by Norah Wilson
And it wasn’t just the re-reading of the journal that kept us occupied that rainy day and evening. Dylan and I also listened to every taped conversation, again and again. We looked over every photo. We went over every note, the crumpled restraining order, every receipt. I swear, Dylan and I could have recited verbatim the contents of any of those documents or recordings.
+++
It was about 6 p.m. when, with a mutual huff, we set the pages down. The whiteboard Dylan had brought along had been written upon and erased time and time again until it was more gray than white.
“I’m missing something, Dylan. Any one of these folks,” I waved a hand over the pictures and pages before us on the bed, “could have killed Jennifer. Could have hired someone to come into the offices to pose as her and set me up. Could have written that NO WAY IN HELL in her journal.”
I groaned in frustration, then yawned on the next indrawn breath. I glanced at my watch. Holy crap, I was tired. And getting a little hungry.
I’d long abandoned the comfy brown housecoat. In fact, the room was warm enough that I’d shucked my socks hours ago. Now, weary and tired, I linked my fingers together and curled my back as I stretched out my arms. My neck was sore from the strain of hunching so long over papers. I rolled my head gingerly, then put a hand to the tight muscles on right side of my neck. Ouch.
“Let me, Dix.”
And before I could utter a word in protest (funny, I’m not usually such a slow talker), Dylan had his hands on my neck. “Whoa!” he said. “You’re tense.”
Well, duh. “Just … long, hard day, Dylan.”
He grinned. “Lucky for you, a master masseuse from the Bombay Spa is here.”
I arched an eyebrow. The mental picture of me beneath the white sheet, naked on the massage table flashed through my mind. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, and lowering in other places. “And here I thought that diploma from the Cordick School was a fake.”
“It’s Cornick School. Not dick.”
“Of course.”
“And yeah, it’s a fake, but I’m damn good with my hands anyway. So let me get that tension out.”
“Oh well, no need. I’m just—”
He cocked his head. “Do I make you nervous, Dix?”
I snorted. “Of course not.”
Technically it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t make me axe-murderer nervous.
“Then just let me help you here.”
Why not? Dylan had made it clear the other night when he’d jumped out of my bed that he wasn’t interested in me that way, hadn’t he? And surely, I didn’t have feelings here myself that I couldn’t handle. No way. Not hard-assed Dix Dodd.
I lay down on the bed, fully clothed. He turned down the light. And I felt the anticipation rise unchecked within me as the mattress depressed, then I felt his hands on my back once again. But this time, it was even more intimate. This time there was no pretense, no Elizabeth Bee in the corner. This time there was nothing to stop us. Except ourselves.
Careful, Dix. Remember the trouble last time you let yourself feel.
But even as I reproached myself, I knew … I could be here. I could drift into this feeling. Give into this feeling. If only—
Though his voice was low, I startled when Dylan spoke into the quiet, darkened room. “You know Dix, sometimes when you’re so busy looking for the bad guys all the time, you miss the good guys. You don’t always have to be on the defensive. You might be missing something pretty good here.”
Maybe it was his voice. Maybe it was his hands. But, holy hell, whatever it was it was working. I was melting under the touch of this man. And that did make me nervous, paling in comparison to any axe-murderer at the door.
“Dylan, I—”
“Just hear me out, Dix. The other night when I held you was…. I felt something and you felt it too. I know you did.”
He waited, and though I was sorely tempted to, I didn’t jump into that pause. I could feel his warmth — all of his warmth as he touched me gently. I could hear his breathing. Goddamn it, I wanted to be this close to this man. We were alone in the world just then — in the quiet of our room.
“Dix,” he continued, his voice deep and soft as it curled along my spine. He was leaning down toward me. Leaning in to kiss me, I knew. “I was worried about you today. More than I knew I could be. And I knew—”
We both swore when the phone rang into the room.
Me, because that loud, shrill ring startled me. Dylan because when I startled, I jumped and smacked him in the face with the back of my head.
