“Wait, what time is it?” I snatched up the TV remote.
“A few minutes past six. When’s your date?”
“It’s not that. I’m missing Ramrod News.”
“What, I’m not sleazy enough?” Martin asked. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Ramrod viewer.”
I gave him a brief recap of that morning’s catastrophe as I switched channels. Within moments I was staring at Miranda Daniels’ hateful face, larger than life and in high definition. I could count her false eyelashes. Her frown of concern almost looked sincere.
“I must warn you,” she gravely intoned, “the footage you are about to view is graphic and disturbing. If you have young children, you might want to send them out of the room.”
Thank goodness. She must be featuring a different story. Maybe our sensational three-decades-old murder wasn’t sensational enough. My relief was short-lived as an image of my own slutty-looking self filled the enormous screen.
“Yowza,” was all Martin said.
“Shut up.” I raised the volume.
The lady on the screen—that couldn’t really be me, could it?—had long, disheveled, strawberry blond hair and wore a dark green kimono that revealed a pillowy, hoisted-to-there cleavage and the lacy top of a hot pink bra. Fishnet stockings and do-me mules completed the fetching ensemble. The best part? Under the camera’s bright light, the robe was sheer.
Yeah, that’s right. You could see straight through it to everything underneath. The push-up bra. The garter belt. The thong. The granny panties under the thong.
Martin leaned forward and squinted. “What’s that you’ve got on under the—?”
I smacked him with the cereal box. Multicolored pebbles flew in all directions, much to Sexy Beast’s delight.
The camera homed in on my angry face as I said, “Sophie Halperin is a greedy, scheming murderer.”
I bolted upright. “What?”
“You said that?” Martin asked.
“No! I mean yes, I said that, but I didn’t say that. They took my words out of context.”
Miranda again. “That was Jane Delaney, one of Mayor Halperin’s closest friends and the person who actually discovered the skeleton of Ernest Waterfield. The mayor is the widow of Mr. Waterfield and the prime suspect in his murder. If you’re wondering what kind of people she calls friend, keep watching.”
Another shot of my furious face. “I’m the Death Diva, okay? I’m the damn Death Diva. I do stuff to dead people, and I have no intention of talking about it.”
“Wow,” Martin said, and snatched the cereal box away from me before I could smack him again.
The TV screen was now split between Miranda’s talking head and a bespectacled older man wearing a tie and tweed sport coat against a backdrop of shelved books. Miranda introduced him as Dr. Charles Amos, professor of religious studies at Peconic University.
Miranda’s frown did not extend to her Botoxed forehead. “Dr. Amos, you’ve studied the footage we shot earlier today. What can you tell us about this self-described Death Diva, based on your expert knowledge of satanic cults?”
The professor straightened his eyeglasses. “The history of sexual deviancy in such cults is well documented. Wild orgies, black masses, tales of sexual slavery... This so-called Death Diva, with her salacious garments and shocking lack of modesty, fits right in with what we know of modern devil worship. As for the unusual garment she’s wearing under her, um, underpants, that no doubt has ritual significance and demands further study.”
My jaw hung open. The padre placed a Fruity Pebble on my tongue and made the sign of the cross. “Exorcisms are my specialty. For you, no charge.”
“Can you explain the significance,” Miranda asked the prof, “of this vicious dog? For the benefit of those just joining us, the animal belongs to Jane Delaney, known in satanic circles as the Death Diva.” Cut to video of Sexy Beast attacking the hem of Miranda’s pants as she screams and flails her leg. From his spot on the couch, SB growled at his own image on the screen. But then, he growls at anything with four legs.
“This animal is what’s known as a ‘familiar,’” Dr. Amos said. “The purpose of a familiar is to assist its master in various malevolent acts and to offer protection.”
I turned to Martin. “Familiars—aren’t they for witches? Is he saying I’m a witch now?”
He shrugged, staring at the screen. “All right! Was that a nip-slip?”
