by Linda Grimes
“Of course you take money from anyone,” I said. “You are a lazy opportunist.”
“I beg to differ. I am a good opportunist. Good opportunists can’t afford to be lazy. You miss too many opportunities that way.” He clinked my glass with his. “Cheers.”
I responded in kind and took a grateful sip. Billy’s martinis were starting to grow on me. “Mmmm. You missed your calling. You should have been a bartender.”
“Oh, I have been, on occasions too numerous to count. Want to see me juggle the bottles?”
“You can do that?”
He put his glass on the coffee table and returned to the bar, where he grabbed three bottles and sent them spinning through the air in quick succession, catching them over and over again with ease. “Who do you think is standing in for the lead in the remake of Cocktail?”
“Oh, geez. Why are they recycling that tired old thing?” Apologies to Mr. Cruise, but I am not a fan of his early work. Too many teeth.
“Because…” He replaced the bottles one at a time, leaving them exactly where he’d found them. “… recycling is the green thing to do. And Hollywood is all about the green.”
I groaned. He sat beside me on the soft leather sofa and kissed my nose.
“You’re supposed to laugh at my jokes, cuz. Save the moaning for when we’re in bed.”
I gave him a look. “I told you not to call me that anymore.”
“Habit,” he said. “Relax. You’re not a pervert.”
“Well, I suppose it’s better than ‘Cielie-poo.’ Marginally. Still…”
“Never mind. Drink up. You have a call to make.”
I shuddered, and downed the rest of my martini in one huge swallow. I still needed to tell the real Jackson Gunn that his wife was dead. Worse, that she’d apparently been murdered.
Okay, so there was no “apparently” about it. According to what the police had told us, she’d been shot multiple times. In the back. It sure as hell wasn’t an accident or a suicide.
“Maybe I should break it to him in person,” I said. Yeah, stalling. It wouldn’t be any more pleasant telling him face-to-face, but at least it would allow me to put it off for a little while longer. Personally, I think procrastination is an underrated life skill.
Plus, I loved visiting the ranch. It was my favorite of the three client hideaways I kept. The lake house in upstate New York and the remote tropical island villa were nice enough, but the dude ranch had horses. I love horses.
The hideaways are essential to my business, because it would be awkward (to say the least) if a client were to be seen, at home or anywhere else, while I was playing stand-in. I keep three different places because the filthy rich people who can afford my services expect a certain amount of choice in their accommodations. Not that I only cater to the filthy rich. I’ve taken on some pro bono clients—like I said, I can be altruistic—but I’ve found it tends to be people with a whole bunch of money who demand my services. I guess maybe they’re more used to delegating away life’s petty annoyances than the rest of us are.
“You really want to risk his hearing about it on the news?” Billy asked.
“The police said they weren’t going to release the details.” I tried to sound positive, but from the look on Billy’s face I hadn’t succeeded.
“This is Hollywood. The only place leakier is D.C. TMZ is probably right outside the trailer door.”
I sucked in a deep breath and let it back out through flapping lips. “All right, all right. I’ll do it. Hand me the phone.”
“Good girl. And afterward we can…” He whispered something in my ear that would make Auntie Mo wash his mouth out with soap.
I felt my eyes get big. “Are you sure the tub is big enough for that?”
“I’ll go measure it while you make the call.” He kissed me, doing that thing he does with his tongue that drives me absolutely crazy. After he was done stealing my breath, he worked his way up to my ear.
“I’ll even be Jack for you if you want,” he whispered suggestively, matching the action to his words and leaving me clinging to the physical embodiment of my erstwhile persona. Somehow, it wasn’t as exciting as I’d imagined it would be during all those bargain matinees I’d spent fantasizing about him. Spending time as the man had effectively let the air out of that balloon.
Billy had made a similar offer before—to him, changing auras was like changing clothes. Assuming Jack’s appearance was no different, in his mind, than dressing up as a pirate for me would be, if I happened to be into pirates. Which I’m not. (Except maybe Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow, but let’s not go there.)
