D.B. Hayes, Detective

by Darlene Scalera; Dani Sinclair

  It started when Aunt Lacy lent me some blush as a peace offering and insisted on dabbing a hint of brown eye shadow on my lids. Trudy then wanted to fuss with my hair, pulling the sides up and tying them on top of my head, anchoring the spill with strands of flowers. She’d parted it in the front down the middle, leaving it to fall in soft waves over my brows. It wouldn’t stay that way for long, but I had to admit it looked good for the moment.

  I’d stopped by the drugstore at lunch and bought some new long-lasting, guaranteed-not-to-rub-or-wear-off lipstick in a soft peach. The color went well with the blush and eye shadow. Of course, I gave the lipstick fifteen minutes tops on my lips, but the overall effect was nice for those fifteen minutes.

  Vanity had forced me to be choosy when I’d selected my dress. Brandon had given up a date with a very pretty blonde to go with me. Since I am definitely no blonde, I figured the least I could do was look presentable. While the dress I’d picked wasn’t fancy, it was new and tailored with a wide, colorful belt that emphasized my figure. The cream color looked okay against my skin and I had pretty crystal earrings that sparkled in an array of bright colors reminiscent of the belt. Heels would have looked better than my off-white sandals, but I draw the line at nylons in this heat. Besides, flats were more practical, just in case. I was finding I tended to do a lot of running since meeting Brandon. I figured it paid to be prepared.

  I knew I looked good overall, but I hadn’t expected Brandon to comment even though I was vain enough to hope he’d notice. Still, I was flustered when he said so out loud, and with Aunt Lacy and Trudy nodding approval, I let him lead me outside and over to the blue minivan. The bubble of happiness instantly burst.

  “You borrowed your girlfriend’s car?”

  “Mine won’t be ready for another couple of days,” he said patiently, holding the passenger door open.

  “Why don’t we take Binky?”

  I hated that he knew exactly why I objected and was amused. At least he was smart enough not to show his amusement openly.

  “I’ve been folded enough for one week,” he told me.

  “Binky has plenty of head-and legroom.”

  “Dee, get in the car.”

  Before I could summon another protest, he lifted me as if I weighed nothing at all and sat me on the passenger’s seat.

  Brandon was stronger than he looked. And I had no business enjoying that quite so much. He shut the door with an easy smile and came around to climb in behind the wheel.

  “Where would you like to go for dinner?”

  He shouldn’t have asked. I was flustered but also irked that he’d borrowed his date’s van to take me out. Okay, this wasn’t officially a date, but he had offered to pay tonight—and I was in a mood to make sure he did.

  “We could try Scarpanelli’s,” I suggested. “Russo owns the place.”

  He grinned. “You’re Machiavellian, you know that?”

  I sat back smugly. “You don’t know the half.”

  I had to keep reminding myself it wasn’t a date, because Brandon kept acting as though it was. He held doors for me, lightly touched my back to guide me as we walked. Little things that made me want to shiver. The sort of things lovers or would-be lovers might do. The sort of things that made me nervous.

  Brandon made me nervous.

  I was sure he knew all about lovers and making love. He’d just better not expect this dinner to come with that sort of price tag. But over dinner he couldn’t have been more relaxing. He told me a bit about growing up in Pittsburgh with his brother and seventeen cousins. The stories made me oddly wistful.

  While I love my two brothers, Tony and Russ and I aren’t exactly close. They’re older by nine and twelve years and they’ve always treated me like a baby or a pest—unless they need a babysitter or a favor. Maybe things would have been different if Mom hadn’t died of pneumonia when I was young, but she did, and we never had any cousins that I knew about. Aunt Lacy never married and Dad never had any siblings. Brandon made cousins and his family life sound like such fun.

  Dinner proved to be even more expensive than I’d expected. I felt guilty when I caught a glimpse of the bill since I couldn’t even offer to pay my share. I didn’t have that kind of money in my checking account if I wanted to make my rent payment this month. Brandon never flinched. He pulled out his credit card and continued talking. It was entirely too easy to like Brandon—a whole lot.

  I’d been keeping an eye out for Rob Deluth, but I hadn’t seen the busboy. Either he’d been fired or it was his night off. There was also no sign of Albert Russo or Elaine, not that I’d expected to see either one of them here tonight, but you never knew.

  The tickets were waiting for us at the theater box office, as promised, but not the backstage pass. The reason became apparent when it was announced that Nicole Wickley’s understudy would be going on in her place. The costumes were ornate, the staging lavish and the play bored me to tears. Since I was so conscious of Brandon at my side the entire time, I tried to sit there attentively instead of fidgeting, but I guess I made a hash of it because he turned to me at the intermission with a flat expression.

  “Would you like to go?”

  I debated lying and decided he’d see right through me if I tried. “Yes, please.”

  “Good,” he said sounding genuinely relieved.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “I prefer modern English to ye old English.”

  “Thank God.”

  He grinned and led me back out to the van. The night hadn’t cooled off by so much as a single degree. It was still hot and far too muggy to come close to comfortable.

  “What do you say we go find out why Nicole didn’t show up tonight?” Brandon asked.

