Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) (8 page)

“No! God, no! Oh my God! I think that’s my wife!”

8

The body had appeared to be female, judging from the heel on the victim’s sandal—though I supposed a flamboyant male might consider the style. I retrieved my notebook from my bag and went straight to Ron Haver.

“No, Colleen. She’s definitely a woman,” Haver said. “That much I do know.”

“Do you think it’s Hank Barber’s wife?” I asked him.

He looked at me and then back to Hank. “Maybe, we’ll see.”

The coroner’s people slipped the stretcher inside the hearse and drove away. A very pale-looking Hank got in the back of a cruiser, which pulled out to follow them, leaving the rest of us behind in the parking lot to speculate.

“Drake Tuttle said Hank’s wife left him. How long do you suppose she’s been out there, Ron?”

Ron Haver looked uncomfortable with the question. I knew he wouldn’t give up too much information, especially to a crime columnist who also happened to be his girlfriend’s sister. But we both knew he would have to talk to somebody from the newspaper sooner or later. I thought it might as well be sooner, and if he was going to talk to anyone, it was going to be me.

“I’d rather not gross you out, so I won’t describe what that poor woman looked like. We’ll use her clothing and accessories to identify her temporarily, then confirm it with DNA.”

The body was unidentifiable. Something really bad had happened to her; that much was certain. “Was she beaten?”

“Possibly,” he said.

I stopped writing and looked up at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means that for the moment, we can’t say for certain how the woman sustained those horrific injuries.”

It felt like pulling teeth. “Okay, was she shot, stabbed, choked, pummeled, or what? Did it look like she died of starvation? You must have some idea.”

Haver shrugged. I thought about it for just a moment. An almost unspeakable thought came into my head. I knew Ron Haver wouldn’t come right out and say it. I waved to Ken Rhodes and motioned for him to join us.

“What?” he asked me.

“I just wanted you to hear this. I was asking Ron here how he thought the woman died. He’s been hedging, of course, dancing around it. I’ll say it if nobody else will. Does this woman look like she got smushed on the ground because she fell from a plane?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Colleen! Give me a break!”

I turned to Ken. “She was tossed,” I told him.

“I didn’t say she was tossed, and don’t you dare print it,” Haver said.

This time Ken spoke up. “We’re all thinking it, aren’t we?”

“At this point, it’s up to the medical examiner to determine how the woman died. The best we can do today is to continue to search the field for evidence.”

“I’m willing to bet you didn’t find any footprints out there,” Ken told him before walking away to join Willy.

Ron went to consult with Officer O’Reilly, leaving me standing there with my pen hovering above my notepad. I closed it and shoved it back inside my pocketbook.

* * *

I arrived home and immediately ran upstairs to rip off my straitjacket-tight bra and change into shorts and a T-shirt. The kids came home from school around three thirty, talking and laughing like old chums. I knew something was up and went into the den to investigate.

“Were you there?” Bobby asked eagerly.

He was so cute when he got excited, though I supposed no nine-year-old boy wanted to be thought of as cute, especially by his mother. I ruffled his dark, Neil-like hair and put on a dumb expression.

“What do you mean, Bobby? Where?”

Sara shook her head. “And you call me an actress! You covered that story on those flying lessons today, didn’t you, Mom? I heard they found a body in the field by the airport.”

Right. The flying lessons story. It had happened so early in the day that it felt like a lifetime ago since we examined Willy’s photos of the body in the field. “I was there,” I admitted.

The kids high-fived each other.

“They’re taking bets in school,” Sara informed me. “A few of us were thinking you’ll find one corpse every month. I personally think it’s over, but you never know. So far, Christian Grasso is betting you’ll find two more stiffs before the year is out! He says people are dropping like flies in Tranquil Harbor.”

I didn’t bother to hide my shock. “My Lord, Sara, you started a body pool? You sound like a gangster! And in front of your little brother!”

“I’m getting really popular with all your drama, Mom. Chris actually knows I’m alive,” she said with huge, jolly grin. “Between that and getting my learner’s permit, I’m gonna need an iPhone!”

