Cully stood and took her arm to help her up. The sudden pop of camera flashes blinded her and she cringed. “I feel like I should say something to Mr. Brown or … something,” Bertie said.
“He’s dead, Bert, he doesn’t care.”
Bertie pulled her arm away and walked toward the crowd of people around what she assumed was the kind old man she’d liked instinctively. A policewoman turned to shoo her away, but not before she got a quick look at the crumpled form of Mr. Brown. He was staring at the sky, a look of surprise on his kind old wrinkled face. Blood had exploded from his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
The crowd around him pushed together again, giving her one last glimpse.
“Goodbye, Mr. Brown.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Silence was a third passenger in the ride back to the apartment. A police forensic van had blocked Bertie’s car in the hotel parking lot and she couldn’t find anyone to move it. “It’s just as well,” Cully said, “I don’t think you should be driving.” He took her arm and led her to his car, opening the door and depositing her on the front seat as if she were a precious gift he’d been given care of.
Bertie wanted to scream in horror at the waste of Mr. Brown’s life, to shriek in fear at her own brush with mortality, but she felt stifled by this new Cully who bore little resemblance to the one she used to know. This Cully was reserved, a stranger compared to his former Captain Melon Head whimsy.
In her tiny bathroom, Bertie gingerly peeled back the bandage on her side. She expected to be horrified by her wound, but it really was just a scratch. She’d gotten worse during rowdy sex.
“I suppose I’ll have to wear an underwire bra from now on just to be safe,” she thought, large tears dribbling down her cheeks. She wanted to be comforted, petted and told it was all going to be OK, but she went to bed and cried silently until she fell asleep.
Her role in the shooting had been reduced to “a Beacon-Banner reporter was slightly wounded” in the newspaper the next morning. She read it glumly through tear-swollen eyes across from a monosyllabic Cully. He didn’t look much better than she did – his eyes were red-rimmed and there were wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that she’d never seen before.
She read the story to Cully, who just grunted in between bites of cereal.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” The words burst out of her as her patience with him reached its end.
“What the hell do you mean, what the hell is wrong with me? I’ve been mugged, chased across a field by a bunch of pagans and shot at. I’ve got plenty wrong with me.”
Anger colored his face, pale from lack of sleep, with red splotches.
“Oh, puh-leeze, you weren’t chased across a field and you weren’t shot at. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the one with the gaping hole in my side. And poor Mr. Brown … poor Mr. Brown …” Bertie burst into tears again.
Cully seemed to shrink into himself. His head went down and his shoulders hunched.
“And,” Bertie continued between sobs, “no one invited you to this … this shindig, you asked to get involved, so give it a rest … just give it a rest.”
She ran into the bedroom, slamming the door. She finally emerged after noon after another good cry and a nap. The apartment was empty and silent. A note from Cully said, “Sorry, I’m as upset as you are, I just show it differently.”
She still had a story about the Fat Lady Ball to write for Sunday’s paper so she packed her purse with her notes and started to leave. She turned back and grabbed the bag with Little Miss Spy. “Might as well have some fun,” she thought.
She stopped cold when she realized her car was still in the hotel parking lot. ‘Oh, fuck, can this day get any better?” she asked her empty parking spot. Her budget wasn’t set up for cab rides, but didn’t have a choice today.
Car retrieved, she drove to the almost empty Beacon-Banner. She wrote her story and installed the Little Miss Spy periscope in the bouquet of fake flowers on her desk. By casually leaning over, as if reading something flat on her desk, she could see in her end of the periscope. She adjusted it so that the other end was pointed at Howard’s chair. For good measure, she left another note in invisible ink on his desk “Suck pond water out of a short straw, Howie.”
She felt better.
***
Cully wasn’t home when she got back around dinnertime and he didn’t show up with Bling until almost ten o’clock when she was already in bed. She wanted to ask him where he’d been, but put it off. She decided they’d have a talk on Sunday, when they had the whole day to scream and shout or whatever. “This can’t go on,” Bertie thought.
She’d been asleep for about an hour when she heard rustling sounds in the living room. “Cully?” she asked softly. There was no reply, so she shut her eyes again.
Again, the rustling sounds, this time accompanied by a small bang. Her eyes flew open and she said sat up. “Cully?” she said, louder this time. Nothing. “What the hell?” she thought.
She had just put her feet over the side of the bed when the sounds of something being knocked over, and the click of the front door sent her flying toward the living room.
“Oh, shit!” she said out loud, standing in the doorway. Cully, his eyes glazed and his movements jerky, was trying to open the door out of the apartment by pushing it, not pulling it. All the lights in the living room and tiny kitchen were on, as well as an outside light over the front door.
Cully walked in his sleep when he was stressed.
He finally got the door open and had one foot outside when Bertie started tugging on his arm. If she could get him turned around and headed back toward the sofa bed …
He was muttering something that sounded like “keys, got to get the keys.”
“C’mon, big guy,” Bertie said softly, not wanting to wake him, “the keys are back here in bed.”
Cully was a big man, slender but with a lot of strength. He didn’t respond to Bertie’s tugs; he just continued to push forward, dragging Bertie along with him, like a small tug in the wake of an ocean liner.
