by Vicki Batman
Flipping to my marked page, I read:
The act captivated her, yet her mind still wandered. What happened to the magician’s diminutive assistant she fell in love with at the magic show? Just this morning, the Las Vegas FBI agents interviewed her about the pit boss found dead behind the Castle Casino. Someone had sawed him in half.
Depleted of energy, I could barely stay engaged in reading. Work. Tracey. Allan. Tracey. Tango. Allan. Cushioning my head on the side of the tub, I succumbed to the hot water and its relief. I closed my eyes and slipped deeper into dreamland. I sensed the book drop on the bath rug. Somewhere out there, the doorbell rang. Not now. Sleep.
“Hattie, wake up,” a voice called.
I must be dreaming because no one with a sexy deep voice would be in my bathroom. I flipped a lame wave to signal “go away” and sank deeper in the sudsy depths.
“Sweetheart,” the voice said. “Wake up. We need to talk.”
“Sweetheart” registered. Allan called me the endearment many times—despite me asking him not to. I reluctantly batted my eyes once…twice…three times before I could squeeze one orb wide open.
Allan leaned against my bathroom doorway, blatantly observing me floating in the tub—well, naked. For the time being, bubbles covered my strategic parts.
Bubbles popped. Oops.
In a flash, I pressed my boobs against the side of the tub. I grabbed the towel I’d tossed on the rug. With my free hand, I flipped shut the book. I would be more than embarrassed if he discovered my love for romance, even if his sister lent me the book. “Get out,” I said in my most threatening voice.
“I don’t think so—”
Allan bobbed his head in a confident taking-in-the-whole-room way.
“—looks pretty good.”
Why the dirty rotten, no-good scoundrel. I compacted my lips and squeezed my eyes into lizard-like slashes. “Leave. Now. Or—”
“Or what, sweetheart?”
Hmm. “I’ll call…call—”
“The police? Ha. The police are already here.”
So he was. Then an “aha” hit my head. “I’ll do worse. I’ll call your mother.”
Allan wagged his finger. “You don’t play fair.”
“She’s darn scary, and if anyone can wrangle you, it’s Shirley Wellborn.” I lifted the book, eyeballed the throwing distance to the door. “Going?”
He raised his hands, palms out. “No need to get violent.”
Violent? My yelling equaled violent? He didn't know what violent was. I hurled Arabella in his direction.
He dodged left as the book thunked against the wall by his ear. “That’s playing nasty, girlfriend.”
Gripping the towel, I gritted my teeth so hard, they hurt. “I’m. Not. Your. Girlfriend.”
“Okay, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart, either.”
He shook his head. “Sadly, you’re not.”
“You are…mean.” Stupid word. Nothing else entered my mind.
Allan bounced his eyebrows. “I would be glad to show you how mean I am.”
Sexiness seeped sweetly like a toasted, oh-so-gooey marshmallow in a fresh-from-the-fire s’more. I knew what he meant.
“Besides, if I remember right”—he cupped his hand and examined his fingernails—“I’ve seen you naked a couple of times.”
And I’d seen him naked, too, but he didn’t have free rein to watch me whenever he pleased. I glared the nastiest look I possessed, one sure to scare small children and white mice. “Leave. I mean it.”
He smiled.
“N-period. O-period. W-period, Allan. I don’t want you to show me how mean you are. I don’t want to talk about you seeing me naked before. I don't want anything to do with you—”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I raised my hand and dropped it in the bubbles, splashing soap across my cheek. Then I remembered the naked part and went chest-to-tub again. “Because you’re on my hit list, buster, because of my sister. You dashed from tango lessons before we could discuss her situation like adults.”
Allan leaned his six-foot-plus body against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “Had to—”
“Had to? Had to?” A blood vessel in my temple throbbed to popping point.
“Had to. Office called.”
“You say the ‘had to’ phrase all the time, and it makes me sick. Your ‘had to’ ’tude better be good. My mom’s pretty angry with you.”
Slowly, he ran his thumb over his jaw. “My mom came close to disowning me.”