  “You know where she lives?”

  He grinned. “I’ve been doing my homework.”

  The apartment sat off Edgewater Drive. An older building, it was newly refurbished and pricey. Once more I was glad for my choice of outfit tonight as we parked and headed for the front lobby.

  “How are we going to get inside?” I asked.

  “By acting like we belong.”

  Brandon surprised me by taking my hand.

  “We’re just returning home after an evening out,” he said.

  “Casual.”

  “Uh-huh.” There was nothing casual about touching Brandon and it was all too easy to imagine what the hand-holding was leading up to, but I didn’t pull back and we strolled toward the entrance hand in hand. He released me abruptly and hurried forward to help an elderly couple who were struggling with the doors. The man was in a wheelchair.

  Brandon grabbed the inside door for them and I moved to hold the outside door so the wife could guide the chair. Seconds later we were in the lobby with their thanks ringing in our ears.

  “Piece of cake,” he whispered as he guided me over to the elevators with his hand at my back as if we did this every single day.

  “And you know the apartment number?” I whispered back, trying to pretend my hormones weren’t jumping at the contact with his body once more.

  “Five-fifteen. It was on her mailbox.”

  “You had time to read the mailboxes?”

  “It was right under my nose as I held the door open.”

  “Were you born lucky?”

  His grin widened. “My father always said a person makes their own luck.”

  “Don’t tell Aunt Lacy. She’ll think I’m doomed.”

  The grin became a low chuckle that gave wing to butterflies in my stomach. He reached out and stroked my cheek with a knuckle. The butterflies began hosting a party. The elevator door opened before I could think of anything to say. By the time the four chattering people inside disgorged, I managed to find my equilibrium again.

  “Since you’re making your own luck, what exactly do you plan to say to Nicole?” I asked in what I hoped was a neutral tone of voice.

  He deliberately crowded me as we stepped inside the gold-veined, mirrored elevator.

>   “Am I making you nervous, Dee?”

  Oh, yeah. Even my reflection thought so.

  “Of course not.”

  His lips curved. He was definitely standing much closer than was necessary since we had the entire elevator all to ourselves.

  “If you’re nervous, you can wait downstairs. I’ll talk to her myself.”

  He was trying to keep me off balance on purpose, I realized. I steadied my pounding heart. Determinedly I forced my fingers to reach up and lightly caress his chin. His eyes widened. My fingers tingled, but I tried not to let that show.

  “I couldn’t let you do that, Brandon. If Russo’s willing to kill you for running off with his wife, imagine what he’ll do when he finds out you went to see his girlfriend next. You’ll be the only person to have firsthand knowledge of where they buried Jimmy Hoffa. The problem is you’ll be right there beside him.”

  I turned around as the doors opened on the fifth floor.

  “Better think up a story fast,” I tossed over my shoulder. “We’re on.”

  As it turned out, our performance was canceled because there was no one home to his knock. I started to turn away but Brandon stopped me with a firm—not to say painful—grip on my arm.

  “Block the view.”

  “Wha—”

  He pulled a set of lock picks from inside his suit coat pocket and went to work on her door. I tried to cover my shock as well as his movements by pivoting to gaze guiltily down the hall in both directions. If anyone had been around, I’m sure they would have called security at once just based on my expression. Lock picking had definitely not been part of my curriculum as a private investigator.

  Seconds later I was crowding nervously inside the apartment behind him, only to run right into his back when he came to an abrupt stop. I didn’t have to ask why. It was evident. We gazed around the apartment in respectful silence. The view overlooking the lake was pretty spectacular—and unrestricted, given there were no drapes over the windows. Moonlight flooded the dark rooms, showing us there was no furniture either. The apartment was totally empty.

  “Are you sure you got the right apartment?” I whispered.

  “I’m sure,” he said grimly, not bothering to whisper.

  “Maybe she moved.”

  “You think?”

  “Unless she suddenly got an urge to do major redecorating. Where are you going?”

  “To have a look around.”

  “At what? The empty walls? Or are you shopping for a new apartment?”

  “She could have left something behind.”

  “With our luck, it’ll be a body,” I muttered under my breath, feeling increasingly apprehensive.

  The apartment was big and it was mostly dark despite the full moon glinting off Lake Erie. Brandon produced a tiny penlight flashlight that he used to probe the kitchen drawers and cupboards and every closet we came to. It appeared Nicole Wickley had cleared out everything including the cobwebs.

  No bodies of any sort appeared.

  “Can we go now?” I asked, trying not to whine in my need to get out of there.

  “No reason to hang around, I guess. She won’t be coming back, but I wonder when she moved out.”

  “Does it matter? Isn’t the where she went more important?”

  He shot me one of those inscrutable looks of his, turned off the flashlight and let us out. But when I would have started back down the hall, he shook his head and moved to the door across from Nicole’s and rapped firmly.

  “What are you—”

  The man who answered was huge. Maybe the Browns’ whole defensive line, if I’d learned my football terminology correctly. The bottle of beer clutched in one hand was practically swallowed from sight by those meaty fingers. He wore a black tank top that showed off bulging muscles on his forearms and black shorts that showed off beefy legs. I swallowed hard, sliding closer to Brandon. Brandon didn’t appear the least bit disconcerted—or intimidated.

