by Vicki Batman
I shouldered open Little Egypt’s restaurant door upholstered in burgundy vinyl and decorated with nail heads in a Moorish design. I crossed the threshold, peering into the dimly lit space, hoping to spy someone who could help me. The lack of bright light gave the restaurant a fifties-looking Godfather ambiance, yet made it challenging to locate Mr. Ryan. Since the lunch hour passed, not many people were hanging about. I stared harder.
Booths with bench seats, covered in the same deep color as the door, lined one wall. A mini jukebox was mounted above each table, ready for quarters. Four-tops sat in the middle section of the restaurant. The seats were upholstered in the same vinyl. A checked tablecloth covered every tabletop for easy wipe up.
Nothing ever changed. The typical Italian scenery prints decorated the pale gray walls. In the background, music from the seventies gave a cheerful ambiance.
I cruised my gaze over to the bar, where I saw Mr. Ryan dispensing instructions. When a waiter pointed toward me, he turned, raising his hand in a friendly greeting. I returned the gesture.
Mr. Ryan walked toward me, arms extended, and wrapped my body in a huge hug. “Hattie, it’s been too long. Why isn’t your boyfriend treating you to dinner? Doesn’t Allan eat pizza?”
Mr. Ryan rivaled my family and friends in the gossip department. I shifted back and gave him my best-est “whatever” look accompanied with an eye roll. “I’m sure Dad’s told you about my lack of dating life lately.”
Letting go of me, Mr. Ryan stroked his chin. “He did mention Allan—”
I thrust my hand in a policeman halt. “Let’s not go there, Mr. Ryan.”
“I get it. Private. I hear the same thing from my kids.” He put his hands on his hips. “Question. What brings you by, young lady?”
“The body found in the car at Super Saver.” I pointed toward the front door. “I’m hoping you have security cameras and one’s aimed at the parking lot.”
Mr. Ryan narrowed his eyes. “Are you asking because of Tracey’s ex’s murder?”
“Yes.” I bit into my lower lip. Mr. Ryan was a family friend. He would be discreet—crossing fingers. “The police have focused the investigation on her.”
“Morons.” He snorted. “They haven’t a clue.”
“I’m out to prove she didn’t do it.”
He looked at the floor, shaking his head. “Tracey wouldn’t. She might dress weird, but she doesn’t have an unkind bone in her body.” He lifted his gaze. “Does Detective Allan Wellborn have any ideas?”
“Well… You know how it is sometimes, Mr. Ryan. I haven’t said anything about anything”—I rubbed my forehead. If Allan found out how I went behind his back, yikes—“you catch my drift?”
“Absolutely.” He waved his hand toward a hallway behind us. “Let’s go to my office and check the feed.”
I trailed after Mr. Ryan through the back hallway lined with well-organized boxes of paper goods and canisters containing soda fountain fixings.
He opened a door on the right labeled “Office” in black-and-gold lettering, the stick-on variety found at the local hardware store. He circled his desk’s L-shaped peninsula and sat in an ergonomically designed desk chair in lime.
Lime? Somehow, the color didn’t match the burgundy vinyl look going on throughout the restaurant. Maybe he wanted to escape the fifties. I set my handbag on top of the files covering the seat of the only other chair.
Mr. Ryan mouse-ed to an icon and clicked. The image of the exterior door of the restaurant appeared as well as the sidewalk and several cars slotted in front. We stared hard at the screen.
Instantly, my hopes dived to my feet. The camera didn’t focus on the Super Saver lot.
Mr. Ryan slid on bifocals and peered harder at the screen. “Hmm, not what we’re looking for. Let’s go to view two…” He clicked again.
Voila! Super Saver’s view of the lot became visible. Setting my hand on Mr. Ryan’s shoulder, I leaned closer to see what was what. I tapped an area on the monitor. “That’s Jonson’s car.”
“Wow,” he drawled. “Some fancy ride.”
“Yeah, we’re wondering how the heck Jonson afforded it.”
“He always acted like he had money but not a dime behind him.”
I straightened. “How do you know about Jonson’s finances?”
