“Not until my sudden-onset gray-stripe phobia goes away.” I turned up the volume.
“Holy dooly. No drama, until after we’re naughty.” Sebastian kissed me hard and rolled on top of me.
I dropped the remote.
Chapter Forty-Five
At eight, I dropped Dinkie-Do at the front door of the salon. I circled around the building, parked in back, gathered my things, and got out. I strolled through the parking lot, unlocked the salon’s back door, and stepped in. I just had to get past the kitchen and the supply rooms before I could hide in my office.
I stuck my arm out the back door, clicked the lock symbol, and listened for the locking beep.
Damnation.
The explosion ripped from Elvis with a deafening BOOM! It shook the asphalt and the floor under my feet. I gripped the doorframe and held on. Red-yellow flames blasted into the sky.
The stench of burning rubber and gasoline stung my nostrils. My eyes teared from billows of smoke. I couldn’t pull myself away.
My beautiful blue Elvis was an inferno of shattered glass, twisted metal, and smoking leather.
Miraculously, there were no bodies in the scattered parts. Only me. I trembled from the inside out, while some survivalist part of my brain took over, and I slammed the salon door and locked myself inside. Unsteady, I dialed 911. They said they already had the call.
Sure enough, I heard sirens. Dé-jà-damn.
From both sides of the building, my staff sprinted in, and I opened the door again.
All around me, patrons made noise. Some darted away; some dashed toward the blaze; some snapped pictures; others held up their phones filming. It was like watching a mixed-up screen—like I’d played with my remote and set slow motion and fast-forward at the same time.
I punched in Sebastian’s number. But Hunter’s voice echoed behind me. With Sebastian in my ear, I couldn’t concentrate on what Hunter was shouting. Male potency reached around me, grabbed my phone, demanded Sebastian’s immediate appearance, and clicked off.
Sirens nee-nawed into the parking lot, and I knew just how they felt. I bent, rescued my keys, and tossed them into my bag. Police arrived first with the fire truck. EMS pulled in from the side street. At least I wouldn’t meet the crew from the kitchen fiasco—different jurisdictions.
I hung my thumbs from my jeans pockets to control my emotional reverberations. If only I could get to my office and shut myself in. But Hunter slipped my phone into my bag and his arms around my waist. In unison we made for the table in the kitchen area.
Thankfully, it was only a few paces. I could have been right next to the car. I could have been inside the car. I could have been fused to my car’s innards. Forever.
Voices pelted at me like oversized hail. I wanted to duck, but I sank onto a chair at the kitchen table.
Hunter grabbed cold bottles of water, set them in the center of the table, opened one, and handed it to me. “Rehydrate,” he said. He grabbed another bottle and sat next to me.
I was still trembling.
Hunter wrapped an arm around me again and held me. It morphed my shakes into small quivers, but I felt numb. He kissed my temple. “We’ll figure this out.” He squeezed my hand. “Promise.” He handed me another bottle of water. “Drink.”
“Im-press-ive,” Carlye said with head-bob punctuation. “You cleared this place faster than a SWAT team in a hand-job joint.” She sat and studied me from across the table. “Way I see it, there’s a higher power telling you to get yourself one of those high-powered military vehicles.”
Dinkie-Do stood behind Carlye, his concerned eyes fixed on me, his hands on Carlye’s shoulders. “Oh, Honey, our beautiful blue Lincoln Continental.”
Carlye scowled up at Dinkie-Do and shrugged his hands off her. “You two get married or something? That Lincoln Continental ain’t no child, and it sure ain’t yours and hers. You just better get a grip.”
The Grim Reaper took Donnettelli, he took Elvis, and he had a grip on my throat. I decided to listen to the first responders in search of a clue, any clue.
Trisha could have been the new Ratification Salon Bobblehead. I hoped the car bomb hadn’t left her with a permanent twitch.
“Judge, I have phones to answer, and you have new staff to hire. Three chicken-feathered-stylists flew the coop—for keeps.” Trisha tried to laugh, but she sounded like a chicken with a half-wrung neck. She disappeared quick as hairspray mist. Addressing her bobblehead issue would have to wait.