I gasped. “No!” I was once more onscreen, shot from above as I attempted to disengage SB’s teeth from the reporter’s pants. My robe was in disarray, the sash undone, my “salacious garments” on full display. I didn’t see an errant nipple, but I did see the ritual white granny panties in all their baggy, saggy glory as I snarled at the reporter, “If anything happens to Sexy Beast, I will sue you and your horrible show back to the Stone Age!”
Cut to a perplexed Miranda, grinning, shaking her head. “Professor? Can you enlighten us? Who or what is ‘Sexy Beast’?” She dodged an imaginary lightning bolt. “Should I be afraid to say the words out loud?”
Dr. Amos chuckled. “Satan is known by many names, as I’m sure you’re aware. Lucifer, Beelzebub, the Prince of Darkness, and of course Beast as in six-six-six, the mark of the Beast. ‘Sexy Beast’ is obviously how this oversexed devil worshiper and her cohort refer to Satan.”
“Isn’t there a movie by that name?” Miranda asked.
“Yeah,” I hollered at the screen, “the movie my dog was named after, you dumb—”
“Is there?” Dr. Amos asked. “It has nothing to do with this animal. Have you had your rabies shots?”
“He never even broke skin!” I yelled at the TV. “I hate you. I hate you both.”
Martin patted my arm. “They can’t hear you.”
Miranda thanked Dr. Amos for his contribution, but she wasn’t finished yet. “Let’s hear from another Crystal Harbor resident, one who’s a bit more—” she tittered “—normal.”
Here was Nina Wallace, with her tasteful grooming and adorable baby bump, looking and sounding like everyone’s favorite Sunday-school teacher. “I hate to speak ill of anyone, particularly an elected official, but I feel a responsibility in this case to share my misgivings. I personally would not be surprised if it turns out Mayor Halperin did away with her husband.”
I groaned, my face in my hands. “Sophie will never speak to me again.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Martin rubbed the back of my neck. It felt like heaven and was almost worth what I’d just gone through. “She knows how these vultures operate.”
I switched off the TV as Miranda wrapped up her commentary and moved on to another hard-hitting new story, this one about taxidermy classes aimed at preschoolers. “Well, my business is in the crapper for sure. Who’d hire me now?” I made air quotes. “An ‘oversexed devil worshiper’ who turns on her best friends.” I was perilously close to tears. SB did his doggie hug, sitting up with his belly and front legs pressed against me. He licked my chin.
The padre stripped the seal on the tequila, eased out the cork, and handed the bottle over. When I just looked at it, fighting back sniffles, he tipped it to my mouth. The pale golden liquid slid over my tongue and warmed my insides. Tequila like this has more in common with a fine cognac than with the stuff Martin dumps into the blender at Tierney’s with margarita ingredients.
“Don’t stop,” I murmured, as his strong fingers kneaded the tight muscles of my neck and shoulders.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispered, his breath warm on my ear. He urged me to take another sip, then commandeered the bottle and took one himself before handing it back.
We stayed like that for several minutes, passing the bottle back and forth as he continued to massage away my tension. A heady intimacy suffused me, one I was loath to end. I could have stayed like that all evening, being comforted by a sexy man of mystery, my dog, and a bottle of the best booze on the planet. I felt Martin shift closer and wondered distractedly if he was going
to kiss me.
The doorbell rang. Sexy Beast leapt off the couch and ran barking through the living room and into the foyer. I sighed.
Martin patted my back. “Stay. I’ll get it.” He followed SB. I heard the front door open, then a male voice.
“What are you doing here?” Dom. SB yelped in excitement, greeting him.
“I live here,” Martin said. “What are you doing here?”
“That better be a joke. Where’s Janey?” Dom stalked into the game room and took in the sight of his ex-wife drinking straight from a bottle of high-end tequila.
“Did you see?” I asked miserably.