“
What?
”

“My phone’s pitiful. I can’t even get breaking news or anything on it. I really need something that’s more up-to-date.”

“Can I have her old phone?” Bobby asked. “
Please?
”

Driving permits and iPhones and my baby, only nine, begging for his sister’s hand-me-down cell phone. My brain was doing pirouettes inside my skull.

“Everyone out of the den!” I ordered my darling children. “Get upstairs and start your homework. I have to write up this column and get it in by tomorrow. I don’t need these distractions.”

I heard the stampede up the stairs and the vibrating thumps of two slamming doors. I turned on my computer and opened the Word program. The blank page wasn’t enough to inspire me. I found my purse and pulled out my notes. I thought if I read them over a few times, I’d figure out an opening for the story that didn’t read like the prologue from a horror novel.

Town Crier staff photographer Willy Rojas made an interesting discovery while on assignment early Wednesday morning …

I liked the sound of it, though the use of interesting seemed a little too lighthearted for such terrible news. I thought gruesome would be a better fit but considered Ken Rhodes, who would edit the column himself. He would think the word was too gothic and sensationalizing for the story. I changed interesting to grisly, which sounded more on the serious side, but not quite as shocking.

I kept writing, self-editing in my head what would and wouldn’t be acceptable to the
Crier
’s readers. It turned out to be a tricky column to write. I couldn’t say too much, yet I didn’t want to say too little. I did manage to slip in Ron Haver’s brief comments about waiting until the medical examiner determined the cause of the woman’s death, but made no mention of Hank Barber’s outburst when he realized the woman might be his wife.

I finished the story around five o’clock and saved the file. My stomach rumbled, having had only minor light snacks for lunch at the airport. The kids would be wandering downstairs to find out about dinner. Cooking was never my thing, and there weren’t any cold cuts in the house. My mother, of course, would gladly feed us, but I didn’t want to spend the entire night battling indigestion.

Pizza
, I thought. It had been at least a week since we had it. I checked my wallet and found some cash and decided I would go pick it up myself rather than give the delivery guy a decent tip. This had been my new, meager effort to live within my means. “I’m going to Vincenzo’s to pick up a pie,” I called upstairs.

Doors opened and the kids emerged from their bedrooms. Sara leaned over the railing. “Do we have lettuce?” she asked.

“In the fridge. And carrots and celery and a couple of tomatoes,” I told her, knowing she might just be able to stand one slice of pizza, as long as she had her beloved green food to accompany it.

“How about Mountain Dew?” Bobby asked.

“Sorry, baby. You can have my diet soda though, or a glass of iced tea.”

* * *

I recognized Ken Rhodes’s silver SUV the minute I pulled into Vincenzo’s lot. I didn’t want him to see me in my most laid-back clothes and considered waiting in the car until he left the pizzeria. The problem was that he would recognize the Sentra and come over to chat. Either way, I was destined to face him.

I left the car and strolled boldly into the restaurant with my head held high. I could feign confidence, even if I did look like I was ready for a day at the beach.

“Colleen!” Ken said when I stepped up to the counter. “Another takeout night?”

He sat at an empty table, waiting for his own takeout order. I gave the guy behind the counter my order and went to the table to join him. “I didn’t feel much like throwing together a last-minute meal,” I told him. “It’s been a long, ugly day.”

“Did you manage to finish your column?” he asked.

“I wrote it all as close to your specifications as possible. That wasn’t an easy one to write, you know. How many ways can you dance around describing a squashed body?”

“I hope you did better than making it sound like mashed potatoes.”

I shrugged. His description was far yuckier than mine. “What did you order?” I asked.

“A meatball parmesan sub. I guess you’re getting a pie?”

“It’s about the only thing Sara will eat, after she scrapes off all the cheese, that is.”

“Tell you what. Let me get another pie, and I’ll follow you back to your house. We can eat first, then we’ll both go over your story. At least we’ll get a jump on next week’s headline.”

“Do I get the byline alone, or do I have to share?” I asked.

“You’re turning into a byline hog,” Ken told me. “Willy was the one who actually spotted the body from the plane. He got the pictures. You were just along for the ride.”

“But it’s
my
story,” I insisted.

