The Trouble With Tulip Read online

  Edna Pratt had died in her own dining room, probably from a head wound from what Danny could see. Now she lay in a heap on the floor in front of the bay window, wearing a simple faded housedress, her feet bare. In between each of her toes were small white blobs that looked suspiciously like Styrofoam packing noodles. On each of her hands was a white athletic sock, and another sock had been stuffed with something and duct-taped around her neck. Edna’s face was smeared with some sort of whitish green paste, and though her head was coated with blood, a clear plastic shower cap had been put on over the blood, almost as if to hold it in. The red blood met the white paste along the edges of the shower cap, creating an inch or so of pink ooze.

  A strange chemical odor hung in the air, and after Danny had taken photos of the body from every conceivable angle, the coroner pointed toward a bucket nearby, the source of the smell, so that Danny could photograph it. When he was finished, a cop in rubber gloves tagged the bucket and carried it outside, taking the smell away with him.

  “I hope you’ve got a lot of film in there,” Chief Cooper said to Danny, “ ’cause we have some weird things all over this house that need photographing.”

  “I’ve got plenty.”

  “Good. Either this lady was nuts or some real sicko was messing with her.”

  Chief Cooper led the way, and for the next hour Danny shot up four rolls of film, taking pictures in closets, in the bathrooms, and especially all over the kitchen. A cooling rack on the counter held a pie—from the look of it, a peach pie—which appeared to be normal except for the three ziti noodles that protruded vertically from the top crust. On the counter were the two vegetable drawers from the inside of the refrigerator, empty except for several layers of bubble wrap. Nearby, four orange halves sat side by side on a cookie sheet, and each of them had been hollowed out and filled with what looked like salt. Had the woman been senile?

  An old piece of furniture, a baker’s cabinet, lined the far wall, and a glow seemed to be coming from inside one of the drawers. With a gloved hand, the chief slid the drawer open to reveal a small lamp, turned on, lying on its side with its lampshade removed. As Danny snapped a photo, something began to tickle the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure why, but something about a lamp shining in an empty drawer rang a bell.

  Strangest to Danny was the sight of even more shower caps, which were all over the house on the bottoms of every hanging plant. As Danny photographed them, he had a feeling the editor of the local paper would end up dubbing this the Shower Cap Killing. With a shudder he wondered how the woman’s head wound had been inflicted—and if she had been wearing the shower cap when it happened, or if the killer had put it on her head after the deed was done. There didn’t seem to be any blood anywhere else, so probably it was the former. Then again, maybe she hadn’t died from the head wound at all but from strangulation by the sock around her neck.

  On the back porch was an ashtray where four cigarettes had obviously been burned from beginning to end without being disturbed—not a single puff having been taken from any of them. Danny was with Chief Cooper, photographing the ashtray, when a female cop appeared in the doorway. She opened her mouth to speak, spotted Danny, and then hesitated, a shy smile suddenly teasing at her lips. She was cute, that was true, but Danny wasn’t going to pursue it. There was simply too much else going on today to throw flirting into the mix as well.

  “Spit it out, O’Connell,” the chief said to the cop, obviously noticing the way she was looking at Danny. “And don’t even think about getting mixed up with this guy. He’s working his way through every eligible female in town.”

  “Hey!” Danny said. “That’s not true. I—”

  “Don’t worry, Chief,” she interrupted. “I need a little more spit and polish than that. I don’t really go for the artsy type, even if he does have soulful blue eyes and sexy hair.”

  “Yeah, he’s divine,” the chief replied dryly.

  Danny could feel himself blush even as he resented being talked about as if he wasn’t right there.

  The chief said, “Now, what do you need, O’Connell?”

  She turned her attention fully to him, all business now.

  “We, uh, we have an interesting twist here.”

  “A twist?” he replied with a heavy sigh. “What is it?”

  “The coroner checked under Miz Edna’s shower cap.”

  “Yes?”