Oh shit!
Even as I picked up the receiver I could see his bottom lip swelling up. I cringed and mouthed a ‘sorry’, but what exactly was I sorry for? Certainly for the growing boo-boo on his handsome face. But was I sorry the mood had been broken? Again? That the kiss had been, shot (or rather smacked) out of existence?
“Dix, Dix you there?”
“Oh … oh, sorry Mrs. P. You just caught me … caught me mid thought.”
I gave Dylan the ‘okay’ sign and he headed to the bathroom. I heard the water running and a sucked in ‘Ow!’ as he put a cloth to his lip.
“Well,” Mrs. P said. “I’ve got your supper ready. And Cal and Craig and I are just settling in for TV bingo. So if you want it hot and you want it before bingo rather than after — jackpot’s twelve hundred — you better come and get it now.”
“Will do Mrs. P.”
“Supper?” Dylan asked coming out of the bathroom. His lip wasn’t bleeding — anymore. But the little smooth bulge on the bottom of it would be there for a day or two. And as my eyes looked southward, that was the only thing bulging on Dylan Foreman now.
Way to break a mood, Dix. That’s me, Dix Dodd, ball buster, lip buster extraordinaire.
“Yep. Supper’s ready. I’ll just go down and get—”
“Let me, Dix.” His grin was self-mocking. “I could use a bit of a walk.”
He hipchecked open the door and backed/dipped his way out. That hidden door was a wonderful idea, but certainly not made with six foot four Dylan Foreman in mind.
I lay back on the bed when the door closed behind Dylan. The lights were still low but I threw one arm over my eyes anyway. I drew the other hand across the slightly rumpled sheets. What had just happened here? More importantly, what had almost just happened here? Saved by the bell?
Damn bell.
“Can you get the door, Dix?”
I jumped up when Dylan called and scooted across the room. He backed up when I shoved the door open. I stood in the dark hallway as with tray in hand Dylan moved around me.
“Leave it to Mrs. P.” He gazed appreciatively down at the tray as he walked forward. “Shaved roast on whole wheat. Grapes. Three different kinds of cheese. And for dessert, cookies. Looks like chocolate chip oatmeal. And they’re still warm.”
I was watching Dylan’s backside and Dylan apparently wasn’t watching at all, because as he tried to step through the door, he cracked his forehead on the top of the frame.
With a loud crash, he and the tray hit the floor.
“Holy shit!” I leaned down over him. “Dylan, are you all right? Are you … quick,” I said, remembering my first aid training from Girl Guides. “How many fingers am I holding up?” I held up a couple. He raised his head a little and squinted his eyes toward them.
“Dylan? Say something!”
He grinned, and put a hand to his forehead.
“Honey, I forgot to duck.”
He was fine. Well not fine-fine (there was a fair sized lump popping up dead-center on his forehead), but he wasn’t seriously injured if he was cracking jokes, calling me honey quoting Reagan. I helped him to the bed.
“You sure you’re all right?” I asked, picking up the wonderful supper Mrs. P had made us. The sandwiches were a lost cause, but the main part — the cookies — were still good. “I can get Mrs. P to—”
“I’m fine, Dix.”
The poor guy looked like he’d done battl
e with, well, me. Between the busted lip and the lump on his head, he was one sorry looking man.
Actually, we both were pretty sorry looking. Dylan with the lump on his head, me with … well, me with the murder wrap hanging over my head.
I thought we’d hit pay dirt when I’d found Jennifer’s journal. Clues had lain in there certainly, but answers? The answer?
I was missing something. It was niggling at me. Nagging. And it was right there — hanging just out of my reach. What was it? What was I missing here? I stood there with these thoughts twisting in my brain, staring unseeingly at Dylan.
“Is it bad, Dix?” He’d been studying my expression. And now raised a worried hand, and a careful one, to his forehead.
“Oh, sorry. I … I was thinking about the case.” Yes, I felt incredibly sheepish admitting that.”
