Got Your Number ((a humorous romantic mystery))

by Stephanie Bond

  “I worked here.”

  He grinned. “No kidding.”

  She surrendered a smile. “No kidding. Smock and apron and paper hat. The work was easy, and the tips were good.”

  “Were you at Notre Dame on scholarship?”

  “No.” She sipped her malt.

  “No offense, but how do you pay back school loans on the kind of money you make?”

  She glanced over. “That’s absolutely none of your concern.”

  “Hm. Well, is there anything we can talk about?”

  “Have you seen Frank Cape?”

  “No. I suspect he hightailed it back to Biloxi.”

  The best news she’d heard all day. “I checked my voice messages. My neighbor said he’d seen a former boyfriend of mine lurking around—I suspect he’s the one who broke in. If so, he’s all bark.”

  “You have a lot of former boyfriends.”

  “Not so many.”

  Capistrano pulled out a pad. “What’s Romeo’s name?”

  “Richard Funderburk.”

  “Is he old, too?”

  She frowned. “Around thirty-five.”

  He wrote it down. “Anything else I need to know?”

  She shook her head and sipped, noting the knuckles on his right hand still hadn’t healed. “Who did you hit?”

  “Hm? Oh.” He looked down at his hand and made a fist, then opened it again, stretching his fingers. “Some bum resisting arrest. I lose count.” He made a rueful noise in his throat. “You and I, we’ve seen our share of bums, eh?”

  She nodded and sipped.

  He shifted on the tiny seat that had to be killing him. “Roxann, I don’t agree with what you’re doing, but I do admire your commitment to something you believe in.”

  YOU FAKE. She couldn’t look at him.

  “What I’m trying to say is that even if you haven’t been honest with me about—”

  She shot him a warning look.

  “—about… you know, I still think you’re an honorable person.”

  She lifted her gaze and studied his brown eyes, made boyish by the spiky blond lashes, made wise by his line of work. Honorable? What would he think if she told him that she’d joined Rescue not out of any heartfelt commitment, but because a woman she respected asked her to? Because she needed a place to recuperate from Carl’s rejection? And because after she’d recovered, it simply had been easier to stay and hide out? “Thank you, but like I said before, you don’t know me.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  Roxann scoffed inwardly. He was trying all right—trying to work her. “You’re wasting your time, Detective. You’ll never find Melissa Cape through me.”

  One dark eyebrow went up. “I thought that was off-limits conversation.”

  “But it’s why you brought me here, what you want to know.”

  “No.” His mouth tightened. “What I want to know is that you prefer chocolate malts over ice-cream cones—”

  “It was just a craving.”

  “And that you have a great tattoo on your ankle—”

  “It’s temporary.”

  “And that you travel to so many exotic places that you need a special watch—”

  “It’s for work.” She gave him a wry smile. “See? You don’t know me.” She looked away and toyed with the straw, twirling it in the thick malt. Honorable? Yeah, right.

  He didn’t intrude on her silence, but she could feel his gaze on her, leaving her itchy and raw. Goose bumps skittered over her shoulders and arms, and she suddenly remembered how cold they always kept the ice-cream parlor. A shiver took hold of her, and her teeth chattered. Her chest tightened and her throat ached. Either she was coming down with a case of the flu, or a case of the guilts.

  He shrugged out of his coat and settled it around her shoulders. She stiffened before conceding that the silky fabric felt good against her skin. When she was young and her parents happy, they would come in from parties, her mother wearing her father’s sport coat over her pretty dress. It had seemed so intimate to her, and so grown-up.

  Roxann sunk her teeth into her bottom lip—Capistrano was certainly playing the knight-in-shining-armor bit to the hilt. Still, he’d chased away her chill.

  Conjuring up a smile, she turned toward him. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I was rude.”

  He shrugged enormous shoulders. “You’re entitled not to trust me.”

  She signaled the waitress for a glass of water. “Don’t take it personally—I don’t trust anyone.”

  He dipped back into his ice-cream bowl. “Your dad told me about your mother—I’m sorry.”

  She bristled. “What did he tell you?”

  He studied her. “That she died in a car accident.”

  “Oh.” She looked down at the counter. “She did.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “That’s tough. Are you an only child?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Nope. Six besides me, three brothers, three sisters.”

  Large families fascinated her. “Are you close?”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, even though we’re spread all over. It’s nice.”

  “And rare.”

  “Your job has made you cynical.”

  “Yours hasn’t?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted, then turned his spoon over and licked it clean. “But I’m always on the lookout for a reason to be optimistic.”

  “How’s your partner?”

  His expression turned rueful. “Same. But thanks for asking.”

  A family of six bustled in and ordered cones all around, the smallest ones barely able to see into the display case of forty-two flavors. A smile pulled at her mouth as she remembered the joy of handing a cone of blue or pink ice cream to a toddler. Ice cream could cajole anyone out of a bad mood—except her, it seemed.

  “So, Detective, what does your family think about your being on the road like this?”

  He scratched his head. “My parents haven’t kept tabs on me for a while now.” Then he smiled, which caught her off guard. “Oh, wait, you’re asking if I’m married.”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “No, never been. You?”

