by Jill Shure
&ldquoI&rsquom Betsy Ross. This is Arlene Silvers.&rdquo
Handsome with strong chiseled features, Bart had all the attributes of a movie star with his muscular physique and piercing green eyes. Unfortunately, even with high-heeled boots and a tall white Stetson, he probably needed a booster seat in restaurants.
&ldquoGuess you heard about Courtney,&rdquo I said.
Tears filled his eyes. &ldquoHard to believe anyone would hurt someone so perfect.&rdquo
Perfect for what? &ldquoIs this where you first met her?&rdquo
He studied me long and hard. &ldquoWish I could stick around and talk but I gotta run. If you&rsquore interested, my friends and I are having a real blowout next Thursday night. We could talk more then.&rdquo
&ldquoSure, sounds fine,&rdquo I said.
Arlene kicked me under the table. Bart scribbled the information on a cocktail napkin, tipped his hat, then disappeared into the crowd.
&ldquoGreat,&rdquo Arlene griped. &ldquoNow we&rsquore partying with a murder suspect.&rdquo
&ldquoRelax. Think of it as free food, a few laughs, and information which might keep me from a long prison sentence or a lethal injection.&rdquo
At that instant, we heard a final recorded guitar twang and the stage went dark again. Samba hurried down the stage steps, cut her way through the web of tables, and disappeared through a side curtain, which led to the restrooms.
&ldquoStay put. I&rsquoll be right back,&rdquo I told Arlene.
A minute later, I found Samba alone in the ladies room standing at one of two sinks, naked except for her G-string. Glancing around, it occurred to me that Courtney might&rsquove been changing clothes in one of these stalls after doing her set, when her attacker barged in. Somehow she&rsquod gotten away from him and made it out the window. But he&rsquod obviously caught up with her later.
Samba noticed me studying her and paused from fluffing her false eyelashes in the mirror. Placing a fist on her bare hip, she glared at me. &ldquoHoney, I hate to disappoint you, but I&rsquom straight. So take your business elsewhere.&rdquo
&ldquoNo, no, no. You have the wrong idea. I&rsquom not into that either. I just wanted to talk to you. Ask a few questions.&rdquo
&ldquoWell, I&rsquod love to hang around and exchange recipes, but I gotta take care of my tables.&rdquo
&ldquoPlease. I only need a minute or two. It&rsquos about Courtney Farrow&mdashI mean, Delilah.&rdquo
She paused and gave me a slow once-over. &ldquoDelilah, huh. You a friend of hers?&rdquo
&ldquoSort&rsquove. I just wanted to know about Sunday. If you saw her.&rdquo
She paused a moment to examine her handiwork then said, &ldquoSure. She barged in here around ten&mdashlate as usual. Then she gave Andy the bartender a hard time about seeing McDade.&rdquo
&ldquoYou&rsquore sure it was Sunday night?&rdquo
&ldquoYeah, it was Sunday night. It was a bitch, too, &rsquocause our guest dancer&mdashDotty Gable Flynn&mdashdidn&rsquot show up. Then Delilah refused to do her set because she needed to talk to McDade. So me and the other gal here ran our butts off trying to serve drinks and do four dancing sets, too.&rdquo
&ldquoWhy didn&rsquot McDade make Courtney&mdashI mean, Delilah&mdashwork?&rdquo
&ldquo&rsquoCause McDade had a thing for her. Though to hear him tell it, he threatened to fire her all the time. But then she&rsquod make it up to him. If ya know what I mean?&rdquo She tossed me a look.
