Faking It d-2

by Jennifer Crusie

  “He’s also a painless dentist,” Nadine said. “First things first. Goodnights are very practical.”

  Davy looked around at the stills from the Rayons and the Double Take. “Yeah, I can see that.” He pulled open the desk drawer and found six cards, banded together, the top one headed “Scarlet Hodge.”

  Nadine slid his juice to him across the table. “As Grandma says, don’t confuse flair with impracticality.” She looked at him severely over the juice glass. “Very different things.”

  Davy picked up the cards and shut the desk drawer. “So basically, you’re a forty-year-old masquerading as a sixteen-year-old.”

  Nadine shook her head. “I am a free spirit. Don’t judge me by conventional standards.”

  “That would be a mistake.” He stuck the cards in his shirt pocket and tasted his juice. It was sweet but with a kick. Sort of like Tilda.

  Andrew came in and nodded at Davy, clearly not happy to see him. He dropped a bakery bag in front of Nadine. “When’s your appointment?”

  “Half an hour,” Nadine said. “I’m walking. Fresh air. Very healthy.”

  Andrew nodded and gestured toward her dress. “Nice Lucy.”

  “Thank you,” Nadine said, beaming at him.

  Good dad, Davy thought,

  “Want to rehearse that Peggy Lee medley with me tonight?” Andrew went on.

  “No,” Nadine said, developing a sudden interest in the ceiling.

  “Date with the doughnut, huh?” Andrew shook his head at Davy. “Wait until you have a daughter and she starts bringing home boys. All you can think of is ‘Where did I go wrong?’”

  Maybe when you dressed up like Marilyn, Davy thought and then felt ashamed even as Andrew threw him a patient look.

  “You didn’t go wrong at all,” Davy said to make up for it. “She’s a great kid.”

  “Wait'll you meet the doughnut,” Andrew said.

  “This is Burton?” Davy said and Andrew nodded. “Met him. You have my sympathies.”

  “Make yourself some whole wheat toast,” Andrew said to Nadine as he headed out the door again. “You need fiber.”

  “I had a piece with Aunt Tilda. And he’s not a doughnut,” Nadine said to her father’s back, sounding like a teenager for the first time since Davy had met her.

  “Doughnut?” Davy said.

  Nadine sighed and opened a cupboard, taking down a loaf of whole wheat. “According to Grandma, there are two kinds of men in the world, doughnuts and muffins.”

  “Is there anybody in your family who’s sane?”

  “Define ‘sane’.” Nadine dropped two pieces of bread in Gwen’s yellow Fiesta toaster.

  “Never mind,” Davy said. “Doughnuts and muffins.”

  “Doughnuts are the guys that make you drool,” Nadine said, taking a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. “They’re gorgeous and crispy and covered with chocolate icing and you see one and you have to have it, and if you don’t get it, you think about it all day and then you go back for it anyway because it’s a doughnut.”

  “Put some toast in for me when yours is done,” Davy said, suddenly ravenous.

  Nadine pushed the bakery bag toward him. “There are pineapple-orange muffins in there.”

  Davy fished one out. “You have a thing for pineapple-orange?”

  “We have a thing for tangy,” Nadine said. “We like the twist.”

  “I picked that up,” Davy said. “So doughnuts make you drool.”

  “Right. Whereas muffins just sort of sit there all lumpy, looking alike, no chocolate icing at all.”

  Davy looked at his muffin. It had a high golden crown, not lumpy at all. He shrugged and peeled the top off and took a bite. Tangy.

  “And while muffins may be excellent,” Nadine went on, “especially the pineapple-orange ones, they’re no doughnuts.”

  “So doughnuts are good,” Davy said, trying to keep up his end of the conversation.

  “Well, yeah, for one night,” Nadine said, as her toast popped. She dropped in two more pieces for Davy and then dug into the peanut butter, slathering it on her bread like spackle. “But then the next morning, they’re not crisp anymore, and the icing is all stuck to the bag, and they have watery stuff all over them, and they’re icky and awful. You can’t keep a doughnut overnight.”

