Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf)

by Drop-Dead Blonde (epub)

  Cindie Rae got down on her hands and knees and began groping through all the junk on the floor. ``I should have figured out Alan was up to something when he sent me to you in the first place. He told me you'd dig up dirt on the Pinkerton lady! Why am I a sucker for cute guys?''

  ``He's not so cute,'' Calvin said.

  ``Are you kidding? Half the sales clerks in that stupid store were sleeping with him.'' She came up with the handcuffs.

  ``Well, duh! He's rich! And you're not going to get any of his money if you can't figure out a way to get married, Cin.''

  ``You expect me to marry that jerk now? I'm not sharing him with all those other women! That's disgusting! Hold still,'' she said to me. ``Cal, she won't hold still.''

  Calvin stepped closer and pointed the gun at my nose. ``Hold still.''

  I allowed Cindie Rae to fasten the handcuff on my left wrist. She snapped the other bracelet around a leg of the nearest light stand. I said, ``You must be devastated, Cindie

  � Rae. To learn your fiance has been unfaithful must have been a terrible blow.''

  ``Yeah,'' she agreed with a pout, ``a really terrible blow. I mean, last month I sat through eight performances of Phantom of the Opera for that guy. All those people shriek- ing the same song over and over? I deserve a really big wedding for that alone!'' 80 Nancy Martin

  ``And to learn Popo was one of his paramours--''

  ``His what?''

  ``One of his girlfriends. You must have been furious.''

  ``Yeah, especially because she was jerking me around about the Lettitia McGraw handbag. I mean, what does it matter if I pick it up at the store or not? She was such a bitch. When Alan said we had to get rid of her, I--''

  ``Alan suggested killing her?''

  ``He said we had to get rid of her before we got married because she could make trouble. I thought he meant killing her. But when I visited him at the jail, he started blubbering about firing her, and who could have killed her, and I--''

  ``Didn't Alan know you killed her?''

  ``Pookums thinks I'm his sweet babycakes. And when I told him what really happened, he . . . he said you could help, that you could prove the Pinkerton lady did it because everybody thinks she already murdered her doddery old husbands. She deserves to go to jail for that anyway.''

  ``She never--'' I thought better of arguing. ``So it was you and Calvin who figured out the plan of shutting off the security system?''

  ``It was mostly my idea.'' Calvin waved his gun around the room. ``It was the least I could do to help Cin land the big fish. We've got bills to pay around here. All this camera stuff doesn't come cheap, y'know. Every caller we get on the nine-hundred line pays us a few bucks, of course, but we aren't moving the product fast enough.'' He pointed to the boxes of dildos.

  ``You are Cindie Rae's business partner as well as her cameraman?''

  ``I'm her director,'' Calvin corrected. ``And her brother. The security guard gig is just my day job.''

  The phone rang. Startled, Cindie Rae bolted upright. ``We've got a caller! And I don't have my false eyelashes on yet!''

  She scampered for the bathroom while Calvin headed for a multiline telephone and hit a button. I suddenly became aware that the camera was pointed directly at me, solo, handcuffed in the middle of the bed.

  ``Hello, uh, Cindie Rae?'' said an uncertain, amplified voice. ``It's, uh, Dick again. Remember me?'' SLAY BELLES 81

  From the bathroom, Cindie Rae called, ``Hi, Dick! Of course I remember you!''

  ``Uh, I really like your girlfriend,'' said the caller. ``When does she take her clothes off?''

  I gave up on the plan to keep things calm until the police arrived. ``Forget it!'' I shouted in Cindie Rae's direction. ``No clothes are coming off! None!''

  Calvin dropped the gun beside the phone and hurried to the camera. He peered through the lens and began to make adjustments.

  I yanked at the handcuff. ``I don't want any part of this!''

  The caller said, ``Are you girls going to do some nasty stuff together?''

  ``No!'' I said. ``We're not doing anything together! Cindie Rae, get in here right now!''

