“Huh,” Chrissy sniffed. “Me, I’d face my problems head-on. I personally wouldn’t go tellin’ no tales tryin’ to get someone to do my dirty work for me.”
“Yeah, but Brandy ain’t got half your starch,” Stella said. Not a quarter. Not one little tenth, truth be told.
“She ain’t got my brains, neither.” Chrissy lifted a couple of sheets of paper off the kitchen table with a flourish. “Looka here!”
“I don’t have my reading glasses on me, doll. Whyn’t you tell me what you got there.”
“Only the last four transactions on Brandy’s Visa card,” Chrissy said. “Larry showed me how to hack in and see it online. Why, I had half a mind to go charge a few things on her account.”
“Like maybe a few nice long books to read for when you get put away for fraud?” Stella said, but the truth was she was impressed. Seriously impressed.
“I ain’t done a fraction of all the shit you done,” Chrissy said, “and you’re just jealous ’cause you cain’t hardly turn that Mac on and plus I’m gettin’ laid in the process and you ain’t.”
Stella didn’t need reminding of the latter truth. But she had to grudgingly admit that the former might take a little acknowledging.
“See here,” she said, “I suppose these might be some handy skills you’re picking up. If you can figure out how to do all this without Larry—’cause I can’t hardly afford to put him on the payroll, too—then I guess there might be some sort of bonus in this for you, assuming Donna’s willing to pay us for clearing Neb.”
“Hey, I’m getting the hang of that whole hacking thing. I b’lieve I might have a calling for it. I don’t really need anyone holding my hand and telling me what to do. And besides, Larry’s just after my sugar,” Chrissy added. “He’ll do whatever I want for free.”
Must be nice to have that kind of effect on a man, Stella thought wistfully. “So what-all did our girl charge on that Visa?”
Chrissy tapped the sheet of paper with a sparkle-polished fingernail. “The Bluebird Motel in Casey. Plus sixty bucks at Beau-T Nails. Got her a new set of tips and a lip wax.”
“You could tell that online?”
“Nah, I called, acted like I had a question about my bill. Details, Stella, remember?”
Stella did remember: She’d once told Chrissy that the secret to running a successful business, whether you were maiming wife-beaters or selling sewing machines, was in the details. The preparation. The meticulous records. The follow-up to ensure customer satisfaction.
The fact that her young protégée had taken her advice to heart gave Stella a little swell of pride. “So … partner,” she said, her voice a little husky, “what do you say our next step is?”
“I say we go bust into that Bluebird Motel and call out the bitch. It ain’t right that she’s got the sheriff’n them running around lookin’ for her while she’s layin’ out by the pool sipping margaritas.”
“All right, then, sounds like a plan.”
“You know what, Stella,” Chrissy added as she slipped a couple of juice boxes into a diaper bag, “I sure don’t care to be lied to, you know what I mean?”
“Mmm-hmm, I surely do.”
The proud little swell lodged in her chest expanded into something like a tidal wave of good feelings. Because there was a we in there—Chrissy was thinking like half of a team. Brandy lying to Stella was as good as her lying to the both of them; that’s what the girl was saying. And that felt just about right to Stella.
Partners. Two of them, watching each other’s backs. Stella figured there wasn’t a whole lot that could stop them.
“To the Bluebird, then,” she said, and grabbed hold of Tucker’s arm as he dashed by. “Now, honey, Auntie Stella’s going to need her shoes back.”
But ten minutes later, Tucker was holding the clogs tightly in his little fists, sitting in his car seat in the back of Stella’s Jeep, while Stella drove down Broadway with a pair of sparkly jeweled flip-flops on her feet.
Sometimes you just had to go with the flow.
SEVENTEEN
Casey was a dusty little town fifteen minutes up the interstate and then another ten miles out Route 72, smack in the middle of nothing. It had been built up in the 1930s and enjoyed a nice tourist business when Harry S. Truman himself declared that the bubbling sulfuric waters had done all number of nice things for his various ailments. A handsome old hotel was set into a wooded hill above the springs, with wide green lawns and lovely gardens and beautifully tended paths and fountains.
