by Norah Wilson
“Fine. What’s your theory?” I sat back. “Go on then, Dickie.”
He let the name slide. He was having too much fun. Everyone watched the exchange.
“So we have one dead woman. One wealthy man, and one stalking spinster.”
The fucker was so baiting me.
“And what do we find in the possession of the obsessed stalker? Photos. Notes. Evidence that she’s been going out of her way to follow a married man — one that she could only love from afar.” He put the back of a hand to his forehead in a mock swoon. “Hell, Dodd, you’ve even been sleeping outside his house! How pathetic is that?”
Damn him! I’d offered up my notes and photos, figuring they’d prove I was working for Mrs. Weatherby. Instead, Dickhead was twisting the evidence against me. Good thing I hadn’t told him about bugging the phone. He’d have slapped the cuffs on and carted me off to jail already for that alone.
I took a deep breath, spoke slowly, deliberately. “I told you, Jennifer Weatherby hired me to follow her husband. She said he was cheating on her.”
“Ned says they were happily married.”
“Jennifer said they weren’t.”
“So that’s why they were planning their 20th wedding anniversary party for tomorrow? That’s why the invitations were sent out, and Kenny Kent, the caterer, booked? That’s why Ned bought a $50,000 diamond ring?” He held up a receipt, one he’d apparently found in Jennifer’s study. “And why she bought him a Rolex watch just last week? Because they weren’t getting along?”
Holy shit.
“Holy shit.”
“It was getting to you, wasn’t it, Dix? It was getting to you to watch the man you secretly love so in love with his wife. That’s why you killed her, wasn’t it, Dodd?”
I waited for a sound. There wasn’t one. No one would have breathed out loud at that moment. Especially not me.
“I was hired.”
“Prove it.”
“I will,” I said. “Just as soon as I get out of here.”
The toothpick broke between Detective Head’s teeth.
“Look, I’ve cooperated with your investigation. Now, either charge me with something or let me go, Detective. I have work to do. I have a job to do. A job I’m damn good at, as you’re well aware.” Not to mention that I had to get my ass out of the fire. My grin ached, but it held. And I stared at Head just as hard as he stared at me.
“Get out of here, Dodd,” he snarled. “But don’t leave town.”
A half dozen retorts jumped to mind, all ending in ‘fuck you’, but for once, I said nothing.
I grabbed my jacket, and crossed the room on legs of rubber from sitting too long. My ass had fallen asleep, and I hated that. My hand was on the doorknob, and I was almost out, when Detective Head had to toss one more piece of crap my way.
“I’ll need the proof, Dodd. I’ll need the paperwork.”
I turned. “What do you mean?”
“You claim that Jennifer Weatherby hired you for ten thousand dollars, and that she already paid you half. I’ll need to see something. Carbon of the receipt you gave her, the copy of the contract for services.” He smiled. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you.”
“Of course it’s not a problem!” I snapped back at him.
Big problem, big problem, big problem.
Often clients don’t want any paper trail back to them. Jennifer was — had been, rather — one of those. Thus we had no contract, and she hadn’t wanted a receipt. My mind whirled. I could still produce a receipt. I’d just started a new receipt book two weeks ago. I could re-copy the other receipts, then slide Jennifer Weatherby’s in on the right date, in the event my receipt books were seized by the police. Of course, if the thought occurred to me, it would occur to Dickhead, too. No way he’d buy it, especially without a corresponding deposit record. He’d just go looking for the other people to whom I’d issued receipts and do a forensic comparison of the carbon with the original. I cursed myself for not depositing the cash the very next day. Instead, I’d pocketed five hundred, stashed the rest of it in the monstrosity of a fireproof filing cabinet at the office, and headed out to tail Ned Weatherby. Dylan had even offered to deposit it for me, but I told him to leave it there for a few more days. That way he could bring me more cash if I needed it, which he’d done when I’d had to come up with another hundred to buy access for that boardroom shot. Dammit all to hell.
