Polished Off (30 page)

“Don’t worry—I’m not going to try to do the girls’ hair. I’m going to have a quiet morning looking at houses with Kevin Faye.”

“I’d go with you,” Mom said, “but I’ve got a full schedule of appointments tomorrow. Althea’s coming in to help. And Stella said she could be here most of the day.” She started loading the dishwasher.

“You’re really serious about buying a house? Here?” Marty asked, his brows drawing together slightly.

I looked at him, puzzled. “I’m tired of renting, of needing someone’s permission before I paint a wall or plant a camellia bush. Why?”

He shrugged. “Houses tie you down. It’s harder to be spontaneous, take advantage of situations that present themselves, when you’re tied to bricks and mortar. That’s why I rent my condo.”

“What kind of situations?” I asked, all too conscious of Mom at the sink. Something about the line of her back and the way she held her head still told me she was listening hard.

“Stories. Promotions. Opportunities.” He flung his hands out expansively.

“Those aren’t the sorts of things that crop up in my life,” I observed wryly.

“Walk me to my car,” Marty said. He thanked Mom for dinner and helped me stand. My head swam and he put his arm around my waist. He smelled good.

We walked around the side of the house, listening to the
chirr
of crickets and admiring the great golden ball of the moon as it hung low on the horizon. When we reached Marty’s MINI, I leaned back against the still warm metal, my feet on the curb, and Marty faced me. The moonlight showed his face plainly, but I couldn’t read his expression. He took a couple steps to his right, then wheeled and returned to where I stood.

“I’ve been offered a job. In Washington,” he said. His gaze fixed on my face.

I licked my suddenly dry lips. “DC?”

He nodded.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Are you going to take it?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“DC’s a long way away. Farther than Atlanta.” Ye gods, could I make a more obvious comment? I blamed it on the concussion.

“They have beauty salons in DC, I’m pretty sure,” he said, looking at me from the corners of his eyes.

I caught my breath. We’d only been dating a few months—surely he wasn’t asking me to move to DC with him?

“Just an observation,” he added hastily.

He kicked at a pinecone on the sidewalk and it skittered into the street. A car shushed by on the next street over and someone hollered out his back door for “Omar,” stringing the word out for three seconds. I didn’t know if Omar was a pet or a kid. I took a deep breath and let myself think how I would feel if Marty left Georgia. Sad. Not brokenhearted, but definitely sad.

“On the one hand, DC is the center of gravity for national politics. On the other, I’d have to give up the Lansky story; readers outside Georgia just won’t care that much. The
Journal-Constitution
has matched the salary offer, so that’s a wash.” He paced to and fro, changing direction with each point he made.

“I’d miss you,” I said.

He stopped pacing. “Would you?”

I nodded. He leaned in and kissed me, his lips firm against mine. His hands held my upper arms and drew me tightly against him. I started to tangle my fingers in his hair, but it hurt my palms, so I linked my arms around his neck and pulled his head closer. The kiss grew hotter, more demanding. The veranda light came on, its yellow glow not quite reaching us. Mom. You’d think I was still in high school. Marty pulled away, smiling ruefully. “You’d better go in. Unless you’d like me to drive you back to your place?” His voice was hopeful.

I was tempted, but I didn’t want a concussion and stitched-up hands taking the edge off our first time. “Mom would have a conniption fit,” I said. “Rain check?”

“Absolutely.” He kissed me, quickly and hard, then stood by the car as I ascended the veranda stairs. I turned to wave before going inside and snapping off the light. Mom was nowhere in sight. Marty tooted his horn as he drove off and I floated upstairs, still tingling from his kiss, barely even aware of my aches and pains.

ALTHOUGH MY HEADACHE WAS BETTER SATURDAY morning, it seemed like every other spot on my body ached or stung or just plain hurt. My drop from the burning Oglethorpe had landed me with bruises or scrapes on my elbows, fanny, hip, knees, and cheek. I flexed my hands. The stitches pulled, but the pain wasn’t as sharp as yesterday. I swallowed two of the pills the doctor had given me.

