The Devil's Dance

by Kristen Lamb

  “What do you have for protection?”

  “My personality.”

  “You need out of the house. It’ll be good for you.”

  “You’ve done your job. I’ll lock the doors and call if anything happens. Really, you can go.”

  “Not without you. I already made reservations. Get dressed. Something without cartoons on it.”

  I sulked. That was most of my wardrobe. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Romi, the killer’s MO is to find people alone, so a Friday crowd is sound life insurance. Besides, you need to eat. Now go,” he ordered and I was too beat to argue.

  I rummaged through the few pieces of real clothes I still owned and found a black pencil skirt, a black t-shirt that kinda looked dressier with my gold necklace and black ballet flats. I left my hair down, too tired and lazy to do anything with it. Putting on makeup was hard enough. I made my eyes smoky with deep gray shadow and heavy black liner to draw attention away from the circles under my eyes. I willed myself not to think of Ida. I’d cry more for her later. I smoothed on some nude lipstick then dropped it, the one photo of my mom, and a pack of mints into my purse with my cell phone. I thought about hiding my wad of cash, but felt safer having it with me.

  I stepped into the living room and Sawyer was sifting through some papers.

  “This was the best I could do. Sorry.” I crossed my arms and pouted. I hadn’t missed having nice clothes in a long time, but now I felt like the Salvation Army’s mascot.

  “It works,” was all he said, but his gaze was gentle, lingering on me longer than usual.

  “You forgot about the quid pro quo,” I said, unnerved by the chemistry I sensed but was more likely my desperate imagination.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  I started to tell him about the box I’d hidden in the AC unit, about my theory my mother had been murdered, but I’d already made enough mistakes. Truth was, I didn’t know anything about Sawyer and JC was right. I needed to learn to play my cards closer to my chest.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s eat.”

  The night was warm but pleasant as we strolled down Main Street. I’d been able to find a favorite shimmery gold shawl in one of my boxes so I appeared a bit dressier. No casual observer would notice my ensemble cost less than a case of Miller Lite.

  I noticed Sawyer was careful to keep at least a foot in between us so no one would mistake us for a couple. Very professional, yet disappointing. I liked Sawyer and was glad to have him close by. That didn’t stop me from being on high alert, though. The killer could be anyone, and the streets of Bisby bustled with all kinds of people out to enjoy a Friday night on the town. A few couples in formal wear headed for the wine bar, some young GQ-type men laughed and joked as they entered some restaurant with its own microbrewery. Every few moments I glanced up high, checked my six, and did everything to be hyperaware of my surroundings without being obvious. I’d pause at some beautiful potted roses and ooh and ahh but it really was to check if anyone was tailing us. A few minutes after we’d exited Sawyer’s Suburban, a middle-aged Hipster walking a Yorkie stepped in behind us. The fact that he was that old wearing skinny jeans was enough for me not to trust him. That and he wore sunglasses even though it was dark, which was just always weird. I took Sawyer on a tour down Alamo, then Henderson, then Main. Yorkie Man kept going on Henderson.

  Nonchalantly, Sawyer tucked his hands in his pockets and softly said, “You should have worked for the Bureau.”

  “What?” I asked in my most innocent voice as I stopped to pick some Star Jasmine growing up a lattice. I plucked off some of the mature blossoms, crushed them in my hands then rubbed them over my forearms and sniffed. “Nature’s perfume.” I offered my arm for him to smell, but he stepped back, his features strained.

  He gave me a dirty look. “You know what I am talking about.”

  I made a face. “Who wears sunglasses at night? Seriously? Other than Corey Hart?” I asked. “Great, now I have that song stuck in my head.” I rolled my eyes.

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Been called worse. But I will say that there is a new Buick sedan that’s passed us three times. Parking’s bad, but not that bad.”

  “I saw it too,” he said.

  “Did you get the plate?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied warily.

  “Tango Whiskey Charlie 153. Texas plates. Might want to put that in your phone.”

  He gave me an odd stare.

  “Can’t be too careful. Better to have and not need than need and not have, right?”

  He hesitated then recorded what I’d told him on his cell phone.

  “Let’s eat,” I said, trying not to sound too whiny. “This ‘paying attention thing’ is making me tired. How do you do this all the time? Regular naps?”

  “Goes with the job. You get used to it. I’m surprised you do it at all.”

  “Most people are sheep.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “And no one looks up. Ever notice that?”

  He faced me. “This from your extensive Casa Linda combat training?”

  “Better believe it. Hey, Casa Linda was a step up from some of the places I’d lived. You do not want to look like me and live in South Dallas. Just sayin’.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  “Baked a lot of cookies and was super friendly. People are less prone to snuff you when you bring cookies…with sprinkles.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” Sawyer studied me.

  “What?” I checked my outfit. “Did I already spill something on myself?”

  “No,” he muttered. “Never realized how small you are.” Sawyer was easily a foot taller than me. The top of my head hit Sawyer slightly above mid-chest, especially in the ballet flats.

  “I have the same problem,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I never realize how small I am either.” I grinned. “Daddy always said I had an alligator mouth and a Pekinese ass. I think that was his version of a compliment.”