Bertie got in front of him and with both hands on his stomach pushed as hard as she could. He gave a loud buuurrrrppp, but slowly started shuffling backward. As they neared the bed, she gave a final shove that sent him sprawling across it. She unbalanced and went down on top of him.
He started thrashing around and Bertie wrapped her arms around him to quiet him. That’s when she became aware of a third party.
She looked up and – “Oh, hell! – Madison stood in the open front door, clutching a big box, his mouth open.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Bertie had a hard time keeping up with Madison in her bunny slippers. After she’d pulled on a pair of jeans, she hadn’t taken the time to look for shoes, just put her slippers back on and ran to catch up with him.
“Could you slow it down?” she asked, puffing a little.
“I forgot you’ve already had quite a bit of exercise tonight,” Madison said, not looking at her.
“You know what?” Bertie asked, stopping abruptly. “Shut up. Just shut up.”
“Me? How about you?” He stopped too and they stood face to face on the sidewalk glaring at each other. A drunk, obviously fresh from a local bar, stopped and watched them, seemingly enchanted by their exchange.
Bertie glared at him, then turned back to Madison. “I didn’t say anything except slow down, you’re the one mouthing off about something you don’t know anything about.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah!”
The drunk chimed in with a forceful “yeah,” almost knocking himself off his wobbly legs. Bertie and Madison turned in unison and shouted “Shut up!” at him. He looked hurt and then wandered away down the street, mumbling “Cheeze, I was just trying to help.”
Madison started walking again, slower this time.
The official name of the neighborhood bar was the Brown Dirt Cowboy, but the neon light in the window blinked an
d buzzed with _rown D___ Cowboy and the locals called it the Round Cowboy. A story-high wooden cowboy with booted and spurred feet leaned an elbow on the top of the front door. His tipped hat and winking eye gave him a rakish look.
Bertie hadn’t yet visited the Round Cowboy and she was surprised to see baskets of tasteful ferns hanging near the windows, Art Deco décor with a Western theme, and tables covered with red-checkered tablecloths and flickering votive candles.
“This is the cleanest neighborhood bar I’ve ever been in,” Bertie whispered to Madison as they made their way to a table. “It smells good, too,” Madison whispered back.
As they passed the bar, a good-looking young man turned, looked at Bertie’s feet and said, “Oh, I love your shoes. Look, John, bunnies.”
Bertie smiled, embarrassed, and continued behind Madison, who seated her at a table near the window and asked her what she wanted to drink. “I don’t really care, how about a chardonnay, if they have it,” she said.
Madison strode to the bar and Bertie looked out the window, her mind racing.
Madison came back with two glasses of wine, a look of wonder on his face. “Some guy just offered to buy me a drink,” he said. “I think this is a gay bar.”
Bertie stifled a laugh. “Gay men usually have excellent taste, you should be flattered.”
“I guess.”
They sat silently while they sipped their wine. Madison’s white shirt was rumpled and wrinkled, and his jeans had a small stain of what looked like mustard on them. He looked tired, his face almost as rumpled and wrinkled looking as his shirt.
On impulse, Bertie reached out and touched the back of his hand. He stared at it, then turned his over to engulf hers. The silence between them continued, but it had a comfortable, less tense feel to it now.
“I’ve been trying to see you since the shooting the other night, find out how you are, but … It’s a rich person’s city, Bertie, we’ve been working round-the-clock investigating who would shoot up – what was it called? – Fat Lady’s Party? But, well, how are you?”
“It was just a graze. Seriously, I took the bandage off already.” She took a deep breath and said, “Madison, look, I know what you saw looked like … well, you know, but it wasn’t, it definitely wasn’t. I’ve known Cully since college, he was laid off, living … uh, rough, and needed someplace to stay.” She wasn’t going to tell Madison that Cully had been squatting in some rich person’s empty mansion. She also didn’t want to tell him, just yet, that she and Cully had been married once upon a time. She chose to forget about their one night of sex altogether.
“I haven’t heard from you in quite a while, is he the reason why?” Madison asked.
“Uh … I haven’t heard from you, either, and you didn’t know anything about Cully,” she replied.
“Bertie, stop equivocating.” He frowned, his handsome Harrison Ford-face taking on a fierce, pirate-ish look.
“OK, Madison, if you must know, I was doing exactly what you hate, I was meddling in the Rowley Poke murder and I didn’t want to argue about it, OK?”
He sat there quietly, finally saying, “I should’ve known, I guess. If anyone dies with three miles of you, you’re there, despite the stupidity of messing in these things.”
“Excuse me, Rowley Poke didn’t die within three miles of me, he died on me more or less.”
“And that makes a difference?”
“I guess not. I agree with you that it’s not the smartest thing in the world to get involved …” She debated whether or not to tell him about the prostitute protest where she just missed being arrested, the mugging, the Big Greasy Adventure, and her “bystander” status at the murder of poor Mr. Brown.
She blabbed it all.
“Oh, yeah …” She added the latest dirt on Howard Schompe.
When she finally wound down, Madison sat there silently. He finally stood and Bertie thought he was walking out on her, but he went to the bar and ordered them two more drinks. She saw him laughing and talking with the young man who’d wanted to buy him a drink.
