by Norah Wilson
“This must piss you off to no end.”
“What pissed me off was that those old men had their hands on my daughter! And her friends.”
“Eva and Zoey, right?” I prompted.
“Yes, Eva and Zoey. They practically grew up in our home. Zoey’s family lived next door, and Eva’s mother worked for us. Brandy is very close to them still, especially Eva. She’s such a fragile girl. Brandy has always thought of her as a kid sister. I never did like the idea of them going to that club, but now...”
“But now that you know that Gaetan Gough has been using hormones to arouse the clientele, you like it even less?”
“I suspected it was something like that all along. Why Brandy didn’t see it for herself, I don’t know. But now maybe—finally!—I’ll be able to talk some sense into her. Now—”
Paging Dr. Crotty. Paging Dr. Lincoln Crotty.
“Sounds like I have an actual patient.” He stood and looked down at me. “No more chest pains, I trust?” Without waiting for a reply, he moved toward the door, but turned back to say one more thing. “Get him.”
“Pardon me?”
“Get Gaetan Gough. I don’t know who hired you to investigate that club. But close Gough down. What’s going on at that club is just wrong.”
He had no idea.
Dylan waited outside that curtain as I tore out of that oh-so-fashionable (not!) hospital gown and put my clothes back on.
As we left the hospital parking lot, I glimpsed Dr. Crotty’s distinctive white vehicle in the physician’s parking lot. I bit my lip. Okay, confession time. “Dylan, about our bet...”
“Yeah, you won, Dix. I know.”
“Well, actually, it wasn’t a fair bet. I saw the white Lexus with the L CROTTY license plates as we drove in.”
“So did I, Dix,” Dylan answered. “So did I.”
Chapter 21
I WENT home after the hospital.
Yes, I did kind of feel bad about faking an illness to the hard-working medical staff. But, you know, I use hospital emergency services... or any kind of medical services... so rarely, I figured it all evened out. I’m just not a run-to-the-doctor kind of gal.
Dylan and I parted company outside my condo. No, he didn’t walk me to the door. Though there was an awkward pause on his part when I could tell he was wondering if he should. Nope, he didn’t lean in to kiss me good night, and I didn’t lean in to cop one last feel. (Though we both hesitated as I reached for that hoagie on the dashboard.)
Sleep? Like a rock! A happy, happy rock who’d shaved her legs.
And wow, the dreams I had were peaceful. Rare for me.
The sheets were undisturbed (well, except for where I’d tried to rub that tiny mayo stain out—note to self: stop eating hoagies in bed!). I woke to the ringing telephone. I sat up to answer it and—argh—hand squishing down on a tomato slice. (Okay, it was now a rule to self, not a note.)
It was Dylan on the phone.
“Hey,” I said, sinking back into the pillows.
“Hey, yourself.”
It was kind of sweet, and just that little bit awkward, then it was all business. Dylan was off to the university to do a little research, a little checking around. Something he half-remembered, or thought he did, and wanted to check up on.
“Feel right?” I asked (oh the double meanings.) “Is your intuition telling you—”
“It totally feels right, Dix.”
Yeah, double meaning there too.
After I hung up with Dylan, I called Rochelle and arranged to meet her for lunch. She agreed and a few hours later, we met at a local pub (her choice). We chose to sit in the busier section (my choice). Yeah, I know, I’m not usually such a people person. What the heck had gotten into me?
Oh right, Dylan Foreman.
(Sa-lam!)
“Hi Katie.” Rochelle greeted the young waitress (young as in, wow, is she even legal to serve liquor?). The waitress was at our table as soon as we sat, despite the lunch hour rush. Clearly, Rochelle was a good tipper.
“I’ll have my usual,” Rochelle said.
“Perfect.” Katie turned to me. “And for you?”
I wanted to get this out of the way quickly, so I ordered the first thing that came to mind. “Coffee, please. And bangers and mash.”
The waitress looked at me strangely. “Er, have you been watching British—”
“No!” I said. “I do not watch British porn!”
