by Patrice Lyle
Now if only I could prove to myself that he wasn't a heartless murderer.
I put on a sad face. "I guess I won't be allowed to come here next year."
He tilted his head. "Why?"
"They don't want any doctors. Only psychics." Which brought me to my next question. "Why'd you come to this expo?"
"I've always wanted to come to Florida, and I did a tattoo for this tarot reader in Dallas. She was the one who suggested the expo where I met Mystic Ming. She said my art was so cool that I should market my work to other tarot readers. I did some research and found this show."
Perfect lead-in. "Did you know Mystic Ming would be here?"
"Heck no." He laughed. "Except for that one show in Dallas, I'm not familiar with any of this psychic stuff."
Relief swam through me. He hadn't come here with the intent to harm Mystic Ming…right? Could I trust what he said?
"When Mervyn said Mystic Ming was telling people not to get tattoos, I wondered if I'd made the right move coming here." He picked up my hands and pressed them to his lips. "But after meeting you, I'm glad I did."
His comment hung between us, and my heart warred within. I'd forgotten about Mervyn's comment. If Mystic Ming thwarted Tattoo Tex's sales, would that be a strong enough motive? Was I standing next to a killer?
This amateur PI stuff isn't as fun as TV makes it seem.
He released my hands, as if sensing the moment between us was gone. "You still want to go on a walk?"
I was safe because the beach was a public place, and a few early morning walkers dotted the shoreline. Plus Tattoo Tex was hot and stirred more romantic notions in my heart than any other man, which had to mean something, but was it smart to get carried away with him?
Aw, what was one walk?
"Sure." I pointed toward the ocean. "Let's go."
"All righty, ma'am."
We strolled toward the shore clasping hands. I checked my reflection in the hotel windows. My DNA was the same as yesterday, but I felt different. Tattoo Tex energized me and made me feel comfortable being me.
I didn't worry about being too blonde or too chocolate-obsessed.
Or causing a freaking stye.
I let out a breath. I was just being hyper-vigilant with the case. Tattoo Tex had fed Brownie shredded lettuce from his hand in a restaurant, and Brownie had wolfed the lettuce without any hesitation. If Aunt Alfa were right about my piglet reading auras, wouldn't Brownie have bitten off his fingers instead?
Besides, murder hadn't been officially proven anyway. Babette could have been lying about that too.
Once we hit the sand, the salty breeze blew past us, ruffling my hair. He laughed and played with a strand near my face. The sun glinted off his happy eyes.
Such a handsome sight.
"You a walker or a jogger, doc?"
I pointed to my left knee. "Power walker. I pulled my IT band a couple of years ago, and it doesn't like jogging."
He laughed. "I was hoping you'd say that. I never liked running."
"Walking is my perfect form of exercise."
"Whatever you say, doc."
The way he said doc made my heart smile. I liked how he trusted me. Such a refreshing change from the constant arguments with Floyd. We picked up the pace and power-walked alongside the waves rolling onto the shore. I pulled a rhinestone hair clip from my pants pocket and wound my hair up.
"You should have warned me, doc." The goofy expression on his face told me he was joking.
I poked his arm. "Warned you about what?"
He eyed my hair carefully, every strand lingering in his gaze. "Sure do like them sexy sparkles."
Words I'd longed to hear from Floyd. Moments with Tattoo Tex were effortless, requiring no sparkle, chocolate, or pending-stye stress. Plus he looked so hot in his workout gear.
I had the best beach walk of my life that morning. The sun. The surf. The sand. And a guy who appreciated who I was.
No way was he a killer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Clocked With an Old Lady Purse
Tattoo Tex and I strode into the Manatee Inn and headed toward the elevators. People milled around the lobby, drinking free coffee and eating frosted pastries and doughnuts. No quinoa cereal to be seen. I wished the hotel industry would provide a greater variety of healthy snacks, but that wasn't my battle for today.
Today, I planned to force the truth out of the delivery kid at China King.
Babette held court in the corner with a small crowd of reporters surrounding her. The maniacal grin on her face and wild flapping arm gestures annoyed me. My anger flared as the elevators doors slid open, and we stepped inside. Babette will do anything for attention. She doesn't care if Aunt Alfa spends her golden years behind bars.
