Makeovers Can Be Murder (12 page)

″And of course you were thinking I should pull up that other woman′s murder file,″ Luke said without looking up from his notes. ″You know, most pains in the ass aren′t as cute and charming as you, Kate. That′s your secret weapon.″

He tossed the pen on top of the notepad, then leaned back in his chair. ″But I can tell you right now that a cold-case murder in a ladies′ social club probably won′t pan out into anything,″ he said, cracking his knuckles. ″I′ll pull the Anaïs Loring file, but these two deaths have got
coincidence
written all over them. Besides. We have our prime suspect in jail. Antoine Hurley.″

That was fine by me. Even if Anaïs Loring′s death wound up as nothing more than an investigator′s footnote in Jana′s file, at least I′d have the satisfaction of knowing that I′d kicked over every stone.

Including the ones that the ″real″ investigators were ready to ignore.

Chapter 21

Lashes to Die For

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

Saturday morning I came groggily awake to the pile-driving beat of the alarm clock. I tried to escape by burying my head under a pillow, but then something began dragging a strip of sandpaper along the back of my hand. It was Elfie. Evidently she′d decided that I was in need of a cat bath, or maybe she was simply trying to see whether I was still alive.

″Hey there, kitty,″ I croaked.

What I really needed was a hot shower. Surrounding me was the detritus of a blowout binge from the night before—Snickers wrappers, an empty pint of Pralines ′n′ Cream, foil crumpoids of chocolate kisses—I′d spent the previous night in the sweet embrace of one of my worst sugar benders so far of the autumn. And it wasn′t even Halloween yet.

I struggled to open my eyes and found them glued together by sleep crystals that had formed overnight. That always happened in the wake of a massive intake of chocolate and high-fructose corn syrup. Let the Hollywood celebrities risk their lives with prescription drugs and worse. I preferred to take the edge off pain with pure, unadulterated sugar. If only I didn′t pay for my sins in poundage the next day. That was the killer.

I pried open my eyes with my fingers, then checked the messages on my cell phone. Four of the messages were from Jonathan.

″Oh, sure.
Now
you want to talk.″ A surge of anger flowed through my fingers. I autodeleted Jonathan′s messages without listening to them. Let him worry about what
I
was thinking for once.

In the wake of that feeble act of payback, the silence felt hollow. What had Jonathan wanted to say to me? What
was
there to say? He was married. Or at the very least, he had slept with his ex-wife. End of story.

After checking on Shaina—the head nurse informed me that she was going to be released later that day—I made a pot of coffee and toasted a bagel. I wound up ignoring the bagel. The eating frenzy of the night before had left me feeling stuffed. Sick, even.

I stepped on the bathroom scale. Despite my binge of the night before, I′d lost two pounds since the previous weekend, but even that news didn′t lift my spirits.

The Broken Heart Diet—boffo idea for a best-selling diet book
, I thought with grim satisfaction.
The cover will display a red heart, and your lover′s ex-wife will be driving a fork through it. And the ex-wife′s name will be Gi.

The only thing that could make the moment worse would be to get a call I′d been avoiding all week.

Right on schedule, the phone rang.

″Have you been watching CNN?″ My father′s voice came booming over the line.

″Not today, Dad.″

″I don′t want to tell you your business, Kate,″ Dad said. ″But CNN just ran a story about the possibility of earthquakes on the East Coast. Very close to where you are, in fact. Did you know that all the original homes in Charleston were built with earthquake bolts?″

″I didn′t know that,″ I said. ″But actually, Charleston′s not all that close to Durham. Different state. That′s South Carolina.″

″Still, it′s next door to you. And they had a huge shaker in 1866. I′m thinking that the entire Southeast needs to prepare for a major eight-point shaker. Your viewers should know about it. Do you have your earthquake kit prepared?″

″Uh, no.″

″That′s what I thought. I′m sending you one in the mail. It includes a windup solar radio. This way you′ll never be without a radio if the electricity goes out.″

Ever since he′d retired from his job as police captain, Dad had found a new career keeping me posted on every twist and turn of the national—and even international—news. He seemed to think that if there was any news breaking anywhere in the world, I needed to know about it instantly. He never seemed to quite distinguish—or care—about the lines that divide local, national, and international news. Every few months he asked me why he couldn′t see me on cable in Boston. It drove me batty.

″Well, thanks, Dad. I′ll—″

″Before I let you go, I want to know—have you had your blood pressure checked recently?″

″Yes. I had it checked at the pharmacy.″

″You know, you can′t rely on those pharmacy cuffs. You need to have your pressure taken by a qualified physician. Preferably by a cardiologist. ″

″A
cardiologist
? Dad, I′m only twenty-seven years old.″

″It′s never too soon to start tracking your health baselines. High blood pressure and stroke run in our family, you know.″

″I know. Okay, Dad, thanks.″

My dad had always been a worrywart about me, but recently his concern had gone off the Richter scale. A week didn′t go by when he didn′t mail me a copy of an article warning about some kind of potential disaster.

I was beginning to think it was time to try to get my dad set up with a lady friend, just for the distraction factor. In fact, I′d e-mailed him some links to articles about how to troll the romantic waters on the Internet. With his silver haired good looks and ″command presence,″ as they called it in the police world, my dad would be a surefire hit on Internet matchmak ing services like
eHarmony.com
. But my dad claimed to have no interest in dating—no one could ever rival my mother in his eyes, he always said.

Meanwhile, Dad must have homed in on something he′d heard in my voice. ″You sound like you′re under stress,″ he said. ″What′s going on? What′s wrong?″

″Nothing′s wrong,″ I said in a guarded tone.

