Death of a Domestic Diva (26 page)

I ran over, then, to my apartment. Everything was okay. It seemed the only tornado damage was the tree limb spearing the spare apartment's window. I wanted to go downstairs—check on my laundromat—but I figured I'd better call for help as soon as possible, so I picked up my phone—and of course there was no dial tone. Phone lines were down. I could go back to Billy's old apartment, find Tyra's cell phone. But I just couldn't bring myself to go back near Tyra's corpse.

So I ran outside, down the stairs, around to the front of my building, thinking I'd get help at Sandy's Restaurant.

Across the street, at Sandy's Restaurant, people were starting to come out, looking around, warily, as if the tornado might suddenly pop out again from around a corner and holler “ha!” before sucking them all up. The big pole that held up the Sandy's Restaurant sign had bent over and crashed into the corner of the roof. A few wires were freed from the pole and were sparking, like those little sparklers kids like to use on the Fourth of July. There was enough light from the sign—and the sparks—that I could make out some of the faces.

One of them was Chief John Worthy.

So I ran across the street, circling clear of the Sandy's Restaurant sign, and went up to Chief Worthy, who was telling the already quiet crowd to stay calm.

I tugged on his sleeve.

He whirled around, saw me, and sighed. “What is it, Josie? Can't you see we have a situation here?”

“Is anyone hurt?”

“No, but I have to maintain crowd control, get everyone out of the restaurant before mass panic sets in.”

I watched everyone filing out quietly. The only one who might need help getting under control was Sandy, who stood outside her restaurant, pointing up at the sign, and sobbing. She was entitled, considering. Everyone else seemed to be getting out of the restaurant just fine, on their own.

So I said, “Chief Worthy, you need to come with me. I've got a, uh, major problem at my spare apartment—”

“Can't it wait?”

“No.”

He whipped out a notepad. “Give me a quick description—”

I stood on tiptoe and whispered, “Tyra Grimes is in my spare apartment. Dead. And not from the tornado.”

Chief John Worthy was none too pleased with me for moving Tyra's body, even after I explained about the tree coming in through the window.

But he took my statement, while other officers—from Paradise as well as from the county sheriff's department—took pictures and notes and finally removed Tyra from the closet.

He was also none too pleased that I couldn't really remember if I'd left the side door locked or not.

He only lifted his eyebrows when he asked what had happened to my hair, and I told him.

One of the paramedics was real nice and checked me for shock. She told me that the tornado had touched down only briefly in a field outside of town, so Paradise had gotten off lucky. No one had been seriously hurt, although a few cars and buildings had been damaged.

Finally, when everyone—including Chief Worthy and Tyra—was gone, I went downstairs to see how my laundromat had fared. It was dark by now, so it was hard to be sure, but the biggest damage I had (besides the tree limb through the window upstairs) was that the big flowerpots on either side of my laundromat door had been knocked over and broken.

The electricity over at Sandy's Restaurant must have been turned off, because the broken sign had stopped buzzing and sparking.

Without the glow of Sandy's sign, Main Street in Paradise was dark and quiet and eerie.

Suddenly, I felt an urge to start hollering: “It's not my fault! The tornado's not my fault! All that's been happened . . . it's not my fault!”

And at the same time, I felt like whispering . . . “I'm sorry.”

But I didn't. I went back to my apartment. I showered for a long time (washing Jell-O from one's hair takes awhile), then got into my most comfortable pajamas—the Tweety Bird ones—then tried my phone again. Finally, thankfully, a dial tone.

I called Owen—no answer.

I called Winnie—no answer.

I called my insurance company's 24-hour hotline. I had to press 1 (file a claim), then 3 (act of God), then 4 (tornado), then 2 (business policy). . . and I finally got a recorded voice, asking me to leave a message, and assuring me someone would call me back soon. So I left my message.

It was good to know someone was still willing to talk to me.

By 7
A.M.
the next morning, I wished no one would ever want to talk with me again.

The first phone call came at five that morning.

It seemed awfully early for the insurance company to call me back, but I picked up the receiver with my eyes still shut and, still lying down, mumbled hello.

“Is this Josie Toadfern?”

“Uh huh.”

“This is Trudi Hackman from the
Star Reporter
.”

That got me to sitting up, eyes wide open. I'd been seeing the
Star Reporter
right by the checkout stand of the A&P all my life. I'd even read a few copies—although I want to make it clear I much prefer really good books from the bookmobile.

“Is it true you found Tyra Grimes murdered in your apartment?” Trudi asked. She sounded extra-caffeinated—no cream.

“Uh, in my spare apartment.” I felt awkward answering that question. After all, Tyra's murder was being investigated. And I wasn't sure how much to answer. Chief Worthy hadn't given me any instructions on that.

“Is it true she was staying there because she was having financial problems?”

“Uh—I don't think so—”

“Is it true she was eviscerated?”

“What?
”

“That her stomach was sliced open and her guts were—”

“I know what the word means,” I snapped. “Who told you that?”

“So it's true, but the authorities want to keep it hidden—”

“Now wait a minute . . . I didn't say . . .”

“Did you find any evidence of satanic cult rituals? They can include sacrifices, you know . . .”

I hung up.

I lay back down.

The phone rang again.

I put my pillow over my head.

The phone kept ringing.

So I answered it. “Look, Ms. Hackman, I'm not answering any of your crazy questions—”

“Oh, man, did she get to you already?” A man's voice.

I sighed. “Who is this?”

“Trent Riteway. From the news show
Vision
.”

At least that was a respectable mainstream show.

“What did you tell Hackman?” Riteway wanted to know.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Great! I was hoping for an exclusive! Now, I have it on good authority that Ms. Grimes was consorting with Prince Rakashan Abudi, who's an expatriate from . . .”

