by Norah Wilson
“It’s a club. An exclusive... club.”
Somehow, I didn’t think I’d be at a quilting bee. “Right. A club. So you said.”
Dickhead scrubbed a hand down his face. “It’s a cuddle club.”
“I’m sorry, you had your hand over your mouth. It’s a what club?”
“I said cuddle club. It’s a cuddle club!”
“Ha!” I snorted. “Good one.”
He wasn’t laughing.
“I’ve heard of those,” Dylan said.
“Yeah, well, I’ve heard of the Great Wall of China and that doesn’t mean it’s real.”
Sa-lam!
Oh, wait, did I say Great Wall of China? Er, not so much of a slam, then. How did I screw these things up? I should have said the Tooth Fairy or honor among thieves or monogamous men, but no—
I realized then that both men were just looking at me, obviously waiting for me to say something (preferably something comprehensible this time). I looked at Dickhead then turned back to Dylan. “He’s not kidding, is he?”
He wasn’t.
Oh boy.
I cringed. Man, did I cringe.
The phone rang in the outer office and Dylan excused himself to go answer it.
I asked Dickhead a few more questions: When did they meet next? Where? What did I need to wear to fit in? I almost choked on his answers, but I took the case anyway.
And I named it Death by Cuddle Club.
Chapter 2
OKAY, SO first thing I did when the door closed behind Dickhead was to open my desk drawer and rake all those sets of tweezers into it with one swoop of my shirtsleeve-covered forearm, effectively dusting the desktop at the same time. (Martha Stewart, eat your heart out!) Then I went down to the moving van to retrieve one of the office chairs and brought it back up in the elevator. The moment I rolled it behind the desk, I sat. And I did all this, it seemed, in a daze... a genuine WTF daze.
I’d just agreed to work for Detective Richard Head. I’d enjoy the pretty penny that he was paying me (and knowing it was coming out of his own personal pocket and not the City’s coffers would make it all the prettier). I would enjoy showing off to my nemesis, yet again, my mad PI skills. (Did I mention there is no love lost between Dickhead and me?)
But as I sat there, what really hit me—like a sledge hammer—was this: I was going to infiltrate a cuddle club.
A freakin’ cuddle club! Dix Dodd does not do close. Dix Dodd doesn’t do warm and cuddly. I had a guy in a pretty tight headlock once, but that’s about as close to cuddling as I’m comfortable with.
Yet, seriously, what the hell was Dickhead doing hanging out in such a place? Dude, he would be the dead last person I’d want to cozy up with. Shudder. Mind you, I could be (okay, totally am) letting my animosity toward the individual color my perception.
But really, what was he doing there to begin with? It’s not like he’s a troll or anything. I mean, I imagine he could get a date, as long as he could keep that living-with-his-mother thing under wraps.
Plus he’s a cop. Lots of women find a badge hot.
Also—hello?—he’s a cop. He gets to grapple with arrest resistors. Wrestle uncooperative prisoners to the ground. What more could a person ask for in terms of physical contact?
Ah, physical contact... flashlight bulge between us. Dylan’s weight pressing me into the sagging mattress of my mother’s pull-out sofa bed...
“Thinking about the case, Dix?”
Dylan’s question jolted me out of my drifting down thoughts, and I looked up to see him standing in the doorway, wearing a knowing smile.
I fought the blush I could feel rising in my neck. “Absolutely.” Then I went on to fill him in on what Dickhead had said.
“So, pajamas, huh?” That deadly grin of his started slow and spread sexily. “You gonna get a pair of those footie ones for your debut?”
“Smartass.” I peeled my gaze away from his mouth. “I don’t think they make them in my size.” God, what kind of sick, perverted place was it where the patrons wore pajamas? And hugged?
“I could totally get a pair for you. My Aunt Gert makes them.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “She makes adult-sized footie pajamas?”
“Yep. Actually, she makes all kinds of pajamas, but I think the footies would be especially fitting.” He struggled to keep a straight face. “You know—made out of fleece, little trap door behind you. Soft, cozy... cuddly.”
I couldn’t help it—I shuddered at the image.