The Bluebird Motel wasn’t it.
The Bluebird was a tacky yellow-sided affair wedged between a 7-Eleven and a Cigarettes Cheaper on the edge of town. It had plastic geraniums planted at rigid intervals in fake-stone urns lining the stretch of pavement that served as a walkway along the rooms. It looked fairly clean, Stella gave it that much, but it was hard to tell from the parking lot.
“How we gonna do this?” Chrissy asked as they pulled into a spot near the double doors leading to registration. Inside they could see a bored-looking middle-aged fella watching the little television that sat on the counter, his lips parted slightly and moving, as though he was singing along with the program.
“Well, I guess we either bribe him or scare him,” Stella says. “All’s we need’s Brandy’s room number, way I see it.”
Chrissy turned her wide lavender eyes on Stella indignantly. “I don’t b’lieve I care for either of those options. Why don’t you just let me handle this one.”
Stella shrugged and got Tucker out of the car seat. He was in a sleepy baby-haze, his eyes fluttering closed and his chin drooly, and he was happy to snuggle in against her neck and hang on. He was sure getting heavy lately, with his second birthday looming in a few months, but Stella figured hauling him around might be a nice segue back to the Bowflex now that she had the doctors’ go-ahead to return to her regular exercise routine.
Chrissy led the way toward the office, but she paused outside the door and adjusted her top, a sweet blue eyelet affair with a drawstring under the bust and little cap sleeves with just enough puff in them to suggest a bit of naughty schoolgirl.
She turned to show Stella. “Good?”
Whatever yanking and tugging Chrissy had effected had caused her breasts to swell up and over the soft cotton fabric of the top, and her blond curls looped and rested against her pale bare shoulders. “Well, now, I guess it’s fine if you’re aimin’ to get your own show on the Playboy Channel.”
Chrissy stuck her tongue out at Stella and pushed the door open.
The man behind the desk, who Stella could now see hadn’t managed an even shave this morning—he’d missed a patch along his red-pocked jaw—was playing with a plastic top. He spun it with his thumb and finger and watched it spin down, as the television blared some talk show that featured angry guests lunging at each other and cussing. He turned down the volume as the top spun itself out and lay on its side; Stella could see that it read sooky’s pizza is tops.
“Melp you,” he mumbled, glancing their way. Then an interesting thing happened. His eyes opened wide and he jerked his head up and his palms smacked flat on the counter and he raised himself up into an approximation of good posture that might have been convincing if his narrow caved chest hadn’t sloped down to such an impressive beer gut. His gaze took a quick circuit of Chrissy’s face before landing with finality on her bosoms.
“Uh, melp you,” he said again, just a touch louder, but with considerably more enthusiasm.
He didn’t look at Stella and Tucker at all.
Chrissy sidled up to the counter and leaned into it so that her breasts had a nice stretch of Formica to rest on.
“We’re here for Brandy Truax’s bachelorette party,” she said. “Oh, are these free?”
There was a basket of Starlite Mints on the counter, and Chrissy plucked out a candy and stuck one cellophane end between her teeth.
“Uh, yeah,” the clerk said. Stella rolled her eyes and squinted at his name tag,
which bore the unwieldy moniker hal ustor how can i provide excellent service today?
Chrissy held the other end of the wrapper between her fingers and pulled gently. The mint spun lazily out of its wrapper and dropped into her waiting palm. Chrissy licked her lips and popped the candy in.
“Oh dear,” she said, “do you have a trash can for the wrapper?”
“Sure, just—”
Hal held out a hand but Chrissy ignored it and came around the counter and bent over, peeping under Hal’s desk and coincidentally practically unleashing her breasts right into Hal’s trembling hands. He dropped the pen he was holding and swallowed hard.
“There it is!” Chrissy exclaimed, and tossed her trash in. She patted Hal’s arm before returning to the other side of the counter. “Thanks, hon.”
“The bachelorette party,” Stella prompted. This was all very entertaining, but she figured it was about 500 percent overkill; Hal looked like he’d hand over the deed to the joint if Chrissy let him cop a feel. “You want to ask Hal here where they’re having it?”
