Killer Chameleon

by Chassie West

  “If anything,” I said, momentarily distracted. I’m a leg woman. Wearing only a pair of briefs and T-shirt, Duck stood barefoot, ankles crossed, presenting one long line of smooth, yummy, brown, well-muscled thighs and calves. He’d make a great model for Jockeys or BVDs, especially with that nice round butt and . . .

  I yanked myself back to the subject at hand. “He left to question some of the people decorating the tree, but face it, what with heightened security and all these days, the department doesn’t have the time or manpower to waste on a prank caller.”

  “Oh, they’ll take it seriously, all right. Think of the number of cops they sent.”

  “I’d just as soon not,” I said, with a shudder. All those uniforms, their weapons aimed at me. I’d be dreaming about that for a while.

  “Can you think of anyone who’d go to such lengths to shake you up? Someone at one of the districts you were assigned to maybe? Think male and female. She might be some joker’s girlfriend he’s asked to help. Because we’ve both worked with a lot of practical jokers, but the women in the department don’t tend to go in for the kind of juvenile behavior the guys enjoy. Smelly cheese in the bottom of a locker, swiping a dude’s lunch while his back is turned, that’s the kind of stupid stunt we pull on each other. But this has a really nasty feel to it. You sure you haven’t crossed someone here recently? You may not have meant to, but—”

  “No, I haven’t. Honestly.” I pulled up short, something he’d said opening up possibilities that hadn’t occurred to me. They rapidly escalated to probabilities. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?” Duck glanced at his watch, then sat down, straddling a chair backward. “You remember something?”

  “Realized something. The dog and cat turds.”

  “Say what?” He lowered his head, gazing up at me, as if over his reading glasses.

  “Someone left a pile of dog poop in front of Cholly and Neva’s a while back and some cat poop yesterday. It wasn’t for them, it was meant for me! Whoever did it didn’t know I’d moved out.”

  “Until sometime yesterday,” Duck amended, “or they wouldn’t have known to call Janeece’s.”

  “Right. That rules out the residents; they can probably give you the precise date I carried my clothes across the hall. Which means it has to be an outsider, perhaps someone in Gracie Poole’s group. They’re members of her arts and crafts classes at the Seniors’ Center and were in and out of the lobby all day, plus hitting all the floors to collect ornaments from people—”

  “A perfect opportunity to leave the cat crap.”

  “Poor Neva and Cholly. I don’t know if I have the guts to tell them. I guess it’s just as well I’m moving out so they don’t ask me to.”

  “Hey, none of this is your fault, at least as far as you know.”

  I waved that away as irrelevant, still trying to work out a plausible scenario. “If this woman helping with the tree just happened, intentionally, of course, to mention my name, sooner or later someone was bound to tell her I’ve been bunking with Janeece.”

  Duck smiled, got up, and planted a kiss on the top of my head. “Smart girl. That’s it, then. So we find out who was in the Poole woman’s group and go from there. Come on. I’ve got to get dressed.”

  I grabbed a banana from the counter and followed him into the bedroom. I still wasn’t used to seeing my bed in here, in fact, got a small jolt every time I saw my furniture in this condo. But of all the items that had been moved from my apartment to Duck’s, the bed seemed as if it belonged here the most. It looked at home, the head- and footboard with their unfussy, clean lines. Like Duck, I realized, who had helped me pick it out back in the spring. We had similar tastes, and on the few occasions we’d been in furniture stores, had always gravitated toward the simple and uncluttered—Scandinavian or Shaker or, like the bed, mission style.

  I patted the pillows to say hello, then stretched out on my stomach to watch Duck get dressed, something I love to do. Truth is, I love to watch him do anything, love the way he moves, like a well-toned athlete, smooth, with a masculine grace.

  Funny thing about Dillon Upshur Kennedy. At first glance there’s nothing remarkable about him. He’s your basic black brother, average height and weight, average looks. Round face, skin the color of Hershey’s (with almonds, my favorite), and dark eyes with obscenely long lashes. What gets you is that he always appears to be smiling, something about the curve of his lips, I guess.

