Cop a Feel

by Robyn Peterman

  Both women eyed my handiwork silently, crossed back over to me and stared.

  “Do it again,” Mrs. C demanded. “Do it right now.”

  “No prob.” I grinned and reloaded. And I did it again—and one more time for good measure.

  “Jesus Christ in a corset, you should have sniped with us in Nam,” Mrs. C whispered reverently.

  “Wasn’t born yet,” I said, enjoying myself for the first time in a while.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. I think I came in my shorts,” Edith added, saluting me.

  “Gross,” I groaned, backing away.

  “Don’t worry yourself,” she cackled. “You’re too young, too skinny, and too straight. It’s your shooting that gave me a woody.”

  “Guys, enough. I’m a good shot. I’m supposed to be. I’m an undercover DEA agent, for God’s sake.” I rolled my eyes and debated whether they needed an anatomy lesson. Although who knew? Maybe they had dicks . . .

  “She’s the best I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. C muttered.

  “Not better than Mag the Hag,” Edith insisted.

  Both women dropped to their knees, genuflected, and quietly murmured Mag the Hag repeatedly.

  Fuck, just when I was beginning to think they were kind of normal.

  “Do you think it’s possible?” Edith asked her sister, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Could be,” Mrs. C said, rising to her feet.

  “Um, guys, you’re kind of freakin’ me out here.” Maybe it was time to go. Mrs. C’s iron grip on my arm made escape impossible.

  “She died in my arms. She was the best sharpshooter that ever lived.” Edith’s eyes welled with tears, making me notice her glittery yellow eye shadow. How had I missed that?

  “I’m sorry, I know how it is to lose someone you love.”

  “I didn’t love her.” Edith laughed. “I hated her fucking guts, but I admired the hell out of her and would have done her if she was a dyke.”

  “Okay, then—gotta go,” I told them, removing my goggles and peeling Mrs. C’s claw off my arm.

  “Mag the Hag, are you in there?” Mrs. C screeched into my ear, definitely damaging my hearing.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re insane and a menace to society. Not to mention, your fashion sense is vomitus,” I shouted, and put my hand to my ear to check for blood.

  “It’s her,” Edith said, dropping to her knees in front of me.

  “Who’s her?” I asked, glancing around in alarm.

  “You. You’re Mag the Hag reincarnated,” Mrs. C rejoiced, trapping me in a bear hug. “God, I’ve missed you, you stinky bitch.”

  “I’m not Mag the Hag,” I said, but because I was wedged in Mrs. C’s armpit, it came out a little muffled.

  “Of course you are.” Edith tsked and bent to kiss my feet.

  “This is the most glorious and fucked-up thing to happen in at least three weeks!” Mrs. C claimed, hugging me tighter.

  “I really think you ladies need some help,” I squeaked, trying to get some air into my squashed lungs.

  “I’m gonna call Homer in DC. This will blow his mind,” Edith said, and giggled after she’d finished adoring my feet. “He’ll offer you a job so fast it will make your head spin.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I gasped, miraculously breaking away from Mrs. C. “I have a job already and I’m not Madge or whoever you whack-jobs think I am. I’m Candy and you’re bat shit crazy.”

  “Exactly what Mag the Hag would have said,” Edith shot back, secure in her debatable sanity that I was their reincarnated buddy.

  “Okay then, I’ll just be going.” I grabbed my gun and quickly stowed it away. “I’ll see you guys when hell freezes over and I hope you have an interesting rest of your lives.” I made a run for the door.

  “Hell froze over last Tuesday,” Mrs. C shouted joyously as I hustled away. “We’ll see you this weekend. We have a lot of catching up to do. You’ve been dead for years!”

  “Not gonna happen,” I muttered as I slammed the door behind me, only to be followed by their laughter as I hightailed it out of the building.

  Chapter 3

  What in the hell was I supposed to wear to a porno writer’s dinner party? Glancing over at the unread romance novel, I rolled my eyes and started digging through my closet. I knew I should have read at least a chapter, but I was still pissed that I had to go to something called SCREW-Con. This was not what I was trained for and my apathy was definitely showing.