  “Ah,” Davy said. “But a muffin-”

  “Is actually better the next day,” Nadine finished. “Muffins are for the long haul and they always taste good. They don’t have that oh-my-God-I-have-to-have-that thing that the doughnuts have going for them, but you still want them the next morning.” She bit into her toast with strong white teeth that were a testament to Dr. Mark.

  “And Burton is a doughnut,” Davy said.

  “The jury is still out,” Nadine said through her peanut butter. “I find him quite muffiny, but I may be kidding myself.”

  “You’re kidding yourself.”

  “Maybe not,” Nadine said as Davy’s toast popped. “I think he gets me.”

  “In that case, hold on to him.” Davy leaned across the table and took his toast. “He’s one in a million.”

  “That’s my plan.” Nadine put her glass in the sink. “I have to go brush my teeth. It was lovely talking to you. Oh, and I met your friend Simon on the stairs this morning. He’s lovely, too.”

  “Thanks, I’ll tell him,” Davy said. Then, unable to resist the impulse, he said, “So what am I? Doughnut or muffin?”

  “Jury’s still out on you, too,” Nadine said as she came around the table. “Grandma thinks you’re a muffin pretending to be a doughnut. Dad thinks you’re a doughnut pretending to be a muffin.”

  “And your Aunt Tilda?”

  “Aunt Tilda says you’re a doughnut and she’s on a diet. But she lies about the diet part.” Nadine eyed him carefully. “So if you’re a doughnut, you should probably leave although we might miss you,”

  “You might?” Davy said, surprised.

  “Yes,” Nadine said. “You may blend nicely. It’s too soon to tell. So be a muffin.” She patted him on the shoulder and headed for the door.

  “I’ll try,” Davy said, slightly confused. “Hey, Nadine.”

  Nadine stuck her head back through the door.

  “What’s Simon?”

  “Doughnut,” Nadine said. “With sprinkles.”

  “You’re too young to know about sprinkles,” Davy said severely.

  Nadine rolled her eyes. “You have no idea what I’m too young for, Grandpa,” she said and turned, only to run into Simon.

  “Hello, Nadine,” Simon said, faintly British and perfectly groomed.

  Nadine blushed and nodded and then ran up the stairs, coming back again to say, “Davy, can you watch Steve while I’m at the dentist?”

  Davy looked down at Steve, who looked back at him with patent distrust. “Sure. We shared a bed last night. We’re buddies.”

  Steve drew in air through his nose and honked.

  When Nadine was gone, Simon said, “Did I say something rude to make her blush?”

  “No.” Davy handed him the bakery bag. “Have a muffin.”

  “It’s too early for sweets,” Simon said. “Is there a decent restaurant nearby that serves breakfast?”

  “I keep forgetting what a pain in the ass you are,” Davy said. “You’ve lived in America for twenty years. Eat badly, damn it.”

  “Bad night?” Simon said, pushing the bag away.

  “It would have been better if you hadn’t co-opted my bed,” Davy lied.

  “Louise,” Simon said, his voice heavy with respect. “I love American women.”

  “Louise may not be representative,” Davy said.

  “Louise may be anything she wants,” Simon said. “Extraordinarily gifted.”

  “Oh, good for you.” Davy finished off his juice and went around the table to put his glass in the sink.

  “What are you so grumpy about? Didn’t you spend the night with your Betty Boop?”

  “Tilda,” D
avy said. “And yes, I did.”

  “Oh,” Simon said. “I gather my sympathies are in order.”

  “I’m working on it,” Davy said. “Why are you here?”

  “I got a phone call from Rabbit.” Simon settled in at the table. “He seemed a trifle upset.”

  “I never touched him.” Davy put the juice away.

  “He seems to think someone has put out a contract on you, old boy.”

  Davy closed the refrigerator door and considered it. “A hit? On me? Nah.”

  “He implied it was an angry woman, which made it more plausible. He also seemed especially concerned that we knew that he had nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s Rabbit for you,” Davy said. “He hears about it and wants his ass covered. But I’m not buying it. Tilda isn’t that mad.” Then he remembered the night before. “Oh. Clea.”

  “Exactly.”

  Davy leaned against the table. “Well, she does like men doing things for her. But I don’t think so. It’s not her MO.”

