It was clear at a glance: the dress, custom made to Carlene’s measure, was not going to zip.
Julie stared disbelievingly at the gap in the back, then looked at the dress—and Carlene in the dress—through the mirror. Everything was just as it should have been—full skirt aswirl with hand beading, boned, lined, fitted to the millimeter, strapless bodice, breasts round and firm as oranges swelling coyly over the top. . . . Julie’s gaze fixed on those breasts. Instead of oranges, she was looking at cantaloupes.
“You got implants!” Julie couldn’t help it. She was aghast, and sounded it.
Carlene nodded complacently. “I had it done last Friday. Don’t they look great?”
She turned this way and that, thrusting her newly eye-popping chest out as she surveyed herself with satisfaction in the mirror.
“The pageant starts on Thursday. That’s only four days.” It wasn’t just the gown. There was the swimsuit, too, and the conservative black suit for the interview with the judges and the kicky little sundress for the opening breakfast with the press. . . . “Your whole wardrobe will have to be refitted!”
“Is that a problem?” Carlene asked with a little frown, meeting Julie’s gaze through the mirror. Julie thought of the size of the order, of Carlene’s chances of winning, of the small pageant world that would hear within the hour if Julie totally lost it and wrapped her fingers around her most promising client’s neck. She thought briefly, fleetingly, longingly, of the calming effects of the confiscated bar of chocolate. Then she summoned up her most professional manner, and even managed to smile. Admittedly, it was a rather grim smile, but it was a smile nonetheless.
“Well, it certainly can be done, but it’s going to take some doing. To begin with, you need to try everything on again and . . .”
“Julie, you’re wanted on the phone. Mr. Carlson.” Amber, now well over an hour and a half late, appeared in the dressing-room doorway with the message. It was an indication of how badly the day was going that Amber’s lateness was the least of Julie’s concerns.
“Thank you, Amber.” She massaged her temple discreetly. “Meredith, remeasure Carlene’s bust, would you, and mark the gown? Then let’s go to the swimsuit. Amber will help you.”
“How long is this going to take?” Carlene reached for her cigarettes, which were lying atop her purse on a nearby chair.
“I’m sorry, but Carolina Belle has a no-smoking policy, remember? Because the smoke makes the gowns smell, and the judges don’t like that,” Julie said, as Meredith took over with a quick, discreet roll of her eyes.
“Fuck,” Carlene said, straightening away from the chair.
With that elegant reply echoing in her ears, Julie escaped to her office with a soothing “I’ll be right back.”
Oh, God, she didn’t want to talk to Sid now, she thought, staring at the phone as if it were a snake coiled to strike. In fact, she didn’t want to talk to him at all, ever again in her life. But there was no help for it. The glowing yellow light that signified a caller on line one would not be denied. Picking up the receiver, Julie punched the button and said hello.
“You remember to get my cleaning?” Sid asked. She knew his voice so well, and yet today it was almost like listening to a stranger. A lying, cheating, louse of a stranger.
“ ’Fraid not. It’s kind of hard to stop by the cleaner’s when I don’t have a car.” Her voice was brittle. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, try to get it before you come home, would you? We’ve got that charity auction at the country club tonight, remember. Dad and Pamela will be there.”
Julie remembered, and groaned. The last thing she needed at the moment was to have to act the part of Sid’s loving wife before his father and his father’s girlfriend.
“I called the insurance company about your car, by the way. They’ll be sending a loaner over to the shop before noon.” Sid’s tone was suddenly friendlier. Julie suspected, from certain background sounds, that he was no longer alone. Then Sid said “Thanks, Heidi,”—Heidi Benton was his administrative assistant—as he was apparently handed something, and her suspicion was confirmed.
“Fantastic.” Her reply was flat.
“You’re mad, aren’t you?” He sighed. Julie could still hear Heidi moving around in the background. “Because of this morning. I yelled at you, and I shouldn’t have.”
“No, you certainly shouldn’t have,” Julie agreed, giving him a big crocodile smile that he couldn’t see. He was being nice for Heidi’s benefit, she knew. “And thanks for giving me a ride to work, by the way.”
