RAZZLE DAZZLE

by Lisa Hendrix

  “Going out somewhere?” she asked casually, hoping the answer was no. They didn’t need any of Caroline’s friends to spot Mason squiring the gardener around town.

  “Actually, I’m cooking for Raine,” Mason said. “I thought it would make a nice break from Dinner-as-Inquisition.”

  Miranda huffed a bit. “I was just trying to get to know her.”

  “Like the Special Prosecutor trying to get to know the President.”

  “Sorry,” said Miranda. “I didn’t know you were trying to keep her a mystery.”

  “I’m not, but neither do I need a complete dossier on her in the first forty-eight hours. We all have plenty of time to get to know her.”

  The matter-of-fact confidence in his voice rocked Miranda. He sounded an awfully lot like a man planning a long-term relationship.

  “So, you’re going to spend the evening at her house?”

  His pen stopped midword and a slow smile spread across his lips. “Mmm-mmm.” He started writing again. The smile stayed.

  Why did he look so dreamy at the thought? The most obvious answer nearly put the finishing touch on Miranda’s nausea. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. She had to stop him.

  She concentrated on keeping her voice casual. “Where does Raine live, anyway?”

  “Fremont.”

  “I should have guessed. Very Bohemian.” She needed more information than that, but the moment was lost as Mason finished scribbling on his pad.

  He tore off the sheet and pushed it to the center of the table, then tossed his napkin down next to his plate. “I have a meeting in thirty minutes. If I’m going to drive myself, I’d better have Paul bring the Jaguar around.” He stepped around the table to kiss Miranda on the cheek, then headed for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice time at the tea—and don’t make any promises we won’t be able to keep.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Miranda, trying to ignore how ominous that sounded. One of the things Mason had mentioned recently was how good it would be to have the family finances solid enough to bring their contributions back up to the levels that had once sent Seattle charities into spasms of gratitude. If he thought they might not be able to donate to the hospital anytime soon, then maybe the spell really had worked and he was planning to tell Caroline and her money to take a hike.

  Oh, lord. This was so confusing.

  But there was something she could do, patience be damned. As soon as she was sure Mason had gone, she hurried to the phone table in the hall and pulled out the White Pages. Hobart. Hobart. She riffled through the book until she found the right page, then ran a finger down the columns. Hobart. Oh, great. Half of them just initials, and not a single R. in the lot. She ripped the page out of the book.

  “Miranda, please. The rest of us might like to use that.”

  She looked up to see her mother frowning at her. “Oh, good, you’re out of the pool. Come here.” She grabbed her mother’s hand and dragged her back into the breakfast room and closed the door. “I just found out Mason is going to spend the night at Raine’s house.”

  Tish sagged into a chair. “Good heavens. He told you that?”

  “No. But he’s cooking her dinner, and you and I both know what’s going to happen afterwards. Or at least what would happen if I didn’t have a way to keep their feet on the floor.”

  “One which involves shredding the phone book?”

  Miranda glanced at the piece of paper in her hand. “Sorry. I just needed Raine’s address. I’ve decided I’m going to chaperone them—from a distance.”

  “Chaperone from a distance?” Tish raised an eyebrow. “You mean spy, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely. It’s perfect. I can keep an eye on them and create diversions as necessary, and at the same time, maybe I can figure out how much of this is our spell and how much is plain hormones.”

  Tish sighed. “Isn’t there some other way?”

  “Of course, but not as good as this. Now, all we have to do is figure out which of these listings is Raine.” She laid the phone listings on the table. “There are three in or near Fremont: A.B., John, and L.M. Frankly, I’m rooting for a husband named John. Love potion or not, Mason would never sleep with another man’s wife, not after what Elizabeth did to him.”

  “That would be in our favor,” said Tish. “But I think it’s more likely to be L., for Lorraine.”

  Miranda frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re probably right.”

  “But it’s still just a guess.”

  “Well, there’s someone who can tell us for certain.”

  “You can’t very well ask Mason.”

  “Not Mason. Paul.”

  Her mother’s eyebrows went up. “I suppose he does know, but it’s really quite inappropriate to involve him.”

