Dial M for Mascara

by Bevill, C. L.

  Without hesitation Mary Grace had clocked the person with her Prada purse and the gunshot missed, causing a chunk of pavement to explode upward. The person violently shoved her and she tumbled to the ground. Then someone else had yelled, “Hey!” Mary Grace had seen a black dressed figure running away, before she put her head back down on the pavement and waited for the other shoe to drop. Someone really was trying to murder her. Not someone who looked like her, or that she reminded them of someone else, but her, Mary Grace Castilla.

  Undeniably. Irrefutably. Absolutely. Murder was murder.

  Chapter Two – Friday, June 17th – Saturday, June 18th

  Using slices of cucumbers over the eyes at night will reduce wrinkles and are a delicious nighttime snack. – Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints

  Someone had most definitely yelled, and then while Mary Grace was lying on the ground, wondering if her Prada handbag had been irreplaceably damaged, a dark shape loomed over her. The looming had most undeniably been menacing. Or maybe she perceived the looming as menacing because someone had just shot at her, threatened her with a gun, and commanded that she, yes, Mary Grace herself, should die, followed by a very not nice name. Finally, Mary Grace had drummed up what was left of her courage and stated emphatically to the ominous loomer, “I’m wearing a pair of Jimmy Choo pumps and I’m not afraid to use them.”

  Jack Covington said, “What, you’ll bean me with your shoes?”

  Suddenly, an alarm started to blare and Mary Grace realized that it was coming from a nearby business. “They’re cream dotted leather pumps, Jack,” she said wrathfully. “A gift from my Aunt Maria in New York and she’s the only one in my family who’s allowed to buy me any kind of clothing. They’re lethal at five feet. You should hear the horror stories about men killed with deadly shoes. They’re not pretty.”

  “You want me to help you up?” Jack said, with an underlying tone of amusement readily apparent. The amusement was mixed with something Mary Grace couldn’t identify. “You don’t sound like you’ve been shot,” he added helpfully.

  “I could be bleeding to death and you’re probably worried about liability,” she snarled.

  “Not really,” Jack said oddly. Then he’d helped her up and Mary Grace got a feel of his biceps under the oxford shirt he was wearing and was mildly surprised herself. Lots of firm bulging muscle there. He let her stand there and whipped out a cell phone to call the police. However, above the incessant whine of the nearby security alarm, she could already hear sirens rapidly approaching.

  Someone else rushed up in the shadows and said, “Christ all mighty, did you hear that? It wasn’t a car backfire, Jack, it was…oh, hey, Mary Grace.”

  Mary Grace saw that the other person was Trey Kennebrew, one of the other graphic artists for the company. He was young, incredibly cute, and seemed hopelessly naïve. He whipped blonde hair out of his ever so blue eyes and peered at Mary Grace. “She doesn’t look too bad,” he said to Jack. Trey’s eyes dipped down to her feet. “Your Jimmy Choos are scuffed.”

  “Did you call the police?” Jack asked.

  “Nope,” Trey said. “The bullet must have ricocheted. It got a car window and then went into another building. You know that big window that the auto restoration specialist has? Well, had, anyway. The windows gone and their alarm system is going off like a motherfu-uh. Well, it’s very loud. I think he’s going to be really pissed about the hole in his ’68 Camero.”

  Another person appeared. She said, “What in God’s name is going on around here? Was that a gun I heard?” Her name was Lolita Lewis, the owner of a dry cleaning business two doors down from Pictographs. Tall, lithe and a shoulder length bob of caramel colored hair, she was also undeniably gorgeous.

  Not particularly caring about windows, alarms, or ’68 Cameros, Mary Grace later found herself sitting in the seat of a police cruiser, contemplating her life and the way she looked in the mirror. Dog poo, she thought. My life has turned into dog poo. And that might be insulting dogs. And maybe their poo, too.

  Over her shoulder she saw Jack talking to a plain clothes detective and Trey was hitting on a shapely blonde patrol officer. Lolita was chatting to a fireman. None of them had volunteered their reasons for their presence on a Friday night, but Mary Grace bet the detective was asking.