“Good,” Head said. “Because otherwise, I’d have to believe I was right about you, Dodd. That you had the hots for Ned Weatherby, and that’s why you were stalking him. And that’s why you murdered his wife.”
Detective Head snapped another toothpick into his mouth.
I turned on my heel and left, imagining the shit-eating grin he was no doubt wearing.
Oh just smoke, damn you!
Chapter 4
Earlier in the evening, after Dylan had been grilled by Detective Head, I’d told him to go home. By that time, it was already 10 p.m., and since we’d need to be sharp in the days ahead, I ordered him to get some rest.
“Home. Straight home. Do not pass go; do not collect two hundred dollars. Home, Mr. Foreman.”
It was well after midnight before I got away myself. Of course, I had no intention of taking my own advice. I stopped by my place just long enough for a power shower (not to mention the first leisurely pee I’d had since I began this case) and a change of clothes before driving to the office.
When I pulled into the parking lot and saw a light shining from my office window. Dylan. I should have known he’d ignore my instructions.
Despite myself, I felt a little warm and fuzzy.
Then I caught the drift of my thoughts and got a grip. Oh, man, it must have been a harder night than I’d thought. Dix Dodd didn’t do warm and fuzzy. I was cynical. Chippy. Tough as shoe leather.
To underscore my ’tude, I climbed out of my car and slammed the door. Then slammed it again because the freakin’ thing never did close right.
I spat on the asphalt because that felt about right, squared my shoulders and marched across the moonlit parking lot towards the building. And I mean across the parking lot. I’d parked as far away from the building as I could, a practice I’d started in an effort to work some much-needed exercise into my day, but which had become habit.
It had rained and the asphalt shone black beneath my feet. The air was fresh, clean and damp. And appreciated. Really appreciated for the first time in … ever. Fear of jail can do that to a person — make them take notice of the finer things.
Yes, it was true. Dix Dodd, hard-assed PI, was scared this time. Not that I’d cop to it. Nosiree. I could hide it very well, thank you, under my smart-mouth and fuck you attitude. No one would be the wiser.
But, dammit, things didn’t look good for me.
There was no paperwork from Jennifer Weatherby to prove that she’d hired me. And Richard Head would do whatever he could to prove my guilt.
I dashed moisture from my cheeks. Goddamn rain.
It was shortly after one in the morning when I let myself into the building and climbed the dimly lit stairway to my office.
+++
“You look scared,” were the first words out of Dylan’s mouth.
I snorted a laugh. “Nah. That’s just caffeine withdrawal.”
He handed me a cup of coffee and perched himself on the edge of my desk. He half sat/half stood with one foot firmly planted on the ground and the other dangling lazily off the side of the desk. He looked tired. Tired and scruffy at this late hour. He’d not shaved in a day or two judging by the stubble that roughened his face. I suspected he was dying for a shower. He ran a hand through his hair, then across his face, making that uniquely masculine rasping sound. He crossed his arms easily over his chest. I swallowed, and out of ever-growing necessity, I crossed my arms over my chest too.
“How did it go with Head?” he asked.
“He’s an asshole.” I leaned back in my chair and rubbed the crick i
n my neck that just wouldn’t give. I let my eyes drift shut, just for a second.
“I thought he was a dickhead?”
“He is.” I nodded as if this were perfectly logical. Perfectly feasible. “He’s both.”
“That would give a whole new meaning to ‘go fuck yourself’, wouldn’t it?”
My eyes shot open wide. “Okay, now that’s funny.”
“Good to see you smile, Dix.”
So that’s what that strange sensation in my cheekbones was. Hmm, go figure.
“Head’s a lot of things, Dylan,” I said. “But one thing he is not is stupid. This could be very bad for me. Head’s been waiting for a long time to even the score.”
“Yeah, but you and I both know he can’t pin this murder on you.”
“Really? Let’s see what he’s got — my fingerprints and footprints all over the crime scene, a connection to Jennifer Weatherby, opportunity, since I knew when she’d be home and Ned wouldn’t, and let’s not forget, a motive fabricated out of thin air by the man who probably hates me more than any other in Marport City. And that’s a pretty long list to be at the top of.”