“Um, that won’t be necessary,” I said. Understatement of the year. Any “thing” I’d had for Jackson Gunn was now well and truly kaput. Just another hazard of my job. “Besides, it would be disrespectful. For Pete’s sake, the man’s wife just died!”
“It’s not like it’s really him. You know it’s me, so where’s the harm?”
He was going to make me admit it. “Look, he doesn’t do it for me anymore, okay? I want you.”
“Whatever you say—I aim to please,” he said with a satisfied smile, and changed back to himself, leaving me to my unpleasant task.
Once again, I wondered if he really meant it, or if he was trying to be “fair.” He’d told me before that while he’d sowed more than his share of wild oats, he knew I hadn’t, and he never wanted me to feel like I was missing out. If I ever craved variety for variety’s sake, he was able and willing to supply it. Nice offer, I supposed—especially since he’d assured me he didn’t expect anything in the way of reciprocity—but Billy as himself revved my motor more than Jackson Gunn ever could, regardless of my hero worship.
I took my time dialing, both out of reluctance to impart the bad news and to give my heart rate a chance to slow down. Who needed aerobics when Billy was around?
“Circle C Guest Ranch, Dave speaking. How can I make your life more fun?”
I smiled. Dave Silverberg was the middle-aged manager of the Arizona resort where most of my West Coast clients stayed while I solved their problems for them. He was a good friend of my parents, a New York City native with delusions of cowboy grandeur (I blame his early fascination with Billy Crystal movies), and I loved him to death. Not an adaptor himself, but a trusted member of the community nonetheless.
“Hey, Dave. It’s me. Can you put Jackson on? I need to talk to him.”
There was a pause. “Well, darlin’”—there are those who might think it ridiculous for a man raised in Brooklyn by a cabdriver and a waitress to assume a Western drawl, but I happened to think it was adorable—“that might be a problem. It appears Mr. Gunn is missing.”
“What?”
“Yup. He plum disappeared on me. I was about to saddle up and go looking for him when you called.”
Crap. Just what I needed. A missing client on top of a dead wife.
“Listen, call me as soon as you find him. And, um, don’t let him watch any news before I talk to him, okay?”
Billy joined me as I was hanging up. “Good news—there’s a new loofah.” I used to roll my eyes when Billy would tell me how wonderful he was with a loofah, but having shared a few showers with him recently, I didn’t anymore. “The tub will be a tight squeeze,” he added with a wink, in case the innuendo in his voice wasn’t enough to carry his meaning, “but with my superior athletic ability and your impressive flexibility, I think we might just be able to manage it.”
“Sorry,” I said. And, boy, I really was, because Billy was an absolute virtuoso at following through on innuendo. “We have to leave for the ranch right away—Dave can’t find Jack.” A horrible thought struck me. “Oh, my God—you don’t think he’s been kidnapped, do you?”
It wasn’t as if that hadn’t happened on one of my jobs before, and Billy knew it. Seriousness wiped the fun right off his face, replacing it with speculation.
“Possibly, if whoever murdered his wife was out to get him, too. Or worse…”
“Or what?” What could possibly be worse than a kidnapped—Jesus, maybe even dead by now!—client added to the client’s definitely dead wife?
“Or maybe you’ve provided Jackson Gunn with the perfect alibi for murder.”
Bingo.
Chapter 3
“I still don’t think we need to fly. We’d get there just as fast if we drove.” I gave Billy a sidelong look. “Maybe faster, the way you drive.”
“Not even if I were Colin McRae and had Nicky Grist as my codriver instead of you,” Billy said, pulling me inexorably toward the small plane on the airfield.
The Mooney 252 was a recent acquisition of his, and as far as I was concerned he was still way too enamored with it. I had thus far avoided taking a ride in it, in spite of multiple offers. I couldn’t help feeling that he was taking advantage of my current situation to force the issue.
“Who are they?” I asked, trying my damnedest not to sweat. Yeah, that went about as well as you’d expect. I had a nonsweaty aura or two in my repertoire, but none I could employ without Billy knowing exactly why I was doing it. Which sort of defeated the purpose of not letting him see me sweat in the first place.
