Death by Cuddle Club

by Norah Wilson

  Chapter 13

  I WAS, for a change, alone at the office after my visit with Cathy Valentine. I’d stayed longer than I’d intended, listening to the merry widow. I liked her. Genuinely liked her. There was absolutely no pretense with Cathy, no hiding. And in my line of work, that’s incredibly refreshing.

  And I liked her all the more for the information she’d provided me.

  But I might have stayed just a tad too long. As Cathy was walking me to the door, the doorbell had rung. Muttering something about this being her day for unexpected visitors, she opened the door. And there on the threshold stood Dickhead.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Valentine, I’m Detective Head from the Marport City PD. I wonder if I could I have a word with—” His smarmy smile froze and his words died off as he spotted me standing behind Cathy Valentine.

  “Certainly,” Cathy had replied. “Ms. Davidson was just leaving.”

  “Yes, Miss Davidson.” His voice had taken on a hard edge. “You look familiar...”

  “Oh, you’ve probably seen me around. My sociology research puts me in all manner of unusual situations.” I smiled brightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I was just leaving.”

  He stepped back, but not very far. I had to suck everything in to squeeze by him. Prick. But it wasn’t the first time I’d had that macho crap pulled on me and I’d learned a trick or two. I accidentally stepped on his foot on my way past.

  He stifled a curse and I turned to see Mrs. Valentine trying to suppress a smile. “Bye, Cathy,” I called. “Thanks for the tea.”

  Dickhead had sent me a venomous look before stepping inside and closing the door. And yeah, I knew I was in for a tongue lashing. Especially when he found out I’d then gone on to visit Faynelle’s son and Telly’s family. Well, I’d deal.

  I went back to puzzling about Albert Valentine’s affair. I mean, first off, who’d want to sleep with him? He’d been short and squat in a Danny DeVito kind of way, but minus DeVito’s good looks, humor, and charm. Cathy couldn’t say who he’d been sleeping with, and didn’t appear to really care. But just knowing he’d been involved with someone at Gaetan Land was a giant step forward in the investigation.

  And that’s exactly what I told Dickhead when he called to rag me out. Of course, I’d gone on the offensive, demanding to know what he’d learned.

  What? You found nothing out from Faynelle’s grieving son? Only that she was a heavy smoker, and significantly overweight, and under the stress of union/management bickering at her hospital job—prime candidate for a heart attack? Oh, and let’s not forget everyone liked her. That’s all you got?

  Okay, that’s all I got, too.

  And Telly? All you discovered was that he had slightly high blood pressure (not a shock given his age), that he was pretty fit and lived a quiet life?

  And yeah, I didn’t mention I hadn’t found much more.

  I challenged him to impress me. Turns out he’d gotten even less from Cathy Valentine. Of course, he’d blamed it on me. Apparently Mrs. Valentine hadn’t exactly warmed up to him after he’d been borderline rude to “that nice master’s student”.

  “Dude,” I said, “you’re not very good at this, are you?”

  Then I proceeded to tell him all that I’d found out: Albert’s affair with someone at the club. How unlikeable a person he really was. And how amazingly Cathy Valentine was doing now that Albert was out of the picture.

  That took some of the bluster out of him.

  “An affair?” he asked. “That can be some volatile shit.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to tell me that. I trail cheaters for a living, remember?”

  So lost in thought was he, that didn’t even get a rise out of him. The gears must be turning in his detective’s brain. Just when I thought we must have lost the connection and was about to hit the switch on the phone and say, “Hello? Hello?”, he spoke.

  “What do you think, Dix? Did she do it? Is Cathy Valentine in on this somehow?”

  I wished that I could give a definitive no. I wished I knew for sure. And where there is adultery, there is usually anger, at the very least, no matter how checked-out of the marriage one may be (or pretend to have been). So I reluctantly told him she shouldn’t be ruled out.

  “Good work,” he said and hung up.

  I looked at the receiver in my hand as if it were some kind of foreign object. What the... was that praise I’d just heard? From Dickhead? My eyes shot wide, and my mouth hung open as I stared over at Blow-Up Betty. (Though her open-mouthed expression wasn’t due to surprise, I suspected.)

