“Fine,” I said to my grandmother after I’d given her her mail.
“Fine what?”
“Fine I’ll keep asking questions for you. For two thousand dollars.”
“Good.”
“And—”
“What do you mean and?”
“And you have to help convince my mother to pay my hospital bill in L.A.”
I took a moment and fully explained that my mother had dumped the hospital bill on me for my involuntary commitment. When I was finished, she said, “I don’t know that I’ve ever been able to convince your mother to do anything.”
“All the more reason to try. Wouldn’t it be satisfying to stick her with a twenty-seven thousand-dollar bill?”
Nana Cole got quiet for a bit. I could see the wheels turning. I suspected she didn’t like the fact that my mother had stuck me with such a large bill. Particularly, when she was the kind of person who had whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it. Not that she ever had a lot of money in the bank. Her relationship with the world involved a completely different sort of currency.
“I haven’t spoken to your mother in almost two weeks,” she said. “I think she’s on a boat.”
“Yacht,” I corrected. Yes, my mother said boat, but really… no one becomes incommunicado floating around in a dingy.
“All right, you win. Two thousand dollars and I’ll do my best to convince your mother to pay your hospital bill.”
Yes, I knew it was very unlikely she’d be able to get my mother to budge, but it was worth a try. I really didn’t want to get any more of those awful phone calls from the collections department at the hospital. And I certainly didn’t want them getting any ideas about garnishing my checking account.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room, trying to decide what I should do next regarding Reverend Hessel’s murder.
Detective Lehmann seemed sure it was a meth addict who’d broken into the office. But why? Logically it could have been any kind of addict. Well, perhaps not a heroin addict. They tend not to be very ambitious. But why not crack? Why not cocaine?
And what about Carl? He was a strong possibility. Though, at the moment, I had no ideawhyhe might kill his stepfather. Other than the fact that there were frequently problems with stepparents. I’d wanted to kill one or two of my official and unofficial stepfathers.
I decided to put the two ideas together and see what I got. Was Carl doing meth? Had his stepfather found out and taken the drug away from him? That would explain why it was at the crime scene. And then, Carl would have a motive—
No, that didn’t exactly work because Carl would have taken his stash back if he’d killed his stepfather. And then Lehmann would have no reason to think it was a meth addict.
The only thing I knew for certain was that I needed to talk to more people. But which people?
CHAPTER TEN
“You need a haircut,” Opal said when I clicked onto the call.
“How do—you can’t even see me,” I said. Though she was right. I desperately needed a haircut. My stylist was in West Hollywood and cost almost a hundred dollars. More than I made in a whole day as a barista, but it was worth it. I had to look good if I wanted people to buy me drinks at Rage.
“Go to Bob’s. It’s on Grover Street at the south end of the village. They’re open until seven.”
I glanced at the clock next to my bed. It was just after six, I could be there by six-thirty. Nana Cole would be happy sitting in front of Fox News.The O’Reilly Factorcame on at eight, but I was sure I’d be back by then to change the channel. She always got a little mean after that show, so it was a good idea to distract her with something else.
Anyway, I made her a sandwich and said a quick goodbye before I rushed out to the Escalade. Clearly, Opal was giving me an important clue. Though I had no idea what exactly. It didn’t matter, I did really need a haircut.
When I arrived at Bob’s, I parked across the street and then walked over to the salon—er, barbershop. Oh, my God, it was a barbershop. Except, really, it didn’t even look like that. Insidethere were three barber’s chairs, that was true. But the walls were covered with fishing lures. And above the fishing lures, taxidermized deer heads. Well, three deer heads and one very large fish.
A sign near the cash register told me I could get a fishing license for ten dollars. Less if I was sixty-five or blind. Luckily, I was neither.
“You want a haircut?” the older of the two barbers asked.
“I do, yes,” I said turning to look at him. He was in his late forties, in good shape and wore his graying hair in a George Clooney-style Caesar haircut.
