by Terri Thayer
"Yes, ma'am. We keep the remains in a storeroom on the premises.
Ugh. Stuck in a box in the police station for an eternity. I couldn't think of anything worse.
I said, "What about a picture? Do you take a picture of him?"
"Of course," he said.
"Okay, I'll put it up on the bulletin board at the store. Someone on my staff might know him. Or one of my customers. Someone's bound to recognize him, if he's local."
"You do realize he was dead when the picture was taken?" he asked.
I remembered the awful expression on the dead man's face. "Never mind."
TWELVE
BUSTER'S BIG BLUE TRUCK was parked in front of my house, dwarfing the elm tree that struggled to grow in the grassy median between the road and the sidewalk. I pulled into my driveway, jumped out of my car and flung open my kitchen door.
I hollered, even though I knew I'd left the store too late. But what were dinner reservations in the face of breaking our celibacy? "Okay, dude, you'd better be naked..."
"You're too late."
I followed his sing-songy delivery. He was in my spare room. The closet door was open, and I could see a row of freshly pressed shirts in a color-coordinated line. Yesterday's laundry that had been interrupted by the murder in my alley.
He was pressing his black jeans, wearing only red plaid boxers, a white sleeveless undershirt and black socks. A bright yellow shirt was hanging on the doorknob waiting its turn.
He smiled at me and went back to focusing on the crease in his jeans.
"Good thing you carry a gun," I said, peeling off my sweater, and dropping my backpack. "Otherwise this obsession with perfectly pressed clothes would make me worry about your manhood."
He ignored my sexist remark. Ironing put him in a totally mellow zone that was impossible to break.
"Everything go okay with Jenn?" he said. His voice filled my small house. I went back into the kitchen.
I didn't want to talk about the murder investigation. "Took way too long, and then she went home. I never saw her after she told Zorn she knew Frank." I grabbed two water bottles from the fridg. Drinking from one, I walked back to the spare room and placed the other on the end of the ironing board for him.
"Am I really too late?" I said, trying to sound as plaintive as I could.
He smiled his thanks. "We've got a half-hour to get to our reservations. It'll take us ten minutes to drive to Santana Row."
Santana Row? That was intriguing. Not our usual choice for dinner. It was always crowded with high-gloss people. Our age, but not our crowd. We were more burger and fries than Asian Fusion. That did explain the need to dress up.
Buster was still doing his countdown to departure time. "That leaves you twenty minutes to get ready. Reservations are impossible to get, even mid-week."
"We don't have to be on time," I said. "We don't even have to go there."
Buster looked up and frowned. "This is my date night. Next week, we can go to St. John's Tavern and play trivia. Again."
I'd been counting on something a little more grown up. Like a bubble bath for two. I gave up.
"How was your day?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Another exciting day at the computer. I'm looking at security footage. The pictures aren't the best quality, so I have to stare at them. The only danger I'm in is of getting eye strain."
His not being in danger was okay with me, but Buster found safe boring and not why he joined the force.
I took a pull on my water bottle. "Are you getting closer to solving the case?"
"Maybe," he said. "I'll feel better once I see the guy in L.A. myself."
I loved this part of our relationship. Catching up at the end of the day. I found his work to be endlessly fascinating and he really cared about Quilter Paradiso. It was sweet to have someone to talk things over with.
He checked the time, taking in my rumpled appearance. "Shouldn't you be getting ready?"
"It won't take me that long. I like watching you do that. It's sexy to see a man iron his clothes."
"What's so sexy about it?" He put the iron down flat on the board. Tiny feet jutted out of the bottom, raising the hot metal off the surface. That new-fangled iron had been a gift from me to him. When I saw it introduced at a trade show, I knew he had to have one. He loved hearing the little woosh the iron made when it raised up.
"You look so competent," I said, as he pulled on his pants. He moved the shirt onto the ironing board and picked up the iron again.
I kept going. "Your forehead gets all wrinkly. You practically stick your tongue out when you go around each little button."
