by Lori Wilde
With one last warning glance at the quivering palm fronds, Nick followed the maître d' into the restaurant.
Lucy’s description of Vanessa hadn’t prepared him for the woman seated at the small, secluded table on the patio. He’d been too stunned by the bachelor auction to notice the top bidder. Although looking at her now, he wondered how he ever could have missed her.
Vanessa Beaumont was blatantly beautiful.
Sleek, dark hair framed a heart-shaped face. Deep-green eyes gleamed beneath thick, lush lashes. A small upturned nose and pouty, red lips completed the picture of a breathtaking woman.
She smiled up at him, her face ethereal in the glow of the candlelight. “Hello there.”
“Miss Beaumont,” he said, seating himself across from her.
“I simply won’t be satisfied unless you call me Vanessa,” she said, running one finger around the rim of her wineglass. “And for two thousand dollars, I certainly expect plenty of satisfaction.”
Great.
His status had fallen all the way from respected cop to paid gigolo. Just how far did Lucy expect him to go to obtain information? He picked up his wineglass, swallowing the Merlot in one long gulp.
“I took the liberty of ordering for us,” Vanessa said. “The cuisine here is excellent. We’ll start off with Champagne Oysters followed by Turtle Soup.”
“Fine,” he said.
Vanessa leaned forward. “Then, for the main course, Roast Capon in Peanut Sauce. How does that sound?”
“Itchy,” he muttered.
“What?”
He reached for the wine bottle to refill his glass. Maybe he should just relax and enjoy the inevitable. Vanessa Beaumont seemed designed to make a man forget about his troubles. “I was just wondering what’s for dessert?”
“Anything you’d like, Nick,” Vanessa murmured, “anything at all.” He felt her foot crawling up his pant leg.
The wine toppled over the top of the glass, spilling onto the white linen tablecloth and dripping down onto his suit.
He bolted out of his chair, wiping his pants with his napkin. “Please excuse me for a moment.”
With a polite nod, he headed toward the sanctity of the men’s room. He needed some solitude, some time to regroup—an escape plan.
Once inside, he took off his jacket, tossing it onto a chair. Then he bent over the sink, splashing cold water on his face. He straightened and mopped his face dry with a paper towel.
The reflection he saw in the mirror made him gasp out loud. A woman with big red hair winked at him with her thick, false eyelashes. For a moment he panicked, thinking he’d entered the ladies’ room by mistake.
“You missed a spot,” said a familiar voice.
Lucy.
Slowly turning around, it took a moment to register the fact that this woman with the big hair and the even bigger chest was his librarian. But it was definitely Lucy. He glimpsed a skimpy red dress beneath the long brown trench coat.
He took a deep breath. “This is the men’s room.”
“I figured that out already,” she said. “The urinals gave it away.” She took the paper towel out of his hand and reached up to dab at his damp temple.
“I can’t believe you followed me in here, especially after what I told you in the foyer. Don’t you listen?”
She blinked. “Foyer? I wasn’t in the foyer.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t give me that innocent act. You were hiding behind the potted palm. I saw the leaves moving.”
“It must have been a draft, because I’ve been waiting in here for the last twenty minutes.” She shook her head. “It was a real eye-opening experience. You wouldn’t believe how many men don’t wash their hands.”
He swallowed. “You mean, I was talking to a plant the entire time?”
“I guess so,” she said. “But don’t feel bad. You’re supposed to talk to plants. It helps them grow.”
“Except I kept expecting the plant to talk back to me.” He shook his head. “No wonder the maître d' was looking at me like I was nuts.”
“Why would you think I’d be hiding behind a plant? I’d never do anything that dumb.” She folded her arms over her chest.
“Gee, I don’t know, Lucy. Why would you put peanut butter on a bee sting? Why would you attack me with hair spray? Why would you show up in the men’s room?”
“Because we need to map out our strategy. Now, I don’t have much time…”
“Our strategy?”
She nodded. “This is the perfect opportunity to catch Vanessa off guard. Wine and dine her. Then go in for the kill.”
“Excuse me?”
Nick was still trying to find the real Lucy under that atrocious wig and all that makeup. Did she really think she could fool anyone with this ridiculous disguise?
“I want you to leave,” he said. “Leave the men’s room. Leave the restaurant. Leave me alone.”
“I will,” she said, then noticed the skeptical expression on his face. “I promise. I have plans tonight, too. But first I want to give you something.”
He backed up a step as she reached into the pocket of the trench coat.
She pulled out a small sheet of paper. “I made up a series of questions. Try to work them into your conversation with Vanessa.”
He looked down at the list. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You can do it,” she said. “Just use your imagination.”
“I can just hear it now.” He cleared his throat. “Vanessa, I’m on fire for you. And speaking of fires, did you happen to burn down Mad Dog’s building?”
Lucy frowned up at him.
“Or how about this,” he continued. “Vanessa, you are the most beautiful woman on earth. Please say you’ll be mine. Confess your love and your participation in the crime that took place on April nineteenth.”
“You think she’s the most beautiful woman on earth?”
“Of course not.”
“The why did you say it?”
