Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

amazing?”
    “Amazing,” Wetzon agreed. “Where does Jerry do his show from?”
    Barbie’s weird white-lined irises lighted on Wetzon, who was standing on the driver’s side of the car. She frowned and pursed her lips. “A station in Norwalk.” She began hurriedly loading the groceries into the trunk.
    “And do you know what else?” Smith was talking loudly, as if they were all deaf. “Rona is there for the weekend with Megan. Dickie got special permission for her to spend the weekend out of state.”
    “How nice,” Wetzon said. “And, I suppose, Tony Maglia’s joining you for dinner?”
    Those creepy eyes, now tinted with suspicion, bore down on Wetzon.
    “Now that’s an interesting thought,” Smith said, pouncing. “Is he, Barbie?”
    Barbie’s hands froze on the open trunk, and her eyes turned wary. “You followed me here, didn’t you?”
    “Oh, for pitysakes,” Smith groaned.
    Wetzon came around to where Barbie and Smith were standing. Seven grocery bags were stacked in the trunk along with two suitcases, coats, and ... She looked away.
    “Oh, shit, I forgot the peanut butter.” The woman’s face grimaced in a violent tick. “He’s a freak for it.”
    “Barbie,” Wetzon said, “if you want to run back and get the peanut butter, we’ll watch the car for you.”
    “You will?” The white-rimmed eyes were uncertain. She started to close the trunk, stopped, looked at them. The trunk slid closed by itself, but didn’t connect.
    Smith patted Barbie’s shoulder. “Of course, sweetie pie. Now you run right along.”
    Barbie hesitated only a split second, then rushed back inside. When she was out of sight, Wetzon moved in on the trunk of the car and lifted it. “Do you see what I see?”
    “What?” Smith’s eyes followed Wetzon’s pointing finger.
    In the rear of the trunk was the missing hatbox.

50.
    T HEY MADE THEIR escape howling.
    “Nancy Drew lives!” Wetzon shrieked.
    “That was very clever of us.” Smith smirked. She was driving like a maniac, way over the speed limit.
    Wetzon had appropriated the hatbox, passed it to Smith, who did an end run around a red Chevrolet and shoved it in the trunk of the Jag. They’d waited for Barbie to return with the peanut butter and waved good-bye to her as she drove off.
    “Let’s pull over and see what’s inside.”
    “No, we’re almost home. It’s too conspicuous here. I might see someone I know.”
    “We’ll be lucky if we don’t see a cop. Will you slow down?”
    When they turned onto Blue Water Hill, Wetzon’s excitement tempered. Soon they’d find out what the missing papers were all about—and then what?
    Smith’s house was a supermodern split on three levels. The ground level had garage space, a laundry room, and a large family area that Smith had divided into a darkroom and studio when Mark got interested in photography two years before. In the open second level, four steps up, were a kitchen, dining area, and living room, with a cathedral ceiling and a huge skylight. From a large deck off the living room there was a wonderful view of Long Island Sound. The bedrooms were on the third level, each with its own skylight.
    Smith balanced the groceries on top of the hatbox, leaving the sticky buns to Wetzon. “You’ll be in Mark’s room,” she called over her shoulder, tilting the hatbox so that the bag of groceries slid to the kitchen counter.
    Smith’s kitchen was white-on-white. The only spot of color came from the green frog magnets holding phone numbers on the fridge. Even the tea towels were white, but with green embroidery along the borders.
    “Okay, are you ready?” Smith set the hatbox on the oblong glass-topped coffee table in the living room. Her face was infused with excitement.
    Wetzon dropped her jacket and scarf on the sofa. “Go.”
    Smith lifted the lid of the hatbox. “Damn!” She flung the lid like a Frisbee at the doors to the deck.
    Wetzon stared into the round box. It was packed with tissue paper and contained a Stryofoam head on which was pinned a curly, long-haired red wig. She began laughing. “I don’t believe it! Serves us right.” She felt around the tissue paper supporting the head. Nothing. No papers. Disappointment took the wind out of both of them, and they sank onto the sofa.
    “Oh, dear,” Smith murmured. “What’s she going to do without her hair?”
    Wetzon giggled. “This is awful. We have to find a way of getting it back to her.”
    “We can’t do that.