&ldquoDelilah and McDade?&rdquo
&ldquoBig time. They&rsquod go back to his office and stay there for hours. Then the rest of us gals had to cover for her. McDade also made sure she got the best music, the best lighting, the best hours. I mean, that girl got Saturday nights off in a place like this.&rdquo
&ldquoWhat about the guys Delilah dated? Did you notice anyone special who showed up a lot or&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoHoney, you gotta understand. I&rsquom only here on weekends. I got two kids at home who need their mama. So I don&rsquot keep tabs on Delilah&rsquos men friends.&rdquo
I could tell Samba might have more to tell but didn&rsquot want to get mixed up in anything. &ldquoSo you never heard or saw anything unusual Sunday night?&rdquo
She frowned. &ldquoWhat do you mean by unusual? Is Delilah in some sort of trouble?&rdquo
I couldn&rsquot believe Samba hadn&rsquot heard. &ldquoThe police ... they found her body. She was burned to a crisp in a garage near her home. Everyone connected to her is being questioned.&rdquo
&ldquoJeez, Louise. No one told me.&rdquo Samba finished putting on her shorts and tube top, her waitress costume. Then she glanced up at the narrow window and made a face. &ldquoLook, I ain&rsquot someone who likes to speak bad about the dead. But dancing here was like a sideline to her. A place to meet the suckers. She was in and out of here all the time with different men.&rdquo
&ldquoDoesn&rsquot sound like you two were close.&rdquo
&ldquoDarlin&rsquo, my mama always said if you ain&rsquot got somethin&rsquo nice to say about somebody, make sure they don&rsquot hear about it. Cause that girl was a spiteful bitch. And conceited. She pranced around here like she was doin&rsquo us all a favor. Like she was better than the rest of us.&rdquo Samba glanced at her watch. &ldquoI gotta run.&rdquo
&ldquoWait, please. Is this the only dressing room?&rdquo
&ldquoAfraid so.&rdquo
I handed her my card and told her to call me if she remembered anything else.
Maybe I dealt with death and dismemberment. Maybe I don&rsquot always love what I do. But pulling out of the Dancin&rsquo Beauties parking lot that night, I felt like scrubbing every inch of myself with OxiClean and a Brillo pad.
Arlene and I headed to a 24-hour coffee shop in Mission Valley, down the road from my condo.
&ldquo... But why would anyone with money go to Dancin&rsquo Beauties? It&rsquos so low. So gross,&rdquo I said, taking a small bite of cheesecake.
&ldquoAre you nuts? Most guys would fly to Mars if they thought they could see someone naked besides their wives or girlfriends.&rdquo
&ldquoBut there are nicer places. Totally nude places,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoSo?&rdquo
&ldquoCourtney must&rsquove worried that somebody would recognize her one day. Someone who could tell everyone the truth,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoTell who? Us? I doubt she cared enough. And even if a guy threatened to do a news segment about her, she could&rsquove talked him out of it.&rdquo
&ldquoBy making threats?&rdquo
&ldquoOr dropping to her knees and promising eternal happiness.&rdquo
Had she promised Tommy that? And all the others? All the other men in her little book? Or had someone threatened to expose her and things got out of hand?
That night at home, I found three emails and three phone messages from Jasper. But when I tried to reach him, I got his voice mail again. I left him another message before turning out the lights and drifting into a troubled sleep.
At work the following week, more reminders about Courtney&rsquos policies showed up in my mailbox. Two were repeat lapse notices for nonpayment of premiums for her life and health policies. My company regarded these notices as opportunities to sell more coverage. A divorce in the family, sell. A kid graduates from college, sell. A girl loses her virginity, sell.
Along with the premium overdue notices, the home office had also included a few other forms. One for purchasing more life insurance. Another for car insurance quotes. And the last one for changing the beneficiary on a life insurance policy. I studied this last form wondering if Courtney had requested it. Or was it just another one of the company&rsquos ideas for selling more coverage?
&ldquoBy the way, I forgot to tell you, some guy dropped by the office a few days ago and asked about you,&rdquo Gwen, our office administrator, announced, biting into a burger the size of a Frisbee at her messy desk.
&ldquoWhat?&rdquo
&ldquoI said, a guy stopped by to see you.&rdquo
&ldquoAnd you&rsquore just telling me now?&
rdquo I said, struggling not to lose my temper.
I felt two ways about Gwen with her weight problems, troubled teenage daughters, and ex-husband who refused to pay child support. Part of me felt sorry for her. Another part of me wished she worked for the competition.
&ldquoI forgot,&rdquo she said flatly, dragging a curly fry through a pool of ketchup. &ldquoHe knows Lisa, I mean, Mrs. Marks, too.&rdquo
&ldquoDid Mrs. Marks see him? What day was this?&rdquo
Gwen shrugged her hefty shoulders. &ldquoMrs. Marks wasn&rsquot in. It could&rsquove been last Thursday, when I left early to get my nails done.&rdquo
Tommy? At least I hoped she meant him.
I studied her thick, plastic talons and imagined the food that probably got stuck in them. &ldquoWhat did he look like?&rdquo
She shrugged. &ldquoNot bad, I guess. Kind of hunky.&rdquo
&ldquoTall, short, dark, light?&rdquo
&ldquoHe was good looking. Good hair, nice clothes.&rdquo
&ldquoWell, what did you tell him? Is he coming back?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoMaybe. He just hung around and chatted for a while. He wanted to know when you usually got in and where you hung out,&rdquo she said, using her long acrylic pinkie nail to pick her teeth.
