by Vicki Batman
I veed my brow. “I don’t think that can happen. Are you super strong? I didn’t think you were, but maybe you beefed up with the defense training.”
“Hattie, not funny.” Dad shook his head. “We can ask a doctor.”
“Let’s go with a no for now, Sissie,” I said.
“Okay.” Tracey’s hand fell away. “I know I didn’t confess to anything. Not. A. Word. That’s what the crime shows say—do nothing. I said nothing.”
Television, the great educator—not. Except for the guy in the British detective series. He needed water to dilute his sarcasm. “They didn’t read you your rights and stick you in the pokey. I say you’re okay.”
“For now.” Mom collapsed in an armchair in the adjoining family room. “I will talk with Shirley Wellborn. Most likely, I’ll reconsider having Allan Wellborn as a son-in-law.”
Shocked and amazed, I turned to stare at her. What in the wide world of sports is she talking about, especially at a time like this?
With a “never mind” in my head, I circled the room, scrubbing the back of my neck and hearing the scratchy sound of dried hairspray. I thought about Tracey’s predicament. What Allan hadn’t done and didn’t know. Who else would want to murder Jonson Leggett the Third?
None of us knew how Jonson died. No one knew what kind of evidence the police uncovered. The police might have lifted Tracey’s fingerprints from his car, but maybe others were deposited, and did the cops identify them? Does Super Saver Grocery have a security camera? Nowadays, most businesses did, placing them strategically in the parking lot. Surely, Super Saver’s video would exonerate her.
“Hattie.”
Mom touched my hand as I passed her.
“You’ll have to talk to Allan.”
I grabbed handfuls of my hair. “Impossible. You try.”
“Allan responds to you.”
Maybe sexually he does. I overlapped my arms. “He never tells me anything when he’s working a big case—remember?”
Mom tilted her head. “Perhaps… Never mind.”
Yikes. “Lay it on me.” God only knows what she is thinking.
She leaned closer. “Perhaps, well, perhaps your approach is wrong.”
Lordy. Her innuendo. Now, I get it and pretty ballsy of her. I rolled my eyes ceilingward. “What approach? The one where I ask politely? Or how about the one where I take off my clothes and seduce him? Which scenario do you prefer, Mother dearest?”
“Hattie, you crossed a line,” Dad growled.
“Me? I crossed a line? Sorry, Dad. She did first.” I pointed at my madre. My mother had some nerve. “Unbelievable.”
“Whatever it takes—”
“Elaine,” he said.
All of us stared at Mom—me harder than them. Mom jumped overboard, like off-a-giant-cliff overboard.
“Somehow, Mother, your brilliant idea sounds like Jonson’s—me propositioning Allan the same way Jonson propositioned Tracey.” I stabbed my chest with my finger. “I. Am. Not a hooker.”
Tracey cupped the side of her mouth. “Even if Allan looks like sex on a stick and as if sex with him would be stupendous.”
Please, God, stop the madness. I jostled her with my hip.
Her shoulder butted back.
“Elaine. Hattie. I’ve heard enough squabbling.” Dad looked toward the kitchen for a moment. He then returned his gaze to my sister. “Trace, will you see Stuart anytime soon?”
I checked my phone, not giving Tracey a chance to answer. “Tomorrow. Another dreaded tango lesson.”
Tracey stumbled to her feet with her arms wheeling so she wouldn’t crash and burn. My sissie’s voice fractured like a dropped Ritz cracker. “Thanks for your support, sister dear. We wanted our wedding to be u-u-unique.”
She whipped her gaze from Mom to Dad to me. With wide eyes, she palmed her cheeks. “Oh My God. Oh My God. Wh-What about St-Stuart? He won’t want to marrrry meeee.”
Tracey’s sobbing escalated to Noah and the Ark proportions. She whirled about, the chair crashing on the floor. She ran down the hallway to her childhood room.
When the door slammed, I flinched.
Mom shot Dad and me the see-what-you’ve-done glare, an over-the-shoulder, squinty-eyed one.
She loped after Tracey.
Dad and I gaped at each other.
He lifted and dropped a hand. “Your mother didn't mean…you know…you should seduce Allan.” Briefly, he glanced toward the kitchen again. “God, I can’t believe I said that to my daughter.”
