Bubbles Ablaze (17 page)

“Mr. Salvo! I hardly think a millionaire like Hugh McMullen needs to be paid off.”

“Just don't let it go to your head. Journalism is like baseball. You get a streak where all you can hit are homers and then you spend the rest of the summer on the bench. Speaking of which . . .” There was shuffling from his end. “Looks like I will be sending you to the Catasauqua Republicans' barbecue after all. You should make advance calls before Sunday. Find out if one of those Heinz politicos is gonna stage a surprise appearance.”

My headache was returning because of the CO. Either that or the GOP. I couldn't imagine spending a crisp, fall Sunday afternoon interviewing Republicans with rib sauce on their chins and Michelob on their breath, spouting off about school choice and flag burning.

“By the way,” Salvo added. His mood was improving. “You happen to see the
New York Times
Style section?”

“They do a feature on the new Frederick's of Hollywood fall collection?”

“That'll be the day. No, I'm talking about the pictures of Stiletto and Esmeralda Greene at that society party.”

Genevieve had walked over a spot on the floor that caused the dowsing rods to part and swing madly. Everyone was out of their chairs and running to the basement to see what was below. There were shouts about some incredible discovery and calls for me to join them.

“Oh?” I affected a devil-may-care tone. “What about Stiletto and Esmeralda Greene?”

“Whoa, man, that Esmeralda Greene is gor-gee-ous. You know, you work with the wire reporters for years and you never know what they look like 'cause your only contact with them is over the phone. If I were Stiletto, I'd be . . .”

“What?” I clicked my Bic. “What would you be?”

“Christ. Don't tell me you're still after him.”

“I'm not after anyone, Mr. Salvo.”

“Listen. What did I tell you the first day you went out on assignment with Stiletto? Steer clear. He's a playboy, Bubbles. He's been that way since we were teenagers and I don't think that after
twenty years of women throwing themselves at him, he's going to change. Why should he? He's living the kind of life the rest of us schmoes can only dream of.”

I thought about this, clicking my Bic rapidly. “Bruce Springsteen settled down. He used to run around with lots of women and now all he wants to do is hang out with Patty Scialfa and the kids.”

“Patty's from Jersey. You don't mess around on Jersey girls. They're too tough. I'm sorry, Bubbles, but being from Pennsylvania, you're no match. You're just too damned nice to keep a man by hinting at physical retaliation.”

Mama's Homemade Glycerin Rose Soap

There is nothing more satisfying to make and use than homemade glycerin soap. And it has never been easier to make, thanks to all the wonderful products found in craft shops. Mama used to save old soap pieces, melt them down in a double boiler, and mush them together for one usable soap bar. But this method is faster and prettier. So pretty you can give the soaps as gifts, scenting them with rose, citrus or lavender and filling them with dried flowers, oatmeal or even—for kids—plastic bugs. Enjoy!

1 eight-ounce bar of glycerin
*
2 drops of red or purple color formulated for dying soaps
*
10 drops of rose perfume
*
2 plastic ice cube trays
Spray nonstick coating

Spray ice cube trays with nonstick coating. Cut glycerin into chunks and put chunks in microwave-safe bowl. Heat at 80
percent power for one minute. Check and heat at same power level in 10-second increments until all is melted. Stir in color and perfume, adding more depending on your preference. Pour into trays. This is the time to stir in dried rose petals or oatmeal or to drop in tiny plastic items for kids. (Kids are supposed to use the hardened soap all up to get to the plastic bug, etc. But mostly they dig it out with their fingers. Don't let babies who might put objects into their mouths use this.)

Remove from trays in two hours and let sit for six hours more. Wrap with ribbons and give as gifts!

I
made a couple of calls before I wrote the twelve-inch story on “Hugh McMullen: Murder Suspect.” One of the calls was to Chief Donohue.

Donohue confirmed that Hugh McMullen was a “person of interest, though not a suspect at this time.” What was this “person of interest” stuff? He declined to comment on the Smith & Wesson or the Smith & Wesson bullet found in Price's body and he mumbled something about reporters knowing too much too soon and screwing everything up. I called in the story to Mr. Salvo with the caveat that I would add a response from Chrissy Price when I spoke to her.

I was a little early to meet with Chrissy, so I thought I'd pay a surprise “guess what? I survived the kiln” visit to Hugh McMullen at the inn.

Now, I've read in certain women's magazines that to be treated like a professional, a career girl has to dress like a professional. Charcoal, black or navy suits. Sensible, expensive shoes. A tasteful scarf, perhaps. Discreet gold earrings and nail polish of a neutral color.

Then again, that depends on the profession.

I sauntered up to the counter in my beige leatherette miniskirt, my bare, smoothly shaven legs, red pumps and a black tank sweater that was so tight you could make out my internal organs. Leaning invitingly and, okay, I was putting on the slut, revealingly, over the front counter, I asked the white-suited clerk with the yellow bow tie if he could direct me to Mr. McMullen's room.

“Oh, aren't you adorable.” He bit the end of his pen. “Don't tell me, let me guess. You're a reporter trying to pass as a quote-unquote lady of the night.”

