by N.L. Wilson
I parked a few streets away from the Weatherby mansion, near a walking trail, to await Dylan’s call. I checked my watch again. I wanted the chatter of morning radio to keep me company, but I wasn’t quite up to hearing about myself on the news. It was just quarter to six. Figuring it would be a news-free zone until top of the hour, I flicked the radio on and quickly tuned it to the local station, the one with the ultra-cheery early-morning DJ banter.
“So it looks like another rainy day in Marport City, Kevin.”
“Great weather for ducks, Caroline. Ha ha ha.”
Someone pushed a sound effects button and a canned rim shot sounded.
Lame.
Well, no one said they were original ultra-cheery early-morning DJs. I turned the radio off again.
A couple walked by. They wore matched walking suits—his navy blue and hers pink—that must have cost what I spend on clothing in a year. And which perfectly matched the navy blue and pink jackets on their two pugs. Double Income, No Kids, I decided. They held close under Mr. DINK’s umbrella, while Mrs. DINK held the leashes of the two straining pugs. As I watched, I noticed them give more than just a sideways glance my way. I lowered my head and busied myself going through a stack of papers (which turned out to be takeout menus upon this close examination) I’d picked up from the seat beside me. Then I faked a sneeze, grabbing a tissue from the box squeezed between the seats to cover my face in an over-zealous nose-blowing effort. Eventually, the DINKS moved on, but not before the pink-clad one (the human, not the pug) gave a good hard look back at me.
“Okay,” I counseled myself, “don’t overreact. It’s raining. Any glimpse through the windshield would be blurred. I’m in disguise—a damn good disguise. Nobody is out this morning looking for a dark-haired real estate agent. They’re looking for a blond Dix Dodd, not...”
Which reminded me I needed a name. Not just to put me in character (though that was important), but in case I was asked and had to think of something quick. I glanced back again at the real estate sign in the back seat. There would be a name on the sign, of course. I turned and leaned back to read it. “Okay, they’re looking for Dix. Not... Bert Cartsell.”
Damn.
I glanced in the rearview mirror, staring into my well made-up eyes. “Hello there, Bert. How’s it hanging? Oh, it’s not hanging? Well, that’s probably a good thing.”
Had Mrs. DINK seen the sign? Would she necessarily put two and two together if she did? Maybe she knew Bert Cartsell? Who the hell sells carts anyway in this day and age? Apparently Bert.
“Argh!” Sometimes, I swear, I was my own worst enemy. Yeah, me and the Flashing Fashion Queen.
I felt the vibration in my pocket and glanced at my watch. Almost six. It had to be Dylan; I knew this before I even flipped the cell open and glanced at the number. “Bert here.”
“What’s that, Dix?”
“Never mind.”
“Coast is clear. Ned Weatherby just left.”
“House is empty?” He’d pretty much told me that, but I wanted to keep him on the line. We’d left things tense last night, and I wanted to make sure that was going to blow over.
“Empty,” he repeated.
“Well,” I said stupidly. “Empty is good.”
“Yep.”
“Yep.”
I waited for him to say something. Desperately hoped that he would. The tension was too heavy. And I didn’t want to lose my best friend. My best employee. Hell, I didn’t want to lose Dylan in any respect. “Well, I’ll head over, then.”
“Dix?”
“Yeah?”
“Want to know if this love is true? Call me and I’ll make sure you do.”
Jesus! I nearly dropped the phone. “Dylan, I—”
“For the business cards, Dix,” he said, and damned if I couldn’t hear the grin in his voice. “I know it’s not as catchy as my other suggestions, but I kind of like it. Cute, you know?”
I kind of liked it too. And I found myself smiling for the first time since last night.
“Not too bad,” I agreed. “If I ever get out of this mess...”
“When,” he corrected. “When we get out of this mess.”
I swallowed. “Thank you, Dylan.”
“You’re welcome, Dix.” His voice turned serious. “I’ve got an excellent view of the Weatherby house. I’m parked across the street, in the driveway two houses down.”
“Where are the owners?”
“Japan for four months while renovations are being done. Which I discovered the other day when I was talking to the neighbors, asking about Jennifer.”
“Are you in the same car?”
“Give me a break. I’m in a white van marked CHESTNUT CARPET SERVICE,” he huffed. “I’m not a rookie at this. I’m a big boy, you know.”
Totally inappropriate ‘big boy’ visions filled my mind, and I answered with a too-husky, “I know.”
Then I heard Dylan’s soft, amused laughter coming through the cell.
Way to go, Dix. I cleared my throat. “I’m going to head over to the Weatherby House now.”
Dylan sobered. “I’ll keep watch. Keep your cell on, all right?”
“I will.”
A pause. I could hear him drawing a breath. “Call me as soon as you can.”
The line went dead, and I looked at the cell a moment before I plunked it into my pocket. I started the Hyundai, and drove the short distance to the Weatherby house.
I parked alongside the road. Not quite in front of the Weatherby house as to say I was at the Weatherby house, but close enough that I looked like I might be at the Weatherby house. I glanced at the white van and the form of Dylan sitting in it.
Ducking under the black umbrella that Mrs. Presley had provided, I tugged the real estate sign from the back seat of the car and headed toward the house.
Awkward. The sign was heavier than it looked. I tucked it under my arm but was careful not to hold it against the expensive blazer Mrs. P had gotten for me. I imagined Bert Cartsell for a moment slinging the sucker around—sign in one hand, hefty sledge hammer in the other to pound the post into the ground.
But I wasn’t going to pound it into the ground.
I stepped carefully over the flowerbed, and leaned the sign up against the house. That would hopefully ward off any nosy neighbors who spied me this early morning. And I had every intention of being gone by the time Ned Weatherby returned, sign safely stashed in Mrs. P’s car as I sped back to the Underhill. Hopefully, with the information I sought.
Whatever the hell that turned out to be.
Okay, sign placed. Now I had to go into full real estate lady mode.
I stood back and took a businesslike look at the windows, and then further back to examine the roof (it had windows; it had a roof... good, good). Very quickly, I poked at the flowers. I rapped my knuckles on the siding in a few places—this seemed efficient. In fact, I rapped my knuckles along the entire length of the house. In fact I rapped my knuckles right around the corner of that house. Then I made a mad dash to the back of it.
Yes, I was good with locks, but not so good that I would chance spending a few awkward minutes trying to pick the front door lock in broad daylight. A back door would do just fine.
I was in luck. Which, I realized as I mentally high-fived myself, was a change for me these days.
Not only was there a back door, but there was a sliding glass patio door, and I bit down on the ‘bingo’ I wanted to shout. As long as the security bar wasn’t down...
The security bar wasn’t down.
Things were starting to go my way—the rainy day, Ned leaving on time, the easy access to the house. I quickly jimmied the lock. Easily. No alarm, just as Dylan had told me. No barking dogs. No surprises waiting on the other side.
Just smooth sailing from here on out.
I might have known better.