  If she looked down she could have seen her Prada handbag, abysmally torn on one handle. Not only that if she looked further down, she could have seen that her Jimmy Choo’s were indeed scuffed and weren’t magically getting un-scuffed anytime soon. Crème dotted leather pumps didn’t ‘do’ scuffs.

  Mary Grace summed it up. Scrape on my face, nose still aches sometimes, bump on the side of my head from exploding Beamer. And Goddammit, my Prada is categorically trashed. She wasn’t sure about the Jimmy Choos, but she’d be damned and roasting weenies in hell before she wore her Manolos to work again. Furthermore, she was going to lock her Ferragamos in a safe. Not only that but she was going to sue the son of a bitch who had tried to kill her. Just let someone attempt murder and ruin her best handbag and cushiest shoes in the process. No judge would dare deny Mary Grace. After all, all she had to do was to show Hizzonner the evidence-one wretchedly ruptured Prada bag and one pair Jimmy Choos, heartbreakingly scoured from meeting up with asphalt. Hah. The twisted twerp would be locked under the jail for the rest of his natural born life.

  Frederick Brogan, Dallas Police Department, strolled up to the side of the cruiser and peered in at Mary Grace. “So, Ms. Castilla, slumming tonight?”

  Mary Grace lost the last of her fragile composure. She swore at him in Italian, only pausing to reinvent the language when she ran out of adjectives and her repertoire. When she was done coalescing words that should have never been combined, she thought about it and sighed brokenly.

  Brogan smiled at her. Flat-nosed and angled chin bones didn’t look like much at first glance, but when he smiled, the years disappeared and the edges softened into something eye-catching. Mary Grace abruptly realized that the police officer was closer to forty than he was to fifty. And his rough-hewn features weren’t exactly ugly, but more…oh, uh…striking. “Did you just call me a horse’s aunt’s twisted knickers in Italian?” he said.

  Staring at his features in the blinking lights, Mary Grace didn’t know exactly how to respond. Brogan knows Italian? With a name like Brogan? How much more Irish can you get? Instead of answering his question, she said pertly, “This is Arlington, Detective, aren’t you a little out of your territory?”

  “Buddy of mine,” he said succinctly.

  “Huh?” Mary Grace silently berated herself. Years of practicing witty responses to potential mates and all she could say was, ‘Huh?’ The next thing she knew she would be blubbering about who her first period teacher was and why Mary Grace hated his guts.

  “Not too many Beamers blow up into smithereens in driveways these days. I have an old friend on the Arlington PD who recognized your name from the write-ups. Gave me a call about your little visitor.” Brogan checked her out, his eyes shooting down her form and noting all with a meticulous look that hadn’t been present when he’d spoken to her previously.

  “My little visitor,” Mary Grace scoffed. “That rotten, no-good, dirt-sucking, scuzbutton, no account…” Abruptly she ran out of adjectives. Then she said vehemently, “The guy is a solid ten on the ABS.”

  “ABS,” Brogan repeated.

  “Asshole Behavior Scale,” Mary Grace explained.

  “Oh-oh, someone’s going to have to go to confession in church on Sunday,” Brogan said and for a moment she thought he was serious.

  “It’s so worth it,” she growled.

  “So,” Brogan said as he leaned against the open door. His right arm was braced on the top of the police cruiser so he could tilt his head in a little closer to Mary Grace. “Someone maybe tried to kill you again.”

  Sarcasm, Mary Grace realized, is the defense of a tired scared woman. “You think?”

  Brogan stared directly into her eyes. She
stared back. He had brown eyes. Eyes like a puppy dog. Mary Grace caught herself before she sank into a bottomless pit. JUMP back, Mary Grace, what are you thinking about? Puppy dog eyes. Attila, the killer poodle without a tail, has puppy dog eyes.

  “Well, he had a gun. He shot at me. He slugged me. Then he cocked the gun again and he said something really nasty,” Mary Grace snapped. She was doing a lot of snapping, snarling, growling, and cursing lately. As a matter of fact, she was certain that she had been possessed by the ghost of a viper-tongued demon who had the self-control of a two year old toddler. It didn’t bode well for her next visit to the church, but Father Patrick had probably heard much worse.

  “You’re certain he was a he?” Brogan asked calmly. His eyes focused on the scrape on her cheek. He deftly removed a cloth handkerchief from a pocket and handed it to her. Mary Grace looked at it and then used it to blot the blood off.