“Um, I was going to say British films.”
Oh, man. Head desk.
Rochelle and Katie both laughed.
I rose, rubbing the sore spot on my forehead. “Can I get a steak?”
“Certainly, how would you like it?” Katie held her pen poised over her pad.
Through tears of laughter, Rochelle put in, “She likes her steak like she likes her men.”
The poor waitress looked all the more confused.
“Rare,” I grated.
Smiling, Katie walked toward the bar. Finally I doffed my coat, relaxed back into the seat.
And Rochelle was looking at me in that knowing way that only best friends have.
“Oh my God!” Rochelle squealed. “I can’t believe it!”
“What?” I said, innocently.
“You got laid!”
“Geez, it is that obvious?” I didn’t even try to fight the grin. “What is it? Do I have that certain glow? Is there a special look in my eyes? Do I exude that contentedness of a woman well-loved?”
“No,” she said. “You’re finally wearing your ‘I got laid!’ T-shirt.” She reached across and ripped the sales tag off the sleeve. Damn, I’d missed that somehow. “When did you buy that anyway? Three, four years ago? Good God, has it been that long since—”
“That’s not the point!”
She was laughing at me all over again. Laughing until the tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“So, I take it you’re happy for me?” I finally said.
Katie had brought our iced tea during Rochelle’s laughing fit, and Rochelle toasted me. “Delighted. I always knew you and Dylan would become a couple. Eventually. When you stopped fighting it.”
That straightened me up. “A couple?”
“Yeah,” Rochelle said. “Together, Dix. It scares you.”
“Scare me? Pfttt.”
Rochelle cocked an eyebrow. “Right.”
Busted. Rochelle knew me too well. She understood. I’d been so burned in the past. Myles Gauthier hadn’t just broken my heart, he’d shattered it. Myles was long gone, but those scars remained. Few things scared me. Close scared me.
“Okay, it scares the hell out of me. But only when I think about it.”
“Well, don’t think about it today.” Rochelle lifted her glass in a toast again, drawing me from my darker contemplations. “Just enjoy the afterglow.”
Well, I could drink to that.
“So how’s the case going?” Rochelle stirred the ice in her drink with her straw. “Anything new on the Death by Cuddle Club case?”
“Where to begin?” While we waited for our lunch to come, I told her about the pheromones, Gaetan’s anxiety attack, the lab results, and about my clever disguises and visits.
“So,” she said. “Gaetan may be guilty of doping the club air with pheromones. Albert Valentine was definitely guilty of blackmail.”
“And whoever Albert was manipulating with those pheromones, I’m betting, is guilty of murder. Mad as hell—guilty as hell. It just makes sense.”
There. Ta-freakin’-da—I’d said it.
But where was the aha? Where was the feeling of complete brilliance? (Oh yes, there it was—never far away—but not front and center, like it should be.) Most of all, where was that niggle of intuition that told me I was bang on.
It just wasn’t there.
“So did you figure that out while you were rounding second or third base?”
I looked at Rochelle. “What?”
“Oh come on, Dix! You usually get those aha
moments while getting it on with Dylan, don’t you? Remember the Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen? “
“We were at the Underwood motel—”
“And then again with the Family Jewels—”
“Hey,” I said. “What happens in Florida, stays in Florida.” My turn to laugh, ’cuz I’d told her all about Florida.
“Forget about Florida. I want to hear what happened with Dylan last night.”
Over lunch, I let her wheedle it out of me. Okay, so there was no wheedling involved, and yeah, I spilled the glorious details before the entrée had even arrived. But why wouldn’t I? We’re best friends. And there is a loyalty between close women friends that is just amazing. I trusted her; she trusted me. I’d do anything for her and—you got it—she’d do anything for me.
But that was women for you. Right?
Yes, it was.
Chapter 22
YES, I KNEW I needed a car. Like, one of my own.
