by Norah Wilson
“So what are you up to these days, Dix Davidson?” Elizabeth inclined her head again. “Last I heard, you two were between projects.”
This complicated things.
I’d have to think fast.
But you see, the thing about being undercover is that you have to be careful what you cover yourself with. Pose as a doctor? Someone will surely go into labor. I mean, if there was only one pregnant woman within three square miles, that woman would be standing in front of you at Tim Horton’s when her water broke. Claim to be a plumber? As soon as you pull out the fake business card, toilets start backing up. I posed as a vet once. (Oh God, did you know dogs have anal glands? And that they need to be expressed?)
So guess what I came up with?
“We’re designers.”
Dylan glanced at me, then smiled as that quick brain of his latched onto the idea. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re just starting out. Clothing designers. Sleepwear, specifically.” He flashed one of his gazillion-watt smiles.
And Elizabeth’s smile grew even sweeter. This would cost me at least fifty, I was thinking. “So how’s business,” she asked. “Bet you’re designing a lot of flashing fashion these days.”
More like seventy-five dollars
“Peachy,” I grated. “Business is peachy.”
I was starting to think I was in a bad dream—a certain bad dream. That one in high school where you’re the only kid who shows up either naked or in your pajamas. Well, at least I wasn’t naked. This was the pajama one.
We had stopped by Dylan’s Aunt Gert’s after all. She’d been thrilled to outfit us in her homemade PJs (all the while informing her favorite nephew that the silk green striped ones he was currently wearing were supposed to be his Christmas gift). Mine were pink fleece. Fleece! Nope, not even hot pink. I looked like a peppermint. A big fuzzy peppermint that had been in someone’s pocket about a month too long. (Yes, I know that from experience.)
Everyone else, however, was in exercise wear, from fairly fashionable Yoga outfits to the standard sweats, pilled with little lint balls.
“Did you... make these?” Gaetan asked, eyeballing our attire.
“Yep,” Dylan said. “Grand, huh? Our specialty is—”
“I... I’m a designer too.”
I turned around, looking for the owner of that hesitant voice, and spotted her standing behind a nearby counter.
The young woman was neither attractive nor unattractive. Her smile was pitifully tentative. She was as nondescript an individual as anyone I’d ever met. Shoulder-length sandy brown hair pulled back in an elastic band, light brown eyes, minimal make-up. And even though she’d spoken out, it was as if her whole demeanor now said, Please don’t look at me.
“What do you design, Miss...?”
“Babe,” she said in response to Dylan’s question. “Babe Gough.” She glanced at Gaetan. “My brother and I—”
“Babe works the counter here,” Gaetan said. “She does odd jobs around the place. Paperwork. Answers phones. That sort of thing. Nothing spectacular, I assure you—ha ha ha!”
Babe looked crestfallen, yet she spoke up again: “That’s true. But I do like to imagine up designs, and sometimes I even sew—”
“Imagine up? Yeah, that’s all you do, isn’t it, Babe? You have quite the imagination—delusions of grandeur if you ask me! So, you’re a designer now? What was it last week you were going to be? A writer? A poet, wasn’t it? No, that was the week before. Last week, I think it was... oh who can remember?”
She lowered her gaze to her feet.
Immediately, irrevocably, I did not like Gaetan Gough. He was a bully and a jerk, and if I weren’t undercover he’d be a bully and a jerk with my foot up his ass.
I glanced around the room casually, interested in how the Gaetan Land crowd would react to Gaetan’s boorish behavior. Incredibly, no one seemed to bat an eyelash. Dylan, of course, was glaring daggers at him. But the rest of the crowd was simply talking amongst themselves as they sipped their smoothies, as though Gaetan’s treatment of his sister was just that common. As though they were used to it. Or as though they were so enamored of Gaetan, they were prepared to overlook the fact that he was a complete asshole.
“So you two are siblings then?” I asked.
“Yes,” Gaetan said. “Babe’s my little sister. The baby of the family. And she was just leaving.”
And she just left.
Just that quickly, Babe walked into what had to be an inner office and closed the door behind her without so much of an if, and or (my personal favorite) fuck you. Interesting. Disturbing, but interesting.
