I wanted to scream. No, no, no. I must be alone.
“Honey, you won’t even know I’m here.”
“I’m pretty astute.”
“Who is this sweet thing?” Jimmy Jack climbed onto a Dinkie-Do bag. My traitorous cat reached up, arched his back, and rested two over-fingered paws on Dinkie-Do’s chest. Purr.
He stroked Jimmy Jack’s back and scratched in all the cat places.
Turncoat. “Jimmy Jack is my faithful companion. You’ll have to find your own boy-toy.”
They rubbed noses.
I heard two purrs and shuddered. I had to interrupt this love fest. Mental note: next acquisition: female kitten—remind Jimmy Jack of his primal urges.
“This is the friendliest pussycat I ever met,” Dinkie-Do said. “A Hemingway pussy—look at all those fingers.”
“Keeps all twenty toes to himself, and they’re mine.” My voice was a little edgier than I’d intended.
I walked around Dinkie-Do’s piled bags. “How did you get here with all of that?” I inhaled and exhaled without waiting for his answer. “Exactly how long are you staying?” Instead I stuck my head outside and double-checked. No parked car in my front circle-parking or side drive. But a dark Camry, like the one parked across the street from the salon all day behind Hunter’s Escalade, sat across the street from my house. I closed the door and reset the alarm. I’d have to ask Hunter about that.
Dinkie-Do perched on the largest of his bags and crossed his legs. “Is there a problem?” He rested his chin on one finger.
Somehow, I was beginning to feel safer with Dinkie-Do inside my home. “Uh, you need—?”
“A room to sleep in and organize my garments. And a creative area for my makeup line to develop my colors.”
“This house has survived three boys and an ex-husband, so I’m guessing it can endure a bit of makeup.” Surely, a little Dinkie-Do couldn’t unravel the whole house.
“Thank you, Honey. Behind the black robe, you’re not so tough.” Dinkie-Do hugged me.
“About this Honey thing—”
“Oh, you’re so sweet. Honey, I only mean it with the best intent. I refer to my best friends that way. Now, show me to my room.”
I stifled any comments. Control. I had lost it. I switched off the downstairs lights and grabbed a bag in each hand. “Follow me.” We climbed to the second floor. “I’m on the third floor. Off limits to everyone. To the left are my kids’ rooms. Off limits. To the right, four guest rooms. Take your pick. I’m not your cleaning lady or your maiden aunt with time on her hands. My cleaning crew is a middle-aged husband-and-wife team, and they don’t need extra work, extra gossip, extra entertainment—”
“Oh, Honey, I bet I could show them how to step up their pace and brighten your whites.” He waggled his head. “I saw a man on a horse down the street. Do you have—”
“No, and don’t bother my neighbors or their horses. Don’t play loud music. Don’t let me know you’re here.”
“I’m as quiet as a curling iron.” He shimmied his hips. “I was just going to say I use to ride when—”
“And Jimmy Jack sleeps with me. Not negotiable.” I cleared my mind of unwelcome images.
“Oh, Honey, understood. I wouldn’t dream of sleeping with your pussy.” Dinkie-Do blinked quickly and a smile crinkled up.
I ignored the poor word choice.
He put out his hand, and we shook. “Deal, Honey.”
We set his bags in my former master bedroom, and Dinkie-Do marveled at the view, the closet space, and the bathroom. I turned to go, and somewhere amid his swirls around the room, he handed me an unopened Wall Street Journal.
“It was still under your welcome mat.”
I took it and pulled his bedroom door shut behind me. I’d never subscribed to the Wall Street Journal. I bought it from the newsstand or read it on-line.
With Jimmy Jack attached to my side, I climbed to the sanctity of my third-floor space, locked myself in, and cradled my phone in its charger. I turned the TV on and tossed the Journal on my bed. My suite was an apartment hideaway. With everything in it, I could hibernate for weeks.
After stretches and sit-ups to keep me limber, a steamy shower, and enough olive-oil lotion to slalom my way into my sheets, I plumped my pillows, climbed into bed, and unwrapped the newspaper.
