Bubbles Ablaze by Sarah Strohmeyer Page A

Chrissy was too old to be a Chrissy anymore. She was at least a Chris, if not a Christine. Her skin was sun-dried cowhide and stretched nearly as tight in a face-lift that was as painful to observe as it must have been to undergo.
    The paragraph on Chrissy could have passed for a singles ad. She liked gardening, horses and had recently become involved in the Lehigh Women’s League as well as the historical society. In addition to being an avid golfer, Chrissy was a demon on the tennis court and spent every Christmas skiing in Aspen with her daughter, Sasha.
    I put down the magazine and soaped up my legs while I pondered the enticing revelation that Stinky and Bud Price weredrinking buddies. I considered Stinky’s locked and vacant Lexus. Maybe they arrived at the Number Nine mine together the night before. But why? And why trick Stiletto and me into showing up, too, just to try to blow us up? If Stinky had wanted me to be present, all he had to do was call me up and ask. He didn’t have to forge a letter from Mr. Salvo.
    Now Price was dead and Stinky was missing. And Stiletto and I had barely escaped with our lives.
    I had just finished rinsing my hair when the door slammed downstairs and the distinctive low and mellow tones of Stiletto emanated through the heating ducts. Yipes!
    I leaped out of the bathtub, dried off and wrapped my hair and body in Roxanne’s hot pink towels. Then I hopped down the stairs.
    Stiletto was leaning close to Roxanne, who had the photo album open from which she was removing pictures of Stinky. I heard her remark, “That’s when Stinky met Bud Price. Now, I don’t know if you know who he is—”
    â€œRoxanne!” I shouted, clasping the pink towel with one hand and waving the other.
    Stiletto took in my skimpy covering. “Another distraction, Bubbles?”
    â€œYou two know each other?” Roxanne asked, tick-tocking a finger between the two of us.
    I landed at the bottom of the stairs. “Roxanne, this is Stiletto.”
    â€œThe Stiletto? Like the knife?” She batted her false eyelashes.
    Stiletto flashed me a victorious grin. Finally, finally someone had bought that, “Stiletto like the knife” line of his. “My, I’ve heard all about you from Aunt LuLu,” she gushed. “Didn’t I see a profile of you on 60 Minutes ?”
    â€œOnly CNN,” Stiletto replied with false humility. “It was more a feature on land mines.”
    â€œYou risked your life showing how innocent children played around those hidden underground explosives every day.” Roxanne clasped her hands together. “You were so brave to—”
    â€œOkay, okay,” I said, moving between them. “Break it up. Roxanne, don’t you have a client to tend to?” I pushed Stiletto toward the door. “And don’t you know this is a girls-only salon, Steve?”
    â€œDon’t make him go,” whined Mrs. Wychesko from the chair as Roxy returned to finish rolling up her hair. “He’s so cute. He could be our mascot.”
    Stiletto tucked the pictures in his back pocket. “I’ve got to leave, anyway. I have to shoot the owner of McMullen Coal.”
    â€œOh, please don’t!” Roxanne squealed. “Hasn’t there been enough violence already?”
    Stiletto stared at her like she was loopy and I explained that Stiletto meant shoot photos, not bullets. “You talking about Hugh McMullen?” I asked, seething inside with envy.
    â€œVery good, Bubbles. Don’t tell me you’ve actually been reading the newspapers?”
    I resisted an urge to tweak his sore nose. “How did you get an interview with McMullen?”
    â€œHe drove into the gas station while I was returning the car. How’s that for kismet? If your Visa card hadn’t been as worthless as the plastic it was printed on, the AP wouldn’t have gotten an