Stella, Get Your Man

by Nancy Bartholomew

  I turned away from the mirror, hung up my towel and left the steamy bathroom. Lloyd needed me. Aunt Lucy needed me. It was time to get to work and kick some serious ass. I stopped by the bedroom, grabbed my gun and attempted to stick it in my waistband. The cold metal hit exposed skin and tight denim before I realized my usual hiding places wouldn’t work.

  “Shit!”

  I stomped downstairs and into the kitchen where everyone had gathered to watch as Aunt Lucy made dinner.

  “Jake, do you have an extra pancake holster? Hell, I’m not picky. Do you have any extra holster?”

  Jake looked up, opened his mouth, and just as quickly snapped it shut. Nina watched, grinning, and Spike’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

  “You didn’t buy a hair dryer?” I asked Nina.

  “No, they’re bad for your hair, and some studies have suggested that they alter your brain chemistry.”

  I glared at her. “Those clothes,” I said.

  “Were all on sale, so don’t go getting mad because you think I spent too much!”

  “Spent too much?” I was sputtering.

  Nina held up her hand like a traffic cop. “Stella, you never do anything nice for yourself. You’ve put all your time and energy into your work. You don’t have to thank me.”

  “Thank you?”

  “Just pretend you were on Ambush Makeover and I was your stylist. I know you don’t have time to do it for yourself. I was just trying to bring more positive energy into your aura.”

  Aunt Lucy turned away from the stove to study Nina’s handiwork.

  “No brush?” she asked.

  I rolled my eyes up toward my hairline. “It wouldn’t help. Don’t you remember how my hair was when I was in high school? It hasn’t changed. I just need a hair dryer and a flat iron to tame it.”

  Spike leaned her head to one side and studied me. “I like it natural,” she said.

  “Yeah, wait an hour and see what happens.”

  She leaned her head to the other side and frowned. “I bet I’ll still like it. Makes you look younger, less like a cop.”

  “My point exactly,” I said. “I like looking like a cop.”

  Jake didn’t say a word. He sat staring at me as if I’d suddenly grown two heads. It was beginning to irritate me.

  “Well? Do you have another holster or not?”

  “Yeah, I’ll go look in the truck.”

  He seemed relieved at having a reason to step outside, as if the discussion of clothing and hair dryers had made him claustrophobic.

  Aunt Lucy turned back to the stove and was stirring a large pot of something that I hoped turned out to be edible and not another cleanser.

  “How is she?” I mouthed silently to Spike.

  Spike nodded once and lifted her hands in a “Who knows?” gesture. “I think she’s okay,” she answered.

  “I’m fine,” Aunt Lucy said.

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  “Hood vent, it’s stainless. You think I got eyes in the back of my head?” She reached for the tumbler of Chianti that sat next to her spoon rest by the stove and kept on stirring the pot.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m all right. Just find Lloyd. After supper, you and Jake. Find him and bring him home.”

  Chapter 10

  I was beginning to question the wisdom of my vocational choices. My law-enforcement career had come to an untimely end, mainly because the police department in tiny Garden Beach, Florida, hadn’t been big enough to hold my cheating, lying, no-good boyfriend, my slut-for-brains partner and myself. Okay, so there was also the issue of my inability to restrain myself from discharging my service revolver into the walls of our trailer after discovering my no-good boyfriend in bed with my slut-for-brains partner. Still, my behavior was unprofessional and indicated to me, and probably others, a questionable future in police work.

  At question now was my career as a know-it-all, do-it-all private investigator and repo artist. It seemed to me, as soon as I put out one fire, two more started. Nothing was simple. Take for example, Lloyd. Joey Smack’s henchmen weren’t rocket scientists. They were bumbling idiots, and yet they had Lloyd and I didn’t. Before I could find Mia Lange’s brother, I’d have to find Lloyd and satisfy Joey Smack. This was no way to run a company, let alone an investigation.

  I was thinking all of these things while the five of us sat around the dinner table eating in relative silence, acutely aware of Lloyd’s absence. It was a relief when the meal finally ended.

  “I’m going for a walk.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Jake said.