“I’m sorry, okay? I was upset about the car.” His voice dropped. “I love you, Julie.”
Julie’s eyes widened. The remark was so totally out of character for Sid that she could only assume that either he wanted Heidi to hear it or he was trying to ease his own guilt about cheating by throwing a little verbal affection her way. Before she could reply, Sid hung up. Which was a good thing, Julie thought. She wouldn’t have known what to say. Sid hadn’t said he loved her for so long she couldn’t remember the last time, and he never apologized.
Maybe she was totally paranoid, totally unhinged, but this was almost more suspicious than the missing Viagra.
Julie realized that she had to know, one way or another, finally and for sure and without any doubt, what Sid was up to. If he was a true and faithful husband with nothing more than anger issues, sexual dysfunction, and a bad case of insomnia—well, she could work with that. She would kick herself for her suspicions and invest in even more sexy lingerie and try her best to make her marriage work.
But if he wasn’t, he was marital toast.
With her stomach twisting itself into a pretzel at what she was about to do, she dragged her purse out from under the desk and dug for the business card she had dropped inside it that morning. This time she would let a professional do the spying for her.
Punching in the number on the card, she listened to the phone ring once, twice.
“McQuarry and Hinkle, Private Investigators.” It was a woman’s voice.
Julie took a deep breath. “May I speak to Debbie, please?”
8
“DEBBIE?” RAWANDA ASKED, SOUNDING BLANK.
Mac had been standing in front of his desk shuffling through the papers on top hunting for receipts when Rawanda, sitting behind the desk and engaged in the same task, answered the phone. He glanced up, alerted by the name she uttered. Rawanda was short and round in all the right places and pretty, with face-framing black curls and eyes the color of caramels. She’d been working for McQuarry and Hinkle for almost a year, answering the phone and filing and doing word processing, hired because they’d gotten a subsidy to cover her salary through a state program that paid to put former convicts to work. Rawanda had done six months for check kiting, but insisted she was now completely reformed. During the time she’d worked for them she’d managed to get her well-manicured nails firmly into Hinkle’s vulnerable hide. Now the subsidy was just about up, and they were going to have to scrounge up the money to keep her on at their own expense, because, as Hinkle put it, I ain’t lettin’ this bitch go. Mac pretty much agreed with that, although for a different reason: Rawanda was flat-out good at her job. At the moment she was frowning into the phone, her head shaking from side to side.
“Ain’t no Debbie here, ma’am. You must’ve dialed the wrong number.”
Even as Mac realized who must be on the other end of the line, Rawanda was looking at him with widening eyes.
“Debbie McQuarry?” She blinked at Mac. “You sure?”
“Give that to me,” Mac said, and took the phone away from Rawanda before she dropped it. All too conscious of two curious pairs of eyes and ears suddenly focused on him with all the subtlety of a pair of Rottweilers spotting a kitten—Hinkle was sitting on the couch at the far side of the room, where he had been going through some pictures from the night before—Mac spoke into the receiver.
“McQuarry here.”
“Debbie?
” Julie Carlson’s voice sounded a little uncertain. But he would have recognized it anywhere, regardless.
“Out here in the workaday world, I generally go by Mac.”
“Oh.” There was a tiny pause. “I hope I didn’t say the wrong thing to whoever answered the phone. I mean, I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble or anything. I never thought—it never occurred to me that you wouldn’t go by Debbie at work as well.”
Mac couldn’t help himself. Even with Rawanda and Hinkle watching avidly, he had to smile. “Don’t worry about it. You haven’t exactly outed me. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I need to make arrangements to pay for the damage to your car—” There was another of those tiny pauses—he could almost picture her chewing her lower lip—and then the rest of the words came out in a rush. “And—and I want to hire you to follow my husband.”
Her voice had dropped so low as to be almost inaudible as she finished. But Mac heard, and understood.