  Okay. It was official now. Strangest case ever.

  When next I glanced at my watch, it was a little before three o’clock in the afternoon, as I hung up from my second call of the day with Dickhead. He’d lit a fire under a young techie at the forensic lab who was apparently still green enough to be terrified of growling cops, and the tox report from the smoothies concoction was in. Apparently, the drink contained every perfectly legal herb or food known to man that might boost “vitality”, including coriander, ginger root, raw cacao powder, maca powder, raw honey, bee pollen and a bunch of other stuff, but there was no evidence of anything remotely pro-arrhythmic. No cocaine, no monster doses of caffeine. Nada.

  I sighed. So the smoothies might, over time, make people feel a little more frisky, but the real, measurable aphrodisiac effect of most those herbs was minimal. They probably owed their efficacy to a placebo effect. Of course, for a placebo to work, the cuddlers would have to have believed they were being given something to boost their libidos. As far as I could tell, they just thought the smoothie was healthful, good for their overall sense of wellbeing.

  Frankly, I was more disturbed by what wasn’t in the smoothie than what was in it. I’d have put money on a pheromone of some kind. Or maybe something inhibition-lowering, like roofies. Old-fashioned rohypnol or maybe the slicker GHB. Man, that would have been a slam dunk for manslaughter. GHB had been known to cause respiratory or cardiac arrest.

  Was I disappointed? Absolutely.

  I was also hungry and more than a little tired. I weighed which of those needs was the most pressing. I did have a stash of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in my bottom drawer. The caffeine and sugar boost would have me bouncing off the walls within a half hour. Or...

  I glanced at the folded up cot in the corner of my office. One of the downsides of being a private investigator is that your sleep can really get thrown off. Frequent late night stake-outs will do that to a person. But one of the upsides—at least when you work for yourself like I do—is that when it’s quiet, I can kick off my shoes, unfold the cot, and crawl right under those blankets (normal, normal blankets, not tossed over the shoulder coats while I caught fifteen in the car).

  Okay, the decision was made. Sleep it was. So I set up the cot, unsnapped my bra, pulled off my pantyhose (I only wear the things when a disguise requires I wear a skirt, like when I’m being Dix Davidson, sociology student), and I was snoozing within minutes.

  I love my naps, and I don’t care who knows it. There is such a decadent pleasure in those mid-afternoon sleeps. The sound of traffic outside and miscellaneous noises from neighboring tenants didn’t exactly make for the quietest environment, but that didn’t matter. I’d long ago trained myself to filter the non-threatening stuff into white noise, and yet be alert to the dangers. (Yes, just one more thing my brilliant mind is capable of.)

  But my dreams... well, they’re another thing all together. Not so easy to apply those filters. Yes, I do have the normal dreams that everyone has. Naked in the elevator, wading through snowstorms, walking in on Christian Bale just as he’s changing into his Batman costume... Okay, maybe that last one’s all mine.

  But often, I’ll dream of whatever case is foremost in my mind. And well, yeah okay, the case of Death by Cuddle Club was the only one on the books right at the moment. But even if I’d had a dozen cases on the go, my thoughts would still have gravitated to this one. And where my thoughts go,
so go my dreams. Sometimes I get clues in that dream state. It’s like my subconscious just goes to work on the problem at hand. Sometimes my dreams bring me answers, but sometimes they just bring more questions.

  Damn. Why couldn’t I have fallen asleep thinking about Christian Bale? I could have been peeling off my Robin costume instead of being stuck with Albert Valentine.

  We were alone, just the two of us. I knew I was dreaming, but still I looked down at my attire, hoping like hell I had some attire (dreams can be nasty that way). I was relieved to see I was in PJs. And not the silky and stylish ones; but ratty old plaid things. I couldn’t help it... I pulled the waist band back to check. Just as I suspected: granny panties. Bonus.

  I love my granny panties too. But I digress...

  Dream Albert looked me up and down. (He was wearing white boxers, by the way, and I did not look him up and down).