Dylan dissolved into laughter. And by laughter, I mean he chortled so hard he snorted. Unfortunately, he was too close to the coffee machine for me to throw anything at him.
So I smiled right back. “Actually, Dylan, they sound great. Pick up a pair for yourself while you’re there.”
He blinked. “Wait—what? Me?”
Ha! I guess the image of footie pajamas wasn’t quite so funny when he was picturing them on himself. “Yes, you. You’re infiltrating the cuddle club with me.”
“But... um... wouldn’t it be better if only one of us is on the inside? You know, so I can work things from another angle?”
“Not a chance.”
“What about our other cases?”
“We have no other cases right now. Unless that phone call was a new client?”
He shook his head. “Just a preliminary nibble. She’ll call back; she definitely needs our services. But I imagine it’ll take her a few weeks to work her resolve up.”
I nodded, knowing Dylan was right. He had an unerring sense about these things.
“But she might call back sooner,” he said, brightening. “I should probably be here.”
I laughed. “Forget it, buster. You’re coming with me.”
By the way, it wasn’t vengeance on him for laughing at my predicament that gave me the notion we were both needed on campus, so to speak. I’m not that petty. Oh wait, I am. But it wasn’t just petty vengeance. Did I mention Dylan is handsome as hell? Sexy as sin? I could just picture every female in the joint wanting some of that snuggle-up action. And yes, Dylan had a way with people that I never would—he can talk to people. Win confidences. Lend a sympathetic ear. And he did so genuinely.
I looked at my watch—it was later in the day than I’d thought. Cuddle club went into cuddle-mode at 6 p.m., according to Dickhead. We’d have to get moving to be ready.
“Cheer up,” I told him. “At least this means we can postpone the unpacking.”
And those mini-bottles of wine...
Dylan and I drove in silence through the streets of Marport City. Though it had stopped raining an hour ago, the blacktop was shiny under the glow of the streetlights and the lights that shone from shop windows. People milled about. A short man, maybe mid-sixties, eyes downcast and hands shoved into pockets, made his determined, hurried way along the sidewalk. At the last moment, with no warning, he ducked into a doorway and disappeared. Meeting his mistress, I figured. My gaze fell on a well-dressed man—late twenties or early thirties—who also hurried along, but unlike the other fellow, his eyes darted around—left, right, behind. I was guessing he didn’t want to be seen in this part of town. Probably had something to do with the straining closed hand inside the right pocket of his London Fog. Yep, I’d bet a buck he’d scored what he’d come for—coke, likely—and was anxious to get back across town. Man needed to find a dealer who delivered if he couldn’t be cooler than that.
Yeah, I know people; I trust my instincts. And so, I had to admit, did Dickhead.
Shortly after Detective Head had left my office, the fax groaned to life and spewed out papers with the particulars—who, what, when and where. Wow. I’d kind of expected a home address. You know, someone’s basement rec room or something. But apparently this club was part of a franchise. Gaetan Land—with ten locations to serve you.
Nine of them in California.
Though why Gaetan Gough chose Marport City to break into the Canadian cuddle market was beyond me. Why hadn’t he given Tor
onto that... um... honor? That would seem more logical. But for whatever reason, Gaetan Gough had picked quarters in my little city—specifically, down on 33rd Street, in one of the newer complexes close to Donatta’s Karaoke Bar—to set out his sign, promote his cuddles, and sell his wares.
Yes, wares. That last part has surprised me, too, but I’d seen it in black and white on the flyer Dickhead had faxed over: “A large assortment of products...” What the hell could that mean? I guess I’d soon find out.
“So, tell me again about the deceased.”
I glanced over at Dylan. He was driving tonight. Which was fair, I suppose, since it was his car. Well, strictly speaking, it was his mother’s car—a very comfortable SUV; Dylan drove a motor bike. And I was currently without wheels, having returned Mom’s BMW to her in Florida recently. Which, needless to say, sucked.
“Oh, so you’re talking to me again?” I tried to sound miffed.
He rolled his eyes at my comment.