  ``Here,'' said Calvin. ``Hold this and look like you're turned on.''

  He held out the fluorescent dildo to me.

  Instead of reaching for it, I plunged my free hand into the Williams-Sonoma shopping bag and came up with Lib- by's rolling pin. I swung hard and knocked the dildo out of Calvin's grasp. Like a home run headed for the bleachers, it sailed over the camera and hit the kitchen wall. The mo- mentum of my swing combined with my left hand being trapped by the handcuff sent me falling back on the bed.

  ``Hey!'' Calvin yelped.

  ``Oh, yeah,'' said Dick on the telephone.

  While Calvin went to retrieve the dildo, I struggled to sit up. I dropped the rolling pin and rummaged in another shop- ping bag. One-handed I came up with boxed perfume. Franti- cally, I tore open the box and fumbled with the bottle. By the time Calvin came back to me, I was ready. He bent to put the dildo on the bed, and I squirted him in the eyes.

  He screamed and fell onto the bed with me, clutching his face.

  ``Oooh, yeah, baby!'' Dick yelled.

  Cindie Rae dashed into the room with one false eyelash hanging drunkenly from her eye. ``What's going on? Calvin! Calvin! What are you doing?''

  She leaped on the bed and rolled her brother over. ``Let me see, Cal, honey. Are you hurt?'' 82 Nancy Martin

  ``Hurt him some more!'' bellowed Dick.

  Cindie Rae straddled him and began doing chest com- pressions on her brother. Calvin choked on the perfume and wept streaming tears. The fluorescent dildo rolled into my lap. I reacted as if it were a Molotov cocktail and threw it into the air.

  Which was when the police burst through the door. The first cop snagged the dildo out of the air like a football.

  Libby and Santa burst in right behind him.

  ``Oh, my God.'' Libby surveyed the scene with me front and center. ``You get to have all the fun! Chapter 9

  Later that evening, Michael arrived at Blackbird Farm bearing steaks and wine. He opened the bottle first, and we sipped a very nice Beaujolais in the kitchen while I told him everything. Reluctantly, I even told him about the tus- sle on Cindie Rae's bed.

  He listened with a suspiciously straight face while prepar- ing a potato gratin, complete with cheese shaved from a chunk he'd been saving in the fridge.

  ``You think maybe Calvin made a tape?'' he asked when I finished the tale. ``Because I'd pay a lot of money to see it.''

  ``There is no tape,'' I said firmly. ``I had Libby and Santa double-check.''

  Michael cocked his head toward the living room, from where Libby's giggle and Santa's lower-timbred laugh floated back to us. ``What's his real name, anyway?''

  ``I don't know. I don't think it matters.''

  ``He's not the lasting type?''

  ``Stranger things have happened,'' I said. ``I just hope he doesn't break her heart before Christmas. She's already on the edge.''

  Michael sipped some of his wine. ``And the police ar- rested Cindie Rae and her brother?''

  ``Yes. But it looks like Alan was the mastermind all along. He planted the suggestion of getting rid of Popo with Cindie Rae and let her plot the murder with Calvin. It was his way of getting rid of both Popo and Cindie Rae. He figured she'd be too inept to get away with the crime. To help the investigation along, he told her to get me involved.''

  83 84 Nancy Martin

  ``So the cops got the right man this time?'' Michael shook his head in disbelief. ``I guess it's time to break out the snowshoes in hell.''

  ``Michael,'' I warned.

  �

  He slid the gratin in the oven and put a saute pan on the stove to heat. He doused the pan with a splash of olive oil, adjusted the flame with care, then came over to the table, where I sat on one chair in the dress he'd bought for me from Darwin, the dress Popo chose and set aside with my name pinned to the low neckline. She'd been right--I looked
fabulous in it. To tone down the glamour, I had my sock feet propped up on the opposite chair.