  Not as inappropriate as hiding in his supply closet, Miranda thought. She just smiled at her mother. “It’s a simple question. Of course, if you don’t think I should go to him, I can just run all over town tonight trying to figure out which house is hers.”

  Tish sighed. “You’re right. It’s the only logical thing to do. Just please be subtle, darling.”

  “Me? I’m the soul of discretion.”

  *

  Fortunately, Miranda had plenty of time to consider just how to live up to her mother’s request for subtlety, particularly during the hospital tea. After the obligatory chitchat and sucking up, the hospital representatives focused their attentions on people who’d indicated they were likely to make significant donations in the next couple of years—which left Miranda blessedly out of the mix. Free of the need to be graciously modest, Miranda enjoyed her cakes and crustless sandwiches and ruminated.

  When she finally slipped out, she saw Paul reading one of the thick books he always carried, but by the time she reached the car, he had jumped out and opened the door for her.

  He looked altogether too traditional standing there in his black uniform, Miranda reflected, like the sort of driver who never talked about his employer. The man in the T-shirt and jeans had been much more approachable. She stepped past him into the car, the memory of those jeans turning up the corners of her mouth. Definitely more approachable.

  Paul shut the door behind her and went around to his side, and a moment later they pulled away from the curb. As they made the right onto the street, Miranda stared at the back of Paul’s head through the open partition. He wore his hair a little long, and the thick, black strands brushing the top of his collar shone like the male version of one of those television ads for tropical-scented shampoo. Blue highlights beckoned, and she could easily imagine the silky weight of his hair between her fingers—not that she’d ever have occasion to feel it.

  “Do you want something, Miss Alexander?”

  She blinked and met his eyes in the rearview mirror. She hoped he couldn’t see the color in her cheeks. “We’re not far from Fremont, are we?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “I heard about a new esoterica shop. I’d like to see what they have.” She didn’t really care about the shop, but it was a good excuse to get a look at Raine’s neighborhood.

  Paul hit the turn indicator. “Yes, miss.”

  A few minutes later they passed the sign proclaiming Fremont as Center of the Universe and crossed the old drawbridge that spanned the Ship Canal. Miranda peered out the window, hoping that Fremont still lived up to its official motto, “Freedom to be Peculiar.”

  Thank the Goddess, it did. The aluminum commuters of the “Waiting for the Interurban” statue were decked in grass hula skirts and cardboard guitars. Funky secondhand shops and used book stores of all ilk lined the streets, patronized by a wide range of people, many of whom wore what could only be described as costumes, complete with parti-colored hair, tattoos, and multiple body piercings. Miranda spotted the rocket towering over Ah Nuts and leaned back, pleased. The Republic of Fremont was intact, keeping all the crazies neatly occupied in one corner of the city. The less imaginative denizens of Seattle were
safe. Miranda might not be a citizen of the Republic, but she liked knowing it was there, guarding the fringes against creeping mediocrity. She directed Paul to the shop, just down the street from the statue of Lenin, and popped inside for a few minutes while he circled the block. The store was a disappointment even though she hadn’t been expecting much, but she bought a small vial of scented salve, just for appearances.

  Back in the car, she responded to Paul’s “Where next, miss?” by naming the Canal Place

  site. “I’m curious what the fuss is about.”

  Paul nodded and turned back toward the Ship Canal. A few minutes later, he pulled in next to an ancient wooden building surrounded by chain link construction fencing.

  The site was nothing spectacular. It had been Alexander property since before the turn of the century, when Miranda’s great-grandfather had run a lumber mill on the site. The mill had closed seventy years ago, to be replaced by an assortment of light industrial buildings. Those businesses had run their course and Alexander Industries had moved on to other interests, involving other properties. The last remaining building, an old warehouse and loading dock, had sat vacant for years. It wasn’t exactly a blight on the neighborhood, but it didn’t contribute anything, either.

  “Why don’t they want a new building here?” she muttered to herself.

  Paul glanced over his shoulder, as though to see if she really wanted an answer. When Miranda nodded, he explained. “Most of the neighborhood is resigned to the inevitable, but a few people are convinced the Canal Place

  building will disturb the energy that makes Fremont unique. Cause a blight, of sorts.”