“Why do you think I’m here?” He sat next to me, in the spot recently vacated by Martin, who sat on the steps to the living room, giving SB scritches. “I heard about what happened at Lacey’s store this morning,” Dom said, “so I tuned in to the show.”
“Oh God, it must be all over town. Everyone saw me make an ass of myself on that awful program.”
“For the record, you didn’t make an ass of yourself,” he said. “That Miranda person did it for you.”
“Gee, thanks,” I groaned.
“No, I mean...” Dom started rubbing my neck, taking over where Martin had left off, which felt a little surreal. Also flattering. I wasn’t accustomed to that much physical masculine attention in one day, if you took a certain seven-pound canine out of the equation.
Dom said, “What I mean is, she obviously manipulated your words. Anyone who knows you will see that.”
I looked into his kind, dark eyes. “You think so?”
He nodded.
“But there’s all the rest of it, that satanic business.” I started to lift the bottle to my lips. Dom gently took it from me and inspected the level of liquid in it.
“Did you drink all this?” He set the bottle on the coffee table.
“I had help.” The fact is, I was a little tipsy and liking it.
Dom looked at Martin, still perched on the steps. “He says he’s living here now. A joke, I assume?”
I sighed.
“Janey?” He tipped my head to look at him. “You’re not shacking up with this guy, are you? I’ve told you before, he’s bad news.”
“I’m right here,” Martin said pleasantly. “I can hear you.”
“Of course I’m not shacking up with him,” I said. “He needs a place to stay, is all.”
“That’s what hotels are for,” Dom said.
“It’s temporary.” I gave Martin a pointed look. “Only until he can find permanent accommodations.”
“No, Janey.” Dom shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t like it.”
Yeah, well, I didn’t like divorcing you and watching you rack up two more marriages, a fiancée, and three kids—kids the two of us should have had together—but I don’t recall having had a say in any of it.
Except the divorcing part. I’d spent the past seventeen years regretting that one monumental mistake. Now that Dom was eager to remarry me, however, I found that thirty-nine-year-old Jane Delaney, after everything she’d endured and accomplished on her own, just might not need him anymore.
“No one’s asking you to like it,” I said. “I’m capable of choosing my own houseguests.”
Dom opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He looked at Martin, then at me. “If he stays here, then so do I.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“I don’t trust this guy, Janey, and neither should you.”
A memory flashed then from three months earlier, of Martin shouting at me to run and save myself. To leave him in what had become a death trap when it looked like there was no way to save us both.
Before I could shake off my reverie and formulate a response, Martin spoke up. “Look, man, you don’t even know me, and the way I see it, you don’t get a vote.”
The two men stared each other down while I choked on testosterone fumes.
“I’m moving into your room, Janey,” Dom said at last. “To keep you safe. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“No,” I said. “There’s your answer.”
Abruptly Dom rose and strode into the kitchen. I craned my neck to watch as he located my purse, pulled out my wallet, and extracted the spare house keys he knew I always carried in the change compartment. He returned, pocketing the keys.
“Good grief,” I said, “Martin isn’t even sleeping upstairs. He’s staying in the maid’s room, back there.” I pointed toward the far back corner of the house.
Dom thought about that. “Then I’ll take the room across from yours.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “The upstairs is mine alone. If you insist on staying here, Dom, you’ll have to sleep down here on the couch or something. And...” I raised a finger. “You both pay rent.”
“I thought I was a houseguest,” Martin said.
“If you stay free, there’s no incentive to find your own place,” I said, and tossed out the first figure that leapt into my cranium. “A hundred bucks a night. Nonnegotiable.”
“Deal,” they said in unison.
“Paid weekly in advance. And I’m not feeding you.” Considering the effect that humiliating Ramrod News broadcast would no doubt have on my Death Diva business, I’d probably need the guys’ rent money just to keep myself in Fruity Pebbles and orange soda.
I stood. “I’m going to go call Sophie. Then I’m going to get ready for my date.”
“Oh, you have a date?” Dom made a conspicuous effort to look okay with that. “Anyone I know?”