Ah, but what’s the old saying? When one door closes another door opens.
And as it opened, in walked Dickhead.
And omigod, I’d never seen Detective Head looking less like a cop. Gone were the dress pants and sports coat, the boring tie, the obligatory shades. Oh, and the gun. I think it was safe to assume he wasn’t packing heat under those black sweatpants. And certainly not under that body-hugging charcoal T-shirt. What he was packing under there was a pretty impressive body. Well, if you liked that much brawn.
I can’t say it was a total shock. I mean, I had photographed him in flagrante with that dispatcher, after all. But damn. Okay, yes, yes, he was my nemesis. Sworn enemy and all that (I had the paperwork somewhere). But—let me say it again—damn. He actually looked pretty good.
Then he completely ruined it.
He smiled around the room, at everyone. Nodding politely, blowing little kisses (oh Gawd, complete with sound effects!). And then—dear God—he winked. At me, even. Yes, that sealed it: we were that deep under cover.
“Oh,” Elizabeth Bee said. I knew it instantly—she had just made the connection between Head and us. “Let me introduce you new folks. I mean... you don’t already know each other, do you?”
Okay, it would cost me a hundred bucks now. Damn, but I admired that girl.
“Don’t think we’ve ever met,” Dylan said.
“Um, he doesn’t look familiar,” I added.
“Oh, I’d have remembered if I’d met this lovely young lady,” Richard Head said, extending his hand. “Hi, I’m Richie.”
Richie? Pfft!
Unable to do anything else, I took the hand he’d extended.
“Dix Davidson,” I said. “And this is Dylan Foreman, my—”
Dickhead raised my hand and kissed the back of it with a flourish. I yanked my hand away and fought not to wipe off the imaginary spittle.
“Oh, that’s our Richie!” Gaetan clapped his chubby hands in that steepling way. “Always such a charmer with the ladies. I can tell you two are going to hit it off just wonderfully.”
Oh crap, there was giggling all around me. Quickly, I shot Dylan a cut-out-the-giggling look.
“Smoothie?”
The voice came from behind me. I turned to see an older woman standing there with a tray of fruity looking beverages.
“Oh you’re new here,” she said when she saw my face. “I’m Ruth-Ann Dale. And you are...?”
“Dix,” I said. “Dix Davidson. And this is Dylan Foreman.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Dylan said.
Ruth-Ann smelled of mothballs and deep-fried donuts (which is to say, like everyone’s grandmother.) I didn’t break my smile (face beginning to ache) or break eye contact with her, but I knew Dylan was giving me a glance. I could feel Dickhead’s too. And I knew what they were thinking. The smoothie. Presuming there really was foul play involved in the cardiac-related deaths, that foul play might have involved administering a noxious substance. And what better way to deliver the poison than in the complimentary smoothie?
“I’ll pass,” I said. “Don’t want the extra calories, you know.”
“Nonsense!” That from the younger smoothie-passer working the other side of the room. “That just makes more of you to hug!”
“Isn’t that the truth, Starla!” Ruth-Ann called back to her.
“Oh, I’ve got lots to hug
already,” I retorted. Stupidly.
“I’ll be passing too,” Dylan said. He put his arm around me. “I keep telling Dix she’s perfect as she is, but I want to support her in her efforts. You know?”
That drew a chorus of awwws from around the room, and a “Couldn’t you just hug the stuffing out of them both?” threat from Ruth-Ann.
I watched as Dickhead took a smoothie from the older woman. “Gaetan Grape tonight,” she said referring to smoothie. “Your favorite, Richie.”
“Wonderful!”
“Gaetan grape?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s delicious,” Ruth-Ann said. “Though I prefer the Gaetangerine Twist, myself.”
Oh, God! Gaetan named the drinks after himself.
Of course Dickhead didn’t take a sip of the drink. I knew he wouldn’t; he was wary of everything now. And if I knew the detective (damn though I hate to give him credit), he’d be sneaking that drink out for analysis.
Balancing the tray in one hand, Ruth-Ann drew Dickhead into a hug with her free arm and gave him a peck on the cheek before she scooted away. Someone else came in the door—regulars judging from the greetings, and Ruth-Ann rushed her smoothies over to them. They too joined in the happy mingle.
