Another Day, Another Dali

by Sandra Orchard

  I clutched his arm and leaned in close as I pretended to pick a stone from my shoe. I lowered my voice. “Your target here yet?” I asked, ignoring the appealing woodsy scent that wafted from his warm skin.

  “One of them.” He half turned his head, and his lips brushed my cheek.

  I jerked back, and Tanner gave me a sardonic look before adding, “Nine o’clock.”

  I focused on making a casual visual sweep of the area, not reacting as my gaze noted the well-dressed Russian with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, mustache, and beard.

  “Don’t think you won’t pay for this wardrobe malfunction,” I said under my breath to Tanner, then turned to smile at the boatman who’d just secured a picnic basket aboard our paddleboat.

  “Never doubted it for a second.”

  The boatman handed us each a life jacket. “Your boat is ready.”

  Tanner nodded, then patted my hand still clutching his arm. “Shall we?”

  Tanner stepped into the boat first, then extended his hand to help me.

  “Wait!” I toed off my shoes and, turning away from him, discreetly shimmied off my pantyhose.

  “Uh . . . what are you doing?”

  “Do you have any idea how much these things cost?” I carefully stuffed them into my clutch, but one look at my toes convinced me to slip the shoes back on. “Guaranteed those babies would’ve run the second I sat down, and they were my last decent pair.”

  He erupted in a fresh bout of laughter. But as I stepped over the side of the boat, his gaze snagged on my bare legs and his laughter abruptly stopped.

  I tugged my wrap tighter around my shoulders against a sudden shiver that didn’t have much to do with the breeze dancing off the water.

  “You going to be warm enough?” Tanner asked, steering the boat away from the dock.

  “I’m good.” If I ignored the unnerving feeling that I’d just stepped into Édouard Manet’s Boating painting. The only thing missing was a boater hat for Tanner. I lifted the camera from around his neck and aimed it his way. “I don’t see how you plan to pretend to take pictures of me and get your target in your sights when I’m sitting right beside you.”

  He steered left, bringing the boat behind a small island.

  “Wait,” I whispered and pretended to focus on him when I was really zooming in on his target at the patio table. I snapped half a dozen pictures as Tanner grinned crazily. “Got it.” I lowered the camera to my lap and brought the pictures back up on the viewing screen for him to see.

  “Wow, talk about handsome, huh?” Tanner said, and I did a double take of the target, who reminded me of Alan Rickman as the bad guy in Die Hard. “Not him, silly,” Tanner said, jostling my shoulder. “Me.”

  “Hah,” I said. “Just paddle.”

  In truth, Tanner had the warmest brown eyes and a killer dimple that made most girls go weak in the knees.

  Good thing I wasn’t most girls.

  “Robert Downey Jr?”

  “Huh?”

  “My lookalike. You know, from”—he deepened his voice—“The Avengers.”

  I smacked my hand to my forehead. “Of course! Anyone with two eyes could see it—you wish.”

  He shrugged good-naturedly, speeding the boat to the next island. “Target’s contact is due in ten minutes, so that’ll give us enough time to set up our picnic in the gazebo on the island. I figured from there, I can take pictures of you from all kinds of angles.”

  I shook my head. “You better not let my mother hear you talking like that.”

  He laughed.

  Yeah, who was I kidding? Mom would totally miss the “for work” part and be so thrilled to hear I was out on a date that she wouldn’t care what kind of pictures he was taking.

  Tanner moored the boat to the island and climbed out. “Hand me the basket first, then I’ll help you out.”

  My stomach grumbled as I handed him the basket and the delicious aroma of fried chicken swirled past. I scrambled out before Tanner had time to lower the basket. His hand swallowed mine, and he tugged me toward the gazebo.

  “I hope we’re going to get a chance to eat this supper,” I said. “I’m starving.”

  Tanner pulled a blanket from the basket and, spreading it on the floor of the gazebo, squinted toward the Boathouse. “We can start eating. No sign of the target’s contact yet.”

  I sank onto the blanket, my legs tucked under me as ladylike as I could manage in a cocktail dress, and helped Tanner pull out the food containers. In addition to fried chicken, there was potato salad, coleslaw, a fancy quinoa dish, warm rolls, and . . . “Mmm, brownies.”