Dylan had been a little on the quiet side since I’d sprung the news that he’d be joining me on this escapade. It was not the way he’d intended to spend his Saturday night, clearly, because he’d excused himself to make a call, cancelling whatever plans he’d had. I tried not to listen in as he placed the call from the outer office. But even with the heavy antique door shut between us, it was hard not to overhear at least something. Especially when you’re crouched down on the floor with your ear pressed to the keyhole.
Had he had a date lined up? I mean, a date date on this Saturday night? He’d cancelled something with somebody, that’s for sure. And as he’d passed on his regrets, he’d said, “Yeah, I know. Work. What can you do? But I’ll make it up to you.”
Not that I was jealous.
Well, maybe a little.
Dylan turned onto 33rd. We’d be at our destination very shortly.
“Okay, the deceased,” I said. “First to croak was Faynelle St. James, 53-year-old single mother of a 20-year old son. She managed the janitorial staff at Marport General Hospital. Cause of death was massive heart attack. No history of heart problems, but then again, heart disease is statistically more likely to go undiagnosed in women. Two days later: Telly Smith. Keeled over from cardiac arrest. Now this guy did have a bit of a history—he was taking a cholesterol-lowering drug and some other meds to control his blood pressure. He worked for catering services up at the university. Guy reportedly wasn’t very active. Couch potato.”
“Well, I can see why the M.E. wouldn’t be too suspicious, especially with nothing to link the two cases. Which there wouldn’t be.” Dylan pulled into the parking lot next to the building on 33rd, and sent me a serious look as he killed the engine and pocketed the keys. I waited for it... “Because no one talks about cuddle club.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes.
As we walked into the building, my insides clenched. Seriously. As we moved down the long, low-lit hallway toward Suite 106 where Dickhead had directed us, it was like every fiber of my body was rebelling against this plan. I distracted myself by studying the building. Half the suites we passed were vacant, but quite a few housed fledgling businesses. Probably an incubation center. Businesses starting up, half of them with government grants, then failing, moving out to make room for the next batch of hopeful entrepreneurs.
“Try to loosen up, Dix,” Dylan whispered.
“I am loose,” I grated.
The sign said WELCOME TO GAETAN LAND. Oh God, there were flowers adorning it, teddy bears and fluffy clouds.
Breathe, Dix. Breathe.
Dylan opened the door for us.
It was the music that hit me first. Sleepy and slow, like a lullaby. The walls of the club were a tranquil sky blue, unadorned with pictures but bordered with a strip of fluffy cloud wallpaper running along the top. The center of the room was a sea of soft, plush carpet, and all the furniture—such as it was—lined the walls. Lots of chairs, but not a good, old-fashioned straight-back job among them. No, not chairs, I realized. Plush, comfortable loveseats. Every one of them built—no, curved—to hold two. There were even three kicked-out La-Z-Boy recliners around the room, currently occupied by a few old geezer types. The lighting was low. The fish swimming in the tanks in every corner were serene. Everyone looked so peaceful, so relaxed. At ease. Sipping what looked like fruit smoothies from large glasses (complete with the Gaetan Land cloud-strewn logo on the sides) and smiling as they chatted casually. Two women—one older and one younger—were handing out the frothy drinks. They each got a way-too-appreciative hug from everyone as they made the rounds.
Yeah, this just was not right!
“Er, Dix,” Dylan whispered. “They’re not wearing pajamas.”
“I see that, Dylan.”
“And we are!” he hissed.
“I know.” Damn. “This is Dickhead’s fault. He said people wore their pajamas,” I ground out. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Did he actually say pajamas?”
“Yes! No. I mean, I think he said leisurewear or something like that. But that’s just code for pajamas, right?”
“No. Loungewear might be code for pajamas. Leisurewear, however, would be code for a track suit or sweats. Possibly even pajama pants and T-shirt. But not full pajamas.”
“Crap.”
And then Gaetan spotted us standing in the doorway. (I knew it had to be Gaetan from Dickhead’s description: “Look for a sawed off Q-Tip.”)
