and brought it into the living room.

Ken carried in two steaming glass mugs from the kitchen and handed one to me.

“The coffee smells good. You made it?”

“The coffee machine made it. A Keurig. Can’t screw that up.”

My coffee maker at home had set me back about ten bucks, on sale at ShopRite with my Price Plus card. Not that I was jealous—well, yes, I
was
jealous. Ken’s Keurig was, no doubt, a top-of-the-line item. After the months I had spent scrimping just to get by, I had developed a fairly good-sized chip that I carried on my shoulder like a boulder.

I took a sip from the mug. The coffee tasted as good as it smelled—unlike the sewage my mother gave me earlier. I finished half the cup before putting it down on the coffee table. I didn’t see any coasters. Ken hunched over his laptop next to me. His thigh bumped up against mine.

“Do you need a timeline of events or …” I began.

“Write the whole thing down as you remember it,” he suggested, sliding the computer in front of me.

I dove right in and started typing. After a few minutes, I could feel him leaning in, reading the screen as my fingers flew over the keys. I could just barely feel the hint of his breath on my shoulder and could smell some sort of masculine soap—a scent so understated that I could only detect it when he was in very close proximity. How was a girl supposed to concentrate with that going on?

“I can’t do it like this if you’re going to be looking over my shoulder,” I told him point-blank.

He leaned back. “I know. Sorry. But you have to change it.”

“Change it? Why? These words are gold!”

“It’s reading like something you grabbed from the police blotter,” Ken pointed out. “Officer James O’Reilly might have taken the sandal into evidence, but he certainly didn’t discover it. You did. You need to make that perfectly clear. It’s your column, remember? A personal account of your activities.”

I corrected my mistake and wrote the complete story—
my version
—from the trek out in the pouring rain with a friend who wished to remain anonymous, to Officer O’Reilly’s retrieval of the sandal. It took two hours, including spell-check, to finish.

“Okay, save it and then print it out,” Ken instructed.

I glanced around the room. There wasn’t a printer anywhere in sight. Ken noticed my dilemma. “It’s in my den,” he explained. “Wireless.”

I shrugged. Though I did have a laptop with the capability, I only possessed an old printer that I had to plug into the back of my computer every time I wanted to print something out. I hit the print key and heard the distant clicks of the printer ejecting pages one by one in the other room.

“The thing that eats at me the most about this whole story is that I know there had to be three people in the plane,” I told him. “Most of the planes at the airport were little two-seater jobs. There are three four-seaters, and Hank Barber owns all of them. I have another hunch about this.”

“What’s that?” Ken asked.

“I don’t think Hank Barber had anything to do with Leona’s death. He seems so broken up over it.”

“Then go with your instincts, but keep your mind open to other possibilities. What about Dizzie Oliver? Any hunches there?”

“The Hot Air King might have been involved in his wife’s death, but Trina Cranford could have had a motive, too. With Dizzie out of the picture, Trina’s Tresses would sure get a lot more clients. Trina wasn’t at Dizzie’s wake—at least not while I was there. I wonder if she showed up at all. They knew each other, if only in a professional way. Hank Barber attended. He sat behind Matthew, chatting with him when I walked in. They’re the best of friends, according to the mechanic at the airport. I have to figure out just how close they really are.”

“How about Leona? What kind of job did she have? Are there kids? You’re going to dig a little deeper, aren’t you?”

“I’ll go back to the airport tomorrow and ask Drake Tuttle. He’s full of information, and he loves to talk. Hank Barber isn’t the talkative type, and I doubt he’ll ever speak to me again after the questions I asked him this morning.”

I rubbed my eyes. It had been a grueling day. I felt dead tired and achy.

“Are you hungry?” Ken Rhodes asked me.

“Dear God! You’re not going to cook, are you?”

He gave me a slight smile. “I’m like you. I don’t cook either. I was thinking of that diner a few blocks from here. I could use something, and I’m sure you can, too. You’re always hungry.”

Leave it to my indelicate boss to mention my enormous appetite.

“Actually, I skipped dinner. The kids ate at my mother’s house, and I wasn’t about to go out to that airport after eating something she made. I could use a burger.”

We took the elevator down and strolled through the lobby. As we exited the building, I noticed the rain had finally stopped. We passed the visitor’s parking lot, which was quiet, and walked toward the street, where traffic was light but steady. A Lexus passed by, going south on Bay Boulevard. I had to pause for a moment. At first, I thought it might be my ex behind the wheel. Ken also noticed the car and read my mind.

“It’s not him,” he said. “But what if it was? You’re single. You’re over twenty-one—well over twenty-one.”

“Thanks loads!” I laughed.

He took my arm and led me down the street. “You’re going to run into him now and then, Colleen. You can’t get mad every time you see a Lexus. Do you plan to go through the rest of your life hating his guts? It takes a lot of energy to keep up that kind of pace. You need to relax, take a deep breath, and let go of the rage. For the benefit of you and your kids, consider taking the high road.”

“Are you divorced?” I asked. Any man who looked as good as Ken Rhodes had to have been married at some point in his forty-three years of life.

“No. Never divorced.”

The comment hung in the night air, begging for further explanation. I didn’t know how to approach the subject and thought it best to let it slide. We continued on to the diner, which was, thankfully, still open. We took seats in an empty booth. I was surprised by the number of patrons.

“Doesn’t anyone go home and go to bed anymore?” I asked.

“Eventually,” Ken told me. “But it’s the shank of the evening for most of these people. They’re done for the day and want to unwind and grab a bite before they crawl home.”

We gave the waitress our orders—a pizza burger for me, pancakes for Ken. I could have used a real drink. The diner did have a liquor license, but I opted for a Diet Coke instead. Ken ordered black coffee.

“You
are
going to ask, aren’t you?” he said when the waitress left to place our orders.

I swallowed. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know. “Okay. Are you still married … as in separated?”

“Actually …” He paused. “I’m a widower.”

The information caught me so off guard that it took a second to process. He had been married, but his spouse was dead. Sad. Unfortunately, it happens. “Was it an illness?” I asked. “Maybe a car accident?”