If the lipstick had just been on Harold Mayapple's shirt collar--the custom befitting dirty, rotten, cheating husbands--everyone would've been spared all kinds of trouble, including murder.

    See, lipstick on a shirt collar can be explained lots of ways. There's Mom Mayapple dropping by the office to give her little boy a great big hug and a kiss. There's Harold's secretary weeping about yet another low life, runaway boyfriend--and needing a hug--which, by talk I hear around town, Harold likes to give out. There's even Harold comforting some client about her dearly departed husband because those big insurance premiums are finally going to pay off.

    Truth be told, Tilly Mayapple thought the world of her husband Harold, so Harold could have convinced her about a little lipstick on a collar.

    Trouble was, the lipstick wasn't on Harold Mayapple's shirt collar.

    It was all over his pants.

***

    I'm Josie Toadfern, owner of Toadfern's Laundromat, the only laundromat in Paradise, Ohio. And I'm a stain expert--self-trained and proud of it. Best stain expert in all of Mason County, which is where Paradise is. Maybe in all of Ohio. Maybe even in all of the United States of America. But even I didn't recognize right off it was lipstick when Tilly Mayapple first came to me with Harold's white pants.

    See, I was in my laundromat, clearing out the dryers' lint traps and the only other people there were Anita and her little daughter Becky. You might think there'd be more people, on account of me having the Paradise laundromat monopoly, but it was close to noon in August and even with the big fans running, it was hot.

    I was sweating as I plucked out wads of dryer lint and stuffed them in a trash can. I considered the irony of my harvest. By each dryer, I'd posted signs: please clear lint from lint traps after each use. Hardly anyone ever did. The built-up lint makes the dryers work extra hard, which runs up my electric bill. Plus, it means clothes don't always get dry in just one cycle, which makes some folks mad--but still, few people ever clear out the lint traps. Like a lot of things in life, it's a vicious cycle that could so easily be broken.

    Anyway, my laundromat (and my life) was pretty quiet, until I heard car brakes squeaking and I looked up and saw pulling up, between the legs of the toad painted on the big plate glass window that fronts my laundromat, Tilly Mayapple's silver Caddy, which she drives on account of being--besides a nurse for Doc Pritchard--the top sales lady for Joy Jean Cosmetics in all of Mason County. Maybe in all of Ohio. Maybe even in all of the United States of America.

    Now seeing Tilly's silver Caddy surprised me, because Tilly has her own washer and dryer machines, and because, well, she's always been kind of stuck up. In her view, there's important folks and there's ordinary folks, and me being an ordinary folk, I knew Tilly wouldn't come see me just to shoot the breeze, even if there'd been one that day. She'd have to have a reason, and a pretty desperate one, to come visit me.

    Anita, Becky and me watched Tilly come in, tippy-toeing and staring around nervously, like she thought maybe piles of other people's dirty laundry'd rise up and dive on her. Anita gave a snort and went back to folding underwear. Becky dove underneath the folding table and started playing with her Barbie. And me, well, I just stuffed the two wads of dryer lint I was holding into my pockets--it wouldn't have done to have Tilly see me shoving my hands into a trash can--and went right up to Tilly and said, as proper as a shirt starched for Sunday School, "Why, hello, Tilly. How may I help you?"

    She thrust some pants at me. "Harold's favorite summer pants," Tilly said. "L-look at them!"

    Now, I wasn't thrilled about getting my hands on Harold Mayapple's pants, but the Mayapples are pretty important people in Paradise, and I didn't want to offend Tilly. So I took the pants by the waistband and carried them over to a work table, where I spread them out. I studied them. White pants, polyester, men's size 42, a little shiny in the seat... and covered with purply-brown splotches, like maybe Harold had gotten in a kicking match and somehow his pants had gotten bruised instead of him.

    Tilly sat down in a chair by the work table, holding herself so stiff and prim and proper, my back ached just looking at her. She stared off into space, so I took the chance to study her instead of the pants. After all, I'd seen a lot of dirty laundry, but I'd never before seen Tilly Mayapple be anything but calm and cool.

