The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen - A Dix Dodd Mystery

by Norah Wilson

  My eyes swept past the beautiful Tiffany lamps in each corner. And then over the rows of bookshelves that spanned an entire wall of the room, stacked tightly and neatly with hardcover books. Fiction titles mostly, with a few nonfiction thrown in. I looked past the black leather club chair that sat in front of the giant office-style mahogany desk, past the coordinating leather office chair on the business side of the desk. And directly behind that chair, larger than life, hung the wedding picture of Ned and Jennifer Weatherby. He had been a dashing young man in a tailored tuxedo, while she looked almost consumed by the white gown she wore. The veil, the gloves, and oh, Lord, the pearls that seemed to snug just a bit too tightly around her neck. My heart dipped. Even on her wedding day, Jennifer had looked so out of place.

  Turning from the depressing portrait, I tugged off the dress gloves I’d used to jimmy the door, stashed them in my purse and pulled on the latex gloves I’d dug from the same bag. Dexterity, baby. That’s what I needed now. Well, that and to keep my fingerprints — which Dickhead had from the other night when he’d found me at the murder scene — from getting all over Jennifer’s study again. Contrary to what PI novels might lead you to believe, private detectives do not make a habit of breaking and entering. No way in hell would they risk their license by engaging in clear-cut criminal conduct. But under the circumstances, losing my license was a little further down on my list of worries these days. And hell, what was a little B&E when I was already unlawfully at large? Not to mention that little ol’ murder charge hanging over my head.

  My first thought, of course, was to search the desk, but I quickly scooted it away.

  Reason one: Dickhead would have certainly gone through that desk and every scrap of paper in it. If there’d been anything of significance in that mahogany monstrosity, he’d have confiscated it. (And yes, it did just about kill me to give him this credit, if only in my thoughts.)

  Reason two: If Jennifer had been hiding something, the last place she would try to conceal it would be in her desk. See, I’ve had lots of practice studying cheating spouses. And if the jealous husband or jealous wife is going to be snooping, someone’s private desk would be the first place to look for evidence of an affair. No, Jennifer would be more cautious than that.

  And the third reason I didn’t start with the desk, it just didn’t feel right. My intuition was tingling, but not in the direction of the desk.

  I looked around the room again, letting my mind lead me to where I should begin.

  The books. Definitely, the books.

  There was something about them that was calling me over. The shelves seemed neatly arranged. No books upside down, pulled out a little too far or pushed in a little much. But still …. I walked closer and scanned the titles. They were arranged alphabetically, by author. No surprise there. Alcott’s Little Women came before Austin’s Pride and Prejudice. Even the Stars Look Lonesome, by Maya Angelou was neatly shelved before Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin and The Handmaid’s Tale. Life of the Bombay Dung Beetle by Elizabeth Bee came before Bronte’s Wuthering Heights.

  Whoa, wait a minute — Elizabeth Bee? Life of the Bombay Dung Beetle?

  With shaking hands, I pulled the book down and began flipping through the pages. Eureka! Jennifer’s journal, wrapped in a very professional looking dust jacket — complete with graphics and a back-cover write up — which she’d no doubt printed from her computer. I took a moment to marvel at her ingenuity. Hidden virtually in plain sight, it had escaped a forensic search. Obviously, Jennifer had put a lot of work into hiding her journal. Obviously she felt that she had to. So much for sanctuary.

  I again glanced at the wedding picture of Jennifer and Ned hanging over the desk.

  I didn’t dare turn on a light to get a closer look at Jennifer’s journal entries. I’d pressed my luck about as far as I wanted to with the neighbors. Fortunately, there was sufficient sunlight coming through the slight part in the drapes, spilling across an edge Jennifer’s desk. I crossed to the desk and settled my ass in what proved to be the most comfortable chair I’d ever sat in, ignoring the rude sounds of leather skirt on leather chair that would have sent any twelve-year-old boy into a fit of laughter. I felt now the kid-at-Christmas kind of heart racing as I held Jennifer’s journal in my hands. Her hidden journal. Surely it would hold the key to fingering her killer and to proving my innocence.

