by James, David
He followed me over to my kitchen counter where I had carelessly flung my handbag from the night before. I punched some buttons on my phone.
“Eight forty-five P.M. Is Cathy in some sort of trouble?”
“Do you recall what she said to you? Exactly.”
“Exactly? That would be difficult.”
“How’s that, Amanda?”
“Good, you’re calling me Amanda.”
“That’s your name, as I recall. Plus, calling you Miss Thorne makes me sound like a detective with a big moustache from a British mystery series.”
“Then continue to call me Amanda and I will continue to call you Ken.”
“I’ve been working hard on this case. Could we get back to Cathy Paige?”
“It was difficult to get everything she said because her cell phone kept going in and out. Let’s see, she said she was up at Pappy and Harriet’s . . . something about Doc she was looking into . . . oh, she needed to clear her name . . . and oh shit, this is important . . . she doesn’t have her electronic key . . . she said it’s missing . . . or that she lost it. I think that was it.”
“Hmm,” Detective Becker mumbled as he wrote in his little notebook. Yes, just like a TV detective, he wrote in a little notebook that flipped over at the top. So cute.
“Okay, Ken. Now I’m getting a sense Cathy Paige has become a real suspect in this case after something she did last night.”
“She’s not a suspect anymore, Amanda.”
“And why is that?”
“She was found dead this morning. Poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” I exclaimed. I just couldn’t believe it. Two in a row . . . It began to actually dawn on me that what Detective Becker said to me before was absolutely correct: The culprit in this case wasn’t fooling around. Up until now, I had treated this whole matter like it was some kind of game. Yes, someone got killed, but it must have been some kind of fluke. Doc got croaked by mistake. Maybe the poison wasn’t intended for him. Maybe he drank it by mistake. Maybe this was all a bad dream. People didn’t get murdered in Palm Springs. Yes, they killed themselves driving their cars into palm trees, or drove off cliffs and plunged into deep canyons, or drank a vat of martinis and fell into pools and drowned, but people didn’t get intentionally killed here. It couldn’t happen in a city this small.
A thought sprang to my mind.
“Ken, did you talk with Mary Dodge yet? Can she account for her whereabouts last night?”
“I did. She was drunk and passed out.”
“You’re joking!”
“Nope. I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”
“I won’t tell a soul.”
As I said this, I knew it was a lie. Alex would soon know. But it occurred to me that I could use my feminine wiles to get information from Becker. Plus, it couldn’t hurt. I was really beginning to like him. He was sexy. Carried a gun. Had a nice, firm ass under those tailored trousers of his. And oh, those ice-blue eyes of his. The Siberian husky thing. They actually sparkled, and when he looked at you with those great blue eyes, it was like he was peering inside of you, like he knew secrets you would never tell anyone. Yet he would keep quiet . . . much more than I could guarantee.
“She was drunk?”
“Four martinis.”
“Four? From what I heard that would be an aperitif for her.”
“So she’s a boozer?”
“All Realtors are.”
Becker looked surprised.
“You’re not a very good detective if you didn’t know that, Ken,” I said, using his first name, I noticed more and more—dropping the Detective part. “It’s the pressure. Buying a home is, for most people, the biggest purchase they will ever make. So people are on pins and needles all the time. Sellers, buyers. They get into fights all the time and you have to referee them. Plus, it’s the hours. You work all week long, weekends, you get calls all hours of the night from clients up in arms about something. You have no life.”
“Does that mean I don’t get a date?”
“That, I’ll make time for,” I said with a sly wink. Hey, I wanted information and I wanted to have our first date. Two birds with one stone.
“So you don’t remember anything else that Cathy said when she called last night?”
“No, I think that’s about it. If I remember anything else, I’ll call you.”
“Okay, I have to get going now. Lots of people to talk to. Bye,” he called as he turned and walked down my front sidewalk, dodging the construction debris Edwin had left lying all over it. “Oh, and about that date tonight? We’re still on for seven-thirty.”
“I’ll be ready,” I replied. And, indeed, I would be. “Dressed to kill.” Oops, unfortunate phrase.
CHAPTER 14
Is That a Glock in Your Pocket or Are You Just Happy to See Me?
It took me the better part of the day to figure out what to wear to dinner with Ken. If I dressed too suggestive, he’d think I was a slut. On the other hand, too conservative and he’d think I was playing hard to get. Or worse, that I was frigid. Or a prude.
Ken was a very good dresser. Period. And the fact that he was a homicide detective and a good dresser made him rarer than a sincere compliment at an Academy Awards party. I had to be sexy, but smart and sophisticated at the same time. And nothing to catch on my skirt, dress, blouse . . . or shoes. No buckles on the shoes. I eventually settled on a white drapey Lycra Norma Kamali diaper dress with spaghetti straps and wafer-thin white sandals. Big, dangly gold hoop earrings. Sophisticated with just a whisper of slut. Perfect. Then I waited.
I heard his car pull up in my driveway. His choice of a car was good: a classic, 1965 black Lincoln Continental with the suicide doors. Like Alex’s cars, it was polished to perfection. I was going to like this guy. After peeking through the blinds, I raced back down the hall from the guest bedroom to the living room so he wouldn’t know I was spying on him as he drove up.