  Aunt Lucy nodded, gathering plates from the table as she began cleaning up.

  “Walk, ride, whatever,” she said. “Just bring him back with you.”

  No pressure. “Just bring him back with you.” Sure. Piece of cake.

  We shrugged on our coats. I added a scarf, gloves and a hat, and we were out the door, walking as if we were being chased, because in a way, we were.

  “This is ridiculous,” I told him. “There’s no way I’m going to come up with cocaine for Joey Smack. We’ve gotta find Lloyd.”

  Jake was walking, head down, hands in the pockets of his jacket, his forehead creased in a dark frown.

  “That won’t take care of the problem,” he said. “That’ll just piss Spagnazi off more. I’m gonna have to go see him.”

  I stopped dead on the pavement. “You can’t do that. The guy’s a fruit loop. He won’t listen to you.”

  Jake’s expression was grim. “I’ll make sure he does.”

  Macho posturing. Now, what was that going to accomplish? “Jake, the repossession business is not about customer satisfaction. It’s a given, the repo-ee is always gonna be pissed off. I say we tell the cops and let them handle Joey Smack, after we get Lloyd back, of course.”

  We were walking again, both too restless to stand still. The sound of the surf pounding against the beach roared louder as we reached the parking lot and headed for the darkened sand beyond it. The clouds had vanished and overhead stars dotted the blackened sky.

  “Stella, what makes you think Spagnazi’s gonna listen to the cops?”

  I shrugged. Right now, I just wanted my dog back. I wanted to earn our ten-thousand-dollar retainer and I wanted my life back on a normal, even keel. Of course, it never had been exactly normal, but still, I could dream.

  We ducked under the boardwalk and emerged onto soft sand that became firmer as we drew closer to the water. We walked without speaking for a few minutes. I studied the oceanfront houses, most of them darkened and boarded up until summer returned, and imagined a perfect world, where I lived at the beach in some quiet, remote area, and never had to worry again about Joey Spagnazi.

  We both froze as a black form broke out of the darkness, running across the sand in a streak of silvery, muscled movement. Fang bore down on us and Jake moved instinctively to shield me from her. I stepped away from him and knelt, waiting for her to reach us.

  “Don’t move, Jake. It’s all right.”

  The huge animal stopped a few feet short of us, lifted her lip and growled low in her throat at Jake.

  “It’s okay, puppy. He’s with me.” I stretched out a hand and stroked Jake’s leg, then extended it in the dog’s direction. “Come here, baby,” I murmured. “He won’t hurt you.”

  “Baby?” Jake whispered. “You call that thing Baby?”

  “Actually, I call her Fang. Baby’s just a term of endearment. Isn’t that right, baby?”

  Fang whined softly and drew a little closer, gradually reaching my side but never taking her eyes off Jake. I stroked the soft fur along her neck, felt her hot breath warm the side of my face, and gently stroked Jake’s leg again with my free hand.

  “Fang, this is Jake. Nice Jake.” I stroked his leg, aware of the tension in the solid muscle that ran the length of his thigh.

  Fang gave Jake a cursory sniff and stepped closer to more thoroughly inspect him. Jake turned his ha
nd and extended it to her.

  “Good girl,” he murmured. “Good girl.”

  Fang whined, turned back to me, and snatched my coat sleeve in her powerful jaws, the movement sudden and without warning. I gasped, instinctively pulling back, and felt her tug hard to hold me. She backed up a step, and when I didn’t move, she dropped my sleeve and ran off a few steps, barking in short yips.

  “Did she hurt you?” Jake murmured. I saw his hand sliding slowly toward the back of his pants and stopped him.

  “No. Wait.”

  Fang came back, reached for my coat sleeve and pulled.

  “She wants us to come with her.”

  I stood and when I did, Fang dropped my arm and repeated the process of running off a few steps, looking back and barking.

  We started after her, but Jake stopped me, pointing to dark splotches in the sand.

  “What?”

  “That’s blood,” he said. “Look. See how she’s favoring her front right leg? I think she’s hurt herself.”

  I watched Fang trot forward and saw the limp.

  “Oh, God. I bet she did that this morning when she helped me. Oh, poor Fang.”