  And he has a way of looking at you that gives you the impression he’s glad to see you and whatever you have to say is important to him. He makes you want to be his friend, which probably accounts for how easily he’s managed to get bad guys to confess. Got a hard case who refuses to talk? Call Duck. The local jails are populated with criminals who spilled their guts to him, yet still yell his name and wave whenever they see him there. In spite of the fact that he was instrumental to their being there, they like him. Go figure.

  As for his effect on women, it can be devastating and something I decided I’d just as soon not think about at the moment.

  He disappeared into the walk-in closet and came out with a gray shirt and charcoal slacks on hangers. “There’s plenty of space for your clothes in there,” he said. “In case you missed it, that’s a broad hint.”

  “It was? Duh! I hope you’ve enjoyed all that room to yourself because that’s over. But wait a minute, honey.” My mind had skittered back to the previous subject. “All the women Gracie had working with her on the tree are seniors. You know how dopey I am about old ladies. I’d probably love them even if Nunna hadn’t drummed ‘respect your elders’ into me. No way would I do anything to antagonize one. And frankly, I can’t imagine an old lady making those calls.”

  Duck snorted in derision as he grabbed a pair of black socks from a dresser drawer and perched on the side of the bed to put them on. “Inside every old lady is a young one, babe. You know how I feel about the b-word, but if one of those old biddies was a bitch thirty years ago, chances are she hasn’t changed.”

  I found myself resisting the whole notion. It simply didn’t feel right. “Tell you what,” I said, undoing the buttons on his shirt for him. “Check in with Willard when you have a chance, and I’ll do some fishing around with Gracie Poole, no pun intended.”

  Duck rolled his eyes at that and extended a hand for his shirt. “Deal. Let’s hope that whoever she is, she’s shot her wad. What are you up to today?”

  I hadn’t made my to-do list yet, so I had to wing it. “Pick up our tickets to Hawaii, swing by the Bridal Bower for my wedding outfit, check to see if my laptop’s been repaired, buy a doormat for Janeece, for a start.”

  “You gonna be able to hang around to let Clarissa in?”

  It took me a moment to switch gears, primarily because it was the first time I’d heard her name. I was also intrigued by the fact that he felt free to call her that instead of Miss or Mrs. Whatever. That was one of the reasons women of all ages fell for him like a ton of bricks. He was always unfailingly polite and never used their first names without permission.

  “I’ll be here. Just how old is this Clarissa person?”

  Buttoning, he appeared to think about it. “Got me. Thirty-five, maybe forty. With her kind of face, it’s hard to tell.”

  “And just what kind of face is that?”

  He smirked and patted me on the fanny. “What’s the matter, babe? Jealous? Well, you should be. I like her.” The smirk segued into a grin. “I mean, I really like her. Man, can she cook!”

  For the first time, I was genuinely concerned. It wasn’t so much that Duck loved to eat as his delight and appreciation of the process of preparing a meal. He had flirted with bankruptcy to stock his kitchen with Calphalon cookware, his most prized possessions. He’d given them to his sister, Vanessa, when he’d taken off back in August to search for his missing father. Once the search was over and he realized he wouldn’t be spending the rest of his life in jail for patricide, he’d taken them back. Vanessa hadn’
t spoken to him for a week afterward. In other words, Duck loved to cook, and the only danger I sensed when it came to competition from other women was from some female in an apron with a box of recipes from her mama.

  “Clarissa has cooked for you?” I asked.

  “Man, she makes a mean jambalaya.” He was enjoying himself immensely. “Never tasted anything like it.”

  Eyes narrowed, I sat up. “Well, be sure you tell her what you want for your last meal by her because she won’t be cooking for you much longer.”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh and reached for his slacks. “Oh, well. For you, I’ll give her up. But don’t forget, you’ve got to tell her.”

  “No problem. And since you’ve had so much fun at my expense, I’ll also tell her you’ll give her a month’s severance pay.”

  He slid his feet into the slacks. “Babe, she’s worth it. Gotta tell you, if we weren’t engaged—”

  I grabbed a pillow and whacked him with it, whereupon he snatched it from me, wrestled me onto my back, and kissed me.

