"I have a stylist," he told me, when he saw me eyeballing his clothing. "Do you?"
"No, I'm naturally stylish."
"Oh. That's very honest of you. Your dress is pretty and I like your bag. Claire loved bags."
"Claire?" I prompted. Not that I didn’t want to hear how good I looked — I told myself a bunch of times already that I looked great in my ankle-length pants and sweet collar blouse, changed into with only minutes to spare, and I wasn't even being vain — but dropping a female name within a minute of our date’s introduction was a really bad start.
"My ex," said Marty.
Yep, bad start. While waiting for him to get uncomfortable with the silence before breaking it, I checked out his hair. A full head, thinning, but no bald spots. Also receding, but not too obviously. No visible hair products. A good sign. All the same, I edged the candle on our table away. One could never be too careful.
"She's so beautiful," he continued. "One in a million. Very stylish. Like you."
"Um... thank you. I think." Way to go on the compliments, Marty. Here was a guy who knew how to make a woman feel like a million bucks. I checked out my reflection in the restaurant's curiously mirrored wall. Heck, who needs Marty? I could inflate my own ego just fine. I gave my hair a quick smooth and blew myself a little kiss.
"We broke up six months ago. That's when I joined the agency," Marty explained, never noticing me fluttering my eyelashes at myself. "Claire wouldn't approve. She thinks dating agencies are too artificial. She thinks everyone should meet naturally. Fate. We met in a park. We were both admiring the roses. She gardens, you know."
"How lov..."
"She can grow anything. Do you have a garden?"
"I..."
"Claire thinks everyone should grow something."
I wondered if she thought Marty should grow a backbone, but I didn't say it. One of us had to be the polite date. It was like good cop, bad cop, except we were good date, crap date. I discreetly yawned and fanned the menu, wondering if it was impolite to eat and run. Maybe Solomon or Flaherty could take over for dessert? Then I could go home and become a nun, if this was the quality of the agency's offerings. The one good learning experience that came out of this case for me, was the knowledge that I couldn't settle with a man just for his money. No, it didn't matter how many millions Marty won, he was definitely not the man for me. Not that I was actually looking for a man. It was just a happy coincidence that I met Ben Rafferty and Lord Justin Camberwell on the case, and that both were dashing, handsome and rich... oh yeah, and potential thieves. Crap.
"Wine?" Marty asked.
"No, you aren't whining at all," I murmured.
Marty looked up. "Pardon?"
"You pick the wine." I smiled and Marty gave me a little frown before returning his gaze to the wine list.
"Red," he decided, after a few quiet moments. "It'll go great with our steaks."
"Our steaks?"
"Claire and I ordered steak the first time we came here. It was amazing. I'm sure you'll like it. Actually, this is our place."
Oh, bravo, Marty, I thought, heaving a sigh. Take your newest date to "your" place. Nice. "I was actually thinking about the chicken."
"Oh no. Oh no, no, no. You must have the steak. Claire raves about it."
I had to wonder where the hell Claire was if she liked the steak so much. "Where is Claire?"
"We split up. She's my ex. You know, I'd really rather not talk about my ex. We are on a date, Lexi, you and I," Marty chastised, narrowing his eyes at my apparent rudeness, which made me wonder if he were just plain ignorant, stupid, rude, or all three. What a trio!
On the plus side, at least he noticed we were on a date. I was starting to wonder if he thought I was a therapist. I was also quickly learning why his file said he didn't have many second dates, despite attracting plenty of first dates. Frankly, it was a wonder the mystery ex lasted long enough to have "their" place. Maybe Marty was amazing in the sack. As soon as I thought that, my stomach flipped, and I really wished I hadn't. It was the kind of image I didn't want in my head. It reminded me of the time I followed my mother into a lingerie store and found her buying sexy undergarments. Some things should just remain far out of my mind. Like, light years away.
"Are you ready to order?" asked our waiter, approaching so quietly that I jumped when he appeared at the table.
Without, looking up, Marty ordered the wine, then our starters of scallops. "Then we'll have the steak, rare." He looked over to me. "A salad for the lady and fries for me."
"I'd rather have fries and my steak well done. Actually," I turned to the waiter, "I'd also like my steak to turn into chicken."
"I insist you try the steak. Rare is the way to have it." Marty snipped the menu from my hand and handed it to the waiter. "The chef knows how I like it," he added, waving his hand dismissively at the waiter. Noticing the waiter's eyes narrowing slightly, I knew how he felt. What a bossy asshole! The waiter caught my eye, and we both lifted our gaze to the ceiling. For the briefest of moments, I thought about edging the candle back across the table.
Marty, amazingly enough, was an insufferable bore. Between the scallops and steaks — my chicken never materializing — I tried to imagine him in dark clothing, with a mask over his pudgy head, sneaking into the homes of unsuspecting women and cracking open their house safes to steal valuables.