  “No.”

  “Not all men are as bad as the thugs you’ve dealt with in the Rescue program.”

  She pursed her mouth.

  “That subject is off-limits, too, I suppose. Okay. So what do you plan to do once you get back to Biloxi? For a living, I mean.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  He spooned up a last hefty mound of pistachio ice cream. “I feel bad about getting you fired, thought I might help you find a job. Something in law enforcement, or maybe in the courthouse.”

  Courthouse? “You’ve been talking to my father.”

  “Did he want you to go to law school?”

  She nodded.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She shrugged. “It seemed like an indirect route to contributing to society.”

  “You don’t strike me as someone who would have chased ambulances.” He cocked his head. “Maybe a… prosecuting attorney.”

  She stopped mid-sip. One item on her life list that she’d written under the influence of cheap marijuana. She managed a laugh. “I don’t think so. Thanks for the offer to help, Detective, but I’m not going back to Biloxi.”

  “Oh.” He mulled the news, then pushed the ice-cream bowl away. “Where are you moving?”

  She shrugged.

  “Here? With that Dr. Carl guy that you’re so ga-ga over?”

  Roxann lifted an eyebrow. “Ga-ga. Now there’s a word I would have bet wasn’t in your vocabulary.”

  Suddenly his face turned serious. “The guy’s a player, Roxann.”

  “What?”

  “Your professor—he’s a dirty old man who likes to nail young women.”

  Roxann went still. “That’s a filthy thing to say. You don’t even know him.”

  “I don
’t have to—there’s one in every college in this country, from the Ivy Leagues down to the rinky-dinks.”

  “One what?”

  “One horndog professor who makes it with all the busty girls in his classes.”

  Disgusted, Roxann shook her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, no? I overheard two girls at the bachelor auction trading stories about the man, and they weren’t G-rated.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She gestured helplessly in the air. “Then they were lying.”

  “Did you think you were the only girl he was doing when you were here?”

  She lunged to her feet, and his jacket fell to the tiled floor. “Take me back.”

  “Look, I shouldn’t have said that—”

  “Now, Detective. Or I’ll walk.”

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then slowly pushed himself to his feet and retrieved his jacket. “Whatever you say.”

  She walked out ahead of him, back straight. The ugly things he’d said kept going through her mind. Sure, Carl had lots of admirers, but he would never… he hadn’t tried to take advantage of her, and heaven knows she was so crazy about him, she would have been easy pickings.

  No, it wasn’t true. He was a deacon, and a decent man whose job and position meant everything to him. He was human, and she assumed he wasn’t a monk, but if he wanted girlfriends, he wouldn’t have to dip into the student population.

  Capistrano opened the door and offered her a hand up. She ignored him and struggled, finally falling into the seat. He closed the door, and walked around the front of the truck. Big, slow, confident. The man was too arrogant for words.

  He opened the door and swung up into his seat, then closed the door and sat in silence while the clock in the dashboard ticked off several loud seconds. “I’m sorry. Everyone has someone in their past they put on a pedestal. I didn’t mean to insult you. I could be wrong.”

  “You are.”

  “I hope so,” he said, then cranked the engine. They didn’t speak on the way back. He found a country radio station and occasionally whistled under his breath. She couldn’t wait to get away from him.

  When he pulled up to Nell’s, he reached over to open the door for her, then hesitated. “I guess I’ve blown any chance I had with you.”

  She stared, incredulous. “You never had a chance with me.”

  He sighed. “It’s the scampi, isn’t it? I knew I should have stayed away from the garlic.”

  She fumbled for the handle. “You’re a raving lunatic, and if you ever come around me again, I’ll file a complaint.”

  “I’m leaving in the morning,” he said. “But tonight I’m staying at the Holiday Inn if you need anything.”

  She grimaced. “Why, you gutter-minded—”

  “I mean in the unlikely event that Cape shows up.”

  “Oh.”

  “And in the unlikely event you change your mind about… anything else, here’s my number.”

  I’ve got your number.

  The plain white card with simple black lettering glowed in the dim cab light. She snatched it, then opened the door and slid down, twisting her ankle. She cursed under her breath, then limped around the front of the truck to the sidewalk.

  The window zoomed down. “Oh, and one more thing, Roxann.”

  She sighed and didn’t bother turning around. “What?”

  “Good luck on number thirty-three.”

  She whirled and gaped. He held up a sheet of paper between forefinger and thumb. Her life list. Mortification flooded her chest.

  “Give me that.” She lunged for the window, but he snatched the list out of reach and had the nerve to grin.

  “Maybe I’ll hang on to this little gem as collateral.”

  She ground her teeth. “You can’t possibly think I’d give you information in return for some stupid list I made in college.”

  He pursed his mouth. “I don’t know—it has some pretty juicy stuff on it.”

  “You’re despicable.”

  “And you’re very ambitious.” He looked at the list. “At least you used to be.”

  “Just immature musings,” she said through clenched teeth. “Private immature musings.”

  “If they were so private, you should’ve been more careful than to lose it outside the ladies’ room at the carnival.”