“World-class Rally racers,” he said. “Some of the best drivers on the planet.”
“You have them? Maybe we should give it a shot. I mean, they sound like great auras. Shame not to make use of them—”
“Since when do auras come with a skill set? I’d say ‘nice try,’ but really, it was kind of sloppy.”
“Maybe not the skills per se, but the reflexes…”
He gave me a look. Okay, it had been a long shot. Sure, you get the physical attributes of the person whose aura you project, reflexes no doubt included. But the instincts driving the reflexes? That was more of a psychological thing connected to the mind behind the aura.
“Trust me, flying is faster,” he said. “And fast is what we need if we’re going to find Gunn and get him home to Vegas—where you told the police he was going—before said police come knocking on his door.”
That was true enough. Jack’s palatial home—where his wife was murdered—was just outside the gambling mecca of the western world. And I’d had to tell the police he’d be going there. What loving husband wouldn’t rush to where his wife had been killed? I needed to find Gunn fast, so I wouldn’t be stuck standing in for him at the funeral. I was sorry for the man, but I sure as hell hadn’t signed up for that.
I twisted my lips into a wry expression. Wry was better than scared shitless. “Aren’t you the one who told me never to trust anyone who said ‘trust me’?”
“I didn’t mean me, twit. You can always trust me, no matter what I say.” He lifted me from behind and put me on the wing, urging me toward the passenger-side door.
“Wait!” I tried to slide back down, but was prevented by two firm hands on my southern cheeks.
“No. Waiting never makes facing something you’re afraid of any easier. Get in.”
I craned my neck enough to see the determination on his face. It did not bode well for my weaseling-out success. Not that I wouldn’t still try.
“But don’t you need to, um, file a flight plan or something? I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble on my behalf,” I temporized.
He grinned. “Since when do I need help getting into trouble? But you don’t have to worry—no flight plan required. We’re good to go.”
“But … but … I know! Flight check. We can’t leave without a preflight check, right?” That should buy me some time.
“Very good, cuz. I will be doing exactly that as soon as you are safely buckled in. Now, get in and breathe slowly. Try not to hyperventilate before I get there.”
He shoved. Frankly, there are better ways to feel Billy’s hands on my ass. I sighed and climbed in, resigned to my fate.
It’s not so much the flying I hate—if I could grow wings (alas, beyond an adaptor’s capability), I’m sure I’d have a blast zooming through the air. But stuck inside a teensy little cabin with no way out? Uh-uh. It disagrees with my claustrophobia.
I left the door open until Billy was done with the check and ready for takeoff, closing it with a grunt and a frown when I could avoid it no longer.
Billy looked at me from his seat, speculating about God knew what. Whether or not he had restocked the barf bags, probably.
“Ciel, I’m a good pilot. I promise to get you to the ranch in one piece.”
“It’s not that—I know you’re a good pilot. Why wouldn’t you be? You’re good at everything. It’s just that…” I shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “… look, I don’t like feeling trapped, all right? You know that.” I knew I sounded irritated, but really I was disgusted with myself.
He continued to study my face, but thankfully didn’t go into the it’s-time-you-did-something-about-that-claustrophobia-thing-of-yours lecture I was expecting.
Finally, he sighed. “I was hoping this wouldn’t be necessary, but…” He reached behind my seat and pulled out a parachute. “You can wear this, if you want. Won’t make for a comfortable flight, but you can—technically—leave the plane whenever you want, if that helps,” he said.
Yeah, right. As if I’d jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Still, oddly, it did help to know the possibility existed. My breathing slowed to something resembling normal.
“Thanks,” I said quietly. “Are you going to wear one?”
“Nope,” he said, showing one dimple. “I trust the pilot.”
I squared my shoulders. “So do I. If you’re not, neither am I.”
“You sure? I braved ridicule from my fellow pilots to stow that onboard for you. Had to recalculate the weight of the aircraft and everything. It’s here, so you may as well use it.”