“Fat chance. Shirley Wellborn wouldn’t disown her adored, holier-than-thou, on-the-way-to-sainthood son. Your mom’s scary, though.” All my grade school friends believed Mrs. Wellborn was scary. Her flying monkey expression intimidated Navy SEALs.
I grappled the towel into place and pointed with my free hand. “Go.”
Allan just ignored me.
Watching. Waiting. The hint of a smile curled one corner of his mouth.
“You look good, Hattie.”
Most naked chicks look good to most men. “I swear you have hearing issues.”
Nothing. Nothing but a big, wide, making-you-uncomfortable-and-I-love-every-minute-of-it grin.
Brat. I flushed with more embarrassment. Maybe pleading with him would work. “Come on, Allan. Give me a break. Please. I’ll get out of the tub as soon as you leave.” A slip of my feet caused a splash. “Pretty please. The water’s cold. I’m shivering.” I shook for good measure.
Allan stood as immovable as Mount Rushmore. As Pikes Peak. As Mount Fuji.
Forming a new plan, I struggled from the water and stood, wrapping the damp towel around my torso. The soggy covering outlined my jiggly bits. I very cautiously stepped over the rim and walked to where Allan stood in the doorway. He stared like a fat cat lapping a bowl of cream. Time to move on. In a flash, the towel fell to the floor. I gave him one giant drippy shove, which pushed him against the hallway wall. I slammed the door behind him.
“Hey, you got my coat wet.”
Pressing my ear to the closed door, I heard Allan grumble with a few expletives. Tee-hee-hee.
“I still have a good imagination,” he shouted. “Very good imagination. Like what cold water does to your nipples.”
I rolled my eyes. Ya, put your imagination to work and see where it takes you.
Snagging a clean towel, I dried and dressed in Plain Jane undies, black sweatpants, and a ratty Jeep T-shirt, arranged my hair in a ponytail, and swiped on a teensy bit of mascara. Leaning closer to the mirror, I dabbed on a colored lip gloss and smacked my lips in approval. “What we women go through to look good.”
I opened the bathroom door to my bedroom and found Allan lounging on his side on my bed, and his coat flopped open. Casually, he flipped through Arabella. I held my breath and prayed he hadn’t read anything…embarrassing. The romance contained racy passages with long, incredibly descriptive sex scenes, not to be shared with someone of the male species. However, some guys could take lessons from those passages.
Setting hands on my hips, I watched him turn several pages. “Learn anything…interesting?” I got the policeman look, which said “squat.”
“What’s interesting is you used the word ‘learn.’” Allan said, “The guy has nothing on me.”
“As you know, I don’t know.”
“I’ll borrow it when you’re finished. The diminutive person passage you earmarked sounded fascinating.”
Damn. Allan looked migh-tee fine in navy slacks and white shirt. I sat beside him on the bed. He let me tug the book from his hands.
Allan and I stared at each other for a while. Bucket loads of energy pulsed between us. If he made the right overtures, I’d hop on top of him, despite what I said earlier.
“Um,” I said, “I’ll take a page from one of Mom's lectures and be polite.”
He grinned.
Mom’s infamous little talks spilled over the Wellborn family, too.
“How about t
he ‘Be Nice to the Uninvited Guest’ one?” he asked.
“I’m being nice.” I extended my hand. “Soda?”
He laced his fingers with mine. “No nookie?”
“Nookie?” I arched one eyebrow. “What century are you from?”
“This one.”
He yanked me on top of him.
“Now, I call our current situation nice and interesting.”
Allan scanned my face as his hand tucked a stray hair strand behind my ear.
All the togetherness caused me to want, to pant, to yearn, to beg him to kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. With a slight shift, I wiggled my body. I placed my forearms on either side of his head. I toyed with his crisp hair; then, I let the same hand drop to thumb his lower lip. It felt soft, damp, lush.
He cupped the curvy part of my buttocks, pressing our pelvises together.
Leaning over, I let my cheek skim across his temple. I felt his heart rate accelerate, and his breath grew heavier.