    Everything about her matched, the same shade of rosy-pink. Rosy-pink purse. Sun-dress. Sandals. Lipstick. Eye shadow. Nail polish. Blusher. Like she and everything she wore came from the same dye lot. For a second I had this image of her hovering over a vat, hollering 'more red please,' as she was being lowered in.

    All that matching and staring and properness started me itching, right at the top of my shoulder, digging as hard as I could through the cloth of my tan T-shirt with the green toad and my slogan, "Toadfern's Laundromat, always a leap ahead of dirt." I made that up myself after I read a marketing book I got off the Mason County Book Mobile that comes through Tuesdays.

    Anyway, I must have been scratching kind of loud because suddenly Tilly looked up at me, gave me this sharp glare that took in my unmatched t-shirt and blue shorts and high-top bubble-gum pink sneakers. Then she barked at me, "Well? What is it? What's wrong with Harold's pants?"

    I stopped scratching. "You wash these yourself?"

    "Of course."

    "With anything else?"

    "No," she wailed. A single tear--sooty from mascara--rolled down her cheek. She got out a hanky and dabbed at her face, leaving a little white hole where her makeup had been. "I washed them by themselves. I always do. They're Harold's favorite pants."

    "And these splotches weren't on them when you put them in the washer?"

    "Oh, for pity's sake. Don't you think I'd have noticed splotches like those?"

    I started to reach for the pants but the bell over my front door tinkled. And Lynette Toadfern walked in.

    Now, I've got to take a break here to explain a few things.

    First of all, in spite of the last name, Lynette's no relation of mine. I want to be real clear about that. She's an in-law, on account of her marriage to my cousin Billy Toadfern.

    And second, in spite of the fact that her husband Billy is the preacher at the Second Reformed Church of the Reformation of Paradise--a name which always confuses me, because wouldn't the second reformation undo the first? But lest that fact mislead you, know that Lynette's not exactly always been, well, reformed. Truth be told, Lynette used to be cheaper than a day old newspaper.

    While Tilly, the future Mrs. Mayapple, was getting crowned Homecoming Queen, and I was working at the laundromat for my aunt and uncle--not Billy's parents, different Toadferns--Lynette was running around wild with every man, young or old, who'd have anything to do with her, which was a considerable number, even though Lynette was also plainer than a day old newspaper.

    Anyway, sooner or later Lynette found her way to one of Billy's tent revivals, and she must have seen the light, because even though he's about thirty years older than her, Lynette more than settled down. She got reformed. And Billy married her. And Lynette went from one extreme to the other.

    She became a goody-goody two-shoes who liked to jump into other folk's business. She once chained herself to the front bumper of the Mason County Library Bookmobile when it stopped in Paradise, because she'd heard tell that it was carrying improper books and magazines--although as a bookmobile regular, I can attest that old National Geographics are as wild as it gets on our visiting library. Well, you get the idea. That's why most Paradisites don't like her and say she's just trying to make up for her wild days and who is she to judge anyway?

    But now, I have a theory about Lynette, because I think the truth is all in how you look at things. See, I knew Lynette back when we were in third grade and in Ranger Girls together, and she liked all the rules that came with being a Ranger Girl. In fact, she always made me a project for reforming because I always did things wrong, to her way of thinking, like the time we were making candles and hers was all perfect and smooth and mine was a big drippy lump and I even got candle wax up my nose, which left a little hairless spot that still gets tender whenever I blow my nose when it's really, really cold.

    Anyway, my theory is that Lynette was just one of these people who looks for love and has a hard time finding it. First she tried to get it by being right, then by giving herself away, then by trying to be right again.

    But my theory didn't change the fact that there was Lynette, filling my laundromat's entry way, ham-hock size hands on her hips, all covered up in a long-sleeved denim shirt and jeans and hiking boots. Her hair was done in a long skinny braid, 'bout as thick as a pull cord hanging down from a ceiling light bulb, but there was no light to her face. Her tiny eyes were fairly crossing to get a view from overtop her nose, so large and crooked it'd scared her mouth into a tight, thin line.

    Lynette swaggered right up to me. Even with all them clothes, she wasn't sweating a bit. She looked kind of cool and pasty. There was something shadowy about her eyes. Was she sick? I couldn't recollect Lynette ever being sick.