“But how bad’s the lump on my head?” He patted some hair down over it, and in all seriousness asked. “Can you notice it?”
“Can I notice it? Dylan, it’s a doozie.” I laughed out loud.
“Geez, Dix, you’re all sympathy!”
“Sorry. Sorry. It’s ‘oozie’ words. They get me every time. Always conjures up these weird mental pictures.” And combine that with the lack of sleep and tension that needed breaking … it’s a wonder I wasn’t rolling on the floor. “You know doozie … oozie.” I cracked up all over again.
He grinned. Okay, so he was lacking sleep and under tension himself. “Sounds like quite the affliction. For a moment there, I thought you’d been drinking. Thought you’d gotten all boozie.”
Wow, that was bad. But yes, it sent thoughts of flying pink pigs crashing into skyscrapers in my head, and it sent another snort of laugher into the room.
“What? No comeback?”
Oh, so this was the challenge was it — oozie word sentences that made sense? We’d played dumber games.
“Not enough for you to get beaten at online Jeopardy, Mr. Foreman?” I asked. “Haven’t had your ass handed to you often enough at trivia? Now I have to kick your butt at this, too.”
Okay, I didn’t always kick his butt at trivia. We were about 50/50 on that score. I suck at twenty questions (though I’d never admit to under threat of torture!) And on the slow times when we did play online games, his little blue-shirted avatar was a wee bit more skilled than my pink-shirted avatar. But for the purposes of this current mindless competition, the trash talk was called for. Necessary, even.
He shrugged. “If you’re not up for the challenge, you don’t have to play. I mean, if you so choose-ie.”
I snorted. “Just be prepared Dylan. You’re about to lose-ie.”
He rolled his eyes (a little heavy toward the top I noticed, no doubt trying to see if he could actually see the bump.) “Lose-ie isn’t a word, Dix.”
“It is now,” I said. “And you should talk. Choose-ie?”
He said, “I think this case is getting to you. We need to find some clues-ies.” For dramatic emphasis, Dylan picked up Jennifer’s journal from the bed bedside him.
Not to be outdone, I grabbed the newspaper Mrs. P had delivered with breakfast. “Maybe I should look in here. You know, check out the news-ie.”
Okay, I could see him mentally reaching on that one. He was desperately trying to think of something. Was I actually going to win this one? Was I—
“Why don’t you read it to me?” He pointed to his forehead. “That smack on the head has left me kind of woozie.”
I shook my head, and gently touched the goose egg growing on his forehead. “Dylan, you’re more than a flirt. You’re an out and out floo….
A chill went along my spine and I held deathly still as it did. The feeling niggled itself up my shoulders. Nagged it’s way up my neck. Every fiber in me knew there was something here. Knew I’d hit upon something. My mind reached for it. My intuition grabbed for it. Goddamned well caught it!
“SON OF A BITCH!”
“Er, that doesn’t rhyme with oozie, Dix.”
“Oh my God!” I shrieked (and I’m not one to shriek). But I had it! I freakin’ well had it! I jumped away from Dylan, bounded off the bed and cranked up the light Dylan had earlier dimmed.
“Jesus, Dix!” With both hands now, he felt along his forehead. “How bad is it?” He ran to the bathroom to check himself out in the mirror.
I raced around the room looking for my cell phone, finally having to call it from the motel phone in order to find it (I’d left it in the red blazer which I’d folded on the dresser — that blazer was just bad luck!). I grabbed my cell and raced back, already dialing as I jumped and landed cross-legged on the bed.
“It doesn’t look that bad, does it?” Dylan came out of the bathroom still rubbing his forehead. “Like, you don’t think it’s permanent?”
“It’s fine. Get your phone, Dylan. We’ve got some calls to make.”
He blinked. “To whom?”
I nodded to the pictures strewn all over the bed. “The whole lot of them.”
Genuinely perplexed now, Dylan shook his head. “What am I supposed to say?”
