by Chris Rogers
“A shock, both of them dying like that.” Lonnie’s strong hands massaged Dixie’s scalp through the plastic bag. “But didn’t they exit in style!”
“Lucy’s funeral was yesterday afternoon,” Dixie said, closing her eyes as Kitchi came at her with another concoction.
“Yes, that’s the one I read about—but you had that seminar, Lonnie.”
“Too late to cancel.”
“And we mustn’t both be away at the same time.”
“Did Lucy or Edna ever bring another woman here? Or meet someone here?”
Kitchi shook her head. “Edna visited us weekly. How long, Lonnie?”
Dixie eased her eyes open.
“Awhile.” Lonnie’s hands slowed their gentle massage. “I remember she mentioned her son was taking her to the ballet, and she wanted to look smashing. It was the ballet, Kitchi?”
“The Nutcracker.” Kitchi examined Dixie’s hand. “Nobody wears nails cut at the quick anymore, sweetie, not with solar gels, silk wraps, linen wraps. You have strong nails, but you must feed them … vitamins, calcium, a good protein—”
“The Nutcracker,” Dixie prompted. “Around Christmas, Edna’s looks improved remarkably.”
“Sweetheart, for Edna Pine, it took more than a snip and a curl. A lovely woman in her time, I’m sure, but she had let herself go, hadn’t she, Kitchi?”
The facial technician pursed her lips and nodded dourly.
“We gave Edna a full makeover for a New Year’s party,” Lonnie added. “She longed to be a new woman for the new year.”
“Don’t we all?” Kitchi dabbed brown oil on Dixie’s nails.
“And, sweetheart, Edna didn’t renege on her New Year’s resolution like … some of us do.” Lonnie shot a disdainful glance at Kitchi.
“I saw pictures, before and after,” Dixie gushed. “What a difference you made!”
“Oh, I’ll take credit where credit’s due. We created a minor miracle. But, sweetheart, that woman worked like a demon on herself—sweating with the oldies, I suppose. Lost a ton of weight.”
“Was something special happening after the new year—? Ow!”
Kitchi’s nail file had slipped under a cuticle.
“Sorry, dear. Now, don’t talk … your face will crack.”
Dixie studied the woman’s solemn demeanor, imagined a brown wig covering her gray hair, and wondered if the slip of her file had really been an accident. Had the new year promised an event more exciting than The Nutcracker? Armed robbery, for instance?
And how much of Lonnie’s act was just that—an act?
He clicked on a hair dryer and aimed its heat at Dixie’s plastic-wrapped head. Over the roar, she couldn’t hear their conversation. Had the pair exchanged another furtive glance? She watched them, wondering how many friends Edna had made here and whether any had come into money in the past week. Tomorrow would be too soon to return for another treatment.
She consoled herself that at least she wouldn’t have to worry about gussying up for the singles party tonight. New hair, new face. With a different blouse, her black funeral suit would look fine for cocktails. Or maybe she’d spring for a sexy new dress to go with her new image. Shock city.
Minutes later, she found herself on the massage table, the lavender robe down around her middle and a strong-fingered woman working on her back muscles while Lonnie massaged her feet. He had discreetly turned away when the robe came down, although Dixie felt no embarrassment. Alcohol did lower one’s inhibitions.
Or maybe she actually enjoyed the way Lonnie complimented every inch she exposed. “Look at these, Kitchi. Have you ever seen such feet? These toes have not been pinched into shoes too tight or too high. She could model these feet. Carmine—he’s our reflexologist, Dixie—Carmine will lust for these feet, Kitchi.”
Dixie closed her eyes and imagined being twenty-five years older, widowed a year ago, and starved for human companionship. Though she believed only one out of every five words Lonnie uttered, the barrage of appreciation worked like a tonic. She felt prettier, sexier, happier. She felt loved. People who hadn’t known she existed a few hours ago knew more about her aging body than her own husband had after years of intimacy. And through their eyes, she was not a worn-out sixty-six-year-old; she radiated potential.
