She's No Angel

by Leslie Kelly

  “She did get the messages, right?” he asked Mutt, who’d been stuck to his legs like a pair of pants since the minute Mike had arrived home. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he opened the back door, nudging the dog to go out and do his business. He nearly had to lift Mutt up to get him to go outside in the rain.

  The dog made it to the edge of the grass, did his thing and came racing in like a pup. Rainy days and feeding time were the only two things that made that animal run.

  “So what do we do now?” he asked the dog as he absently scratched him behind the ears.

  Mutt woofed once and nosed his empty food bowl. He obviously didn’t care what Mike did about his woman troubles, he just wanted to be fed. Immediately if not sooner. And none of that dry stuff, bud, canned food only.

  “You’re so spoiled,” he muttered, getting the dog his favorite canned food.

  Then he returned his attention to the issue at hand. Jen’s silence. “So you call her, dope,” he told himself.

  If he had Jen’s number, he would. Maybe she was just feeling a little funny—embarrassed about the way they’d left things Sunday night at the party.

  But this was Jen he was talking about. Shyness wouldn’t keep her from calling. No way.

  Surprisingly, that lack of inhibition was one of the things he liked best about her. All these years of being sure he didn’t want any drama in his private life, and he’d fallen headfirst into an ocean of lust for a woman who defined drama. One who was unafraid to go after what she wanted.

  Which left him wondering…what if she hadn’t gotten his messages? He’d left three, one with each of her aunts on the phone, plus a written one shoved against the door of Ida Mae’s house. How could she have not received any of them?

  When he’d gotten the call from his former lieutenant at eight o’clock Monday morning that he had to return to the city immediately, his sex date with Jen had been the first thing he’d thought about. Probably because he’d been thinking about it all the previous night.

  It’d be nice to not wake up with a hard-on like a pubescent fourteen-year-old one of these days.

  He couldn’t believe he’d come so close to having her, to satisfying the sexual need that had been driving him crazy since they’d met, and then had to bail out. Talk about bad timing—his was worse than the guy who’d landed the last spot on the Titanic.

  Cursing the luck, he’d gotten the phone numbers from his grandfather, then called and spoken to one aunt and then the other. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them to give Jen the message—they’d all been getting along fine Sunday night at the party. Her great-aunts had been so busy fawning over his grandfather they hadn’t had time to snipe at anybody—not Jen, not even each other. He didn’t think things could have changed that drastically overnight.

  But he wasn’t sure they’d remember, and he’d wanted to cover all his bases. As triple insurance, he’d swung by Ida Mae’s at nine, as he was leaving town, to try to tell Jen in person. Getting no answer to his knocks, he’d jotted a note and stuck it in the door. She had to have gotten at least one of the messages. Right?

  And since he’d already decided she couldn’t be too embarrassed to call him, the only explanation was that she’d changed her mind. She didn’t want to go ahead with an impulsive affair. Now that she’d returned to the city—to her real life and the kind of people someone with her fame and finances usually hung out with—she no longer had a need for him.

  The idea that she’d taken care of that need with somebody else was about to drive him up a wall.

  No matter what, he had to know. Reaching for the phone, he called a guy he knew who worked for the phone company and had helped with a few cases in the past. Not exactly police business, but it was worth calling in a favor.

  And within a few hours, he had Jennifer Feeney’s home address and telephone number in hand.

  “It’s good to be a cop,” he told Mutt as he reached for the phone. It was 10:00 p.m., but something told him she wasn’t an early-to-bed kind of woman, especially on a Friday night. Not unless she had someone in that bed with her. He still hoped that someone would very soon be him.

  Whatever doubts he’d had about starting something with her had lightened Sunday night at the party when she’d been so damn gorgeous, funny and charming. Sexy enough to stop his heart.

  They’d dissipated completely over the past few days, when he realized how much he missed her. She might be all wrong for him in the long run, but for now, she was absolutely right.

  She answered on the fourth ring, her voice sounding a little groggy. Damn…maybe he had woken her up.

  “Jen?”

  “Who is thish?”

