The Trouble with Tulip (7 page)

“We've canvassed the whole neighborhood,” the chief replied, “and no one else heard the fight or saw anyone coming or going. From what I can tell, Edna Pratt was just your typical sixty-year-old woman. Lived in a modest house, belonged to a few women's groups, kept up her health with a daily swim.”

“What about assets? Insurance?”

“Nothing special going on there. She was widowed six years ago and living on her late husband's pension and social security. According to the next-door neighbor, Pratt kept her hedges trimmed, watered her flowers, and lived a nice quiet life. Frankly, I'm a little stumped as to who might have been arguing with her, much less why someone would want to kill her. She didn't seem to have any enemies.”

“Does she have relatives in the area? Maybe it was a family squabble.”

“One daughter, but she lives in Texas. I just talked to her a few minutes ago.”

“Is she coming up?”

“Flying in tomorrow morning. She's a politician smack in the middle of an election, so I get the impression the timing of this was a little inconvenient for her.”

Danny looked at the chief, one eyebrow raised.

“A mother's death? Inconvenient?”

The chief shrugged.

“Let's wait for the autopsy before we go speculating about people's character. In the meantime, how 'bout we cut you a check for these pictures?”

Chief Cooper pushed out his chair, stood, and led Danny to the desk of the man who handled the money. Danny was glad to get it, as his bank account was already groaning from the strain of this month's bills. His wedding gift to Jo and Bradford was the deluxe bridal photography package, and he needed to pick up some supplies.

As the guy loaded the information about Danny's fee into his computer, Danny looked around the small station, a little depressed at the thought that he was twenty-eight years old and he was still having to supplement his meager income with jobs like this one.

“Sure was nice of you to get all dressed up just to deliver these,” the chief teased, tearing Danny from his thoughts. “You weren't hoping to run into a certain female cop, by any chance, were you? Maybe show her you clean up good? You even got the shaggy hair under control.”

“Actually, getting the pictures printed took longer than I expected, so I had to go ahead and get dressed for Jo's wedding. I'll be driving straight from here to the church.”

“Uh-huh,” Chief Cooper said, obviously not buying it. “Don't worry, you're like a walking magnet. If she's here, she'll find you.”

“I don't
want
her to find me. Listen, Chief, what you said earlier today, about working my way through the eligible women in town, did you really mean that? Do I have that…reputation?”

The chief laughed, slapping his hand on a chair.

“Nah, I was just kidding. But you do seem to have more than your share of dates. Every time I see you, you're with a different gal.”

Danny ran a hand over his chin and exhaled slowly, not sure why this conversation bothered him so much.

“Well, for what it's worth, I'm always a gentleman,” he said at last. “But maybe I do have a hard time narrowing things down a bit.”

“You draw women like flies to a picnic, that's all I know. Though for the life of me, I can't figure out why. I guess it's that starving artist thing you got going on, the creative soul and everything—not to mention that you're a musician on the side. Some women really go for that stuff.”

Before Danny could reply, a nearby printer sprang to life and started spitting out a check.

“Hey, speaking of being a starving artist,” the chief continued as he tore the margins from Danny's check, “didn't I hear that you were gonna be a photographer for
National Geographic
or
Scene It
magazine? Whatever happened with that?”

“Nothing yet,” Danny replied as he took the proffered check and slid it into his pocket. “I've just got big dreams in a very competitive field. I'm still trying to break in.”

“Well, good luck with it. Maybe you should call Ranger Rick himself. Think there is such a fellow?”

Reading the “entry form,” Simon saw that the woman lived at 563 West Chambers. The stupid city map had cost him five bucks in the mini-mart, but at least he had been able to easily find the address. As he pulled up the quiet, tree-lined street and turned into her driveway, he was glad he had ditched the red jacket ahead of time. He was much less conspicuous in just the shirt and pants.

He calmly parked the Caddy, got out, and strolled to the back door. Then, discreetly trying several keys on her ring, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

He had to work fast, so he started with a quick walk-through, checking each room for small valuables. The woman was obviously moneyed, and she had exquisite taste in Chinese porcelain. If he had more time and a local fence, he might have helped himself to a few of her vases.

No time or opportunity for that, though. Simon didn't like outright thievery, except when it was absolutely necessary. In his own personal code of ethics, stealing was wrong. Cons, on the other hand, were different. After all, a key ingredient to every con was the greed of the mark. They brought it on themselves—and usually deserved whatever they got.
Still, desperate times call for desperate measures
. Considering all that Edna had said to him yesterday, these were indeed desperate times! He needed to find the woman's stash of cash, something she was sure to have around somewhere. Old biddies like her always did. Simon searched all of the usual spots, finally finding a wad of money in one of the dress purses on a shelf in her closet. He took it without counting it, certain that it added up to at least several hundred dollars.

