Aretha Moon and the Dead Hairdresser: Aretha Moon Book 2 (Aretha Moon Mysteries) by Linda Ross (reading books for 7 year olds .TXT) 📗

tightened his grip.  My purse was now standing straight out from my hands in this weird tug of war.  “Stewart, it’s almost time for Dr. Phil,” Mrs. Larkin said in a coaxing voice.  There was the sound of leather ripping, and Stewart came away with a piece of my purse in his mouth and triumph in his bug eyes.

“I should be going now,” I said.  Stewart glared at me over the prize in his mouth.

“Well, we certainly appreciate your doing the article,” Mrs. Larkin said, cradling the little monster.  “Do you know when it will come out?”

“Probably next Monday.”

“I’ll be sure to get a copy.”  She waved to me from the door as I made my hasty exit.  Stewart snarled his good-byes.  The same neighbor was watching me from the house next door, and his ponytail bobbed as he looked back at Mrs. Larkin and Stewart.

I got back to the office as fast as I could.  Lorenzo was standing outside his office as I came in, and he took one look and said, “Why’s there a hole in your purse?”

“The dog that picks winning Lotto numbers objected to having his picture taken.”

Lorenzo shook his head and went back inside his office.

I was typing up the story on my computer when Thelma came over.  “So what happened last night?” she asked without prelude.

“Why?  What makes you think something happened?”  I kept typing, determined to write the story and not give her any satisfaction.

“Well, for one thing, when you came in this morning you looked like you’d just rolled out of bed.  And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

“None taken.”

“You were pretty high last night,” she said, and I tried not to take the bait.

“And I’ve got a headache today.”

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”

I sighed.  “There’s nothing to tell.”

“So Jimmy went home?”

“No, but nothing happened.”

“You mean he spent the night?”

“Yes, but I’m pretty sure nothing happened.”

“What do you mean you’re pretty sure?”

“I remember some kissing and a little cuddling, then I think I fell asleep.  I woke up this morning in my bed, still in my robe.”

“I can’t believe it.  You have Jimmy spending the night at your house, and nothing happens.  You have to be either the most boring woman in the world or a saint.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.  There was one strange thing though.”

“What’s that?”

“When I got dressed I saw a little smiley face on my big toe.  No idea what it means, although I vaguely remember something about John Candy.”

“You’re hopeless,” Thelma said.  “Let’s get some lunch and go over the names Mr. Pierce gave us.”

“Okay.  Soon as I finish this story.”

* * * * *

I drove, and Thelma and I went to the Mark Twain Dinette again.  Thelma got one of their vegan burgers.  I still had a weed hangover, and I went the dessert route.

“All right, who’s first?” I asked.

She turned the list around so I could see it.  “Jordan Kirsch.  Let’s see where he lives.”  She flipped open her phone and did a search.  “It’s an apartment on 30th Street.  He’s probably at work now though.”

“Let’s go look anyway,” I said.  “Maybe we can find out where he works.”

The apartment building was a line of single-story units, each with a small concrete patio in the back.  We found Jordan’s number, but no one answered the door.

“Let’s check around back,” I said.  “Maybe we can see something.”  Basically I meant maybe we could see inside from there.

We traipsed to the end of the buildings and walked around the corner.  Jordan’s was fourth from the end, and I was surprised to see nice landscaping around the patio.  Evergreens screened it from view, and someone had hung a bird feeder on a pole by one evergreen.  A cardinal flew away as we approached.  There was a small opening with stepping stones between two of the evergreens, and I pushed through, Thelma behind me.  I stopped short when I saw a small round woman hunched over a patio table, smoking a cigarette.  She was bundled up in a coat and scarf and seemed to be lost in thought.

“Who are you?” she demanded when she saw me.  “The rent’s paid and Jordan’s not here.”

“We were kind of hoping we could talk to him about Kara Koch,” I said, edging further onto the patio.  The woman frowned as Thelma followed.

“He don’t know anything,” she said, taking another drag on the cigarette.

“We’re from The Spyglass.  I’m Aretha Moon and this is Thelma Murphy.”

“The Spyglass you say?  That newspaper?”

I nodded.

“I always like to read the crime stories in there.  That was a good one about those murders a few months ago.  You aren’t the one who wrote that, are you?”

“Yes, that would be me.”

“You’re lucky to be alive, honey.”

“I know it.  We’re looking into Kara’s murder now.”

The woman sighed.  “Well, you might as well come inside then.”  She stubbed out her cigarette on the concrete, then led the way through a patio door into a tiny dining room with a card table and folding chairs.  I took a quick look around and noted the shabby furnishings.  Early starving student décor.

She slipped off her coat and sat down at the table, and Thelma and I settled ourselves, me opposite and Thelma to her left.  She was wearing a purple track suit, the kind you see all the time at Bingo games.  “I’m Pauline Kirsch,” she said, “Jordan’s grandmother, but I guess you know that.  It’s been just him and me since his father died and his mother started running around.  Though I think she was doing that before too.”

“How did Jordan meet Kara?” I asked.

Pauline gave a grim smile.  “Jordan’s gone back to school at Hannibal-LaGrange, studying art.  Kara was