Wave Good-Bye

by Lila Dare

  Sam chirped and fluttered around happily as I ran the vacuum cleaner. Buying him was the smartest thing I’d done all month. I stopped my work every so often to chat with him. Angling his head so he could see me with his good eye, he took in all my hustle and bustle. When I talked, he paid careful attention. Not only was he a cheerful sort of guy, but he was also a great listener.

  As I straightened the apartment and folded clothes, I tried to compartmentalize my feelings. There was no reason to get too upset. Things had happened so fast! Mom hadn’t had the chance to take in all the curve balls that had been thrown her way. Why, Walter had only recently asked my mother for her hand! She hadn’t even shared the news with Alice Rose yet.

  Who knew what would happen next? Maybe the historic preservations proposal wouldn’t go through. Maybe the insurance adjuster would pay for mold remediation. They’d done that at other businesses, or so Eddy had assured us. I was certain that Marty would beg me to move in with him up in Washington. Then I’d have my choice of working here or in the big city. Marsh would quickly figure out who killed Lisa Butterworth. Once he did, Wynn wouldn’t have any reason to hang around St. Elizabeth.

  I had absolutely no reason to worry about anything. Anything at all!

  At least, that’s what I told myself.

  And I was wrong, wrong, and wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I HAD BEEN LUCKY TO GET RESERVATIONS AT ENCHANTÉ for five thirty. The person on the other end of the phone had explained they were booked solid for anything later. “Fortunately for you, we have this one cancellation,” he said in a heavy accent, so that the word “this” came out “zese.”

  This surprised me since it was a Tuesday night, and not the weekend. However, I didn’t mind eating early. I was that excited about finally getting to see the place for myself. After rearranging all the books in my bookshelf into alphabetical order, I showered, blew my hair dry, and went all-out on the makeup. Inspired by Lisa’s bushy lashes, I even glued on false eyelashes.

  When I bragged to Vonda that I’d wrangled a reservation, she had stopped by and dropped off a slinky black dress with a high, straight neckline and a low plunging back. “Doesn’t work for me, but you’ll look great in it.”

  That same afternoon I found a beautiful pair of black high heels on sale at DSW. Trying them on, I admired the way they lifted my calves. The shoes really complemented the sophisticated style of the outfit. Althea had given me a pair of dangly earrings with jet-black beads for my birthday. I hadn’t had anything to wear them with, but when I put them on and looked at the finished outfit in my full-length mirror, the result was pretty spectacular, even if I do say so myself.

  At five, I lit a couple of nice Yankee Candles I’d been saving and turned the lights down low. Plugging my iPod into the speaker system, I selected a Lionel Richie album and adjusted the sound so it was soft and sexy, but not too loud.

  I planned to read the latest book in the Kiki Lowenstein series, but it seemed impossible for me to sit still. Time seemed to drag. I called Marty’s cell, but it went immediately to voice mail. Five thirty, six, six thirty, seven, seven thirty. I phoned Enchanté every half hour and explained my date had been unavoidably delayed. My excuses became more elaborate with each call—and I’ll admit, I also got a little more angry with Marty. If he couldn’t make it, he could at least call me, couldn’t he? He knew what time our reservation was. I’d text messaged him last week and again this morning.

  The sun had long gone down, and it was past time for Sam to get some shut eye, singular. I put more ointment on his wound, which seemed to be healing nicely. I changed his water, blew off the husks of the seeds he’d eaten, and scratched him a bit around the neck before covering his cage with an old bedsheet for the night.

  As much as I tried to get involved in Kiki Lowenstein’s life, I couldn’t concentrate. Maybe it was because I felt a slow burn as I wondered where Marty was. By seven forty-five I figured I better call the restaurant and cancel. The maître d’ sounded a bit miffed, but what could I do? I knew I shouldn’t be so disappointed, but I was. This had happened twice before with Marty. He’d gotten engrossed in working on a story and hadn’t left DC until late. Then he’d be on the phone the whole way here as he continued his investigating. His job allowed him to work flexible hours, but he never seemed to take any time off. Maybe once I moved in with him, we could work out reasonable limits.