I paused to take in all male, all him. I connected my gaze with his. A suggestive glint burned in his eyes. Our mouths were moments away from devouring each other. An immense bulge developed on his side and pushed into my thigh. Hot swirls rose in my body, making my head scorch and the girl parts throb in the what-are-you-waiting-for way.
Allan’s hands crept under my T-shirt and along my spine.
A lazy smirk shaped his face as his head dipped to the right.
“You’d better stop. You might get more than you bargained for,” Allan said.
I twitched my lips as awkwardness raced over me. “Stop might not be on today's agenda.”
“Hussy,” Allan said. “Your mom and dad won’t like you making love with a traitor.”
Chapter Fifteen
His sideways grin and man-hands on my waist said a whole lot about his intentions. “Killjoy. You mentioned my parents during almost wild, almost sex.” I smiled. Even with a thrumming humming throughout my body, somehow, I twisted around and pushed off the bed to stand, a bit lopsided. I held out my hand. “Come on.”
Taking my hand, Allan fashioned a not-very-happy look and let me lead him to the kitchen.
I snagged two sodas from the fridge and motioned toward the table. “Popcorn?”
Allan drew a circle on the wooden tabletop. “If feeding the enemy is allowed… Sure.”
I put a package in the microwave. Mr. O Gorgeous One ate a lot of popcorn over here. I could fix him a ham and cheese sandwich; however, he annoyed me in the bathroom, so nah.
Allan and I popped the cans’ tabs. While the bag of corn circled in the microwave, I waited for his explanation regarding Tracey. He sure was trying my patience.
The kernels underwent a rush of explosions and then slowed. I listened intently because the acrid smell of burned popcorn turned off everyone. The scent lingered forever. At a bing, I grabbed the bag, ripped, and dumped the contents in Grammie’s multi-colored bowl.
I set the popped corn and a paper napkin in front of Allan.
Dragging the bowl to his belly, he tossed back a handful of kernels and chased with a big swallow of cola. He fingered a condensation drop on the top of the can. “I had to talk to Tracey. Her fingerprints are all over Jonson Leggett’s SUV’s door. You know…the one he was found dead in.”
Fingerprints could be damning evidence. On the crime docu-dramas, sometimes, fingerprints could be used as elimination prints, like Mom and Dad discussed last night. Maybe Tracey’s would.
Allan poised his hand over the bowl. “Know how Jonson afforded his car?”
I hoped Allan, the detective, knew a good answer to his question about Jonson’s finances. “I’m clueless. Barbie might know. What does his bank account say? Did her family talk to you?”
He dug his fingers in the snack. “We’re working on those details now.”
While watching him munch, I pulled the popcorn bowl my way and stuffed my face. “What about witnesses?”
Allan shook his head. “None, so far, except for a possible Super Saver employee.” He lifted his chin. “The Cooks family is tighter than tight. I know you think you’re protecting Tracey, but you aren’t. What’s she saying?”
No way could I tell Tracey’s whole story. “She isn’t saying anything for fear of incriminating herself.”
With a puzzled frown and his finger rubbing along the can’s lid in a circle, he stewed over my comment.
“Sooner or later, we get the truth, Hattie.”
“How cliché.” Then I remembered the pictures I took of her bruises. I retrieved my phone from the bathroom. “I forgot to send you the photos.” I clicked on an image. “What's your email?”
“What? You don’t have it memorized? I’m wounded.” He pressed his palm to his heart. “Wounded.”
“Whatever.” I typed Allan’s name, and his email address did appear. A few clicks later, I said, “Done.”
I returned the bowl to the middle of the table. Allan and I snacked on the popcorn for a while, not talking, but obviously, thinking about each other. The “stirring” looks he and I shared said a whole lot more than our words did.
“Tell me from the top why you interviewed my little sister.”
Allan snorted. “Give me a break. You know the drill; I’m not supposed to talk about ongoing investigations.”
“You’d better.” I swooped the bowl to my chest before he could get any treats.
