CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was six-thirty. The wind had calmed down, and the sun had quietly set. Tantig and I had wiped most of the gunk off our clothes, thanks to Sam and the paper towels he’d provided us from aisle four, and we buckled ourselves into my car. Then I called my mother, told her we got held up—no lie there—and were on our way home.

Apart from a killer kiss from Romero, which indisputably was the only good thing that had happened to me today, my day had progressively gotten worse. I was tired of being on guard. Tired of being chased. Tired of being scared. In fact, I’d had enough of this whole game of hunting down Valentine.

Though I wasn’t going to broadcast my intentions to Romero, I had to turn the tables and get more active finding Ziggy Stoaks. I was worried he’d get sloppy and accidentally hurt innocent bystanders. If it was Ziggy at Kuruc’s, he’d already threatened me. What if he’d killed someone? What if he’d hurt Tantig?

I didn’t have a clue where to begin looking, and Luther had been no help. But that wasn’t going to stop me. I’d caught killers before with little to nothing to go on. This was merely a stumbling block.

Exhaling a pent-up breath, I started the engine, additional thoughts nagging me.

Business, for one. Imagine if Ziggy had slopped paint on the shop window when we were working. Or worse, opened fire there. I couldn’t let that happen. I’d lost enough clients due to Phyllis’s incompetence. I couldn’t afford to lose more because of a crazy escaped felon. I’d have to lock up the shop for good. Walk away in shame. Lose the respect of my colleagues.

It wasn’t a pretty picture. If I couldn’t afford to work, I wouldn’t have the funds to pay the rent on my house. And if I couldn’t pay my rent, I’d have to move back in with my parents and Tantig.

I glanced at my great-aunt, tapping Tic Tacs onto her palm.

I love my family, and Tantig made life more colorful, but moving home meant I’d be more susceptible to questions about matrimony and why Romero—or Jock—hadn’t asked for my hand in marriage. A high-pitched squeak escaped me at the thought of either man proposing, and the squeak turned into an anxious cough.

“What’s the matter?” Tantig asked in a monotone.

“Uh, nothing. Swallowed wrong.” I cleared my throat and nabbed a Tic Tac.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be married, but marriage to Iron Man or Hercules was a thought almost too much to entertain. To be honest, Romero and Jock were more superhuman than any other men I’d known. Despite that, Romero and I had formally started dating. But my mother liked to pretend she was going on one hundred, and she wanted a ring on my finger before she exited this world.

Before I completely overwhelmed myself with these scenarios, I decided to start at square one on this hellish day.

I shifted my Bug into gear and put on my thinking cap, trying to remember everything that had happened to me since this morning. The answer had to be here somewhere.

First, there was the dildo left on my front porch. Not exactly a waving flag, but not inconspicuous either. Anyone looking close enough would’ve noticed it. Maybe one of my neighbors had seen something.

I promised Romero if anyone followed me or sent me any more presents, I’d call. But I never said I’d stop looking for whoever dropped off the dildo, which in the end may lead to the identity of the gunman if, in fact, it was Ziggy.

And though it seemed like Ziggy was the sender, there was something needling me in the back of my mind that this could be wrong. If Dooley had been the source, he would’ve had to deliver the dildo last night before he was murdered.

I didn’t know what time Jimmy had left Dooley alone at the restaurant, but I had a feeling Dooley didn’t go anywhere before he was killed at around 10:45. Now that I thought about it, I’d let Yitts out onto the porch for a bit of air at 11:00 before I’d gone to bed, and there was no dildo in sight then. So even if Dooley did have time to leave the restaurant and return by 10:45, he didn’t leave anything at my place.

If I was way off base, and it was Candace—the only other suspect I could think of—she would’ve cruised down the street in her red Corvette, not caring who’d seen her. If nothing else, a red Corvette would be easy to spot.

I contemplated this, pretty sure Candace was a dead lead since everything pointed to Ziggy. She’d also sworn she’d never touched a dildo before…and with Candace’s abundant track record with men, this was something I was inclined to believe. Unless she was lying, she was out of the race. Regardless of this, how could I ask any of my neighbors what, if anything, they’d seen?

Mrs. Lombardi, who lived kitty-corner across the street and had a cement statue on her front lawn of the Virgin Mary, would cast me out if I showed up at her door, asking anything about a dildo. Mrs. Calvino, next door to me, couldn’t see anything through her perpetual haze of cigarette smoke. And Mr. Brooks? He was like a father figure. It’d be awkward posing anything on the subject.

I crawled out of Kuruc’s parking lot onto Darling and made a mental note to at least call my neighbors. I’d deal with the consequences later.

Putting that thought aside, I summoned images of Dooley’s body. If there was an inkling of truth to my theory that Ziggy killed Dooley because Dooley wouldn’t hurt me, then it was safe to say that Ziggy was nearby, biding his time.

The photos and journal were another matter. Though Dooley had taken a lot of pictures, the shots were all centered around me and places I’d been. There was nothing pointing to Ziggy’s whereabouts.

Enter Luther Boyle, state guest at Rivers View Correctional Center. No matter how many times I revisited the conversation with him, I couldn’t peg what it was that was niggling me. He was in jail. Ziggy was out. According to Luther, they weren’t even that close. Still, I was bothered.