  I hurried after the dog, but when I moved faster, so did she.

  “Fang, stop.” I called softly. “You’re hurt. Let me see your paw.”

  Fang trotted on, ignoring me, heading across the sand to the abandoned Victorian house where she seemed to live.

  “Maybe she’s going back under the porch,” I said. “Animals do that when they’re hurt. They go back to their lair. Maybe she’ll let me look at it there.”

  We followed the huge animal across the beach, across the dunes to the house, but instead of running through the latticework and underneath the porch, Fang veered right and disappeared behind the building.

  “Fang.”

  An answering bark came from the darkened rear of the house. Jake pulled his gun from his back pocket and slid it into his jacket pocket.

  I reached one hand down to check the slim pancake holster that rested securely against my left side, felt the reassuring bulge of my Glock and followed Fang into the darkness.

  Her barking drew us to her, up the back steps and onto the porch. As my foot hit the porch, a piece of wood gave, throwing me off balance.

  “Stella, wait.”

  Jake reached into a pocket and pulled out a small Maglite. A brilliant spot of white illuminated my foot, and then the rotting wood flooring in front of us.

  “Step over there,” he said, pointing with the flashlight to a seemingly intact board. “But go easy. This whole porch is probably dry-rotted.”

  Fang’s bark came, louder this time, and along with it a familiar answering bark that had me half running to cross the rotted floor.

  Jake’s light hit Fang’s fur and he moved until the beam caught her standing at the back door in a pool of broken glass and blood. Fang had tried to rescue Lloyd, lunging at the frame until the wood splintered, and shattering the back door’s glass window.

  “Fang, come here,” I cried. “You’ll cut yourself more. Let us do it.”

  Jake rushed in front of me, reached the door and quickly swept the doorway with his foot, removing the larger glass shards. He started to kick the door open and stopped, gasping as the pain from the wound in his side stopped him.

  “Allow me,” I said, stepping up beside him.

  “No, you—”

  Too late. I gave the door a swift, hard kick and felt the old wood splinter through and give way. We were in. Jake went through first, illuminating the room in front us with the slender beam of the Maglite.

  Lloyd was in the far left corner of the kitchen, just as he’d been in the Polaroid. He was tied to a leg of the kitchen table, only now the table lay on its side. The rope around Lloyd’s neck had pulled short, forcing the poor dog’s head down close to the floor and preventing him from moving more than a few inches.

  I pulled my pocketknife out of my coat pocket, pushed past Jake and knelt by Lloyd’s side.

  “Oh, baby,” I murmured. “Here.”

  I cut the thick, plastic cord and Lloyd was free. Fang stood over him, whining and licking his face with her long pink tongue. Lloyd grinned immediately, his discomfort forgotten.

  For a few minutes, everything was forgotten as Jake searched the house and I stood guard in case Lloyd’s kidnappers returned. When he returned, I tried to help Fang.

  “Easy, sweetheart,” I murmured, gently taking Fang’s injured paw in my hand.

  She growled low in her throat, but didn’t pull away. Jake held the light and I examined her blood-and-sand-encrusted foot. A shard of glass glittered back at us from the thick pad of her foot.

  “Let’s take her back to Aunt Lucy,” I said. “Go get the car.”

  Jake shook his head. “I’m not leaving you here. It’s too risky.”

  “I’ll be fine. Fang’s foot is a mess. I need tweezers and bandages.”

  Jake wasn’t budging. “Do what you can now so she can walk without making it worse, then we’ll all go back to the house.”

  I examined the paw again and sucked in my breath. The cut around the glass shard oozed blood. I felt my stomach erupt into fluttery twinges and my skin began to tingle painfully.

  “Do you want me to do it?”

  Jake moved to take Fang’s paw. The dog growled louder, then barked viciously, teeth bared, lip lifted.

  “Okay, okay, easy, girl!” He backed off.

  I looked around the dimly lit kitchen, spotted bottled water Joey’s men had used to fill Lloyd’s water bowl, and nodded toward it.

  “I need that. You see any paper towels?”

  Jake ran the light around the room. No such luck.