“Smart call.” His tone was brisk. If this was as difficult for her as it seemed to be, he wanted to make it sound like business as usual for him. He’d been expecting her to call this morning about the damages to his car if nothing else, but for her to hire him to tail Sid was on the order of life handing him a little present. Now that he’d been put on the scent, he’d had every intention of tailing Sid anyway. If the scumbag was merely cheating on his wife, that was one thing; but if he was up to something else, Mac meant to move heaven and earth to find out what it was. Getting paid for his efforts was pure gravy.
Paybacks are a bitch, he said to his mental image of Sid, then returned his attention to Sid’s wife, who was still talking.
“I don’t have any idea how to go about this. What do I need to do? Is there somebody in your office I need to make arrangements with or—you understand I want to keep this completely confidential.”
She sounded nervous, skittish, as though she was ready to abandon the whole idea at the least hint of a problem. Mac blocked out of his mind a sudden vivid image of the way she had kissed his cheek the night before—no need to get the guilt thing going again—and set himself to reassuring her.
“I’ll handle it myself, don’t worry. And nobody else has to know. I’ll need a little more information, though. Could we meet? Where are you now?” If the idea of seeing Julie Carlson again had a certain appeal above and beyond his desire to learn everything she knew about her husband, he wasn’t admitting it even to himself.
“At my shop.” He got the impression she was growing increasingly nervous. “I can’t come to you. I don’t have a car, remember? And you can’t come here. Sid might find out. I . . .”
“Okay,” Mac interrupted soothingly, before she could spook herself into canceling the whole thing. “I understand. Isn’t there a Kroger across the street from you? How about if I drive over there and wait for you in the parking lot? You won’t have any trouble recognizing the Blazer”—his voice took on a humorous note meant to reassure her—“it’s the one with the big dent in the side, remember? All you have to do is hop in. I’ll be parked in the row right behind the Taco Bell. Just give me a time.”
He heard her sucking in air. His muscles tensed in anticipation of a hang-up. But she didn’t.
“It’s Saturday, so Carolina Belle closes at noon. I suppose I could meet you at about a quarter after. Oh, gosh, I can’t believe I’m doing this. If Sid finds out . . .”
“He won’t,” Mac said. “Not unless you want him to, that is. You’re doing the smart thing here. Just keep reminding yourself of that, and try not to worry. I’ll see you in the Kroger parking lot at quarter past twelve. Okay?”
Not for nothing had he worked selling yellow page ads to pay the bills during his freshman year at USC. If nothing else, he knew how to close a sale.
“Okay.”
Asking for the order still worked. But she didn’t sound happy.
“I’ll be there waiting. Twelve-fifteen in the Kroger parking lot.”
“Okay,” she said again. He heard someone calling her—another woman—and she drew in her breath.
“I’ve got to go,” she said into the phone, and hung up.
Mac hung up too, slowly, lost for the moment in thought. She had sounded scared to death, not that he was particularly surprised. Taking on Sid Carlson was scary work, as he knew himself to his cost. The consequences of losing could be devastating. Sid cornered was a scorched-earth kind of guy.
Grimacing at the memories that reflection brought with it, Mac looked up to find both Hinkle and Rawanda staring at him.
“Debbie?” Rawanda’s questioning gaze slid over as much of him as she could see with his big oak desk standing between them.
“Who was that?” Hinkle demanded at almost exactly the same moment.
Mac shrugged, and returned to rifling through the remaining papers as though the call had been nothing more or less than business as usual. Somewhere in the pile there had to be a receipt for a hundred twenty-three dollars for new tires, to replace two of his that had been slashed on a stakeout at the beginning of the month, and eighty-nine dollars for the motel room required to listen in on the adulterous tryst taking place on the other side of the wall. No receipts, no reimbursement. He had instituted the rule himself, but that didn’t help when Rawanda, who now handled petty cash, applied it to him.
“A new client. I promised her total confidentiality. So don’t ask.” This case he didn’t mean to share with anyone. Even if Julie Carlson hadn’t insisted on confidentiality, he would have kept quiet about it. Hinkle, who, having gotten busted out of the police force right along with Mac and having subsequently been let in on the whole thing about Daniel, was now as wary of Sid as a bird was of a snake. He would have tried his damndest to talk Mac out of getting involved with the Carlsons in any way, shape, or form.