I snorted. “You could have fooled me. Maybe Mom’s watching too much TV.”
“I suppose. Maybe too much of the feuding housewives,” he said.
“No kidding,” I said.
Rubbing his finger lengthwise across his mouth, Dad didn’t say anything more.
I teethed my lower lip. I had nothing either. Not for a long while. Guilt hung in the air. Bizarre colored the whole situation.
I couldn’t take the unexpressed pressure anymore. I flung my hands toward the ceiling. “Okay, fine. I’ll chat with Stuart—”
“Don’t forget Allan.”
“Fine,” I snarled. “Allan, too.”
“Thank you.” Dad uprighted the chair Tracey overturned, then squeezed my shoulder, and kissed the top of my head. “You’re our only hope.”
Wow. “Only hope” like a famous sci-fi action hero. Very scary.
Chapter Fourteen
After the sun rose and headed to the west, to be the supportive sister I claimed to be, I shook my head and drove to Miss Yolanda’s studio. Only one student made an appearance beside me—Allan.
Tracey and Stuart didn’t cancel the tango lesson; yet, they didn’t show either. Probably due to Tracey’s hysteria over being questioned by the police, and quite possibly, she could still be sobbing in her bedroom over Stuart like a two-year-old told to eat her peas. Beginning to feel as if doomsday was plastered all over their wedding, I couldn’t blame her.
I squinted at the gorgeous specimen. Unbelievable. Didn’t he have other duties to fulfill? Like finding who killed Jonson, not hurling accusations at my sister, and almost arresting her. On the other side of the coin, I could try Mom’s “plan” of seducing and quizzing. He did look might-ee fine in his sport coat, navy slacks, and a red tie perfect for binding one’s wrists.
Binding wrists? I can’t believe I had BDSM notions. Lordy.
With his right palm on the glass, Allan gazed out the bank of windows overlooking the parking lot, which undoubtedly, flooded the room with blazing sunlight during daylight hours.
Now, nothing could be seen but inky darkness polka-dotted with stars and silhouettes of gaunt branches which occasionally scratched the glass in an eerie horror fashion.
Allan didn’t move toward me. Just stared with a look which almost dared me to say something.
He shifted back his khaki jacket with his hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Message received and duly noted—not the perfect time to chat. Or seduce. Prick.
He checked the time on his watch, and he turned his gaze to the entry. “Where are the other tortured tango-ers? They’re late.”
The Funsisters’s grapevine plan to shun him worked fast. I raised my index finger. “One…Jenny has a sick headache.” False. “Two…Corrine’s in Bayston.” True. “Three…Tracey’s still crying.” True. “Four…Maybe Stuart’s on an out-of-town audit—”
Allan flashed his palm. “I get it. The gang’s mad. So, why are you here?”
“I didn’t want to come, but Mom persuaded me.” I twisted my lips. “For Tracey. I would do almost anything for my family.”
His lips firmed. “I know.”
Did he know? I lengthened my spine in a stretchy yoga pose. “You interrogated my sister.”
Slowly, he turned his head to look. Nothing said. Nothing more.
I locked gazes with Alan for a long while. Finally, my anger festered to boiling. “I’m guessing the rest of the party doesn’t want to
be near you because, you know, you might arrest them, too.”
“I see fingers all over this.” He bit into his lower lip. “Mostly yours, telling them I’m a rat and to stay away.”
I shrugged. “Could be.”
“I know you. I’m not surprised.”
I trailed a finger along the wall as I paced six feet away, and when I turned around, changed to the other hand. “All of us hated Jonson, except for Stuart. I’m not sure if Stuart knows about Tracey’s first marriage. I suppose we could have conspired to plot the dastardly deed à la Murder on the Orient Express-style.”
“Funny,” the saintly detective said.
I wiggled my phone. “I know something you don’t know.”
“Oh, joy.”
“I bet you didn’t know Tracey has bruises from where Jonson hurt her arm.”
Allan squeezed his lips in a tight flat line. “I didn't know.”
“Guessing the police didn't do a thorough job.”
“You did.” Setting his hands on his hips, he tilted closer. “You took pictures?”
I rotated my phone. “I did. Wanna see?”
