by Tawna Fenske
“That’s okay. I’m exhausted anyway. Think I could get a ride home with you?”
Drew frowned. “Where’s Dr. Chris?”
“He got called into surgery. Not Dreadlock Dude’s surgery—some emergency hip replacement or something. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be.”
“What about Dreadlock Dude?”
“His mom got here a few minutes ago. They’re back there now, talking to the doctor.”
“They going to operate?”
“Probably not tonight, but eventually. I feel terrible about what happened. He was just trying to help me, and now his thumb looks like a zucchini.”
“He wasn’t just trying to help you,” Drew pointed out. “He was hoping to see you naked. We all were, frankly.”
Violet felt her cheeks pinken a little, and she looked down at her lap. “Even so, he shouldn’t get stuck with huge medical bills for that.”
Drew reached over and gave her knee a quick squeeze. “Moonbeam’s homeowner’s insurance should cover it. And trust me, plenty of men would gladly hammer the body part of your choosing for the chance to gawk at you for the evening.”
“Hey,” Violet said, trying in vain to work up some feminist indignation.
“He’ll be fine,” Drew insisted.
“I guess you’re right.”
She looked up at him. He held her gaze for a moment and Violet forgot everything about blackmail and broken thumbs and psychic drama and just lost herself in those cool blue eyes.
“You look tired,” Drew said.
“I am. Exhausted, actually. How did it get so late?”
“Come on,” he said, standing up and offering her a hand. “Let’s get you home.”
She placed her hand in his and allowed him to hoist her up, enjoying the firmness of his grip. He touched her elbow to steady her, electrifying her skin as they both stood there beneath the glare of hospital lights with their fingers intertwined.
“Thanks again, Drew. For everything.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, and released her hand.
They walked in silence out to the car, Violet shivering a little in the light Portland drizzle. Drew moved closer to her—not touching her, not quite, but close enough that she could feel his warmth.
We can talk on the way home, Violet thought. About Frank, about Chris, about his chat with Moonbeam… whatever the hell that was about.
It seemed like a good plan until she was snugly buckled into the seat with the car’s heater turned up high and the raindrops thrumming rhythmically on the car roof. Violet burrowed into her jacket as Drew backed the car up and turned around. Maybe it was the soft swish of the windshield wipers or the hum of the motor or the soft murmur of Pat Benatar crooning “We Belong” on the stereo.
Before Violet knew it, her eyelids felt like lead. By the time they reached the edge of the parking lot, her neck forgot how to hold her head up.
She woke to the sound of Drew’s voice warm against her ear.
“Violet?”
“Hmm?”
“Violet, wake up.”
She kept her eyes scrunched tightly closed, fighting consciousness as she snuggled into the crook of Drew’s arm. She inhaled the smell of soap and sawdust, pressing her cheek against all that beautiful muscle and soft cotton. She could feel his breath in her hair, warm and comforting, and she burrowed against him. Before she knew it, she’d drifted back into oblivion.
“Violet?”
“Hmm?”
“Violet, I really…” His voice sounded strained, gravelly.
Violet felt his fingers touch her hair, gentle as a whisper.
“Christ,” he murmured.
Violet opened her eyes and blinked in confusion. In the dim interior of the car, she took in the steering wheel, the seat belt, the flash of light in Drew’s eyes. He looked breathless and rumpled and more than a little dangerous.
“Oh,” she said.
“‘Oh’ is right,” Drew said, pulling back a little.
Violet sat up and straightened her blouse. “Well… wow. I’m sorry about that. I must… I guess I fell asleep.”
“That you did.”
“I’m sorry, I’d better get inside.”
Drew nodded slowly, one hand drifting up to skim the hair off her face, one hand gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles glowed white in the eerie yellow dashboard light.
Drew swallowed. “I’d offer to walk you inside, but—”
“No, that’s okay, you’re right. That would be—”
“Risky.”
“Right.”
For a few seconds, Violet struggled to remember why risky was a bad idea. Finally, she took a shaky breath. “All right. I’m going inside now. Thank you for the ride. And the ramp. And… well, everything.”
“My pleasure.”
Pleasure. The word hung there between them for a moment, suspended by a thin, silk thread. Neither of them blinked.
Violet took another breath, fighting the urge to just flip the locks and pounce on him. The windows were starting to steam up, and the rush of warmth from the heater made her want to take her clothes off.
She was pretty sure it was the heater.
“Okay,” she said, and opened the car door. “Good night.”
“Good night, Violet.”
She stepped onto the driveway and was just about to close the door behind her when she spotted his Skilsaw on the porch. She turned back to him, hesitating.
“Your tools.”
Drew shook his head. “I’ll get them later. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Right. I just thought—”
“Violet,” he said slowly, and took a ragged breath. “If I get out of the car and follow you to the door, the only tool I’ll be thinking about…” He paused. “Okay, that was a little cruder than I intended. What I meant to say—”
Violet shook her head. “No, you’re right. Of course, you’re right. Okay, so I’ll take care of your tools…”
Drew grimaced.