I hung up.

After three more such calls, all from different reporters, all with equally nutty ideas, I unplugged my telephone. The insurance company would just have to deal with me having a busy signal.

But I couldn't get back to sleep. I kept seeing Tyra, murdered, on my spare apartment's floor. Her death added more questions to the ones already unanswered. Like who would kill her . . . and then I remembered Hazel Rothchild, threatening to kill Tyra. I shook my head—no, no, Hazel had just been speaking under great emotional strain. She'd have no real reason to kill Tyra. Would she?

Or what about Paige? After all, I already suspected her of killing Lewis. Maybe she and Tyra had met, had a fight over the content of the letter I'd delivered to Tyra on Paige's behalf. After all, I knew from having found a previous ripped-up letter in Paige's motel room trash can that Paige had long held misgivings about her boss. Yes, maybe they'd had a fight, and it had gotten out of hand . . .

Then there was Aguila and Ramon. Maybe the plan they'd cooked up to get Paige to make Tyra help them and the little girl Selena had backfired . . . maybe they tried a second time to kill her, but this time succeeded . . .

I worried about Billy. Was he okay? Or had he been an innocent bystander, too, just like Lewis . . . ?

I shook my head. Trying to sort through all these possibilities was giving me a headache. I needed aspirin.

I got out of bed, went into my bathroom, turned on the light, started to reach to open the medicine chest, but then stopped as I saw my image in the mirror. I stared in shock.

Lime Jell-O had worked well to relieve my itchy scalp.

But apparently lime Jell-O, hair perm and coloring chemicals, stress, and my personal hair chemistry don't work well together.

Because my hair had gone frizzy . . . and orange.

I'm not talking a few waves and an auburn glow.

I'm talking tight frizzy curls and bright orange. As in detour-sign orange. Road-construction-barrel orange. Prison jump suit orange. Bozo the Clown orange. The orange thread in my great-grandmother's quilt that Tyra had hated, orange.

I stood before my mirror, my jaw hanging open as I stared at my hair. Even Tweety Bird, on my pajama top, looked shocked, about to chirp—I think I saw a big orange-haired oaf . . . I did, I did, I really, really did . . .

Then the pounding at my door started.

I went to the front door and looked through the peephole. There were at least six people outside my door. I didn't know any of them. But I could guess who they were. More reporters.

So I went back to my bedroom. Put on my jeans, aqua T-shirt, socks, tennis shoes, and cap—this one white, with a big pink ice cream cone and the words “Dairy Dreeme.” I tucked all my orange hair up under my ball cap, stopped back into my bathroom, took two aspirin, and went back to my front door, on which the people outside were still pounding.

I took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out.

“Ms. Toadfern—could you—”

“Is it true that—”

I had learned a few things from Tyra. I held up my hand for silence, using the same gesture Tyra had used in the laundromat. When the crowd of reporters quieted down, I said—in my best fake French accent (which I could do thanks to Pépé Le Pew cartoons on cable's Cartoon Network)—“I am
not
Josie Toadfern!”

Henry Romar from the
Paradise Advertiser Gazette
hollered, “She is too Josie Toadfern! Josie, what are you trying to pull?”

I glared at him—indignantly, of course. “I repeat, I am not Josie Toadfern. I am her distant cousin—” I pronounced that word
“coo-zeen
”—“Jezebel Toadfern, visiting on a break from my American tour with the Great Circus de France-ay.”

With that, I pulled off my Dairy Dreeme hat with a flourish, letting my frizzy orange hair spring loose.

The crowd fell silent, staring at me. Tyra would have been proud. I'd never have figured out how to work a crowd like this without her example.

“If you are looking for Josie,” I went on, pronouncing my own name
“Jo-say
,” “she left early this morning to go to the Woodlawn Cemetery for the burial of Mr. Rothchild.” I hated to send a bunch of reporters to interrupt Lewis's burial, but I figured there were probably already other reporters there. “However, if you would like to interview me about my chief clown role in the Great Circus de France-ay . . .”

“Woodlawn Cemetery? Where's that?” someone hollered.

Henry said, “I know, I know where it is!” He was so eager to be a hero that he'd fallen for my ruse, too.

I was tempted to follow after the stream of reporters, shouting, “Wait, wait,” in my best Pépé style, but I thought I'd better not push my luck, since my trick was working.

I waited until they were all gone. Then I made sure my apartment was locked up, and I tucked my hair back up under my ball cap. I went out to my car and took off in the opposite direction from the Woodlawn Cemetery. It was another hour before I was to meet Winnie at the bookmobile, but I didn't want to be here when the reporters figured out Josie wasn't at Woodlawn . . . and that Jezebel was really Josie.

So I took off to the place I like to go when I need to be alone and think—the old orphanage.

I sat at the top of the rise overlooking the orphanage, stared past it out into a sky that even in this early hour was already startlingly blue, a perfect backdrop to a few fluffy clouds that lazily drifted along. Hard to believe, staring into this sky, that a violent storm had blown through in this area the night before. On my drive over, I'd only seen a few signs of it—stray tree limbs, a cracked tree, the door blown off the barn over at the Crowley farm. Of course the tree limb was still sticking through my spare apartment's window, awaiting my insurance company's inspection. And my behind was getting damp, sitting on the grass, but I didn't care.

As I gazed into the sky, my thoughts started off being about how we'd gotten off lucky in that storm. Then my thoughts started drifting off like the clouds, to things much less pleasant than the sky . . . like Tyra's murder. What Tyra had been up to with Stillwater. What her connection had been to Lewis. How it all fit together—or if any of it fit together at all.