The Spy Who Kissed Me

by Pauline Baird Jones

  I didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. I tripped and fell before I found out.”

  He shook his head, hunching his shoulders. I knew I’d seen that movement before.

  “Are you sure we haven’t met? What did you say your name was?”

  “Dillon. Now look, Miss Stanley—”

  “You’re not related to Drumstick Dillon, are you?”

  “You know my son?” That got his attention.

  “I knew you looked familiar. You’re two peas in the same pod.”

  He looked thoughtful. “You have a good eye, Miss Stanley.”

  “Stan is an illustrator,” Mike told him.

  It sounded better than ‘she draws cartoon roaches.’

  “I see,” Dillon said, his gaze intent enough to make me uneasy. “How do you know my son?”

  “I play keyboard in his band.”

  “His band.” His brows shot toward his ruthlessly subdued Afro. “How…unusual.”

  “Me?” I shook my head. “I’m not unusual. I’m the most ordinary person I know. Boring. Dull.”

  Dillon and Mike regarded me with unrelenting and obvious skepticism. Mike I could understand, but what was Dillon’s problem?

  “Really. Boring.”

  “Let’s go over your statement again,” Dillon said.

  TEN

  Dillon let me go home, though I could tell he wasn’t satisfied with my story. The guy had good instincts. I’ll bet his son didn’t get away with a thing.

  Home again, Mike accompanied me inside, met Rosemary, attraction arced and formed a weld between them, in like five seconds. I was too tired to care that Rosemary was going to get my goodnight kiss.

  My mother had retired to her bed, so I didn’t have to explain how it was I’d come to trip over a dead body outside a sleazy restaurant. The only nightmare I didn’t have was the one where I didn’t do my biology homework—or I woke up too soon. When I stumbled down the stairs the next morning, feeling like old road kill, I found Rosemary preparing to go out wearing designer jeans and a bulky sweater, with guilt as an accessory.

  Careful not to make eye contact she asked, “Tell Mom I’m breakfasting out, okay?”

  “Sure.” I let her get her hand on the door before adding, “Tell Mike I said hi.”

  She gave me an apprehensive look. “How did you know?”

  “I have a gift for seeing the obvious.” She looked so worried I had to relent. “Have fun.”

  Rosemary’s smiled was relieved. “Really?”

  “Really.” I shrugged. “He’s not my type anyway.” And it would make a good forgiveness card to play when she found out about her car. She left and Candice came in. She was wearing jeans and a big sweater that looked like it came out of her mother’s closet. I looked closer. It came out of my closet. “Nice sweater, Candy.”

  “Thanks.” She didn’t even blink. “So, how was your date?”

  “Fine until I tripped over the dead body.”

  “Good.” She opened the refrigerator and took a pudding, just in case I wasn’t sure she hadn’t heard me. “Tell Gram I don’t have time for breakfast, okay?”

  “You can tell me yourself, Candice.” We both spun to face her. “I may be old, but I’m not hard of hearing.”

  “Sorry, Gram. Got a study hall before school.” She made detention sound so normal, I smiled. Not that I was about to rat her out. If she wasn’t setting off my mother’s internal alarms, more power to her.

  “We’re hungry, Gram,” a chorus chimed. Rosemary’s twins, matching owls also in jeans and sweaters popped out from behind my mother. I could see a theme developing. Only my mother was refusing to fall in the party line. She was wearing her customary casual but dressy pants suit. Not a cozy grandma, but a fond one. Her whole face lit up. When she’d determined what their breakfast desire was, she turned to me.

  “How are you feeling today, Isabel?” The question had a tip toe quality to it. Rose must have told her about the body.

  “I’m fine.” This was new territory for us, so I wasn’t sure how to handle it. It would be better when she found a way to make it my fault.

  “Good.” She looked like she wanted to say more. I was relieved when she turned and began assembling pancake ingredients, until she asked, “Where’s your sister?”

  “Rosemary?”

  “Do you have another sister?”

  I laughed weakly. “She’s out.”