“Honey-girl, never you mind, we’ll all help you,” Dinkie-Do chimed in.
“Those ungrateful stylists didn’t fly the coop; the rats abandoned the ship,” Carlye said. “Bunch of deserters. You’d think they never seen a car bomb before. I’m thankful my little Shazam is safely at home.”
Everyone focused on Carlye. Nobody noticed Hunter’s arm around my shoulders or his fingers circling the center of my back. His magic worked. No more trembling.
“Hunter and I will protect everybody.” I doubted my half-smile convinced anyone—ten minutes after I’d almost been blown into a firefly. “And Judges don’t break promises.”
Dinkie-Do snapped his fingers. “They’ll have to firebomb me out.”
“Keep your wishful thinking to yourself,” Carlye said.
Under the table I patted Hunter’s thigh, stood, and faced the back door. He followed my lead. I called back. “Everybody up front. Business as usual. Please.” I head-gestured to Hunter. “You’re with me, Hulk.”
Firebomb-ready, I opened the back door. First responders and a news truck huddled around my charred Elvis like so many chiefs at a Hero’s Pow Wow. Damn, Sebastian parked next to the Detectives. Better him than me.
I stepped out and shut the door. Okay, I slammed the door. Time to grill the investigators.
“Look at this, Toots.” Hunter drew me back, bent, and picked up something—a note wrapped around a brick, which Hunter promptly liberated.
Letters cut from newspaper and magazine headlines:
SERIOUS ENOUGH 4 U? MYOB BITCH!
KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.
Hunter quietly rewrapped the brick; I’d never seen him so sad. He wrapped a strong arm around my shoulders.
I decided it might be safer not to get too close to Elvis. Despite needing information, I needed my body parts intact to solve the murder mystery. The note jellied my insides and evaporated my confidence.
I stared at the uniformed officers, in their bomb-gear. They crawled over, under, and through the remains of my Elvis. A few checked the perimeter of the parking lot.
Someone wanted me dead—as in not talking. Shut up? About what? Did I know something?
“Sebastian’s covering Hollywood and his buddy,” Hunter said. “Let’s escape to the café.”
I still that loved that man.
Chapter Forty-Six
Once police and fire cleared a lane and taped off the crime scene, there was no shortage of gawkers. I struggled to control my face. I thought of Peter by the elevator, Peter spying on me and Laurel, Peter under my Elvis. Damn. I had to reign my face in and calm my thoughts, but I could only do that if I discussed them with my three protectors. The drive-thru window had steady business, and the café was standing room only.
“Hell of a marketing move,” Hunter said, but there was no mirth in his voice, and he signaled Rosa to negotiate a place for us to sit, which she did without benefit of rhyme.
I ordered myself to use my nice-Nic-voice. “We’ll have to wait for a seat in my own café unless you think we should go elsewhere.”
“Toots, you know as well as I do, we need to stay where the action is. Look around and tell me if you see anyone out of place.”
I had to agree and tuned in my eagle eyes.
Half an hour later, just as we’d snatched a back table, Sebastian came in looking for us.
“Cricky deadheads out there don’t know what to do with that vehicle of yours—or with you.” Still standing, Sebastian grabbed a muffin. “Orange-Cranberry. Good for the blood.” He sat across from Hunter.
I grimaced at Mr. Manners and went to the counter for a trayful of bribery for the menfolk. The guy in front of me was Peter Dune. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t seen him come in. My metabolism and my mouth kicked into overdrive. “Are you here just to gloat, or are you going to explain why you needed to blow up my car?”
He stepped back and looked surprised as if I’d smacked him, and I might have—if I could have reached that high.
“It’s time to come clean, Peter.” This tyranny had to stop. I got in his face as closely as I dared, without having assault charges added for touching him. My audacious move lost some oomph because I had to crane my neck back. “Your intimidate-the-Judge tactics aren’t working. It’s over—as of this moment.” I pointed my finger in his face. “And, stop taking pictures of me and Judge Briggs, or we’ll ask for stalking charges and a personal protection order, and you’ll be out of a job.”