“Small town stuff. Ask the right people in Sommerville about his family, and they know. His mother didn’t, probably couldn’t, pay her bills on time. Felt sorry for her.” I went still and considered. Mothers, but especially my mom, could be tightlipped when need be. “Mom never said.”
“Probably didn’t mention it to you kids. Kids never keep secrets.” Mr. Ryan wiggled the mouse. “Now, this is looking good.”
I rapped the screen. “Can you zoom in?”
With a click, Mr. Ryan enlarged the picture. “From the rear of the vehicle we think is Jonson’s, we see a woman approaching wearing a white coat.”
“Darn.” Tracey’s outfit. My heart sank to the bottomless pit of damned souls. The incriminating evidence mounted, and my brilliant plan maybe didn’t seem so brilliant after all. “Well, crap. Your video is exactly like Dee’s.”
Mr. Ryan’s brow lifted as he twisted my way. “You asked Dee for her security videos?”
“Yes.” I crossed my arms. “She has the same one featuring a lady in a white coat.”
Frustration fell over me. I stepped back and rubbed my forehead. “Tracey has a white suit; however, nobody could say for sure if it’s her because the image isn't clear.” I huffed, blowing a hair strand from my eyes. “I'm so not catching a break here.”
Mr. Ryan removed his bifocals. “I’m no computer expert, but maybe you could consider hiring an audio-visual professional to examine the footage. He’ll restore the image, and possibly you can identify the person with Jonson Leggett, and specifically, if the person”—he touched the screen with his glasses’ earpiece—“is Tracey.”
I dragged my index finger over my chin. “Interesting. Would a pro cost a lot?”
“Hattie, are you worried about the money to pay for the expert?”
Sighing, I didn’t say anything for a while. I wished what we viewed had been as clear as day and not like mud. My family needed answers now—now so we could clear Tracey. It’s always something. “I'm sure Dad can bankroll me.”
“Old man moneybags to the rescue.” The side of Mr. Ryan’s mouth lifted in a sarcastic, joking grin. “Seriously, your father would do anything for his girls.”
“I know.” I fisted my hands on my hips. “Mr. Ryan, would you mind sending me the security file?”
“Sure can.” He did some voodoo on his computer. “What’s your email?”
I recited my address.
He typed, then hit Send. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
“We know more from your security video than we did. I can’t say enough how much I appreciate you taking the time to help, Mr. Ryan.”
“Anytime, Hattie. Anytime.”
I shouldered my handbag and walked to the office door. I smoothed my hand over the burgundy vinyl, which covered the inside of his door—what is it with the fabric? Maybe someone held a huge sale—and like the front one, studded with decorative nails in a pattern.
I paused before entering the dining room. “Mr. Ryan?”
“Yes, Hattie?”
I firmed my lips. “My parents are so worried.”
He patted my shoulder. “I know. Especially when the implicated criminal could be their child.”
“Well”—I shifted from one foot to the other—“I’m positive the, er, police will come by.”
Mr. Ryan shoved his shoulder against the door, waving his hand for me to pass through. “I’m catching your drift about the police—standard operating procedure. I won’t say anything to them about sharing with you, not unless I have to. Now, young lady, it’s long past the lunch hour. How about we get your favorite pizza to-go…on the house?”
My favorite pizza. No way on earth would
I pass up a pizza offer. I nearly smacked my lips. Canadian bacon and bacon with extra cholesterol—nothing tasted better. I smiled like a half-moon slice of cantaloupe. “Yes, sir.”
“By the way”—he pivoted my way—“terrible photo of Trace in the paper. What did your mom say?”
****
Later that night, I attended another dreadful tango lesson… Dear Lord, how many more?
Ms. Yolanda shifted the boys in one line and girls in another, facing each other.
I had no partner. Good, because if I did—especially the one Ms. Yolanda paired me with—I'd kick him in the kneecap. No, I’d kick both kneecaps, just for Tracey.
Our teacher moved to the center of the room. “Class. Since something has delayed our happy twosome—”
Delayed, my ass.
“—tonight,” Ms. Yolanda said, “someone will have to take their place. Any volunteers?”