My heart sped up. I thought of my threatening note from the cigarette man. &ldquoI don&rsquot hang out anywhere.&rdquo
&ldquoOh, no? What about the Starbucks by your house?&rdquo
&ldquoYou told a total stranger where I get coffee?&rdquo
Gwen sighed irritably. &ldquoI already told you he wasn&rsquot a stranger. Besides,&rdquo she said, giving me a rude once-over, &ldquoI thought you could use the action. I mean, this guy was a ten. And you&rsquore used to what&mdashthrees?&rdquo
I studied Gwen. A loser. A mean, spiteful loser. Then I thought of what Lisa always said when I griped about Gwen.
She gets off on irritating you, because she&rsquos stuck out front doing clerical stuff for peanuts, and you&rsquore in sales making big bucks. Plus you&rsquore a size three and she has a boat manufacturer make her panties.
I smiled at Gwen to show she hadn&rsquot gotten to me. &ldquoThanks so much for your help.&rdquo Then I marched down the hall to the elevator but not soon enough to avoid hearing her mutter, &ldquoBitch.&rdquo
By the time I reached my car in the company garage, I reasoned that Gwen probably hadn&rsquot endangered my life by telling Tommy where I had coffee. Most likely, he&rsquod used the information to surprise me the other morning so he could pour out his heart about Courtney.
I slid behind the wheel, then spied a bright yellow paper trapped under my windshield wiper. One of those annoying flyers meant to entice you into a cheap lube job, carpet cleaning, or a cut-rate perm. Climbing out, I almost tossed it in the garbage. But curiosity made me check out the offer. Except this was no bold advertisement from a new nail salon. Someone had scribbled a note in what looked like a fourth-grader&rsquos hand. Return the blak book. Keep your mouthe shutt. Or you will be sorrie.
My hair actually stiffened. My eyebrows, too. My heart raced. And my mouth tasted like sandpaper. I hit the door lock switch and started the engine. Then I raked every inch of that small garage, where I&rsquod parked for eight years. Was the Marlboro man behind the pillar two cars down hiding in the shadows? Or crouched behind the wheel of the monster truck across from me? The one with huge wheels and a mean-looking front fender? A truck big enough to devour my Prius without belching. I sniffed the note paper. No cigarette smoke. And based on the author&rsquos spelling and sentence structure, I was dealing with a moron. Possibly a homicidal moron.
Two women entered the garage and headed for their cars. Then a well-dressed older man with a briefcase arrived and headed toward a new Lexus. Still, my Marlboro man might be here, watching. A cigarette lighter in one hand, a bottle of suntan oil in the other. Something flammable.
Heart racing, I pulled out.
Ten minutes later, I unlocked the four deadbolts on my door and staggered inside. I quickly scanned my living room/dining room/kitchen. No smoke, no intruder. Then my home phone rang. My heart rate shot through the roof. I staggered over to answer.
&ldquoWhat&rsquos up?&rdquo My cousin Jasper asked.
&ldquoWhere have you been?&rdquo I demanded.
&ldquoSingapore.&rdquo
I quickly filled him in on Courtney.
&ldquoI&rsquoll see what I can dig up about the late Miss Farrow. In the meantime, return that little book and keep a low profile,&rdquo Jasper said.
Somehow I had to return Courtney&rsquos lizard book without anyone, besides Arlene, Ken, Jasper, and the Marlboro man, knowing I had it. For the time being, I moved the plastic bag with the book from my flour canister to my tampon box on the floor of my bathroom.
&infin&infin&infin
The week flew by and Sunday afternoon, the day Sofia returned from camp, finally arrived. Anxious and excited, I pulled into the Oceanside bus station forty-five minutes early. I&rsquod been so keyed up over her return, I&rsquod stayed up late cleaning. I&rsquod scoured the tubs, washed down the tiles, scrubbed the floors, vacuumed, taken out the trash, cleared up the terrace, and emptied the refrigerator of items that might fetch a handsome price on Antiques Roadshow.
Now, standing in the sun, I waited with the other parents. Some had brought their whole family. In fact, the scene felt exceedingly normal. By normal, I mean the way things were back in Ohio in my mom and dad&rsquos neighborhood, when I was a kid overdosing on Bewitched, The Brady Bunch, and I Love Lucy reruns. So that my role models were all married women, with nice homes, loving respectable husbands, and healthy, precocious children with problems that could be solved in thirty minutes.
