Dial A for Addison

by Piper Davenport

  All righty then. “Had a good time, did ya?” As her best friend I felt obligated to ask, but I was silently praying she wouldn’t share more details than I could handle.

  “That man.” She fanned herself. “I’m gonna have his babies.”

  Desperate to derail that train of thought, I convinced her into postponing any and all talk of baby-having for the moment so we could go shopping for disguises to wear to Kirk’s funeral.

  “I’m fine with the disguise thing, Dylan, but we can’t forget that Ella’s bringing gowns by tonight.”

  “Gowns?” I asked.

  “For the fundraiser. You and I need to pick ours.”

  “Oh, right. When you’re über rich, the department stores come to you.”

  She giggled. “It doesn’t suck.”

  “I thought I might wear—”

  “Nope,” she said emphatically, interrupting me. “You will wear what I pick for you, I will pay for it, and you will not say another word about it.”

  I let out a frustrated groan. “You’re kind of a bossy pain in the ass, Addie.”

  “I’m aware,” she quipped. “Okay, let’s go hunt down our disguises.”

  Four stores and about as many hundreds of dollars later, we had the perfect garb to play the role of inconspicuous mourners, and arrived home ten minutes ahead of Addison’s personal shopper.

  I’d rather have bamboo shoots forced under my fingernails than go mall shopping, but it turns out having a personal shopper was worse. The shopper said her name was Monique, but I’m pretty sure she meant Satan. Addison had given her my sizes—along with a rundown of my current wardrobe—which Monique must have lost, because nothing she brought looked like anything I’d wear.

  “How about this one?” she asked, waving a lacy pink gown in my direction.

  “You do realize I’m a redhead, right?” I asked.

  She sighed. “Redheads are wearing pink right now. It’s a trend.”

  “Not this redhead.” I hated the color pink almost as much as I hated shopping.

  “What about this one?” She held up a sheer baby-blue gown, accented with crystals.

  “Do I look like Elsa? Don’t you have anything in black?”

  She eyed me, then addressed Addison. “Her skin is far too pale for black. It will only make her look ghastly.”

  “I know, I know. Have her try on that lavender chiffon dress.”

  Irritated at the way they were talking like I wasn’t even in the room, I plucked the purple dress from the rolling clothes rack and stormed into my room to try it on. It was strapless, sequined, too tight around my boobs (pushing them up almost to my neck), and looked prom-ready. “No,” I said, stomping back into the living room so they could experience this nightmare with me.

  Addison giggled. Monique looked the other way, but don’t think I didn’t notice the smile she was trying to hide. I ignored them and headed back for the rack, selecting the only gown that didn’t make me want to throw myself from the roof of the building. It was emerald chiffon, with thin shoulder straps that widened as they descended to merge right before the high waist. It would show more cleavage than I wanted, but the skirt was long and layered like a waterfall on each side. I put it on and looked myself over in the mirror. My bra was showing… everywhere. And without it, I worried that the girls would tumble loose every time I bent over or moved too quickly. Other than that, it fit perfectly, and even managed to soften my features and brighten the green of my eyes. Still, no bra was a deal-breaker.

  “Nope,” I shouted, preparing to take it off.

  Addison rushed into the room with two adhesive-cup thingies. “I know what you’re worried about, and I’m here to tell you we have options.”

  “Stay out of my brain, Addie, it’s creepy.” I eyed the cups. “And I seriously doubt those can support me.”

  “They will, I promise. Here try them.” She put them in my hands and stepped out without saying anything about the dress.

  Wondering what was up, I removed my bra and wrestled the girls into the cups. They weren’t exactly comfortable, but they weren’t painful either. I checked myself out in the mirror and fantasized about Asher’s reaction to seeing me in it. I could almost picture his hand against the bare skin of my back and his lips brushing my collarbone with kisses. A thrill went up my spine, warming me everywhere. Desperate to make those fantasies a reality, I stepped out into the living room and conceded, “Okay, this one.”

