Full Service Blonde

by Megan Edwards

  Victoria loved her family. Yes, she liked notoriety and she traded sex for money. When I met her, I couldn’t believe she had a husband. Now, I couldn’t believe how much she’d been willing to do to take care of him, and how much both of them loved their son. No, the family wasn’t “up to code.” But hell, neither was mine anymore. I wasn’t sure any family was, if you poked beneath the surface.

  Victoria died. Her husband and her son had suffered. I could have made life worse for them. Instead, I decided to make it better. Whether or not Victoria was “smiling at me from heaven,” I had no doubt that she would have approved of what I did.

  Chapter 26

  Friday, December 30

  I pulled up in front of the vicarage around five thirty. The front door was standing open, and I heard voices and laughter as soon as I stepped inside. I dumped my backpack on the sofa and headed to the kitchen to find out what was going on.

  “Copper!” Michael said. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

  “I was just going to call you!” Sierra said. “Do you know Hans and Dustin?”

  “Yes!” I said. “We met at the Armstrongs’ garage sale when I first got here. How are you?”

  I shook Dustin’s hand first. He was a cute, curly-haired Kewpie doll of a guy, and tonight he was wearing a red velvet jacket that made him look like a Christmas elf. Hans was taller and beefier, and his handshake could have squeezed a grapefruit.

  “Champagne, milady?” Dustin said. “We’re celebrating!”

  “Sure!” I said. “So—the deal closed?”

  “Recorded at 4:52,” Sierra said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that close to the wire.”

  Hans handed me a flute and clinked his own against it.

  “Happy New Year!” I said. “A little early!”

  “And a happy new year to you, too!” Dustin said, “But there’s yet another splendid reason to shout huzzah! Sierra my darling, do you want to spin the tale or shall I?”

  “Go ahead,” Sierra said, laughing. “You’ll do a much better job.”

  “Once upon a time,” Dustin began, “a lonely Dutchman was wandering the streets of Provincetown—”

  Hans laughed. “Whoa, Dusty. We don’t have all night.”

  “Oh, don’t we?” Dustin said. “Sad. Okay, the police have caught the blackguard who stole our Liberace collection.”

  “Really?” I said. “That’s great!”

  “Indeed it is, my sweet,” Dustin said, “and we owe your fine feline friend a hefty debt of gratitude.”

  The police hadn’t been very interested in solving the mystery of the missing Liberace collection, but when the fur cuff appeared, they’d perked up.

  “As luck would have it,” Dustin said, “Hans observed your sweet kitty emerging through a hole in a house over on Maria Elena that should have been occupied by a—what was the object, Hans?”

  “A dryer exhaust hose,” Hans said. “And she was dragging the gold lamé cummerbund. I recognized it immediately.”

  “The policemen came at once!” Dustin cried. “They said something about ‘probable cause,’ and they went inside and arrested a repellant young ruffian—what was his name?”

  “Gary Bruno,” Hans said. “We know his mother! I was taking her some fruitcake when I saw your cat. It was so awkward!”

  “We didn’t even know Dorothy had a son,” Dustin said, “and she had no idea that he was carrying off her neighbors’ possessions.

  “Including your parrot?” I asked.

  “Mr. Simms!” Dustin and Hans exclaimed in one voice.

  “That’s the most brilliant news of all!” Dustin said. “Simmikins is fine! Gary didn’t like him, so he gave him to a boy down on Oakey who broke his leg snowboarding. We’re sharing custody until he gets out of traction.”

  “Pâté?” Hans said, handing me a plate. “And the Stilton is fabulous.”

  “I still can’t believe Gary tried to convince the police that he was a victim, too,” Dustin said. “As though anyone would want to steal used briefs enormous enough to cover that bottom.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I almost choked on my champagne. Another mystery solved! Sekhmet wasn’t partial to Liberace. She just liked going over to Gary’s place and carrying off whatever he had left lying around, like underpants and cinnamon rolls.

  Before we were finished, we’d drunk toasts to Sekhmet, Mr. Simms, Liberace, and the police. We’d raised glasses to the Alliance for the Homeless, baby Nicky, and the approaching new year. Three bottles were empty when I finally staggered up my stairs.