  “Let’s say your personality makes you seem far larger than you really are.”

  “You do realize calling a woman large isn’t exactly a compliment outside of Eastern Europe and northern Minnesota, right?” I tried to maintain my sense of humor to keep from freaking out. Truth was, I couldn’t quit thinking of Ida and the others who’d been murdered.

  “How’s the cut?” he asked and reached for my hand, but I didn’t want to explain the stitches so I moved away.

  “Peachy. Don’t need to loosen my bandages, though.” My palm itched and throbbed and small blisters had bubbled up from where the scalding coffee hit. What I would have given for two more of those pain pills.

  “I’ll be gentle,” he said and reached for my hand again and I let him. “Where’d you learn that glue trick?” he asked and inspected my bandaging job. My skin tingled at his touch.

  I took back my hand. “Dated a hockey player for all of a minute. Good arm candy but not the brightest. Superglue’s a hockey player’s best friend. I wondered if he was sniffing it, though.”

  Sawyer smiled. “Come on. Tour’s over. Time to eat.” He stopped in front of a fine French restaurant, St. Genevieve. The smells rolling out the front door already had my stomach growling. “Hey, I’d have been happy with Dairy Queen, but since you’re buying.”

  He opened the door for me and I led the way to the maître de who took one glance at me and said, “I’m sorry, but we require a reservation.”

  Sawyer’s face remained unmoved. “We have one. Ben Sawyer plus one. I called earlier. Had to change the time,” he said then shot a glance at me.

  The man pursed his lips as he scanned the registry, then his eyebrows raised as if he were surprised we hadn’t lied. “One moment. I’ll go see if your table is prepared.” With that he left.

  “So, Ben is your first name,” I said, wondering why the maître de had been such a snot. I checked out the other people in the restaurant and they we
ren’t in tuxedos and ball gowns. Surely, I didn’t stand out that much.

  “I told you my first name the day we met.” Sawyer shoved his hands in his pockets and peered into the dining room.

  “You did?”

  “At the 7 Eleven,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah. Probably didn’t hear you. Was too busy planning how to run over you and make it look like a freak accident.”

  Sawyer shook his head. “You’re not right.”

  “Thought you’d have figured that out by now.”

  Moments later the maître de ushered us through the dim expanse of ornate woods and masterfully crafted stained glass. Fresh-faced couples beamed an eagerness for the future, a naïve expectation that everything would work according to plan and I silently wished them the best.

  Edith Piaf’s iconic crooning drifted down from overhead. This was the sort of place that made me want to discuss Heidegger, take up post-modern origami, or give sushi another try.

  Patrons spoke in hushed tones, lips flush with lust and gossip. White linens and napkins folded into crisp swans, the deliberate precision one expected from a place with a Zagat rating. Every table had the same centerpiece, a glass bowl of water, freshly picked white magnolias, and candles floating on the surface. Sawyer paused when we stopped at the table at the far back corner of the room. A lover’s booth.

  “I requested a table.” He tugged at his tie and glared at the maître de.

  “And a table was ready for you at seven thirty. This is all we have left.”

  “We can eat somewhere else,” I said.

  “It’s fine,” he replied, his voice tight. His expression resembled that of someone who’d sat in poison ivy. Never knew it would suck so badly having to sit next to me, and admittedly I felt a tad injured. Sawyer gestured for me to slide in first then followed, but if he sat any farther away from me, he might have fallen out of the booth.

  “Bright side is we both get the mafia seat.” I smiled, stopping just short of jazz hands to lighten the mood. I tried too hard. That was always my problem.

  “The what seat?” he said not fully present in the moment. He looked like an ad for hemorrhoid cream.

  “The mafia seat? Backs to the wall so no one can whack us from behind.” Why couldn’t I just shut up?

  “Sure,” he said and gulped his water.

  “It was a joke.”

  He let out another strained, “Sure” then studied the menu like it was the night before Chemistry finals. I snuck a mint out of my purse because it seemed like Sawyer would rather be sitting next to someone with the Black Death than me. I checked my breath and it was fine. In fact, all I could smell was the heavy sweetness of the star jasmine I’d rubbed on my arms intermingling with the kitchen’s exotic scents of spice and meat.

  The sommelier popped by with a wine list and recommendations, and Sawyer tersely ordered a bottle of Stag’s Leap Pinot Noir. In my awkward state, I’d forgotten to mention I only wanted iced tea.

  I tried to concentrate on the music, which had shifted to Sinatra, and take my mind off the painful silence.

  “You know your wine,” I said. “Good choice.”

  “Uh huh,” he said and resumed staring at the menu so hard I thought he’d burn holes through it.

  The sommelier presented the bottle to us, then with the hooked blade of a sommelier knife, uncorked the bottle with the same swiftness Kim used at my trailer. The sommelier presented the cork to Sawyer for him to smell then poured a small amount to taste. Sawyer nodded and the man filled our glasses. A couple sips later and my head felt warm and light. Tonight, I’d pace myself. I didn’t need another screaming hangover, especially since I had to be up at the crack of dawn to take the boys fishing for golf balls. Sawyer had nearly finished his glass. Strange. If he didn’t want to be out with me then why the hell didn’t he let me stay home and feel sorry for myself over pizza?