  I pulled my knife back out of my jacket pocket, looked into Fang’s eyes and began speaking to her as if she could understand me.

  “Baby, I need to take the glass out of your paw and clean you up a little bit.”

  The dog stared at me, her eyes liquid and soft. She licked the tip of my nose.

  “All right,” I said. “This will probably hurt a little.”

  I searched my pocket for tissues. None. I needed gauze. I needed something to use to stop the blood and clean the wound.

  Jake placed the water by my side, fished a lighter from his pocket and took my knife. As he ran the blade through the blue and orange flame, I took off my coat and reached up beneath my shirt.

  “Don’t look,” I told him.

  He looked up.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Jake, keep your eye on what you’re doing and don’t look at me.”

  He lowered his head and I pulled my arms out of my stretchy top, hoping to undo my bra and remove it without having to take off my shirt.

  With cotton, it’s easy. With spandex, it’s impossible. The shirt held me like a straitjacket. Finally I gave up, pulled it off over my head and dropped it on top of my coat. I fumbled with my bra clasp and felt it give. The lacy fabric fell forward into my hands and I heard Jake’s breath escape in a whoosh.

  “I told you not to look.”

  The knife lay next to the water jug and Jake sat back on his haunches studying my body.

  “What are you doing?”

  I grabbed my shirt and pulled it back over my breasts, glaring at Jake as I did so.

  “The bra is padded,” I said. “I’m going to use it to clean Fang’s paw. Give me the knife.”

  He reached down, picked the Spyderco up carefully by the handle and said, “Watch out, it’s hot.”

  I rolled my eyes at him and took the knife, handle first, from his fingers. I picked up the bra and slit the left side of the cup.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking out the padding.”

  “Damn. Was that your best bra?”

  I gave him a withering look, pulled out the pads and turned to Fang.

  “Only the best for you, sweetie.”

  Ten minutes later, Fang was a new woman. The glass was removed, the c
ut cleaned of grit and sand, and a black satin bandage was wrapped securely around her paw, held in place by bra-strap bows.

  “Looks much better on you, girl,” I murmured.

  Jake sighed. “Let’s get going,” he said. “I don’t want to risk spending any more time here than we have to.”

  I looked over at Lloyd. As I’d worked on his girlfriend, he’d paced anxiously in the background, whining every now and then, and padding up close to watch over my shoulder.

  “Lloyd, let’s take Fang home. She needs some medicine for that cut. Why don’t you tell her that and see if she’ll follow us.”

  “Stella, you don’t—”

  I rose to my feet, pulled on my coat and raised an eyebrow at Jake. “No, actually I don’t, but on the off chance Lloyd does understand what I’m saying, I thought I’d explain.”

  Fang did indeed follow us home, trailing behind Lloyd in a straggly caravan that wound the three blocks back to our beach cottage. When we reached the foot of the front steps, she stopped, hesitating until Lloyd barked softly.

  I looked at Jake and smiled.

  “You see? A little communication is all it takes.”

  Jake ignored me and opened the front door. Aunt Lucy, Spike and Nina were sitting at the kitchen table playing Scrabble but they stopped and rose to their feet as we entered.

  The look on Aunt Lucy’s face when she saw her beloved Lloyd—the relief, the genuine joy—was worth more than Mia Lange’s ten-thousand-dollar retainer. For a moment I almost conned myself into believing our new professional endeavor was well worth the effort. We had restored happiness to my aunt’s worried heart.

  Of course, that was before reality intervened and burst my bubble.

  “Who’s this?” Aunt Lucy asked Lloyd.

  She nodded toward Fang.

  “Lloyd’s friend. You know, the dog that—” I stopped, realizing that I hadn’t told Aunt Lucy about Fang, and from the look on her face, it didn’t matter.

  “You brought another woman home with you?”

  Lloyd froze, tongue lolling out of his mouth, the joyful homecoming momentarily compromised.

  “Aunt Lucy, this is Fang. She saved Lloyd. If it had not been for her, Lloyd might’ve died. He was, um, caught…by a…um…trapped and, well…she led us to him. Look, she’s hurt.”