By newspaper standards, this copy of the Journal was near-ancient. The date was highlighted yellow: one week before the murder, but six months after I’d left the bench. Tiny Donnettelli ghosts tiptoed down my spine. I pulled the soft sheets up, grabbed my phone, and positioned it between my breasts. If I stopped breathing, it could jumpstart my heart.
I pulled apart each section of the newspaper and eyeballed it. When I reached the stocks, I did stop breathing. Highlighted bank stocks. I counted. Twelve. There was that nasty number again. All twelve stocks were up. A good bet they were the same twelve banks where I now happened to hold large sums of money. Others were down—another good bet I didn’t hold those. I’d have to report this to the SEC.
I couldn’t release the paper until I found Manville Corporation. The stock was low. I’d have to check what it was before Donnettelli changed my Order. I bet myself the stock price had gone up. In the moment I couldn’t recall other asbestos case names. Releasing the newspaper, I was drenched in cold sweat, intuition, and gut fear.
At the foot of my bed, Jimmy Jack purred off-key. Intuitively he sensed something wasn’t right in the world. I needed a few minutes to calm, to think. I needed help to sort this mess. I texted Sebastian and Hunter, got up, and grabbed my robe. I plucked out the Taser I kept hidden in my updo and set it on its charger on the bedside table, fluffed my hair a bit, and grabbed a mint. Who was doing this to me?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Half an hour later, buttoned and knotted into my long crimson-and-gray jersey robe, I sat with Hunter on the family-room loveseat. A fresh pot of Chai tea and butter cookies sat in front of us.
Someone was trying to help me, scare me, or confuse me. We had to find out who was planting evidence. Preferably before jury selection.
Hunter devoured butter cookies as quickly as I refilled the plate. The sugar helped him process the highlighted newspaper. Tossing it onto the coffee table, he settled his shoulder behind mine and rubbed my hand in his. “Toots, somebody is trying to tie you to rising stocks and big bucks in the bank. This ain’t good.”
“Oh, if I only had a mind like yours.” Like a curl on a muggy day, I’d lost my bounce.
“Where’s your high-priced lawyer?”
I couldn’t tell if Hunter was teasing or being sarcastic. “In a meeting.”
Hunter popped the last cookie into his mouth. “Are ballistics in?”
I shrugged. “No idea. Are you replacing the keypads in the house?”
“Upgrading as soon as Dex wires the money. He’s been a bit distracted by all this and is not his usual prompt-paying self.”
I wanted to offer to pay, but with the salon startup, my finances had taken a hit. “I want every keypad to glow in the dark, especially the one in my bedroom.”
“Moonmen will be able to see it.” Hunter traveled his talented fingers from my hand to my arm. I liked the mini-massage, but I needed to focus. I pulled away, grabbed my mug, and gulped too-hot tea.
“I can provide personal in-home security.”
“Someone knows how to find me, so added home security, yes—personal in-home, no.”
“Your security’s already damn near perfect.”
“Planted calendars, a gavel and letter, and now an old newspaper? It’s not perfect enough.”
“Calm down, Toots.” His voice flowed like melted chocolate. “Tell me about this Jurisa person.”
How did he go there? “Okay. Haddes. Judge Jurisa Haddes. She’d do anything Donnettelli wanted. Hated me, Laurel, and Palene.
She’s what I call a “P” girl: A prissy who pays attention to anything in pants with power.”
Hunter’s face crinkled all over.
Hit-slap to him. “No, you can’t date her; she’s married to a retired detective.”
“I didn’t say a word.” He squeezed my wrist. “But your jealousy takes me back.”
Anxious hot flashes kept me in the present. I ignored his side-tracked commentary. “Whoever delivered that paper was here.” I brought my voice down an octave. I wouldn’t wail. “On my porch. Do you have video?”
“I’ll check.” Hunter texted and scanned his phone.
I almost planted my eyeballs on his phone’s screen. “What?”
We saw it together. No mistake. A black Labrador Retriever dropped the paper on the stoop. “Guess we could check for paw prints.”