  A dress. I’d wear a sexy little dress. Being the dateless mess that I was, I wanted to at least look good. I slipped on a fitted black halter dress, threw on some fun silver sling-backs, and twisted my hair into a messy up-do. A little blush, mascara and a swipe of lip gloss, and I was ready to go. Kind of. I needed an attitude adjustment. A stupid assignment was still an assignment and I was a pro. Even if it was glorified babysitting, I would take it seriously. I sat back down and went through the suspect list again.

  Evangeline O’Hara; age eighty-four. Single. Incarcerated for blackmail of five authors for over twenty years and bribery of the Minneapolis police department. Sentence: ten years.

  Jesus Christ, she looked like a melted wax figure. Her photo was so alarming, I quickly shoved it back in the folder. That interview should be a treat. She’d been convicted for stealing ideas from Shoshanna and the other authors and putting them out as her own. She’d made millions and had been brought down on live TV on the Anderson Cooper show. I made a note to get a copy of the broadcast.

  Dr. Randall Steigmeister; age fifty-seven. Single. Tenured professor of Religious Studies at the University of Minnesota. Lost a sizable grant to the Women’s Studies program a year ago. Grant went to proposal by Dr. Sue Lumpschlicterschmidt. Holy hell, was that her real name? Shoshanna LeHump was actually an improvement. Dr. Steigmeister had been actively campaigning to have Professor Sue’s tenure removed due to the “sexist and degrading filth” she produced.

  I glanced over at the novel again and was sorely tempted to dive in. I was curious to see what Dr. Randy meant by sexist and degrading filth, but I had almost run out of time. On to the last suspect.

  Dr. Winnifred Junsen; age forty-eight. Divorced, no children. Recently tenured Professor of Women’s Studies at the U. Lost two prestigious awards to Dr. Sue in the last six months. Unpopular with students. On probation with the university due to bra-burning incident in the football stadium. WTF?

  So, Winnie and Randy were jealous and bitter and Evangeline was unfortunate looking and insane. I rifled back through the folder and pulled out photos of the professors. Eww. Pompous and well fed. I was looking forward to either an interesting week or an annoying one . . .

  Whatever. Maybe someone actually was gunning for Shoshanna. The most obvious suspect was Evangeline, but she was in the slammer. I made notes to check on relatives and friends that could be working with her. The other two looked harmless enough, but jealousy made people do outrageous things.

  The novel stared at me from its perch on my bedside table. “I’ll read you tonight. I promise.”

  I grabbed my purse, gun, and keys and went to meet the infamous LeHump.

  LeHump’s house was typical for New Hope, Minnesota—nicely manicured and quaint. Lots of hosta and hanging baskets along with a huge Vikings football flag on a pole. I was the last to arrive. Three huge SUVs were parked in the driveway. I giggled as I wondered if all the men inside were compensating for something.

  “I can do this. It’s just a couple of hours and Kevin cooked,” I muttered as I walked up to the front door. I didn’t believe a word of what I was saying, but if I kept repeating it, maybe it would come true.

  Damn it, why didn’t I bring a date? Possibly because I didn’t have anyone to call . . . It would have been awesome to walk in here with not David. The pure shock of seeing me with a potential boyfriend would have taken all the pressure off of me and my knife wound, my lack of a social life, my inability to have fun or get laid, and the fact that I�
��d turned into a bodyguard . . .

  Who in the fuck was I kidding? I couldn’t do this. I quickly turned around and made a run for my car.

  “Candy? Where you going?” my brother Mitch called from the doorway.

  “Oh, hi. I just forgot my . . . you know, my um . . .”

  “Guts?” He grinned and waited for me to make my way back up the front walk to hell.

  “Yeah, my guts,” I said as he trapped me in a gentle hug.

  “How’s the stomach?” he asked, tucking some fly-away hair behind my ear.

  “Better.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I grinned and punched him in the arm. As much as he drove me nuts, my brother loved me and I loved him.

  “This will not be bad,” he said, reading my mind. “You’ll get a kick out of Shoshanna, and you already know everyone else here.”

  “Define not bad,” I said, following him into the house.