He snickered. “Isn’t unlawful to take pictures of you in public. Your notoriety brings in big bucks for each picture.” He guffawed. I wanted to punch him and his pasted-on smirk. His cold eyes chilled down the full length of my body.
I pointed his frigid face and hot coffee and chocolate croissant toward the booth where Hunter and Sebastian waited. “Trot over there and tell those men how you got out of that poker party—and I already know how you did it—and how you killed Donnettelli.” I stood my ground and didn’t blink.
For a half-second he tipped his head like a big Irish Setter with a tough puzzle. Then he gave me the finger, grabbed a lidded cup of coffee and a bag of pastries from the counter that weren’t his, and walked straight out of the café. I’d add arrogant thief to his column. Meanwhile, I apologized to the confused customer who’d just watch his order get heisted.
It was a tad anti-climactic when I returned to the booth schlepping a tray of banana Frappes, one coffee, and a single chocolate croissant. I sat next to Sebastian. Wisely, neither of the men thought it necessary to discuss the persuasive power I’d obviously lost since leaving the Courthouse.
I made it clear I didn’t want to talk about my near demise-by-explosion. I explained what just happened with Peter and convinced Hunter not to go after him. We had bigger things to discuss. Grabbing last night’s envelope from my bag, I waved it. “Discussion materials.”
Sebastian put his hat on the back of the chair and reached for the envelope, but he murmured, “The bomb squad recovered some kind of homemade incendiary from your trunk.”
“But my car was in the garage last night and this morning.”
“I’m installing more cameras with added angles inside your garage and a list of everyone who has access,” Hunter said.
“All my codes have been changed, and except for my houseguests and cleaning crew, no one has access.”
“Some chump is watching you.” Sebastian sunk a straw into his banana Frappe.
“Do the Detectives understand this happened because I’m innocent?”
“They traveled the conspiracy theory path.” Sebastian slurped Frappe. “In that moment it was easier to lose a car than your freedom. I listened, offered alternatives, and they went away.”
Hunter slammed his mug down. I believed he intended that slam for Sebastian’s face. “Did you tell them they’re playing with nuts and have no screws to tighten into them?”
Someplace deep inside, I sank. Scowling, I eyed the manila envelope. I wanted a full, complete, intact life. And I meant to have it. With an open palm, I smacked the table.
Both men jumped.
“Those misguided Detectives had better get a bottomless gas tank and steer their attention elsewhere. I’m off the map.” I pointed to the envelope. “I think I know what Peter and Donnettelli were up to.”
Sebastian opened the envelope and handed me the papers. I spread them out. “Copies of the past two years’ Register of Actions. Cases Judge Donnettelli and I had in common.”
“How can two Circuit Judges have cases in common?” Hunter frowned. “You don’t appeal to each other, do you?”
“Not in any sense of the word. But when there are conflicts, Judges recuse themselves, and those cases go back into the random pool for reassignment.”
Sebastian agreed, nodding. “And there are other special circumstances,” he added.
“Like case consolidation.” I said and pulled out the notepad with the columns I’d made. I set the notepad next to the computer printout between the men, and then guided them through the cases with my walking fingers while I explained the ways the Chief Judge can transfer cases.
“Donnettelli played with the natural order of case assignment. Right?” Sebastian asked.
“It was supposed to be random,” I said. “But he was moving cases all over the place.”
“The poddy-dodger was controlling outcomes.”
He was getting his own way with other people’s lives. I put the copies I’d made on top of the Register of Actions.
“You discovered Donnettelli’s trail.” Hunter flipped through the papers. “It makes sense that someone who was negatively affected, also figured it out and got upset.”
“And plunked a bullet in Donnettelli, and you are the next target,” Sebastian said.
“No. I’m convinced it has to be an insider. I’m also convinced it was Peter,” I said. “No one outside the Courthouse could get into the Judges’ area, and even if someone did, the shooter knew how to avoid the cameras.”