  “Ordered those just for you.”

  “This sure beats the last surveillance we did.”

  “I don’t know. What’s not to like about a hot, stuffy car, bologna sandwiches, and cold coffee?”

  “Hmm.” I savored a bite of brownie. “At least I didn’t have to wear a dress.”

  “You don’t like wearing dresses?”

  I shrugged.

  “They look good on you.”

  “Is that a compliment?” I fanned my face as if I were going to faint.

  Tanner rolled his eyes. “Thank you is the correct response, Jones.”

  He sprang up and started snapping pictures of me. “Stand by the tree over there and fling your hair around.”

  “Fling my hair around?”

  “You know. Act like we’re being silly imitating a professional photo shoot.”

  I glanced toward the Boathouse. Tanner’s target stood and extended a hand to a hefty man in a pinstriped business suit. I sashayed to a better position for Tanner to focus on them while appearing to photograph me. “Who’s the target?” I asked.

  “A player in a case I’m working on,” he said in his usual evasive way.

  I flipped my hair off my shoulder and flung back my head like a prima donna model. “What would you think if you asked me about a case I was working on, and I gave you that kind of cagey answer?”

  He stopped snapping pictures and shot me a confused look. Not surprising since he’d been my field-training agent. It’d probably never occurred to him that one day I might stop discussing my cases with him. “I’m sorry.” He resumed snapping. “It’s been so ingrained in me to not discuss cases outside the office that I answer like that without thinking.”

  “So who is he?”

  “A player in a case I’m working on,” he repeated, amusement in his voice this time.

  I stuck out my tongue at him.

  “No, I’m sorry. It really is a sensitive case.” He circled around me, taking photos from every angle, probably to check out the rest of the patrons in the area, some of whom were no doubt his target’s bodyguards. “Okay, I think I have plenty of shots. We can finish the picnic now.”

  We tucked into the chicken and salads as Tanner regaled me with outrageous stories about some of the stakeouts he’d been on. I was having so much fun that, when my cell phone rang, I ignored it.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” Tanner asked.

  “It can go to voice mail.”

  “What if it’s important?”

  Clearly, the idea of ignoring a phone call was a foreign concept to Tanner.

  I retrieved my phone from my purse and glanced at the name on the screen. “Hey, Nate, what’s up?”

  Tanner’s expression soured.

  I grinned and winked at him before turning away and lowering the phone’s volume so he wouldn’t overhear.

  “Randy wants to meet us in an hour to introduce us to the forger he found. Will that work for you?”

  “One sec.” I covered the phone and turned to Tanner. “Are we just about done here?”

  Tanner squinted in the direction of his target. “Might look suspicious if we leave before sunset.”

  “I kind of need to use the bathroom anyway.”

  Tanner started tossing dishes into the basket. “I can take you home. Wouldn’t want your mother to accuse me of messing up your soci
al life.”

  I gave him an exasperated look. Ever since the blustery February day Tanner found Nate peering in my kitchen window and mistook him for a stalker, just the mention of Nate’s name seemed to get under Tanner’s skin.

  “I can be ready in about forty-five minutes,” I said to Nate and clicked off.

  “Big date?” Tanner stuffed the blanket into the basket.

  I shrugged. “You know what they say about all work and no play . . .” After all, I couldn’t tell him I was going undercover with Nate. He’d have a conniption. Not to mention that if he figured out I’d already fooled him with my Sara Thompson imitation, he might assume Nate and I had had a good laugh over it, and nothing could be further from the truth. Then again, considering he was way less forthcoming about his own cases, I shouldn’t feel guilty about keeping one from him.

  “I don’t know.” He put the basket in the boat then offered me a hand. “I thought this was fun. Didn’t you?” He jostled the boat and I lost my balance.

  “Ahh!” Cold water soaked my foot as the mucky bottom ate my shoe.

  Tanner’s gaze shot to the restaurant’s patio patrons looking our way. “Shh.” He hauled me back on shore.

  “My shoe!”