  Addison and Monique shared a knowing look before turning all-too-innocent smiles on me. That’s when I realized I’d been played. Addison had always loved green on me, and she’d set the whole thing up.

  The anticipation of Asher’s reaction was the only thing that kept me from freaking out and telling them what they could do with their dresses. Still, there were ways to get them back for their underhanded manipulations.

  “This will look amazing with my combat boots,” I said, twirling so the layered skirt flared.

  Absolute horror contorted Addison and Monique’s faces, giving me the warm and fuzzies. Leaving them to suck on that image, I headed back to my room to change.

  By the time I walked back out to the living room, Monique was gone, and so were the racks of dresses. “You didn’t pick a dress?”

  Addison gave me her signature smile. “Oh, this wasn’t about me, Dylan. I already have my dress.”

  Of course she did. “Ohmigod, I hate you!” I snapped.

  “I know, but admit it, that dress is perfect.” She swung a pair of high-heeled, nude-colored shoes towards me. “And so are these.”

  I took the shoes (my size... of course) and sighed. “Do I want to know how much I’m paying you back?”

  “Probably not. Besides, I’m not paying for it. Asher is.”

  I gasped. “What? Why?”

  She squeezed my arms. “Because he insisted.”

  “Oh,” I whispered, my heart aching. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Asher buying me a new dress for our date. Were my clothes not good enough for him? Was he prettying me up so I could be his eye candy? Because that sure as hell wasn’t going to fly.

  “Stop it,” Addison said, watching me.

  “Stop what?” I snapped, sounding angrier than I intended. But really, I couldn’t be with a man who didn’t accept me the way I was. Even if I’d spent a lifetime drooling over him.

  “Stop going there in your brain. He loves you as you are and he’s not trying to change you, but this dinner requires a nicer dress than you would normally wear. It’s an event requirement, not Asher’s requirement. So stop reading so much into it and just appreciate that he wants to do nice things for you. And get used to it. When you two are married, he’s going to spoil you.” She grinned and grabbed a bottle of wine. “Want some?”

  Married? I’d barely gotten to the point of kissing him without losing my lunch. I collapsed on the sofa and nodded, suddenly desperate for a drink. “Yes, please.”

  After opening the wine, she held up two menus. “Chinese or Mexican tonight?”

  “Neither.” I stood, thankful for the task that could keep both my hands and my mind busy. “I’m cooking, remember? Now get the hell out of my kitchen.”

  I washed my hands, put an apron on, and grabbed chicken from the fridge. Then I heard the click of a phone camera shutter. Addison was taking my picture.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  She grinned and pushed something on her phone. “Sending Ashey a picture of you acting all domestical. You’re barefoot, but not pregnant. At least not yet.”

  I searched for something I could throw at her, but before I found anything she was gone.

  * * *

  Saturday morning, I awoke at eight-thirty, made lattes, armed myself with the lid of Addison’s largest pan as a shield, and slowly crept into her room.

  Our spy gear had arrived the day before, and after a thorough sweep of the apartment, we were confident (and relieved) there were no listening devices anywhere in the condo. Addison h
ad also purchased body cameras, which we were going to try and incorporate into our disguises, hoping they’d record anything we might miss. I was anxious to get it all on and make sure everything worked.

  After setting Addison’s latte on the nightstand and fanning the aroma in her general direction, I scanned the area within her reach, looking for possible throwing objects. Her Kindle was on the opposite nightstand (no doubt she’d stayed up late reading another trashy motorcycle club romance), so I set it on her dresser across the room, increasing my chances of survival. Then I held up my makeshift shield and began the process of getting her butt out of bed.

  “Addie, wakey-wakey,” I said barely above a whisper.

  She mumbled, but other than that, didn’t move.

  “Addison?” I said, in a sing-song voice. “Time to get up, AddiePoo.”

  She took a swing at me and I dodged, blocking my face with the lid. Addison wasn’t generally a violent person… as long as she was allowed to sleep past the sunrise. But it was still January, so the sun wouldn’t be rising for a while, and we didn’t have that kind of time if we wanted to be at the funeral home by ten.