“No, I'm, I'm . . .”

“Speechless, I know.” The clerk flapped his hand. “Honey, if you only knew how many reporters have tried that shtick. We had George Hamilton stay here last week doing dinner theater and twice the food editor of the local rag walked in wearing ‘come fun me' shoes and . . . Well, let me just stress that this woman was the food editor. Two-hundred-fifty-pounds on spiked mules is not an appetizing sight. I've been served escargot that was more attractive.”

I was crestfallen. I was so certain I looked like a bona fide hooker. Where had I gone wrong?

“Buck up,” he said. “I had an unfair advantage. Mr. McMullen left the building for dinner an hour ago. I wouldn't have let you up to his room, anyway.”

“Ahhh.”

“Now run along,” he said, “it's still early. I've got many more members of the press to fend off after you.”

Down, but not out, I walked over to a map by the elevator to locate Room 500, the temporary residence of Chrissy Price. I had just found the spot when I heard someone behind me say, “Bubbles? Is that you?”

Myron Finkle, my short, curly-headed friend from the
Slagville Sentinel
, stood behind me holding a Diet Pepsi and looking glum.

“Hi, Myron, what are you doing here?”

“Babysitting the Price story. I'm supposed to hang around on this, a Friday night, and watch who goes in, who goes out. It totally sucks. No wonder I don't have a social life.” He took me in from head to toe. “What are you doing?”

To tell Myron that I was on my way to an exclusive interview with Chrissy Price would have been cruel and unusual treatment of a cub reporter. “Thought I'd take a shot at McMullen,” I
jerked my thumb to the clerk, “though Mr. Bald Spot wouldn't tell me what room he's in.”

“No problemo.” Myron took a sip of Diet Pepsi. “He's right under the Prices. Room 400, Tower Two. I practically live there. Or, rather, the hallway outside his door. I once counted the carpet stains, I got so bored hanging around. I'll show you where to go.”

He led me by the elbow to two elevators. “I use the second one. It's faster.”

“So,” I said after the door closed, “how many carpet stains are there?”

“Six.” Myron raised his eyebrows. “And one's mustard.”

The elevators opened on floor four. “This way,” Myron said, leading me through the maze of hallways. “It took me an hour to find his room. Whoever designed this place must've been a rat.”

“Kinda funny how he's right under Chrissy Price.”

“Hugh wouldn't have to stay in a hotel if he hadn't sold the family mansion here last year. Supposedly he didn't want it because he spent most of his time back in Pittsburgh. But I'd heard he'd been having serious financial problems. He unloaded it for less than its tax-assessed value.”

Room 400 was at the end of the hall and private. Myron rapped on the door.

“Sounds like voices,” I whispered.

“CNN,” Myron said. “It's on all the time. I don't know how room service gets through. He never answers his door.”

This time I tried knocking, hard. Still no answer. I checked my Timex. Shoot. It was 8:05. Chrissy Price was probably wondering where I was. Maybe she only had a few minutes to spare and I was blowing my Big Break. “Gotta go, Myron. I'm late.”

“For what?”

I thought fast. I didn't want Myron tagging along stealing my exclusive, even if he was a nice guy. “Got to meet someone at the bar across the street. An old newspaper buddy in town for the story.” I headed down the hall.

“Wait. I'll join you.” Myron ran up to me. “I've been here for twenty hours. I deserve some R&R. I'd love to meet some newspaper buddies.”

“Oh, no, no, no.” I spun around and put my hands on Myron's shoulders. “You've got to stay. It's your assignment. What if your editor found out that you'd gone to a bar and then McMullen entered the hotel, looking to chat. That's grounds for automatic firing.”

Myron bit his lip. “I guess you're right. I am still on probation. I just graduated from school in May.”

“So they don't even need a reason to can you.”

“Maybe you're just saying that because you don't want to be seen with me.” Myron pushed up his glasses. “I'm not much of a player, you know.”

“A talented, ambitious college man like yourself? Why, I'd be honored.” I traced his baby smooth face with a baby pink nail. “And perhaps when you're off shift we can get together. Later, at my place.” I winked and Myron went all to goo.

“Sure,” he said as I walked slowly backward down the hall.

As soon as I turned the corner, I dashed to the elevator, praying fervently that he hadn't come to his senses.

One floor up, I followed the same maze pattern to find Chrissy Price's penthouse suite. This time I had barely knocked before the door flew open.

“Finally!” shrieked a teenage girl with long brown hair. She grabbed my hand and yanked me into a spacious, airy hotel suite decorated in various shades of white and mauve.

“I was so dying for you to get here. I'm Sasha by the way. I don't know if Chrissy mentioned me. I'm her daughter.”

“Sorry I'm late,” I said. “She left a message for me at the salon.”

Sasha was already at the end of the short hallway. “We were so glad you called. I was like desperate. I set up a spot for you right here, if that's okay.”