Buster shot a burst of steam in my direction.
I was well out of range, and I laughed. "Hey, if word ever got out that you iron, wash dishes, and put the toilet seat down, you'd be swamped with marriage proposals."
"That's the real reason I carry a gun," he said, without looking up. "To fend off desperate women."
"Of course the celibacy doesn't really work in your favor."
"Get out of here and let me finish."
"Got to work on the chastity thing," I teased, as I backed into the hall.
"Later," he promised.
My heart did a two-step. A promise was a promise.
The bathroom was misty. Buster had showered in here recently. The smell of his aftershave was acrid and tangy. Like nothing at the quilt shop. I breathed in, savoring the maleness of the scent.
After my quick shower, I ducked into my bedroom wrapped in a towel. A glance in the spare room told me that the ironing board was put away, no doubt in the spare room closet where Buster had installed a specialized holder. I could hear him in the kitchen, humming a Maroon 5 song he was trying to learn to play on the guitar.
I toweled off, putting on my only set of Victoria Secret matching bra and panties and pulled my dress over my head. The silky fabric snaked easily over the fullest part of my hips and settled around my knees. I glanced in the mirror over my grandmother's dresser. If I backed up to the bed and turned just right, I could get an almost full view.
I twirled a little, feeling a freedom that my usual khakis didn't impart. I liked this wrap dress I'd bought last year. Probably out of style by now, but the brown and black print looked good on me. The colors brought out the highlights in my hair.
I moved again, adjusting the diagonal front that cut over my breasts, making them look full. It was sexy but not trashy. The tie belt nipped in my waist, and the high cut hem meant my legs peeked in and out as I walked. I pictured myself sitting across from Buster at the table, letting him catch glimpses of skin as we ate dinner.
It was fine that we were waiting until after dinner for our lovemaking. Going out and prolonging our wait for just a few more hours would be fun, now that I knew there would be a payoff at the end of the evening.
We would have a bottle of wine with dinner, and flirt. Buster was a great tease. His blue eyes were expressive, and his lips always looked kissable. I'd kick off my shoes under the table and rub my bare foot on his leg.
I returned to my bathroom to put on lipstick and brush a layer of mascara on my lashes. I was humming along with his playing.
The strumming stopped. "Need some help in there?"
"Stay where you are," I commanded.
I wanted to make an entrance. Buster didn't hear the click click of my heels on the hardwood floor, as he was in the middle of a riff on the guitar. I watched him, sitting on the couch with his right leg crossed over the left. I felt my knees weaken a little as his fingers moved quickly across the graceful neck.
The yellow shirt looked surprisingly good on him, complementing his black hair and fair skin and blue eyes. His shirt was open at the neck. He wore a tie most days on his job as homicide detective. I liked him tieless. The splayed shirt collar gave me a peek at the black hair on his chest.
He saw me then, and looked up with a quick smile that quickly spread into a large grin. His eyes widened.
"You clean up good
, Pellicano." He laid down the guitar.
"Back at you," I said.
"No, really. You look real good."
I felt a blush coming on. "Why, thank you," I said, doing a little dip at the knees. Dressing up was a bigger stretch for me than him.
He stood and came up slowly. "This really is a new beginning for us, Dewey. Nothing is going to be the same after this dinner tonight."
He ran one hand over my hip, lingering over the silky smoothness of the dress. I had to admit it felt good, the way his hand slid over the sleek fabric. I felt my motor start to purr. But it would be several hours before we got back here.
"Don't be getting all mushy on me, Healy, just because I'm wearing a dress. I can still kick your ass in air hockey."
He laughed. "And I can still admire your legs in those sandals."
The restaurant was packed, even though it was a work night. Silicon Valley worked hard, and played hard. I saw more than a few BlackBerries lit up as we made our way through the noisy bar.
Halloween decorations were up, and the hostess wore spider web earrings.
"Table for four. Healy," Buster said to her.