  Changing tactics, I crooned, “I bet you’re gonna look really great in that dress.”

  Another swing, but this one had less force behind it. She was warming up to me.

  “Come on, Addie. The killer always shows up at the funeral, and we need suspects.”

  One eye popped open. “Are you sure I love you enough to get up this early?” she asked.

  I nodded, fanning coffee fumes at her again. It was a delicate process. “Abso-freaking-lutely.”

  Now both eyes were open, but she still didn’t look convinced.

  I got on my knees—just outside of her swinging range—dropped the lid, and put my hand to my heart. “Have I told you lately that I love you?” I asked, quoting an old Rod Stewart song I knew drove her nuts.

  A pillow flew at my head.

  “Have I told you there’s no one else above you?”

  Another pillow.

  I switched songs. “You are the wind beneath my wings,” I quoted.

  “Yeah? Well you’re closer to the fart beneath my butt.” she grumbled.

  “Want me to sing it? Don’t think I won’t,” I threatened. I cleared my throat. I couldn’t carry a tune but my voice carried and pretty much stayed off-key. I was like the opposite of a siren, using my songs to push people away, rather than lure them in to seduce them. It was my super power. “Last warning. Get up, or this bard of death will make your earholes bleed.”

  “Fine, I’m getting up,” Addison said, throwing back her covers. “But you’re not wearing your combat boots.”

  I threw my head back in frustration. Although I didn’t really want to wear my combat boots, it was fun to rib Addison about it. But they were comfortable and black so they did match my outfit. “But the skirt is super long. Nobody will notice.”

  “I’ll notice,” she said, heading for the bathroom.

  “But—”

  “No cowboy boots either!” she shouted before disappearing behind the door.

  Fully thwarted, I sulked the whole way to my room to get ready. With my red hair tied up beneath a chin-length black wig, and wearing a black blouse, long black skirt, black veiled hat, black sunglasses, and black gloves, my pale skin hit translucent-level pasty—a color too light to register on film.

  Working my fingers into my gloves I emerged from my room saying, “I look like the product of Casper the Ghost’s one-night stand with some gothic chick.”

  Addison laughed from her room. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

  “Oh, it’s worse. And I don’t think the gloves are necessary.” I tugged and pulled, trying to get my fingers into their individual holes.

  “Yes they are. We can’t leave fingerprints.”

  Well that was frightening. “Are we planning on committing a crime? Because you do know it’s not illegal to go to a funeral, right?”

  Addison huffed and puffed and came storming out of her room looking like Jackie-O, circa 1965, only a little more on the slutty side. She had on one of her tamer little black dresses, but it stopped about four inches above her knees, and if there was a swift gust of wind, everyone would get a good look at her panties. Hopefully she bothered to wear them, but at least she paired black nylons with what she referred to as her sensible black pumps, since they were only two-and-a-half inches high. Her wig was brunette and curly, her sunglasses were large and round, and her pillbox hat also came with a dark veil. Black gloves and clutch finished her disguise, and she pulled the whole look off like a mourning actress, hiding from the paparazzi.

  “You suck,” I said, scowling.

  She took one look at me and broke into a fit of giggles. Once she finally composed herself, she announced, “We need a picture!”

  “No! There can be no evidence of this whatso—”

  She sidled up to me and snapped a selfie before I even finished. “Let’s go.”

  Since my car could be recognized by coworkers who’d seen the hunk of junk in the parking garage, we took Addison’s ride. Kirk’s service was being held at a small funeral home out in the boondocks past Beaverton. Since neither Addison nor I were familiar with the area, we managed to get good and lost—even with the help of Linda, the bossy navigation system. Luckily we made it despite three wrong turns, arriving only about ten minutes late. After parking, we kept our heads down, dark glasses on, and scurried in, grabbing programs before following signs to the correct room.