Mom was already in the salon with an early client when I came downstairs dressed in lightweight navy slacks and a red and white striped blouse with wide cuffs. We’d stopped by my apartment to pick up a few things on our way home from the hospital yesterday. I might look like I’d gone three rounds with a gorilla, but at least I was well dressed for my house viewings with Kevin Faye. Given the conversation with Marty the night before, I considered cancelling with Kevin. Maybe Marty was right and owning a house would tie me down, imprison me in St. Elizabeth.

Except this was my home and I felt more comfortable here than I ever had in Atlanta. I was a small-town girl at heart. Which didn’t mean I’d refuse to move for the right opportunity . . . or the right man. But I needed to make some smart decisions for myself, and buying a house was definitely a smarter move than pouring rent money down the drain each month. I would look for a house because it’s what I needed to do for me right now—that didn’t mean I couldn’t sell it someday if circumstances changed.

With my decision made and despite feeling under the weather, I was excited by the prospect of looking at houses. Maybe I’d fall in love with something today. And make an offer. And fill out mountains of credit forms. And saddle myself with a lifetime of debt. My stomach churned but I put that down to hunger and ate a bowl of Cap’n Crunch. I was about to leave for Faye’s office when a sound like a sob drifted in from the salon.

Barefoot, I hurried down the hall to where I could see my mom’s station. Darryl Michaelson sat there, his face in his hands. Standing behind him, shears in her hand, Mom patted his shoulder.

“She trusts you, Violetta,” Darryl said, straightening up and talking to Mom’s reflection in the mirror. His dark red hair was shorter on one side than the other and strain made him look older. “You’re like a second mom to Stel. Can you talk to her for me? Get her to give us another try?”

“Stella’s a grown woman, Darryl. I don’t have the right to try and influence her when it comes to her marriage. And it wouldn’t do any good for
me
to convince her. You have to do it. Have you told her you’re sorry about the affair?” Mom asked.

“God, yes!” Darryl pounded the arm of the chair with his fist. “But she—”

I tiptoed back to the kitchen, not wanting to eavesdrop. Okay, I wanted to listen, but it wouldn’t be right.

I slipped on my red sandals and pushed through the screen door. Only then did I remember I didn’t have my car. Darn that Daphne. I wondered if the police had caught up with her yet. Maybe they had my car safely tucked away somewhere.

“No,” Agent Dillon said when I dialed his number from my mom’s kitchen phone. Daphne had my cell phone, too; it was in my purse. “No sign of her or your car. We figure she’s abandoned your car by now—in an airport lot or a shed somewhere—and has different transportation. We can’t reach Thad Wissing this morning—his wife says he’s on a business trip—and it’s possible he’s helping her.”

“Is it possible they were in it together all along?” I asked.

“It’s not
im
possible,” he said.

“What about the baby?” I asked.

“What about it?” His tone said don’t even bother asking.

I asked anyway. “Was it Darryl’s?” I thought of the anguished man in Mom’s salon and found myself praying that the answer would be no.

“Is there anything else the GBI can help you with this morning, Miss Terhune?” Dillon asked with faux politeness.

“Anything
else
? That would imply you’ve already helped me with something, wouldn’t it? But the woman who almost got me killed is still missing, as is my car, and I’m going to be late getting to the Realtor’s.”

“Then I won’t keep you any longer,” he said with something that sounded like a chuckle. He hung up.

I stared at the phone in my hand for a moment, tempted to fling it at the wall, but reason prevailed. I hoofed it the three blocks to my apartment and dug my bicycle out of the garden shed where I kept it. A spider dangled from the handlebars, but the tires looked good, so I brushed off the arachnid and wheeled it into the yard, holding it with my fingertips so I didn’t disturb the stitches. Pale blue with a metal basket between the handlebars, the bicycle was old fashioned with no gears. Thankfully, St. Elizabeth is flatter than a bookmark. Realizing I still had some time before I needed to meet Kevin Faye, I let myself into my apartment with the spare key I kept at Mom’s.