  She must have pulled it out of her purse when she removed her keys as they were making their escape. Anger and frustration clogged her throat when she pictured him reading her list, laughing at her. “You… you—”

  “Here.” He held the handwritten list out the window. It whipped and curled in the breeze at the end of his long arm. “Take it. I don’t know why I thought you’d have a sense of humor about this.”

  Another slap in the face. She yanked the list from his fingers and wadded it into a ball.

  “Goodbye,” he said, with one arm hooked around the steering wheel. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” When she didn’t answer, he shrugged. “Or not.”

  He pulled away from the curb, and she watched until his taillights disappeared. She set her jaw and growled in lieu of screeching at the top of her lungs. As her anger swelled, every muscle contracted, and she stiffened in juvenile frustration, gearing up for an all-out tantrum before she realized how ridiculous she must look. So she settled for banging her fists against her head until she saw stars. Finally, she marched to the house, already cursing Capistrano for the sleep she wouldn’t get tonight. He had a lot of nerve saying those horrible things about Carl. And laughing at her dreams.

  The house was dark when she stepped inside except for a night-light Nell had graciously left on near the hallway. She stood in the shadows and listened for signs that Nell was still awake, but didn’t hear anything. A touch on her leg sent terror bolting through her until she realized that it was just one of the cats copping a nib. Chester, the one that Nell doted on. Roxann indulged him for a few seconds, then tiptoed into the room she shared with Angora, not sure how she would handle the conversation about Carl. Now that she realized Angora had a crush on him, things could get awkward.

  But the awkward conversation would have to wait because Angora wasn’t there. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was only midnight, and the clubs didn’t close until one, so she wasn’t concerned.

  And she wasn’t about to let her imagination take hold of the dirty things Capistrano had said about Carl and run with them. Even if Angora was hell-bent on losing her virginity, Carl was much too noble to take advantage of her, especially considering the girls were related. Roxann lay down on top of the covers, replaying her conversations with Nell and Capistrano. Both of them had hinted that her character judgment was skewed. Was it possible that… no. Carl wasn’t a philanderer any more than Angora was a murderer.

  The phone on the nightstand rang, startling her. She picked it up automatically, then remembered she was a guest in someone else’s house. “Dr. Oney’s residence.”

  “Roxann? I… I need to see you.”

  Her first thought was that it was Angora, but the voice was wrong, and the wording strange. “Who is this?”

  “Elise.” She sighed, the dramatic sigh of someone under the influence trying to gather their thoughts. “I have to tell you… everything.”

  “What, Elise?”

  “Not now, I’m not thinking very good. Well. I’m not thinking very well. Tomorrow… meet me at the chapel tomorrow at noon. And don’t tell anyone.”

  The woman had trouble hanging up, but finally the dial tone sounded. Roxann hung up slowly, wondering if her ex-roommate would even remember making the call. It was just like her, staging a theatrical apology. Elise lived for drama. Her stories about confronting married men who had dated and dumped her were hair-raising. Elise had issues.

  But then, didn’t everyone?

  She must have dozed because she was awakened by a small rough tongue licking her chin—lapping up trace
s of the chocolate malt, no doubt. She shooed Chester and sat up, noting that Angora still hadn’t returned. The clock radio read 2:15 a.m. Plenty of time to get home after the clubs closed. Frustration and anxiety plucked at her—she didn’t want to think about what her cousin might be doing with Carl. What if Capistrano was right—what if Carl was a philanderer? She doubted if Angora was equipped to lose her virginity on a one-night stand.

  She rubbed her face and made a quick decision. Carl’s house was only a twenty-minute walk—she could go there and put her mind to rest and be back before anyone noticed.

  She undressed in the dark and changed into the jeans she had on earlier, and tennis shoes. A black hooded sweatshirt would keep her from being too noticeable. At the last minute, she remembered her pepper spray and stuffed the can into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. Feeling like a criminal, she slipped out the back door and stole around the side of the house. The streets were busier than she’d expected—Homecoming had brought out the rowdy in everyone, it seemed. She decided to kill two birds with one stone and jog, which would also help explain why she was out at this time of night in case anyone saw her. She felt like an idiot. She was an idiot. They weren’t at Carl’s house, and Angora wasn’t doing things to him that she’d marked with a highlighter pen in that making-love-to-a-man book.

  A half-mile later, she was cursing herself for forgetting a flashlight. The ground was uneven and muddy, the streets dark and sinister. Lord, if Frank Cape wanted her, he could have her now and no one would be the wiser. Thoroughly spooked, she kept looking over her shoulder, but no one emerged from the shadows to gobble her up. The road conditions forced her to slow her pace, but she reached the street Carl lived on in fifteen minutes. The trees were taller and the houses more crowded than she remembered, and the cars parked in the driveways were dated. She stopped at the end of the quiet street to catch her breath, then walked on the sidewalk until Carl’s ranch-style home came into sight. His old boxy black Volvo was recognizable in the shadows, still in good shape.

  The lights were on in at least two rooms, meaning someone was home, unless Carl had left them on. She crept closer, keeping an eye on her surroundings, and feeling a little nauseous. But her need to prove Capistrano wrong kept her moving forward, coupled with her need to prove to herself that Carl was the man she thought he was.