″Yes, there is, but I know you won′t tell me. Well, I′m putting something else in the mail for you. Maybe it′ll help with whatever′s worrying you.″

″Nothing′s worrying me. What are you sending? ″

″Just a little something for your personal protection. It′s high time you graduated from that pocketknife you carry around on your keychain. I′ve been telling you that for years.″

″It′s not a gun, is it?″ I asked, wincing. ″Be cause you know I won′t carry a firearm.″

″Of course not. And anyway, sending a gun through the mail would violate federal regulations. ″

What a relief. The Second Amendment is my dad′s favorite passage in the Constitution. In his opinion Switzerland—a nation with an unusually high per capita gun ownership rate—has the right idea for preventing crime.

Blow off their buns when they come through your door and they won′t come back
is one of his favorite sayings.

″What are you sending, then?″ I asked.

″You′ll just have to wait and see, won′t you?″

 

Next, I set off on a sad mission.

Trish had left a message letting me know that I could pick up Jana′s purse from her house. Trish and her husband were still out of town, but she said her son would be at the house to give me the purse.

I′d never heard anything back from Luke about Jana′s purse. Maybe he didn′t think the purse was relevant to the case against their murder suspect, Antoine Hurley. So I guessed it was okay if I went ahead and picked it up. Luke had made it abundantly clear that he thought I obsessed about minor details. Maybe you didn′t do that if you were a homicide detective.

In the midmorning light, Trish′s sprawling colonial home was larger and even more impressive than I remembered from the Newbodies meeting on Tuesday night.

When I rang the front doorbell, no one answered for a long while. I rang a couple more times before hearing a stirring deep within.

Chaz Putnam opened the door. He was wearing the same flannel shirt he′d had on the night of the Newbodies party. The shirt was even grimier than it had been on Tuesday night.

Chaz stood framed in the doorway, swaying slightly.

″Kate Gallagher, right?″ he said.

When I nodded, he made a low, sweeping bow. ″Channel Twelve News,″ he said. ″I′m
honored
.″

The treacly-herbal smell I remembered from the other night was rolling off him in waves again. Pot. It was only ten a.m.—even for a young slacker that seemed early to be flying high.

″Are you okay, Chaz?″ I asked him.

″
Oh
, yeah.″ Raising two fingers to his lips as if he were taking a hit off a joint, he said, ″Nothing like a morning drag to take the edge off. But don′t tell my mom, okay?″

When I shrugged, he grinned. ″C′mon in, then,″ he said. ″The purse is in the kitchen.″

I followed Chaz into the Putnams′ kitchen, which turned out to be larger than my entire apartment. Jana′s bag was resting on top of a round table in a breakfast nook.

We stood silently for a moment, staring at the purse. It looked unspeakably sad all by itself in the middle of the clean white table.

″I heard about what happened to that lady,″ Chaz said, shooting a sideways glance at me. ″That was too bad. But they caught the guy who did it, right?″

″So the police say.″

I started to reach for the bag, then hesitated. ″By the way,″ I said. ″Have the homicide detectives called here asking about this purse?″

″Have the police called
here
?″ Underneath a layer of stubble, Chaz′s skin turned ashen. ″No. Why would they?″

″I told the detective in charge of the investigation that Jana left it here the night of your mom′s meeting,″ I said. ″I was just wondering whether they wanted to pick it up themselves.″ Reaching for my cell phone, I added, ″I′ll just call them to check before I take it.″

Before my fingers could touch the keypad, I felt a sharp blow on my wrist.

The cell phone dropped from my hand and went spinning across the kitchen′s hardwood floor.

Chapter 22

Keep the Raccoons Away

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

″Are you out of your
mind
?″ Chaz′s eyes loomed large and spooky looking in my face as he asked the question—he must have knocked the cell phone out of my hand.

Without waiting for a reply, he hissed, ″I′ve got pot and servers in my room. And you want to bring cops over
here
?″

I rubbed my wrist, which hurt like hell. He must′ve hit me with one heck of a blow. It seemed like an overreaction.

″Jesus Christ, Chaz,″ I said. ″I was calling homicide detectives, not the narcs. They′re conducting a murder investigation. They′re not looking for pot or a couple of bongs in your room. Is that what you mean by ′servers′?″

″No,″ he said, his tone exasperated. ″Servers are computers.″

″Oh, right,″ I said, feeling like a Luddite. ″Why are you worried about the police seeing your computers?″

″I′m not, but I certainly don′t need cops poking their noses in my business right now. The second you let them in, all hell can break loose.″

Thrusting Jana′s purse at me, he said, ″Just take this stupid hag bag and go away.″

He was shaking; sweat was trickling down from his temples toward his chin. He looked like someone who could easily launch into another attack at any second.

I picked up my phone from the floor. Carefully sliding it into my pants pocket, I kept my gaze focused on Chaz.

″No problem, Chaz,″ I said.

Hugging Jana′s purse close to me, I wheeled around.

Then I left as fast as I could.

 

After leaving the Putnam house, I spent the rest of the morning at the Channel Twelve studios. Things there got off to a rip-roaring start with a Lainey encounter.

The instant I set foot inside the newsroom, Lainey planted herself in front of me, armed with her trademark faux-friendly smile. She wore her blond hair curved off her face in a power lift; somehow it managed to stay aloft without visible bobby pinnage.

″Hi, Kate. Let′s talk,″ she said, touching my arm.

″What is it, Lainey?″

″I′m supposed to work with Frank today,″ she said. ″But for some reason, he′s assigned to you on the whiteboard.″ Lainey′s tone made it sound as if I′d swiped her PowerBar.

Glancing up at the assignment board, I saw Frank′s name written next to mine. In two hours we were supposed to shoot the first installment of my series about weight-loss scams—the dreaded bikini story. And here I was, still bikiniless.

″Right you are. And actually I′m running behind, so I′m busy right now,″ I said, trying to step around her.