“No,” I said.
“It’s someone she met on Dog Loving Singles dot com,” Martin informed my ex.
“How do you know that?” I demanded. “You know what? Don’t answer that.” Martin had a history of sneaking into my house to snoop around, starting when Irene was alive and its sole resident. He and his step-grandmother hadn’t exactly been best buds.
“And one more thing.” I picked up Sexy Beast and headed for the curved staircase in the foyer. “If you boys decide to kill each other, do it outside.”
6
Such a Coy Wench
“It’s a lot peppier than what I’m driving now.” I was behind the wheel of a nice-looking three-year-old red Mazda 6, negotiating lane changes on a six-lane highway. Sophie’s ex-husband, Dean Phillips, sat in the front passenger seat.
“A rickshaw would be peppier than what you’re driving now,” he said. “How long did you say you had it? Eleven years?”
“Well, it’s eleven years old, but I’ve had it for seven. Bought it used.”
“You’re smart to stick to pre-owned.” He ran his fingers through those unfortunate hair plugs. “New cars lose half their value, eh, the moment you drive off the lot.”
“So you said.” If he wanted to pretend I was looking for a used ride because I was a savvy shopper, and not because it was the only thing I could afford, I’d play along. The first car he’d tried to get me into had indeed been the nearly new Lexus convertible he’d mentioned at Sophie’s house. It was, as he’d said, a beaut, and I’d allowed myself one lingering, wishful gaze as I took in its gleaming sex appeal. An experienced salesman, he’d managed to conceal his disappointment when I’d confessed that my car budget would maybe cover the Lexus’s leather upholstery and one of its fancy wheels.
Which is how I’d ended up test-driving the Mazda. It was late afternoon on a brutally hot Saturday, a good test of the car’s air conditioning, which performed like a champ. The flip side of using AC was the closed windows, which resulted in a concentrated, eye-watering miasma composed of Dean’s spicy cologne, his liberally applied hairspray, and his stale smoker’s breath. If I did take the car, I’d probably need to fumigate it.
Dean had yet to mention my television debut on Ramrod News the previous evening. Either he was exercising discretion in the interest of making a sale or he simply hadn’t seen the show. My money was on that first thing. It seemed the entire town of Crystal Harbor had watched the show.
But I had another reason for seeking out Sophie’s ex.
He said, “Have you thought about buying a hearse?” His Canadian accent turned about into aboot.
“Uh, can’t say that I have,” I admitted.
“Think about it. It’d be great for business,” he said. “You can leave it plain or put a fancy ‘Death Diva’ design on it. Maybe a cartoon of you wearing sexy underwear.”
So much for discretion. “Well, that’s an interesting idea, Dean. Maybe for a second vehicle down the road. Right now I need something a bit more sedate, for when my job is kind of, you know, undercover.”
“Oh, sure, sure. Just say the word, eh, I’ll put out feelers for the right hearse. Think about the cargo space.”
That was about as good a segue as I was going to get. “So,” I said. “How long were you and Sophie married?”
“Huh? Oh, just ten months.” I felt his eyes on me as I steered into the left-turn lane to make a U-turn and head back to the dealership. “Listen,” he said, “I know I came off as kind of, uh... worked up at her place a couple of days ago. Well, I was worked up. It’s not every day the cops question you about some murdered guy.”
“At your place of work, no less.” I tried to sound sympathetic. “You’re allowed a normal human reaction. I know something like that would’ve freaked me out for sure.” As indeed it had a few months earlier when Bonnie had considered me a suspect in Irene’s murder, but that didn’t bear mentioning at the moment.
I’d been nervous about calling Sophie the evening before, to apologize for unwittingly calling her a greedy murderer on national TV. She’d dismissed my concerns, claiming to have been amused by the absurd coverage. She’d even recorded it for posterity. That’s the kind of friend she was, and why I felt obligated to help clear her name.
Uprooting Ernie (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 2) Page 7