Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Linda Howard

  After several frustrating minutes, I gave up trying to work my way back to the street I wanted to be on and simply turned around and went back the way I’d come.

  This was weird in the extreme. I don’t mean the layout of the city streets, I mean this business with the white Chevrolet. I don’t even know anyone who drives a white Chevrolet! I mean, maybe I do, but I don’t know it. Like Shay, for instance; I have no idea which car in the parking lot at the hair salon is hers. Or my favorite clerk at the local grocery store. See what I mean? Any of them could drive a white Chevy and I wouldn’t know it.

  Was there something about me that tipped nutcases over the edge? Some undetectable attractant that sucked them into my orbit? And was there any way to spit them back out and send them on their way? There were other people out there who deserved stalking way more than I did.

  Before I pulled back onto the main drag I took a good look around and saw four various models of white Chevrolets. I’m telling you, they were everywhere. None of the drivers paid me the least bit of attention, though, so I pulled into traffic and drove straight to the downtown area where Great Bods was located.

  A white Chevrolet was parked at the curb directly across from Great Bods. Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, watching the driver’s-side mirror. I saw the sunglasses reflected in the mirror and the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

  I took the turn on two wheels, tires smoking, but I didn’t go to the back because being alone back there didn’t strike me as smart. Instead I pulled into the public parking area in front and skidded to a stop. Leaping out, I darted for the front door of Great Bods as I pulled my cell phone out of my bag. If that nutcase wanted a piece of me, he or she would have to attack me in front of witnesses, at least, and not in an empty back lot.

  Maybe I should have called 911, but I didn’t. I simply did the redial thing and called Wyatt, as I wheeled to stare through the front windows at the white Chevrolet parked across the street.

  “Blair?” Lynn said behind me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Blair,” Wyatt said in my ear, so my name came at me in stereo.

  “Someone’s following me,” I said, my teeth chattering in reaction to all the adrenaline sizzling through me. “A white four-door Chevrolet Malibu…looks like a new model, a 2006 or maybe a 2005. It followed me yesterday, too—”

  Across the street, the Chevrolet pulled out of its parking space and the driver sedately drove off, not speeding or anything, for all the world as if he or she had finished shopping and was just waiting for a break in traffic before pulling out.

  “It just left,” I finished, feeling as deflated as one of Mom’s soufflés. Mom couldn’t make soufflés worth a damn. Lynn came to stand beside me, peering out the window and looking puzzled.

  “Did you get the tag number?” Wyatt asked.

  “It was behind me.” I’m pretty sure no one follows from in front.

  He let that pass. Big of him. “What do you mean, it just left?”

  “It was parked across the street from Great Bods. It just pulled out and left.”

  “This person followed you to Great Bods?”

  “No, I did some juking and got away from them…her…him…whoever the hell it was, but when I got here to Great Bods they were waiting across the street.”

  Right away I saw the impossibility of that, even if the silence on the other end of the line hadn’t been pointing it out, loud and clear. Again, you can’t follow from the front; that car had been here before I arrived. There was only one way it could have been the same car, and that seemed just as impossible.

  “They know me,” I said, stunned. “They know who I am and where I work.”

  Lynn said, “Who does?”

  Wyatt said, “Did you recognize the driver?”

  I closed my eyes, feeling a little dizzy from hearing a different voice in each ear. Wyatt was the cop, so I concentrated on him. “No. He…she—damn it, I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman! Baseball cap, sunglasses. I could tell that much. The windshield was tinted.”

  “What about yesterday? Are you sure it was the same person?”

  “A woman was driving yesterday. Long hair. She tailgated me.”

  “Did you recognize her?”

  “No, but…she followed me here.” Relief poured through me at being able to provide a logical explanation for the Chevrolet being here before I was. “That’s how she knew where I work!”

  “But you aren’t sure it was the same person.”

  He was being thorough, and logical, the way cops had to be. I knew that on an intellectual level. On an emotional level, though, I wanted him to stop asking questions and round up all drivers of white Chevrolets and beat them bloody. Well, except for old people; I could tell the driver wasn’t even middle aged. He shouldn’t beat up young kids, either, because I was certain neither of the drivers I’d seen was a teenager. You can just tell, you know? Teenagers have that unfinished, still-growing thing going on. Big people were out, too, as well as teeny people. Okay, the people I wanted beat bloody were of regular size, ages twenty to maybe fifty. How hard could that be?

  Taking my silence for a negative answer, which it wasn’t, Wyatt asked, “Was there another person in the car with the driver?”

  I’d been saying “they” and “them” so of course he would ask that, but the only reason I’d been so confused was because yesterday the driver had been a woman and today I couldn’t tell, so there could be two different drivers, but how the hell would I know? “No.”

  “And you aren’t certain it was the same driver both times?”

  I was. The visceral part of me that had just been scared stupid was absolutely certain, because otherwise I’d have to believe that two days in a row someone in a white Chevrolet had tailgated me. Okay, so that wasn’t much of a stretch. But the most plausible answer wasn’t always the right answer.

  Wyatt tried again. “Could you testify in a court of law, under oath, that you’re certain it was the same driver in both cases?”

