because she wasn’t in the room.” I gave it ten seconds to sink in. “Did Miss Menton eat anything before she died?”
“She ordered from room service around ten o’clock. And there were some pastries on the floor. I’m guessing she died shortly after midnight, but the state lab will be able to tell me more.”
“When you get the test results back on Brook and Janet, would you let me see them?”
He considered. “The fact you’re asking tells me Chief Jansen won’t want me to do that.”
While I can fudge the truth in almost all situations, I’mnot great at direct lies to a minister, especially one as decent as Marlboro. “Probably not. Jansen has already said Hedy is his primary suspect, and my partner and I are working on Hedy’s behalf. But the important thing here is the truth, don’t you think?”
He didn’t hesitate. “That’s true. The reports are factual. I don’t see the harm in giving you a copy, so I’m happy to do that.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” I simply couldn’t stop myself. “Were you named after the Marlboro man on the billboards?”
His response was a smile. “Everyone asks. The answer is yes, but the irony is neither of my parents smoked. They liked cowboys. I wish they’d named me Wyatt or Bat or even Marshal. But they liked the mountains, and every time they saw the billboard, the dream came to life for a little while. They said I was part of that dream, so they named me Marlboro.”
The story touched me more than I wanted to show.
He extended his hand. “I hope you and the chief get to the bottom of this. And soon.”
The logical next step was to look into the past of each girl. Both deaths had been extreme and awful. That implied a personal touch—someone who’d constructed painful deaths deliberately. Had Brook and Janet shared some place or person or event? Babs, who was still alive and kicking, might be my best source.
I turned Tinkie’s Caddy back toward the hotel. Perhaps I could catch Babs before she got all involved with preparing for the next leg of competition.
After checking at the desk, I went straight to Babs’s room. After the pepper incident, she’d opted for a private room,and she answered my knock on her door. The tallest of the contestants at nearly six feet, Babs was a striking redhead—or she had been. Now her hair clumped in dull tufts that brought to mind Bozo the Clown.
“Welcome to Bedlam.” She waved me into the room.
Clothes, shoes, at least twenty bald Styrofoam wig heads, suitcases, and what appeared to be small dead, red creatures littered the room. Babs took a seat at a specially lit vanity and picked up a wig styled in a long shag. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s rested beside her elbow, along with more small vials filled with crushed herbs and spices.
“The judges voted unanimously to allow me to wear a hairpiece,” she said, watching my reaction in the mirror.
I wanted to say, “Thank god for that because your head looks like a Chernobyl site,” but I only nodded. “That’s good.”
“What do you think of this one? It’s called Candy.” She fluffed out the long, red tresses.
“Too . . . whorish.” I couldn’t think of another way to say it.
She pulled off the wig and tossed it on the floor by the other rejected styles. “You’re right. I just wanted to see if you’d tell the truth or not.” She batted the empty wig head with the back of her hand and it sailed across the room, crashing against the wall and then into a heap on top of two dozen others.
“Mostly I do. Tell the truth. Sometimes I don’t.” I picked up a short black wig and handed it to her. “As fascinating as hair choices are, I need to talk to you about the two dead women.”
“Brook was nice but naïve. Janet”—she pulled the dark wig on—“I don’t really have a read on her. She stayed to herself and she was rooming with that creepy goth Blackledge gal. Speaking of goth, this hair color doesn’t work for me at
“She ordered from room service around ten o’clock. And there were some pastries on the floor. I’m guessing she died shortly after midnight, but the state lab will be able to tell me more.”
“When you get the test results back on Brook and Janet, would you let me see them?”
He considered. “The fact you’re asking tells me Chief Jansen won’t want me to do that.”
While I can fudge the truth in almost all situations, I’mnot great at direct lies to a minister, especially one as decent as Marlboro. “Probably not. Jansen has already said Hedy is his primary suspect, and my partner and I are working on Hedy’s behalf. But the important thing here is the truth, don’t you think?”
He didn’t hesitate. “That’s true. The reports are factual. I don’t see the harm in giving you a copy, so I’m happy to do that.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” I simply couldn’t stop myself. “Were you named after the Marlboro man on the billboards?”
His response was a smile. “Everyone asks. The answer is yes, but the irony is neither of my parents smoked. They liked cowboys. I wish they’d named me Wyatt or Bat or even Marshal. But they liked the mountains, and every time they saw the billboard, the dream came to life for a little while. They said I was part of that dream, so they named me Marlboro.”
The story touched me more than I wanted to show.
He extended his hand. “I hope you and the chief get to the bottom of this. And soon.”
The logical next step was to look into the past of each girl. Both deaths had been extreme and awful. That implied a personal touch—someone who’d constructed painful deaths deliberately. Had Brook and Janet shared some place or person or event? Babs, who was still alive and kicking, might be my best source.
I turned Tinkie’s Caddy back toward the hotel. Perhaps I could catch Babs before she got all involved with preparing for the next leg of competition.
After checking at the desk, I went straight to Babs’s room. After the pepper incident, she’d opted for a private room,and she answered my knock on her door. The tallest of the contestants at nearly six feet, Babs was a striking redhead—or she had been. Now her hair clumped in dull tufts that brought to mind Bozo the Clown.
“Welcome to Bedlam.” She waved me into the room.
Clothes, shoes, at least twenty bald Styrofoam wig heads, suitcases, and what appeared to be small dead, red creatures littered the room. Babs took a seat at a specially lit vanity and picked up a wig styled in a long shag. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s rested beside her elbow, along with more small vials filled with crushed herbs and spices.
“The judges voted unanimously to allow me to wear a hairpiece,” she said, watching my reaction in the mirror.
I wanted to say, “Thank god for that because your head looks like a Chernobyl site,” but I only nodded. “That’s good.”
“What do you think of this one? It’s called Candy.” She fluffed out the long, red tresses.
“Too . . . whorish.” I couldn’t think of another way to say it.
She pulled off the wig and tossed it on the floor by the other rejected styles. “You’re right. I just wanted to see if you’d tell the truth or not.” She batted the empty wig head with the back of her hand and it sailed across the room, crashing against the wall and then into a heap on top of two dozen others.
“Mostly I do. Tell the truth. Sometimes I don’t.” I picked up a short black wig and handed it to her. “As fascinating as hair choices are, I need to talk to you about the two dead women.”
“Brook was nice but naïve. Janet”—she pulled the dark wig on—“I don’t really have a read on her. She stayed to herself and she was rooming with that creepy goth Blackledge gal. Speaking of goth, this hair color doesn’t work for me at
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