I followed her into a typical hotel master bedroom that had
been personalized with big white and gray feathers taped above the bed and around the mirrors. Several rock and sand displays were scattered about, along with a tiny waterfall that cascaded in a plastic pool by the telephone. A tape of breezes rustling through leaves played from a small boom box on the TV and the room reeked of the many eucalyptus branches stuck here and there. It must have taken Chrissy hours to unpack and arrange this stuff.

“My mother.” Sasha rolled her eyes and twirled a shiny black rock. “She is like totally into this desert Native American stuff. Hawks and rocks, I call it. Especially after Bud's death. I think she's trying to find spiritual meaning or something.”

Spiritual meaning after her husband's murder? How dare she.

Sasha, in contrast, seemed unaffected by Bud's death as she plunked herself before a well-lighted vanity. A comb, hairbrush, and flat iron lay waiting along with several magazine photos of models that had been ripped out and displayed. She started sorting through the magazine pictures. “I assume you brought your own scissors. You guys usually do.”

“Us guys?” I threw my purse down.

“Yeah, hairdressers.” She held up a photo of Jennifer Aniston. “She's totally Pixie Stix but her hair is killer. Think you can pull it off?”

I sat on a Navajo blanket on the bed and studied Sasha in the mirror. She was about Jane's age, though tanner and slenderer in a sleek country club kind of way. She wore a black J. Crew sweater, Juicy Couture jeans and a silver Tiffany heart bracelet that cost about my monthly payment on the Camaro. Her straight brown hair lay neatly on her shoulders and hardly seemed in need of a trim. At least not forty-eight hours after her father had been murdered.

Unless—unless her desperation was more than vanity. Once I had a client named Emma Herman make a hair appointment the day her mother died suddenly of a heart attack. All she wanted was for me to brush her hair over and over. For one hour I
brushed while she cried and reminisced. At the end of her appointment she was purged, refreshed and, it sounds crass, pretty conditioned. Hair care can be very therapeutic. There should be a clause in health insurance for it.

“Sasha,” I said softly, “I think there's been a mistake. I was under the impression your mother was returning my request for a newspaper interview.”

Sasha put down Jennifer and eyed me in the mirror. “Newspaper interview?”

“I'm a reporter.”

“But you're also a hairdresser, right? When your message said to call you at the salon, we figured you were a hairdresser.”

“Oh I see.” Shoot. I hadn't been called to the inn to interview Chrissy at all.

“Okay, so no brainer. Chrissy's not even here. She's out planning Bud's memorial service next week in the woods or whatever it is she's been doing every night. I've hardly seen her since Bud corked. Anyway, she totally hates reporters.” Sasha nodded, satisfied. “So, how about an inch off the bottom? And these bangs. I can't take them anymore. You can straighten afterward.”

Straighten? Her hair didn't have so much as a wave, not even a tiny ripple.

“I like it jet straight,” she said, reading my mind.

What the hell. I opened my purse and pulled out the plastic sheath that holds my $400 scissors to prepare for my good deed of the day.

“I'm awfully sorry about your father,” I said, combing out her hair.

“Oh, he's not my father.” Sasha thumbed through a
Cosmo
. “My mother married him when I was like ten. I barely knew him. He would have nothing to do with me. Even refused to let me eat dinner with them.”

“You're kidding?”

“No. He despises—I guess that's despised—kids. Part of their prenup was that I could live under the same roof and he would
pay for anything Mom wanted me to have—clothes, boarding school, a horse,
Sail Caribbean
—as long as Bud didn't have to act like a parent. You didn't bring any Miracle Whip, did you?”

“What for?”

“To put on my face.” Sasha ran her fingers over her cheeks. “I do it at home. Sounds gross but it really exfoliates your skin. Do you think I should get highlights?”

“Your hair is beautiful. My daughter Jane's hair is like this, except, uh, bluer.”

“My mother won't let me go blue. Though one of these days I'm going to do it. I'm very impulsive. Everyone says so.” She licked her finger and flipped rapidly past the articles to more photos while I pinned up her hair. She must mainline Starbucks, this kid.

“But then Donatello, that's my boyfriend, threatened to dump me if I went blue or pink and you know, that was that.” She let out a long, lovelorn sigh. “I can't wait to get back to Donatello. He's picking me up Sunday and taking me back to school.”

I bent over and began cutting away.

“Your daughter have a boyfriend?” she asked, not really paying attention to the
Cosmo
. “What's her name again?”

“Jane.” I unclipped another swatch of hair so that it fell down in one loop. “Her boyfriend's name is G. He wants her to go grape picking in France.”

“Tight.” Sasha gave me a thumbs up in approval. “Sounds like they're hot 'n heavy.”

I pulled out my razor. “Too hot 'n heavy. Although at her age I was married.”

“Preggers?”

“Yup.” I combed up some hair and began razoring. “One night stand at a fraternity party. Let that be a lesson to you.”

“Oh, I don't have to worry. Donatello and I don't have sex. At least,” she crossed her legs, “not, you know, that way. More like in a President Clinton, Monica Lewinsky way.”

Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three. Teenager testing. I
dropped the strand and moved onto the next, pretending that I hadn't heard this classic shocker. “These bangs too short?”