  “That red stuff all over her head? It’s not blood. It’s tomato juice.”

  “Tomato juice?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tomato juice.

  “Chief!” Danny gasped. “I think I know what you should do.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a person you need to call. Her name is Jo Tulip.”

  “Jo Tulip? Who’s that? Girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend? Next girlfriend?”

  “No,” Danny replied. “None of the above. She’s just a friend. And I can almost guarantee she’ll know exactly what’s going on.”

  Jo opened her eyes and tried to remember where she was. The sun was streaming through the window onto her face. She shifted her position to look around, and with the creak of the couch, she remembered: She was in her home office.

  It was now officially her wedding day.

  Jo inhaled deeply, glad she had made the decision to go for a walk last night and then come in there. Finally, she had gotten some decent sleep! And though she woke a full hour before she really needed to, she hoped there wouldn’t be bags under her eyes as she walked down the aisle. Just to be sure, she got up from the couch, took a potato from the bin in the test kitchen area, and cut two big slices from the middle. Then she laid back down and put a slice over each eye. Five minutes like that should take care of any swelling she might have. It was one of her grandmother’s oldest tricks—and Nana had been the queen of clever tricks.

  Jo pulled up the blanket and forced herself to relax as the potatoes went to work. In all her childhood dreams of the perfect wedding, it had never crossed Jo’s mind that her sweet grandparents would be absent from the festivities. They had been a huge part of her life—more important to her, really, than her own parents had been. But Pap had died a few years ago, and Nana had passed last winter. She felt so alone. Sometimes she missed them with a fierceness that caused her physical pain.

  Jo took a few deep breaths, focusing on the woman who had been such a wonderful influence in her life, trying to have only happy thoughts on this important day. Nana had been the original Smart Chick, an intelligent woman far ahead of her time. She created the well-known Tips from Tulip, the daily question-and-answer newspaper column that provided readers with household hints and just a bit of sassy attitude thrown in for good measure. Though Nana had never exactly been a celebrity, the column was quite popular; in its heyday it had appeared in more than 200 newspapers across the country. Nowadays, Jo was continuing her grandmother’s legacy by researching and writing the column herself, though the numbers had dropped considerably. The last time Jo talked to her agent, he was trying to get her a syndication deal, or at least a contract with a news service, so that she wouldn’t have to worry so much about self-syndicating to individual markets. Until then, the money she made from the column, combined with the income from her part-time job teaching home economics at the local high school, kept her comfortable enough. It also helped that she had no house payment. Her home—and the little backyard office behind it—had been a loving bequest from her grandmother.

  Jo liked the house well enough, but she really loved the office. Even as a small child it had been one of her favorite places, perfect for sitting on the rug in front of the couch to read picture books or play with her paper dolls. Jo’s grandfather was a chemist by trade, and he would frequently help Nana with the more complicated household questions that came her way. Like them, Jo could be a quiet person, not given to chatter, appreciative of peaceful silence. “A statue makes more noise than the three of you combined,” her mother had once complained, but Jo didn
’t understand what was so wrong with that. Her parents made an enormous amount of noise, and they rarely said anything useful at all.

  Nana and Pap had brought Jo into the world of household hints early on, starting the day she was tall enough to stand on the step stool between them and listen quietly as they showed her how soap was created by mixing fat with lye. Jo had been hooked ever since. To her mind, there had never been any question that one day she would follow in her grandmother’s footsteps—despite the fact that her own parents had done everything they could to talk her out of it. Of course, they weren’t on board with much of anything Jo chose to do.

  At least they approved of her choice of Bradford for a husband—as well they should, since they were ones who set them up on a blind date in the first place. Bradford was a protégé of Jo’s father, an up-and-coming young executive who served as Kent Tulip’s right-hand man. The day Bradford and Jo announced their engagement—a quick two months after the day they met—Jo’s mother had actually cried with joy.