  Not asleep. Tipsy. He almost chuckled, wondering what the woman who had more guts than most men he knew was like when she was drinking. “It’s Mike.”

  A long silence ensued. Then she mumbled, “Mike. Mike…the no-good, jackass Mike?”

  Uh-oh. “I hope not.”

  In the background, he heard a female voice screech, “It’s him?” Another one immediately added, “Hang up on the bastard.”

  Oh, terrific. She was having a bitch session with some let’s-get-together-and-hate-men girlfriends. He despised those things, he really did. Which was funny considering how much he’d enjoyed what he had read of Jen’s book—which was basically the same event in print. All except for the historic murder cases she’d written about, like that of a 1960s music producer.

  It hadn’t taken much brainpower to figure out she’d been talking about her Aunt Ivy’s late husband. The subject had, after all, come up at Sunday night’s party. Hearing the woman had a murder in her background hadn’t surprised Mike, but it had definitely concerned him, given what she’d done to Mortimer. So he’d done a little digging when he’d gotten home, surprised to realize the case was still open right here in New York City.

  A cold case. Seemed pretty damned convenient. Prophetic, almost. And though he suspected Jen wouldn’t like it, he was going to glance through that file when he had the chance.

  He didn’t merely want to satisfy his curiosity. Or rehash what the old woman and her maniacal sister had done to his grandfather.

  He was also concerned for Jen.

  It was one thing to laugh off a murder threat from a loony old woman. It was another to laugh off one from one who might actually have killed before.

  “Well, come on, are you Mike-the-tease Taylor or not?”

  Had she just called him a tease?

  “It is Mike Taylor,” he said, knowing better than to pick a fight with an angry, tipsy woman. “Maybe I should call back another time.” When she was sober, and without her posse.

  “Maybe you should kiss my lily-white butt.”

  He couldn’t help it, he immediately laughed—the first time he’d done so since Sunday night. The woman killed him, she really did. Not only because of how cute instead of furious she sounded, but also because her idea was so appealing. Was that supposed to be some kind of threat, or punishment? Ha. Stroking and kissing and holding that perfectly curved ass were among the many things he’d wanted to do to her from the minute he’d seen her swinging those hips, walking up the road toward Trouble.

  “This isn’t Mike Taylor. Mike Taylor doesn’t laugh. He’s a block of wood.” She mumbled something else, something that sounded suspiciously like “Especially below the waist.”

  The woman was going to hate herself when she sobered up.

  “I should let you go since you’re busy. But call me tomorrow. We need to talk.”

  “I don’t need anything,” she mumbled, almost talking to herself, “especially not from you-oo. I don’t even like you and I know you don’t like me.”

  “Not true.”

  “Bull. But it doesn’t matter. I have an industrial-size vibrator and my best friend brought me some porn and my other best friend bought me a bottle of wine and five gallons of ice cream. And we’re gonna sit here enjoying everything, not needing men at all.”

  O
h, boy. She’d definitely had a few glasses of that wine. Otherwise, he didn’t imagine she’d be implying she and two of her girlfriends were sharing wine, ice cream, porn and vibrators. Sounded like a porn movie all on its own. At the very least, a man’s fantasy.

  “Jen, didn’t you get my messages?”

  “Oh, I got the message all right.”

  He tried again. “The messages that I got called back to the city and couldn’t make it on Monday.”

  Silence. Then she asked, “What messages? You didn’t leave me any messages.”

  Oh, hell. She didn’t sound tipsy anymore, she sounded…hurt? “I left you three messages.”

  “I didn’t get them.”

  No. This couldn’t have happened. “Look, I swear to you, I called twice and came by once to explain why I couldn’t make it Monday so you wouldn’t think I just didn’t show.”

  She didn’t respond for a second, obviously thinking over his words. He heard a muffled sound of the phone being lowered, then her voice saying, “He says he left messages and didn’t really stand me up.”

  “Bullshit,” another voice said.

  “Liar.”

  “All men are scum.”

  That did the trick. Jen came back on, speaking directly into the phone. “Right. All men are scum.”

  And then she hung up.