“I mean, I’ll just go ahead and shove them inside…”
Drew shook his head. Violet flushed.
“I just mean that it’s kind of wet, so maybe if I just put some sort of cover over…”
Drew closed his eyes and sighed. “Good night, Violet.”
“Good night, Drew,” she said, and shoved the door shut before she could just say to hell with it and lunge for him.
***
The next morning, Violet was at the shop bright and early. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and she had no one to blame for that but herself.
Well, maybe she could blame Drew.
She couldn’t stop thinking about pressing her body against his chest. Or the tease of his fingers under her skirt as they steamed up the windows in the lot at Council Crest Park. Or the feeling of grinding against him on the sofa the other night. Or—
Stop.
Violet shook her head and picked up the phone, frowning down at the caller-ID window. Still no word from Jed. She felt a flutter of relief. Maybe he wouldn’t call. Maybe she’d be off the hook. Surely Frank couldn’t expect her to feed lies to the guy if he didn’t call for an appointment.
The phone trilled in her hand and Violet dropped it, startled.
Behind her, she heard a chuckle. Violet whirled around.
“Wow,” Drew said. “You psychics just have to touch the telephone and it rings.”
“Shut up,” she snapped, and bent down to pick up the cordless. “And stop sneaking up on me like that.”
“Hey, I’m just looking for the plunger. Unless you’d like to tackle the women’s toilet yourself?”
Violet frowned as the phone trilled again in her hand.
“I can call a plumber,” she offered.
“No need, I’m a handy sort of guy.”
The phone rang again, and Violet decided to let Drew’s comment slide. She hit the switch and smiled into the receiver.
“Miss Moonbeam’s Psychic Pservices, this is
Violet.”
“Violet, hey… Gary Smeade here.”
“Detective Smeade,” Violet replied without enthusiasm, trying to ignore Drew as he pulled the toilet plunger out of the closet and began twirling it like a baton. “What can I do for you?”
“Good question. We’ve got another situation here. Something I’m hoping you can help with.”
“Oh?”
“Since you did such a great job with the last one and all.”
Violet grimaced. “Right. Right, the bank robbery. What’s happening this time?”
“B and E. Quite a serious rash of it.”
Violet frowned. “Like whips and handcuffs and things? I didn’t know that was illegal.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. To her left, Drew stopped twirling his toilet plunger and looked at her.
Detective Smeade cleared his throat. “No, you’re thinking of B and D… uh, bondage and discipline.”
“Oh, right.” Violet flushed. “I mean, I wasn’t really thinking about bondage and discipline, but—”
“No, I’m talking about B and E. Breaking and entering. We’ve had several robberies in the Pearl District. Pretty close to where you are, as a matter of fact. Surveillance cameras have caught a couple shots of the guy, but he’s real tricky—keeps his face averted, wears ski masks, that sort of thing.”
“Okay,” Violet said, still regrouping after the bondage talk. “Burglary, right. So what do you need me to do?”
“Well, I have a few items we know the guy handled. Everything’s been dusted for prints, but the guy is good—wears gloves, the whole nine yards. But Moonbeam has this ability to touch things and get this sense of who else touched them, you know?”
“Touch things,” Violet repeated, still trying to avoid looking at Drew. “Sure.”
“Great, so you can do that too?”
“What?”
“How’s two thirty? Do you have any openings?”
“Oh… well, I… Let me check the appointment book.”
She set the phone down and walked over to the cupboard, her brain going a million miles a second. This was so not what she needed today. She was already trying to escape the need to lie to a perfect stranger. Now she was going to have to do it with a cop.
Again.
She picked up the appointment book and flipped to the appropriate day. Wide open. Just her luck. She turned and looked at Drew.
“Are you going to be working next door all day?”
“Pretty much,” Drew said, balancing the toilet plunger by its handle in the palm of his hand. “We’ve got a couple guys working on some new routines, so I told them I’d help out.”
“So you’ll be playing music?”
Drew gave her a look. “Without the music, it’s just a bunch of half-naked men gyrating around the room. That would be creepy.”
“Right.”
Drew grinned. “I’ll keep the volume turned down this time, promise.”
Violet looked at him for a moment and felt a sharp prick of guilt somewhere in her gut.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, and picked up the phone again. “Detective Smeade? Two thirty will work just fine. I’ll see you then.”
***
Jed Buckles still didn’t call. All afternoon, Violet’s phone stayed eerily silent.
The sound system next door didn’t, which left Violet scrambling for a pen every time a new tune came blasting through the wall. Several times, she had to look up lyrics on the Internet, trying to remember obscure ’80s one-hit wonders from her childhood.
By late afternoon, Violet had a list of glam-rock tunes comprehensive enough to impress attendees at a mullet convention.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” Violet muttered to herself as she tried to puzzle out the hidden meaning behind Ozzy Osbourne’s “You Can’t Kill Rock and Roll” and Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian.”
“Something about murder? Church?” she muttered again, tapping the pen against her teeth.
Maybe there was no meaning. Hell, it’s not like every song had to mean something. Maybe just the ones that played during key moments? She was pretty sure Drew had to be the one picking the songs. Did she have to be the one to hear them in order for this to work?