He curled his fingers. “Show me.”
After scrolling to the photos I took the previous night, I passed my cell. “Go ahead. Look. They are disgusting.”
As he examined the images, his mouth drooped in a frown. “What's this?” He pushed the device in front of my eyes.
“Oh. Tracey’s fist—the one she socked him with.”
“Now, we're getting somewhere.”
“Not so fast, geek-boy—”
Allan raised one brow. “You’re calling me geek-boy?”
“Sorry, a holdover from your high school days of pocket protector and trombone.”
“The trombone you make fun of paid my way through college.”
While I considered, I pushed my bottom lip forward. Hadn’t his parents ponied up his tuition? “I didn’t know.”
“I don’t know how you forgot me being in the marching band.”
“Ooh. Ooh. I remember, and oh my eyes.” I blocked my eyes.
“So, I've always been geeky?”
I uncovered one eye.
Allan squinted. “You know the saying—”
I uncovered my face and sketched an imaginary arc. “The entire universe knows the saying: Geeks rule.”
“And don’t forget it, sweetheart.”
“If I need a reminder, I’ll check your senior photo. Stop calling me sweetheart.”
“The picture captured my…manly essence.” He stroked his forefinger along his chin. “Some women think I’m…studly.”
Essence? Studly? Lordy. Crazy. I shimmied my shoulders. “Back to Jonson… He said some crude and rude things. Tracey was pissed, which resulted in a left hook to his face. I'm confident when the medical examiner inspects the creep’s body—”
“Hold on.” He flashed his palm.
“Yes?”
“You’re way too familiar with police procedures. Possibly bad. Very bad.”
“Funny.” I grinned. “You'll find the proof.”
Allan returned my phone. “Interfering in my case isn’t a good idea, Hattie—”
I stamped my foot. “I'm only protecting my family. You'd do the same—”
“’Fraid to say it?”
Who would argue over geekiness in anyone? Not me. But the twinkle in his eyes looked mighty compelling. “Geek-boy.”
Miss Yolanda, wearing a silky maroon caftan trimmed with a fringe of gold coins the size of dimes, sashayed in our direction. “Hello, dancers. Only the two of you tonight?”
I bobbed my head. “Yes, Ms. Yolanda.”
“I’m très désolée.”
She shrugged with a “whatever” frown, arranged us next to each other, and patted our limbs.
“Doesn't matter. Besides Stuart and his fiancée, you’re the best dancers. All eyes will be on you. Now, young man, take your partner in your arms.”
Neither of us made the first move.
The last thing I wanted at Stuart and Tracey’s wedding was to have “all eyes on me.” I should man-up for my sister’s big day. Through my lashes, I glared at Allan.
Hard steel in his black eyes fixed tight flashed back.
His jaw gritted.
My first move would be to kick him in the shins and launch a major assault, but Mother wouldn’t like the fighting part. Lifting my chin, I gave him my best you're-gonna-suffer expression.
Allan snorted. The tenseness in his shoulders subsided. He quirked the right corner of his mouth.
Taking my hand, he raised one in the “ready” position and set his other at my waist. I settled into the proper posture.
“Feel the music embody your spirits. Become one with your soul. Become one with your partner.” Miss Yolanda turned on the music and clapped. “Anda one. Anda two…”
Allan and I glided two steps, paused, whipped about, and then repeated in the opposite direction.
“Good. Do the sequence over.” Ms. Yolanda rolled her hand.
Clueless about what “sequence” she talked about, I followed Allan’s lead and let him have his way.
Ms. Yolanda stopped the music.
She handed me a red rose.
I took it gingerly and discovered she’d stripped off the thorns.
“Set the stem between your teeth,” she said. “Repeat the steps you just performed. Pause. And you, young man, will bend close, and with your teeth, you’ll take the rose from her lips.”
Ms. Yolanda swooped her hands. “Go on.”
Oh Lord, Allan would be within kissing range. This is too-too much. Even though he excelled at kissing, I couldn’t do any smooching after the grilling he gave Tracey. I pinched the stem between my fingers and glared.
His eyes held a challenge-you glint.
My insides screamed “retreat.” But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Obtaining more intel so I could find something to exonerate my sister hit the top of my mental to-do list. Permanently.