“Toots, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve never seen delivery-by-dog.” Hunter dropped his phone into his shirt pocket.
“So these fancy cameras and all the security equipment is a bust.” I tried not to cry.
“We’ll figure it out.” Hunter breathed in the scent of my hair. The doof. “We’re installing more strategically placed cameras for you.”
“Damn it. You need to take pooch-deliveries seriously. I refuse to land behind bars.”
“The only stripes on your body will be swim-team wear. Promise.”
I blushed.
He grinned.
Our eyes held.
I hadn’t thought about those red-and-white-striped swimsuits since Hunter and I left the less-than-hallowed halls of high school. We laughed.
One summer I’d worn a teeny string bikini in our school colors—until my father took scissors to it. My scrapbook revealed pictures of us together in my barely-there suit.
“You promised me another bikini.” We laughed again, and tension easily slipped away along with the years.
“No expiration date on that promise.” He virtually turned back the yearbook pages, and we were together again; his fingers outlined my face, my lips. “After you ran off and married Dexter, didn’t his barrel of money buy your every wish?”
“No one was happy about him eloping with an eighteen-year-old, at the top of her class—in beauty school. They figured cutting hair was my only goal in life—well that and marrying money.”
“You leaving stung me deep.”
A youthful, hurtful, mistake. My fault. “I was young. We were young.”
He let his eyes close. “I often wonder—”
“I was always happy I’d gone to hairdresser school when I was a high-school senior. I was able to work and support us. Dexter’s family was more than generous after I bore him three sons. You, I mean, we, weren’t meant—”
“We could’ve—”
My fingers hushed his lips. “I focused on work, school, experimental baking, anything that directed me away from the havoc I’d caused. Kids came along, and I was happy.” I lifted my chin to face him. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be. It’ll be a great story to tell. One day.” Hunter winked.
I finger-smacked his bicep. “Don’t be an ass. Our history belongs in the past. I said I’m sorry.”
“Show me.” Another wink.
I tightened my robe. Now was no time for complications. Now was the time to discuss evidence and paperwork. Time to find out who’d set me up.
Jimmy Jack jumped in between us. I could always count on my feline friend and his timing.
My focus returned to Hunter. “Did you run a check on the black Camry—”
“—parked across the street at this moment and several feet behind me at the salon?”
Damn. I hated it when he finished my sentences. It was bad enough his pheromones erased whole thoughts in my head. Good thing he was on my side. “I’ve been so distracted I forgot to ask you.”
“My extra-eyes.”
“Who is—are—who’s in those vehicles? How many vehicles are there? Every superhero has a visible sidekick.”
He winked.
No on the winking. No winking. I didn’t approve of damn winking.
“No one meets my sidekick, Toots. Not even you.” He set his thumb under my chin and raised my head until our eyes met. “For safety my back-up crews stay in the shadows.”
My temperature rose, and Hunter’s night beard brushed against my cheek—
“You go, Honey-girl, I’ll be outta here in just a mini-moo.” The sound came from somewhere behind me.
I jerked and struggled to sit up straight. I won’t even know Dinkie-Do’s in the house. Right. It was time I pressed Hunter for a hard look at my paperwork. His mere flippant glance was less than pacifying. “Okay, private-eye, I need your viewpoint on my work so far.”
Jimmy Jack leaped over the back of the loveseat, circled around Dinkie-Do, and zigzagged between his legs.
Hunter and I, in unison, turned our heads and tried not to gawk. With his fluffy pink bathrobe, matching slippers and hair wrap, Dinkie-Do looked like he’d swallowed the Pink Panther.
I carefully modulated my voice. “What happened to unpacking and taking a bubble bath?”
“Dinkie-Do is organized. I did me all that. It’s tea-and-me time. I need to plan my makeup line and enjoy my beauty sleep. Tomorrow is a very full client day. Business is rocketing; word really gets around in this tiny town.” He snapped his fingers, bent, picked up Jimmy Jack, wiggled over to the stovetop and heated water. “Tea?”