  “Naw,” he said when he’d finished the head-to-toe. “You’re not my type.”

  “Pfft. Like that’s my loss, you ugly little fu—”

  “Nice jammies,” he scoffed. “You’ll have to wear them to the next cuddle club meeting.”

  “You’re an asshole.” Yeah, even in my dreams, I got the ’tude.

  He just laughed. “So, you’ve been talking to my old lady?”

  “Your long-suffering wife, you mean? Yeah, I’ve been talking to her.”

  “I hope she’s doing well?” Suddenly, the Albert of my dreams (gag) was wearing a hat. A fedora, in fact, like one my Dad used to wear. I wanted to smack it off his head when he tipped it my way.

  “Maybe you should have been a little more concerned over your wife when you were alive,” I snapped, “instead of banging around with... Ruth-Ann.”

  I tossed the name out there. Ruth-Ann was the closest to Albert’s age, after all.

  He snorted. “Ruth-Ann? You gotta be kidding me. She’s not my type either. Plus she’s gotta be at least your age.”

  I swung one plaid-clad arm his way.

  Dream Albert ducked. I’m sure I didn’t make a connection as in the fist-to-body variety, but even in my dream, I could feel the shooting of pain in my arm as I did a cartoon-style flop to the ground landing on my butt.

  Albert stepped back, laughing.

  “Face it, Dix Dodd,” he said. “You and your skirt-covered butt are not on top of this one. You’re not the man for the job.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I swung again.

  “Oh, wake up, Dix!” he snapped. “Wake the hell up!”

  “Oh you fucking—”

  He was walking away, but I was feeling the pressure on my shoulders. I swung.

  “Wake up! Dix, for God’s sake, it’s me. Dylan!”

  My eyes shot open. “Oh, shit... again?”

  I was on the floor. Dylan was leaning over me, holding me down by the shoulders, but not in an aggressive way. And not in a sexual way, either. More like in a you’re-about-to-wreck the place way. And he was trying to prevent my next swing. (From the tension I felt in my body, that would be the swing of my knee, which was placed precariously close to his nuts as he leaned there over me. Damn, the boy was brave.)

  Okay, here’s the story. I have REM sleep disorder. I tend to act out my dreams, particularly when I’m under stress. Dylan, of course, knows all about this little peculiarity. In fact, he’s seen it up close and personal more than a few times. I turned my head to glance at the cot I’d been sleeping on. The mattress and bedding were torn asunder, obviously my doing as I’d struggled to smack Albert Valentine in my dreams.

  “Looks like a pretty wild time, Dix. You must have been dreaming of him.”

  My jaw dropped. “Albert Valentine? How’d you know that?”

  He gave me a surprised look. “No, Christian Bale.”

  Smartass. “Last time I play truth or dare with you,” I grumbled.

  But I knew what he was doing, adding levity to a potentially embarrassing (for me) situation. God, I... the guy was amazing.

  I could have gotten up right then. Oh maybe I should have, but I made no move to get up as I lay there on the floor, with Dylan over me.

  “I dreamed about Albert Valentine,” I whispered. “He was laughing at me. Told me that my hot, sexy, skirt-covered butt was not up to the job. That I should get a real man to solve this case.”

  “That’s our Albert. Ever likeable.”

  For the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Dylan was leaning over me still, though his hands had slid from my shoulders down to my upper arms. I could feel his body heat reaching out to me. His closeness, the smell of his aftershave, his leather jacket, his skin... it all combined to start up an answering heat in my blood.

  And he saw it in my eyes and I saw it in his. We could do it here.

  Oh, man, it would be that easy, it would be that—oh, wait! Crap.

  “We can’t!” I said. “Dylan, I—”

  He surprised me with a nod. “I know just what you’re going to say, Dix.”

  “You... you do?”

  “Not here. Not like this. It’s going to be right when it happens for the first time. And this...” he glanced around the dumpy office, “... is neither the time nor the place.”

  Dylan rose with a sighing exhalation. He did that little pull to the crotch which, okay, made me want to burst into a chorus of We Are the Champions.

  “I’ll get us some coffee,” he said. “Be right back.”