I smiled at the watercolor landscapes by local artists that hung on my living room wall; it felt good to be home, surrounded by my stuff. Somehow, when I stay at Mom’s, I always feel like an adolescent, with all the pluses and minuses that implies. Maybe it’s because all my old Nancy Drew mysteries clutter the bookshelves and Alice Rose’s old twirling costumes are in the closet. Or maybe there’s something in the air at Mom’s that zaps me back to my teen years, but I feel more
me
, more adult, in my own place. Even when that place isn’t really mine but belongs to my landlady. I couldn’t imagine how adult I’d feel in a house I actually
owned
. Well, co-owned with the bank. I grinned at the thought.

I started toward the kitchen, but a dripping sound halted me. I listened.
Plip.
Pause.
Plip.
It sounded like it was coming from my bathroom. I detoured through my bedroom and turned off the tap at the sink. Darn. If I’d left it dripping yesterday, there was no telling how many gallons of water I’d wasted. Probably dozens because the bathroom felt humid, almost like I’d taken a shower. I’m usually more careful. I gave the tap another hard twist and headed for the kitchen. The Cap’n Crunch was already wearing off and I needed a sandwich before tromping through a bunch of prospective homes.

Pulling the ham and cheddar from the deli drawer, I grabbed the mustard and pickles, too, wincing at the feel of the cold jars on my hurt palms. Depositing my sandwich fixings on the cutting board, I opened the door to my walk-in pantry and yanked on the string that turned on the light. A single slice of wheat bread and a heel was all I could find in the bread box. Had I eaten the whole loaf already? I made a mental note to add bread to my shopping list. It seemed like every time I turned around, I needed more groceries. Slapping the sandwich together, I ate it standing over the sink, drinking a glass of milk.

I glanced at my watch and saw I was going to be late for Kevin Faye if I didn’t hustle. I returned to my bathroom to brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair. A slick of rose lipstick and I was ready. As I was crossing the room, I felt a little
pfft
from my shirt and then heard a
clickety-click
as the button bounced on the floor. I looked down at my blouse to see it gaping open, displaying pink bra and cleavage. I did not need this.

I scanned the floor for the button but didn’t see it. Probably under the dresser or the bed. Dropping to my knees, I peered under the bed. Whew. I really needed to vacuum under here. Dust bunny central. I stuck my arm under the bed and swept my palm lightly across the floor, snagging the button on the second pass. Placing it on my dresser to sew on later, I stripped off my blouse and walked to the closet. It’s really more of a large cupboard with a hanging rod; it wouldn’t have surprised me to hear that Mrs. Jones’s son got it at Home Depot in the garage organizer section. Luckily, I’m not much of a clotheshorse.

I pulled the door open and stared into a pair of startled blue eyes. “Aaagh!” I jumped back.

“No!” the intruder said, sounding as scared as I was. She half fell, half stepped out of the closet.

I was at the bedroom door, headed for outside and safety when a soft voice said, “Wait. Please.”

On the threshold, I turned, still poised to flee. Daphne Oliver stood there, hair straggling damply to her shoulders, wearing a white tee shirt and a pair of khaki shorts with the tag still hanging off them. “I’m sorry I scared you,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

She was clearly unarmed and her expression was so pleading—not the blank face of yesterday’s firebug—that I stayed.

First things first: “Where’s my car?”

She hung her head. “At the airport. In Atlanta. I left it there and took the shuttle back to St. Elizabeth. I couldn’t think where else to go.”

“Did you buy that outfit with my money?”

She nodded.

Well, at least it looked more like Target couture than Saks Fifth Avenue. “Give me back my purse.”