  Well, nail me to the wall, why don’t you? Thoroughly pissed, I said, “No, not if I were under oath.” Then I stubbornly added, “But it was the same driver.” So there.

  He sighed and said, “There isn’t anything here I can pursue.”

  “I’d already figured that out.”

  Impatiently he said, “Next time, get the tag number.”

  “I will,” I said politely. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to do it this time.” Yes indeedy, while I was sitting in that turn lane I should have gotten out, calmly walked past the nutcase to the back of the Chevrolet, and jotted down the tag number. The nutcase shouldn’t have had any objection to that, right?

  After a long silence he said, “I don’t know if I’ll get to Great Bods tonight in time for you to close.”

  “That’s okay. No problem.” I’d been closing Great Bods without him for a long time; I was pretty sure I still knew how. “You take care now, you hear? Good-bye.”

  He said “Fuck” with restrained violence, and hung up.

  Beside me, Lynn said, “I guess what you’re doing could be called smiling, because all your teeth are showing, but I have to tell you, it looks damn scary. Great haircut, though.”

  “Thank you,” I said, fluffing my hair a little and then making it swing. I kept smiling the whole time, too.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  Wyatt wasn’t at Great Bods when it was time to close, nor was he at my place when I got home. I felt a little bad that I had bothered him, because he would have been there if he hadn’t been tied up with work, which meant that somebody had been murdered or something. He didn’t do detective work any longer, but he still had to oversee scenes, stuff like that.

  I was also really kind of relieved that he wasn’t there, because I was struggling to hold in check my annoyance with him. The only reason I was doing that was because I saw his point. He had to work within the framework of the law, and if I didn’t have any concrete
information to give him, there was nothing he could do.

  But there’s professional opinion, and then there’s private opinion, like the difference between how I should feel and how I really feel. Regardless of what he could formally do, he could still have said something along the lines of “Look, I believe you. I can’t do anything about it, but I trust your instincts.”

  He hadn’t said anything of the sort, though, just as he hadn’t really believed me about that crank phone call. He was probably right about the phone call, since there hadn’t been any more, but the principle was the same. All I wanted was a little support in my time of need.

  Okay, sometimes my thoughts make me laugh. What I really wanted was the sun, the moon, and the stars, but what’s the point in dreaming little? I’ve never been one to aim for subpar. I wanted it all, and I wanted it right then; yesterday would be even better. What’s wrong with that?

  I let myself in, then locked the door and re-set the alarm. Even though I knew I’d locked the car, I turned around and aimed the remote through the window in the back door and hit the “lock” button again, just to be certain. I felt uneasy in my own house and I didn’t like it. Home was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place where you could relax and sleep in safety.

  My sense of being secure here, though, had been damaged when Jason’s wife was trying to kill me, and I’d never quite regained it. I’d be glad to move into Wyatt’s house with him when we got married. Why didn’t I move in with him now? Well…because. Number one, I didn’t want him to take me being there for granted. He should feel as if he’s achieved something when he finally gets me there. Not taking me for granted is probably my number two reason, too. And number three. When we’re married and he looks at me sitting beside him at the table, he should feel as if he’s fought a great battle and accomplished something—namely, winning me. He’ll treasure me more. I like being treasured.

  It’s the same thing that makes young people take better care of a car they’ve had to work for and buy with their own money than they do of a car that’s given to them. It’s human nature. I wanted to be the car Wyatt had to pay for.

  I was both anxious and sad to leave my condo behind. It was home—or at least, it had been home. I had decorated every inch of it, and it looked good, if I do say so myself. I should be able to sell it with no problem. In fact, I should probably go ahead and put it on the market, just to get the ball rolling.

  Some of my furniture could be used at Wyatt’s house—our house. I had to get used to thinking of it as ours. And Wyatt had to put my name on the deed with his. I wouldn’t really think of it as “ours” until I’d put my stamp on it—repainting, remodeling, and redecorating. Thank God he’d bought the place after his divorce, because I couldn’t possibly live there if his ex-wife had also lived there. No way in hell. That was the biggest mistake Jason had made after our divorce: when he remarried, he simply moved his new wife into the house where he’d lived with me. It drove her nuts, literally, though I think she’d already made part of the trip before they got married.

  I’d already showered and was walking around the condo mentally placing pieces of my furniture in various rooms of Wyatt’s house when he arrived. I was upstairs—all of my bedroom furniture could go, because he had two completely empty bedrooms—when I heard the door open, then the beep of the alarm system, followed by the beep-beep-beep-beep as he closed the door and re-set the system.

  My heartbeat picked up. Wyatt was here! No matter what, just being around him was as invigorating to me as a hard workout. We’d fight, because we were annoyed with each other, but then we’d make up with heart-pounding sex. We hadn’t had sex in almost a week, and I was almost to the point of chewing his pants off.

  I went downstairs. I wasn’t naked, because I’m only naked in bed or when I’m bathing. Wyatt would probably like me naked all the time at home, but it just wasn’t practical. I had on a cherry-red tank top—no bra, of course—and these really cute white pajama bottoms with little cherries all over them. When I fight, I want to look good, just in case I get so mad we don’t have sex, and he’ll really really regret it then.