I eyed Hunter but spoke to Dinkie-Do. “We’re good. There’s a tray on the counter. Take it all up to your room. Remember, no maid service.” Damn his bad timing.
“And no pussycat.” He released Jimmy Jack and arranged the tray as the kettle began to re-boil. “Sorry, Pussy JJ. DD will make it up to you.”
“He’s on the second floor,” I whispered to Hunter. “I’m in my third-floor suite.”
“Can’t wait to visit the third floor.” Through my robe, he squeezed my knee. “For security reasons. I’m sure it’s cozy compared to my high-rise loft.” He paused and slid closer. “The night-time-city-lights-view is something you’d enjoy.”
Chills spiked through me from ground zero.
Silently we watched Dinkie-Do clatter toward the stairs, tray in hand, beam on face, wiggle in caboose.
“Bed and breakfast?” Hunter’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “Let me know when you have openings on the third floor. Room with the best view—”
I punched him in the shoulder. “I’m certain it’s no match for your high-security high-rise bachelor loft overseeing the city. No visit needed. I’ll live with your description.”
“The comforts of a real home are missing.” His fingers walked up my thigh, outlined my cheek.
At the sudden thought of wearing prison gray, my insides recoiled. The grit of my attorney-self rose, and its armor shielded me. I mashed the papers into his nose. “Your opinion now. I’m not sleeping until I find something, anything.”
“My clue to leave. Time, distance, space,” Hunter said. “This is going to take time to sort out. Toots, you’ve pissed off a lot of people.”
And at least one of them wants me behind bars.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thursday just as the sun rose, Hunter and Sebastian sat across from me in the café. My daunting task after onboarding a rush of caffeine, was to convince them to help execute my plan to let the SEC know about the bank accounts with the rising stock. Immediately.
The three of us filled the posh corner café table I’d designed for private meetings, the drive-thru line outside was moving quickly, and most of the inside tables were empty. Nice and private.
Rosa Abigail Parks, a third-year law student (of the rare straight-A variety), swung her hoop earrings and supplied us with a large carafe of coffee and a platter of sweet beginnings. Her stunning Afric
an-American eyes were wide, and I knew she was about to burst into some awful rap. I signaled her to wait and introduced her to Mutt and Jeff.
“Rosa’s name and initials are no coincidence,” I explained. “They were thoughtfully chosen by her mother, who spent summers engaged as a blues singer and the rest of the year singing opera.”
“Music and law.” Sebastian grinned at her appreciatively.
“Her grandfather and father were well-known lawyers with high expectations of Rosa.” Her long curly hair swung in rhythm with her pencil-thin hips and shoulders as she returned to the counter. When she was out of earshot, I told the guys Rosa played piano, guitar, and drums—and claimed a heart filled with rap, despite a lack of talent for it.
She was very intelligent, but common sense needed to mature in her still-developing brain. Until then, she agreed to help me manage the café at least till she made up her mind what her chosen profession would be. She spoke and thought in lines of illogical rap and a touch of law. But the conflict rarely led to depth of song. If only her vocabulary had a dash of that rhythm.
But who was I to grumble about mangled rhyme schemes? I just wanted to cut hair, show a profit, and stay out of prison.
I’d listed asbestos cases, decisions, and affected parties, and the internet and Facebook filled in some of the gaps, but not enough. Images of rich corporations against sick, impoverished employees and customers strained my heartstrings and pointed toward motive. But those damn banks stocks fit somewhere, too.
I needed more eyes. I pondered what the angles of surveillance video would show from any cameras located in and around the asbestos-selling corporations and at the banks.
Sebastian refolded the special-delivery Wall Street Journal and chewed the corner off an egg-croissant sandwich. “We’ve a dilemma.”
I flashed disbelief. “Only one?”
“This outstanding brekkie can’t delay turning over the evidence to police and Prosecutor.” Sebastian’s table-side manner was curt.
“And the SEC.” I needed clarity. “The SEC comes down hard on people who use non-public information to make themselves rich.” I needed them to see my point of view.
All Rise Page 11