  “WHO WAS THAT ON THE PHONE?”

  Ivy nearly fell over in a faint as an unexpected voice intruded in her kitchen early Saturday morning. “You nearly stopped my heart,” she said as she swung around to see Ida Mae.

  Her sister had obviously come in without being asked. Some people were just so rude. Not that Ivy would say anything, or else Ida Mae would lay into her for the many times Ivy had crept into the house next door to borrow things. As if her fat-legged sister really needed so many pairs of stockings.

  In Ivy’s opinion, Ida Mae shouldn’t ever wear anything but pants, though she knew it wouldn’t happen. Ida Mae hadn’t ever let go of her Trouble upbringing, even though she had lived out of state for many years when she’d been married. Like their Mama, she wouldn’t be seen in anything but a dress outside the house. Or perhaps one of her many housecoats on the front porch.

  Ivy dressed much the same way nowadays, but she had the legs for it. And when she was younger, why, she wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing a frumpy Pennsylvania housewife dress.

  Oh, hadn’t she cut a figure! She’d worn little braided Chanel suits in the 1950s and miniskirts in the sixties. If she hadn’t been middle-aged when hot pants had been introduced, she would have worn those, too, with patent-leather go-go boots to go with them.

  Had she still been married to Leo at that time, living the New York scene, she probably would have done it anyway. But Leo had been busy dancing in Satan’s hellfire long before then, and her second husband, Alfred, was a much more conservative sort. A nice man. Boring. Very easily shocked.

  So, no hot pants for a forty-year-old Ivy.

  “Answer my question, who were you on the phone with?” Ida Mae said as she took a cup and saucer down from the cupboard, making herself some tea.

  Ivy considered warning her about how tea might make her retain water, which Ida Mae certainly didn’t need with those legs, oh, no, indeed. But she kept her mouth shut, just in case they happened to see Mr. Potts later.

  “Are you hard of hearing today? Who was it?”

  “Nobody,” Ivy whispered.

  Ida Mae stuck her lips out and frowned in a way that still scared small children. “Don’t lie to me, I heard you shouting and saw you slamming down the phone when I came in.”

  Shouting? Had she been shouting? Why would she shout when there was no one to hear?

  “Well? Tell the truth, was it Mr. Potts?”

  Ahh, that explained Ida Mae’s attitude. The two of them had been having a regular horse race over that man for more’n a year, ever since he’d moved to Trouble. While he was gracious and friendly, even inviting them to his house or for a stroll now and again, neither of them had ever been able to get him to come back into their houses for tea and cookies.

  Some men, it appeared, actually did learn.

  “Now, why would I shout at Mr. Potts?”

  “I have no idea…. Why do you do any of the things you do?”

  Though she supposed Ida Mae’s question had been rhetorical, Ivy immediately answered, anyway, not giving it a second thought. “For love and family.”

  Ida Mae finally stopped frowning. Without a word, without a smile, without any overt acknowledgment whatsoever, she reached over, took Ivy’s hand and squeezed it. Just once. That was all.

  That was enough.

  “Now,” Ida Mae said as she stirred her tea, “tell me who it was. You sounded angry.” She sounded grudgingly concerned, which was about as much as her older sister was capable of. No real wonder, of course, not with the things that had happened to her when they were young.

  “I don’t know who it was,” Ivy admitted. “The phone rang and nobody was there.”

  Ida Mae nodded, her interest piqued. “Did he breathe heavy or make any nasty suggestions or say he wanted to tie you up?”

  “Would I have shouted if he had?” Ivy snapped. “Don’t you think I’d enjoy the occasional naughty caller? This one doesn’t say anything.”

  She didn’t think he had, anyway. Sometimes, she almost believed she heard the whispers of familiar voices, long gone. But that was impossible, which made her wonder if the phone had even rung at all. But it had this morning. Hadn’t it?

  Ida Mae put down her cup and looked her in the face. “Doesn’t say anything? This wasn’t the first call?”

  Ivy slowly shook her head.

  “How long has it been happening?”