Actually, Hinkle probably would have had a point, but with this tantalizing new opportunity falling into his lap like a gift from the gods, Mac wouldn’t have listened. No way in hell was he walking away from this thing now.
“Debbie?” Rawanda sounded even more incredulous than before. She glanced at Hinkle. “That woman on the phone was asking for Debbie McQuarry. I didn’t know the boss here sometimes went by Debbie.”
Mac sent her an aren’t-you-funny glance, but otherwise ignored her as he continued to shuffle through the papers. Hinkle grinned at Rawanda, then looked at Mac.
“This is someone you met last night, right? At the Pink Pussycat?” In response to Rawanda’s increasingly agog expression, Hinkle added for her benefit: “Mac was in drag for the Edwards case. He was calling himself Debbie.” A grin split his face. “He was looking pretty hot, too.”
“Damn, and I missed it!” Rawanda met Mac’s gaze, looked him up and down with exaggerated lasciviousness, hooted with laughter, and stood up. Her black spandex mini hugged her butt and made a virtue of plump but curvaceous legs lengthened by her platform pumps. Her low-cut white tee revealed a great deal of her other ample assets. “I just love this detecting business. How come you guys never take me along on none of your cases? I bet I could detect real good.”
“ ’Cause you’re way too fine to go poking your nose into trouble.” Hinkle stood up, slid the photos he’d been looking at back into a manila envelope, and crossed the well-worn linoleum floor to hand the envelope to Mac. The three of them shared a basic two-room suite outfitted with a single telephone line, a black vinyl couch, and a trio of ancient wooden desks, one of which was positioned in the small reception area and belonged to Rawanda. It was located on the second floor of a World War II–era office building not far from Mac’s house. The building wasn’t exactly Trump Tower, but it was affordable even when private-eye pickings were slim, as they usually were in the summer, when all sensible residents left Charleston for cooler environs and the city was aswarm with tourists. Considering the uncertain nature of the business, affordable, in Mac’s opinion, was key.
“You going to take these over to Mrs. Edwards to
day?” Hinkle asked, nodding at the envelope.
Rawanda came around the desk to slip her arms around Hinkle’s waist, and he reciprocated. They made a good-looking pair, Mac observed absently, with Hinkle tall and slim and dapper in a pale seersucker suit and Rawanda all curvy and sexy in her poured-on clothes, but their association, which he had not foreseen when he had hired Rawanda, was probably not going to be good for business in the long term. When the breakup came, as it inevitably would—he was readier to believe in the tooth fairy than in the long-term success of male-female couplings—the fallout was going to be bad. Rawanda, he had already learned, did not do things by halves.
Ah, well, that was a worry to be saved for another day, along with a host of others.
“Monday. Mrs. Edwards is out of town for the weekend.”
Mac walked around his desk and stowed the envelope in the bottom drawer, which he locked, pocketing the key. Josephine, who’d been stretched out in the knee space beneath the desk, turned onto her back, waving her tiny paws at him. He eyed her askance. He had already learned that Josephine, like most females, tended to smile the sweetest right before she bit him in the ass. Figuratively speaking, of course.
“She should be real happy. We got the goods on Edwards. Big time.” Hinkle was smiling down at Rawanda as he spoke.
Rawanda batted her eyelashes at him. “You-all ever thought about trying to sell them pictures back to Mr. Edwards? If I were him, I’d sure-nuff pay to keep anyone from seeing me down on my hands and knees with . . .”
“That’s called blackmail, sugar,” Hinkle interrupted. “It’s a crime.”
“Oh.” Rawanda batted her lashes some more. “We sure don’t want to commit no crime.”
Mac, mentally rolling his eyes, interrupted before the billing and cooing made him lose the doughnut he’d eaten for breakfast.
“Okay, gang, I’m out of here. Hinkle, don’t forget you’re on the third shift at that Hanes warehouse down in the Battery tonight. You be sure and keep your eye out for anybody pilfering panties.”
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