  He fished my pump out of the muck as I wrung the water from the hem of my dress. “I’m sorry.” He rinsed the shoe clean, then knelt at my feet and slipped it back on my foot.

  I couldn’t help but giggle at the fairytale ending to our date.

  A few minutes later, we neared the shore in the paddleboat and I glanced toward his target, still sitting on the patio. “Are you sure you’re okay to leave?”

  He tossed the rope to the boatman on the dock, then hopped out and reached for my hand. “Your wish is my command.” He gallantly brought my hand to his lips as he drew me out of the boat.

  My heart skipped a beat. “You’re an idiot,” I said, trying to tug my hand away.

  He pressed his palm to his chest. “You wound me.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” I bit down on a grin. “Let me slip into the restroom. Might counter anyone’s suspicions about why we came in before the sunset.”

  Clapping heels rushed up behind me, and a “Serena!” squeal practically ruptured my eardrum.

  Oh no. I glanced at Tanner, whose gaze jumped to his target. Could we have been any more conspicuous?

  8

  My cousin squeezed my arm and herded me into the Boathouse’s restroom. “You’ve been holding out on us!” She backed up, clasping my hands and spreading my arms as she admired my dress. “Look at you. Who’s the guy? Your mother was just over yesterday lamenting that the closest thing you’ve had to a date is watching movies with your super. Who is Bradley Cooper–hot, by the way.”

  Pretty sure half the restaurant could hear, I shushed her with, “He’s a colleague. It’s not a date.”

  “Ha! You tell yourself whatever you need to, girl, but I saw the way he looked at you.”

  I mentally rolled my eyes. Yes, Tanner could be really good at role-playing when he needed to be.

  This was so not good. April was a motormouth, and if I admitted I was on an undercover op, she’d go out and blab it to her date and who knew who might overhear. But if I let her think this was really a date, she’d tell my aunt, who’d tell my mom, who’d have wedding invitations ordered by Friday. If she didn’t have a stroke first over the fact that he was in law enforcement. “Okay, yes, it’s a date, but please don’t tell your mother. Or mine. I’d like . . . time.”

  “Yee,” she squealed. “Of course, of course. I understand.” She squeezed my arm again. “I’m so happy for you.” She twirled out of the bathroom like the giddy teen she was, and I was pretty sure the phone lines to my parents’ house would be humming tonight.

  I flushed a toilet without using it and emerged from the restroom to find Tanner grinning at me over April’s head as she hugged his middle.

  He extricated himself from her arms, said something I couldn’t hear, then strode my way and splayed his hand across the middle of my back as if he was my boyfriend.

  “Sorry about April,” I whispered as warmth spread through me. Tanner was a little too good at role-playing sometimes.

  “It’s all good.” His hand moved up to give my neck a squeeze. “Honeybunch.”

  I smacked him.

  His chuckle resonated through me as we turned onto the walkway. It meandered through a colorful courtyard decorated with a variety of plants and sculptures, and he took his time twining me through it en route to his truck, even though we were already out of sight of his target.

  We drove to my place in silence, and the instant Tanner pulled alongside my building next to my metal staircase, I flung open the door before he got it into his head to walk me to my apartment and . . . hang around until Nate arrived. “Thanks, it was fun!”

  I scurried up the stairs with a wave and launched through my kitchen door before registering it wasn’t locked.

  “There you are.” Aunt Martha sat at my kitchen table with Harold purring on her lap, a steaming cup of tea on her place mat. “Ooh, look at you. Were you on a date?” Her gaze slid down my dress to the damp hem and then slanted to the stove’s digital clock. “I guess it didn’t go well.”

  “A small surveillance mishap. And I’m afraid I’m heading right back out again.”

  “Righto, I just stopped by because I thought you might want to hear what I found out about Gladys’s missing painting.”

  I blinked. “You have information for me?” I’d assumed she’d come to grill me.

  Aunt Martha grinned. “I’m not just another pretty face.”

  A knock at the hall door interrupted us before she could start. I hurried across the kitchen to the entrance and peeked out the peephole. Nate. I opened the door.