  “What’s wrong?” Sawyer asked.

  I lied. “Thinking about starting work on Monday.”

  He drained the rest of his glass and that was kind of pissing me off, but I didn’t let it show.

  “I guess I should be happy for work, but tough to get excited about scrubbing toilets.”

  “Why’s that?” His voice had a hint of a joke, but his body was so rigid I expected to see stress fractures any moment.

  “Wasn’t quite the future my guidance counselor painted. Could have saved a lot of money if I’d known I was destined to fold towels.” I made a face. “I hope they don’t expect me to do anything complicated like these swans.” I plucked up my napkin. “Who the hell has enough free time to think this stuff up?” I studied the swan then unfolded it and set it in my lap.

  “It’s temporary,” he said and his shoulders relaxed. Of course, he had to be relaxed. The only way he could have drank that wine any faster would have been through a straw or a beer bong. I worked on not taking it personally.

  “Not so sure about that anymore,” I said. “I might as well have El Chapo on my résumé. Oh, but now I can add that I can vacuum and fluff pillows, too.” I took another sip of wine to dull the ache. I had no job and no future and my dinner company was about to chew off his leg to escape.

  Sawyer offered a tight smile. “Let’s get through this and take it one step at a time.”

  “Why? You need a housekeeper? To be clear, I don’t do the kinky French Maid outfit. Stilettos help with dusting the high places but—”

  “Stop, Romi,” he said, his voice harsh, and I bit back the sting. I’d only been trying to lighten the moment. Our bubbly waitress arrived, saving me. She introduced herself then ran through an overly long mental rundown of the specials. I felt sorry for her that they made her memorize all that crap. I ordered the petite filet with asparagus, then, as if in answer to my prayers, the sommelier refilled our glasses right in time. I took two large gulps forgetting my vow to not get plastered again. A busboy paused at our table with a basket of fresh croissants and used tongs to place one on each of our bread plates.

  “I wasn’t kidding earlier,” Sawyer said, his tone serious.

  “About what?” I replied and tried to appear super-interested in the parked cars outside the window.

  “I think you’d make a hell of an agent.”

  “That’s the wine talking,” I said and tore off a piece of the croissant. I needed some food in my stomach because the wine was hitting too fast.

  “You have the right education. You’re street smart and good with people. You pay attention to detail. You’re bilingual.”

  “And happen to be a suspect in a major federal investigation for embezzlement and fraud.”

  “Less a suspect and more a person of interest. Tell me about Phil.”

  “Sure,” I said, but Phil was the last thing I wanted to talk about right now. I needed a moment to gather my thoughts. How did I tell Sawyer that I was the stupidest person on the planet and still have him respect me? “Before we get into that, I need to run to the ladies’ room,” I said.

  “Of course.” He slid out of the lover’s booth so I could escape. I snatched my purse and strode toward the front of the restaurant, uncertain where to find the restrooms.

  “Romi? Romi Lachlan?” I heard a familiar voice off to my side. When I spun around, there she was. Claire Barrington. She wore a stunning emerald dress identical to the one some big actress had worn on the cover of last month’s issue of Vogue. Claire’s thick honey locks were pinned in a chignon, and her butternut-brown neck, hands and ears sparkled with diamonds and emeralds. I felt trapped in a real-life ‘ Who wore it better?’.

  “Claire. Small world,” I said trying to hide my horror.

  She tapped a Latino gentleman in a suit that obviously cost more than most people made in a month. “Fernando, this is Romi Lachlan. Romi, this is Fernando Esteves and he runs the new resort. Have you been there yet? Their mud baths are to die for.”

  “Not yet. Only been here a couple of days. What brings you to Bisby?” I asked, my mouth dry as
if stuffed with laundry lint.

  “Oh, all the Dallas people love this place. It’s the new Santa Fe. That and, Daddy is giving me a wedding present.”

  “What’s that?” I asked though I really didn’t want to know.

  She clapped and squealed. “My own line of wines. Can you imagine?”

  Not in a million freaking years.

  She continued, “My husband found the perfect spot of land on the south side of town.”

  I knew precisely what land she was referring to. I currently lived there. “I didn’t know grapes could grow in this area,” was all I could think to say.

  “All things are possible with hard work and determination,” she said and I wanted to punch her in her Botoxed mouth. Claire hadn’t worked a day in her life, and the only thing she knew of determination involved making the center of the society page.

  Claire continued chatting even though every part of me wished she’d shut the hell up. “El Paso, Laredo, and Eagle Pass have launched successful vineyards, and since my husband and I built our new home here, we thought we’d give the other South Texas vineyards some good old Barrington competition.” She playfully nudged me. “Daddy’s having white volcanic ash trucked in to start preparing the land. Part of our wedding gift.”

  “Th-that sounds amazing. I’m very happy for you.” I’d been out of those social circles for a lifetime. “When did you get married?”