  Michael picked up my feet and sat on the chair, warming my toes with his hands. ``You look beautiful.''

  ``Thank you. I love the dress. But it's too expensive. You have to take it back.''

  He shook his head. ``It's a Christmas gift, and it's worth every penny. Popo really knew what she was doing. It makes me think about what you'll look like when I take it off.''

  ``What will I get for you? I'm completely broke.''

  ``You'll think of something.''

  We heard Libby laugh again; then a loaded silence told us Santa was well on his way to giving Libby some Christ- mas cheer.

  Michael smiled. ``You can't stop love.''

  I smiled, too. ``You sure about that?''

  ``I am,'' he said with conviction. ``Nora--''

  ``I know,'' I said. ``I'm sorry. I should have waited instead of chasing off on my own. But I saw Calvin coming out of the store and knew it was my chance. I had to follow him.''

  He nodded. ``I know what you'll do for the people you care about. But when somebody loves you the way I do, you have a responsibility. You have to take care of yourself now. For me.''

  I put my glass down and reached for his hand. I squeezed. ``I will. I promise I'll be more careful.''

  He accepted that by kissing my fingertips. ``Are you sorry your friend is going to jail?''

  ``Not if he really planned Popo's death. I think he actu- ally wanted Haymaker's to fail. If he no longer had the store, he would be free to go to the theater as much as he SLAY BELLES 85 liked. Cindie Rae said he even hoped to buy a theater for himself.''

  ``Maybe he'll still get his chance. He can afford good lawyers. That makes a big difference.''

  I allowed that observation to hang in the air for a moment.

  Michael caught my eye and gave a wry smile. ``I'm doing what I can, you know.''

  ``Are you, Michael?''

  He focused on gently kneading the arches of my feet. ``I look at my life and know I've wasted a lot of time. I want to come home to you every night with a clear conscience. But I can't clean up a lifetime overnight.''

  Quietly, I said, ``I heard about Pinky Pinkerton's grand- daughter, Kerry. It was on the news. She hurt her hand.''

  Michael looked up, but his face betrayed nothing. ``She did?''

  ``On her way to the airport. A car service driver slammed her hand in a door. She's hurt badly. The surgery is compli- cated and may take over a year to heal. She won't play golf for a long time. And the car-service driver has disappeared. Nobody's even heard of the company before.''

  ``No kidding,'' he said.

  ``The good news is that she got a job offer. A sports network starting up in California wants her to do golf com- mentary. So she's moving to the West Coast.''

  ``Lucky for her grandmother, huh?''

  ``Michael,'' I said, ``we both want to start our lives over. More than anything, I want us to end up together every night, too. But there are things I can't accept. I have some experience with men who live by their own rules, who are self-destructive, and it's . . . it's too painful to go through again.''

  ``The last thing I want to do is hurt you,'' he said. ``I'm going straight. I promise.''

  ``All right,'' I said. ``I trust you.''

  ``That,'' he said, ``is the best Christmas gift I've ever received.''

  He kissed me as if to seal the bargain. Read on for an excerpt from the next Blackbird Sisters Mystery by Nancy Martin

  CROSS YOUR HEART AND

  HOPE TO DIE Coming in hardcover from NAL in March 2005 I was still in bed recovering from Christmas when the phone rang.

  On the other end of the line, I heard the roar of a chain saw.

  No, on second thought it was the voice of my boss, Kitty Keough.

  ``Get your coat, Sweet Knees,'' she squawked. ``And get your ass into the city right away. I need you to cover a fashion show that starts in less than an hour.''

  ``Kitty,'' I said, ``I could use a little more warning when it comes to assignments.''

  ``Oh, barf,'' she shouted in the same dulcet tones as be- fore. ``Are you whining? Because nobody's going to kiss your tiara in the newspaper business, honey. You want to stay at home and count silver spoons? Or you want to get paid this week?''