  The priest was already speaking, so we stood in the doorway trying not to disrupt. A few heads turned—a couple of people who worked in a different department than me—but nobody seemed to recognize me. At least if they did, they didn’t call the cops and tell them the suspected murderer had shown up to upset the family.

  The priest droned on for a while about what a great guy Kirk was (yeah right), before gesturing for a woman in the front row to stand.

  “Kirk’s lovely wife, Bonnie, would like to say a few things now.”

  My jaw dropped. I turned to Addison and she looked as shocked as I was. “Kirk the Jerk was married?” we said together, a little louder than intended.

  A few people in the back row turned to glare at us, so we zipped our lips and looked around, trying to play innocent.

  Even with mascara tracks running down her cheeks, Bonnie was beautiful. She wore a tasteful black dress and had styled her blonde hair down. She thanked everyone for coming before breaking into a story about the first time she met Kirk… at a job interview, of course. Turns out Kirk had been mingling with the help for a long time.

  She looked at the open casket and said, “He was a good man.” Her voice hitched, ever so slightly. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was about to cry, or because she was trying to force truth into the words. I elbowed Addison and she nodded, telling me she’d noticed it too.

  As Bonnie broke into another story, I scanned the room. Kirk’s assistant, Michelle, was there. She was fresh out of college and pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way. I wondered if any of Kirk’s lines and lingering touches had worked on her.

  A few of my other coworkers were there. One woman fanned herself with the program. A man in the fifth row played on his phone. Even the family members in the front rows looked bored.

  When Bonnie finished, the priest opened the microphone, welcoming people to come and say a few words. A couple went up and called Kirk generous, talking about how he’d given them a loan when they were trying to buy their first home. Another guy shared a funny golf story. Kirk’s aunt talked about the time he broke his arm falling out of her tree.

  It was weird, because even though I had nothing to do with Kirk’s murder, I felt guilty about intruding on his funeral. I’d only known him as Kirk the Jerk, my lecherous boss, but clearly there was more to him than that. For the first time since I’d seen the knife sticking out of his chest, I was sad he was dead. Maybe not for Kirk, but for all these people who
would miss him.

  Once the speeches were done, we were dismissed with an invitation to partake of the refreshments being served in the anteroom before family accompanied the casket to the gravesite. We slipped away from the crowd and drifted down the hallway until we found a quiet and private area to discuss the fact Kirk was married.

  “Can you believe it?” Addison asked. “What a dog! What a total scumbag! And all those times he hit on you. I should march right up to his wife and tell her what a fine, upstanding man-whore her husband was.”

  Cheaters were among Addison’s least favorite people on the planet, right up there with child and animal abusers.

  Addison ranted on. Before I could talk her down, I realized we weren’t alone in the hallway. My eyes widened as I looked over her head, surprised to see the person approaching. Addison kept talking but I was too busy making slashing gestures across my throat to hear her. She didn’t get the hint though, until the newcomer leaned in and whispered in her ear.

  Addison’s mouth snapped shut.

  Addison

  I FROWNED AT Dylan, who appeared to be experiencing some kind of epileptic episode. “What is your—”

  “Addison,” a deep voice said behind me, frightfully close to my ear.

  I must not react, I must not react.

  “I know it’s you, Addison,” Jake continued, and I turned to face him.

  “I’m sorry, who is it that you’re lookin’ for?” I asked in a very thick southern accent, reaching my hand out as though asking him to kiss it. “My name is Lynda Worthingham and this is my very good friend, Linda Sanders. We joke because her grandfather was a colonel in the navy.” I giggled. “So, she’s a descendant of Colonel Sanders. Isn’t that such a hoot... or more appropriately... a cluck?”

  “Ohmigod,” Dylan whispered, covering her face with her hands.

  “Linda and Lynda, huh?” he asked with a sigh as he cocked his head and lifted my gloved hand to his lips. At least he was keeping up with our ruse. “What the hell are you two doing here?” he demanded, albeit in a whisper.

  “Why, we’re here for the funeral, sir,” I continued, still in character.