“And don’t forget the week’s worth of trailing evidence they got from the car,” Dylan added.
As if I could.
“Did they find the bug?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s a mercy.”
“Yeah, a small one.” I closed my eyes again. “Even if he can’t pin the murder on me, he’ll do his damnedest to put me out of business. I’m so humped on this one, Dylan.”
The silence was uncomfortable. Hard and heavy.
The desk creaked as Dylan stood. He strode over to the filing cabinet and picked up a yellow legal pad. “I’ve been thinking on the business cards, Dix.”
I opened one bleary eye. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Why would I be kidding?”
“I don’t really think this is the time for that.”
He ignored me. “I’ve got a couple ideas.” He cleared his throat. “How about this: Dix Dodd, Private Investigation Service. If clues were shoes, we’d be wearing Prada.”
I opened the other eye. “Ahhhhh … no.”
“If clues came in two’s, then we’d tango for you-s.”
“Big no.”
“If clues were booze, we’d be drunk on your doorstep.”
I groaned. No, I mean it, I really, really groaned. “That’s awful, Dylan.”
“Okay, well that was just my first three shots. I have more.”
He stood taller, drawing himself up to his full six four. Damn, the man looked good.
“What’s your next shot?”
“Dix Dodd, private detective, keeping your man your man for over twenty years.”
“I’ve only been in business solo for six months.”
“Yeah, well, I’m thinking ahead.”
Dylan looked at me, straight on. Steady and so sure of himself. So sure of me. It was the least I could do to be the same. Screw this feeling sorry for myself shit! Pity party over; there was work to be done.
I slammed down the last drink of coffee, then slammed the empty mug on my desk. “Okay, we need a plan.”
“Right.”
“We have to find this mistress Jennifer was so sure about. My money’s on her. Now more than ever.”
Dylan went to the large whiteboard that hung on the wall beside my desk. He erased all that was on it, signaling — whether consciously or unconsciously — that he too knew the severity of my situation. He drew a stick figure, putting a triangle skirt on her to mark her as female. “Okay, what do we know about this mysterious mistress of Ned Weatherby’s?”
I just stared at him for a moment while he waited for my reply. “Thanks,” I said. “About the business cards.”
“You mean you liked my ideas?”
“Oh, hell, no. They were gawd-awful.” I hesitated. “Thanks for your faith in me.”
“Any time, Dix.” I caught the flash in his eyes before he put up his own guard again. But for a moment those brown eyes had been softer, and if I’d let myself believe it, for a moment there was more there. He turned towards the whiteboard. “Any time at all.”
We worked into the wee hours of the morning. I reprinted the digital pics that I’d emailed to the office. Detective Head had confiscated the originals of course. As he had with my notes, but I’d sent backup copies of the same to the office every day (thank you, digital technology). Dylan and I went over every little detail. We brainstormed theories. Charted possibilities. Had wild, passionate sex on my desk.
Okay, that last part was just in my mind. Again and again and again.
The sun was just coming up as Dylan grabbed his keys and with a, “Back in a few minutes,” headed out the door.
Despite the adrenaline rush of the last few hours, despite the pounding headache, and the coffee I’d consumed, I soon realized if I was going to function at all, I needed some good old-fashioned sleep. Luckily, I’d installed a cot at the office for just that purpose, given the crazy hours I keep. It wasn’t the comfiest thing in the world, but I’d been sleeping hunched up in cars for days, so if felt like the most decadent of pleasures just to lie prone and stretch out.
My body was ready for sleep, but unfortunately my mind just wouldn’t cooperate. Where would I find her, this mysterious mistress? As my tired mind finally relented and began drifting from consciousness to sleep, I could almost see her turning the corner of it. Walking like a ghost along the streets as I pictured them. Dancing on the edge of my grasp and the edge of my vision.