The woman's jewelry box was also in the closet, and he slid it out, put it on the bed, and opened it. Though there weren't any precious jewels there, she did have several substantial gold items, including a very chunky bracelet. Perfect.

Simon pocketed the best of the lot and put the box back on the shelf. His final stop was the bedside table drawer, and then the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Old ladies were always suffering aches and pains, and he thought he might score a bottle of prescription painkillers, which were always good for a quick sale. No dice, though. All he found were Advil and a bottle of blood pressure medicine.

After that, he was ready to fly. Without missing a beat, he got out of the house, into the car, and within minutes was back on the main road, no one the wiser.

The Caddy was so nice he toyed briefly with keeping it and driving himself to Florida. But that would be asking for trouble, as he was sure to get spotted on the interstate and brought in by the police.

Instead, he drove to a parking lot near the original place he had acquired the car. Finding a spot on the end, he gathered his belongings, tossed the keys under the mat, and locked the door.

His knocked-over valet sign was still there on the side of the road, lying flat in the grass. He scooped it up and kept walking, first to get his suitcase from the bushes behind the gas station and then three blocks over to the bus stop.

He caught a bus to the main station in Washington, D.C., just to confuse any trail the cops might be following. In D.C. he could get lost in the crowd and buy another ticket there for the rest of the way to Florida.

Simon didn't count the cash until he was on the bus, in the last row, with no one around to observe him. Much to his excitement, he saw that he had scored a little more than twelve hundred dollars. Twelve hundred dollars!

Simon tucked the money away, leaned back in his seat, and grinned. His father had taught him years ago how to land on his feet.

Now it looked as though that was exactly what he had done.

6

W
e're here,” Helen said, peering out of the window of the limousine as they pulled to a stop in front of the church.

Between the salon visit and getting dressed for the wedding, Jo, her mother, and her bridesmaids had made up for the morning's lost time by forgoing the leisurely lunch they had planned and grabbing some quick sandwiches instead. Now it was 1:00
P.M
., exactly one hour until the ceremony was slated to begin. They were back on schedule.

Too bad all Jo could think about was the investigation into Edna Pratt's murder. She was dying to talk to Danny and find out what he knew. Though her girlfriends might think her morbid for worrying about this on her wedding day, she couldn't help it. Her mind was filled with the image of poor Edna Pratt sprawled out on the floor with cucumber on her face and tomato in her hair.

“Ladies?” the handsome limo driver said as he opened the door with a flourish.

They climbed out one at a time—the bridesmaids, the flower girl, Helen, Marie, and then Jo. Though the driver held out a hand to assist Jo, he only had eyes for Marie.

Jo stepped forward and heard the rip before she felt it, a slick sliding of metal against fabric followed by a distinct tug at her waist. She froze, knowing immediately what had happened: The guy had closed the car door on her wedding gown.

“No!” Helen cried, and when Jo carefully turned to see, sure enough, the train of her dress was caught in the closed door of the limo, a torn piece of lace drifting to the ground beneath it like a feather. Marie looked from the dress to Jo and then burst into tears.

“Oh, no!” Marie wailed. “That was my fault. I'm so sorry!”

“No, I'm sorry,” the driver said. “I wasn't paying attention.”

Everyone sprang into action, quickly opening the car door, pulling out the fabric, and assessing the damage. The tear was significant, but Jo was more worried for Marie, whose sobs were escalating.

“You idiot, look what you've done! It's ruined!” Helen screamed, bending down to finger the layers of linen and netting, each of which sported about a six-inch gash. A line of black grease ran along the top of the tear.

“Let it drape,” one of the bridesmaids said. “Maybe it won't show.”

Jo just stood there while the women fussed about her, trying to see what could be done. As they did, Jo reached out to the sobbing Marie and placed a hand on her arm.

“Marie,” Jo said softly, and then again, more loudly. “Marie! It's okay. We can fix it. Stop crying.”

“We can't fix it! It's ruined!”

“She's right. It's ruined,” Helen pronounced, straightening up.

“It's pretty bad,” the driver said. “You'll either have to go down the aisle like that or cut the whole dress off just above the tear.”

Marie clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Marie!” Jo said, focusing in on her. “Look who we're talking about here. It's me. Jo Tulip. Has there ever been
anything
I can't fix?”

Slowly, Marie's eyes widened. She shook her head from side to side.

“That's right,” Jo continued calmly, glancing up at the clock tower of the stately white church. “We've got fifty-eight minutes before the wedding starts. Plenty of time to repair the damage that's been done.”

Helen pursed her lips.

“Jo, you've got two layers of fabric here, with a grease stain on ripped linen and torn netting. I know you're the Smart Chick and all that, but this'll take a miracle.”

“No, it won't,” Jo said, holding up her fingers and then counting off. “It'll just take an egg, an iron, a bottle of clear nail polish, a toothbrush, and some corn meal.”