Red Mourning, page 12
part #2 of Rosie Casket Cozy Mystery Series
Bella gave me a flirty, dainty wave goodbye and then sashayed out the back door and tiptoed down to the harbor rocks, her hands out at her sides as if every step were fighting for balance on a tightrope and the whole world were watching. Dimitri followed her down the gentle slope and grabbed onto the trees in passing so he didn’t lose his own footing and tumble into her.
At the bottom, where the water met the land, Bella left her flip-flops in the leaves, dropped the towel, covered her breasts with her arm, and then stuck a foot into the cold harbor and struck a pose.
Uggh. How the heck was she so immune to the cold?
Dimitri rolled up his pant legs and waded into the water so he could shoot her with the house in the background. I ducked away from the kitchen window, fearing I was in the shot. The last thing I wanted in the magazine was my pale face and my beady eyes watching them like a creeper from my kitchen window. If impending rumors of a murder house weren’t bad enough, everyone would think it was haunted too.
I watched her as long as I could stand. Which was about ten seconds. How was a woman posing half-nude in my backyard going to be good for business? It’s not like I was trying to market this place as a brothel—although I was seriously beginning to worry if such drastic measures might be in my future.
Too frustrated to read—the same feeling as that one time I had invited a local author to come speak to my students, only to listen to him spend the whole day convincing them to buy his crappy books—I called up Mettle.
“What is it, Casket?”
“Your girlfriend’s here.”
“What?”
“Bella. I’m looking at her right now. She’s half-naked on the rocks behind my house.”
“Take a picture.”
“I won’t have to. Apparently Marie Claire will be showing more skin than Playboy next month. Did you know she was coming here?”
“I knew she was working this afternoon.”
“Is that what counts as work these days? Posing like a washed-up mermaid in someone’s backyard?”
“Give her a break. She’s a pretty big deal. She’s got her own cosmetic line and everything. That takes a lot of work, a lot of business savvy. She’s a lot smarter than you give her credit for. You should be honored she wants to shoot there. It might put you on the map.”
“Did you tell her my inn would make a good backdrop?”
“No, why?”
“Because she said you did.”
“Maybe you misinterpreted her accent.”
“Her fake accent?”
“It’s not fake. She was born in Menaggio.”
“It sounds like she was conceived in a ménage.”
“It’s an Italian village, you dolt,” Mettle said.
I glanced out the window, then wished I hadn’t. “She’s barely wearing anything. It’s so cold, I’m surprised she hasn’t scratched the camera lens.”
“Do you want me to come over there and make sure she’s not breaking any indecent exposure laws?”
“No,” I grumbled. “She’s a paying customer.”
“She’s staying there?”
“Yup. Staying here tonight. Both she and her photographer.”
Mettle was dead quiet for a moment. “Separate rooms?”
I debated whether or not I should tell him the truth or drive a wedge between them. The opportunity was ripe to sabotage their relationship.
But I didn't. “Yes. Separate rooms,” I mumbled.
He breathed relief. “Maybe I’ll stop by tonight.”
“She said she’s working tonight.”
“I’ll call her up and see.”
“You do that,” I said. “Speaking of calling, have you spoken with the anthropologist? Has he called you?”
“That dork, Zither? Yeah. I spoke with him this afternoon.”
“And?”
“He said the bones were definitely female but too young to date. They’re looking more and more like your sister’s.”
My face got hot. “That’s not the whole story, Matt. Did he mention the tuberculosis?”
“You went to see him?”
“This morning.”
“Yeah, he mentioned it. And we’re looking into Chrissy’s medical files. From what I’ve seen, she was a sickly child.”
“No she wasn’t. She was an amazing gymnast.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s not what her record shows. Had you ever seen her do gymnastics?”
I thought about it for a moment. Come to think of it, I had never even seen Chrissy do a somersault. Still, I refused to believe it. There were so many rumors about her amazing balance beam routine. “You’re seeing what you want to see, Mettle. You want this case closed as fast as possible so you can impress the higher-ups and retake your detective exam.”