I kept pace with traffic heading toward York Street and the salon, torturing myself again about the drawing on the front window. It had to have been illustrated by the same person who delivered the dildo. He or she had fastened a perm rod around the base of the real apparatus, and the image on the glass was a dead ringer.

According to the kid who worked at Friar Tuck’s, he’d been busy serving coffee and donuts and hadn’t seen who painted the portrayal. Neither had anyone else. Lots of pictures floating around. None with the artist at work. Just my luck.

This brought me back to the present, surviving a shooting at Kuruc’s. I didn’t see the face of my attacker, but it had to be Ziggy under that paper bag.

I put these thoughts on the back burner and cranked the wheel to the right, making an impulsive turn into Friar Tuck’s lot. Little unknown fact about me: I hate unfinished business. And since the shop-window fiasco left me forgetting to drop off the magazines earlier, I intended to do so before the night was done.

“Where are we go-ink?” Tantig asked.

“I need to take some magazines into the salon. I’ll only be a minute, and I think you’d better come in with me.”

Tantig raised her chin and gave a tsk with her tongue. She could’ve simply said no, but I caught her drift.

I pulled to a stop behind Beaumont’s and patted her hand to remind her of what I’d just said. In the past few hours, I’d been threatened at gunpoint, humiliated, and scared. And my assailant was still out there, waiting for another opportunity to strike. Plus, Tantig had been kidnapped and held hostage on the cruise a mere few weeks ago by the last murderer I’d tried to catch. No way was I going to leave her alone in the car. “Come on, Tantig. I’ll help you inside. You can watch the weather channel on my phone while I unload the magazines.”

Reluctantly, she agreed. I unlocked the glass door to Beaumont’s, helped her up the one step into the salon, threw on the lights, and ushered her into Ti Amo, the closest treatment room to the back door. I perched her on the facial bed, pulled up a video from the weather network on my phone, and showed her how to control the volume. Once I was sure she was comfortable, I slipped back outside and heaved the stack of magazines out of the trunk.

I returned inside again and heard soft snoring coming from Tantig. I peeked in the room and saw her stretched out on the facial bed, fast asleep, my phone resting on her stomach.

Balancing the magazines in one arm, I tiptoed into the room, gently picked up the phone with my free hand, and slid it into my bag. Let her sleep for a few minutes. She’d had a rough day.

I crept out of the room, pulled the pocket door three-quarters of the way closed behind me, and wandered down the hall to the front, the usual mix of chemical and therapeutic smells greeting me. I dropped my bag on the floor by the antique-bronze magazine table and replaced the old magazines with the fresh pile. I cleaned up the reception area a bit and gave a tug on the front door. I knew I’d locked it earlier after Max and I had scrubbed the window, but no harm being extra cautious.

Satisfied the shop was in order, I carted the old mags past the four stations and did a double take at myself in one of the wood-framed mirrors on the wall. Yikes. The sight of me almost hurt my eyes. Good thing I was looking at myself from a distance. I probably would’ve taken the clippers to my hair if I’d gone any closer.

I drew out a groan, marched into the dispensary, and dumped the magazines in the recycling bin.

Just then, I heard footsteps nearing from the direction of the back door. Couldn’t be. I locked the back— Oh no! I didn’t lock the back door. I’d reentered the shop, focused on Tantig’s snoring, and I didn’t go back to secure the door. Blockhead!

Trying to think positively, my mind raced for a logical explanation of who it could be.

Perhaps Tantig had woken up and decided to wander to the front. Or maybe it was the kid from Friar Tuck’s, blessing me with more comments about the cool artwork on the front window. Better yet, maybe Max had wrapped it up at Jimmy’s and asked him for a ride home. They could’ve whizzed by Beaumont’s, seen the lights on, and decided to check it out.

Deep down, I knew none of these were likely. Once Tantig was sleeping, nothing would move her. And the Friar Tuck’s employee had probably ended his shift around three and gone home, right after Max and I were here. As for the last notion, if Max or Jimmy sauntered into the shop, they’d be singing or jabbering or making some other noise. Silence wasn’t a strong suit for either of them.

My heart skipped around in my chest, panic mounting by the second. I didn’t dare scream for fear that it would alarm Tantig and tip off whoever had entered. I looked around the dispensary for something handy to use as a defense weapon. A French phone. A sturdy broom. Microwave. And a couple of wheeled stools.

The footsteps proceeded down the hall, and terror rose inside me. Pick something already!

The last two things were heavy and awkward. I gaped at my pretty, nostalgic phone. Couldn’t use that as a weapon.

Broom it was!

I clutched the handle with both hands, adrenaline charging through me at such a rate I could barely breathe. I lifted the bristly end over my head and edged past the portable screen in the main salon to the hallway, waiting for my stalker to round the corner.

I was flat against the wall, cursing my stupidity.

The first mistake I’d made upon entering the shop was putting on the lights. If I’d been followed, nothing like holding up a sign.

Second mistake. Right. Unlocked door. Damn. Main thing was Tantig had been spared. The intruder might not have even noticed her with the pocket door to Ti Amo almost closed.

I glanced at the front where my bag sat on the floor by the magazine table. Doh. Third mistake. Not having any tools on me to protect myself. I tightened my grip on the broom. This would have to do.

A man’s boot appeared first in my line of vision, and I didn’t wait another second before swinging down and clobbering the perpetrator.