There was about thirty... er... cuddlers in the group, and they were all milling around now, talking and laughing. Slapping each other on the shoulders. Rubbing each others’ backs. Hugging as if... as if... as if hugging were normal!
“Now, before we begin,” Gaetan said. “Will that be cash or credit card?”
“Credit card.” Dylan answered quickly, thank God, before it got awkward. He pulled out his Amex.
“For the both of you?” Gaetan asked.
“Yes, both of us,” he announced loudly. “We’re a couple.”
“A couple of business partners?” This from a young lady Gaetan had introduced as “our Brandy” when he’d made the round. Her two friends, our Eva and our Zoey, looked just as anxious as Brandy did for the answer to that question. God, I think the three were leaning in. Well, at least Zoey and Brandy were. Eva at least had the discretion not to lean forward (which was a good thing; the young lady was so stacked, she might have fallen over.) As if she’d caught my glance (God, I hope she didn’t catch my glance), she crossed her arms over her chest.
“A couple as in lovers,” Dylan answered.
Brandy looked deflated. Then she looked at her equally deflated friends. Zoey mumbled something about cougars, jerked her head toward me, then the three of them turned away as if they’d suddenly smelled something foul.
Cougar? Me? A cougar in fluffy pink jammies!
Well, bless her little heart!
I shot the quickest glance at Dickhead/Richie. He was clearly blessing Dylan silently for his lovers remark. Now our Richie wouldn’t have to feign interest in me.
I turned back to Gaetan, who had shoved Dylan’s credit card into his machine.
All our expenses would—eventually—be covered by Dickhead, but I was glad Dylan had offered to cover our membership on his card, for now. Yeah, my plastic was maxed out again (curse you online shopping), but that’s not the point! The point was, I didn’t have a card under Dixie Davidson, the moniker I’d chosen so hastily.
Then Gaetan told us the price. And I was even more thrilled that Dylan was putting this on his card, even if temporarily.
Apparently exclusive cuddle clubs were expensive.
Stupidly expensive.
Which was strange, because when I looked around the club, with the exception of the old geezer holding onto Elizabeth’s arm as he wobbled out to the center of the room (or cuddle floor, as Gaetan had dubbed it) whom I recognized as Hugh Dramman, and maybe Brandy and her well-groomed friends, few looked like they could really afford to be here. Maybe I was wrong. I mean, I know a developer who walks around in steel-toed gumboots, work pants, and a plaid jacket looking more like a homeless person than a millionaire. But I didn’t think I was mistaken about this crowd.
“Holy shit, expensive,” I said.
Yes, I really did want to gauge the reactions.
Gaetan looked at me as though I’d just committed a horrible social gaffe. (Go figure.) I was already rubbing this guy the wrong way. What is it about me? Man, if I could package this charm...
“Can you really put a price on human touch?” Gaetan said. “On physical affection? On the love you’ll find—and only find—here at Gaetan Land?” With that, he turned on his heel. Apparently his questions were rhetorical.
“Amen to that, brother! You can’t put a dollar sign on the squeezin’.”
I glanced at the speaker, a man standing to my left. And oh my fucking God, he was doing this little squeezy thing, with his hands coming up like he was grabbing someone’s tush.
“Albert Valentine,” he said, as if I’d forgotten his name.
I had. Which was weird for me. But the moment Gaetan had introduced him all that had gone through my head was Goatman.
Albert Valentine had to be the butt-ugliest man alive. (And I’ve seen a lot of butts... how do you think my credit card bill got so high? But I digress.) He was short in that squat, tank-like way. He was balding, but not in any discernible pattern. The guy was down to one dark eyebrow, all the way across.
I’m not shallow (okay, not super shallow). I know you can’t judge a book by its cover. But right now Albert Valentine’s cover was animating a curvy girl, hourglass figure thing with his hands. So, yeah, I’m judging: what a jerk.
“Albert, you’re such an asshole,” Zoey said.
“Total asshole,” Brandy concurred, with vehemence. All three young friends glared hard at him. Harder when he laughed.
This was one strange establishment.