  He was in the kitchen getting a glass of water. His suit jacket was draped over the back of a chair; his white dress shirt was wilted and wrinkled from being worn all day in warm weather, and he still wore his weapon, a big black automatic, on his right hip. My heart squeezed, just looking at him. He was tall and muscular and dangerous looking, and he was mine.

  Maybe we could forgo fighting, and move on to the sex. I said, “A really bad case, huh?”

  He looked up, green eyes narrowed and glittering with temper. “Not especially. There were just a lot of them.” He was obviously royally pissed. Wyatt didn’t sulk; it was that aggressive, dominant streak in him. When he was mad, he was ready to fight. I liked that. Sort of. At least he didn’t pout. I’m a pouter, and two in the same house is one too many.

  He set the glass down with a thunk and crowded into my space, looming over me. “The next time you get some nutty idea you’re being followed, don’t get pissy with me because I don’t jump through hoops trying to find your imaginary stalkers. If I’m on my personal time and you get paranoid about something, fine, call me, but when I’m at work I’m dealing with real crimes and I’m not about to waste the city’s resources on a wild-goose chase.” His teeth were clenched, which was not a good sign.

  I drew back a step, internally reeling a little. Wow! He’d let me have it with both barrels. Even though I’d been expecting something and could concede, reluctantly, that he had a point, there was so much in his opening salvo for me to take offense at that for a moment I just blinked my eyes, trying to decide which one to address first.

  Imaginary? Paranoid? Nutty? “I’m not imagining things! I was followed by someone in a white Chevrolet, two days in a row.” My voice rose with indignation, because even though I’d wondered myself if my recent experiences had made me paranoid, I at least knew there really had been a white Chevrolet—or a couple of different white Chevrolets—behind me.

  “Well, hell, everyone who goes anywhere in this city has probably had a white Chevrolet behind him at some time or other!” he snapped. “There was one behind me on the way over here, but I didn’t immediately assume it was the same vehicle you spotted behind you today. Do you have any idea how many white Chevrolets there are, just in this county, and not taking into account all the surrounding counties?”

  “Three or four per square acre, probably,” I said, goaded into real temper. He was right; if he’d shut up a minute, I’d tell him he was right. Damn it, doing the right thing is not easy.

  “Exactly! So when you saw a white car behind you yesterday, and another one behind you today, and they’re driven by different people, how the hell did you come up with the idea that it’s the same car?”

  “I know! I know, all right?” Trying to keep from yelling, because my neighbors had young school-age children who were probably in bed asleep, I took two more steps away from him and leaned against the cabinets, my arms crossed under my breasts. I also took a couple of deep breaths. “You have a point. I understand what you’re saying.” It galled me to admit it, but fair is fair. “Without a tag number or something concrete, there’s nothing you can do, no way you can investigate—”

  “Blair!” he yelled, evidently not caring about my neighbors’ children. “Fuck! Write this down, so you can remember it: No. One. Is. Following. You. There’s nothing to investigate! I’m not going to dance to your tune and spend city money because you’re feeling nervous. Privately, yeah, I signed on knowing you aren’t exactly maintenance free, but leave my fucking job out of it, okay? I’m a city cop. I’m not your private cop you can call on to check out every little thing that pops into your head. These dumb-ass tricks aren’t funny. Got it?”

  Okay. Okay. I opened my mouth to say something but my mind was curiously blank, and my lips felt numb, so I shut it again. I got it. I so got it.

  Actually, there didn’t seem to b
e anything to say.

  I looked around the kitchen, and out into my tiny backyard where the trees were strung with white lights to make it look like a fairyland. A couple of the lights had burned out; I needed to replace them. The vase of flowers on the table in the dining alcove were wilting; I’d have to pick up some fresh ones tomorrow. I looked everywhere except at Wyatt, because I didn’t want to see in his eyes what I was afraid I’d see. I didn’t look at him because…because I just couldn’t.

  The silence in the kitchen was thick, broken only by the sounds of our breathing. I should move, I thought. I should go upstairs and do something, maybe refold the towels in the linen closet. I should do anything other than just stand there, but I couldn’t.

  There were arguments I could make. I knew there were. I could explain things to him, but somehow all of that was beside the point now. There were a lot of things I should say, things I should do…but I just couldn’t.

  “I think you should go home.”

  That was my voice saying those words, but it didn’t sound like me; it was toneless, as if all expression had been drained away. I hadn’t even been aware I was going to say anything.

  “Blair—” Wyatt took a step toward me and I stumbled back, out of reach. He couldn’t touch me now, he absolutely shouldn’t touch me, because too many things were tearing me apart inside and I had to deal with them.

  “Please, just—go.”

  He stood there. Walking away from a fight wasn’t in his nature. I knew that, knew what I was asking him to do. This was too important for me to finesse, too vital to my life for me to risk it for some cosmetic fix that would go only skin deep. I wanted away from him, I had to get away and be completely by myself for a little while. My heart was beating with slow, hard thumps that hurt all over my insides, and if he didn’t leave soon I might start screaming from the pain of it.