Tattoo Tex punched the buttons and looked at me. "That Babette woman seems more like a circus director than a psychic."
Jock Cowboy was a perceptive man. "You got that right." I sent Aunt Alfa a quick text. Stay in the room. Don't come down to the lobby.
"You let Aunt Alfa know to stay put?"
"Yeah. I don't want her to get bombarded by this mob." Not that Aunt Alfa couldn't handle herself. But what about Brownie?
Tattoo Tex glanced at his watch. "How long 'til you're ready?"
A flashback to my LBJC (Life before Jock Cowboy) hit me, and I flinched. Floyd used to ask me that same question every time we had a sleepover, even when he knew the answer. I was always honest with my response, which made the situation worse. The conversation would end with him being disgusted and me being upset.
I braced myself against the mirrored wall and prepared for the big relationship moment. "Maybe an hour?"
Tattoo Tex's eyebrows lifted. "You can get that gorgeous in just an hour?"
Aw. My insides mushed like overcooked pasta, and all I could do was smile. He had no idea how his words impacted me. And I wasn't going to discuss Floyd because I'd read numerous relationship articles, and they all said bringing up ex-boyfriends was a bad idea.
So I flashed him a dopey grin.
He reached for my hands and dotted my knuckles with kisses. "You're amazing, doc. Text me when you're ready?"
"Sure." Wow, what a difference a man made. Stupid Floyd.
The elevator stopped at Tattoo Tex's floor, and he exited. The elevator continued and stopped at my floor. A feeling of freedom overwhelmed me because I wouldn't have to rush getting ready. I hated hurrying through my Sparkle O makeup application. Especially today. It was my inaugural interrogation. With Tattoo Tex.
I had to look good.
My phone dinged when I arrived outside my door. Aunt Alfa texted me.
Mervyn picked me up. We're on our way to some flea market that sells cheap bifocals (for Mervyn, not me). I wore my disguise out of the hotel so don't worry. Oh, and we took Brownie.
Great. Stay gone until I tell you to return, I texted back. At least I won't have to worry about you today.
Hopefully.
I hustled inside and began my morning beauty routine. Sixty-seven minutes later, I was showered, dressed, haired, and made up. And most importantly relaxed. Not having to obsess about time was incredible. It would probably add years to my life. I blasted some anti-frizz spray onto my locks, hoping no one would mention a dung-beetle hair day, and emerged from the bathroom ready to question a liar.
I was slipping into my silver-sequined sandals when my auntie texted again.
This flea market sucks. Merv just bought one of those stupid As-Seen-on-the-Tube contraptions. An alarm clock that makes pancakes. Better be gluten and dairy-free pancakes, or I'm not eating any. The only good thing here is a booth of leopard-print, crotchless panties.
I scrunched my face. Weren't thongs kind of crotchless? But again, too much info.
She fired off another text. Forgot my manners, Pipe, because I never asked about your beach walk with Jock Cowboy? How was it?
I laughed about her interpretation of manners and texted, Incredible. Best beach walk of my life
. We were gone for almost two hours.
A minute passed before she responded with, Happy to hear that. That man is one hot dude. Hey, the crotchless panties booth also has some of those banana hammocks. I'm going to buy one for Mervyn. There are red, banana yellow, forest green, teal, and a metallic leopard print. Want me to pick one up for Jock Cowboy?
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. No, but thanks for asking.
She must have been bored because she texted again. Good luck on the case today. I'm so glad Mervyn and Tattoo Tex aren't suspects. Wouldn't that suck?
Totally, I responded.
I felt a bit guilty for lying, but I didn't want to tell her about Tattoo Tex's peanut-oil-fueled truck. The information was irrelevant, and my heart knew he was innocent. If he weren't, Detective Fifi would have questioned him again by now.
Unfortunately, the last time I spoke to Detective Fifi, the only viable suspect was my auntie.
My stomach quivered. The responsibility to rescue her was enormous. More pressure than saving lives at my practice. Then it hit me.
I was saving a life. Hers.
My phone dinged again. Have a good day, Pipe. Love u.
