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

my outfit the second time I put it on.  The demented milk maid look really didn’t suit me.  But I didn’t have anything else to wear.  I don’t exactly collect party clothes.  Eileen does, but nothing in her closet would get past one of my thighs.  My thighs are like the guard dogs keeping skinny pants away from me.

Thelma had followed me home so she could fasten the bustier in the back.

“It’s too tight,” I said.  “It’s going to crack a rib.”  When I saw her roll her eyes I said in a sing-song voice, “Yeah, I know.  It won’t matter when I’m chained to the wall in a basement.”

“I’m coming with you,” Thelma said resolutely when I was ready.  “I can’t in good conscience let you do this alone.”

“Well, you can’t come inside,” I told her.  “You’re dressed like a model.  You won’t fit in.”

“And you will?” she asked skeptically.

“I’m assuming there are costumes,” I said.  “This is a role play kind of thing, right?”

“Well, God knows what role you’re playing,” she muttered.  “Maybe they’ll think you’re auditioning for the satirical version of The Sound of Music.”

* * * * *

The house was one of the older ones, a massive brick Italianate set high on a hill.  Hannibal is a city of hills, and driving there can be like driving on a roller coaster track at times.  There were already a few cars parked, and I saw a woman getting out of one.  Her coat flapped open, and I could see a schoolgirl uniform underneath.

“See?” I said to Thelma.  “Costumes.”

“Well, I think yours is going to win a prize.”

We had taken Thelma’s car, and now she parked at the end of the row of cars in the driveway.  “I probably won’t be long,” I said.

“I’ll just play the radio.”

She tuned to a station playing oldies, and I got out of the car to the Rocky theme song.  Little did I know how apropos that was.

No one was outside the front door, but when I stepped inside, straightening my bustier, which kept riding up, I saw an off duty officer standing in the hall.  And not just any officer.  It was Leonard, the same Leonard who had knocked on my door the morning after Jimmy spent the night.  Beside him was a middle-aged woman in a French maid’s costume holding a clip board.  At least Leonard was in jeans and a T-shirt.

He saw me and did a double-take.  “Does Jimmy know about this?” he hissed in a low voice.

“I’m here on an assignment,” I told him.

“One to check in,” the French maid sang out cheerfully.  “Are you looking for anyone in particular tonight?”

“Yes.  David.”

“Oh, well, good for you.  He’s in the study.  Third door on the right.”  She winked at me and made a mark on the clip board paper.  Leonard was still staring at me, aghast.  “What’s your first name?” she asked.

“That’s Aretha,” Leonard said, and he shook his head, apparently still under the impression that I was here to attend the party.

I headed down the hall, clomping in my boots and feeling like one of those big serving maids in Dutch paintings.  This was not my cup of tea.

A man dressed all in leather was being led into another room by a fat woman, also in leather, who wore a mask over her eyes.  Now there was an idea.  I should have worn a mask.  Then maybe Leonard wouldn’t have recognized me.  I had a feeling this was going to get back to Jimmy.  At least he wouldn’t see me in this get-up.  I hoped to interview David Henderson and get the heck out of there within fifteen minutes.

The door to the study was open, and I guessed that was David sitting at the desk, looking down at papers.  He was about my age, more overweight than I am and balding.  There was a small table lamp on the desk and a framed picture.  David was dressed in a three-piece suit and wore small round glasses that he was squinting through.  The room itself looked like an ordinary study except for the display on the wall behind the desk.  Hanging on hooks were a wooden paddle, a buggy whip and a riding crop.  Yikes.  A black leather sofa dominated one side of the room with a bookcase at a ninety-degree angle to that.

“Excuse me,” I said.  “Are you David Henderson?”

He looked up at me over his glasses and cleared his throat.  “I take it that the headmistress sent you here for an infraction.”  He stood up and walked around the desk, leaning back against it with his arms folded.

“Uh, no. I’m from The Spyglass.  My name’s Aretha. . .”

I never got my last name out, because I noticed he was taking off his belt.

“Aretha, I know how to deal with girls like you.  You’re a bad girl.  You’re always in trouble.  What you need is some discipline.”

What I needed was a Diet Coke and some cheesecake, but I sensed that that wasn’t what he was planning.

“Really,” I said, backing toward the door.  “I just need to ask you some questions.”

For a fat man he was surprisingly fast.  He had the door closed and locked before I realized what he was doing.  “Bend over the couch,” he said sternly, pointing to the couch and snapping his rolled-up belt against his leg.

“No, really, there’s been a mistake.”

“Now!” he snapped, and he whacked me across the backside with the belt, which made me yelp and drop my purse on the floor.

The last time anybody hit me I was seven, and I had a babysitter who came to the house on a bicycle.  Melanie was okay until the night she got upset with me because I kept interrupting her while she was on the phone with her