And with any luck, I’d find a cheap one soon. But in the meantime, I borrowed Rochelle’s Smart Car for a couple of hours. It was lime green, which is so Rochelle. She loves green and she loves that funny little car. And yeah, it suited her right down to the ground. But whenever I borrowed it, it felt like I was scooting around the city in a Granny Smith apple.
(And Rochelle’s customized license plate—BITE ME—didn’t help.)
But I wanted to go see Mrs. Jane Presley over at the Underwood Motel. I’d not been to see her in a while, and well, with Dylan doing research up at the university and everything else stalled right now, I had some time.
It was a quiet afternoon at the motel. Mrs. P insisted I stay and talk for a bit. I was happy to oblige, but I had to pass on joining her in a piece of cherry cheesecake—I was still stuffed from lunch. She made herself a tea while I grabbed a Diet Coke from the vending machine in the corner of the lobby. Then we sat down in the office just behind the small front desk. From there, she could hear the ding of the bell if anyone came to the front desk. But perhaps more importantly, it gave her a view of the parking lot, and she always kept an eye out for troublemakers coming to her no-tell motel.
But as we sat there, I knew she was watching me.
The lady knows me. She loves to razz me, teases the hell out of me every chance she gets. But well...
“So,” she said. “I see you and Dylan finally got together last night.”
Ack! I mean, I had my coat on over that tell-tale T-shirt. Maybe there really was a sparkle in my eyes...
“You’re a little too old for pins that say I just had sex aren’t you, Dix?”
I removed it sheepishly from the lapel of my coat and shoved it into my pocket.
“But I would have known anyway,” Mrs. P said, grinning over the rim of her tea cup.
I chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose after what you’ve seen here with people leaving the motel and all...”
“This isn’t anything like that, and you know it, Dix.”
I guess I did, but she told me, just the same. Boy, did she tell me...
“Sweetheart, you have to crawl out from under that pickle of a rock and face the coffee.” (Yeah, she’s never lost for a metaphor; she just fucks them up.) “Don’t get me wrong—there’s nothing wrong with a quickie or a little fling. But that’s just not what you and Dylan have—and don’t try to pretend. Not to me. Not to yourself. And I sure as hell hope you’re not stupid enough to pretend to Dylan. You two have been circling around each other for way too long. I was ready to smack you both. And I see the way he looks at you, Dix. No way was that man looking for a fling. And you know what else, Miss Smarty Pants PI, I see the looks you give him when you think I’m not paying attention, or dozing in the back seat of the car.”
Ah, the Florida trip again.
I shrugged. Hesitated. Finally, had to acknowledge what she said. “Thanks, Mrs. P. You know, it’s not that easy for me.”
Her tone did not soften. “I know. I was the one pouring the Baileys for you that night you found out what a scumbag Myles Gauthier really was.” Her hand tightened on her china tea cup. “Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, calling you.”
“I’m glad you did, Mrs. P.” Yes, she’d called me. Of course I hadn’t wanted to believe her. I absolutely did not want to acknowledge what I couldn’t help, but really already knew deep down inside. But finally, I’d driven to the Underwood, and found my then most-serious-ever boyfriend with someone else. I wanted to kick some ass! Starting with mine for trusting him again.
“I’m not trying to bring up bad memories, Dix. But I’m just saying, don’t be stupid. Myles is in the past. Let that dog lie there. You’ve got a chance at something good here with Dylan in the present. Don’t be such a chickenshit and let one stupid prick who cheated on you be an excuse to keep running away. You’re a woman, Dix. Act like one. Move on with your life.”
Yep, I’d been told.
“You’re right. Thanks, Mrs. P.”
“You’re welcome.”
The door behind us swung open, and Craig Presley walked in. “Safe to come in, Ma?”
Guess he’d heard part of that earful meant for me.
Mrs. P nodded. “Come right on in, sweet baby.”
Sweet baby? I always had to smile when she called one of her twins something like that. They were twenty-eight and roughly Hulk-sized.
“I brought the cheesecake like you wanted,” Craig said. “Two pieces.”