  “He seemed fairly serious, so I flew up,” Simon said virtuously.

  “You were bored so you flew up,” Davy said. “And what are you planning on doing, now that you’re here? Because I don’t have time to entertain you, even if you did pay my rent.”

  “I thought I’d visit some old haunts-”

  “Like the jail?”

  “-and then see if you needed any help later with-”

  “No,” Davy said.

  “Solely in an advisory capacity,” Simon said.

  “You get caught again, they’ll throw away the key. And as much as you annoy me, having this conversation on a phone looking at you in an orange jumpsuit would be worse.”

  “Are you going to break in again?” Simon said, his voice serious.

  “Yes,” Davy said. “I don’t want to, but there are still things in there I need. But not right away. I shot off my mouth to Clea and got her all worked up. I’m going to have to wait a couple of days until she’s distracted with something else.”

  “You’re going to need me,” Simon said.

  “Maybe for the burglary,” Davy said. “But not on site. You can advise from Miami.”

  “And leave Louise?” Simon said.

  Davy heard a sound from the doorway and turned to see Eve, blonde, blue-eyed, and fresh-scrubbed in a pink T-shirt that made her look younger than her daughter.

  “Morning, Eve,” he said, smiling at her. “This is my friend Simon.”

  “Oh.” Eve looked up at Simon and blushed and turned away. “Welcome to Columbus.”

  “Thank you.” Simon smiled back at her, avuncular. “It’s a beautiful city.”

  “ German Village is nice,” Eve said, a little inanely. She took a muffin from the bag and retreated to the door. “Have a nice stay,” she said over her shoulder.

  “And who was that?” Simon said.

  “Eve,” Davy said, watching her go. “Nadine’s mama. And quite the cupcake.”

  “Don’t go there, my boy,” Simon said. “Never sleep with a mother. It can only lead to grief and guilt.”

  “Odd rule,” Davy said. “Mine’s simpler: Never sleep with sisters.” He shook his head. “But you have to admit, Eve is beautiful.”

  “Very,” Simon said. “But she’s no Louise.”

  WHEN CLEA had seated Ronald’s hit man in the living room, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m not sure what Ronald told you, Mr…”

  “Brown. Ford Brown. He said you had a problem that needed taken care of.” He leaned back in the Chippendale chair. It creaked.

  “Well, there is this man,” Clea said, lacing her fingers together in her lap to keep them from shaking. “From my past. But I was hoping that Ronald would take care of him.”

  “He did,” Ford Brown said. “He sent me.” He stretched out his legs and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you want me to do?”

  Well, there it was. All she had to do was say, “Kill Davy Dempsey,” and her problems would be over. This man could do it, she had no doubt. He’d probably killed dozens of people. And now here he was, Ronald’s present to her. She was going to have to have a long talk with Ronald.

  “Mrs. Lewis?”

  “Can you keep him away from me?” she said. “This man. Can you stop him from coming near me?”

  “Permanently?”

  Clea shifted in her chair. “Well, I don’t want to see him again. Ever.”

  The man shook his head at her. “You have to tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to stop him from coming after me,” Clea said, trying to sound like a poor, threatened woman. “I don’t know what that would cost-”

  “Mr. Abbott already paid my retainer,” the man said. “The final bill pretty much depends on what you need.”

  Clea thought about it. What she needed was Gwen Goodnight pushed off a bridge and Davy Dempsey shoved under a bus, and here was the guy who could do both. She bit her lip and looked at him again. He looked very efficient. She’d finally met a man she could count on, and he was a killer. One damn thing after another.

  “Mrs. Lewis-”

  “I’m thinking,” Clea said. Okay, maybe they could take this one step at a time. “I need you to watch him for me. His name is Davy Dempsey. If he tries to come after me, if he tries to come into this house, I need you to stop him. To protect me. He’s associating with this woman, Gwen Goodnight. I think they’re trying to swindle my fiancé, so I need you to watch her, too.”

  “A woman?”

  “I said watch,” Clea said. “Just watch her. If she gets close to Mason, if he goes to see her, I need to know so I can protect him.”

  “Uh-huh,” the guy said. “You want me to watch.”