Through the side windows on each side of the front door, I could see him pushing the doorbell and waiting. Of course, like everything in my house, the doorbell didn’t work. I saw him repeat his efforts. Then came the knock. His just-hairy-enough knuckles knocking on my door.
“Oh, Ken, I didn’t hear you drive up,” I said coyly.
“Maybe you didn’t hear because you were too busy peeking through the blinds in your guest bedroom.”
I turned redder than a snapper filet. “Boy, you don’t miss a thing, do you?”
“I wouldn’t be any good at my job if I did. Are you ready?”
“Sure,” I answered, grabbing my purse and standing at the door, waiting for Ken to open it for me. And like a gentleman, he did.
He took me to my favorite restaurant: Pesca’s. After we ordered, he sat next to me at a table for four. Not across from me. Next to me. Romantic. Alex used to do the same thing. He looked deeply into my face, making me blush. I, as usual, broke the silence.
“So tell me about the case. Are you going to pounce on Mary Dodge any minute? Kick her office door down and spray her with a storm of lead from your AK-47?
“I can’t talk about the case.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’ve told you everything I’ve found out.”
“You should, Amanda. That’s your role. You’re a citizen. I’m a detective. My role is to listen to what citizens have to say and keep my own mouth shut.”
“Oh, plllleeeaaassse? Will it help if I whine a lot?”
“Nope.”
“How about if I promise to share my scallops with you?”
“Nope, not a word until the grand jury reveals its verdict. How do you know you’re getting the scallops? You haven’t even opened your menu.”
“I looked at the menu online this afternoon. It saves time.”
“Are you in a hurry?” he asked playfully, catching me off guard.
“Not tonight. I have all the time in the world.”
“So do I,” he responded, flashing me a slightly suggestive smile.
Suggestive not in an o
vert, sexual way. Suggestive in the way that he liked me more than a little. This guy was a gentleman, a quality I liked, unless I was horny and had three glasses of wine in me, which was my plan for the evening.
Uncomfortable, I shifted the conversation back to the case. (Why did I do such things when I was shy?)
“So how can you have dinner with me when I’m involved in your case?”
“You’re not a party of interest.”
I let out a big sigh or relief. “That’s nice to know.”
“But I am interested in you.”
“Is that why you have that bulge in your pocket?”
(Shit, why did I get so familiar—and vulgar—so soon? I guess the cocktail was really starting to work. I’m really not that kind of girl, but when I feel people getting close to me, instead of slyly seducing them, why do I pull the rug out from under them? )
“That’s a gun.”
“Nooo. Are you carrying a gun right now?”
“I was just kidding. I’m not carrying right now. There’s one in my car right now, though. In a gun safe.”
“Are you expecting trouble tonight?” Good, Amanda, be coy.
“Nope. Unless you want to make it.”
“Just a little. Oleander.”
“Oleander?”
“Yes, oleander. Doc was poisoned by it.”
“And how did you know that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Good sources too. Regina Bell?”
“How did you know, Ken?”
“I searched your neighbors on one of our databases. I know she knows everything and everyone.”
“You searched me on the Internet?”
“Part of my job. Remember, you were a suspect until recently.”
“Until recently? Am I off the list?”
“Pretty much.”
“So you believe me that I had nothing to do with Cathy’s death last night?”
“Not just believe. I have proof. I know where your cell phone was last night . . . over at Alex’s.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I had the cell phone company triangulate your phone last night.”
“Triangulate?”
“Taking the reading from several cell-phone tower locations.”
I leaned forward into the candlelight. “You’re impressing the hell out of me. Go on. Is this while I was talking to Cathy last night . . . during her call?”
“No, your cell phone sends a ping every 15 minutes. . . that’s how a call to your phone knows where to go. The tower receives a ping that says Amanda is nearest this cell phone tower . . . send any calls to here. That’s how rescue personnel can sometimes find people . . . if the accident victim leaves his or her cell phone on and it has a good signal. They triangulate the signals from three towers, and find the intersection of three signal strengths.”
“So you knew I was at my ex-husband’s last night?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Mr. Smarty Detective. What if I went over to Alex’s house, left my cell phone there, and drove to wherever Cathy was and poisoned her?”
Ken took a sip of the wine that had been brought to the table by the waiter and gave it a thumbs-up. “It’s possible, but you’re a Realtor.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, it’s not just that you’re a Realtor, but you’re a good one. You always have your cell phone with you. You would have taken it with you if you left your ex-husband’s house. It’s a strong habit all good agents have.”
I took a drink as well. “Ken, nothing happened at my husband’s—ex-husband’s—last night.”
“I know that,” Ken said.
“What did you do, plant a bug in my tampon?”
“Tracking device. Accurate to twenty feet.”
“So it doesn’t bother you that I was at Alex’s?”
“No, why should it?”
“Because we were once married.”
“And you’re still both in love with each other.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I know I’m right.”
“And that doesn’t bother you, Ken?”
“Not at all.”
“Why’s that?”
“Two reasons. Reason number one: He’s gay.”