  I got a patient look. “Where?”

  “She’s got a date,” Joelle, the diminutive traitor informed her.

  Kids. Why do people have them?

  Mother looked at me, brows at full arch. “A date?”

  Rosemary was out with my vet and I was going to get in trouble for it.

  “With Mike Lang.”

  “Your Mike Lang? The one you were out with last night?”

  “He’s not my Mike Lang. He’s my vet. And a friend.”

  “A friend. That’s what you always say. You couldn’t make the effort to be attracted to one of these friends?”

  I could have told her how attracted I could be. I could have told her about Kel. About kisses that made me sizzle like a Roman candle and turn as squishy as warm butter. I could have told her I was so attracted to him, I darn near jumped his bones the first night I met him. I could have, but I’m not stupid. I shrugged and looked clueless. I was good at it, because I usually am.

  My mother sighed, blowing guilt through clueless, like it was a sieve. “Muir called for you last night. He seemed to think you had an arrangement to discuss his computer program.”

  “When people want an arrangement with someone, they should ask, not assume. All he said was that he’d call.”

  “Well, he called. And so did Reverend Hilliard.” My mother looked happier thinking about the Reverend.

  Which increased my unhappy level. “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to know if you’d play the organ for Elspeth Carter’s funeral on Saturday. I told him that you would be delighted.”

  “Should I be delighted to play for a funeral?”

  “You should always be delighted to help out.”

  The Gospel according to my Mother. She interpreted it with the same ruthlessness as Henry the Eighth. I could feel the marital ax inch closer to my neck. The telephone rang under my elbow. I jumped for it and knocked the receiver to the floor. I had to reel it in before I could say hello.

  “Stan? Glad I caught you. Marion here.” Marion was my editor. I liked her, even though she liked my roach books and was younger than me. I had to face it, about half the world was younger than me now.

  “How are you? You sound close, like you’re right here in town.”

  “I am right here in town. I came for the convention.”

  “Oh. How nice.” Convention? Her voice told me I should know what she was talking about so my mind tried to race, but it was kind of out of shape after my double crime wave whammy.

  “How’s the book coming?”

  “Fine.” Defensive leaked through the cracks of tired.

  “Problems, huh?”

  “Maybe the roach well is dry. Maybe I need a new bug. Has anyone done gnats yet?”

  “You always get stuck in the middle and panic. It’ll pass. It always does.” She hesitated, then asked, “You’re not working on another romance novel, are you?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Give it up, girl. You’re not a romantic.”

  “I can be romantic.” My mother and Marion snorted at the same time. “Did you just call to burst my bubble or was there another reason?”

  “I thought I’d better remind you about tomorrow. If you’d learn how to use the schedule program on that fancy computer your boyfriend sold you, instead of that circular file you call a brain, it would make both our lives easier.”

  “Muir is not my boyfriend.” My mother snorted again, so I rushed to ask, “What about tomorrow?”

  “I knew you’d forget about tomorrow.”

  A vague memory
tried to surface.

  “The IRA convention. Autographs at ten?” she reminded me with a hint of steel in her voice.

  “Oh, that,” I attempted a bluff. “How could I forget that?”

  “I knew you’d try.”

  “Well, so would you if you had to sign your name to a bug’s butt.”

  “We all have our trials in life.” She gave me directions and rang off. I started to leave.

  “I told Muir you’d call him back,” my mother said.

  “And I will.” Maybe. “After I get back from my rehearsal.” Unless I could manage to forget that, too.

  My mother snorted again, but I told myself she was just blowing her nose. It could be true. Cold air made everyone’s nose run.

  * * * *

  When I rang the bell at Jerome’s house, his father answered the door. Steven Jeffries, Major, retired, was an older version of his son. Erect and lean, his salt and pepper hair was still cut military style. It was obvious he was suffering from a serious case of war-watching syndrome.

  We spent a few minutes discussing smart bombs and the options for ground war. A few weeks of television warfare we were all arm chair strategists. We agreed on everything but scud studs. When he paused to figure out what they were, I asked for Jerome.