  I entered the foyer and froze in my tracks. WTF? I knew plenty of Minnesota Vikings fans, but this was alarming. The entire décor was purple and white with some gold accents here and there. A large cardboard cutout of Brett Favre dominated one corner of the living room, and a pyramid of helmets hovered precariously as the centerpiece on the table. Purple shag carpet that would have made the Brady Bunch salivate covered the floor, and the walls were purple and white striped wallpaper with football decals all over it. I was speechless.

  “You must be Candy!” a little bulldozer of a woman shouted with a mouthful of food. “Goddamn, you look like a fuckin’ supermodel!”

  “Um, thank you?” I whispered, unable to speak louder for fear I’d insult her home.

  “You sure this Hot Mamma can protect me?” the little gal, clad in a Vikings sweat suit, bellowed as she grabbed some more cheese from the platter next to the helmets.

  “She can shoot the teats off a cow from three hundred yards away,” said my brother’s best friend, Jack. “How’s the stomach?”

  “In general or right now?” I asked, watching the woman I assumed to be Shoshanna shove a hunk of cheddar into her mouth.

  “Jesus Christ, Shoshanna,” Rena groused, “where in the hell are your manners? Oh, wait . . . you don’t have any.”

  “Shut your cakehole and try this cheese,” Shoshanna said, and laughed with an orange mouthful. “It’s fucking awesome.”

  Rena plopped down on her fiancé Jack’s lap. “Candy, this is Shoshanna,” she said, referring to the fromage eater. “Shoshanna, this is Candy.”

  “Damn glad to meet ya, Candy. I told the boys here I didn’t need a bodyguard, but Kevin got his panties in such a wad, I had to go with it.”

  “I don’t wear panties.” Kevin chuckled and laid more appetizers out.

  Although the food looked good, I was fairly sure I wouldn’t be able to eat anything if Shoshanna kept shoving cheese in her mouth.

  “What? Did you start going commando after our divorce?” Shoshanna cackled, and grabbed a few puffy-looking balls off the new platter.

  “You know as well as I do that I wear boxer briefs,” Kevin informed her, and handed her a napkin, which she promptly handed back. “Come to think of it, you probably don’t know, considering the entire time we were married, I did the laundry.”

  This scenario was weird on several levels. Kevin had been married to the little gal with appalling manners, and now he was married to my boss, the ex–Navy Seal Steve. Steve had been married to the uber religious nut case Helen and had two kids. Now he was married to Kevin, and their wedding had been officiated by Shoshanna, ex-wife of Kevin, who wrote porno and liked cheese.

  I glanced over at my brother who was copping a feel of his fiancée’s ass, as their best friends, Rena and Jack, were doing their best not to grope each other.

  I was in hell.

  I considered making a lame excuse and running for it, but I knew it would be futile. I’d just have to suck it up and try not to watch Shoshanna eat.

  “So,” Steve said, pulling me aside, “you two will be leaving next Saturday.”

  “Right,” I said. “Am I on Shoshanna this week?”

  “No, Mitch and Jack are on her. You need to do the interviews and get ready.”

  “About that,” I said, trying to burn my boss alive with a glare. “Are you familiar with the name of the convention?”

  “I can’t say that I am,” he lied, trying to suppress his grin.

  “It’s SCREW-Con,” I hissed. “You’re demoting me to a bodyguard and sending me to a convention called SCREW.”

  “From what Shoshanna says, it’s supposed to be informative, and you could use some fun.”

  “It is,” Shoshanna bellowed from across the room. “They have classes during the week at SCREW-U and a party on the final night called the SCREW-Ball!”

  Damn, she had some good ears. I pulled Steve into the kitchen so I could rip him a new one out of everyone’s earshot.

  “Is this just a joke?” I demanded. “Is this to humiliate me or punish me?”

  Steve watched me quietly as I unraveled.

  “I mean, what the hell? Do you even think she’s in danger?”

  “What I think, what I believe, and what I know are in conflict with each other at the moment,” he replied. “We have threatening letters and received another today. I’m unclear if we’re on the right track with the suspects, but the potential for harm is there and the job is real.”

  “Is that what you think, know, or believe?” I asked, still trying to get a grasp on the situation.

  “Irrelevant,” Steve said.