Dixie opened her eyes. Except for the age distinction, was she really so different from Edna? Not widowed, of course, never even married. But alone. By choice—she’d always considered “I do” the world’s longest sentence. Now the one man in her life she could imagine marrying had recast her as a good buddy. A pal with a lovable dog.
“Cellulite, Kitchi. None, nada. Can’t find a single lump of cottage cheese. But too much dead skin. This body needs a dry brush massage before the mud. Use the spicy mud, sweetheart, I want this skin to glow like moonlight on Maui.”
Covered in mud to her chin, green goo on her face, Dixie dozed in a shallow tub, sipping mimosas and feeling like royalty. Gorgeous royalty—otherwise, why would anyone treat her so swell? Had Edna felt seduced by the attention? Never mind that she paid for it. Dixie couldn’t recall anyone quoting a price—and at the moment, could think of no reason not to max out her credit card.
She’d worry later about whether she’d bought any worthwhile information.
Chapter Thirty-one
Officer Ted Tally shoved aside his empty coffee cup and picked up the tab. His turn to pay.
“Nine days fishing and camping,” Dietz coaxed. “So deep in the Thicket you need a compass to find your way out.”
Sounded tempting. First thing Ted Tally did every morning, after pouring his caffeine hit, was tie a new fishing lure. He’d practiced tying them all, bay bugs, chuggers, paddle-tails, deciding which was fastest, neatest. Which could be tied in the brush with materials at hand. Had a boxful going unused. Fishing sure sounded better than three days of desk duty while IA finished their report.
“Don’t have nine days’ vacation coming,” he told Dietz. “And no comp time.”
“I hear there’s a big bad flu going around, friend.” Dietz pushed his two hundred-plus pounds out of his chair. “Takes about nine days to shake it. Don’t you feel sick?”
“Sick of listening to your bullshit.” Dietz wouldn’t lay out sick anymore than he would, not with a cop killer to be found. Ted stood and dropped tip money on the table. “Besides, you saw that new pickup I’m driving. Think I want to scratch it up on those backwoods trails?”
Dietz angled toward the door, but hung back. “Tally, think about it.” His voice had gone serious. “Being a cop in this town right now might not be healthy, forget the flu.”
Talking about Art Harris now. Harris, who’d sat right here, drinking his watered-down joe—claimed the chemicals in decaf would kill you—ten minutes before Ted caught the Pine squeal. Harris, too keyed up from the first shooting to sit still, never mind this wasn’t his beat, never mind he was thirty miles west of where he oughta be. Harris wanting to make it right, take this actor down with no killing. Harris, who should’ve stayed out of it. Maybe the Pine shooting had nothing to do with Art catching a bullet, but what a rotten day to remember as you’re sucking in that final breath.
“I’ll think about it,” Ted lied. “Maybe join you in a couple days.”
“We’ll notch the trees, so you can find us,” Dietz called.
Also lying. Dietz might be worried, might even seriously consider taking the trip he’d been planning for weeks, but Ted knew he wouldn’t go. Like every other officer in town, Dietz would hang in—fishing trip be damned—until they nailed this motherfucking cop killer.
Chapter Thirty-two
At Fit After Fifty, instead of lavender doors, Pachelbel, and heavenly scents, Dixie stood at a check-in desk furnished in chrome and leather, listening to Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock,” and studying before-and-after pictures of prized clients. Pages and pages of flab-turned-fit.
She’d stopped first at the Unique Boutique, which turned out to be right ne
xt door. A sign in the window had said, BACK IN TEN MINUTES, and Dixie decided to use that time efficiently.
“I remember Edna Pine,” the FAF attendant told her. “One of our ‘believe it’ cases.”
The FIT AFTER FIFTY emblem embroidered on his shirt didn’t convince Dixie this man was half a century old. Twenty percent body fat, a hundred sixty pounds, all sinewy strength. Graying at the temples, but no wrinkles showing. Thirty-eight, maybe.
“Believe what?” she asked.
“Most of these people come because their doctors tell them to take off weight or expect to drop dead tomorrow. Others wake up one day feeling old and want to turn back the clock—”
“I’d say Edna wanted to turn back the clock,” Dixie agreed.