  “That’s the way this career is,” he explained with a cheerful shrug. “The news happens when the news happens.”

  Well, yes, but everyone needed a break now and again. “Work is important,” I said, “but people matter, too.”

  “The people in my life understand the demands on my time,” he said, leaving me to wonder who he was talking about besides me.

  Over my reasonable internal debate, I could hear Althea’s voice, telling me what a fool I was. But she was wrong. It wasn’t that Marty wasn’t interested. He was distracted, that’s all. And up until the last few months, he’d been a pretty good boyfriend. So I’d just have to work extra hard to make him regret being late. We’d have a sexy evening together, a couple of romantic days and nights, and then he’d be eager to put his work aside. If I yelled at him the minute he stepped over the threshold, what was I teaching him? That showing up was bad news!

  Instead, I’d make him happy he came. Once more I made the rounds of my place, adjusting things so everything looked just right.

  I’d read in a women’s magazine that if you sprayed cologne on lightbulbs, they would fill the room with scent. I ran back to my bathroom, retrieved my spray bottle of Pleasures by Estée Lauder and squirted a little on the bulb in the reading lamp next to my sofa.

  As I put the perfume bottle back on the shelf in my bathroom, I heard the drip-drip-drip of water from the showerhead Marty had replaced on his last visit. The old one had sputtered water, and this one was a high-pressure nozzle that put out a lovely stream. I turned the base of the showerhead. And waited. The drip continued. I reached up and jiggled the showerhead. Water ran down my arm.

  There was a knock at the door. I grabbed a hand towel to dry myself and ran to answer it.

  Special Agent John Dillon stood there. He was as shocked as I was. His eyebrows flew up to his hairline. His jaw flapped in the breeze. Finally he said, “Wow. Grace Ann. You’re enough to make a man get religion.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I patted my arm dry.

  “Problem?” he pointed to my elbow.

  “Leak in my shower. I think the showerhead isn’t on right.”

  “You don’t look like you’re dressed to do plumbing.”

  “You sweet talker, you.”

  “I mean, you look fabulous. I mean, terrific. I mean…wow.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Want me to see to the showerhead?”

  Not really, but then I remembered the mold situation in the shop. Maybe I should have him look at it. I sure didn’t need to have my home filled with toxic fungus, too.

  “Sure.”

  I pointed him the right way. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see him giving my place the once-over. Although it’s small, I’ve done a great job of decorating it. When I got my tax refund last year, I splurged on nice furniture. There’s a cinnamon-colored love seat from Pottery Barn positioned across from my door. To the right, near the wall is a large recliner in black. The walls are painted a pale gray, and my coffee table is an old cart I found that had been used in a mill nearby. On the wall over the sofa, I’d hung large metal and plastic molded letters from local signs, random letters that don’t spell anything.

  I made pillows of odds and ends of material in gray, black, and cinnamon. These are scattered on the chair and love seat. Sam’s birdcage sits on top of a low bookshelf I bought at a scratch-and-dent sale at Macy’s. To the left of that is an old-fashioned cupboard, and my TV is inside. There’s no dining room, so guests either pull up a stool and eat at the countertop where my kitchen opens i
nto the living area, or we sit on the love seat.

  “I like what you’ve done here,” he said, as he paused to stare. “Elegant, but not fussy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not so feminine that a guy would feel uncomfortable.”

  I think that was an opening for me to explain about Marty’s visit, but I didn’t. It wasn’t any of Marsh Dillon’s business. He had my phone number and never called. So he obviously wasn’t interested. What I did with Marty shouldn’t matter to Marsh at all.

  “The bathroom is this way.” I pointed through the short hall and he walked past me.

  On the ledge surrounding the claw-footed tub, I’d placed more candles and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne that was chilling. The shower had been an addition to the old tub, a metal rod held up the head and a circular curtain. The effect was romantic but practical.