Ignoring that, he shook his head. “Not only would it never work, it’s a complete waste of time. We shouldn’t be focusing the investigation on Vanessa.”
“Why not?”
“Because she isn’t the most logical suspect.”
“If you’re going to tell me she’s too beautiful to be guilty…” Lucy began.
“No,” he replied, dabbing at the wine spots on his jacket. “I mean, obviously she’s a beautiful woman. Exquisite, really, if you like…”
“Please get to the point,” Lucy interjected. “If Vanessa isn’t guilty, then who is?”
“Weasel.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Weasel? My Weasel?”
“How many other Weasels do you know?”
“That’s ridiculous,” she sputtered. “I’ve known him since he was eight years old. He used to practically live at our house. He might be a little rough around the edges, but he’s actually very sensitive. Besides, he’s Melvin’s best friend. He’d never do anything to hurt him.”
“Then why was he in the warehouse the night we broke in?”
“He told us…” Lucy sputtered to a stop.
Nick shrugged into his jacket. “You see. He never gave us a reason. And the police showed up before I could get any answers out of him.”
“He had a key.”
“He said he had a key. We never saw it.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything,” Lucy said. “If he didn’t have a key, he could have been in there for a good reason.”
“Like returning to the scene of the crime?”
She scowled at him. “You told me that never happens.”
“It rarely happens. But Weasel doesn’t exactly strike me as the most brilliant criminal mind. Maybe he was in the warehouse that night to recover evidence that might prove him guilty.”
“And this is what you’re basing your suspicions on?”
“No. I’m basing them on the fact that seventeen years ago, Walter ‘Weasel’ Malone
was arrested and charged with two counts of second-degree arson. His lawyer later got him off on a technicality.”
“Seventeen years ago?” Lucy said. “But that would only make him like…fourteen years old at the time.”
“Maybe he was in training.”
Lucy folded her arms around her inflated chest. “Look, Weasel’s had a rough life growing up with a single mother in a houseful of kids.”
He snorted.
“He’s made a few mistakes along the way, but anybody who leaves dog food out in the alley for all the stray mutts can’t be that bad. You’re just saying all this because you don’t like him.” She clicked her tongue.
“Maybe you’re just intent on accusing Vanessa because you don’t like her,” Nick countered. “She could be an innocent victim in all of this.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Innocent is not the word to describe Vanessa.”
“Oh, that reminds me…” Nick said, thoroughly enjoying himself. It was nice to see someone else confused and frustrated for a change. “How far do you want me to go?”
“Go where?”
He straightened his tie. “With Vanessa. I mean, it’s fairly obvious she’s attracted to me. I suppose I’d be willing to sacrifice myself in the line of duty…”
“You are totally disgusting.”
A toilet flushed. Lucy ducked behind the heavy fabric draped over the long French windows, the toes of her spiked red heels peeking out underneath.
Charles emerged from one of the stalls. He eyed Nick, then looked furtively around the posh restroom, his gaze finally falling on the potted philodendron suspended from the ceiling. “I thought I heard a woman talking.”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
Nick pressed his lips together. The last thing he needed was to try and explain Lucy’s antics to the management of Rawling’s Steakhouse. “There’s nobody in here but little ol’ me.”
“So I see.” The maître d' glanced at the philodendron again. “Pardon me for interrupting, sir,” he whispered, quickly washing his hands before ducking out the door.
“That was a close one.” Lucy blew out her breath and emerging from below the drapery, pressed a palm to her forehead.
“Forget about him. And forget about Vanessa. I can handle her.”
She arched one perfectly groomed brow. “That’s what I’m afraid of. You’ll be drooling over her before they even serve the second course, and you’ll blow a great opportunity.”
“Give me a little credit,” Nick said. “I’ve got great willpower. I probably won’t start drooling until the fourth course.”
“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor,” she said, looking completely unamused.
“No extra charge,” he quipped.
“Aren’t I the lucky one.”
He just winked and strolled out the door.
11
Nick glanced at his watch as Vanessa droned on about her favorite subject: herself.
He wasn’t in any danger of drooling by the fourth course, but falling asleep was a definite possibility. They sat in the outer courtyard of the restaurant, a canopy of stars above them. Soft music played on the outdoor speakers.
“And then I wrote a poem about my traumatic experience in a rodeo queen pageant,” she said, retrieving a pack of cigarettes from her beaded handbag.
“Rodeo queen?” he said in surprise. “I didn’t realize you were into rodeos.”
She laughed. “Oh, I’m not. I just thought it would be easy to win a crown there compared to a real pageant.”
“There’s a lot of tough competition in those rodeo pageants,” Nick said, remembering all the hard work his cousin Emily had put in to become a rodeo queen.
“At least my hair looked absolutely fabulous.” She fluffed her thick mane over her shoulders. “My hairdresser Raoul used a special avocado herbal shampoo blend with just a hint of real organic lemon juice. The lemon is supposed to bring out my hair’s natural highlights.”
“You were telling me about your traumatic experience,” he prodded before she began a dissertation on blow-drying.