I clenched the stem between my teeth. A green sap oozed on my tongue. The taste? Beyond icky.
“Class. Ready?” Ms. Yolanda looked at each of us, her brows lifted. She pointed her remote at the sound system. The music resumed. “Anda one. Anda two.”
Allan and I glided and turned. Glided and turned. Paused.
“So, Jonson is dead.” Thanks to self-taught ventriloquist lessons, I mumbled barely coherent words around the stem.
“Yup.”
Pausing, I spat out the blasted flower, smacking my tongue. The residue in my mouth made me sound stupid and silly. I fought the urge to spit. “The Sommerville Live at Five news ran a story.” The program broadcasted a story about the murder as I dressed for work. “Good ol’ press shares the scandalous stuff every time.”
“I’ve said nothing.” Allan shifted and brushed his hand through his hair. “You know how it is in Sommerville. News travels fast in a small town.”
I shot him a hard look. “Is the Sommerville Police Department giving Tracey’s case special treatment because the whole town thought Jonson a—quote—a pillar of society—unquote?” I couldn’t help coating my words with scorn. “A man amongst men. Known and loved by all—”
Miss Yolanda returned.
At the lift of her hand, I again put the flower in my mouth.
She stepped away and motioned for the dancing to continue. She retreated to prop her shoulders against a wall and check her phone for messages.
Before Allan and I resumed dancing, he bent closer.
So close, his breath fanned over my cheek.
“And as you stated, the deceased was hated by your family.”
Guess the whole world was aware of the Cooks's position on all things related to Jonson Leggett the Third. I struggled to swallow. “Er, maybe.”
As Allan straightened, his gaze bored into mine. “Hate can cause people's behavior to change. They do despicable things, like murder.”
I yanked the flower out of my mouth. “The
Super Saver's video recording must be confirming evidence for you to focus on my sister.”
He stopped and let go. His eyes narrowed. “How…did…you—”
Ms. Yolanda moved between us. “Problem?”
Yes. I bet he thought so, too.
“No,” I said.
“No,” he said.
Then the bane of my existence rang.
Allan dug his cell phone from his pocket. In long strides, he reached the studio’s door. “Wellborn.”
Twirling, the rose’s stem in my fingers, I skimmed one pointed foot in a half-circle across the floor and then the other as I tried to eavesdrop on his conversation in case Tracey’s difficulty came up.
“Yes, sir,” he said multiple times.
Which told me one big fat nothing.
“Immediately.” He shut off his phone and flicked a look. “Gotta go.”
“Not surprised.” I squished my eyes into slits and twirled the rose, watching Mr. Dutifully Bound exit.
He paused by the door and looked back.
I blew him a pissed-off kiss.
His brow wrinkled.
I tilted my head and lifted my chin. So there.
“That one”—Ms. Yolanda pointed her finger at Allan’s retreating form—“he’s always in a hurry.”
“Yes, ma'am, he certainly is.” I jerked my fists toward the floor, breaking the flower’s stem. After I inhaled and exhaled a few times, I felt my heart rate slow down and calmness overtook my mind. I scooped the flower pieces from the floor and walked over to the exit, chucking the scraps inside a trash can. Through the windows overlooking the parking lot, I heard Allan fire up the truck’s engine and wheel out to the street.
Rats. Almost had Allan clenched in my hand. I must find another way to get the answers I need.
****
Back at my apartment, Jenny pounced on me the moment I entered. All Vegas gamblers could have bet mucho dough on her wanting to know about my efforts to question Allan about Tracey’s predicament.
I shook my head and shook off her arm. “Not now.” I headed to the bathroom for a meditative purging soak. After the tub filled with grapefruit-scented hot water, I piled my hair in a clasp on top of my head and slipped into the steaming bathwater to soothe away the worries.
After a few minutes, I took my newest paperback romance, The Virginity of Arabella, sitting on the toilet seat conveniently located next to the tub. The lurid cover of a shirtless, dark-headed man with more muscles than brains, clasping a young woman by her upper arms, her curly blonde hair cascading down her bare back, and her pale rose evening gown slipping from her shoulders made me pause. Still, someone, even fictional, is getting more sex than me.