  “Champagne.” Marsh’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Here’s the problem.” I reached past him to touch the showerhead. Only then did I remember the cut of my dress. This was the first time I’d turned my back to Marsh.

  “Yo-your dress. It’s…backless,” he squeaked.

  “Not entirely. Do you need any tools?” I was sort of enjoying this. I could see beads of perspiration popping out along his forehead.

  “No. Yes. No. Do you have a wrench?”

  “Be right back.”

  I keep a little pink toolbox under my bed. Althea gave it to me as a housewarming gift. I grabbed it and headed for the bathroom.

  Now it was my turn to be shocked. Marsh had removed his shirt. I was staring at a gorgeous six-pack, covered with just enough hair to be tantalizing. My jaw dropped.

  “Didn’t want to get my shirt soaked,” he said with a shrug that caused his pectorals to flex.

  OMG.

  I handed him the toolbox.

  “Pretty cute.”

  I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak. All I was thinking was, “Hurry up, Marty! Hurry!”

  He must have heard me, because the doorbell rang.

  I excused myself from the half-naked man. As I stepped out of the bathroom, I turned for one last look. The backside was every bit as yummy as the front. He rippled from his intercostal muscles all the way up to his shoulder blades. I felt absolutely weak with desire, and thankful that my date had arrived.

  “Hey.” Marty stepped inside and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late. Got tied up. Big story.” He smelled like Axe body wash, spicy and young.

  Marsh walked in, his shirt hanging off one finger. His eyes crinkled with amusement. “The reporter, right?”

  I gave Marsh a withering look.

  Marty narrowed his eyes and said, “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No. All done. I left the shower in good shape for you, Grace Ann,” said Marsh.

  Before I could respond, the lawman swept me into his arms and kissed me on the mouth. If he hadn’t been holding me up, I would have keeled right over. I think I kissed him back, but honestly, all I can remember is the jolt of electricity that traveled up my spine, down my spine, and caused tingles all over.

  “You aren’t planning to leave town are you?” Marsh released me slowly. Good thing because my legs had turned to jelly.

  “N-N-No.”

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow.” Marsh’s smile was impish. “Early.”

  With that, he slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “I’M STARVED. GOT ANYTHING TO EAT?” MARTY rubbed his hands together. He seemed unfazed by Marsh’s behavior.

  I, on the other hand, felt like I’d gone a couple rounds with a stun gun. My knees buckled, and I sank down onto my sofa. “We had dinner reservations at Enchanté. Nearly two hours ago.”

  “Oh. I got busy. How about if you order a pizza? I’ve been eating at fancy restaurants all week. Boy, does that get old.”

  Not for me it doesn’t. I could almost feel the steam coming out of my ears.

  Papa John’s was one phone number I had memorized, so I dialed it, and handed Marty the phone. He ordered a pepperoni and sausage pizza with onions, large, without asking me what I’d like on mine. Since I’m not a big fan of pepperoni or sausage, I frowned.

  “What?” he asked. “Got any beer?” He settled onto the sofa and pulled me close. “You look nice, by the way.”

  “Nice?” I aimed a lot higher than that, but oh well.

  Hadn’t Marty noticed the chemistry between Marsh and me? My lips still burned and every nerve in my body jangled. Marty curled around me, in a warm comfortable way, the crease in his Dockers as sharp and crisp as ever. But Marsh’s buzz still rattled me. If he’d been sitting with me on the sofa, we’d have gone up in flames.

  I gave my head a quick shake to free my thoughts. “I have five Bud Lights, two Coronas from your last visit, and a bottle of champagne on ice.”

  “Great! We can toast my promotion.”

  “Promotion? Cool.” At least I hoped it was.

  “Yes. I proposed—and the bigwigs accepted—writing a feature story about commerce in the wake of the Arab Spring. I want to track how businesses will respond to the new freedoms. It’ll be my first big feature assignment. Might take a year or two to do all the research.”

  “I have my own news, too.”