  “I know that’s the argument. But I’ve seen the designs. It’s not that ugly.” She looked out the window. “Certainly not as ugly as that thing.”

  “It isn’t a matter of being ugly. The building is reflective and full of sharp edges that could disrupt the flow of ch’i. Energy.”

  “Feng shui again,” she muttered. “You’re Chinese. Do you know anything about that stuff?”

  “I’ve had some experience with it, yes.”

  “Do you believe in it?”

  “It’s been used successfully in China for thousands of years,” Paul said without committing himself. “But feng shui aside, the design for Canal Place

  simply doesn’t fit into Fremont. It belongs someplace over on the Eastside, in one of those office parks near Microsoft.”

  “You think the project’s a mistake, then?”

  “I think it could be done better.”

  “Did you tell Mason?”

  “I’m Mr. Alexander’s driver, not his real estate advisor.”

  “You told me.”

  “You asked.”

  Traffic ground to a halt on Fremont Avenue

  , and Paul and Miranda both stopped talking to watch the Fremont Bridge rise for a tall ketch on its way into Lake Union. As the bridge started back down, Miranda said, “Raine Hobart lives someplace around here, doesn’t she?”

  She spoke in an offhand manner, and Paul answered just as offhandedly. “Up on Dayton, near Fortieth.”

  She saw when it hit him what he’d done, but it didn’t matter. She had the bit of information she needed. Raine was “L.M.” Or maybe—Miranda crossed her fingers—she was “L.M.‘s” wife. One could hope.

  Shaking his head, Paul turned around and rested his arm over the back of the seat. “You’re very good. I take it Mr. Alexander wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what? Raine’s address? I didn’t even ask him. Being in the neighborhood just made me curious.”

  “Right.”

  That single syllable contained enough doubt for a whole debate team to work with, but Miranda waved it off. “I’ve seen enough here; let’s go. Oh, and when we get home, I’d like you to bring my car around, please. I have an appointment this evening.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you on a tour first? Case Miss Hobart’s house, snoop around a little?” Paul’s brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “There’s that spy outlet over on Greenwood. We could swing by and pick up some surveillance equipment.”

  Smart ass, Miranda thought. And as much as she would like him to show her exactly where Raine’s house was, she just smiled sweetly. “Oh, no. I already have all the bugs I need back at the house, I just need to get into my black clothes and smudge my face first.”

  Chuckling, Paul turned back to the steering wheel. “I’ll assume you’re kidding, miss.”

  “Of course I am. Come on, Paul, I’m not that bad.” Maybe not, but she had a feeling her competent, dependable, discreet driver wouldn’t be so amused if he knew what she actually was planning for the evening.

  *

  Seven

  « ^ »

  Mason took the steps in front of Mrs. Perlmutter’s house two at a time. As the side gate squealed open, the avocado green draperies parted and the tip of a nose appeared. Mason dipped his head and called out, “Good evening.”

  The drapes flicked shut. Shaking his head, he rounded the corner into the backyard.

  So that’s what all those odd shapes in the dark were—Raine’s art. Various creations in copper, aluminum, and steel nestled among the plants of a cottage garden run amok. Mason passed a hammered birdbath with a dozen cartoon cats dancing in silhouette around its base. A few feet away, next to a leggy rosemary plant, stood a pile of mixed metal curlicues, somehow welded together to look like a waterfall frozen in midair. A stack of what looked like straw hats woven from copper balanced precariously amid a riot of pink cosmos, and assorted other half-finished constructions stood scattered through the flower beds. Some of the pieces wore thick coats of rust or of powdery ondation, as though they’d been sitting outside for months; others reflected sun from highly polished surfaces that were barely touched with tarnish.

  Mason paused by a slender statue, the only clearly human figure in the lot. She was a fully wrought Chinese maiden, about three feet tall, who held a globe in her outstretched hands. Her robes swirled around her feet like a cloud of butterflies shaped from brass strips—no, what were those things? Tossing his suit jacket over his shoulder, he squatted to get a better look.

  “Not quite as impressive as the Monet in the dining room.”