  “Whoa,” he said. “I mean, wow! You look stunning, but it’s Sara—”

  I gave my head a sideways jerk toward the kitchen to alert him to Aunt Martha’s presence.

  Oblivious, he went on. “—who’s supposed to show up at the meeting.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her,” I interjected and jerked my head more urgently in Aunt Martha’s direction.

  She trundled to the doorway with Harold nuzzled against her neck. “Did Randy tell you he ran into Serena and me at the MAC today?”

  Nate’s gaze zipped back to mine, looking a tad panicked. “Did he recognize you?” he whispered.

  “I introduced them. He took quite a shine to her too.” Aunt Martha went on in that singsong, the-early-bird-gets-the-worm voice, clearly trying to provoke Nate to stake his claim or risk losing it to his brother, when all Nate cared about was whether I’d blown my cover.

  Aunt Martha shook her head. “Sometimes men are thicker than cheese,” she muttered into Harold’s fur.

  “You free tonight?” Nate suddenly asked, as if he didn’t already have plans with my alter ego.

  I glanced at Aunt Martha.

  “I’m not staying,” she blurted. “Goodness! Who am I to stand in the way of a real date? Go. Go!” She made a shooing motion with her hands as if she expected me to leave on the spot. Except I needed at least five minutes of privacy to bring the actual woman Nate wanted to take out, back to life.

  “Oh, I thought I’d lost this.” Aunt Martha caught up the poncho I’d hooked on the closet’s doorknob when I got home last night.

  I mentally inventoried my wardrobe for an alternative hippy-like option and, recalling none, I blurted, “Could I borrow it?”

  “Of course. You can keep it, if you’d like.”

  I shrugged noncommittally. “I just thought it might be fun to try it out.”

  “Good save,” Nate whispered.

  I stood, holding open the door, expecting Aunt Martha to leave. Instead, she dug around in her purse, then victoriously held out a note.

  “What’s this?”

  “What I’ve learned so far about your suspects.”

  “My sus—” Taking the list that cataloged more tha
n half my suspects—namely, Gladys’s children and housekeeper—I pressed my lips together.

  “I know. I know,” Aunt Martha went on. “You’re not supposed to talk about it. That’s why I grilled Ida and went from there.” Aunt Martha tapped the paper. “For instance, did you know Pete has cash flow problems because he overextended himself on a real estate deal?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Oh, well, what about Gladys’s son-in-law? Did you know he bought a classic 1964 Shelby Mustang in mint condition?”

  “He’s CFO of the bank. I’m sure he can afford it.”

  “Do you know what they’re worth?” Aunt Martha’s voice rattled the windows. “If he had that kind of coin, why’d he cancel their cruise to the Caribbean? That’s all his wife has complained about at the hairdresser’s for the past month or more.”

  Aunt Martha went to a Central West End hairdresser for a wash and set every Friday, and I was beginning to think it was a prime location to plant a confidential informant. A hairdresser was privy to more secrets than a therapist.

  Nate still stood at the door. “How much time do you need to get ready?”

  “Oh dear,” Aunt Martha fussed. “Don’t let me hold you up.” She grabbed the poncho, must’ve remembered my request to borrow it, and dropped it again, then bustled out.

  Nate said good-bye to her, then stepped inside. “You might want to check over the poncho. Make sure she didn’t plant a GPS tracker in it or something.”

  I chuckled.

  “You laugh, but I wouldn’t put it past her. She takes her sleuthing very seriously.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t own a GPS transmitter.”

  Nate’s eyebrow lifted in a skeptical arch.

  “Okay, come to think of it, Dad mentioned seeing her browsing an online spy shop last week.” I checked the pockets. “They’re empty. Where does Randy want to meet?”

  “His apartment in Soulard.”

  “Yeah that fits.” Soulard was historically the French district and one of the oldest St. Louis neighborhoods. “Randy looks like the type who’d want to live close to all those blues and jazz bars.” My cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen. Matt Speers. “I need to take this. Have a seat on the couch, and I’ll be ready to go in ten minutes.” I hurried to the bedroom and put Matt on speakerphone as I changed into my “Sara” getup.