“And the second?”
“I know I can give you enough reasons to stay interested in me.”
“Let’s toast to that,” I said, lifting my wineglass to clink.
And that’s the way the rest of the evening went. Me trying to get information, him steadfastly refusing, and the both of us flirting shamelessly.
It was a perfect evening. I hadn’t knocked the table over; I hadn’t fallen. The restaurant hadn’t gone up in flames. Everything was going fine. Almost.
Ken reached for his glass of red wine and knocked it over, the wine running like a lahar toward my white dress. A quick thinker, he reached under the table and pulled up the overhanging tablecloth, sopping up the spill just in the nick of time.
“There. Disaster averted.”
I looked at him with a strained smile on my face.
“That wasn’t the tablecloth. That was my dress.”
Ken took me home, apologizing profusely for destroying my Norma Kamali while I chalked it up to another manifestation of Eagle Feather’s curse. I did my best to make him feel better. When we got back to my house, I invited him in for a drink, showed him where the liquor was, then made a quick change from my poor, sad dress and into a linen jumpsuit.
We drank a little, listened to music (supplied by none other than Alex: Buddha Bar), and then began making out. Before long we were in bed. But we didn’t make love as I had hoped. But Ken made me soon forget that. He wrapped his arms around me, making me feel safe and secure, tucked inside the curve of his body. It was nice to feel that way again.
CHAPTER 15
Unearthing a Dirty Little Secret
After I ate a wonderful breakfast that Ken cooked before I was up, I showered with him, dressed, then we parted for the time being. I went into the office and found Alex viewing properties on his laptop.
“Anything interesting?” I asked, throwing down my purse and coming around to see what he was looking at.
“As a matter of fact, I did find something of great interest.”
“That listing?” I said, grimacing at seeing 932 Camino Norte on his screen. “Way overpriced, plus it has a lot of termite damage.”
“Not that,” Alex answered, clicking on a folder on his desktop. “This.”
“It’s a hedge. So what?”
“Take a closer look,” he instructed me.
I squinted at the hedge, trying to see something significant. “Other than the fact that it looks like it was trimmed by a gardener with cataracts, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You just put your finger on the what’s wrong.”
“That gardeners with cataracts shouldn’t cut hedges? Uh, don’t hire gardeners who work at night? Uh, gardeners with Parkinson’s shouldn’t be given hedge trimmers or defuse bombs? Help me, I’m dying here.”
“This hedge belongs to Mary Dodge.”
“So?”
“It’s oleander.”
“No shit! When did you take this picture?”
“This morning. I was taking pictures at our new listing on Stevens Road, and I was driving by when I saw Mary’s hedge. I stopped cold in my tracks.”
“So Mary could have cut down part of the hedge to make the poison for Doc and she had the gardeners cover it up by trimming it to make it look like it was a natural dip in the hedge.”
“Look at this,” he said, pointing to the portion of the hedge that looked like a tooth missing from a perfect mouth. “The problem is, the rest of the hedge is the same height all the way around, but right here, a portion is missing.”
“This is so exciting, Alex. I mean it, I am really charged up
. It’s like the way things used to be,” I said, and almost as soon as I had said it, I knew it was wrong. Stop living in the past, Amanda. Move on.
“The excitement doesn’t have to stop, Amanda. Let’s have fun with this.”
“You mean you’re not scared?”
“Have you ever known me to be afraid of anything?”
“Christian fundamentalists.”
“I wore my TOO MANY RIGHT-WING CHRISTIAN FUNDAMENTALISTS, TOO FEW LIONS T-shirt when we drove through the South.”
“I mean a different kind of bravery.”
“Yeah, but other than that I have no fear.”
“Furbies,” I said, naming one of Alex’s other mortal fears. Alex never trusted people who dressed up as big, furry animals—especially for sexual reasons. Come to think of it, these people creeped me out. Even weirder was the fact that I actually knew that people had such fetishes. I chalked it up to living with a soon-to-be gay man—there was little gay men didn’t know about. Reason number 543 for marrying Alex: Sex with him was wild.
“So you really want to pursue this thing?” I asked.
“Absolutely. I could use a little excitement in my life,” Alex replied.
“How about really adding a touch of spice?” I asked, almost giggling with glee.
“What are you thinking?” Alex asked.
“How about we break into Mary Dodge’s office and do a little snooping? It would be so easy and they’d never know.”
“Count me in. There’s just something I have to do first.”
“And what’s that?”
“Get my ninja outfit back from the cleaners.”
CHAPTER 16
Cream Rises to the Top . . . But So Do Turds
We decided to visit the queen herself first. Our primary objective was to see if we could get a better bead on Mary Dodge, and secondly, we wanted to scope out the door locks and alarm system.
As far as Palm Springs real estate was concerned, Mary Dodge, founder and President of Dodge & Dodge Realty was a star. She got the best listings from the best neighborhoods. She drove the right cars. She wore the right clothes. She got face lifts from the right surgeons. She even lived in the right house: Cary Grant’s Palm Springs getaway. She was tall and statuesque. And she had a full head of sexy brunette hair, which she wore long. And it bounced in all the right places.