“I don’t need it,” I reiterated. (Stubborn? Moi? Perish the thought.) “Put it back. I’ll be fine.”
He complied, with an amused shake of his head, then dug into his pocket. He pulled out a miniature bottle of gin and tossed it at me. Billy’s version of Boy Scout—always prepared.
“I don’t need that either.”
“It’s medicinal. Drink it down.”
I shook my head. Paused, and finally sighed. Who was I kidding. I twisted off the cap and focused my thoughts on the parachute behind me. Even if I wouldn’t put it on for the world—not if Billy wouldn’t wear one, too—it still made a pretty good security blanket.
* * *
Never have I been as happy to set foot on my dude ranch as when I left the plane after we touched down on the landing strip. I would have kissed the dusty ground if I hadn’t been sure it would send Billy into gales of laughter. I’d had enough gales for the day, thank you very much.
Billy clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Come on, cuz. It was just a little turbulence. Storms pop up. You did great—only one bag!”
I groaned. “Don’t remind me.” But at least, thanks to the gin, I’d been giggling while I barfed.
He draped an arm over my shoulder and kissed my forehead. (I was sucking on a peppermint, but perhaps it hadn’t kicked in enough for him to risk my lips.)
“It’ll get better,” he said. “You need more practice is all. Once you’re used to it, you’ll be fine.”
I groaned again, but was spared from having to come up with a pithy rejoinder by the approach of my ranch manager, on horseback. He dismounted the palomino with ease, dropping the reins to the ground. Trigger would no more move from that spot now than if he’d been tied to a post—he was that well trained. (Yeah, Trigger—Dave’s idea, not mine, but to be fair, Trigger was a dead ringer for Roy Rogers’s horse. The big gelding and I were pals.)
Dave lifted me into a hug. He liked doing that because I was one of the few women in his life short enough to make it possible. He was not a tall man.
“Hi,” I said after I sucked back in the breath he’d squeezed out of me. “What’s going on?”
He shook Billy’s hand as a smile spread over his face. “Cody found him out near the barn.”
Cody Carmichael was the security guard for the Circle C, a younger—and more authentic—cowboy than Dave. I knew from employment records that his real name was Clarence, but he seemed to think Cody suited him better. Have to say, I agreed. He was too ruggedly western to be a Clarence.
“Seems Mr. Gunn went on an unscheduled hike and got himself lost. I already read him the riot act about heading out without me or Cody. He’s taking a nap at the moment, after a busy afternoon ‘rehydrating’ himself. Sorry if you came all the way out here for no reason. I would have called, but I knew you were already on your way.”
Whew. One less worry. “That’s okay—I had to come anyway. I’m afraid I have some bad news for Mr. Gunn.”
“His wife? Yeah, I saw—it’s all over Twitter.”
“Does Gunn know?” I said. I had Jack’s smart phone (I couldn’t very well “be” him without it), so, if Dave had been careful, Gunn shouldn’t have been able to hear about his wife’s murder from any outside source.
“Not yet. I haven’t let him near a computer or the TV, and Rosa is completely tongue-tied around him.”
“Rosa? Tongue-tied? I can’t see it,” I said. Rosa Delgado was my combination cook and housekeeper, a formidable fifty-year-old second generation Mexican American with a figure that rivaled Sophia Loren’s, and who, as far as I knew, wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.
“Quivers in his presence. Can’t get a word out. Funniest thing I ever saw—I’d try for a video if I wasn’t so sure she’d hog-tie and geld me if she caught me. You want me to call her and have her wake Mr. Gunn up for you? I guess she can knock on his door and use sign language,” he said, a tad wryly.
“Better let him sleep it off a little longer—he should be clearheaded to hear what I have to tell him.”
“So, how long would you say Jack was gone?” Billy asked casually. I gave him a sharp look. Did he really think Gunn could have killed his own wife?
“A few hours,” Dave said.
“You sure about that?” I said, sounding maybe not as casual as Billy, but I covered it by hugging Trigger’s head when he nuzzled my chest. If Jack had only been gone a few hours, he couldn’t have done it.