As a self-supporting, divorced mom, I don&rsquot exactly match this traditional image&mdashwhich I resent.
Two seconds later, Ken&rsquos Porsche pulled in. Strolling toward me, his divine physique accented by jeans and a tight black T-shirt, he didn&rsquot seem to notice the other moms doing double takes. Today, he had two beautifully wrapped gifts sticking out of a shopping bag.
Sticking my sweaty hands behind me, I managed a reserved hello. Because Ken hadn&rsquot asked me out for the second Saturday night in a row. Meaning he&rsquod probably hooked up with someone else after our breakup. Probably the quintessential California blonde with long, over bleached hair, Dolly Parton implants, and the brains of a rib eye. Still, I&rsquod refrained from spying on him since our recent reunion. So far.
Leaning over, Ken kissed my cheek and handed me one of the gifts.
&ldquoWhat&rsquos this for?&rdquo
&ldquoFor being a good mother. And hell in the sack.&rdquo
Boy, could he be charming. I shook the box. &ldquoCandy?&rdquo
&ldquoChocolate truffles.&rdquo
His favorites.
At last Sofia&rsquos bus pulled in. It seemed like she was the last child out. Frowning, she descended the steps. Today she wore her red striped shirt and jeans, exactly what she had on when she left three weeks ago. Tears filled my eyes. For an instant, I saw uncertainty on her face as she scanned the crowd for me. I started waving and calling her name. At last she spotted me. A broad smile crossed her face and she began to run, dodging her way through the crowd.
For the last three weeks I&rsquod fretted about her looking older. I imagined her bouncing down the bus steps in three-inch heels and a cocktail dress. Instead, I saw her hair, that shiny reddish brown mane that she fiddles with when she&rsquos nervous. Now it fell halfway down her back. Her permanent teeth had finally grown in, too, and they looked brilliantly white against her tanned skin. Though she&rsquod need braces soon for an overbite. She looked taller, too. Her legs looked like slender stems. At least she didn&rsquot need a bra yet, though I&rsquod sent several with her to camp to keep up with the other girls. I noticed all this just before she jumped into Ken&rsquos arms, and he swung her around, making her scream with glee. I laughed, delighted he could make her so happy. At last, she gave me a shy smile before throwing her
arms around my neck and kissing my cheek. We hugged for several glorious seconds before she pulled away. I felt immensely proud, and, like a moron, I let her see my tears.
&ldquoMom&rsquos at it again,&rdquo she griped, sounding less critical than normal.
After she pointed out her bags from the assortment settled on the sidewalk, Ken picked up her stuff and helped me load my car.
&ldquoSee you at Mario&rsquos,&rdquo he said. &ldquoThen we&rsquoll open this.&rdquo He held up the large wrapped gift he&rsquod brought for Sofia.
But as I climbed behind the wheel, Sofia said, &ldquoSo, is he staying for good this time or just sampling the goods?&rdquo
I studied her. She was only ten, but she sounded like Arlene, Lisa, and Tabitha. &ldquoWe&rsquore just ... friends. And he couldn&rsquot wait to see you. It was his idea to come today. So did you make any new friends?&rdquo
&ldquoTons. I told you in my letter.&rdquo
&ldquoWhat letter?&rdquo
&ldquoOh. You&rsquoll probably get it this week. So how&rsquos business?&rdquo
&ldquoExcellent. We can eat like pigs this month.&rdquo
She grinned. Then she stared down at a braided leather bracelet I&rsquod never seen before and said, &ldquoYou know, it isn&rsquot just about me, Mom. Ken loves you. I&rsquom just an excuse. He&rsquos just ... confused. But any day now, we&rsquore gonna be a family. I can feel it in my bones.&rdquo
&ldquoThat&rsquos all you are, skin and bones. You lost weight.&rdquo
Her eyes lit up. &ldquoPretty cool, huh?&rdquo
&ldquoYou don&rsquot need to lose weight.&rdquo
&ldquoNeither do you, but you&rsquore always on a diet.&rdquo
&ldquoGood to see you, Bubblegum,&rdquo I said, using her nickname. &ldquoSo what do you want to do this week? I mean, before we have to go shopping for school.&rdquo
&ldquoForget it. Don&rsquot even say it.&rdquo
&ldquoBut Mrs. Odetts called three times already. She&rsquos dying to see your tan and hear about all the great stuff you did.&rdquo