He put the drinks down, took a big sip of his and said, “Do you know you’ve messed in at least three separate investigations, one of them federal?”
“Oooo,” Bertie said, “which one is federal?”
“I can’t tell you that. I shouldn’t have told you that much, but I’m trying to make you understand how serious this is.”
“Excuse me, I was shot at. The only thing that saved me was my bra. I know how serious it is.”
“What?”
“Never mind, it’s a long story.”
“You’ve put me in a bad position. Again. I can’t stop you legally, and I can’t stand to hear how much danger you’re in. So what am I supposed to do?”
“Feed me red licorice and tell me what a good girl I am?”
“Bertie!”
“OK, OK. So what do we do?”
He sat quietly. “Do you have my numbers in your phone?”
“No, I had to get a new phone after I fell on my last one.”
“OK, how about putting them on your speed dial again. At least I can come to you if you’re in trouble. Again.”
“I can do that. And Madison? I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“I guess I understand, Bertie. I’m sorry it has to be like this.” He stood and Bertie followed him out of the bar.
As they approached IRE LANE, a car pulled up and Felanie got out. Her clothes were askew and her face lined with exhaustion. Bertie got a glimpse of how she’d look in ten years.
“Hi, Felanie.”
“Oh, hi, Bertie.” Felanie sounded as tired as she looked, her usual brio gone.
“Felanie, I’d like you to meet Madison. Madison, this is my friend, Felanie.”
“Uh … Felanie? Nice to meet you.” Madison shook hands with Felanie, who looked nonplussed at the formal introduction.
A car pulled up and, behind her back, Felanie waved it away.
“Well, we’ve got to go. See you soon, Felanie,” Bertie said, taking Madison’s arm and walking away.
“Uh, Bertie, did I just see, er meet – ?”
“Yes, but she’s my friend, so just forget about it.”
Madison laughed. “You are unique, you know that Bertie Mallowan?”
“And it’s a real treat to be so, Detective Madison.”
They walked companionably down the street to his car. He unlocked the door and took out the big box she’d seen him carrying before. “This is for you, Bertie.”
She took it, looking confused. “A present?”
“Yes, sort of. Open it.”
She struggled with the lid, but finally got it open and unfolded a black dress from tissue paper. She caught her breath – it was beautiful.
“You bought me a dress?”
“I made you a dress.”
“You made me a dress? But how? How did you know my size?”
“You wouldn’t tell me so I called your friend Katie.”
“But she’s in Europe. And how did you get her number?”
“There’s cell phone reception in Europe, Bertie, they’re not still in the Dark Ages. And I had her number from when you were in the hospital.”
Bertie turned the dress over. It was beautifully made, better than any dress she’d ever owned. “But you sewed it? Wait a minute, you told me you didn’t know how to sew.”
Madison’s mother and grandmother had been seamstresses for one of the old Hollywood studios, but he’d told Bertie he couldn’t even sew on a button.
“I lied.”
“Madison, I don’t know how to thank you … I’m speechless.”
“For once,” he said and pulled her to him, crushing the dress between them.
“Shut up for just awhile longer, Bertie,” he said and planted a long, hot kiss on her lips.
She felt as though she’d quit breathing. Her legs went weak and his grip on her hardened. The kiss went on. And on.
He finally let go and said, “See you, B
ertie,” got into his car and left.
Bertie stood there, her fingers on her lips, and watched his tail light disappear into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Cully was dressed and waiting for her when she entered the apartment.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“A friend,” Bertie answered.
“That was some kiss for just a friend.”
Bertie blushed. “He saved my life when I was injured last year and we’ve stayed in touch. He’s a cop and he doesn’t approve of me snooping in Rowley Poke’s murder. I don’t know where our relationship stands. Or even if we have a relationship.
She saw his duffel bag by the door. “What’s going on, Cully?”
“I can’t do this anymore, Bert, I’m moving out.”
“Because you saw me kissing some guy?”
“No. Well, yes, that’s part of it. It’s not fair to you; I mean, you told me when I moved in that you have your own life and I accepted that, but having me here in your way, it’s not right.”
“You’ve been acting weird ever since that night we were mugged – no, ever since that night we had sex. Just because we had sex, it doesn’t mean I expect us to get married again or anything.”
Cully looked uncomfortable. “I just don’t feel right about it, Bert, that’s all. I’ve been worried about leaving you, worried about your safety, but now that I know you have a cop around, that makes it OK.”
“You just found out that he was cop, but you were already packed. Gimme a break.”
A flush of red stained his cheeks, but he didn’t say anything more.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“Bling and I will be fine, don’t worry about us.”
“You’re taking the dog? But Annabelle, I mean Khov, asked me to take care of her.”
Cully looked stricken, as if his best friend had kicked him in the nuts when he wasn’t looking. “But … but, Annabelle – oh, whatever the hell her name is – doesn’t want him and I do. You can’t take care of him, he’d be here in this apartment alone all day while you’re working. I can take him with me when I take pictures for the book, and if I have to do some freelance work I’ll leave him in the car in the shade.”
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