Meanwhile, Dad must have homed in on something he′d heard in my voice. ″You sound like you′re under stress,″ he said. ″What′s going on? What′s wrong?″
″Nothing′s wrong,″ I said in a guarded tone.
″Yes, there is, but I know you won′t tell me. Well, I′m putting something else in the mail for you. Maybe it′ll help with whatever′s worrying you.″
″Nothing′s worrying me. What are you sending? ″
″Just a little something for your personal protection. It′s high time you graduated from that pocketknife you carry around on your keychain. I′ve been telling you that for years.″
″It′s not a gun, is it?″ I asked, wincing. ″Be cause you know I won′t carry a firearm.″
″Of course not. And anyway, sending a gun through the mail would violate federal regulations. ″
What a relief. The Second Amendment is my dad′s favorite passage in the Constitution. In his opinion Switzerland -a nation with an unusually high per capita gun ownership rate-has the right idea for preventing crime.
Blow off their buns when they come through your door and they won′t come back is one of his favorite sayings.
″What are you sending, then?″ I asked.
″You′ll just have to wait and see, won′t you?″
Next, I set off on a sad mission.
Trish had left a message letting me know that I could pick up Jana′s purse from her house. Trish and her husband were still out of town, but she said her son would be at the house to give me the purse.
I′d never heard anything back from Luke about Jana′s purse. Maybe he didn′t think the purse was relevant to the case against their murder suspect, Antoine Hurley. So I guessed it was okay if I went ahead and picked it up. Luke had made it abundantly clear that he thought I obsessed about minor details. Maybe you didn′t do that if you were a homicide detective.
In the midmorning light, Trish′s sprawling colonial home was larger and even more impressive than I remembered from the Newbodies meeting on Tuesday night.
When I rang the front doorbell, no one answered for a long while. I rang a couple more times before hearing a stirring deep within.
Chaz Putnam opened the door. He was wearing the same flannel shirt he′d had on the night of the Newbodies party. The shirt was even grimier than it had been on Tuesday night.
Chaz stood framed in the doorway, swaying slightly.
″Kate Gallagher, right?″ he said.
When I nodded, he made a low, sweeping bow. ″Channel Twelve News,″ he said. ″I′m honored.″
The treacly-herbal smell I remembered from the other night was rolling off him in waves again. Pot. It was only ten a.m.-even for a young slacker that seemed early to be flying high.
″Are you okay, Chaz?″ I asked him.
″Oh, yeah.″ Raising two fingers to his lips as if he were taking a hit off a joint, he said, ″Nothing like a morning drag to take the edge off. But don′t tell my mom, okay?″
When I shrugged, he grinned. ″C′mon in, then,″ he said. ″The purse is in the kitchen.″
I followed Chaz into the Putnams′ kitchen, which turned out to be larger than my entire apartment. Jana′s bag was resting on top of a round table in a breakfast nook.
We stood silently for a moment, staring at the purse. It looked unspeakably sad all by itself in the middle of the clean white table.
″I heard about what happened to that lady,″ Chaz said, shooting a sideways glance at me. ″That was too bad. But they caught the guy who did it, right?″
″So the police say.″
I started to reach for the bag, then hesitated. ″By the way,″ I said. ″Have the homicide detectives called here asking about this purse?″
″Have the police called here?″ Underneath a layer of stubble, Chaz′s skin turned ashen. ″No. Why would they?″
″I told the detective in charge of the investigation that Jana left it here the night of your mom′s meeting,″ I said. ″I was just wondering whether they wanted to pick it up themselves.″ Reaching for my cell phone, I added, ″I′ll just call them to check before I take it.″
Before my fingers could touch the keypad, I felt a sharp blow on my wrist.
The cell phone dropped from my hand and went spinning across the kitchen′s hardwood floor.
Chapter 22
Keep the Raccoons Away
Be sure to visit the ladies′ room every few hours to clean up any mascara or liner that migrates during the day. Use a no-oil mascara remover and a cotton swab to whisk away any fledgling raccoon eyes.
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
″Are you out of your mind?″ Chaz′s eyes loomed large and spooky looking in my face as he asked the question-he must have knocked the cell phone out of my hand.
Without waiting for a reply, he hissed, ″I′ve got pot and servers in my room. And you want to bring cops over here?″
I rubbed my wrist, which hurt like hell. He must′ve hit me with one heck of a blow. It seemed like an overreaction.
″Jesus Christ, Chaz,″ I said. ″I was calling homicide detectives, not the narcs. They′re conducting a murder investigation. They′re not looking for pot or a couple of bongs in your room. Is that what you mean by ′servers′?″
″No,″ he said, his tone exasperated. ″Servers are computers.″
″Oh, right,″ I said, feeling like a Luddite. ″Why are you worried about the police seeing your computers?″
″I′m not, but I certainly don′t need cops poking their noses in my business right now. The second you let them in, all hell can break loose.″
Thrusting Jana′s purse at me, he said, ″Just take this stupid hag bag and go away.″
He was shaking; sweat was trickling down from his temples toward his chin. He looked like someone who could easily launch into another attack at any second.
I picked up my phone from the floor. Carefully sliding it into my pants pocket, I kept my gaze focused on Chaz.
″No problem, Chaz,″ I said.
Hugging Jana′s purse close to me, I wheeled around.
Then I left as fast as I could.
After leaving the Putnam house, I spent the rest of the morning at the Channel Twelve studios. Things there got off to a rip-roaring start with a Lainey encounter.
The instant I set foot inside the newsroom, Lainey planted herself in front of me, armed with her trademark faux-friendly smile. She wore her blond hair curved off her face in a power lift; somehow it managed to stay aloft without visible bobby pinnage.
″Hi, Kate. Let′s talk,″ she said, touching my arm.
″What is it, Lainey?″
″I′m supposed to work with Frank today,″ she said. ″But for some reason, he′s assigned to you on the whiteboard.″ Lainey′s tone made it sound as if I′d swiped her PowerBar.
Glancing up at the assignment board, I saw Frank′s name written next to mine. In two hours we were supposed to shoot the first installment of my series about weight-loss scams-the dreaded bikini story. And here I was, still bikiniless.
″Right you are. And actually I′m running behind, so I′m busy right now,″ I said, trying to step around her.
Lainey leaned in to block me. ″Frank′s the most experienced videographer for police roll-outs, so I need him,″ she said. ″We′re going on a ride-along with the gang patrol-I′ve got it all set up. It′s hard news.″
Frank, who had his butt parked against the assignment desk, was pretending to check through his camera bag. He knew better than to get between two reporters who were fighting over him.
″Oh, you′re doing hard news?″ I feigned an impressed expression. ″In that case, I think you should take Frank for the whole day. After all, we′re talking about a big story, right?″