“Don’t project your insecurities on me, Casket.”
Through the window, I saw Dimitri helping Bella climb the embankment. She was wrapped in the towel again, thank my bleeding eyes.
“I gotta go,” I said. I hung up abruptly and pretended to read on my phone.
Dimitri opened the back door and Bella came inside and crossed the floor to the kitchen, her flip-flops leaving streaks of mud on the floor. I winced, about to say something, but realized as the owner and housekeeper, it was my duty to clean it up, not the guests’.
She sat in the chair next to me, her towel riding up so her bare cheeks sat directly on the wood. I winced again. The seat would need a few gallons of Lysol.
“What are you reading?”
“Jane Austen,” I said.
“I just love that Mr. Darling.”
I didn’t bother to correct her. “Me, too.”
“Listen, Rosemary—”
“It’s Rosie.”
“I could have sworn Matt called you Rosemary.”
I wanted to wring her neck. “The accent in your ears must have misheard him.”
She leaned forward and put both hands on the table. “So here’s the deal. If it’s okay with you, of course. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I invited a few friends over tonight.”
“Friends?”
“Yes, for a party. A makeup party. I have a new cosmetic line coming out and it’s very romantic here, especially in the living room by the fire.”
I glanced into the living room, at the bare spot where the bearskin rug used to be. Yes, makeup always looked better by the firelight. So did everything else. It was called a lack of light. It hid the wrinkles.
“Dimitri will pick up some wine, we’ll trade some gossip, share some beauty secrets, maybe even trade ghost stories. That’s what I call it when your complexion gets so pale, nobody pays any attention to you. You’re welcome to join us.”
I tensed my neck muscles. Just what was she insinuating? Spraying each other with fake tanning cream and playing dress up wasn’t exactly my idea of a raucous party. I much rather have a book club meeting and discuss Margaret Atwood’s contribution to American letters.
“Will these guests of yours be staying the night?”
“No, we’ll probably hang out until midnight or so. Do you mind if they park on your grass?”
“I don’t—”
“I’d be happy to share some of the profits with you. I’ll give you half of anything I sell tonight. How’s that sound?”
So this was basically Bella’s version of an Avon party. I was opposed to the idea in principle, but could sure use the cash. Why did principles always go down the toilet when filthy lucre was involved? The hundred dollars I would get for her and Dimitri’s lodging tonight would barely cover the cost of running the furnace.
“Do I have to do anything?”
“Nope. Just be a doll in this adorable house of yours. Besides, this place could totally use some positive energy. We don’t want the town to think it’s just a murder house, now do we?”
Chapter 18
Before getting dressed for the party, I took a long shower. I was midway through soaping my armpits when the door opened and a blast of cool air ruffled the shower curtain and disturbed the steam.
I froze. Through the shimmering plastic and the dripping beads, I could see the shape of a woman. She had the culturally ideal silhouette, a shadow fit for a trucker’s mud flaps.
Bella. She said nothing. She came right into the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, hiked up her dress, and squatted.
I lowered my hands to cover up. I mean, technically, as a guest, she had a right to be in here as this was the only bathroom on the second floor. But still, sharing a bathroom that only had one toilet and no stalls was weird. It wasn’t like college where there were multiple toilets and it was understood it was communal. If it were me and someone else were in the shower, I would have held my bladder until it burst.
I winced at the loud trickle and shut my eyes and tried to focus on the water flowing from the shower head.
“What’s with these tiles?” she said loudly. “They don’t belong in a Victorian house. You’ve ruined the aesthetic.”
“You’re one to talk,” I mumbled. Silicone had more business in the bathroom than under the skin.
“I can get you a meeting with my interior designer if you want.”
“My interior’s fine, thank you,” I muttered.