  I moved the journal into the strip of sunlight on the desk. I was just beginning to relax, to feel the situation was coming under my control, when the desk phone rang, scaring the bejeezus out of me.

  “Shut up,” I hissed. Which was more of a frustrated venting rather than a plea that I thought would work. (I’d long ago finished with talking to appliances, but that’s another story.)

  Closing my eyes, I gathered my severely frayed cool, reminding myself I was alone in the house. Dylan had made sure of that. No one was going to hustle in here to answer the phone and find me sitting in Jennifer’s chair. But there’s just something about a phone ringing into an empty house when you’re doing something you’d rather not be caught doing. Looking through what you’re not supposed to have. Sitting where you’re not supposed to be sitting. You immediately want to put your hands up in an I-didn’t-do-it gesture.

  After three rings, the answering machine clicked on.

  It was a female voice, and I knew it had to be Jennifer’s. “Thank you for calling the Weatherby residence. We cannot take your call right now, please leave a message.” I wondered how long Ned would leave that message on the machine. It struck me as strange. Usually a grieving spouse would change a message like that as soon as possible to avoid the repeated heartache of hearing the voice of the deceased loved one over and over again. Or to avoid creeping out callers.

  “Er, yeah, is this Pepper’s Pizza? Huh? Is it? ’Cuz I really need to get me a pizza with some spicy pepperoni. Hot pepperoni. Very hot pepperoni! Right this minute!”

  Click.

  Dylan? Pizza? What the hell? It had sounded like him. But he would have called me on my cell. Right? Right. He was probably just horsing around. Flirting maybe? I had to grin at that. “I got it, Dylan. Hot and spicy. Cute.”

  Okay, in retrospect, I probably should have given that call more thought. But as it was, I was little distracted by my find. I have to admit, I felt a little smug as I held the journal in my hand. The journal that Detective Dickhead had missed when he’d searched the room.

  Okay, I felt a lot smug. He wasn’t as smart as me … er, I mean as smart as I. Right … I. (Yes, mentally, I corrected my grammar to prove the point.) And he wasn’t as motivated by any means. And mostly, he wasn’t a woman. He wouldn’t know what to look for. I most definitely would.

  I glanced at my watch before I opened the journal. It was about a quarter to seven, I had some time yet. Still, I knew better than to dally.

  As I flipped through the pages, a few things spilled out into my lap. There was a birthday card for Jennifer from an aunt in Toledo. Jennifer’s aunt had tucked a cheque for five dollars in it, which struck me as both a little sweet and a little sad. There was a receipt for two very expensive men’s watches from Hardy Jewelers on Main Street. For Billy Star? For her husband Ned? Next was a flyer from Pastor Ravenspire’s church, clearly promoting the pastor himself more than anything else. Someone — presumably Jennifer — had drawn a circle around the pastor’s head, and drew a small line and a large question mark out from this.

  But what caught my attention under these odds and ends and bits of life was what Jennifer Weatherby had written in the pages of her journal. And how she’d written it.

  Every entry was written in peacock blue in flowing, feminine script. Jennifer had her codes — her shorthand — but after glancing at a few pages, I could easily figure these out. She put J when she was writing a note to herself. (J — return dress to Ryder’s. J — watch should be ready at Jewelers) Anything pertaining to Ned was prefaced with an N. N — evening meeting with Pastor Ravenspire. Again. The ‘again’ wa
s underlined twice. Underlined so hard the pen had torn the page. Clearly, Jennifer wasn’t very happy with Ned’s newfound faith. I pondered over other shorthand notations.

  BS? I thought on that one for a moment. Billy Star? Bull shit? But I realized it was referring to the Bombay Spa when I read the next line. A note to Jennifer herself.

  J: be sure to tip EB well at the BS. Mother in Ohio still sick.

  Wait a minute? Ohio? Elizabeth had told me she was from Maine. And that her mother had passed on when she was just a girl. Obviously this one was working for tips. Stretching the truth somewhat. Padding the story. I had to smile. Good little liar, that one.

