Blind dates can be murde.., p.6
Blind Dates Can Be Murder, page 6
Today, however, it was a little tough to relax. As he unloaded the camera equipment and set up his tripod, he kept trying to imagine Jo’s reaction when he told her the big news about his photo being in a movie poster. Would she scream? Get tears in her eyes? Tell him she knew he’d had it in him all along? To be honest, telling Jo was going to be as exciting as the moment when he learned about it himself. She’d always been there for him, from the time when he was a kid with his first camera, to college when he spent hours in the lab perfecting his printing techniques, to the years after college when he kept thinking his big break was around the corner. Jo had always encouraged him, and now her optimism had finally paid off.
Finally, he had gotten his big break.
“I need a volunteer,” Jo said, scanning the crowd. A few raised their hands, so she pointed to a large fellow in the second row.
He stepped forward, and Jo reached out to shake his hand.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“You can call me CJ.”
“Okay, CJ, here’s what I need you to do.” She gestured toward a nearby table, where she had stacked a variety of linens, bedspreads, and comforters. Then she pointed toward another table, which was empty. “I want you to pretend that table is a bed and that it’s time to make the bed. Choose anything you’d like from this selection of coverings. And don’t try to impress us. Just do about as good a job here as you usually do at home.”
“Okay,” CJ said, “but that’s assuming I ever make my bed at home.”
The audience chuckled.
“I’m sure you have made a bed at some point in the past,” Jo replied, smiling.
“Sure,” he said, heading for the linens.
“The point of this exercise,” she told the class, “is not to teach you the proper way to make a bed. We’ve all been shown that before, right?”
Small murmurs, nodding heads, and rolling eyes were her answer. From what Jo had seen, there was nothing messy people hated more than being taught, yet again, the “right” way to do any sort of housekeeping.
“No,” Jo continued, “I’m here to show you that if you are a naturally messy person, you are probably never going to conquer bed making in the conventional sense. That’s why the single most important step in making your bed isn’t tucking in the sheet or smoothing out the pillowcase—it’s choosing the proper bedding materials in the first place.”
She glanced at CJ, who had finished putting on a bottom sheet and was now struggling with the top sheet.
“Let’s face it, if you’re not a natural at this stuff, your sheets will always be wrinkled. Your pillows will always look messy. Your goal should be to choose the biggest, thickest comforter you can find—but not one speck bigger than what will fit in your washing machine. That way you can clean it periodically, but in the meantime, the thickness of the padding will hide the messy bedding underneath.”
“Okay,” CJ said finally, and it was obvious that he hadn’t been listening to her. He had ignored all of the comforters and instead chosen the thinnest bedspread on the table, which he had spread over the blanket and pillow. “I’m done.”
Jo approached the finished bed, wondering if she had ever seen such a mess.
“I think it’s safe to say,” she quipped, studying his lumpy handiwork, “that CJ was never in the military.”
Lettie took the exit for Mulberry Glen and soon found herself driving down a series of charming tree-lined streets. The homes weren’t big here, but there was something appealing about them with their well-tended yards and mature landscaping and the occasional stone fence. Mulberry Glen looked like the kind of place where people put down roots, where they played Frisbee in the park and joined the PTA and had tea socials after church on Sundays.
It looked like the kind of town Lettie had fantasized about when she was a child, living with her parents near Philadelphia in a tiny apartment attached to a dry cleaner, across from a Chinese restaurant. Their apartment always smelled like a mix of Lo Mein and cleaner fluid, and the sounds of the pressing machines would hiss through the walls from early in the morning until late into the night. Sometimes Lettie would lie in bed making little foil animals and imagine living somewhere beautiful, somewhere green and abundant and friendly. Somewhere like here.
“Maybe in Tegucigalpa,” she said out loud, making a promise to herself that she knew might not be true. If only she didn’t have to become a fugitive from her own country, all because of Chuck.
All because of Chuck, she repeated to herself as she found the place she was looking for in the downtown area and turned into the parking lot. Dates&Mates. For someone whose life had always been messed up because of one man or another, she found the thought of a dating service incredibly depressing. As far as Lettie was concerned, life was much more peaceful and safe and quiet without any social interaction at all—especially not with the opposite sex. She knew there were some good guys out there, but the men in her life had never brought her anything but misery and pain. That had been her sister’s experience too.
Still, Lettie had a job to do, and if that meant working in a dating service—or signing up with it as a client—she was willing, as long as she didn’t actually have to go out on any dates. She’d do what Mickey had asked her to do, and when she was done, she’d take her money and run.
And run and run and run.
5
Chuck Smith sat with the phone in his hands, staring through thick glass at his lawyer. The attorney was smiling, and despite the fact that he was locked up behind bars, Chuck began to smile too.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Chuck said, gripping the receiver tightly. “Are you sure?”
“They fixed their mistake. That means you’ll be out on Monday.”
Chuck sat back, his mind reeling. He was jamming out twenty-one days early? All because three years ago some stupid clerk forgot to credit him for part of the time served prior to his conviction?