  “He’s out back in the garage.” He hesitated, looking at me in a way that made me wonder if I’d left something unbuttoned, only my sweater didn’t button and covered all relevant zippers. “There’s something different about you today, Miss Stanley.”

  “Different?” Maybe it was the fear of imminent arrest. “Can’t imagine what it might be. Mr. Jeffries—”

  “Why don’t,” he went to an “at ease” posture and gave me a frightening smile that I suspect he meant to be friendly, but failed on several levels, “you call me Steve?”

  Steve? I almost croaked with fright when he stepped closer. I stepped back.

  “I don’t think—”

  I might as well have not spoken. We were practically doing the Tango around the room.

  “Jerome calls you Stan, I know, but that’s not the name for a beautiful woman.”

  “That’s why they call me Stan,” I pointed out. Miss America I’m not.

  “Isn’t your name Isabel?”

  “Well, yes, but all my friends call me Stan.” I saw the door off to my right and started edging that way.

  “Would you consider having dinner with me some night, Isabel?” Somehow he got hold of my hand.

  I cleared the squeak out of my throat and said, like I’d never heard of it, “Dinner?”

  He smiled. “A meal taken in the evening.”

  He thought I was suffering from maidenly confusion, not a stupor of thought brought on by horror. I opened my mouth to say no, not ever, but out popped, “Well, okay, I guess I could think about it.”

  My lack of enthusiasm brought on more of his frightening approval. He must think maidenly confusion had given way to maidenly modesty.

  “Saturday night? We could take in the bingo tournament and dance a few polkas after. They have a gal that plays a brisk accordion.”

  I felt for the knob behind me as panic put a choke hold on my throat. Bingo? Brisk accordion polkas? Was God punishing me for my near romp with Kel? If He was, He’d chosen the perfect vehicle for it. Or this was an episode of Candid Camera. I didn’t know which was worse. I choked, which he took for assent.

  “Pick you up at four? You aren’t one of those modern gals who can’t eat until midnight, are you?”

  I shook my head. If I were, I wouldn’t have a date with a man old enough to be my father. I made this gesture toward the garage where Jerome waited.

  Steve stepped back. “No need to mention this to the boy.”

  The boy. I almost moaned. I shook my head again.

  In the garage, “the boy” looked up from his guitar.

  “Yo, Stanley! What’s happening?”

  I tried not to look hunted. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” I could feel a confession coming on and looked around in panic. “Where’s everybody? I thought I was late. Not that I was doing anything to make me late, you understand.”

  “They’ll be along. I had a little business to discuss with you so they cleared off.” He folded up one leg, looking vaguely Jimmy Dean-ish and studied me, a look in his eyes that reminded me of his father.

  It wasn’t a reminder I wanted to have when it felt like I had guilt written all over my face. I had so much to feel guilty about, it had to be written in neon. I turned away. What could I say to him? I took a deep breath and turned to face him. “Jerome…”

  He tipped his head to one side. “You look different.”

  What was it with everyone? Flynn. Dag. Steve. And now Jerome. I wasn’t different. They were. He patted the crate next to him with a smile that, unlike his dad’s, was inviting.

  “Park it and let’s shoot the breeze for a mo.”

  Experience had taught me this was an invitation to sit down, so I took the indicated spot. “Okay. Shoot.”

  “The thing is, we all think you’re fine.”

  “Thank you.” I think. Had I missed something somewhere?

  “You’re welcome. And we, the three of us, were wondering if you’d, like, like to go out with us?” he finished in a rush, then sat back relieved.

  I’d definitely missed something somewhere. “I go out with you all the time.”

  “For gigs.”

  “Which are out,” I pointed out.

  “Like we were wondering if you’d make it personal, or was it, like, against your code to mix extreme pleasure with business?”

  Either Jerome was more like his dad than either of us suspected or I was suffering from the onset of menopause. I felt like I’d been going uphill and discovered it was downhill. “You want—”

  “A date. We all do.”