  Duck’s a dynamite kisser, the kind who makes your toes curl. I forgot Clarissa, dedicated myself to the task at hand, literally, since his slacks were around his ankles, and, in the process, made him sorry that he had less than ten minutes to hit the door or be late for work.

  He finally left, and I set about filling up the empty clothes pole in the walk-in closet. In my hurry to get here in time to have breakfast with him, I’d managed to bring only two boxes with me. They didn’t make much of a dent, but it was a start.

  I wandered into the living room looking for something to do until this Clarissa person arrived. There were a couple of hours to fill. I debated running back to Janeece’s to bring another load of boxes, but it was rush hour. Not a good idea. I might not make it back in time. She might not wait, and I wanted to meet this woman in the worst way and begin the process of eliminating her from our lives.

  I glanced around and wondered why I wasn’t as content at being surrounded by my own furniture as I thought I should be. The condos in this building, like the building itself, had all the personality of a shoe box. No decorative features, like molding or chair rails, no ceiling lights except in the kitchen. Sick of all-white walls, Duck had at least painted, a soft green in the living room and guest room, a medium blue in the master bedroom and bath, and a sunny yellow in the kitchen. That was the end of it. Except for his bookshelves, he had had no qualms about getting rid of his belongings to make room for mine, since his had come from a combination of yard sales and Goodwill. He’d done wonders with the little he’d had, and I missed a few of them.

  But ever since his family had been evicted when he was a kid and he’d watched people swipe practically everything they’d owned off the curb, he swore he never wanted to become attached to anything he couldn’t walk away from and not look back. That didn’t apply to his cookware, of course, and except for his desk, which I’d asked him to keep, he’d cleaned out this place in the space of four hours the day the movers were to arrive with the contents of my apartment.

  So now the sofa, coffee and end tables, lamps, easy chairs and étagère, everything was mine. I’d left the arrangement to Duck, who had a flair for decorating I envied. Still, there was something not right about this room. Perhaps if I shifted both easy chairs to right angles of the sofa with an end table between them . . .

  I rolled up the braided oval rug to get it out of the way and began moving things around. Periodically I get an itch to shove a piece from this corner to that, and before I know it, the whole room’s been changed. I knew Duck wouldn’t mind; he was under the impression it was part and parcel of PMS, and I’d never disabused him of the notion. Men can be so dumb about some things, thank God.

  I moved the étagère, then wrestled the couch into a different place. Still not satisfied, I tried another configuration. And another.

  I’m not sure how many I had tried when I heard the knock at the door. Stunned, I checked the time. Nine fifty-five! I’d been shoving furniture this way and that for two hours.

  I groaned, dismayed at meeting this woman who had her tentacles wrapped around Duck’ s heart when I was now sweaty, disheveled, and probably smelled like a polecat.

  “Just a minute,” I called and pulled the neck of my sweater out to get a whiff of my underarms. It wasn’t too bad. Perhaps if I kept some distance between us she wouldn’t pass out.

  Adjusting the sweater, I crossed to the door and, after wrestling with the deadbolt, opened it. “Hello. I’m—”

  “Dillon’s Leigh, of course.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, moving out of the way. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Duck.”

  She peered at me curiously. “Uh . . . I’ve heard a lot about you, too. Look just like your picture. Only I thought you were taller. Oh, there they are!” Waddling in, she grabbed a set of keys from Duck’s desk, leaving a sizable brown grocery bag in their place. “Don’t know where my head is these days. Speaking of which, I wish I had the nerve to wear my hair like yours. When did you get it cut?”

  “Day before yesterday.” I smoothed my edges, dismayed. If she had to ask, I must still have that just-plucked chicken look.

  “Sorry, darlin’, I’ve gotta come out of these shoes.” She plopped herself down on the sofa, shedding her coat to reveal a deep purple sweatsuit. Evidently her shoes weren’t the only things that pinched. Wincing, she tugged off her earrings, bright, dangling mini-chandeliers, then massaged her earlobes with gusto. She leaned over to loosen her laces, puffing a little, and I gave serious consideration to killing Duck.