  “More than a month. Since before the girl came. Now, this past week, someone’s been calling and asking about her, too.”

  Ida Mae huffed out a breath. “Strange. Perhaps it has something to do with those calls she’s been getting in the city. I wish she’d have stayed a while longer.”

  Ivy didn’t. She still hadn’t quite forgiven Jennifer for running out on them Monday morning, ruining their plans for a lovely luncheon with Mr. Potts. Just when Ivy had almost begun to think she could like her. A little.

  Ida Mae had more reason to be fond of the girl than Ivy did, however, given the truth about Ida Mae and Jen’s father. So Ivy forgave her for being worried. “She can take care of herself,” Ivy grudgingly said. Offering comfort wasn’t her strong suit. “I just want the voices to stop bothering me on the phone.”

  Though she said nothing, her sister’s expression revealed her thoughts. She was wondering the same thing Ivy had been wondering: if Ivy’s imagination had perhaps been running away with her lately. Maybe there had been no call, no whispers. Nothing but silly Ivy retreating into her fantasy worlds.

  But to her amazement, Ida Mae thought no such thing. “I don’t like this, sister, it worries me,” she said with a frown.

  Ida Mae expressing worry for her? Imagine.

  “I have that uneasy feeling in my bones—something funny is going on. I’ve felt it for weeks.”

  When Ida Mae had uneasy feelings, they usually meant something. Her sister had a bit of their mother’s shine on her…. She’d proved that more than once. Especially when it counted, like the times when Ivy had been in the most trouble.

  The night Leo had died, for instance.

  Ida Mae had known, somehow, that Ivy was in trouble. She’d shown up in New York City before Ivy had even had the chance to contact the family. With her strong shoulders and her firm presence, she’d stepped between Ivy and the police…keeping Ivy upright when her grief and rage threatened to down her.

  Helping her hide the truth.

  Too bad Ida Mae’s intuition hadn’t helped her avoid her own struggles and terrors. Like that night when she’d been seventeen and Ivy fifteen…and they’d both ended up with blood on their hands. That had been the first big secret they’d shared, hadn’t it? F
or a little while, anyway, until it had become painfully obvious they’d have to tell their mama. Then she’d joined in, closing the circle of secrecy around them all, taking the truth with her to her grave, along with all her own secrets she’d kept close in her woman’s heart.

  “We’ll be careful, you hear?” Ida Mae said, all no-nonsense as she was in times of crisis. “We’ve both got pasts to protect, Ivy Feeney, and we both have to be on our guard to keep them private. So watch what you say, who you talk to and tell me if anything else unusual happens.”

  Ivy nodded, though of course she knew that might be a trickier promise than Ida Mae thought.

  Because Ivy’s entire life had been anything but usual. And she certainly didn’t expect that to change at this late date.

  JEN FELT SURE SHE HADN’T BEEN drunk the night before. Perhaps a teensy bit tipsy, but not drunk. She should know, right? Which made her curious about something. “Why do I feel like there’s a guy with a hammer running around in my brain?”

  “Maybe because you’re hung over,” said Ashley, her best friend, who, along with Jen, was reaching for the aspirin first thing Saturday morning. They were alone, their other friend Beth having left before midnight. Beth had a retail job and had to work today. God help her poor soul.

  Ashley, who lived upstairs and had been Jen’s best friend since she’d moved to the city after grad school, had also left at some point last night. But she’d come back down this morning to check on her.

  “I’m not hung over,” Jen insisted. “I wasn’t drunk.”

  “Oh? Why’d I find you on your bedroom floor when I came in?” Ashley asked as she plopped onto a kitchen chair.

  Jeez, she’d forgotten that. “I fell.”

  “Right.” Ashley snorted. The noise plunged into Jen’s ears like a Q-tip wielded by Attila the Hun. “Sober people fall out of bed all the time.”

  As if Ashley’s voice wasn’t bad enough, she suddenly heard ear-splitting music pouring through the vents between her apartment and the one next door. Just as she had every day since she’d gotten back from Pennsylvania. She groaned. “Does that man have to listen to his radio at that volume all the time?”