  First the father, now the son? Something was so wrong here.

  “With me?” I had to be sure.

  “With you.” Jerome grinned, but there was a tenseness about him that was, well, sweet. Still…

  “Will there be cameras involved?”

  “No cameras,” the grin widened into a smile loaded with youthful charm. “Unless you want some. Like I said, you’re fine.” He stood up, shoved his hands into the pocket of his tight jeans and paced away. Then he paced back towards me. Did I mention the jeans were really tight? Or that he had a world class butt?

  What was my problem? Just yesterday I’d identified a need to kiss men. Now here were men, or at least men in the making, willing to oblige me. Well, willing to take me out in public.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Everything of the most sensitive, I promise. We’ve been reading Cosmopolitan.”

  That gave me pause. “Really.”

  “We were thinking a club, like The Rad?”

  “I’ve never been there,” I admitted.

  “It’s fine. Thought we’d all go, like together, no pressure, and then after you can decide.”

  “Decide?”

  “Who you want to take you home. You know, the goodnight kiss. Can’t all huddle on your door step. Seriously not sensitive.” He looked cheerful and strangely business-like. Jerome was going to go far. “So, what do you say?”

  He lacked the wattage of Kel, but made up for it with youthful enthusiasm. And he was willing to commit to kissing before the date. Just because I’d be both the younger and older woman to relatives was no reason to pass up a great opportunity to replace Kel in my head.

  “If you’re sure—”

  “Truly fine!” He looked seriously delighted. It was a strange sensation, knowing I’d caused it. Then Tommy and Drum appeared in the doorway and indulged in some high fives and back slapping when they were told about my positive response to their experiment. It was very flattering. Maybe I ought to almost get killed more often.

  “Can we pick you up around ten thirty? Don’t want to get there too early. Just soon enough to get a table. It’s, like, a ha
ppening place.”

  “Ten-thirty’s not too early for you, is it?” Drum asked in serious contrast to his suspicious father.

  I looked at their tight, young bodies, and fresh eager faces. They have two-thirds of their lives ahead of them, while I’d used up a lot of mine just this week. Was it fair to feed my ego with their youth and enthusiasm? It gave me a serious qualm, but I was able to quell it.

  They might be young, but they were resilient. If it didn’t work out, they’d get over it quicker than I would. While we set up for the practice, I did a mental scan of my planner. Convention tomorrow, date with three young men Friday night, a date with the father of young man Saturday afternoon, and funeral in between. No problem.

  ELEVEN

  With the guys’ sensitivity well established and the details of our date worked out, we got down to practicing. It was a good thing I waited until we were done before I mentioned I’d met Drum’s dad last night.

  “My dad was at the Tandoor Club?”

  “Well, outside. That’s where the body was.”

  “Body?” Tommy left off putting up his instrument and edged closer. “That sounds interesting.”

  “Only if you’re not the one who tripped over it.”

  “You tripped over a body? Tell us about it.”

  They clustered around me like cute ghouls until I mentioned that victim’s name was Paul Mitchell.

  There was a short silence.

  “Couldn’t be our Paul Mitchell,” Tommy said, without conviction. “He’s not the kind of guy to get snuffed. Too straight arrow.”

  Jerome sounded equally unconvinced. “He’s Guard. Shipping out for the Gulf next week, right after the rally.”

  But we all knew it was their Paul.

  As Jerome so elegantly put it, major bummer of a day. At least it couldn’t get any worse. Or so I thought. I drove home and found a message on my machine from Rosemary. The condensed, repeatable version was that she’d found out about her car.

  From the police.

  Right before they put her in a line-up with a bunch of hookers.

  Since I lacked the skills of a fugitive and it wasn’t Rosemary’s fault she was my twin, I decided to turn myself in. It had nothing to do with the fact that it would be safer for me to be in jail now that she knew about her car. In the police station I approached the desk, but before I could ask about Rosemary, I heard a familiar voice behind me.