  That was okay. I decided I’d be intimidated for both of us.

  “Hi, sorry to bother you. My wife and I were looking for Nicole Wickley.”

  I was a wife now?

  “She lives across the hall from you.”

  “Not anymore,” the man said, only slurring his words slightly. “She moved out.”

  He turned his head and called to someone in the room at his back.

  “When did Nicky move, Carla?”

  “Coupla days ago,” a high-pitched female voice called back.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a forwarding address or a phone number for her, would you?” Brandon asked.

  The woman who appeared beside the man looked like a child at first glance. She was extremely petite with a literal mane of black hair that tumbled past her waist. She was dressed in a clinging black leotard and nothing else. In her hand, an identical bottle of beer looked much too large for her tiny fingers.

  I felt a giggle rise inside me and contained it with an effort. The first bottle was too small. The second bottle was too big. Was a normal-size person going to appear next?

  “I think she went to New York,” the woman called Carla was saying. “I heard her tell the manager she got a job on some soap. He was ticked ’cause she brought in movers with no notice or anything. She didn’t care. Nicky’s such a snob. Oops. I guess I shouldn’t have said that if you’re friends of hers. Come on, Donny, the wax is almost ready for us.”

  Without another word Donny closed the door. I met Brandon’s expression. I couldn’t help it. The giggle erupted. By the time we reached the elevators we were convulsed with laughter.

  “What do you think…?”

  “The wax? Please…” he held up his hand. “I’m trying not to think about what they were going to do with that wax.”

  And we were off again. I was wiping at tears when we reached the lobby. If anyone else had gotten on that elevator, they’d have thought we were nuts. It wasn’t so much that they were such an odd couple—though they were!—it was just that we needed a release after the tension of the past few days. Every time we thought of that wax—well, it was enough to start us off all over again.

  We had it under control by the time we got back to his borrowed minivan.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “We need more information on Nicole Wickley.”

  “I left my computer at the shop,” I said.

  “The shop it is then.”

  George the cat was delighted to welcome company. He wound himself under our feet until Brandon picked him up just so he didn’t trip over the little pest.

  “What happened to your other cat?”

  “Mrs. Crispen took her back home,” I said, not wanting to explain.

  I led the way to the office without turning on any lights. I didn’t want the diligent Lakewood police force to come knocking and ask what we were doing in there at this hour of the night. I shut the office door, turned on the light and turned on the computer.

  “It’ll be easier if we both sit in the visitor chairs so that we can see the screen at the same time,” I told him.

  I should have thought first about how cozy that would make things. With the door shut, the closet-size room took on an intimacy I wasn’t ready for. Brandon smelled good. I’d noticed it earlier, but I’d been able to ignore it when I could put distance between us or there were other people around. Now there was nothing else to focus on. He smelled good, he looked good—

  I didn’t see him put the cat down, but while we waited for the computer to boot, he leaned over, lifted my face and kissed me full on the mouth.

  Every fiber of my body felt the sudden rush of desire that left me unable to do the simplest things—like breathe or think. I burned like a wild thing when he released me and sat back.

  “What was that for?” Amazing how steady my voice came out when I was quivering gelatin inside.

  “I figured we’d better get it out of the way first. I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night and this is just a little too intimate,
don’t you think? I decided we’d better take the edge off the hormones.”

  “The edge—”

  “Mine if not yours. Do you mind if I…?”

  He reached over, pulled the computer toward him and typed in a search command while I sat there speechless. My brain was still stuck on his wanting to kiss me all night.

  “Bingo. She has a Web page.”

  He shoved the computer screen back so I could see the display, as well—as if my eyes could actually focus on anything else yet. But they did—a bit blankly at first, but finally I saw Nicole Wickley. Pages of Nicole Wickley. She was in various poses and costumes in scenes from plays and acting jobs she had done over the years. My sluggish brain came back on line as I realized what I was looking at.

  “The wigs!” I said suddenly, leaning forward. The kiss was anything but forgotten, however I managed to shelve it for the moment as I looked at Brandon to see if he was seeing what I was.

  “I told you there were no wig stands in her bedroom.” I felt triumphant, vindicated. “Didn’t I tell you there should have been some?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s Elaine Russo!”

  His eyes narrowed. He angled the screen in his direction and studied the picture of the brunette in a blond wig.

  “I think you’re right.”

  “You know I’m right. How can you sit there looking so calm?”

  George leaped onto the desk and curled on the edge closest to Brandon. Brandon reached out to stroke the animal’s head absently. The cat purred loudly in contentment.

  “If I start yelling, I’ll upset the cat,” he said.

  “Nicole Wickley’s been posing as Elaine Russo!”

  “Or Nicole Wickley and Elaine Russo are the same person.”

  I swallowed an instant denial and thought about that. “Is that possible?”

  “Why not? What do we know about Elaine Russo?”

  “Nothing except that she likes to see her name in the paper, is a poor tipper and isn’t generally well liked.”