Allan crooked his finger. “Dangerous, sweetheart.”
“Threatening” was written all over his words. “Still not scared.”
He-he-he. Being the nice person I am, I passed the popcorn.
He said, “Jonson Leggett the Third—”
“Can’t anyone say his name without the third suffix?” I asked.
Allan shrugged. “Habit. Anyway, he was found dead in his car at Super Saver Grocery store on Boston—”
“I already knew that. How did he die—”
He held up his hand. “Wait a minute. We need to strike a bargain right now.”
I crisscrossed my arms over my chest. “What do you have in mind?”
“What we discuss is between you and me.” Allan aimed two, V-shaped fingers at my chest and back toward his.
I nodded again.
“You can’t say anything, and I mean anything, to your family or mine.”
Man, Allan dragged his heels. “I doubt you'll tell me anything the public doesn't already know.”
“Probably not, but just in case. Don't tell Jenny. Not your Funsisters. Not my sister. Not your parents. Deal?” He scrunched his brow.
God, he is so serious. “Deal.” I bumped my fist against his.
His chest heaved before he said, “Jonson Leggett, the Third was hit on his right temple with a blunt object.”
Oh my God. I cupped my cheeks and pushed my hands into my hair. Part of me was horrified, and the other part knew Jonson was out of my sister’s life forever. “How horrible.”
“Yup. Someone hit him hard. Brains. Bones. Blood. You know.” He took a hit from his drink. “The photos are…gory.”
Does sound rather horrendous. “Ick. You don’t know what was used?”
Allan scratched his jaw. “Not sure yet. Maybe something ordinary like a hammer or tire iron.”
For a minute, I considered what he said. “Tracey isn’t known for skills with tools. I have never, ever seen her use a hammer or a tire iron, although she might have when we were kids, and Mom forced us into helping Dad fix something. Exactly where were Tracey’s fingerprints?”
“On the driver’s door underneath the window frame.” He leveled his hand in front of his sternum. “About so high.”
Hmm. “Exactly what Tracey said. Didn’t find any of hers inside the vehicle?”
“Not so far. I’ve never seen anyone keep a mouth shut like Tracey.” He blew a short breath and set his hands on his hips. “Not a damn word.”
Allan stared at me. “You sure are pretty.”
I sensed my cheeks grow hot. “Flattery will
get you nowhere.”
“I know what works on you.” He winked.
“Stay on your side of the table, and I’ll stay on mine. We’re physically distancing.” I sipped and then, because I had nothing else to do, wrapped my can with a napkin. “You know Tracey didn’t do it.”
Allan closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. Opening his eyes, he said, “Hattie, I know it. You know it. But the police don’t know it.”
He sighed deep and hard. “I’ve known you for a long time. Your parents raised you and Tracey with good morals and values. You aren’t violent people. However, in my professional experience, something—one little thing—can cause people to snap and do the unthinkable.”
Like a creepy, ex-spouse propositioning and stalking could be a motive. At some point, Tracey will have to tell Allan her story, especially if doing so keeps her out of jail. “Tracey still didn’t do it.”
“As I said, you know it, I know it, but the department doesn’t know it.” Abruptly, Allan stood and thrust his hands in his pockets, dropping his chin to his chest. “Jonson Leggett the Third, a prominent citizen from a long-time Sommerville family, well known in the community for charitable endeavors and his ground-breaking work in computer sales, yadayadayada—”
“Seriously? He worked? A first. And since when is computer sales”—I did the quote thingy—“groundbreaking. He didn’t invent anything. And how did he afford his luxury SUV? Did he drive a company vehicle? I think the key to the whole enchilada is to follow the money.”
Allan glanced my way. “That’s a thought. As I said, I’ll check on who owns the car. Probably leased. I’m thinking some muckety-muck pressured the department to get his murder settled quickly because of his community standing.”
“Ha. You mean toilet standing. You’re making Tracey sound like a scapegoat. How many times do I have to say she didn’t do it?” I motioned for him to return the popcorn bowl.