"Four?" I turned to him for an explanation. The warm feeling in my belly that had been building turned suddenly cool.
He put a hand on the small of my back and whispered, "My night. My choice. It's going to be fun."
"Your party is already seated," the hostess said, moving quickly, her heels, at least three inches higher than mine, made even louder clacking noises on the highly polished marble black floor. That was a contest I'd lose.
We turned a corner, and I stopped. I felt Buster's feet do a stutter step as he tried to avoid stepping on my heel. I turned and gave him a dirty look.
Under a large plant with twinkle lights in the branches, Kevin and Kym were seated at a table. There were two empty places opposite them.
I stopped, looked at Buster. "That's not our table," I said, the words spitting out of my mouth. His face changed expression. One second he was proud of himself, then he realized he'd made a big mistake.
"I thought-Kevin said-you've been missing him," he stuttered.
I closed my eyes. I could see he meant well. I had complained that I didn't see enough of my brother.
My fantasy of the sweet intimate dinner we'd be having, with me flirting and him appreciating the view across the table was dashed. Instead, I'd be making polite conversation with my brother and Kym. By the time we got home tonight, I doubted I'd be in the mood for the sexy climax I'd been envisioning.
The hostess moved on without us, cradling the large menus, gold tassels dangling. Now she was at the table, smiling expectantly. I wanted to run, but Buster kept his hand in the small of my back.
Kevin caught sight and waved us over. I couldn't walk away from my brother. He looked so happy to see us.
"We'll talk later about how wrong this is," I muttered to Buster. I sat in the chair opposite Kevin that the hostess pulled out. Buster waited for me to get seated and then sat down next to me. I felt him watching me, but I didn't want to look at him right now. The hostess handed us the menus, said our waiter would be Zach and disappeared.
"Glad you two could make it," Buster said. He and Kevin exchanged fist bumps. Kym leaned over to kiss Buster's cheek and kissed the air next to mine. So this is how it was going to be, we were going to act civilized. That must be why such a fancy restaurant.
Buster straightened the silverware in front of him, scooting his water glass over a millimeter. He fussed with his collar and shot his cuffs. I laid a hand over his, before he could adjust his belt buckle. His need to fuss was getting on my nerves. He hadn't earned the right to be nervous. He'd set this up, now he needed to live with the consequences.
Kym was smiling. Her face took on that glow it always had around Kevin. For as much grief as she caused me, I knew that she loved my brother and he loved her. But I didn't have to sit across the table and watch it all night.
Kevin looked from my face to Buster's. "I can see that you haven't figured out my big sister hates surprises."
I fake-smiled at Kevin. "The man still has a few things to learn about me."
"I'm sure you'll teach him, Punk," Kevin said.
The childhood nickname was not endearing him to me.
Buster put his napkin in his lap, not looking at either one of us. He knew he'd screwed up. I took a deep breath, trying to fight the rising anger. Tonight Buster thought he'd known what I wanted, but he was far off the mark.
Kym was ignoring us, studying the menu. Her fake fingernail followed the line of print. She fit right into the sophisticated vibe of the place. Her blonde hair was perfect, her makeup flawlessly applied, if a bit too heavy. I'd always maintained she'd look prettier with a lot less eyeliner. She'd come right from the store, and was dressed in the white batiste blouse with puffed sleeves and blue skirt she'd been wearing earlier.
In my year-old dress, I was feeling frumpier by the moment.
A waiter took our drink order. Kevin and Kym already had matching mojitos in front of them.
"What wine would you like, Buster?" I asked, just as he asked the waiter what kind of beer they had on tap. He froze as Zach rattled off the tap and bottled choices.
"I assumed we were getting a bottle of wine," I said.
"Oh, I thought I'd get a beer, but if you want wine..." he said.
"No, it's okay." So much for the romance of sharing some vino.
"Order the bottle. I'll have some with you," Buster insisted.
"Never mind," I said, getting pissed off. "A dirty martini," I said to the server.