  Remembering the dates Mrs. Presley had given me that Billy Star had rented out a room at the Underhill, I scanned those dates in Jennifer’s journal. They matched, of course, without exception. The dates Billy had booked a room at the Underhill were days that Jennifer had written in her journal BS: call, confirm EVERYTHING. Emphasis on “Everything”. Which told me two things. One, that Jennifer’d called the spa to cover her ass. Annnnnnd, because she wrote it in such a manner, she was concerned that Dear Old Ned would be peeking at her journal should he ever find it.

  I turned to the last few pages before the day Jennifer was killed. No, I didn’t expect to see my name there. No appointment with DD was entered on her to-do list. Nothing close to Frame private detective for murder. But something else leapt out at me, something that sent a chill along my spine. J — called Kenny Kent to cancel caterer for weekend. That was the last entry — the last in Jennifer’s writing, that is.

  But there was more. One final note beneath Jennifer’s dainty peacock blue notation about canceling the caterer. A bold, slashing, all caps message in dark black that clearly wasn’t Jennifer’s doing: NO WAY IN HELL.

  I could feel the cold along my spine.

  While all of Jennifer’s entries had consistently been written in a dainty peacock blue, this one was written in dark black. Bold. Commanding. Right under the ‘called to cancel caterer’ … NO WAY IN HELL.

  Someone had found Jennifer’s journal before I had. My eyes moved slowly up to the date on the page. It was May 30. Exactly six days before Jennifer had been murdered. And exactly one day before the Flashing Fashion Queen had made her way into my office.

  The phone rang, but it didn’t startle me so much this time. I didn’t snap at it to ‘shut up’. Which was a good thing, because just then from the hallway beyond the office, beyond the locked doors that were just now being rattled by the sound of a key in the lock, someone else did hiss, “Shut up!”

  Oh, shit.

  Third ring, answering machine, Jennifer’s ghostly voice, then Dylan’s panicked one.

  “Okay, I NEED a freakin’ pizza. Yes, pepperoni. Yes, smokin’ freakin’ hot pepperoni. I need it with the works. But I need it now. Do you understand. NOW!”

  Click.

  I clutched the journal to my chest. Why the hell hadn’t Dylan called me on my cell? Why hadn’t he…. Oh shit! Just as I dove under the desk, I realized my cell was in my red ‘realtor’ jacket. The very same red jacket that was draped over the chair on the other side of the room when I had entered. Shit. There’d be at least a dozen calls on that cell from a freaking-out Dylan warning me I was no longer alone in the house.

  I slid myself under the desk — thank God for the desk’s modesty panel that went practically to the floor — and pushed myself up against it, both surprised and grateful that leather slides well on carpet. My heart beat so loudly I was sure whoever was on the other side of that door could here it. Certainly would hear it as they approached. I thought again of my red jacket? No way in hell did I dare crawl back out to make a mad dash to retrieve it. Geez, Dix, why didn’t you just leave a damned banner? Maybe hire a marching band to announce your presence. Hire a sky writer. Hire a bus with a bullhorn. I pulled my knees up close to my chin, scrunching myself up tightly as the rattling of key in lock stopped, and someone entered the room.

  Silence. But not the comforting silence of being alone. This was the silence of someone crossing the room on very expensive, cushy carpet. I watched the chair glide out from the desk on noiseless casters, and the intruder — no, wait I was the intruder … make that Intruder Number Two — sat down. Sneakered feet inched toward me, coming within a gnat’s hair of brushing against me. I tried to shrink smaller, feeling the bite of the journal’s edges clutched so tight to my chest as I did. Were they looking for this? What would happen when they didn’t find it? Crap! Worse, what would happen if they found it attached to me?

  I waited (okay, there wasn’t much else I could do, was there?) as this second intruder rattled keys, opened drawers, and rummaged through the desk. I heard the distinctive thump of papers being plopped on top of the desk. Were they cleaning Jennifer’s desk out? Oh my word, I’d be here all day!

  Or maybe I wouldn’t. Because I realized whoever it was above me, was moving things around at one hell of a fast pace. Not a tidy/organized pack things up pace. But a my-life-depends-upon-it pace.

  Drawers began opening with a sharp yank and closing with a loud bang. Papers were shuffled through frantically. A few fell on the floor and were left there at the intruder’s feet/my knees. I heard an audible gasp above me and a few panicked words. “Where the hell is it! Jesus Christ, I’ve got to find that damn journal.”