He couldn’t believe it. For three years he had been counting the days until he was released. Now his lawyer had brought him the gift of almost an extra month, a month Chuck had been insisting he was owed all along.
“I want to sue the judge for the mental anguish of thinking I’d have to serve that extra time,” Chuck said. “I been saying all along that they calculated my sentence wrong.”
The lawyer’s lips pinched together tightly.
“The prison calculates your time, Chuck, not the courts. Give it up and go home. They make sentencing adjustments all the time.”
Once the lawyer was gone, a corrections officer led Chuck back through processing. As Chuck stripped for the mandatory cavity check, his mind was filled with the implications of what this meant.
He was getting out on Monday!
“Mouth,” the C.O. said once Chuck was naked and had taken his place on the green footprints that were painted on the floor.
Chuck opened his mouth so the C.O. could check inside for hidden contraband. Cavity search was always required after a visit, even a visit from a lawyer. The C.O. finished with his mouth and checked his ears before going around back.
“Hands to the floor.”
Chuck placed his hands on the green painted handprints, blanking out his mind as he always did, thinking about the fact that he had done his time the hardest way possible, as his own man, without joining a gang or becoming anybody’s victim.
He had been on alert, day and night, for three years.
For three years, he had avoided being killed or raped or set up by his fellow inmates. He had avoided offending some brain-dead Scarp or Blood or Mack Gangster Disciple. He had avoided getting caught up in the neo-Nazi, white pride machine. No one had taken offense at anything he said or did, or didn’t say or do. He had dodged the bullet all day, every day.
“Clear,” the C.O. said, pulling off his gloves. “You can get dressed.”
Chuck pulled on his prison uniform, thinking about how he had done all of this in spite of being sleep deprived every single night, in spite of not being able to know whom to trust, in spite of being at the mercy of the C.O.s—who were sometimes stand-up guys, sometimes not.
He was led to the yard, outside, where the guys in his dorm were getting their daily hour and a half of fresh air. The exercise area was enclosed by concrete walls on all four sides, and the ground was bare dirt with a few weeds but no grass. Up above, at least, was sunshine. Blessed sunshine. Yard time was the best part of Chuck’s day.
As usual, Finch the Pinch was tossing homemade dice in the corner, and Wheels and the gang were at the other end of the bare yard, arm wrestling for cigarettes. There was always an air of agitation and stress when the men were out together. Chuck lived it. He was used to it. But he’d be so glad to be done with it.
“Hey, XP,” Wheels called to Chuck. “How bout a round for store credit? Just you and me?”
Chuck swallowed down his excitement, deep down, plucking a tall weed which he clinched between his teeth. Slowly, he sauntered toward Wheels and the guys that surrounded him.
He wanted to tell them that he was getting out on Monday, but he didn’t dare. Someone might decide to make his last night or two in the joint memorable in more ways than one.
“No, thanks. I’m not feeling too good,” Chuck said, sitting on the dirt, his back against the concrete. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the sun pour down across his face.
The day Chuck was transferred to this housing unit, the guys in his tier had nicknamed him “XP,” which was short for explosives. They had seen him on television after the bombing. They had known who he was before he ever said a word. Back then, his sentence had stretched out in front of him like an eternity. Now he had reached the end.
Monday. He’d be out on Monday.
As he tuned out the constant noise that surrounded him, Chuck thought about what he might do first, once he was free. He had some business to tend to, but first he wanted a drink of really good Scotch. He wanted a big steak, maybe prime rib.
Most of all, though, he wanted to find his wife, Lettie, and make up for lost time.
Class ended promptly at noon, but at least a third of the students clustered around Jo once it was done. They had questions and compliments, and clearly they had been pleased. Jo was happy; she had done a good job, and her students seemed eager to get home and put some of her ideas and suggestions to work.
The group dwindled down until there was only one person left, a man in his late forties with silver hair and a dignified air. He stood ramrod straight, and though he wore the casual garb of polo shirt and khaki pants, his mannerisms were stiff and formal.
“Miss Tulip?” he asked, stepping toward her.
“Yes?”
“Peter Trumble,” he said, holding out a hand to shake hers. “I genuinely enjoyed your class.”
“Thank you. I hope you’ll be back next week.”
“Actually, I was wondering if we could talk. I have a business proposition for you. Do you have a moment?”
Jo glanced at her watch, trying to calculate how much time she would need to freshen up for her lunch date. Before she could reply, Peter Trumble pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to her.
“I’m currently renovating a home out in the country about halfway between here and Moore City,” he said as she studied his card, which identified him as Peter Trumble, CPCU, ARM, ALCM, CIC—whatever all of that was—and, underneath his name, Risk Management Consulting. “To be honest, I am of the opinion that some of your cleaning methods might be incorporated in my renovation. I’m wondering if you might be willing to do a bit of consulting for me.”
So the consultant wanted to hire her as a consultant. Though she often pursued such opportunities, with all she had going on she simply didn’t have time.