Kevin and Kym were watching us like two cats watching the Nature Channel. We were creatures they'd never seen before.
Buster looked miserable when the waiter came back with our drinks a few minutes later.
"So, Buster," Kym said. "What can you tell us about Dewey's dead body?"
A pained expression crossed Kevin's face quickly. His arm twitched under the table, and I saw Kym flinch in surprise.
"No shop talk, please," Kevin said brightly as though he wasn't squeezing his wife's knee.
Buster put in, "Really. Because you know the next thing is that Kevin will be boring us with gripping stories of fixtures that didn't arrive on time, or plumbers on crack, or the depth of the water table in Santa Clara County."
"Hey," Kevin said. "Sure beats talking about facial recognition software or deteriorated DNA and the difference between mummification and ordinary decay."
Buster said, with a grin. "You're just jealous."
"Oh yeah, jealous of digging up dead bodies."
I knew these two were doing exactly the jobs they'd always wanted and they did too.
"Dewey just likes to talk about computers," Kym complained. "Bit maps or something. Bit naps?"
I ignored her and watched my brother and his best friend. Kevin laughed at Kym's bon mot. I was struck by how much he looked like my mother when he smiled. My heart swelled.
Being mad at Kevin for being married to Kym was ridiculous. It wasn't an all or nothing situation. I didn't have to love her. He did and that was enough. I did love him. He was my brother.
I nudged Buster under the table with my knee and grabbed his hand and squeezed. He met my eyes and smiled slowly. His smiles were a revelation, changing the landscape of his face so entirely. This one came from deep within. I knew he'd planned this dinner to make me happy, not to torment me.
I leaned into him, my voice husky with desire. "Stay over tonight?"
"If you'll have me," he whispered, kissing my hair.
The waiter came to take our orders.
"How about them Giants?" Buster said, finding a topic we could all relate to. The San Francisco Giants were in the playoffs for the first time in years, and baseball was a second language for all of us. Even Kym knew her earned run average from her RBIs.
"Did you hear about the Stitch 'n' Pitch night?" Kym asked. "Knitters take their projects with them to the game. My Appli
que Girlz group is going to protest. We're going to bring our sewing."
The rest of the night went by quickly as I told stories about my brother and Buster as kids. Kym never tired of hearing their antics, and as long as the topic was Kevin, I had her full attention.
"How about the shop being on that TV show," Kevin said. "Pretty cool, huh?"
"What's this?" Buster said, leaning back in his chair. His shirt gapped at the neck, giving me a nice view. He looked from Kevin to me, eyes questioning.
"I didn't tell you?" I said, hand to my mouth as I realized I'd never given him the good news. "I didn't tell you that QP is going to be on national television on Friday morning?"
"You never told me," Buster said. He looked hurt. "Is it a big deal?"
He said that almost wistfully. Like if it wasn't a big deal, it was no biggie that I forget to tell him.
"It's huge," I said sheepishly. "A spot on Wonderful World of Quilts could make QP a destination shop." At his blank look, I explained. "A shop that quilters travel to, just to say they'd been there."
"Congratulations," he said.
"Kym's the star of the show," Kevin said. He had his arm around her and was smiling proudly. Kym agreed.
I couldn't argue with that.
Kym said, "Come to the store to watch it, Buster. Friday morning at ten-thirty. Kevin's bringing in the big TV. I've invited a bunch of people. My parents, my quilting bee. It's going to be a party."
I hadn't heard any of these plans. Buster wasn't the last one to know. I was.
THIRTEEN
"BEFORE YOU SAY ANYTHING, let me just say, Kym picked the restaurant."
"No kidding," I said. I let him off the hook. "It was okay."
"Are you ready for a stellar end to an awesome evening?" Buster asked as we waited for the valet to bring the truck around. We'd hung around after Kym and Kevin had left, listening to jazz, the Wally Schnalle Quartet, playing in the courtyard. The music helped me recapture the sexy mood I'd been in earlier.