    I didn't get a chance to ask about her health. She started right in. "Josie, I got a proposition for you. My troop of Ranger Girls are going to the Camporee for all the troops in Mason County, weekend after next over at Camp Wonahony at Licking Creek Lake, and for the craft-off on Saturday we're making lint and wax fire starters. And I want you to come lead the girls in the craft."

    With that, Lynette pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and shoved it at me. "Take a look." She sneezed.

    I took the paper. It was simple enough. Get egg cartons--cardboard, not Styrofoam. Melt paraffin in a double-boiler on the stove. Put bits of dryer lint into the bottoms of the egg holders. Pour the hot paraffin over the lint. Stick in wicks. Let cool. Cut apart egg holders. Can use old colored crayons along with the paraffin to give the fire starters nice color--great way to use up little bits of leftover crayon. That's what the instructions said, anyway.

    I looked up at Lynette.

    "Any questions?" she said.

    I wanted to say, why, uh sure. Lots. Like, why not go to the Quick Mart and just buy one of those butane flick jobs made especially for lighting grills that cost about $2.12 with tax? And who wants to cook over a fire when it's 90 degrees out at night anyhow? So why not just take a cooler of bologna sandwiches and a few bags of chips?

    But all I asked was, "Why me?"

    "Because you should be a lint expert. You can talk about what kind of fibers get in the lint, stuff like that." She sneezed again. "And you could gather a nice supply of lint by Saturday after next, I'm sure."

    That much was true. I could have enough lint for a whole county of Ranger Girls to make lint-and-wax fire starters. But I didn't see why I should. And I didn't want to.

    "I can't," I said.

    Lynette sneezed, three times this round. Then she said, "What do you mean you can't? You don't understand the directions?"

    I sighed. "I understand them. I just can't take off from my laundromat on the busiest day of the week. Look--why don't you pick another craft?"

    Lynette's look hardened. "Lint and wax fire starters--besides being a revered Ranger Girl Camporee tradition--are a requirement for earning the Camping Fun badge." She nodded at the sheet of paper I'd put back on the table. "Those are the official directions, and--"

    "Ohhh, please," Tilly moaned. "Could you please stop fussing about lint, Josie? And tell me what's wrong with Harold's pants?"

    At that, Lynette looked startled, noticing Tilly and Anita for the first time.

    I gave Lynette a firm look. "I got a customer with a real problem here, Lynette," I said. I pulled the wads of lint out of my pockets, put them out on the table. "Here you go. Starter set of lint wads. Help yourself to the rest." I waved my hand in the general direction of my eight dryers and trash can.

    I turned from Lynette, picked up Harold's pants. Never thought I'd be glad to get my hands on Harold's pants. I went back to studying the splotches. Dirt? Blood? Grease? No--wrong shade. Coffee? Cola? Red wine? No, no, no. Harold was diabetic, very careful about his diet, probably wouldn't have been drinking any of those things. Something didn't quite seem right. How could Tilly have missed splotches like that on his pants, no matter how much of a hurry she'd been in?

    There was this sudden explosive sound and I about jumped out of my skin.

    But it was just Lynette, sneezing again. And again. And looking at the wads of dryer lint on the table like maybe they were belly-button lint-balls from twin demons from the hell her husband Billy liked to preach on.

    And I had this idea startle my brain, because sometimes the truth of a situation is all in how you look at things.

    I looked at Lynette and said, "You're allergic to lint! That's why you need me to bring the lint to the camporee!"

    "She's allergic to everything. I see her at Dr. Pritchard's two, three times a week," Tilly said. "Now, Josie, Harold'll just never forgive me that I ruined his favorite pants. Can't you tell me what those--those awful splotches are?"

    "I want you to come," Lynette said to me, as if she'd never heard Tilly speak at all, "because having an expert there will really add to--" She stopped to sneeze some more, then suddenly knelt down and grabbed little Becky by the arm and pulled her out from under the folding table, which made us all gasp, except Anita, who just kept folding her laundry like she'd been doing, which surprised me, on account of how most everyone feels about Lynette and I was thinking, oh my God, we're going to have us a hostage situation here over dryer lint. But then the funniest thing happened.