Violet set the pen down and frowned. Maybe this whole song theory was stupid. That seemed a whole lot more likely than the possibility there was some mysterious psychic message in Billy Idol’s “Flesh for Fantasy.”
The door chimed, and Violet looked up to see Detective Smeade striding toward her with a black leather briefcase in one hand. He smiled when he saw her.
“Violet, good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, Detective Smeade.”
“How’s your mom doing?”
“Much better, thanks. She should be able to come home soon.”
“That’ll be good for her. How long are you going to stick around?”
Violet toed the carpet, surprised to realize she hadn’t given much thought to the duration of her stay. To the fact that it would need to come to an end fairly soon.
“Probably another week, maybe two,” she said. “At least until Mom can get around okay by herself and start taking appointments again.”
“You’ve been able to pick up enough accounting work to keep yourself busy?”
“There’s been a surprising demand for it.”
“Good, that’s good.” He laughed. “Bet the accounting thing isn’t nearly as fun and interesting as what you’re doing here.”
Violet started to point out that “fun” and “interesting” were hardly the soundest reasons for a career choice, but she couldn’t make her mouth form the words.
“Right,” she said. “So shall we get started?”
“Absolutely. I know you’re probably busy.”
“Actually, today’s been pretty quiet. Just waiting for the phone to ring, really.”
Violet led the way to the back of the shop as Detective Smeade chuckled again behind her.
“Probably helps to know beforehand when that’s going to happen. The phone ringing, I mean. I’ll bet that’s the best thing about being psychic. You’re never caught on the can when an important call comes.”
“Uh… right. Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
They both eased into the red velvet chairs, Violet not feeling any more relaxed than she had a week ago when they’d assumed these same positions. She sat there for a moment, noticing the sound system next door had fallen silent.
Shit. No music. Now what?
She took a breath and glanced to her left, where she’d left the notepad filled with songs from earlier in the day. Not a problem. She could still do this.
She looked back at Detective Smeade, who was eyeing her curiously. For the briefest moment, she considered telling him about Frank. About the threats he’d made, about what he’d asked her to do. Maybe that would put an end to all of this. Blackmail was illegal, wasn’t it? Especially from a landlord. Violet bit her lip, considering her options.
No. She couldn’t do it. She had promised to protect her mom’s business, to keep it afloat while Moonbeam was out. And Frank had threatened to ruin it if Violet didn’t tell Jed what Frank wanted him to hear.
Telling Detective Smeade was a bad, bad idea. Besides, what good could come from admitting to the police that she could be bought?
“I almost forgot,” Detective Smeade said, holding out an envelope. “Here’s the check from last time. Sorry it took so long. You know how it is with government offices.”
“No problem,” Violet said as she accepted the check with a fresh pang of guilt. “Shall we get started?”
“Right, right. Well, here’s what I’ve got.”
Detective Smeade bent down and picked up the briefcase. He set it on the table between them and flipped open the locks. Violet watched as he opened the case and began extracting items one at a time.
Violet frowned. “He was trying on makeup?”
“No, it was in a car he broke into. The victim says she left it on the passenger seat in front, but when she came back to find her car had been broken into, the makeup pouch and a bunch of other stuff had been thrown in back. We think it was just in his way.”
Violet nodded and looked at the case in his hand. “Were there any fingerprints?
“Nope, none at all. That’s why I thought maybe you could touch it… you know, get a sense of who this guy is, what he’s thinking. You can do that, right? I mean even if he’s wearing gloves?”
He held it out to her. Violet hesitated, staring at the case in his hand. Maybe this was her out. Sorry, Detective, can’t help you. I can’t get the proper vibe from an object if the suspect wore gloves.
Next door, the sound system was still infuriatingly silent.
Detective Smeade smiled at her. “Moonbeam’s always able to do this, but if you’re not able to—”
“No, I’ve got it,” Violet said, and she reached out to take the little pouch from him. “Anything else?”
“Well, he hit the adult store about six blocks that way,” he said. “He cleaned out the cash register, nabbed a few other items while he was at it. He was wearing a mask, so the surveillance cameras couldn’t get a clear shot of his face, but he did knock over a rack of clothing on his way in.”
“Clothing?”
“Lingerie, French-maid costumes, those little marble-sack underwear for guys, that sort of thing.”
Violet nodded. “So he touched the clothing when he knocked it over?”
“And when he picked it up. Damndest thing, he tidied up after himself. We grabbed a couple things that were hanging on the section of the rack where he grabbed it to set it back up. Here, try this.”
He held out a scrap of fabric and Violet set down the makeup case to take it from him.
“Oh,” she said, frowning. “It’s men’s underwear.”
“Yeah? Boy, that looks uncomfortable.”
Violet frowned. “He didn’t try it on or anything, did he?”
“Nope, he’s not that kind of pervert. He was pretty much after the cash, we think.”
Something stirred in the back of Violet’s mind. She fingered the underwear, frowning. She should probably be humming or faking a trance or whatever the hell Moonbeam did in these situations.