She flushed. “You should try some makeup tonight. I hope you’ll join us.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Bella added. “It’ll bring out the red in you.”
Her shape stood, shimmied as she rolled her dress back down, and left. She didn’t wipe, nor wash. I wouldn’t want those hands anywhere near my eyeliner.
I stood in the shower for a long time as the soapy water ran down my body, feeling like I would need yet another shower after tonight was over.
To my ongoing disappointment, there were no pizzerias in town, so Dimitri, the dutiful page, made a trip to Walmart. He came back with five frozen pepperoni pies wrapped in cellophane and two cases of red wine. Why these women cared enough about their faces to attend this makeup party, but not enough about their skin to watch what they ate, was beyond me.
While I tried to get the stove to work—it seemed best not to unleash a fireball on my guests’ eyebrows—Bella lined up her sparkly gift bags on an antique tea cart that I had found hiding under a frilly tablecloth.
Around six, the driveway clogged as badly as the downstairs toilet. Eight cars arrived, two overflowing into the ditch. Worried that a truck might whip around the corner and take off someone’s mirror, I pulled the Apache half into the woods to accommodate more vehicles.
I played the host—gracious but not gracefully—and with an awkward smile and a cold handshake, greeted the women at the door. Most were a bit older than I was, about mid-thirties, their clothing way too thin for Maine, their triceps swinging freely with each handshake. The moment the women stepped into the foyer, they rushed into the living room as gleefully as teenagers meeting their idol and requested selfies with Bella by the fireplace.
Apparently, she was like, kind of a big deal.
By the time Bella closed the doors—she had limited the group to twelve—the couch, the armchair, even the kitchen chairs, were all taken. The women chatted with one another and twisted their tubes of lipstick and laughed as the red part poked its head out, hesitantly at first, and then at full force. Someone made a joke about male parts and another clapped a compact powder case like a hungry clam. They drank their wine while Dimitri served pizza on paper plates and they complimented each others’ hair.
From my spot in limbo leaning on the wall between the kitchen and the living room, I caught snippets of the latest town gossip: Dr. Kurtz, the dentist, was cheating on his wife. Giles Fury, the owner of the nail salon, was cheating on his partner, and oh my God, did you see the new lawyer at the law firm of Slate and Bearing? What a hottie!
Precisely at seven, Bella posed in front of the fire, the flames raging behind her and making her white maxi dress glow orange. The whole time, Dimitri documented everything. He eschewed the flash and moved for different angles, sometimes even climbing up on the arm of the couch and shooting the floor where Lori died—which I found a bit disconcerting. It reminded me of the ladder in Meat Locker’s operating room.
Dimitri stepped down from the couch and braced himself against the wall for a steady shot as Bella raised a giant glass of wine for a toast.
“Thank you, thank you, Dark Haven goddesses, for coming tonight to the impromptu focus group for Bella Donna Beauty.” She pulled a lipstick tube from nowhere and held it like a QVC host. “Behold, our new brand of lipstick. I give you, Nightshade.”
The women clapped.
“Please raise your glasses in honor of our host, Miss Rosemary Casket, owner of this adorable inn—” she turned to me “—still nameless, by the way. What is up with that, Rosemary?”
I shrugged. “It’s always been the Inn on Beacon Street.”
“Out with the old!” Bella said.
All the women raised their glasses. “Name it, name it!”
Seeing all those glasses of red wine, I said the first thing that came to mind: “Red and Breakfast.”
They shouted and whooped and tossed their hair as if I were a rock star. My goodness, it must have been really strong wine.
“Now you know that means you’ll have to serve us all breakfast,” Bella said.
“Maine liquor laws say we can’t serve booze after one fifteen.”
Bella raised a finger. “Boo! Have a seat, Rosemary. Let your hair down and come join us.”
“Join us! Join us!”
It felt like a cult. I glanced around the room. Thankfully, there were no chairs available. “I really should retire for the evening,” I said, searching the floorboards for an excuse. “I have some, uh, accounting matters to settle.”