    Little Becky gave Lynette this big old hug--and Lynette hugged her back. And it hit me that, although Lynette didn't have any kids of her own, she really liked kids. And kids really liked her, at least Becky did. Becky didn't know anything about Lynette's past or about how she got on the nerves of adults or about how she looked. She just knew there was something that she liked about Lynette.

    And then what was really amazing was that Lynette smiled at Becky. I'd never seen Lynette smile before. But there she was, smiling. A real smile. A smile that lit up her face, so you couldn't really see anymore how ugly she was. At least until she started sneezing again.

    When she caught her breath, she said, "Becky's in my troop. She'll be at the camporee. Becky, what do you think about having Miss Toadfern come and show us about dryer lint and making fire starters?" Lynette's T's all came out sounding like D's now, she was so congested up.

    And Becky said, "That would be neat. You'll come, won't you?"

    And I said, "Well, now, I don't know, Becky, I don't think I can leave my business for a whole Saturday, and--"

    "John Worthy will be there, filling in for the camp ranger who's out visiting his sick mother." Lynette said. And the smile that had been nice for Becky turned kind of mean for me. She sneezed a few times before going on thickly, "And I know--I mean everyone talks about it--how you like to try and spend time with him."

    Now, I've got to take another break to set the record straight here. Sergeant John Worthy is one of the four officers in the Paradise Police Department and we're kind of friends on account of I helped him once with capturing a thief who'd rented the apartment next to mine on the second story of my laundromat building, but I am NOT romantically inclined toward Sergeant Worthy.

    I do, though, try to get his attention every now and again. Like, I do know when he takes his breaks at Sandy's Restaurant, which is when I try and take mine. And I do drop by his house now and again to see if the starch in his uniform--I do the police uniforms at a discount rate--is holding up okay. Things like that. Which, in a town like Paradise, could lead some folks to talking.

    But I've got a good reason for hanging around John. See, to the folks in Paradise, Ohio, population 2,617, I am Josie Toadfern, laundromat owner and stain expert. But what I've always really, really, really wanted to be is a police officer.

    See, back when I was a kid, there was this fire that destroyed our house a few weeks after my daddy ran off, and me and my mama stayed for a while with the Paradise Chief of Police and his family, and one day, when I was looking sad, Chief Hilbrink--he's dead now, God rest his soul--he said to me, Josie, what's troubling you, and I said there wasn't anything left of my past and I didn't think there'd be much to my future either, and he told me, Josie, you can be anything you want to be, you put your mind to it. And I knew right off, I wanted to be a police officer, like him.

    But like a lot of folks with dreams, I kind of got side-tracked, working in my aunt and uncle's laundromat, and then they died and left the place to me, and now running a laundromat is the only way I know to make a living.

    Still, I really am planning on going to the police academy up in Masonville--someday. I've even been reading policing books and magazines--special requests from the main library, delivered by the bookmobile--and studying now and again for the academy's entrance exam. And every now and then, Sergeant Worthy is willing to give me a few tips about how to become a police officer. But ever since I helped him with that thief business, he's been kind of avoiding me, like he's embarrassed that he needed my help.

    Going up to Camp Winahony would be a chance to get to talk with Sergeant Worthy--see if he'd go back to tutoring me for the test. How long could it take me to show some girls how to make lint and wax fire starters?

    So I was about to open my mouth to tell Lynette yes, when Tilly started wailing again. "Please, Josie, just tell me what's wrong with Howard's pants!"

    Tilly started crying. Makeup puddled in dark circles around her eyes and ran in sooty tears down her cheeks, while her lipstick had started wicking up into the fine little lines around her mouth.

    Then a rivulet of lipstick trickled down from the corner of her mouth... and that gave me another idea, because like I said before, sometimes, the truth of a situation is all in how you look at things.

    I grabbed Harold's pants, waved them around. "Lipstick!" I hollered. "It's easy to see how you could have maybe dropped a lipstick, Harold picks it up, puts it in his pants pocket, and the pants and the lipstick get washed together..."

    Tilly gave a long moan and for a second I thought she was going to pass out. Then she tried to say something, except it came out as, "nnn mmm shh."

    "Now Tilly," I said. "There's lots of ways to get out lipstick--although I'm not so sure about lipstick that's been through the wash..."

    At that, Tilly grabbed the pants and ran out of my laundromat.