“And she did it! Came here overweight, tired, depressed. You should see her now—” The realization that Edna’s now was over froze his smile. “I mean, you know, before …”
“I saw the pictures.” Dixie nodded toward the album. “Impressive. But you said she came here depressed?”
“Yeah, well … like most people … unhappy about being fat.”
“Then she lost the weight. How, some special program?”
“Every program is custom. We can design one that’ll put you in top condition, working out only forty minutes, three times—”
“Were you Edna’s trainer?”
He shook his head. “Wish I could take that credit. She enrolled in a self-monitored program, and then she must’ve invested in home equipment. Started coming only once a week—”
Dixie’d seen no exercise equipment at Edna’s house.
“—mostly for the sauna. Which is excellent.” He pushed a brochure across the counter. “Even if you work out at home, you’d want to enroll for the sauna.”
Instead of buying equipment, Edna had taken aerobics with Mike. A supply of his flyers, posted on FAF’s bulletin board, had caught Dixie’s eye on the way in. Had she taken classes with any other instructors? “Do you have a record of Edna’s progress?”
The man shook his head. “We only keep records when you sign with a personal trainer. In fact, if you sign up today—”
“You must have some sort of records. You put Edna’s photograph in your album.”
He stared at Dixie, as if weighing her pain-in-the-ass factor against a possible sale. “All right, I’ll check the computer.” He sat down at the keyboard, and after a few passes with the mouse, reported, “Edna Pine never used a staff trainer, but she did enroll in exercise classes—”
“When?”
“December first. We have a list of classes, if you’re interested—dancercize, yoga—”
“Which ones did Edna take?” Dixie persisted.
He looked back at the monitor. “No list, but the instructor’s noted here. One of our outside consultants, Mike Tesche.”
Which she already knew. “Only one?”
He nodded.
“What about other students in her class?”
“I can’t give you that information. Must be some sort of privacy invasion.”
A customer arrived, and the attendant started to rise.
“Wait! Just tell me if Lucy Ames was ever enrolled here.”
With an annoyed huff, he scrolled hastily. “No. No record.”
The elusive Lucy. Which reminded Dixie of someone else she hadn’t heard from in a while. She moved away from the counter and used her cell phone.
Amy picked up on the first ring. “Marty flew back to Dallas.”
“That jerk! He could’ve phoned instead of leaving me hanging.” After receiving his mysterious letter from Edna, Marty’d apparently lost interest in why his mother robbed a bank.
“He seemed upset, Dixie. You’d think the gallery could manage without him for a while. Anyway, he’ll be back tonight.”
A television positioned for easy viewing during workouts started a news update. Dixie watched it as she finished her conversation with Amy. No news on the Harris assassination. Still no sign of the stolen bank money. And blessedly, no more robberies. Yet.
Perhaps the spree had ended.
Dixie realized she’d been practically holding her breath, imagining the third robber as a brown-haired witch who duped suicidal women into stealing for her and who now sat cackling over her clever plan, counting her quarter million while Aunt Edna lay on a mortician’s slab. Perhaps Lucy and Edna really had cooked up the idea between them.
Nevertheless, Dixie strode into the sunshine, with “Jailhouse Rock” playing a loop in her head, and stopped next door at Unique Boutique. Marty might’ve given up on following his mother’s path from gardening to gunslinging, but Dixie hadn’t.
Eyeing the stunning outfits featured in the display window, she decided a clerk might be more talkative to a potential customer than to a nosy stranger. Yesterday’s black suit was definitely too somber for a happy-hour fiesta—and too drab for the newly made-over Dixie Flannigan. Sleek new hair, glowing skin, nails magically lengthened and polished.
Had Edna gazed in the same window, having similar thoughts after sweating off those extra pounds?
The store looked new and expensively chic. A brilliant space designer had laid out the interior. Dresses, blouses, skirts, pants—all bearing the store’s private label—occupied every usable inch of the minuscule area, without appearing crowded. As much as Dixie despised shopping, she felt the tug of each rack leading her to the next.
A sign above every section stated COTTON, WOOL, SILK—NATURAL FIBERS BREATHE. A space beneath those words bore the size designation for that rack, then, LIMITED RELEASE DESIGNS FOR THE UNIQUE YOU.