  I could hear the blare of traffic in the background and figured she was phoning from a taxi that careened through the snowy streets of Philadelphia, speeding Kitty to a high- society party that somehow outrivaled the assignment she was tossing over her shoulder to me. No doubt her brassy blond hair was blowing in the wind and she was whipping her driver with the moth-eaten feather boa she carried to formal events in the misguided belief that it lent glamour to her appearance. ``Quit playing footsie with the Mafia Prince and get your butt in gear.''

  ``He's not--'' I stopped myself from giving her further ammo to use against me and reached for a pen. ``All right, give me the details.''

  Which is why I threw a fur coat over my nightgown,

  89 90 Excerpt from Cross You Heart And Hope to Die slipped on a pair of Chanel boots, and headed out for an evening that promised to be legendary. It was go, or lose my job.

  And oh, baby, I needed the job.

  I applied lipstick and three coats of mascara while my sister drove int Philadelphia. Michael had other business to tend, so I'd called Libby to go with me. On the way, she told me about her new business venture.

  ``Donald Trump says a successful entrepreneur has to be passionate about what she does,'' she informed me as she fearlessly drove her minivan through the snow.

  ``What does that mean?''

  ``So I found my passion. My greatest wish is to electrify the romantic relationships of everyone I know.''

  ``Electrify? Sounds like you're selling vibrators.''

  ``At Potions and Passions, we call them intimacy aids.''

  I nearly scratched my cornea with the mascara wand. ``You're kidding, right?''

  ``Adult products are a booming business! I'm an official Potions and Passions consultant now. I get my first ship- ment of sex toys this week. Except we're supposed to say erotic enhancements.'' With a charmingly demented smile, she asked, ``Don't you want to know what the buzz is about?''

  While she laughed, full of delight and adventure, I said, ``Libby, why couldn't you pay off your Christmas debt by going to work as a telemarketer or something? You could sell lawn mowers to bedouins!''

  ``I'm not passionate about lawn mowers. I am passionate about sex.''

  For Libby, the path to self-fulfillment was a long, winding highway with many roadside attractions. Still a few years shy of forty, she visited the graves of two husbands and at least one ``very dear friend.'' Before her children were born, Libby had been a rising painter, not to mention a founding member of the local erotic yoga society. But now- adays she was always flinging herself into diversionary pit stops that sometimes made me long to strangle her.

  ``Anyway,'' she said, ``I need to make a living. I hate being penniless, don't you?'' Poverty was new to both my sisters and me. Groomed for debutante balls and advantageous marriages, we had been Excerpt from Cross You Heart And Hope to Die 91 badly burned when our parents lit a match to the Blackbird family fortune. They spent our trust funds faster than drunken lottery winners could buy a fleet of Cadillacs, then ran off to South America to practice the nuances of the tango.

  Mama and Daddy left me to cope with Blackbird Farm-- a difficult challenge in itself with its crumbling roof and ancient plumbing. But the $2 million debt of back taxes really threw me for a loop. Maybe it's an old-fashioned notion, but I couldn't let the family legacy be bulldozed to make room for a Wal-Mart, so I sold everything I could to start a tax repayment plan, and then I ventured gamely into the world of employment for the first time in my life.

  Okay, so I hadn't been reduced to eating out of Dumps- ters, but my lifestyle went from frocks and rocks to maca- roni and cheese in a hurry. I had to get a job. My blue-
blooded ancestors were probably rolling over in the Black- bird mausoleum, but now when Kitty Keough, the society columnist for the Philadelphia Intelligencer, called, I came running.

  ``Why can't Kitty go to this big-deal fashion show her- self?'' Libby asked. ``It's just her kind of thing, right? Fa- mous people sucking up and free goody bags, too? Why send her assistant instead?''

  ``I don't know. She didn't say. It's probably part of her plot to get me fired. But I have to go, don't I?'' I tucked and the mascara back in Libby's handbag and checked my watch. ``And it starts in ten minutes.''