  Clarissa was perhaps five feet tall and as wide as she was high. Light-skinned with a hint of olive, she had a moon face and full cheeks, her complexion as clear and smooth as a baby’s. Bright, hazel eyes squinted myopically from beneath reddish-brown brows a couple of shades darker than a head full of Shirley Temple curls generously streaked with gray and held off her face by a yellow plastic headband. She was sixty-plus if she was a day, in other words, almost an old lady. And an eccentric one, considering the number of colors she wore. The effect was blinding. I liked her already, just as Duck had known I would.

  “Things are different in here,” she said, toeing off each shoe. “Nice. What happened to the rug?”

  “Over there in the corner so I could move stuff around.”

  She cut her eyes at me in a semisquint and smiled. “PMS, huh? Used to hit me and Sister the same way. What will you put on the shelves of the étagère? It’s awfully pretty to stand there empty.”

  She had a point. Perhaps filling it up might give me the quality I kept feeling was missing from the room, whatever that was. “There’s a whole box of things, knickknacks and stuff. If I can find it, I’ll unpack it.”

  Three horizontal lines zipped across her forehead. “That’s yours?”

  “Everything in here is, except for the desk.”

  She nodded. “That explains it. I didn’t think this room looked like him. Not that I can see it all that good today.”

  It was my turn to frown. “Why not?”

  “It’s Sister’s turn with the eyeglasses because she’s driving today. I took the Metro. Can’t see boo without them. Shoot, we’re both so nearsighted that . . . Uh-oh.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “That wasn’t what you meant by your ‘why not.’” She sighed. “Me and my big mouth. Sister always says I talk too much.”

  “You haven’t said anything wrong,” I assured her. “The room hasn’t felt right to me, and I haven’t been able to figure out what the problem is. That’s why I’ve been moving things around.”

  She hoisted a brow. “You’re sure you don’t mind me meddling? I mean, sometimes folks want your opinion, but only if it matches theirs. That’s Sister, for one.”

  “I’m sure. Feel free.” I propped one butt cheek on a corner of Duck’s desk to wait. I didn’t have long.

  “Understand,” Clarissa began, “you’ve got nice things and I can tell you’ve taken go
od care of them. But it looks like an old folks’ room, child. I had a sofa like this when I first got married—high back and these big round arms—and I’m no spring chicken. And these mahogany end tables. What do you call that? Louis the Something? Or French something? It’s not just that these things don’t look like Dillon, unless I miss my guess, they don’t much look like you either.” Her eyes narrowed. “Bet they came from your mama’s house. Am I right?”

  “My lord.” Flabbergasted, I dropped onto the desk chair. “Of course. I couldn’t figure it out. I’ve had this stuff for ages. Some of it comes from down home but—”

  “Down home? Where’s that?”

  “Sunrise, North Carolina.”

  “Sunrise? Sister and I, we’re from Rocky Mount, but I never heard of Sunrise.”

  “Most folks haven’t. It’s in the mountains. Anyway, when I moved into my apartment, I was trying for the same feel as the house I grew up in. But it’s my foster mom’s taste, not mine. Or Duck’s. And he never said a word.”

  “He wouldn’t. That Dillon’s a sweet boy. Well, let me get up off of here, put that lot in the refrigerator, and get to work. I always start with the bathroom. Makes you appreciate having room to move around when you come out.”

  It took a couple of pushes on the cushions on each side before she made it up, but once on her pudgy feet, she moved with a speed that surprised me. She snatched the big grocery sack off the desk and headed for the kitchen. If that was her lunch, no wonder she had a weight problem. Whatever was in it, it smelled damned good, though.

  I stayed put for at least fifteen minutes, trying to figure out how to resolve the problem with the furniture. The chintz, the old-fashioned lamps. No doubt about it, it had to go. Well, most of it, anyway. There was nothing wrong with trying for eclectic. I’d talk to Duck about it tonight, see if he thought our savings could survive the big chomp it would take to refurnish.