The happy chatter died to cricket chirping. The other dancers faded into the walls lined with mirrors so they wouldn't be prevailed upon.
I didn’t move quickly enough.
“Maid of honor”—Ms. Yolanda pointed—“where's your partner? The good-looking young man.” Her gaze swept the room.
Allan blew in, his hand raised like a kindergartner. “Here.”
The members of the bridal party melted off the walls.
My body took on a nervous rigidity.
“Yes, you, young man.” Miss Yolanda pointed a neon red talon toward Allan. “You're a little tardy.”
“I apologize, Ms. Yolanda.” Mr. O Saintly One bowed over her hand. “Please, forgive me.”
Lordy. Ms. Yolanda nearly dissolved into a puddle like the Wicked Witch. A pleased smile shaped her mouth.
“No worries. Our lesson just began. I selected your previous partner.”
Ms. Yolanda took his hand, led him toward me, and set my right hand in his and his right on my waist. She tented her fingertips together and bounced on her toes. “Perfect.”
She circled about, beckoning the others to come forward. “During the dance, for a moment or two, you”—she stabbed her finger at the bridesmaids and groomsmen—“will pause and form a circle around the bride and groom. They will dance their sequence, specially choreographed for the wedding, and then, all of you will join, er, Stuart and Tracey to finish the number. Any questions?”
Realizing I lifted my hand in the same manner Allan had, I dropped my hand. I spoke up. “So, Miss Yolanda, how will we practice without Tracey and Stuart—”
She drew a curvy “S” with her finger. “Not a problem. And explains why you’re the maid of honor, Miss—” She paused as her brain Rolodex-ed through names. Then bing! “Cooks. Tonight, you can substitute for Tracey with the best man.”
Ms. Yolanda gestured for the others to form a ring.
She held a long-stemmed blood-red rose. “Do you remember when you practiced with the rose?”
Only amnesia would allow me to forget. Rose stem in mouth—check. Uncomfortable—check. Icky taste—check. I twirled the flower. “Yes, Ms. Yolanda.”
“Excellent. Then repeat what you’ve learned. Places, everyone,” she said. “Good. Anda one. Anda two.”
I stuck the rose between my teeth. I would never resemble a tantalizing lover, not with my lips locked in a grimace. Finally, I glared at Allan.
He stared back.
I muttered, “I'm a wittle wague on the wovements.”
He bit back a laugh, probably because I sounded like a cartoon pig.
“Maybe they’ll return.”
After two glides, the steps did come back. Allan bowed me over his leg in a lunge.
Allan asked, “So, what did you see on Dee's videos?”
My mouth fell open, and the rose dangled from the corner before falling to the floor. I rescued it. He has some nerve interrogating me here. “What…videos?”
Without any explanation, he pulled me to my feet.
I regripped the stem with my lips and executed a few steps. In an artful pause, he tipped me back and took the rose from my lips with his mouth. His breath bathed my cheek, and his five o’clock shadow roughened my jaw. Butterfly fluttery feelings took flight in my chest. My eyelashes involuntarily batted like a schoolgirl.
Allan’s gaze locked with mine. Time and space evaporated. The tango music faded into oblivion. A little dazzle in my brain transported me to the love dimension, the one filled with daisy chains, puppies and kitties, and rainbows.
“Excellent.”
Ms. Yolanda’s claps jarred reality to the forefront.
Allan guided me around the room.
When I seemed steady, I felt him let go of me. My heart beat hard. I fisted my hand, released, fisted again as if to capture whatever passed between us.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Steems’ stand-ins. Let’s repeat the beginning sequence,” Ms. Yolanda said.
The troupe fell into place.
Allan sighed and took the rose from his mouth. He wiped the stem with a white hankie.
I held in a giggle as we had swapped spit on other occasions. I took the flower.
“Don’t play games with me, Hattie,” he said. “I know you spoke with Dee, and I'm positive you visited Mr. Ryan, your dad’s tennis partner, as well.”
Lordy. Allan’s superpower must be X-ray vision. I twirled the stem between my fingers. “How do you know that’s true, if, indeed, it is true?”