  :: :: ::

  Later that night, I sat on my couch and let Sekhmet knead my thigh while I looked at two tickets to the New Year’s Eve party at Mandalay Bay. I had tried without success to give them to Michael and Sierra. They declined because Michael had to get up early on Sunday for church.

  “You go, Copper,” Sierra had said. “New Year’s Eve on the Strip is fun! Invite a friend and have a blast.”

  Would it be terribly rude, I wondered, to call David Nussbaum? It was nearly midnight.

  I realized that, on top of all my other crimes, I was about to break a law I’d always held even more sacred. Theft, extortion, withholding evidence—they all paled in comparison. In my whole livelong life, I never dreamed I would ask a married man out on a date.

  There was no answer, but he’d know I’d called. Damn caller ID.

  :: :: ::

  Saturday, December 31

  My phone rang around ten the next morning. Oh, God, it’s David, I thought as I fished my phone out of my backpack. I was suffering serious remorse for having called him at midnight. It was the champagne, I told myself. And I was tired. Maybe I could claim that I’d dialed his number by accident, or—but I didn’t recognize the number on my screen. And when I answered, I didn’t recognize the voice.

  “Hello,” it said. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “Who is this?” I said.

  “Richard McKimber. I got your number from Heather. I hope that was okay.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I just wanted—I just wanted to tell you we’re having a memorial service for Vicki. Out at the Sekhmet Temple. Next Saturday night. We’re going to scatter her ashes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good.”

  “Thanks, Mr. McKimber.”

  “Richard.”

  “Thanks, Richard.”

  “Thank you, Copper.”

  Twenty minutes later, my phone rang again. This time, the number on my screen was all too familiar.

  I greeted David.

  “Did you call me last night?” he asked.

  My heart immediately began revving up.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Um, well, it’s like—”

  “What?”

  “I know this is kind of short notice, but, well, um—”

  This time he just waited.

  “I’ve got tickets to the New Year’s Eve party at the Foundation Room.”

  Silence.

  “Well, um, would you like to go with me?”

  “I have another date.”

  Damn, damn, damn! Why in hell had I thought I could get away with asking him at the last minute? It was New Year’s Eve, for Christ’s sake!

  “It’s with Clint—The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and quite a nice bottle of champagne.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not about the champagne.”

  “So—you’ll go?”

  “It would be my great pleasure, Ms. Black. Allow me to go unearth my tuxedo.”

  After I hung up, I walked to my closet and pulled out the strapless bronze minidress Heather had given me. Whatever the new year might bring, I was going
to ring it in wearing a terrific dress.

  Acknowledgments

  This book is what happens when you move to Nevada and start to realize that it really is just a little different from other American locales. For all who have shared interesting historical tidbits, recommended books, told me stories, introduced me to unforgettable personalities, and given me a glimpse beyond the veneer of stereotype, my thanks.

  Thanks in particular to Pat and Peggy Whitten, whose tales of life in Storey County provided background and inspiration, and to Laraine Russo Harper, whose innovative policies allowed me to observe firsthand a few things normally hidden from view.

  Endless gratitude to Mark Sedenquist. He’s not only the wind beneath my wings, he’s also the giant turbine at my back.

  My deepest appreciation to Margaret Sedenquist for encouragement, inspiration, example, and support.

  To Maureen Baron and Nancy Zerbey, thanks for being wonderful editors.

  For a captivating cover and elegant design, thanks to Sue Campbell.

  To Ruth Mormon, Brian Rouff, Eric Chiappinelli, Stephen Glass, Sandy Glass, Jeffrey Goldman, Michael Dickman, Tom Herbertson, John Tsitouras, and Jeff Tegge, my thanks for advice and encouragement.

  Lastly, and with fond memories, I am grateful to Allan Fleming and Carolyn Hayes Uber for giving me a glimpse of life inside the Las Vegas Review-Journal of yesteryear.

  About the Author

  Megan Edwards likes to travel, as evidenced by her peripatetic life that included nearly seven years “on the road” all over North America. She also enjoys life in Las Vegas, a city that attracts travelers from around the globe. Whether she’s venturing forth to see the world or staying home while the world comes to visit, she’s always on the lookout for colorful characters and their stories. This is her third novel.