“Okay, people, now that business and introductions are out of the way...”—(Gaetan let the pause hang; oh, the guy was a showman)—“... it’s time for us to make tents!”
I shot a horrified look at his velour-covered crotch.
“Omigod!” someone exclaimed loudly.
Okay, that was me.
Fortunately, it turned out the tent Gaetan was talking about making (threatening to make?) wasn’t in his pants after all. As if on cue, Babe emerged from the office again, this time bearing armfuls of royal blue fleece material. Blankets of a sort. But as she got closer, I saw they weren’t really fleece so much as fleece-like.
There were three of these large perfect squares, and I watched in a sort of horrified amazement as Babe spread them out on the large cuddle floor. Then, head hanging, she made her exit.
“For those of you who are new to the group, these are my patented—yes patented— GAETAN LAND Cuddle-Uppies.” Gaetan spoke to the whole group, but his words were presumably for the benefit of Dylan and me. “I made them myself. Cozy, warm, perfect to cuddle up under with others.”
Cuddle-Uppies? Oh oh oh... be afraid! Be very afraid!
“For sale?” I asked. Not that I was looking to buy, but I was curious about these enormous blankets with holes in them. Yes, holes in them. Head-sized holes, laid out in a circle.
“Of course they’re for sale.”
“I’m saving up for one!” Elizabeth Bee proclaimed.
“I’ll buy you one, my dear.” Hugh patted her hand as she squealed her delight. “As long as you cuddle-up only with me.”
“Oh, no one but you, Hugh-Bear. You are just the sweetest!”
“I thought I was the sweetest?” Albert was laughing again—oh joy.
Dickhead was the first to slide under one of the Cuddle-Uppies. (But first he put down his untouched Gaetan Grape smoothie, very carefully, beside a small table. Yes, he’d know which one was his to gather after.) He poked his head up through a hole, smiling widely. Elizabeth Bee and Hugh Drammen cuddled close under a second Cuddle-Uppie. All the blankets filled in. Starla set down her tray of smoothies on one of the many small tables along the edges of the room where others had stashed their glasses and crawled in with Elizabeth and Hugh. Ruth-Ann crawled in with Dickhead.
Dylan of course, easily stepped up to the plate, and slid his handsome frame under the third Cuddle-Uppie that Babe had spread out. Predictably Brandy, Eva and Zoey popped their smiling heads up, and it was obvious by the motion of those ultra-soft looking Cuddle-Uppies that arms were going around each other, and yep, wrapping right around Dylan and the others in that grope... er, group. Very quickly, the empty spaces beneath the blankets filled up. (And I just bet by the look on some of the men’s faces, there were a few little tents being made here after all).
Gaetan chose the Cuddle-Uppie that Dylan occupied, and slid in. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,” he said. “This is sweet.”
And that left... me. Alone. Standing like the ugly step-sister in some unfortunate fairy tale.
Well, you know, I always liked that broad.
“Lights low,” Gaetan commanded, raising his voice.
Automatically they dimmed to near darkness, a small whirr sounding as they did
Hands, people! I wanted to shout. I wanna see hands!
My intuition was vibrating. Every fiber in my body—hell, every fiber in the room!—was telling me to run. Get the hell out of there. There’s the door, sister! it urged. Run like the wind!
I took a calming breath. A couple of them. Deep ones.
Dix Dodd doesn’t do cuddly. That had to be what was making those warning bells clang. But for God’s sake, how dangerous could it be? Yeah, yeah, Dickhead has his suspicions, (and I reminded myself yet again, I had his check). But more and more, this just struck me as too bizarre.
“Come on in, Dix. The water’s warm.” Gaetan called. “Dive right in!”
It seemed to me the dive-right-in reference got way more laughs than it deserved, but then again, it might have been metaphor envy. But I was procrastinating. It was now or never.
And since never never paid, I convinced myself that the chill up my spine was aversion, not my intuition. That the crawling of my scalp was my body’s way of saying, “Dix Dodd doesn’t do close,” and not “Danger, danger!” Or maybe that crawling sensation was just because the only Cuddle-Uppie spot left for me was between Richard Head and—oh fuck!