“Oh my yes,” Chrissy said. “Now is it in one of your special event rooms or are we meeting at Brandy’s?”
“Uh, I don’t really know what—”
“He just works here,” Stella said. “He’s not going to know what-all they’ve got planned.”
Chrissy turned a dismissive gaze her way. “Whatever, Mom.”
“I can check.…” Hal tapped a keyboard in front of him a couple of times and frowned in concentration. “There’s nothing in the conference room today.”
“So we must be meeting in her room. Oh. You know what would be really cool? Is if we could surprise her. Have it all ready by the time she and her sister get back from the salon.” Chrissy leaned across the counter and stage-whispered a few inches from Hal’s chapped lips. “I got this, like, naughty cake? With the frosting like coming out the one end like … well, I can’t really say with her here. She’s gonna watch the kid so Brandy and me and the others can party.”
“Oh,” Hal managed. “That sounds fun.”
“So I was thinking if you could let me in her room we could, like, decorate it? I got all these streamers and shit and—oh, don’t worry, we’re not gonna trash the room or nothing, we’re just having champagne first before we head over to my friend Jill’s. Hey, would you want to come? We need more guys.”
A purplish flush crept out of the burgundy polyester collar of Hal’s shirt and across his face. He gulped air a couple of times and Stella thought he might pass out. “Well, I’m not off until three—”
“But that’s perfect,” Chrissy said. “We’re gonna head out to Jill’s pool around then. Don’t worry if you don’t have a swimsuit—it’s gonna be suits optional.”
“What … what did you say your friend’s name was?” Hal asked faintly, his fingers tapping spasmodically at the keys.
Three minutes later they were standing outside room 138, Chrissy waving the card key smugly at Stella. “No bribing,” she whispered. “No threatenin’.”
“You’re the master,” Stella said sarcastically. “I’m just your long-suffering mother who doesn’t know anything. Though before you go busting on in there, how about telling me what you got planned next?”
“How about you beat the shit out of her? Ain’t that what you usually do?”
“I don’t hit women, ” Stella protested. Tucker was snoozing on her shoulder, snoring gently in her ear, and her arm was falling asleep under the weight. She was desperate to set him down.
“Well, that’s just plain sexist, Stella.”
“I also don’t resort to violence when diplomacy will do,” she said primly.
“Well, okay, Madam Diplomat, since you got it all figured out why don’t you just go ahead and show me how it’s done.”
“Well, get on out of the way and I will.”
“Okay, fine.”
“Fine.”
When the door swung open, they were both so started that they backed up and Stella almost dropped Tucker—but Brandy looked most surprised of all, with a towel wrapped around her head and a thick green paste spread all over her face.
“My, my, that’s quite a look,” Stella said as she gave Brandy a good shove that sent her toppling back into the room onto the bed. “Look at you, all dressed up and nowhere to go.”
EIGHTEEN
Now we only got a couple hours ’fore this pool party we’re s’posed to be at,” Chrissy said as she followed Stella into the room and stood with her hands on her hips, glaring down at Brandy. “So you better git to talkin’.”
“Who’s she?” Brandy demanded as she glanced nervously over toward the TV stand. Stella tracked her gaze to where a pert white purse sat on top of the giant flat-panel television. “And what the hell are you doing with a kid?”
“This is my associate, Chrissy Shaw,” Stella said, crossing the room and snatching the purse, “and her little boy, not that it’s any of your business.”
She upended the purse on the other bed. Along with a host of combs and lipsticks and a travel-size hair spray and a packet of condoms and a handful of loose change, a little steel .38 fell out.
“My, my, my,” Stella said. “Change of plans.”
Chrissy was at her side reaching for Tucker in a split second. They managed the hand-off without Tucker even batting a sleepy eye, and Stella grabbed one of the pillows and yanked the case off and slipped her hand into it before picking up the revolver, while Chrissy retreated watchfully to the other side of the room, where she sat in the upholstered chair and cradled Tucker close.