“You’re never going to find me!” Her voice was singsong, but not singsong-sweet. More that singsong mocking kind of thing, as she danced around me. Of course, I knew I was dreaming, but she still pissed me off.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” I reached to grab her, catching only a wisp of her gown before it slipped through my fingers. I wanted to turn her around to face me. Wanted to push the flowing locks of hair back from her face to get a good look at her.
Somehow she knew this, and evaded me with ease.
“I’m too smart for you, Dix Dodd. I’m too smart for all of you.”
“Don’t count on it, Blondie.” It’s not that I’m prejudiced against blonds, and I never partake in the dumb blond jokes. Well, almost never. Hell, I’m a blond myself. But until I knew the mystery mistress’s name — a detail Jennifer hadn’t been able to supply — Blondie would have to do.
Blondie tittered. “Don’t let the hair color fool you. I’m one smart cookie.” She flounced away from me.
I woke up with my right hand swinging, and my butt on the floor.
And the smell of hotcakes and sausage drifting in from the outer office. I shook my head, rubbed my hands over my face. Then I got off my butt and followed the aroma.
Over breakfast Dylan and I formulated a plan of action.
“So where do we go from here, Dix?”
Dylan speared yet another sausage. He’d scored our breakfast from the shop around the corner, and already he’d put away twice as much of it as I had. Still, I knew he’d not put an ounce onto that lean frame.
“Objective remains the same as when the Flashing Fashion Queen hired us.” I took a sip of the latte Dylan had brought. Heavenly. “We have to find Ned Weatherby’s mistress.”
“Our boy Ned was pretty clean this week, wasn’t he? Kind of makes you wonder….”
I swallowed a syrupy, buttery bite and refrained from licking my fork. Somehow, when someone else unwraps the fast food, it doesn’t seem so bad. “I know what you mean. Ned was practically — no, he was literally — a choir boy this week. It was almost as if he knew he was being watched.”
“You think Jennifer told him she’d hired us?”
“I doubt that very much.” The logic behind a wife telling her husband he was being tailed was, well, non-existent. That would negate the whole purpose of the exercise. I couldn’t see it happening, especially considering how much dough Jenni
fer Weatherby was paying me. “However, if I blew cover while I was trailing him, then Ned would certainly modify his behavior.”
Even as I offered that possibility, I knew it wasn’t very likely. I’d never been made by a mark before. At least, not to my knowledge. The one and only benefit of being so ordinary, so average, so nondescript, was that I could blend in practically anywhere. But what other explanation was there?
“Maybe Jennifer told someone she hired you,” he offered. “And they told Ned. Women often have close friends they confide in.”
“That’s good.” I nodded. “That’s very good. Can you check on that?”
“I’m on it. I’ll check with some of the neighbors. At times like these, neighbors are often ready to share what they know.”
Certainly any female friends of Jennifer Weatherby would be more than willing to share some time and information with the young, handsome Dylan Foreman.
“While you’re at it, ask if she belonged to any health clubs. Or charities or anything like that. Might find something out there.”
“You bet.”
Dylan stood, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. He never dawdled, but the speed with which he wanted to attack this particular assignment moved me. I knew he was worried about me. I stood, tossed the plastic breakfast trays and utensils in the trash and grabbed my own jacket from the coat tree in the corner.
“Where are you off to?” Dylan shrugged into his leather jacket.
“The Underhill Motel.”
He hesitated but knew better than to question me, or try to stop me. The Underhill was in a rough part of town, but we both knew I could handle myself.
We locked the office, and headed our respective ways. Whereas I always parked at the far end of the lot, Dylan parked his bike as close to the building as he could get it. He gave me a mock salute before starting the bike and roaring off.
I reminded myself to get him a set of motorcycle chaps for Christmas. Surely that would be an acceptable employer-employee gift? Not too formal. Not too personal. Not too expensive. Not too cheap. And I could just picture them on him — protecting his legs should he fall on the pavement. Keeping him warm when he drove at night. Perfectly framing his denim-covered….