By the time my steak appeared in front of me, it practically mooed, it was so rare. While I couldn't figure out if Marty had the guts for breaking and entering, I was pretty certain he would bypass the safe, waking up the women so he could start telling them all about Claire. I also wondered what he talked to Claire about, seeing as every conversation centered on her. Maybe they just talked about her. But despite my misgivings, I had to persevere. Along with finding out whether Marty had the potential to be my top suspect, I kind of wanted to know if he killed Claire, and maybe stuffed her, like she was a prize specimen for taxidermy, and kept her in a chair in his home so he could talk to her. It was a creepy thought, but as I looked at Marty, fastidiously cutting his steak into equal, little cubes, not altogether an unreal one.
I shuffled my steak around the plate, hiding a lump of it under the heap of salad, and continued to smile at Marty as he whined on and on.
When he paused and looked up at me, I tried to meet his eyes without punching him square between them. "You're such a good listener," he told me.
"Tell me about it," I muttered.
"But you don't talk much. How do you get second dates?" He laughed heartily, like he cracked the funniest joke ever.
Ugh.
"I'm rich and gorgeous," I told him with a shrug. I imagined Solomon laughing at the other end of the wire. It wasn't like my statement was wholly untrue. Unlike many women, I chose to celebrate my attributes rather than whine about my flaws. I got so good at it over the years, I forgot about the flaws altogether, or turned them into positives. That was the Lexi Graves School of Thinking and I graduated at the top of my class of one. It wasn't complete vanity. It was the result of having four older siblings who got all the attention by sheer loudness and size. That made me give myself plenty of pep talks.
"Me too," said Marty, and, get this, cracked a smile. "I have all my own teeth."
"So we do have something in common." I smiled back.
Marty continued to smile, but his face started to crumple and a teary droplet filled his lower lid. "I miss my Claire," he muttered, his chin wobbling.
I couldn't resist. "I'm sorry, but who's Claire? Have you mentioned her before?"
"The love of my life," Marty wailed. Pushing his plate aside, he dropped his head on the table, unbridled sobs and snuffles emanating from him. After a minute or two, when it didn't subside, I reached over and patted his head as I would a sick dog. The wailing got louder. I cringed, patting harder.
"Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom," I muttered, tossing my napkin on the table as I stood. I just couldn't bear it anymore. People were start
ing to look.
"Don't leave me like Claaaaaaaire," Marty wailed.
"I swear I'll be right back," I squeaked, edging away from the couple shooting daggers at me from the next table. I removed the steak knife from his grip and dropped it onto my plate. "Don't, um, hurt yourself."
"I can't live without my baaaaabbbyyyyy," Marty moaned, then hiccupped.
"Try for five minutes!" I snapped, hurrying away, the eyes of other diners landing upon me. Ugh. They would no doubt think I did this to him! How embarrassing. I put ten virtual bucks on this tale of “The Sobbing Man and the Cold-hearted Hottie” being the dinner conversation at the next family hour of every diner in the place.
The bathroom was empty. I spent a minute gingerly pushing open the stall doors to check I was alone before speaking into my mic. "Solomon, I think we can rule Marty out," I told the mirror and, somewhere not far away, my boss. "And, in case you didn't guess, this date sucks."
"Your date too, huh?" said a woman's voice behind me. I jumped and whirled around to see my acquaintance, Ruby Kalouza, entering the restroom.
"Yes, dreadful."
"I saw. What a baby."
"Babies are better behaved."
"Amen to that, sister." Ruby edged past me, checked each stall, then stopped and stared at the window. She reached over, opened the catch and pushed it open. "Well, what do you know? No burglar bars! Here, hold my purse a moment."
I took the purse and waited while Ruby hitched her skirt into her undergarments and pulled herself onto the ledge. "What are you doing?"
"Escaping. There's no hope for my date. I hate to stick him with the bill, but I'll commit a random act of kindness every day next week to make up for it."
"I like your thinking."
Ruby swung one leg over, then the other before dropping. For a moment, I grimly wondered if she was okay, until her head popped up into the open space. "Thanks for the distraction, by the way. My date thinks you're both nuts. Hey, you want to come?" she asked.
"Big time," I told her, but I knew I couldn't. One: it was unprofessional to ditch a suspect, even if I'd all but ruled him out. Two: and more importantly, my borrowed jacket was still in the cloakroom, and Serena would kill me if I left it. "But I left my jacket. Here's your purse."
"Good luck, and tell Lily I'll come by the bar tomorrow."
"I will." Ruby grinned, waved, and disappeared. I reached over and pulled the window shut, securing the catch.
"Ruby Kalouza just left the building," I told the mic while I reached into my purse for emergency lip gloss. "I want bonus points for not joining her. I also want a bonus for completing this date against my better judgment."
My cell phone rang and I fumbled in my purse to find it. "Any other demands?" Solomon asked.