“Give her a hand, ladies!”
I bowed to their applause and headed upstairs. There was something strange about this group—I mean, other than the blatant heel-kissing—but I couldn’t quite place it.
In my room, I sat on the Victorian stool at the vanity and checked my hair and makeup, hoping I didn’t look too far off the mark. Bella had convinced me to doll myself up before they arrived, so I had applied the basics, but nowhere near as much as the women downstairs who had caked their faces in the hopes of getting their pictures in the magazine. Those who didn’t make the editorial cut, were probably hoping for Instagram.
Laughter and conversation got progressively louder as the women drank wine and competed to be heard above one another. Soon, they were so loud, the floorboards trembled. How in the heck did Bella get so many loyal women to show up on such short notice?
I felt a bit icky about doing the dirty work of hosting her party and even stranger about naming my inn Red and Breakfast. The name was a spur of the moment thing and seemed too cute for comfort. Worse, I didn’t like the fact that Bella had conned all these women—all plain Janes like me—into thinking that they could look as good as she did by simply buying the right makeup. It’s not as if the products could sharpen their cheekbones or shrink their noses.
I took out my phone and Googled Bella Donna Beauty. The first thing that came up was a box of glamor shots in the corner of the browser and a link to her cosmetic line. I clicked on the link. The banner at the top said, “Bella Donna: Beautiful Woman.” It took me to rows and rows of beauty products on her website, everything from lip crayons to hydration creams to sea salt sprays. My jaw dropped at the prices. At Walmart, I could buy an entire year’s worth of my regular arsenal for the price of just a few rounds of Bella Donna lip gloss.
The banner at the top of the page was flashing between red and purple, the pulsing colors manic enough to re-invigorate my latent PTSD caused by narrowly avoiding assault at disco-themed frat parties. The banner showcased a new, crimson-red lipstick called Nightshade. The description beneath it said, “Coming Soon! Instantly Fuller Lips. No gimmicks. Feel the tingle!”
I guessed that “tingle” was the same as the numbness caused by rubbing jalapeños on your lips. They only felt fuller because they were swollen, the body’s natural reaction to trauma.
To the right of the topmost banner, I clicked on the little blue bird icon. The first tweet that popped up said, “Focus Group on the shore of Coral Bay! Be the first to experience Nightshade! Meet me at the (nameless) Inn on Beacon Street for a night of fun and a chance have your photo in Marie Claire.”
There were thousands of responses and thousands of retweets.
So jealous! Wish I could go! I’m moving to Dark Haven! Where the heck is Dark Haven? New Hampshire is so lucky! Here now! So beautiful! Red and Breakfast is the best!
Geez, the name was already out there. I exited her Twitter feed, backed through her company website, and scrolled down the browser. Buried below her Instagram account, below articles from People magazine and Allure, was a Wikipedia page that said Bella was twenty-six years old, of dubious Italian descent, and her real name was Jane Donley.
The next link Google found was a Wikipedia entry for Atropa belladonna, a deadly plant in the nightshade family. According to the entry, the foliage and berries are extremely toxic when ingested, the effects completely unpredictable.
I put down my phone and listened to all the bubbly mirth rising up to the ceiling under my feet.
Who would name themselves and their product line after a deadly poison? It was the equivalent of going to the elementary schools and hawking a new shade of blue crayon called cyan-ide.
I knew something was strange about that woman.
But was it innocent ignorance? Or something more nefarious?
I remembered what my foster father once said, probably borrowed from someone much wiser than he…or the internet.
“Never attribute to malice what can be explained by stupidity.”
Chapter 19
As I tried to sleep that night, the laughter got louder and louder. There were even a few crashes followed by suspicious stretches of silence and then bursts of more laughter. I felt as miserable as I did when that one semester as an RA in college turned me into an instant pariah.