  Mason looked up to see Raine standing in her doorway. She wore a pair of baggy khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, and she held a rainbow of folded T-shirts in her arms. “More so,” he said. “I inherited the Monet, I didn’t paint it. Are these Chinese characters in her robe?”

  Raine nodded. “‘Harmony’ and ‘Balance’—two qualities I’m always working to achieve. Not too successfully, I might add.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself.” Mason stood up and stepped to the edge of the porch, so he was looking up into her smiling face. Her wet hair hung in a braid down her neck, and her freckles and sunburnt nose were bare of makeup.

  “You look like summer epitomized,” he said. “Gidget Goes to Malibu.”

  “Gee, thanks, Moondoggie. I’m surprised you ever heard of Gidget movies. I thought Sandra Dee was too déclassé for your breed.”

  “My secret passion. I had a belated case of chicken pox when I was fourteen, and the only thing on television besides soap operas was a Gidget film festival. I got hooked.”

  “All those bikinis appealed to your pubescent fantasies, eh?”

  “That, and they aggravated Mother no end. What more could a boy want?” He loosened his tie and worked the top shirt button free. “I had no idea all your work was out here. You’ve never let me get back this far during daylight hours.”

  “I had to cut you off before you saw the mess in my living room.” Her gaze flickered out over the garden. “Besides, these are my duds. My failed experiments. Mrs. P. steals them from the junk pile.”

  Mason gestured toward the maiden. “She’s no dud.”

  Raine smiled, almost shyly. “No, not her, thank you. Come on in. I was just finishing up the laundry. I’ll put these away, and we can hi
t the store.”

  She disappeared inside with her T-shirts, and Mason drifted in after her, the screen door banging shut behind him. From the bedroom came the sound of dresser drawers opening and closing. He caught a glimpse of folded clothes on the foot of the bed—which she’d made, to his simultaneous relief and disappointment—and shifted slightly to get a better view, but she’d already put her undies away. Damn. He felt like a middle-schooler who had just discovered that the janitor had plugged the peephole into the girls’ locker room.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Raine called.

  “Take your time.”

  He stopped playing lingerie fetishist and looked around Raine’s living-room-cum-kitchen. Her decor was eclectic, to put it mildly: pillows covered in French country prints buried an early-Goodwill couch; cheap Mexican pottery stair-stepped up a heavy Japanese tansu; a round, red-lacquered Chinese mirror hung over a rococo side table; and carved Indonesian bookends held up the volumes on an antique cherry bookshelf. Colored bottles and potted plants and blue and white crockery filled the windowsills and lined the kitchen counters. And everything sat against walls painted like a Greek cantina, in pale shades of blue with bright white trim.

  The effect was that of a serendipitous flea market. Somehow it worked. And somehow, it was pure Raine.

  She reappeared at the door to her bedroom, a canvas bag over her shoulder and a half-sheet of white paper in her hand. “I’m ready. This should be a gas. I bet they don’t get many Rolls Royces at Larry’s.”

  “Sorry. Miranda needed Paul this afternoon for some charity thing. Will the Jaguar do?”

  She sighed and lifted the back of her hand to her forehead like the heroine of a melodrama. “I guess it will have to. At least I get a driver. To the store, James.”

  “Yes, miss.” He opened the door with a flourish worthy of the cheesiest Hollywood chauffeur. “Whatever you say, miss.”

  She directed him to the Larry’s Red Apple, just up the road in Ballard, and Mason pushed the cart while Raine picked her groceries. Fortunately, her shopping technique was nothing like her method of decorating. She went from item to item on her list like Patton marching through Italy—no muss, no fuss, no prisoners. Mason, on the other hand, felt like a dawdler because he took the time to pick out the plumpest chops and curliest endive. Crusty sourdough rolls, some saffron, a bottle of twenty-year-old balsamic vinegar, and a pint of the best vanilla ice cream in the store completed his list. Raine claimed to have rice and chicken broth at home, as well as the other minor ingredients he needed. And as much as he’d like to introduce her to a truly fine bottle of Cabernet, he decided to pass. The way his mind was running already, he did not need to deal with inhibitions lowered by alcohol.