"A helicopter, one million dollars in untraceable bills, and a tube of Pringles."
"Or what?"
"I thump Marty unconscious, and you bail me out of jail."
"Date not going well?" Solomon deadpanned.
"Never better."
"Try and get him talking about his other dates," Solomon suggested. "Maybe he'll say something incriminating."
"Yeah, right. He's just a wet blanket and you know it. He couldn't pull off a pity date as the last man on earth. He's only interested in Claire. Can you find out who Claire is?"
"I've got Lucas working on it."
"Ten minutes, John," I told my boss in my sternest don't-mess-with-me voice, "and I'm out of here. I'm telling you now, Marty Tookey is not our guy."
"Enjoy dessert," said Solomon before hanging up.
I tried to get Marty to talk about his other dates, just in case he did have the smarts to rob them, but all I got was Claire this and Claire that, and how wonderful Claire was. I thought Claire sucked, but didn't dare say in case Marty murdered me at the table. On the plus side, I did enjoy the salted caramel and chocolate dessert — Marty feeling too depressed to order for me by that point — but not as much as I enjoyed making my excuses and calling a taxi to go home. Alone. It may have been a terrible date, but I came to some certain conclusions. One: Marty was definitely not our guy. Two: Claire was a smart woman for dumping him. Three: I wasn't desperate enough to date just anyone, and single seemed a really good option if there were guys like Marty on the market. Four: since Marty would set the alarm bells ringing of every woman he dated, he wouldn't get any information from them. That narrowed our suspect pool from three to two. Trouble was, who was the thief? Ben Rafferty or Lord Justin Camberwell?
Chapter Twelve
"I swear I'm never dating again." Lily and I were sitting in her shell of a bar while she leafed through catalogs. Page after page of wine glasses, tumblers, and things I didn't know a bar needed flipped past. She tossed the latest discard onto the foot-high stack and opened a brochure of bar furniture. I hoped she would pick some soon, because right now, sitting on the floor, with only flattened cardboard boxes between my pink-jeaned butt and the concrete, was anything but comfortable.
Lily paused mid-flick and looked up, her face skeptical. "Are you sure? There's a lot of guys out there and you have a lot of spare time."
"Meh. I've dated four guys in the past few days. Two yesterday. Started off great, ended up..."
"Oh, please! Don't say you set another one on fire!"
"No!" I rested my head on my knee while I had a mini breakdown. When I looked up, Lily was waiting expectantly. "Suspect number four, also known as yesterday's date number two, spent the whole night talking about his ex-girlfriend. When he started crying, I had to run out on him. I saw Ruby, by the way. She'll come by the bar today."
"She called this morning, but she didn't say she saw you. Why was your date crying? What did you say to him?"
"Nothing! I couldn't get a word in. Besides, he was a big baby."
"Sounds like a suave thief to me." Lily snorted.
"I know, right? My report for Solomon starts with 'ha-ha no way' and ends with 'just no'. I'm pretty sure Marty's not our guy. No one who cries that much can be a jewel thief."
"Maybe he's a genius. Maybe he played you. Did you check to see if you still had your purse on the way out?"
"Yep, I did and it was there. He's really not the one. He's not even number one million. He was a moron, Lily. When did men get like that?"
"I blame Oprah."
"Uh, why?"
"Jerry Springer gets blamed for everything else. I figure it's Oprah's turn."
"What about Ricki Lake?"
"Too cute."
"Chelsea Handler?"
"Scary, but don't you just want to go out for the night with her? I bet she drinks shots and dances on tables." Lily paused to circle a photo of a leather barstool with red pen.
I contemplated it. "Now I want to go out with her."
"Wait until my bar opens. You can dance on the tables all you want."
"This is why you're my best friend."
"That, and you can't get rid of me."
"Hand on heart, I would never try. Also, do I get free drinks?"
"You get a substantial discount."
"One hundred percent?"
"On your first drink," Lily agreed. I loved my negotiating skills. They really were top class. "So, what happens now? You date Hottie and Lord Hottie while Detective Hottie and Boss Hottie watch. You could totally write a novel about that. It'd be really dirty. You could call it The Four Hotties. Make it really dirty, Lexi. Porno dirty."
"I'll make a note of it for my future career file if snooping doesn't work out."
"What else is on the list?"
"Supermodel, fashion designer, actress, foot model."
"All achievable," agreed Lily.
"Especially the last one. I have great feet."
"You could sell photos of them. Some creep would buy them."
"That's pretty much the job description of a foot model. Do you like my shoes?" I waggled my sky blue pumps at her.
"Covet. You're very pastel today. I'm in shades of dust."
> "You're totally working it though. Why couldn't we do this at home?" I asked as a workman walked past, carrying something that looked like a collection of two-by-fours and a very large hammer. I wondered if he needed any of them, or just wanted to look down Lily's top again.
04 - Shock and Awesome Page 13