“Mr. Trumble,” she replied, handing him back his card, “while I’m flattered that you’ve asked, I’m going to have to decline. Currently, I’m not doing any consulting. I’m just too busy.”
His mouth formed a straight line, and Jo had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t used to hearing the word no.
“You weren’t too busy to teach this class,” he said. “I’m sure I can pay you much more than you’re earning here.”
“To be honest, I’m only teaching this class because it’s not an end in itself. I’m using it as the basis for some theories I have about cleaning. I’m working on a book, and I thought that teaching might allow me to explore some of my ideas, get some feedback, and generally clarify my thoughts.”
“Wouldn’t consulting for me serve the same end? I want you to help me design a ‘clean house’—a house that practically cleans itself, if you will. I’ve already looked at self-cleaning windows and antibacterial counter surfaces. But I’m sure there’s much more new technology out there that I simply haven’t learned about yet.”
Jo’s resolve began to waver. She, too, had been reading about self-cleaning glass and antibacterial counters—and she was fascinated by the latest and greatest products for more effortless home care.
“It might help if you could see my home,” he added, reaching into a pocket. He produced some snapshots and gave them to Jo. She went through them, impressed at the beauty of the place. He wasn’t just renovating a home; he was creating a showpiece.
“No disrespect,” she said, gesturing toward the photos, “but with a gorgeous home like this, it seems to me you can well afford a maid. Why would you bother with my little ideas for keeping a house clean?”
He hesitated before carefully taking the photos from her and slipping them back into his pocket.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m not as wealthy as it may appear. I’ve been saving for my dream home for years, and I’ve done a lot of the work on the house myself. It’s a labor of love. Once I heard you speaking today, I realized that the expertise you offer is exactly what I need to make my house complete. I’m prepared to pay whatever you think is fair for your time, say a hundred dollars an hour?”
Jo hesitated. She hated to turn down that kind of money for something that was right in line with what she was doing anyway.
“It does sound like an interesting project,” she said. “Maybe I could find some way to make this work.”
Lettie was impressed with the Dates&Mates facility. The place was huge, with a large reception desk that curved through an inviting lobby. The place was milling with people, and though Lettie would have expected them all to be young and beautiful, in fact they were of all sizes, shapes, colors, and ages. It seemed that loneliness knew no bounds—and that using a dating service was the new way to find a companion.
Almost on tiptoe, Lettie made her way to the counter and asked the perky lady who greeted her if they were hiring.
“We sure are,” the lady said with a smile. “Would you like to apply?”
“Yes. I do secretarial, computer—”
Before Lettie could even list her qualifications, the woman cut her off with a wave.
“Save it for the application, hon,” she said, handing over the form. “I’m just the traffic director.”
Lettie uttered a small thank-you, taking the proffered form.
Then she found a quiet corner, sat, and began filling in the blanks.
“All right, here’s my offer,” Jo said to Peter Trumble. “I’ll consider taking the consulting job, but only if I would be allowed to photograph what we do there—and use the photos on my website and in my book. I won’t have to say who the house belongs to or where it is, but I would need to utilize it on a larger scale to justify my time and effort.”
“Sounds fair,” he said. “As long as you can get started right away. I don’t want to delay.”
They made an appointment for that afternoon at 4:00 so she could look at his home and get an idea of what would be involved. She would make her final decision once she had seen the house firsthand.
“I’ll bring my photographer,” Jo said, hoping Danny was free. After last night’s danger, she wasn’t going anywhere new by herself, not even to the fancy home of an affluent consultant.
“Sounds fine,” he told her. “I’ll see if I can get my architect to drop by as well.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary at this point.”
Peter smiled. “Well, she’s also my girlfriend. She’ll want to be included.”
Jo returned his smile.
“I understand.”
As he wrote out the directions to his home and explained them, Jo found herself warming to him slightly. He seemed like an okay guy, if a little stiff.
They shook hands and parted ways, and with ten minutes to spare before she was to meet her date, Jo made a beeline for the restroom. Once there, she quickly touched up her makeup and hair and checked the lines of her skirt. She was dressed more professionally than the night before, but she was still pleased with the overall effect. Now that Brock Dentyne was more than just a name, she wanted to look nice for him.
Just by virtue of the way God made him, he certainly would look nice for her!
Danny was in a sitting when his cell phone rang. Startled, he realized that he had been so caught up in his work that he had lost track of time—and he almost missed catching Jo after her class. Fortunately, she was the one who was calling.
“Excuse me a minute,” he told the man who was posed and waiting for his picture to be taken. “This is important.” Crossing the room, he pressed the button and spoke into the phone. “Jo?”
“Hey. You busy this afternoon?”
“Not necessarily. I was hoping—”
He was about to say that he was hoping he and Jo could go somewhere to celebrate some big news, but before he could even get the words out, she cut him off.
“Great. Listen, you know how we talked about you being the photographer for my book on housekeeping? It’s kind of a long story, and I don’t have time to go into it right now, but I made an appointment for us at four to go to this guy’s house out in the country.”