  “It was dark?” Mary Grace said lamely. “I didn’t ask for gender credentials. He sounded like…um, hmm.” Come to think of it, she hadn’t gotten a very good look at the person. It could have been a tall woman. The voice had been middle of the road. It was possible. Then she realized her dilemma. She still had no idea who was trying to kill her, much less why he or she would try to do so. “I don’t know for sure,” she admitted. “He or she had something over his or her head. It could have been anyone.”

  “Okay,” Brogan said. “What did the guy, or girl, say to you?”

  “That’s the part that really pisses me off,” Mary Grace declared. Then she told Brogan what had been said. Brogan frowned.

  Brogan started to ask her something else when an Arlington detective called him aside. Mary Grace could hear some of their conversation. The Arlington detective didn’t like Brogan questioning Mary Grace before he could do so. Brogan flashed Mary Grace an apologetic look and meandered off with a shrug.

  Then the Arlington detective, a barrel-chested man named Victor Bloodsaw, questioned her for some thirty minutes before he thought he had enough information. Basically, he asked the same things. Enemies, ex-lovers, ex-boyfriends, ex-ex’s, vindictive co-workers, la de dah dah dah. Mary Grace covered the four boyfriends; Ivan’s record of knocking multiple women up apparently impressed Detective Bloodsaw as much as it had Brogan. Her parents were retired in Florida and apparently unconnected to mafia, blood feuds, smuggling of illegal llamas or spitting out of bubble gum on sidewalks. Furthermore, Mary Grace was certain that she didn’t know any psychopaths. Or if she did know any psychopaths, she didn’t know they were psychopaths because they were apparently very effective and secretive psychopaths.

  When Bloodsaw was done, Jack and Trey came back to her, followed by Lolita. Trey said, “So what’s clackalacking? Are we down for some playtime in da crib? Do we know who the freak-nasty is who wanted to punch a hole in your bagos?”

  Jack said, “What’s a bago?”

  Trey covered his chest with his hands, cupping imaginary breasts and said very slowly and with suggestive tone, “Winne-bagos.” Mary Grace and Jack stared at Trey. Lolita’s eyes rolled. Finally, he explained, “Large, recreational, fun to play with?”

  Mary Grace sighed. “Someone’s going to sue you one of these days, Trey. Sexual harassment. You’re going to jail. You’re going to become some big hairy guy’s bitch.”

  Trey’s mouth opened and then shut. “Jack, I think that’s the first time I ever heard Mary Grace curse.”

  “What are you doing here, Trey?” Mary Grace said softly.

  “Huh? I forgot my BlackBerry. I need to call my wimmen and tell them to get all hootchie-fied and meet up with me in Deep Elem. There’s this guy who tickles the ivories like the piano was his mommy.” Trey tried to leer at Mary Grace and failed abysmally. “But you can get hootchie-fied and come instead.”

  Mary Grace practiced a look she’d gotten from her mother, the time that Mary Grace had been seventeen and had come home two hours past curfew with grass in her hair and her sweater on backwards. Oh, God, she thought. I’m turning into my mother. “I’ll pass, Trey. You make me feel like I’m a hundred. I don’t think I could keep up.”

  Trey shrugged, looking hopefully at Lolita. When the older woman glared demonstratively at him, he shrugged again. “I’m bouncing. Later, boys and girls.”

  They watched him leave and Jack said slowly, “He makes me feel old, too. Like I missed something.” He turned to look at Mary Grace. “You need a ride home?”

  She nodded.

  Lolita muttered something about Mary Grace being more careful before she sidled back to the fireman she had been talking with before.

  •

  While Jack helped Mary Grace into his car, Brogan watched them and made sure that Jack knew that he was watching them. Mary Grace hadn’t noticed. She appeared to be very tired and kept looking dejectedly at her shoes for some reason that Brogan didn’t get.

  Brogan followed one Jonathon William Covington and one Mary Grace Elizabeth Castilla to her residence near downtown Dallas. He watched as Jack helped Mary Grace out of his Saturn Vue and escorted her to the door. There Jack made a big show of checking the windows and doors and finally letting Mary Grace go inside by herself.