“Know what the secret of my success is, Brandy?” Stella asked. “I mean, one of ’em, anyway—well, it’s improvisation. That means making do with what’s around. This here pillowcase’ll take care of prints, but I gotta admit I don’t feel like I have so much control on the trigger, you know what I’m sayin—?”
“Stella, put that down,” Brandy said. “No need to get all dramatic.”
“You think I’m bein’ dramatic? Let me tell you about dramatic. I thought we were friends. I thought we had a deal. I kept up my end. And then there you go, lying to me, taking advantage of my good nature, hiding out here in all this luxury while you send us on some wild goose chase through the boonies looking for a hole in the dirt that doesn’t even exist. Why—it’s enough to hurt my feelings.”
“Well, I told you not to look for me,” Brandy said. “So you can’t blame me for that. If you would’ve just nailed Wil like I asked, then none a this would be a problem, now would it?”
Stella let loose an exaggerated sigh. She considered explaining that she didn’t do contract killing. But she was also pleased that her reputation for violence, which was, after all, the cornerstone of her little side business, had spread so far and wide. No sense poking any holes in the illusion. What was it Warren Buffett said? It takes twenty years to build a reputation and five minutes to ruin it.
“You figure I was just gonna kill him for free?” she demanded instead. “Out of the goodness of my heart, or something? Look here, chicky, I don’t do pro bono work.”
Brandy had recovered most of her composure and stretched her legs out in front of her on the bed. She was wearing the hotel’s white terry robe, and it fell open to reveal a length of smooth, creamy, cellulite-free thigh, which somehow irked Stella just about as much as being lied to. Though, given the rest of Brandy’s cosmetic alterations, it was probably the result of lipo, not incredibly good genes.
“How old are you, anyway?” she demanded, dragging over the desk chair with her free hand and settling in next to the bed, gun trained on Brandy the whole time. With Chrissy sitting on the other side of the bed, it almost felt like they were visiting someone in the hospital. The slutty cousin no one liked, maybe.
“A lady doesn’t tell,” Brandy said primly. “How old are you?”
“None of your fucking business.” Though there was more Stella would have liked to know—like how much work Brandy had done, how much it
cost, if it hurt—she certainly hoped it had—and whether Goat had encouraged the whole thing.
If it took this kind of gussying up to snag a man, then Stella was pretty sure she wasn’t the woman for the job. And not because she wasn’t willing to exert her fair share of effort either.
Even good relationships took hard work, she knew that—all those Redbook articles made that clear. But if she made herself over into a dish like Brandy, she wouldn’t be herself anymore. And while not so long ago that might have struck her as a not-terrible trade, back when being Stella Hardesty felt like a ticket to the Victim Olympics and her self-esteem had been stretched to its breaking point, in the last couple of years she had grown comfortable with the person she’d come to be, warts and all.
“You didn’t ask me—I’m twenty-nine,” Chrissy said. “But I’m kind of a genius, see, so I doubt you’re going to be able to put anything over on me, Brandy Truax, even if you do got twenty-five years on me.”
“Twenty-five?” Brandy sat up, features suddenly rigid. “You better get you some glasses, girl, ’cause I’m closer to bein’ your sister than your mama’s age.”
“Dang, Stella,” Chrissy said, “I know you were sayin’ you thought she was rehabilitatable and all, but I gotta say I think you were mistaken this time. I say we go ahead and let Wil know where she’s stayin’ and let them work it out.”
“You found him?” Brandy, cool as a tarted-up cucumber who’d been dipped in green goddess dressing, suddenly went shrill. A gob of facial mask dripped down off her cheek onto the white robe, but she didn’t seem to notice. “You talked to Wil?”
Stella exchanged a glance with Chrissy. “Look here, cupcake, why do you think we bothered to hunt down your skanky ass in the first place? First off, I want you to tell me all about this ex of yours and why you’re so dang sure he’s tryin’ to kill you. And if you can convince me of that, then I’ll want everything else you got on this guy. Cell numbers, car, where he’s likely to be hiding, all that.”
A Bad Day for Pretty Page 18