What did that mean, exactly? Ready-made clothes at custom prices? The styles certainly had a timeless quality and seemed appropriate for a wide age span; the old Edna would’ve laughed, shaken her head, and headed for the wash-and-wear at JCPenney. Yet nearly all the items in her closet now bore the boutique’s pricey label.
Six months ago, in November, Edna had broken out of her mold to visit Club Cato, where she met Lucy Aaron Ames. On December first, she’d started working off the fat at Fit After Fifty. A couple weeks later she’d written her first checks to Artistry Spa and Unique Boutique. Remaking herself.
Shopping for a new life? A new mate? She’d met Terrence Jackson and allowed him to assume control of her investments, a role that Bill Pine had always filled. Interesting.
Also interesting was the proprietor of Unique Boutique—JESSICA LOVE, according to the card Dixie’d plucked from a holder near the register. Between thirty-five and fifty-five, closer to the high end, Dixie judged, Jessica had a medium build and radiant brown hair. Dixie envisioned big sunglasses covering her eyes, a .38 in her hand. Canvas bags stuffed with stolen cash over her shoulder.
The first bank robber’s vague description it thousands of women in the greater Houston area, but the image had plunked into Dixie’s head when Jessica approached wearing a blue dress identical to the one Edna wore during the robbery.
“That must be a popular design,” Dixie commented.
“A classic. Would you like to see one in your size?”
Dixie recalled the blue silk splotched with blood. Absolutely not.
“I need something for evening … comfortable … not too slinky.”
“I have a beautiful black suit with a beaded jacket.”
No. She’d spent yesterday in funeral black. But Dixie followed the woman to a rack of clothing with as much sparkle as a Christmas tree. Without asking her size, Jessica extracted the black suit, then sorted through the rack and selected a red dress, a cream-white jumpsuit, and a bronze metallic tunic with matching pants.
“A friend recommended this place.” Dixie waited for Jessica to face her before continuing. “Edna Pine.”
The proprietor’s professional smile turned plaster-stiff. She regarded Dixie with cool gray eyes.
“Mrs. Pine was a good customer.” Jessica led the way toward the dressing room.
Dixie followed. “Edna loved this bouti
que. And she couldn’t say enough about you … the way you helped her.”
“I showed her some flattering colors.”
Jessica opened the dressing-room door and hung the clothes on a wall hook, without once glancing at Dixie. Upset that a former customer had turned bank robber? Or nervous about being identified as Edna’s accomplice? A leap, but why not go with it?
“She said you two shared more than just shopping.” Fumbling … a good fumble often drew unexpected information.
“We both worked out at the gym next door. Is that what you mean?”
“Edna considered you a friend, Jessica. Someone she confided in.”
The woman nodded slowly. “Nice lady, if a little dreamy. We did talk a few times.”
“Dreamy?”
“Like when you plan a big event in your head, and you know it’ll be wonderful? When I saw on TV about the robbery, I wondered if she’d dreamed up the whole thing while trying on clothes. In a morbid sort of way, it’s like knowing a celebrity—this nice lady who got right in their face. Really awful, those damned cops!”
“Didn’t Lucy Ames shop here, too?”
“The other robber?” Jessica’s face remained poker-smooth. “No. Listen, give a holler if you need help.”
The door clicked shut, closing Dixie in the dressing room with four choice outfits and a vague notion that she might’ve just learned something useful. So far, she’d placed Lucy Ames and Aunt Edna together only at Club Cato and Artistry Spa. At neither place had they hooked up with a third woman—unless Jessica was lying about Lucy not being a customer.
Once again, Dixie imagined the brown-haired proprietor wearing face-hiding sunglasses and, this time, shouldering a huge concrete dollar sign. The cost of keeping the doors open on a chic boutique must be incredibly heavy. Dixie was the only customer in the store this afternoon. Businesses failed most often within the first one to three years; this one was new enough that the carpet hadn’t yet lost its surface fuzz. And the store opened each day at eleven A.M., allowing plenty of time to pull off an early-morning heist.