    Right behind her, Anita and little Becky walked out, Anita with her basket of folded laundry and Becky waving bye to Lynette.

    So then it was just Lynette and me.

    And Lynette said, "Well?"

    And I said, "All right, I'll do it."

    She nodded her thanks--or maybe she was just fixing to sneeze again. Hard to tell, because as she nodded, she turned and ran out the front door of my laundromat, too.

    I went back to harvesting lint. 

***

    So that's how last Saturday morning, at 7:30 a.m., I came to be in line with a gaggle of giggling Ranger Girls waiting to check in with the camp nurse. But, now, I wasn't giggling. I was worrying over the fact my laundromat was closed for the whole weekend. And I was dragging along behind me a sleeping bag and two duffle bags--one stuffed full of clothes and toiletries and such and the other full of dryer lint I'd harvested for the past week and a half from the lint traps in my laundromat.

    So far, I hadn't seen hide or hair of Sergeant John Worthy.

    But I did see--and, now, this surprised me--Tilly Mayapple at the check-in desk. We were inside the one building at Camp Winahony, the camp house that had a kitchen and a bathroom with showers and indoor toilets and a big dining area. The chairs and tables were all folded and stacked against the walls, except for the one table that Tilly and another woman sat behind.

    "Tilly, what're you doing here?" I wanted to know.

    "I'm camp nurse," she said.

"She volunteered," the other woman said. She was taking camp registration forms, which I didn't have, seeing as I was an adult volunteer. So she'd directed me to go straight on to the camp nurse interview and sit down in the chair across from Tilly. "Asked me if she could at our last makeup consultation. Even though she and Harold have no girls--although they've been trying for years for a little one, haven't you Tilly."

    Tilly gave a small, stiff smile. "Molly here is camp director. And one of my best Joy Jean customers."

    I looked back at Molly, who didn't have on makeup but did look pretty dewy. Maybe there'd been a moisturizer markdown. Tilly, on the other hand, was a mauve shade today--mauve T-shirt, mauve shorts, even tennis shoes and socks dyed mauve--and mauve lipstick and blush and eye shadow and fingernail polish. I feared to think of what she'd look like if she ever decided to have a green day.

    Tilly shoved a health card at me. "You need to put down any allergies you have," Tilly said.

    "I don't have any," I said.

    "How about athlete's foot?"

    The only time I'd had that was right after I came home from the last time I'd been at a Ranger Girl Camporee, at this very place, about twenty years ago. I didn't think I should say that, so I just said, "No."

    "Any other health conditions I should know about?"

    Somehow, all at once, my left foot was feeling itchy, but I didn't think I should start scratching it, so I sat as still as I could and just said again, "No."

    "Well, you have to fill out the card anyway," Tilly said. "Ranger Girl rule. And all medicines must be left with me, labeled in a baggy. If you need them, come get me and I'll administer them to you. If you're on a schedule, write out what you need at what time, and I'll come to you on schedule."

    "I didn't bring any. And why would I have to leave them with you, anyway?"

    "Safety reasons, for the girls. Everyone's divided into four camp areas, in tents, and we wouldn't want a girl to get into your medicine, maybe think it was candy and take it. Ranger Girl rule." She glanced nervously at the girls in the zig-zaggy giggly line behind me, and said, "You're sure you didn't even bring any aspirin?"

    "No," I said. "By the way, how'd everything work out with Harold's pants?"

    "Oh that," Tilly said with a little wave of her hand. "I put them back through the wash and they came out fine. You were wrong about the lipstick. Must have just been mud splashes."

    I stared at her. Wrong? I'm a stain expert. I don't get these things wrong...

    Then she was pushing a paper at me. "Here's the schedule for the weekend. Your camp assignment is on it--you're in the Evergreen unit..."

    "That was lipstick, Tilly--"

    "There's a mandatory meeting for all adult volunteers in an hour, back here." Tilly pursed her mauve lips in a sour little smile. "With John Worthy. You won't want to miss that, Josie."

    I stood up, grabbed the schedule, folded it up, stuffed it in my short's pocket, and drug my sleeping bag and my duffle bags—one clothes, one lint--out behind me.

    Outside the camp house, I nearly dropped my whole load at what I saw.

