A High-End Finish(26)
After two hours at Sloane’s, I had amassed enough tile and counter samples to weigh down the back of my truck. On the way home, I stopped at the lumberyard and picked up several fine wood-grain samples I thought Penny might like to use for her new cupboards and drawers.
Back in town, I parked my truck on the street in front of my house because Wendell’s damn Lincoln Continental was hogging the driveway. I knew I would have to lecture him about that eventually, but I didn’t want to spoil my afternoon. Climbing out of my truck, I brushed off the worst of the brick dust on my shirt and jeans and walked up to Main Street to Nail It, my favorite day spa owned by my friend Paloma and her mom.
I hadn’t always understood the benefits of a good manicure. Back in high school, I’d resisted any kind of pampering as a protest against Whitney and her snotty friends, who enjoyed teasing me mercilessly about my laid-back wardrobe, my messy mass of curly hair, and my less than meticulous manicures. At that point, if I had dared to show up at school wearing designer jeans and painted nails, I would’ve received even more grief.
During my brief sojourn in San Francisco, I had worked for a large construction firm. There I’d made friends with the office manager, Debby, who insisted that I join the office girls every Thursday night for mani-pedis and margaritas. Who could pass up an invitation like that? The sneaky little side benefit was that my nails and hands were no longer cracked and red and dry from working all day long with power tools.
Paloma brought the mani-pedi experience to a new level of bliss by wrapping me up in a warm robe and then smearing some wonderfully scented waxy substance all over my feet and hands. I thought there might also be seaweed involved, but I couldn’t say for sure. After a twenty-minute shoulder and neck massage, Paloma would peel off the wax and rub more lotions and potions onto my skin. Eventually she would begin painting my nails, but I was usually fast asleep by then. When I awoke, I was fluffed and folded and buffed and ready to face the world again—and happy that I no longer gave a damn what Whitney and her mean-girl posse thought of me.
? ? ?
That night, over bowls of hearty beef stew, crusty bread, and a lovely Rh?ne, Emily entertained me with tales of all the customers she’d chatted up about the murder that day. I knew how wonderful my friends were, but my affection for them was renewed when I saw how determined they were to keep me out of jail.
“Everyone has her opinions, of course,” Emily said. “Natty Terrell believes it was either Mr. or Mrs. Boyer, or maybe they were in on it together. According to her son, Colin, who works part-time at the flower shop, Joyce Boyer was in there yesterday to order flowers for her mother. She was boasting about the fact that Jerry was killed in their basement. Poetic justice, she called it, and said ‘good riddance.’”
“‘Good riddance’? Joyce said that? Wow.” I shivered.
“It’s a bit gruesome, isn’t it?” Emily said, nodding. “Colin also reported that Joyce was quite tearful as she spoke. So was she happy he was dead, or sad?”
“She was crying?” I thought about it. “It’s an awfully cold statement to make in public, especially by a woman rumored to be sleeping with the man. Maybe she realized what she’d said out loud and it upset her.”
“But what does she mean by poetic justice?” Emily shook her head. “She sounds angry and guilty to me.”
“I would love it if that were true, if only to stop the police from suspecting me. But I don’t believe she would talk like that if she really did kill him.”
“No, probably not. Despite her big mouth, she doesn’t seem like a stupid woman.”
“On the other hand,” I mused, “she was having an affair with Jerry.”
“True. So how smart can she be?” Emily took a small bite of tender stew meat and chewed it before continuing. “Phillippa Baxter told me that Jerry had the hots for her, as well.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yes. But she assured me she wasn’t about to fall for any of his fancy words. She’s apparently well versed in the wicked ways of evil men.”
I shook my head. “Flipper has always imagined that every guy in the universe is after her body. She’s kind of insane.”
“But highly entertaining.”
“I suppose,” I said cautiously. I’d gone to high school with Phillippa Baxter, or Flipper as we called her. The poor girl had been delusional about men forever.
Emily set down her fork. She took a sip of wine and leaned closer. “Honestly, Shannon. These people confide their deepest secrets to me. It’s a bit shocking, really. I feel like the vicar in the confessional.”
My laughter was strained. “I just hope the police don’t get wind of our little investigation.”
“The police?” She brushed off my concerns. “They won’t take notice of some small-town gossip. And my teetotalers love chitchatting with me. Who knows? One of them might just drop a vital clue that leads to some fabulous revelation.”
“As long as you’re careful. Don’t forget, there’s a murderer out there somewhere.”
“Yes, I tend to forget from day to day that we’re harboring a killer.” She pondered that dark thought for a moment, then smiled brightly, reached over, and patted my hand. “Ah, well, as long as we can keep you out of the pokey, that’s what matters most.”