“Oh, right. I lost.” She shuddered slightly, drawing a long, slim cigarette out of the pack. “I lost a crown, the judges voted nay, when the emcee stumped me that day… That’s how my poem starts. My writer friend, Niles, just thought it was so powerful. He said reading it was physically painful for him.”
“I can imagine.”
She held up her cigarette. “Do you have a light?”
“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”
She fumbled around in her purse. “I should have a lighter in here somewhere… Ah, this will do.” She pulled out a white matchbook with shiny gold lettering on the front.
It looked disturbingly familiar.
“Allow me,” he said, taking the matchbook out of her hand. The first line on the cover read Harold & Letitia, followed by Happy Fortieth Anniversary.
It was a lot cleaner, but otherwise identical to the one he’d found in the warehouse. All the letters fit, too. Old in Harold, Fort in Fortieth, and Ann in Anniversary.
“Who are Harold and Letitia?” he asked as he struck a match, then held the flame up to the tip of her cigarette.
“Mommy and Daddy.” She took a deep drag, moaning softly with appreciation. “They had a big bash last April for their anniversary.”
Nick slowly flipped the matchbook back and forth between his fingers. “When in April?”
She blew a stream of smoke into the air. “The nineteenth.”
Nick felt a suspicious gnawing in the pit of his stomach. April nineteenth. The same night as the fire. “Personalized matchbooks. Must have been quite a party.”
She shrugged. “It was a total bore for me. I’d just had a big fight with my boyfriend. But, of course, as hostess, I had to stay until the party ended. There’s nothing quite like watching your tipsy parents dance in a conga line at two in the morning.”
“And they gave away these at the party?” he asked, holding up the matchbook.
She rolled her eyes. “Dozens of them.”
“Can I have this one?”
She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Sure. We’ve got a ton left over at home.”
“Thanks,” he said, pocketing the matchbook. “So, what kind of man would let his girlfriend dance the night away without him?”
Vanessa sighed. “Mad Dog threw an absolute fit when I forbade him to come to the party. But what could I do? He’s a real cool guy, but naturally he just wouldn’t fit in with Mommy and Daddy’s crowd.”
“Naturally,” Nick agreed with a sardonic twist of his lips. What did Mad Dog Moore ever see in this woman?
“Who knew he’d go berserk and try to burn down his own building.”
“Maybe he didn’t do it.”
Vanessa took another drag on her cigarette. “That’s what he claimed afterward. But he was obviously throwing a temper tantrum that night. He wouldn’t even answer his phone when I called.”
“What?”
“I called him around eleven thirty,” Vanessa said, “to see if he was through pouting. But he didn’t pick up.”
According to the police reports, the fire had started shortly before midnight. Was it possible Mad Dog’s alibi really was true? “Did you tell the police this?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember. They asked me all sorts of questions. But then they found all that gunpowder that started the fire, so we all knew Mad Dog did it.”
Nick had barely digested this new twist in the case when Charles approached the table carrying a cordless telephone receiver.
“Excuse me. You have a phone call, Mr. Holden.”
Surprised, Nick took the phone. With a polite nod, Charles returned to his post.
“Hello?” Nick said.
“Hi, Nick. It’s me, Lucy. Pretend you don’t know me.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried.” He glanced at Vanessa, who was dipping a spoon into the peanut sauce on her plate, then turned slightly away fro
m the table.
“Is Vanessa still there?”
“Yes.”
“Has she spilled anything yet?”
“Just a little cleavage,” he murmured. Static crackled over the line. Then Nick thought he heard the sound of screeching tires. “Where are you?”
“I’m doing a little undercover work.”
He didn’t like the sound of that, or the ferocious gnawing in the pit of his stomach.
More static. “Oops. Someone’s coming,” Lucy said, her voice sounding far way. “I’ve got to go.”
“Hey, wait a minute…” he began, but all he heard was the sound of a dial tone in his ear. Nick frowned at the phone in his hand before turning around and placing it on the table. Lucy obviously wasn’t in the men’s room anymore. But where the hell was she?
Vanessa looked up from her plate, her perfect brow wrinkled with annoyance. “Important call?”
Nick shook his head. “My librarian. She has something she wants me to check out.”
The phone chirped. Once. Twice.
Nick reached for it, but Vanessa got to it first. She pushed the power button off. “You’re all mine tonight, Nick, and I’m not a woman who likes to share. Now where were we?”
“About to move on to the final course,” he said, more than ready to end this date. Especially since he had a new lead and a librarian to pursue. He picked up the dessert menu, pretending to study the choices while he tried to figure out how to make a graceful exit. Vanessa might be visually stunning and every man’s fantasy on the outside, but she certainly wasn’t his fantasy woman. She wasn’t warm. She wasn’t kind. She wasn’t…Lucy.
Of course Lucy wasn’t exactly Lucy tonight either, dressed up like a cheap call girl. If he didn’t know better…
A cheap call girl.
Nick set the menu on the table as the realization washed over him. That costume she had on earlier obviously meant she intended to go undercover as a call girl to catch this supposed eyewitness.
He was torn between outrage and resignation. Maybe he should just let her play out this ridiculous charade. Let her stand on that street corner…in that skimpy red dress…in one of the worst sections of Pine City…alone.