Before I could respond, the party I’d called answered the phone. I held a finger up to Dylan, signaling him to wait. I could tell his frustration was growing, but with any luck….
“Hey, Dickhead,” I said into the phone. “Where the hell have you been?”
He said something about the nude limbo videos Dylan had packed for him. Something colorful. (I took it he wasn’t impressed.) Then he went into detail about how he personally was going to see to it that my ugly butt was in jail for—
I cut him off mid-rant. “Meet me at the Weatherby house tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Dixieass?” he snarled. “You finally coming to your senses, gonna turn yourself in?”
I laughed. “Hell, no I’m not going to turn myself in. I’m going to do your job for you. Because I know who killed Jennifer Weatherby.”
I hung up before he could scream at me anymore. And before he could trace the call.
Dylan stood dead still. He stared at me wide-eyed. “You know who killed Jennifer Weatherby? And who framed you?”
I nodded. I stood. I jumped on the bed. And jumped and jumped!
“I know, Dylan. Finally, it’s all come together. There’s only one person who could have killed Jennifer Weatherby.”
I stopped jumping and filled Dylan in on what I knew.
As soon as he’d heard me out, Dylan picked up his own phone and started dialing. Both of us now were calling in the players. Calling them to the Weatherby house for 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. And each and every one of them would show up. They had a reason to. We gave it to them: “Come to the Weatherby mansion at eight in the morning, because we know who killed Jennifer. And we know how you’re involved.”
An hour later, calls made, Dylan left. We both aimed to get some sleep before we executed our plan. Excited, of course. Happy. But … there was something else there. He kissed me on the cheek as he left the motel room. Shoved his hands in his pocket, and hipchecked the hidden door to exit the room via Mrs. Presley’s secret entrance. This time, he remembered to duck.
I remade the bed my jumping had messed, stripped down and crawled between the sheets.
And of course, I dreamed of her — my Flashing Fashion Queen.
Still she tried to elude me. Still she was out of my grasp. Ah, but I didn’t reach.
With her fancy, flouncy twists and turns, she managed to prevent me from getting a clear view of her face. But I didn’t look so very hard this time.
Didn’t have to.
And still, the bitch taunted me. Or rather, tried to.
“You’re not going to do this successfully, Dix. You’re going to fail. You’ll never catch me. I’m just too smart for you. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
And I chuckled as the Flashing Fashion Queen bounced away. “We’ll see, Blondie,” I called. “We’ll see.”
I slept wonderfully. Hand
s linked behind my head, I slept on my back, no doubt snoring like a sailor lulled by the waves of the ocean. And when I awoke well rested and ready a few short hours later, there was barely a wrinkle in the sheets.
Yep, it had been a perfect snoozie.
Chapter 19
Mmmmmmmmmm … homemade breakfast. Mrs. Presley had made enough for two lumberjacks, which pleased Dylan to no end when he arrived. By the look of him, he’d not slept as well as I had, but I had no doubt he’d be ready, willing and able to handle what the day had in store for us. The swelling on the lip had gone down quite a bit. But the bump on his head had turned a lovely purple color.
“Geez, Dix,” Mrs. P had offered upon seeing the worse-for-wear Dylan Foreman. “How wild did you two get in here? Playing cops and robbers? Or was it good cop, kinky cop? I bet I can guess which one you were, Dix. The kinky one, right? Next time I’ll send down a set of fur-lined handcuffs.”
Dylan just about choked on his toast.
I just about spewed my coffee.
Per usual, there was a single red rose on the breakfast tray. That and a pile of scrambled eggs, perfectly cooked sausage, and toasted homemade bread. Jam and peanut butter served in one of those fancy little silver things. She even had a little dish of mints. There was coffee, of course, and fresh squeezed orange juice. And speaking of squeezed….
“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Mrs. Presley had said, after the teasing was done and she’d watch Dylan and I both for a few minutes to make sure we were going to do justice to her breakfast. “Just gotta powder my nose, put on some lipstick, and then I’m ready.”