Love you too, I typed with a shaky hand. Then I texted Tattoo Tex and told him I was ready. He responded with, I'll be right up, doc.
A few seconds later someone knocked on the door. I peered through the peephole, and Tattoo Tex's six-foot lusciousness came into view.
I opened the door and eyed his black shirt, khaki shorts, and, of course, his cowboy hat. "You look nice."
He eyed me up and down. "You look incredible, doc. Nice digs."
"Thanks." I'd chosen a white eyelet skirt and a jewel-encrusted hot pink tank top for the occasion. "I love this outfit."
"Me too." He dipped his hat toward me. "You ready to question this punk?"
I laughed. "Come on, make my day."
He threw his head back laughing. "You like Dirty Harry, too? That's so cool."
I smiled as I grabbed my purse. Then I locked up, and we headed to his truck. Climbing into the cab in a skirt that rested two inches above my knees was harder to accomplish than most yoga positions. But Tattoo Tex was a complete gentleman and lifted me in without so much as a brush against my derriere.
Darn Texan gentleman.
He flashed me a smile that made me wish he drove a van with a bed in back—and dark curtains over the windows—before he fired up the truck and pulled out of the parking lot.
The man was fire-roasted jalapeno hot.
I fidgeted with my tank top, feeling suddenly warm, and peered at the gas gauge. "Does the peanut oil register like gas?"
"Sure does, doc." Then he gushed some more about his engineering feat of accomplishment. He finished with, "Took me a while, but I didn't stop until I got it right. I never give up."
Murder weapon aside, it was impressive.
As was he.
I ogled him with my peripheral vision as he drove us to China King. The town of Manatee was small. We passed clusters of palm trees, a tiny city hall, a bank, and a couple of churches before pulling into the parking lot of China King.
"Wait thar." He killed the ignition, hopped out, and circled around to my side. "Here you go, doc."
Aw. He helped me out like I was a visiting dignitary.
"Thanks." I could get used to being treated like this.
He beeped the truck locked, and we headed for the door. China King looked like a greasy Chinese food dive that had a picture-menu on the wall. Eeww. I hated those because it meant the chef probably cooked with MSG.
Tattoo Tex opened the glass door, and I strode inside. A middle-aged man in a red polo shirt with bad skin stood behind the counter staring at the door.
"Hi," I said as we approached him. "I'm Dr. Piper Meadows, and I'd like to talk to your delivery guy, please."
His thin brown eyebrows scrunched. "Me too considering he didn't show up today, and now I'll have to make the delivery runs."
A frisson of fear shot through me, and Tattoo Tex shot me a questioning glance. Was it a coincidence, or was something sinister going on? Like had the delivery guy killed Mystic Ming, stayed around long enough to implicate my aunt, and was now fleeing to Canada?
"Did he call in sick?" Tattoo Tex asked, sounding incredibly official.
"No, he didn't call at all," the man said. "The boss says he's AWOL."
"Has he ever not shown up before?" I stepped forward, making eye contact so I could prepare to interrogate him. I wasn't usually so in-your-face with people, but the flashcards recommended the tactic.
The man shook his head.
"Think you can tell me where he lives?"
The man hesitated. "I'm not sure my boss would want me giving out that kind of information."
"What if I throw in a free health consultation?" I wasn't usually one to utilize bribery, but I had a murder to solve.
The man eyed me warily.
"She's one of those natural doctors." Tattoo Tex elbowed me. "Tell him, doc."
I launched into my Health Nut Rock spiel while I retrieved a brochure from my purse—always had one with me—and handed it to him.
Finally the guy shrugged. "Okay, sounds fair," he said.
I pointed at my brochure. "Call me at that number next week, and we'll set something up via Skype."
"Thanks." He lifted my note and scribbled out an address and phone number on the next page. He tore the paper off and handed it to me.
I glanced at it. "Van or Vanessa?" That was a girl's name.
"He goes by both, depending on the day." He pointed at a yellow apron hanging from a spoke on the wall behind the register. "He's a nice guy, but a bit confused. Don't be surprised if he's dressed as a girl and wearing a long, dark wig and yellow dress."