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said as Craig set both pieces down on the table—in front of me. “And did you remember—”
He reached high in the cupboard and retrieved a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream and two small glasses.
Told you Mrs. P knew me.
“A toast to your new life,” she said.
I’d have a drink to that. With the cheesecake I was about to scarf down, it wasn’t a concern for driving. Yeah, she knew me—I never pass on cheesecake.
I had just finishing the last decadent bite of piece number one and was wrapping up piece number two (I keep plastic wrap in my purse for just these occasions), when my cell rang.
“Dylan,” I mumbled glancing at the call display.
“I knew by the smile.”
I snapped open the cell. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey yourself.”
He’d found something. I could tell instantly by the leashed excitement in his voice.
“Can you meet me, Dix? Right away. I found what I was looking for at the university. You’re not going to believe it! I mean, holy shit! I—I know I’m onto something. And if I’m right... no wonder the coroner didn’t find anything... Holy shit!”
I was already carefully positioning that extra piece of cheesecake in my purse. “I’m on the way. Where shall we meet? The office? Perky Joe’s?”
“Better make it Detective Head’s office. I’m calling him next.”
I snapped the phone shut and was out the door within moments.
But not without promising Mrs. P I’d take her to bingo one last time before Christmas, and that I’d call as soon as Dylan and I cracked this case, and most especially that I’d remember her words about Dylan.
I’d try... on all accounts.
“Bite me?”
“Well, yeah, screw you!” And here I was starting—just starting, mind you—to think maybe Dickhead wasn’t a complete asshole. But that’s what he greets me with as I walk through the detectives’ bullpen to his desk, where he and Dylan waited for me.
“I was referring to the license plate, Dix,” he said, coming away from the window overlooking the parking lot. “I saw you drive in. That’s Rochelle Banks’ car, isn’t it?”
“I borrowed it,” I said.
I only briefly wondered how he knew it was Rochelle’s car. That little green orb probably was hard to miss parked behind the Justice Building. Marport City wasn’t that big. The lawyers, cops, and those inside the system all had to know each other to at least some degree.
Dickhead nodded and his lips sort of
twisted.
Oh shit, wait—was that a smile? Yes, by God, it was! It was just a flicker, but definitely some lips-through-cheek action.
Where was the familiar sneer? The mean jabs about my business? The derogatory way he always said my name? I missed it.
Dickhead sat down at the desk where Dylan was poring over piles of papers. Seriously poring over them. The coffee to his left was untouched and no longer steaming. Dylan not pausing to take a drink of his coffee?
“This is it,” Dylan said. “I know it.”
He was talking to me, but not for a minute did he lift his gaze from the pages before him. I’d seen this intensity in him before when he was onto something—when he was that dead serious about not missing a thing, about getting it right. And I gotta tell you, it was hot, seeing him so focused like that.
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“Between my first and second years of law school, I dated a woman who’d just finished her master’s in biochemical engineering. Wendy Chance. She’s from here, and she’d come back to work on a project for the summer—you know, one of those studentship thingies—before going on to get her PhD.”
“Okay?” What made him think of this Wendy woman? Was he making the point that he liked older women? Because her PhD candidate to his first year law... yeah, she’d likely have had a few years on him.
Or was he saying he liked them smart? I perked up at that thought.
“We only dated about a month,” he continued. “Really bright girl, but we didn’t have that much in common once we—um—got to know one another.”
Once the newness wore off, he meant. Once the novelty was gone, the mystery dispelled, the uncharted territory charted. That did have a way of happening with men.
Actually, it had a way of happening with men and me. That thought did not perk me up.
“Oh, man, been there, done that,” Dickhead said in masculine solidarity. “Said no thanks to the T-shirt.”
I glared at him. A fact of which he was totally oblivious. Or pretended to be.
“The point is, I remembered her talking about the research project she’d been hired to help out with,” Dylan said, finally looking up from the documents before him. He’d stopped flipping through papers and stared at me. “This is it. I know it! This is the drug that killed those people.”