  “Both of them,” Clea said. “Let me know if they do anything that looks suspicious. And keep them away from me and Mason.” She sat back. That sounded good. Nobody dying, and her alone with Mason. “That’s it. Oh, unless you can find out anything illegal or immoral about Gwen Goodnight. That would be good. Anything you can get on Gwen.” He didn’t look impressed so she added, “So I can protect Mason from her. And from Davy. It’s part of your job.”

  “Where are they?”

  “She runs the Goodnight Gallery,” Clea said and gave him directions. “That’s the last place I saw Davy, too.”

  “And if I have expenses?” Brown said.

  “Ronald will take care of it,” Clea said, standing. “Do you have a number where I can reach you?”

  “I’ll call you with one when I find a place to stay,” he said. “First I’ll need descriptions of these people.”

  Clea sat down again, not sure of how to get rid of him.

  “Well, Davy is about six feet, dark eyes, dark hair, good build” -she faltered there a little, remembering- “cocky as all hell, thinks he’s God. Gwen is about five four, blonde hair going gray, watery blue eyes, not much body, not much of anything, really. She runs the gallery.” She smiled at him, trying to look innocent. “I don’t know what Davy’s doing in town besides stalking me.”

  “Okay.” He hadn’t taken any notes, which was probably good. No evidence. Then he stood up to go, which was even better.

  “So you’ll call me if anything happens,” Clea said, following him to the door.

  “No,” he said. “If anything happens, I’ll stop it.”

  “Right,” Clea said. “Good man. Best of luck.”

  She closed the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief, both that he was gone and that he was going after Davy. God knew where Ronald had found him -Ronald must have depths she wasn’t aware of- but now that he had, her troubles were over.

  She did spare a thought for what he meant by “I’ll stop it,” but then she decided that since she hadn’t told him she wanted Davy dead in a ditch, it wouldn’t be her responsibility if he ended up there.

  All in all, a good morning. She started up the stairs to dress for the art museum and then slowed down. Breakfast. She had Thomas’s number somepl
ace. All you had to do to make life run smoothly was hire the right people, she decided.

  Really, it was so simple.

  SINCE IT WAS Saturday, Gwen slept late, but at noon she opened the gallery, poured herself a cup of coffee, punched up an eighties medley on the jukebox, got the last pineapple-orange muffin from the bakery bag, and took everything out into the gallery to the marble counter and her latest Double-Crostic. To her right, the sun streamed through the cracked glass pane above the display window, and the loose metal ceiling tile bounced silently in the breeze from the central air. She thought, I have been doing this for too many years, but there wasn’t much push to the observation since she was undoubtedly going to be doing it for too many more. She looked at the Finster-laden gallery and shook her head, and then bent over her puzzle.

  The clue for I was “liable or prone to sin.” What the hell was that? Eight letters, possibly starting with a P, definitely ending in an E. Nothing. She had nothing.

  Maybe Davy would know; he’d gotten the Milland movie. And she’d bet he had more than a passing knowledge of sin, too.

  Thunder boomed on the jukebox for the Weather Girls’ intro, the bell rang, and she looked up. The man coming in the door was taller and broader than Davy, his dark hair grizzled around his temples, his face seamed by hard living. “You have a room for rent?” he said, and his voice wasn’t as harsh as she’d expected, but it wasn’t gentle, either.

  “Uh, yes,” she said, trying not to step back. It wasn’t that he looked threatening as much as it was that he was so much there, blocking all the light from the street. “I’ll need references-”

  “Clea Lewis recommended you,” he said. “My name’s Ford Brown. You can call her.”

  “Oh.” Gwen let her eyes slide toward the phone. “Uh-”

  Then he took out his wallet and opened it and Gwen saw money. Lots of it.

  “Eight hundred a month,” she said. “Two months’ rent up front.”

  He counted out the bills, several of them hundreds, while she watched. Ben Franklin, she thought. Just lovely. Where the hell had Clea met this guy?

  “Are you from around here, Mr…”

  “Brown,” he said again. “No.”

  Gwen smiled at him, waiting.

  “I’m from Miami,” he said, handing her the bills.