“And how to finagle the keycard software—or at least the report.”
“Who cares about a case getting reassigned?” Hunter studied Sebastian and both men turned toward me. “I mean who benefits from a reassignment? People just want their cases resolved, right?”
“When there’s true impartiality.” I focused on Sebastian while I spoke for a sense of whether or not he agreed with me. “However, a biased Judge—who wants to direct an outcome—cares.”
Sebastian didn’t blink. “There could be appeals, but asbestos companies could have moved out of the US by then—hard to get at them internationally—more years of delay. Cases could outlive the interested parties.” Sebastian looked disheartened.
Hunter bent nose-to-paper and studied the notes. He was in his own zone for several minutes. Back in our air space, he shoved the pages at Sebastian. “So the twelve bulging bank accounts were meant to frame Nic and confuse Detectives.”
“While Donnettelli hid really big money somewhere—in other accounts or off-shore maybe,” Sebastian said.
Our corner of the room went silent as we pondered the information. But all this had me thinking back to how I’d missed what was going on right around me with Donnettelli’s case maneuvering.
Of course, Palene, Laurel, and I hadn’t been involved. Donnettelli extra bullied us to ensure we stayed beyond arms’ length away, so we wouldn’t suspect anything. We just wanted to do our work and get the hell out of the building and away from him. Which was what happened. Damnation. We’d been played—unknowing and disposable pawns.
“It sounds like multiple angry victims with motive to kill Donnettelli,” Sebastian said.
My guess was somebody had threatened Donnettelli, making the asbestos cases too hot for him.
Hunter sour-faced me. “Some suit at Manville is trying to scare somebody?”
I shrugged. “I’m convinced Peter Dune is behind the mess.”
“After Nic resigned, Donnettelli phoned my office several times advising me that I’d better tell her to let the issue with the Manville case drop,” Sebastian said. “He was a polite scoundrel with an evil tone. I told him to rack-off or I’d report him.”
“Judge Briggs and Judge Field might also be targets,” Hunter s
aid.
“Anything is possible,” I said. “Worst-case-scenario: it could look like we were all working together.”
What a mess. I un-papered a peach-pecan muffin, split it in half, and smeared it with butter. I deserved some butter. Not a lot of butter. Just a taste. Sometimes a girl needs butter.
Still, I recognized the bottom-line problem. Even fine-tuning the picture, the guilty-path still led to me. I called over to the server, “More butter, please.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Just before two, I was surprised to find Carlye at Dinkie-Do’s station. I stood and listened to her laugh with Dinkie-Do and Shazam. I was glad they could still laugh. Dinkie-Do had changed his color scheme and quietly replaced the shoes Laurel had found interesting.
“Boss-man.” Squawk. “No horny dolls. Pic-a-nic basket.” Squawk.
Slapstick Hair Salon wasn’t going to derail my investigation. I intended to find the smoking documents to prove Peter Dune was sabotaging my life. It was time for another visit to the Courthouse.
Carlye was eyeing a row of nail polish. “Matching bird-toes and gal-nails are to die for.”
“Hey—watch your language.” Margo chewed her Blow-pop and pushed the broom in between the stylists. “Die is a don’t term here.”
Carlye shot her a five-finger flick-off.
Dinkie-Do spun his client to face the colors, selected a bottle of polish from his upper shelf and pushed one hip forward. “Stunning blue.” He lifted it in Shazam’s direction. “Wonderful.”
Dinkie-Do’s client was smiling at me. She was Judge Donnettelli’s Judicial Assistant.
“Hi, Judge.” Her thirty-something enormous brown eyes shone, and uncertainty flitted through them. “I’ve wanted to stop in, and well, here I am.” She twirled a charm bracelet around her wrist like a wind-up toy.
“Renee Reed!” We’d never been besties. But she must want to talk—or she needs a free haircut. I knew she’d come eventually, and I was ready. From my upper cupboard I pulled a be-ribboned box of Godiva Signature Chocolate Truffles and handed it to her. “Welcome to my new life.”
All Rise Page 19