  “Fine.” I rolled my eyes, glanced back into the living room, and caught the tail end of Shoshanna juggling the puffballs.

  “No more business tonight,” he said as he pushed me back to the circus. “This is about fun.”

  “Dinnertime,” Kevin called out as he clapped his hands and pulled Shoshanna away from the cheese.

  I found myself seated between Rena and Mitch and directly across from Shoshanna. Holy hell, how was I supposed to eat?

  “So, Candy,” Shoshanna yelled across the table, making me wince. “When you use handcuffs in a sexual situation, do you use your standard issue cuffs or fuzzies?”

  I was speechless and grateful I had no food in my mouth or I would have choked.

  “Oh, for shit’s sake,” Rena groaned. “Candy, you do not have to answer that.”

  Nodding mutely, I checked my watch.

  “Fine.” Shoshanna wasn’t the least bit deterred. “It’s just that my new book is about undercover agents who like a little spanky-spanky, and the two male cops at the table have not been very forthcoming with info for my research.”

  “Thank God for that,” Kristy, my brother’s fiancé, muttered, turning a shade of pink that led me to believe she and Mitch had done some research.

  “It’s just that metal cuffs could really do some damage, and blood would be gross. Not that I’m against two consenting adults going at it however they see fit. But the real problem here is that I’m not getting any, so I can’t really experiment to learn the real outcome of metal versus fuzzies. Do you see my problem?”

  Everyone went silent and pale. I briefly contemplated retirement as I realized I would be spending a week with Shoshanna and her mouth. Kevin was the first to recover his voice.

  “Um, Shoshanna, I don’t really think that’s appropriate dinner table talk. You’re scaring the hell out of Candy, not to mention my beautiful meal may go to waste because everyone has lost their appetite.”

  “What did I say?” she asked, truly confused. “Hey, pass the peas. I’m starving.”

  Slowly we all regained consciousness and began to pass the platters around the table. I lamented my loss of appetite. Kevin’s dinner was truly beautiful—a perfectly medium rare beef tenderloin, a fluffy risotto with asparagus and mushrooms, French green beans with almonds, homemade dinner rolls, and the peas that the Porno Granny was after.

  My brother and his best bud Jack still appeare
d to be in shock. Kevin and Steve were fine. I suppose they were used to the filter-free Shoshanna. Kristy was a bit subdued and Rena was A-okay. She dug into her meal as if we hadn’t just heard the diatribe on bloody sex. If she could eat, then I could too. Who knew when I would get a gourmet dinner like this again?

  “So you’re writing a new one?” Rena asked as everyone blanched.

  “Yep,” Shoshanna said. “Starting a new series. I love the undercover aspect. The hero and the heroine are in a big shoot-out with the bad guys—barely make it out alive. The adrenaline of blowing the heads off so many criminals is so intense they go at it like bunnies in the warehouse next door to the pile of dead bodies. But, the kicker is they don’t even know each other’s names. They get separated when the local fuzz shows up and have to somehow find their way back to each other.”

  “Sounds a little complicated, Professor Sue,” Kristy said.

  “Not at all,” Shoshanna replied. “It’s totally hot.”

  “Who in the hell screws someone and doesn’t know their name?” Rena laughed and punched me in the arm.

  “Yeah,” I stuttered weakly. “Who would do that?”

  “What in the hell is wrong with you people?” Shoshanna shouted. “Back in the day, I screwed . . .”

  “Oh my God,” Rena shrieked, slapping her hands over her ears. “Stop. Now.”

  Shoshanna chuckled and shoved some peas into her mouth. Thank God, she used her spoon.

  “Candy, are you all right?” Kevin asked.

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You’re kind of green,” he said with concern.

  Mitch reached over and felt my head. “You’re a little clammy.”

  “I hate that word,” I said, removing my brother’s hand.

  “Well, you are,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” I repeated, wanting the floor to open up and swallow me. I’d screwed somebody without knowing his name. Fourteen times. Not only had I become a bodyguard, I was a character in a porno book. Things were looking up . . .

  Kristy, God love her, realizing my discomfort, but hopefully not the reason, steered the conversation away from my skin color. “So let me get this straight, they screw but they have no clue who they screwed.”