  Jo took the potatoes from her eyes and sat up, the sound of a siren barely detectible in the distance. As she listened to the far-off wail, she felt a surge of sadness sweep over her, taking her by surprise. Today of all days, she shouldn’t be feeling this way. The loneliness was supposed to go away now that she was getting married! Instead, she had the overwhelming feeling that walking back into her house and going through the motions of the day was going to feel like diving into the roll of a giant wave.

  Please, God, don’t let me drown.

  Jo took the potatoes to the sink and ran the water, grinding them up in the disposal and telling herself she was being silly. She tried to recall a psalm about waves, something about “breakers and waves sweeping over me.” Jo couldn’t remember it exactly, but that was how she felt about the wedding—like waves were sweeping over her and she was helpless to stop them.

  The siren sound grew louder, and as it did, Jo hoped her guests wouldn’t wake up from the noise and wander all over the house looking for her. Drying her hands on a towel, Jo had to admit that there was no way they weren’t awake now, as the siren sounded as though it were coming up her street. Soon, the noise was so close that it sounded as though it was right in front of her house. The siren suddenly stopped, only to be followed a moment later by pounding on a nearby door.

  In an instant Jo was at the window, trying to see what was happening. Maybe the little hooligans really had set her house on fire!

  “Lord, help me,” she whispered as she quickly grabbed her clothes and headed for the house.

  By the time she ran across the patio, opened the back door, and stepped inside, there were two uniformed policemen in her living room, standing awkwardly among the sleeping bags of her houseguests.

  “There she is!” one of the boys cried.

  “Jo Tulip?” a cop asked, stepping forward.

  “Yes,” she said, clutching her clothes to her chest. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”

  “Come with you? Why?”

  “I just have my orders, ma’am. Please come with me.”

  “I’m not even dressed.”

  “We’ll wait, then. But please hurry.”

  Jo hurried down the hall to her bedroom, brushing past Bradford’s bewildered cousins on the way. In her room she quickly ran a brush through her hair, pulled off her pajamas, and got dressed. After a quick stop to brush her teeth, she reappeared in the living room.

  “What’s this about?” she demanded, reaching for her purse. “Is this some kind of joke? A wedding day prank?”

  “No joke, ma’am,” the officer replied. “I’m afraid there’s been a murder. And it involves you.”

  3

  Danny paced in the front yard, dreading the moment when Jo Tulip would pull up in a police car. He knew she would be furious, that today of all days she wouldn’t have a moment to spare. Worse, he felt certain she would think he had orchestrated something to get her here, to throw a hitch in her well-laid wedding plans.

  But it wasn’t his fault.

  Yes, Danny was against the wedding, always had been. And, yes, it was Danny who told the police that Jo Tulip should be brought to the crime scene. But one had nothing to do with the other. He could only hope she would understand that once she went inside and saw the body of Edna Pratt.

  Still, he wouldn’t blame Jo for jumping to conclusions at first. After all, ever since she had announced her engagement four months before—just two months after she and Bradford met, for goodness’ sake—Danny had done everything within his power as her best friend to talk her out of it. A few days ago, he had given his best you’re-making-a-huge-mistake speech one more try. Jo had pleaded with him to let it drop, that this wedding was going to happen no matter what he said or did. She repeated her plea again last night, and so, finally, Danny had agreed. Like a dutiful friend he planned to hold his tongue from here on out. Jo had asked him to shut up, so he was going to shut up. But that didn’t change how he felt about it.

  In the distance, he could hear a siren, and he had a feeling it was her.

  “You hear that?” Chief Cooper demanded, coming out on the lawn. “What an idiot.”

  “Sir?”

  “Running the siren at this hour. Is he nuts? It’s seven o’clock in the morning!”

  “Well, you did tell him to hurry.”

  “Did I say use the siren?” the chief demanded, reaching for the radio. “Did I say wake up the entire town?”