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Gaetan drew the word out like he was having an orgasm. Like it was a ten-syllable word. The short, smiling man was clad from his neck down to his bare feet in blue velour—the same blue as the walls. His blond hair—oh God, cloud-like blond hair—was styled in a perfectly round and perfectly tight afro. Perm. It had to be a perm. He clapped his hands together in a steepled, just-so-delighted/I’m-a-seal fashion as he raced toward us.
“Easy, Dix,” Dylan said, noticing I’d gone into a hunched, defensive stance as though to repel a tackle. “Loosen up.”
What can I say? It’s an instinct. Nevertheless, I tried to take his advice and make my muscles relax. But Gaetan was still bearing down on me.
Please don’t hug me. Please don’t hug me, I mentally pleaded as Gaetan charged. But oh hell, it wasn’t working.
“For the love of God,” I shrieked, “Don’t—”
He hugged me.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” he said. (But it was more of an owww this time, and definitely not an orgasm. I think he hit an elbow. Yeah, that’s it—his fault.) “We have a tense one here!”
Ya think?
To Gaetan’s credit, though, his smile never faltered as he turned to Dylan.
Dylan opened his arms wide, bent down, and hugged the much shorter man. I watched his uncringing eyes as he did so. Oh, man, how could he do that so easily? Gaetan looked practically lost in Dylan’s arms. Oh geez, practically vibrating.
Finally they pulled apart. Gaetan held Dylan out at arm’s length—his chubby little hands on those rock hard guns. “My, you’re a tall one. Strong.” He felt Dylan’s arm muscles. “Oh, a natural!” He turned to me. “And you’re... you’re...”
I waited.
“You’re welcome here too!”
“Gee, thanks.”
“We’re new here,” Dylan said, as though that weren’t perfectly obvious. Hello? We were the only ones wearing pajamas. I groaned inwardly. Again.
“Yes, yes,” Gaetan said. “But there’s always room for more.”
“Nice place you have here,” I said. I looked around the room as if I hadn’t already cataloged every inch of it, noting all the exits. But this time I was looking at the people, the faces. Who looked too at ease to be sober? Who looked too tense? I waited for that niggle and nudge of my intuition as I scanned the crowd. But then something else caught my professional PI attention as I looked around the room.
It was a blood-curdling shriek.
Chapter 3
“DIX!” That high, female shriek came again. “Omigod, it is you.
Dix—”
“Davidson!” I cut Elizabeth Bee off quickly before she could spill my real name.
And being anything but slow, the girl caught on immediately. I mean, she did not miss a beat. Her eyes met mine in a conspiring way as she played with the straw in her glass. “Oh, yes, Dix Davidson. I remember you. But... I can’t believe you’re here!” Then her tone turned serious. Cocking her head, she asked, “I mean, really, you? Like... of all people? I can understand Dylan being here.” She flashed him a brilliant smile before dropping it once more for me. “But... you?”
“You three know each other?” Gaetan said.
“We sure do!” Elizabeth said, ever so sweetly, but what I heard was Ka-ching! Ka-ching! I could see it in her eyes. This was going to cost me. Of course, any interaction with the young Ms. Bee tended to cost someone something.
Okay. Remind me to take Richard Head off my Christmas card list. Well, if I ever do write up such a list, remind me to keep him off it. Permanently. But for crying out loud, why hadn’t he warned me this woman was here? He damned well knew Dylan and I had become acquainted with Ms. Bee a few months back, when I’d solved the case of the Flashing Fashion Queen.
Yes, it was the one and only, the inimitable Elizabeth Bee, massage room assistant at the Bombay Spa (at least, last I heard). AKA former girlfriend of at least two unfortunate souls I knew. AKA blond bombshell.
Surely Dickhead would have recognized her. Yes, she had changed her hair color. Her shoulder length blond locks were now shoulder length auburn locks (so technically now she was a red-haired bombshell), and she’d gone from straight to curly. Her nails were a long and lacquered dark red (so I’m guessing she wasn’t at the Bombay anymore; that would never fly there). And I could almost swear her breasts weren’t nearly so large the last time I’d seen her (swear, as in holy mother of God, those are some fucking big implants!).
But still, Dickhead was a cop! Also, male. Both characteristics that pretty much guaranteed he’d remember a piece of work like Elizabeth.