    There, crawling on the ground, butts sticking up in the air, magnifying glasses in hand, were about a dozen Ranger Girls plus one woman, who looked up at me with a big grin.

    It was Lynette Toadfern, of course.

    "Bug hunt," she said, looking happy. That was the second time I'd ever seen her looking happy, the first time being when she'd been talking to little Becky at my laundromat. "For the Buggy Fun badge."

    "Uh, Lynette," I wanted to know, "how come you're not sneezing?"

    "New allergy medicine," she said. "So I can help with the lint-and-wax-firestarter craft after all!"

***

    Now, the fact that I was losing a weekend of business when I didn't really need to be at the Ranger Girl Camporee after all, what with Lynette's new medicine, didn't really bother me, because I still had the hope of meeting with Sergeant John Worthy, maybe getting in his good graces.

    At least it didn't bother me until the all-adults mandatory meeting--well, almost all-adults. Lynette was out with the Ranger Girls doing a sing-along.

    See, Molly, the camp director, decided that before the meeting started--which Sergeant Worthy had called to go over safety regulations and how to use the walkie-talkies and the weather radios--we should each stand up and introduce ourselves.

    While the other women started saying their names and such, I started having this nice little day dream where Sergeant Worthy and I were sitting around the last embers of a fire, after the Ranger Girls and the leaders were to bed in their tents of course, and I was saying, "I have this theory that the truth is in how you see things and I was wondering how you think that might affect evidence collection," and Sergeant Worthy was saying, "Now, Josie, that's a mighty fine point and it just shows what a thoughtful and really smart police officer you'll be one day," and then we hear this sound in the woods behind us and, being crack detectives, we decide to investigate, and discover a whole gang of dangerous, escaped felons, and so we bravely stalk them, and finally, cleverly capture them, saving the whole camp from who knows what awful fate, thus earning us a special recognition from the police department a few weeks later, and--

    The lady next to me started elbowing me and I came back to where I really was. It was my turn to introduce myself, so I stood up, and I said, "I'm Josie Toadfern and I'm here to show the Ranger Girls how to make lint and wax fire starters."

    Now all around me, there were these murmurs and nods of appreciation. But Sergeant Worthy got this peculiar look on his face, like something had gotten hold of his insides and was squeezing real hard, and then he let out with this snort, and I realized that his problem was that he was trying hard not to laugh--at me.

    I sank down into my chair. I couldn't tell you what the rest of the women had to say for themselves, or what Sergeant Worthy had to say about walkie-talkies. I just sat there all miserable.

    I had come because this was a chance to see Sergeant Worthy and get some good policing tips out of him. And it was all he could do to keep from laughing at me.

    Still, after the meeting, when most everyone had gone, which was pretty quick, because everyone but me had something to do right off, I caught Sergeant Worthy's eye. He started for the back door of the lodge, but I caught up with him.

    Actually, I grabbed his shirt-sleeve as he was hurrying out. "Uh, Sergeant Worthy," I said. "I'm not too busy now and I was just wondering if you'd take a few minutes to help me with--"

    John pulled free. "Josie," he said. "I am busy. Too busy to help you. You ought to just stick to what you do best. Which is laundry. And, I guess, making fire starters." He snickered.

    Then he walked off, before I could even tell him my theory about the truth being in the way you look at things--and that the way I saw it, I'd make a fine detective.

***

    I thought about leaving after that.

    Lynette didn't really need me. And Sergeant Worthy wasn't going to talk with me about policing techniques. I could just go home and open my laundromat back up.

    But I couldn't bring myself to do it, partly because I just couldn't walk away after Sergeant Worthy laughed at me for doing the fire starter craft. That'd be like skulking off, a whipped dog. I wanted to hold my head up while I was helping the girls pour hot wax over dryer lint--well, so to speak, since pouring hot wax would mean I'd have to look with pretty focused concentration at the egg cartons.

    Anyway, the other part was that something just told me to stay. Intuition. I'd read about that in psychology books I've gotten off the bookmobile. I know Sergeant Worthy wouldn't put much stock in such notions, but already some things were worrying at the back of my mind that needed sorting out.

    It turned out later, after the murder, that it was good I stayed.