Interesting. Then it hit me. That could explain Charles' odd reaction to Tattoo Tex's question about where Charles had driven the lady.
"Does he ever wear yellow sandals?" I asked.
"Yeah, what you girls call a bling pair."
Holy turkey bologna. Was Van the mystery woman?
* * *
"That's Patterson Drive thar." Tattoo Tex pointed at the street sign as we turned down the narrow road lined with rundown apartments. "And that's unit 200D."
I squinted at the old four-plex. Its brown paint peeled from the frame in depressing clumps. An overturned garbage can flowing with Chinese takeout containers and floral-print thrift store dresses lay in the driveway. A torn yellow recliner with foam bulging from the armrests and a twin mattress covered with dirt decorated the front lawn. Eeww.
"Poor Van," Tattoo Tex said. "He must have fallen on tough times." Jock Cowboy's concern sounded genuine. Had he suffered a financial hardship? I was curious but decided he would tell me when he was ready.
I opened my door when Tattoo Tex put the truck in park. "I hope Van's home." An uneasy feeling covered me like a sequined velvet cape.
Worry settled into the creases near Tattoo Tex's eyes, and he blew out a breath that didn't reek of Floyd's garlicky hummus. His peppermint scent was a welcome change. "He could be at the police station giving a statement."
"I actually hope he is."
He locked eyes with me. "Me too."
I waited for Tattoo Tex to assist me out of the truck. We approached Van's apartment and knocked on the door. Nobody answered.
"Maybe you should give him a call, doc."
"Good idea." I retrieved my phone and dialed the number. I turned on the speaker so we could both hear.
A classical music ring-tone blasted from somewhere inside the apartment. Under normal circumstances, I loved a good dose of Beethoven, but today it gave me the creeps.
I shivered despite the balmy Florida heat. "That has to be Van's cell phone."
A quizzical expression crossed Tattoo Tex's face. "No one leaves home without a cell phone these days."
I prayed Van would pick up the phone. He was probably in the bathroom or getting dressed perhaps? Surely he would answer. A
fter four more rings, a breathy woman's voice answered. We leaned in to listen to the recorded greeting.
"Hi there, and thanks for calling. You've reached Van or Vanessa, depending on my mood. If I'm Van, I'm watching football and drinking a beer. If I'm Vanessa, I'm doing my hair and makeup. So leave a message, and I'll call you later." The message ended with a girly giggle.
Tattoo Tex raised an eyebrow. "Babette said delivery guy, right?"
"Yeah, but the China King worker said Van dressed as a woman sometimes." A woman with fab taste in shoes. "Dare I try the doorknob?" I thought of my flashcards. "Is it considered breaking and entering if we're concerned about someone's safety?"
"I wouldn't reckon so." Tattoo Tex twisted the knob, and the door creaked open. "Definitely won't be breaking in because the door's unlocked."
"That's not a good sign." My pulse raced as I stuck my head into the entryway. "Hello? Is anyone home? Van, are you all right?"
"Hello thar?" Tattoo Tex cupped his hand by his ear and leaned over the threshold. "I don't hear anythang."
"Me either."
We scanned the living room, and nothing looked odd. Except for the furniture, that was. A faded orange floral couch dominated the room and was flanked by a couple of grubby lawn chairs. The fringed-shade on the lamp dated back to the sixties as did the pea-green shag carpet.
I gazed at the TV. The cracked screen made me wonder if it was turned off or broken. "Maybe Van went for a walk and forgot to lock up?"
Tattoo Tex gripped my shoulder and pointed toward the kitchen. My pulse raced when I saw someone's feet peeking out from the other side of the wall…wearing a pair of yellow Sparkle O sandals. Holy chocolate babka. Instinct took over, and I ran into the kitchen.
I crouched beside Van and gasped. The woman Charles had been arguing with and the one who'd run from me in the hallway, Van, or Vanessa, was lying on his back wearing a yellow sundress, a slightly askew long black wig, and the face of death.
With my medical training, I'd recognize that pale grayish hue anywhere.
"He's dead." I reached for Van's wrist. Coolness seeped into my fingers, and goose bumps pebbled my arms. "Probably for a few hours at least."