  The question was obviously rhetorical, so Danny did not reply. Instead, he waited a beat and then announced the sudden need to get another piece of camera equipment from his car. Anything to get out of Jo’s line of sight when they pulled up to the house.

  With the sounds of the siren coming closer, Danny hustled down the street—past four police cars, an ambulance, and the coroner’s private vehicle—to his little red Honda. He got inside and leaned over, rifling through his spare camera bag. When the police car screeched to a stop and the siren turned off, Danny could hear the chief yelling.

  Quietly, Danny got out of his car and stood beside it. All the noise had drawn even more neighbors from their homes, and a small crowd was gathering on the street. In the midst of everything, he could see Jo climbing from the backseat of the police car, her thick blond hair curling in the early morning mist, looking upset and bewildered.

  Father, he prayed silently, be with her right now. Please keep the problems of this home from overshadowing her special day—even if her special day is a really big mistake.

  Suddenly, it didn’t matter to Danny if Jo would be angry or not. She needed a friend.

  “Jo!” he called, quickly striding toward her.

  “Danny!” Jo replied, her big green eyes near tears. “What’s going on?”

  Before he could reply, the chief finished his tirade at the deputy and turned his attention toward Jo.

  “Miss Tulip? How do you do? I’m Chief Harvey Cooper.”

  “Can someone please tell me what’s happening?” Jo asked, turning from the chief to her friend. “Danny, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied. “I’m here as a photographer.”

  “A photographer! But you’re my photographer today.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll be done in plenty of time.”

  “Miss Tulip,” Chief Cooper said, “what you’re about to see is pretty disturbing. But according to Danny, here, your, uh, area of expertise might shed a lot of light on what’s going on.”

  “My expertise?”

  “Household hints,” Danny said. “Tips from Tulip, specifically.”

  Jo’s face always clearly mirrored her thoughts, and now was no exception. Danny watched as she went from confusion to suspicion to anger.

  “Danny, what have you done? Is this some misguided attempt to stop my wedding?”

  Danny shook his head.

  “Jo, listen. A woman was found dead in there this morning. It was looking
suspiciously like a homicide, but now they’re not so sure. They need your help to figure out what happened.”

  “Dead?” Jo asked, her eyes wide. “Who? Edna Pratt?”

  “Yes,” the chief said. “Did you know her?”

  “Only in passing,” Jo replied. “She was a friend of my grandmother’s.”

  “Well, the next-door neighbor came over this morning and found Mrs. Pratt dead on her floor, with all sorts of weird things on her body and in her house.”

  “The police were trying to decide if she was crazy or if some psycho did all this,” Danny interjected. “I offered a third alternative. Tips from Tulip.”

  Jo opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, Danny continued.

  “She’s got tomato juice in her hair, Jo, some kind of cucumber-smelling paste smeared all over her face, and Styrofoam packing noodles between her toes.”

  “Sounds like she was beautifying herself.”

  “Beautifying herself?” Chief Cooper asked, leaning forward. “What do you mean?”

  “The column has offered a lot of homemade facial treatments over the years, but if the stuff on her face smells like cucumber, it’s probably cucumber and honey. Is it lumpy and greenish white?”

  “Yes,” the chief said, getting excited. “Why was her head covered with tomato juice?”

  “Tomato juice takes chlorine out of hair. Was she a swimmer?”

  To Danny’s surprise, the chief barked out a laugh and slapped his thigh.

  “Yes!” the man cried. “She swam every day! That’s why the neighbor came over. They drive together every morning to the Y.”

  “Well, that’s it, then,” Jo said. “The packing noodles were probably to keep her toes separated after a pedicure. Are her toenails freshly painted?”

  “I didn’t notice,” the chief replied. “Let’s go see.”

  Danny held Jo’s elbow as they went inside. He was afraid the sight of the dead woman might be too traumatic for her, but she remained calm.

  “Is that the smell of death?” she asked Danny as they crossed the threshold.