Ken went to the counter to order an additional pie, while I entertained myself with thoughts of a Pulitzer. He was gone long enough for me to fantasize about a CNN interview. When he returned, he was carrying two pizza boxes and a long, white paper bag with his meatball sandwich tucked inside.

“I have to pay for my pizza,” I told him.

“I’ve got it covered,” he said.

The gesture made me all tingly inside. For most women, candlelight and fine wine with a tall, mysterious stud of a man spelled romance with a capital R. For me, it was the free food.

Ken followed me home and we set up the meal in the dining room. The kids came downstairs and had the decency to hide their shock at finding Ken Rhodes in our kitchen. He had been to the house before and knew where I kept the hard stuff. He grabbed a couple of ice cubes from the freezer and made himself a Scotch and water. Sara prepared a big salad and placed the bowl next to her paper plate and plastic cup, our usual mealtime tableware. She had enough manners to ask if anyone would care for some greens—a polite move that reminded me she
was
growing up, even if she didn’t behave that way much of the time.

Bobby transferred two large slices of pizza from the box to his plate. A boy after my own heart, he didn’t care who was sitting at the table. His main interest was the pizza. Ken offered Bobby a piece of his sub, which my son eagerly accepted and put on its own separate plate.

Sara took small bites of her slice, surprisingly with the cheese still on top, between forkfuls of salad. She appeared to be thinking something over. Ken Rhodes glanced my way, then back at my daughter. He obviously noticed it, too. I thought Sara might be feeling somewhat uncomfortable with a man who was not her father sitting at our table.

“Is anything wrong, honey?” I asked her, hoping she retained enough of the etiquette she had displayed earlier in the meal not to blurt out something insulting to our guest.

“Well, yeah. I actually wanted to ask Mr. Rhodes a question.”

Here it comes
, I thought.

“What do you want to know?” Ken asked her.

“I was thinking it’s only the end of September, and there’s already been two bodies found in the Harbor. Do you think there’s a chance two more will turn up before New Year’s Day?”

“Dear God!” I said, appalled.

Bobby laughed so hard he started to choke on his pizza. Ken jumped out of his chair and pounded Bobby on the back to help him get the food down. Sara looked totally dumbfounded, as though she had introduced a perfectly reasonable topic of conversation during a casual meal and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

“Drink this down, slugger,” Ken told Bobby, holding a plastic cup of diet soda up to his mouth and eyeing Sara with an amused half-smile.

“
What
?” Sara asked, annoyed.

“Was that an inside joke or something?” Ken wanted to know.

Sara’s question called for an explanation, one I hoped wouldn’t sound like my kids were raised in a gambling hall. “They started a pool at the high school,” I told him. “Sara’s friend is betting I’ll find two more stiffs before the end of the year. She’d rather win the bet herself, so she’s hoping that’s the last of the Tranquil Harbor body count.”

Bobby took the cup and drank the rest of the soda on his own. The choking incident hadn’t been enough to curb his appetite. He stood and reached inside the open box for another slice of pizza.

Ken returned to his chair and lifted out a slice for himself. “No, Sara, I think the body in the field is probably the last one your mother will find for a while. If you’ve bet on two as the final body count this year, you might want to up your ante.”

I glared at him.

“Oh, come on, Colleen!” Ken said. “You’re shocked that she’s betting on corpses? For God’s sake, anyone can tell this kid is you from head to toe.”

Bobby started laughing again, and Sara threw a wadded-up napkin at him. Ken smiled, and I found myself smiling, too.

The doorbell rang, but everyone was busy joking about stiffs and illegal wagering on a high school level. So I got up and answered the door.

“Sounds like a party in here,” my ex, Neil, said, standing in the open doorway and poking his head inside to take a look. It was obvious he didn’t much care for what he saw. “Mr. Macho, huh? How cozy! So now he’s got my kids, too? Why don’t you make him pay for the air and the furnace?”

9

I ushered Neil into the den, far enough away from Ken Rhodes and the kids for privacy, yet close enough for them to hear a loud commotion in case I lost all composure and beat the stuffing out of him.

“Have a seat, Neil,” I said, businesslike.