  Brogan continued to watch as Jack returned to his car and sat inside for approximately two minutes. They both watched Mary Grace’s shadow moving around various rooms of her house as lights systematically came on until the house was as bright as Macy’s front window on Christmas Eve. Finally, Jack started his Saturn up and drove off. Brogan was loath to follow. Not only was he loath, but he didn’t think he’d get much out of it, even if he was un-loath. Jonathon Covington’s record appeared so clean that he probably could pull white laundry out of his asshole. Instead, Brogan kept a wary eye on Mary Grace’s house. As it turned out, she left the lights on all night.

  No one approached the house except a lady with a tailless poodle. The lady with the poodle let the dog take a dump on Mary Grace’s front lawn and blatantly broke the pet owner laws of the great city of Dallas by obviously leaving the poo where it had landed. Brogan abruptly remembered her name. Mrs. Frasier was Mary Grace’s neighbor and her poodle had been the only casualty in the BMW explosion. More accurately the poodle’s tail had been the only casualty.

  Brogan didn’t think he cared to arrest Mrs. Frasier or her poodle for violating the city municipal codes on the proper disposition of doggy tootsie-rolls.

  Then Mary Grace appeared on her front doorstep, dressed in a blue silk robe, and her long black hair hanging down her back. She winced as she bent over to retrieve the Saturday newspaper and Brogan wondered what else was bruised on her body besides the little scrape on her cheek.

  Suddenly, the sun caught Mary Grace in its dappled yellow-strewn grasp, silhouetting her luscious curves which were covered so lightly by the delicately flowing garment. It was a delicately flowing garment that happened to become nearly transparent with the light’s full force behind it.

  Brogan sat straight up and said a loud prayer of thanksgiving for his optical bounty. Mary Grace, for lack of a better phrase, was stacked. Lord, her figure was like that of a Playboy model. Then his innate maleness took over and added a few choice phrases. Built like a brick shithouse, a comfort station, ya-ya’s that make a guy jump up and beg for mercy.

  Not that Brogan was a boob-man. He appreciated the whole package in a woman. Mary Grace was a perfect example. She was apparently a nice lady who worked hard for a living and didn’t have a lot to hide in her closet. No record on the twenty-eight year old college arts grad from University of Texas in Arlington. Not even a freaking speeding ticket. Not even a parking ticket. She was nice. Her neighbors thought well of her. (Except Mrs. Frasier, and that was only because she blamed Mary Grace for having an explosive BMW in her driveway.) She didn’t have loud and raucous parties on weeknights. Or weekends for that matter.

  Brogan grimaced as he watched Mary Grace straighten up. Her blue-black hair tumbled down her buxom chest as she perused the headlines of the folded
newspaper. She hesitated, with her lovely form turned half away from his gaze. He couldn’t stop staring. After a moment, he figured that if anyone saw him they would decide he was a blithering, drooling pervert surreptitiously parked down the street from the adorable girl at number 1576 on Bayou Moon Avenue.

  By the time Mary Grace meandered back inside her cottage and despite a so-called cold front that had washed over north Texas, Brogan was dripping with sweat. Hell, it’s only in the low 70s outside, he thought irately. What is it about this woman?

  Brogan had been divorced for five years, dated infrequently, and devoted himself to his job and to his son, Jason. Jason was eighteen years old and was starting his freshman year at Texas A&M in the fall. It was the first time in Jason’s life that he would be away from his parents. Brogan’s ex, Dana, was a lawyer. Figure that shit out, Brogan, he told himself. Why would anyone want to marry a mouthpiece? He’d been twenty-one at the time and Dana a year younger. They’d had a child immediately and started arguing shortly afterwards. Married too damn young. But they’d stuck it out for the same old tired reason. Jason.

  It had been a tolerable marriage up until a point. The point was when attractive, titian-haired Dana had worked her way through pre-law, law school, and started clerking at the courthouse. She’d hooked up with another lawyer and even Brogan had read the writing on the wall. A happy marriage they hadn’t had. It had long passed the time when they should have divorced. So they explained it to thirteen year old Jason, who turned out to be much wiser than both of them had given him credit for. Upon hearing the ‘D’ word announcement, Jason had said, “God, it’s about time. Maybe you’ll both be happier now.”