“I’m not even trying to interpret what you just said.”
His mouth shaped into a smile.
“I’ll boil what you said, or didn’t say, down to one question—how do I know?”
With a curt nod, I suppressed the urge to slap the smarmy grin off his face.
“I know you know how I know. Dee told me. I turned on my secret agent charm, and she spilled the goodies. Specifically, she told me about your chat and how she emailed you security footage.”
“Funny, how you never said a word. I was wounded”—Allan smiled, setting a palm to his heart—“but not for long. Dee gave me a box of my favorite donuts. Cured everything.” His brow bounced with his grin.
Traitor Dee. She gave him a whole freakin’ box of donuts—for free. I paid for mine. I gave a bare shrug. “I knew you’d go to her store sooner or later.” I poked his abs, which weren’t squishy. Lordy. “You didn’t eat all the donuts at once, did you?”
“Nah, I shared with the guys.”
Sharing donuts with other people—oh, hell no. Struck momentarily dumb, I didn’t utter a word.
Allan asked, “So guess what I saw?”
Not my sister. Not my sister. Not my sister. I pressed my lips together. “Oh. On the video? I haven't a clue.”
His eyes squinched and his brown irises darkened. “Liar. A lady. In a white suit.”
Allan’s hand measured near the top of my head.
“A tall lady with white-ish blonde-ish hair. Someone who resembles your sister—which you already knew.”
I stumbled against his chest. His hands circled my upper arms. I gulped. “A-And?”
He dropped his hands to his sides. “Bad news for your sister, Hattie.”
I went hot. My blood boiled. “You.” I locked my arms like steel girders and curled my hands into fists. “You-you moron.”
I did what any red-blooded, all-American sister would do. I did what I had thought of doing earlier—I kicked Allan’s kneecap and ran to the exit. At the door, I paused long enough to see him dancing—haha—on one leg while he rubbed the injured limb.
****
As I fast-walked through the parking lot to my car, I fumbled through my handbag for the key fob. Glancing up, I caught Allan exiting the dance studio.
Our gazes connected.
Allan picked up speed.
I redoubled my efforts and bounced the unlock icon multiple times, heard a beep, and jerked open the door. Just after I climbed inside and about to pull the door shut, I saw he pressed his hand against the door frame. No way could I close it now.
“One minute, sweetheart,” he said.
Over his shoulder, I spied the entire wedding party at the windows and door, their noses and palms pressed to the glass, their mouths gawking as if they hadn’t seen two people about to go to war.
The wind whipped inside the car, sending a cold chill to swirl over my body. I pulled on the door handle to break Allan’s hold but to no avail. “Seriously, will you ever stop calling me sweetheart?”
“Probably not. But if you want to try and stop me, go for it. Most of the time, I don't believe you want me to.” He tilted his head and shifted his body. “Something is between us, and one day, we'll explore it.”
Another cool breeze blew in the car. I yanked again.
The door bumped his side. “Ow.”
“God, you’re stubborn.”
“Slow down, Hattie. Let me finish.”
He crowded me and not in a good way. He blocked the draft—a plus. “Why, Allan? You’ve already said you won’t stop with the sweetheart stuff. You've already tried and convicted my sister with Jonson's murder.” I gave him a hard squinty look. “By the way, a nice feather in your cap. Maybe a promotion, too.”
He jammed his body between the door and the door well. “Is that what you think? You think I want your sister to go to jail, and I get some big career advancement?”
The guys on TV do, but I didn’t use those exact words. I let my hands plonk in my lap. While I collected my wits, my chin drooped to my chest. I raised my head. “All I want is my sister to not go to jail. You seem intent on sending her.”
Allan touched my shoulder and squeezed.
I fought the impulse to rub my jaw against his fingers.
“No one has arrested your sister.”
I shot up my head up. I knocked off his hand like it was a buzzing mosquito ready to draw blood. “Is this a trick question?” I rubbed a finger over the V crease that shaped my brow. “I’m having trouble believing anything right now.”
“You forget. We have the fingerprints from the car doors. And FYI—we found others besides Tracey’s.”