  He put an arm around me and pulled me close. “I heard. Dead bodies have a way of turning up in your path. Guess the good marshal was here because you’re a person of interest.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A person of interest. It’s all over the wire service.” He planted a kiss on the tip of my nose.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He reached behind my sofa, grabbed his briefcase, and withdrew an iPad. After flipping over the black cover, and flicking his fingers across the screen, he pulled up a story:

  LOCAL POLICE QUESTION PERSON OF INTEREST

  Unnamed sources in the St. Elizabeth Police Department have confirmed that Grace Ann Terhune, of 467 Calhoun Street, has been questioned in connection with the murder of Lisa Butterworth, age 29, of 3111 Park Street, last Friday.

  “Ms. Terhune and Ms. Butterworth had a business disagreement,” said the source.

  Any person with information about the death of Ms. Butterworth on Friday night are asked to contact the local Crime Stoppers at 555-1212.

  * * *

  “WHAT?” I DROPPED THE IPAD ONTO MY LAP LIKE IT was a hot curling iron. “Who? How could they?”

  “You mean they didn’t question you?”

  “Sort of. B-B-But it was my ex-husband, Hank Parker, and once my attorney showed up, and Marsh showed up, they let me go.”

  “Marsh?”

  “That’s what I call Special Agent Dillon.”

  “How much do you know about him, Grace Ann?”

  “Not much.” I paused. I pulled back from Marty to look him in the eye. “Why?

  The doorbell rang and Marty paid for the pizza. As I picked the pepperoni off my slices, he gave me a little background on John Christopher Dillon. Born in St. Charles, Missouri, but he grew up in Stevens Point, Wisconsin. Enlisted in the navy at age eighteen, and soon after became a Navy SEAL. Married Polly Noble, his high school sweetheart, who was two years younger than he, when he turned twenty.

  “A SEAL, can you believe it? The best of the best, the toughest of the tough, and the most deadly killers our nation has ever sent on any mission, anywhere, anytime. Think about how they entered that compound with bin Laden. It was over in seconds. Very little collateral damage. Even after a copter crashed, there wasn’t a hitch. I mean, everything you see in the movies, the SEALs are all that and more. Impressive.” Marty got up and got himself another beer.

  “But Dillon left the SEALs after ten years of service, citing his desire for a job that would keep him stateside. That’s when he joined the Georgia Bureau of Investigation as a marshal,” Marty concluded, but I didn’t hear him. I couldn’t focus. Two words chased each other aro
und and around in my head: He’s married.

  Disappointment washed over me.

  “Dillon has closed more cases than any other marshal. Also considered deadly with a gun. Knows martial arts. Doesn’t suffer fools. Word on the street is he hates your ex with a passion.”

  That brought me back to the here and now. “Hank has that affect on people. He’s the one who took me in for questioning. But being a person of interest wasn’t my big news.”

  “No? What gives?”

  “Um, why don’t you tell me more about your promotion first?”

  He laughed. “It isn’t near as interesting as being named a POI in a murder investigation, but here goes. See, with the Arab Spring and all the uprisings, new businesses are springing—get the pun?—up like crazy in Egypt and the other countries. I want to trace how politics influence the growth of businesses, who starts them, what red tape they have to cut through, and what that means to America. My theory is that commerce is good for peace because people grow accustomed to a better lifestyle.”

  I nodded. That made sense to me. “Is it going to be dangerous? I mean, I assume you’ll have to visit a few of those places.”

  His mouth stopped midchew on another slice and he fought a grin. “Grace Ann, I can’t do this story by visiting the Middle East. I plan to go live there. In Cairo.”

  “Oh. I don’t even own a passport. I thought we might live in DC together.” I felt like the time that Vonda was on a swing and I walked in front of her and she punched me in the gut. I couldn’t breathe. Then it became clear to me—clear and painful—I wasn’t exactly in love with Marty, but I had held on to him like a security blanket. As long as there was Marty, I had a place to go, a way to start over. As long as he lived in DC, I could move in with him, find a job there, and either we would marry or not, but I had an exit plan from my suddenly dreary life.