  A chill needled along my back, down my arms that cradled the journal. Holy shit! My grip on the book tightened, and I crunched back a little further. How the hell would I get out of here? How the hell would I—

  The doorbell rang.

  Thank you, Dylan!

  At least, I hoped it was Dylan. That would be all I needed to be caught in the middle of a meeting here or some damned thing. What if it was Bert Cartsell, real estate agent in the flesh who’d driven by and happened to notice he was selling a house he wasn’t selling? Maybe old Ned would have Jennifer’s wake here and the caterer’s were coming in? Caterers and mourners. In this very room. Hell, I could be stuck under this desk for days!

  The doorbell rang a second time. Then a third and fourth time, frantically. The chair pushed back so hard it tipped over. Quickly the second intruder gathered the papers that had fallen onto the floor (and I pushed a few into the grasping fingers rather than have them venture further under the desk toward me), before running the hell out of there. Not via the front doors, but by the way I entered, through the sliding glass doors, and past the red jacket without so much as a glance.

  I let out a breath and knew I had to get the hell out of the Weatherby home myself. Fast. But I was good with that as I clutched the journal tighter.

  I slid out from under the desk and raced — or as close to racing as one can manage in a too-small leather skirt — for the door, grabbing my jacket on the way out. I could feel the vibration of the cell phone in the jacket pocket like a recrimination as I did.

  Yes, it had been a close shave, thanks to my brain cramp in separating myself from my phone, but I’d escaped detection. I had Jennifer’s journal clutched tightly in my arms. And bonus upon bonus: I knew the identity of the second intruder, one who apparently had a heck of a lot to lose.

  Chapter 17

  Dix is my nickname, of course. Short for … well, short because my mother is weird. When she named me, she did so … um, originally. I swear my late father must have been having a Frank Zappa flashback when he went along with her on that one. She actually told me once that she’d scoured every baby name book, every telephone book, every birth announcement in every newspaper she could get her hands on — all to make sure that my name was ‘one of a kind’. And it is.

  Thanks, Mom.

  At the age of five, I’d sworn her to secrecy on that name. I wanted to pinkie swear (it seemed appropriate), but she said a pinkie swear wasn’t real unless we did it over chocolate-frosted cupcakes and Mountain Dew. Then we had a burping contest. She won.

  Yes, my mother is weird.

  But to get to the point of this preamble, I’ve be
en called a lot of things besides Dix over the years. Dickhead had his favorites, Dixieshit of course being a most recent addition to the ever-growing list. My first boyfriend used to call me DixieDoo. I know — gag. But I was thirteen and in love. In my defense, I called him Pookieboo, which made the love poems easier to write. But even back then when I dubbed him Pookieboo, it was largely in case I needed to blackmail him at some future point to keep him quiet about DixieDoo. (Hey, I might have been young and in love, but I was always a realist.) And then there was “the girl”. That’s what the guys at the old detective agency used to call me. And let’s not forget the men I’ve busted the last six months of business. Oh, you’d better believe they all had colorful names for me.

  Yet, what Ned Weatherby called me when he came home to find me scooting around from the back of his house, hell-bent on grabbing the real estate sign and getting my butt out of there, I’d never heard before. And sincerely hoped to never hear again.

  +++

  “Oh, go ahead, Dylan. Just do what you’ve got to do. Just get it over with.”

  “No, I’m fine. Really.” He nodded firmly, resolutely, but I could see the strain on his face.

  “Dylan, you’re about to explode. So just go ahead and—”

  He didn’t need anymore coaxing.

  He exploded, all right — with laughter.

  And not with a manly ha ha chuckle or even a curled-lip snort. He collapsed on the motel-room bed with peels of helpless mirth. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. He held onto his sides.

  Did I mention he was rolling on the bed?

  He’d seen the whole lovely scene unfold outside the Weatherby house as I’d made my hasty, and not so graceful exit.

  “Oh, you vulture!”

  That was the name that greeted me when I came barreling around to the front of the house. I stopped — or rather, skidded to a stop — in my high-heeled tracks.