  The door closed behind him, and I laid my head back down on the floor.

  Not the time or place for our first time. That was why he thought I’d begged off, because I wanted it to be special.

  Actually, it was because I’d suddenly remembered I was wearing the world’s least attractive but possibly most comfortable (used-to-be-white) granny panties, circa 1999. But hey, let’s go with it has to be special.

  Chapter 14

  DYLAN CAME back with Starbucks—a venti skinny latte for me and a regular high-test black coffee for him. I filled him in on what I’d learned from my interviews (he snickered when I told him how I’d rubbed it in to Dickhead about scooping him on Albert’s affair). But the lack of juicy info on either Faynelle or Telly gave me a sinking feeling. Because that left me with Cathy Valentine. Despite her apparent apathy about all things Albert, she was the one with the motive right now.

  But then again, if Cathy was telling the truth about Albert having an affair, maybe whomever he’d been cuddling a little too closely with might have a motive. Could we be dealing with a jealous mistress? Maybe a mistress spurned? Or how about this—maybe Albert had unleashed that temper of his on his lover, and maybe she wasn’t going to take it—maybe, unlike Cathy, she didn’t have to. Or perhaps he’d drawn the wrath of someone who stood in some kind of protective role over her?

  But if we put aside the idea that something at the cuddle club was inadvertently causing these deaths in favor of deliberate homicide, how did Telly Smith figure into all this, if at all? Was it a love triangle we were dealing with? Passion and jealousy never went out of fashion as great motives for murder.

  Nah, I didn’t like that theory. Not that it was that unusual for a love triangle to leave two of the lovers dead, but usually the last man standing wasn’t a woman. Well, not in an M-F-M triangle.

  And what about Faynelle? Did she factor in at all? Somehow I thought not. First, she’d died of a massive heart attack—an infarction. Different beast than cardiac arrest. Secondly, from her medical records, it really did seem likely to have been a natural event. Her own family described her as a ticking time bomb. It had been clear to everyone that her high-stress job and sedentary lifestyle were taking a terrible toll on her health. So much so that her son and daughter-in-law had done a mini-intervention. In fact, their intervention had led to her joining the cuddle club and making an appointment with a fitness consultant to recommend an exercise regime. Unfortunately, she’d never made it to that consultation.

  Which brought me back to Telly. Maybe he’d been just an
innocent bystander (bycuddler?). Maybe he’d seen or heard something he shouldn’t have. Maybe he didn’t even realize that he possessed knowledge someone would kill to suppress...

  Hell, maybe there was no connection at all. Except I didn’t believe that, either.

  And there was still the question about why people kept coming back to cuddle club. Some of them—like Dickhead—against their better judgment. I’d been so certain it was those damned Cuddle-Uppies and/or the smoothies, but the lab results were definitive. The Cuddle-Uppie was clean (Tide-clean!), and the smoothies were innocent. Well, relatively. They certainly didn’t contain anything that was likely to cause sudden cardiac death, let alone create an addiction. Of course, that didn’t preclude Gaetan pumping pheromones into the air, like the casinos were reputed to do. And yeah, I know, that’s probably an urban legend. It bore looking at, though.

  And then there was the possibility—hard as it was to fathom—that people really, really liked to cuddle. Maybe there was some real, physiological cascade of chemicals from all that touchy-feely stuff that created receptors in Cuddlers’ brains that cried out to be filled again.

  There were too many damned questions. Which left only one thing I knew for certain: we were cuddle club bound again.

  And that meant we were in need of more pajamas.

  It wasn’t like we could just swing past the mega mall and pick up a couple of pairs off the rack. Not when we were posing as designers. Nor could we show up in comfy sweats like everyone else now that we’d established that cover.

  Thus we found ourselves again at Aunt Gert’s, sitting in her cozy living room in front of a pot of tea and dainty finger food she’d set out for us. Her new business cards sat squarely in the middle of the table, in pride of place. Yep, business cards. Aunt Gert had been so impressed by how very impressed we’d been with her designs that she’d invested a bit of her savings on more materials, better sewing equipment, and glossy business cards.