Wilson stopped tapping and rolled his eyes.
“Okay, so Russell stinks,” I concluded.
“A few of my other officers claimed they could play, but we had tryouts this afternoon. Fogle, Simmons, Leary—all pathetic.” He went back to tapping a fork on his spaghetti bowl. “Only one of my people did at all well.”
“Oh? Who was that?”
“Tiffany Sass is a pretty good little player,” he informed the cutlery.
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “She’s not as good as me, Captain Rye. I’d bet my Daddy’s cue stick on it.”
Wilson grinned. “No one’s as good as you, darlin.’”
“Remember that.”
He cleared his throat. “I asked Sergeant Sass to pretend to gamble with me, and we play-acted a little. I was the tough guy at the Wade On Inn, and she was the new kid interested in some action.”
Okay, so I may have snorted. The young and nubile Tiffany Sass was indeed interested in some action. Just not at a pool table.
“And?” I had to ask.
“And she had no idea how it’s done. She got flustered just pretending with me.”
“Wilson!” I was beyond exasperated. “The girl—and I do mean girl—got flustered because you were paying attention to her. She has a huge crush on you.”
“Can I help it if I inspire respect?”
“Respect, my a—” I noticed the damn grin and stopped. I was not about to lose my dignity over the likes of Tiffany La-Dee-Doo-Da Sass.
I stood up to fetch the Korbel bottle. “So I guess it’s up to me,” I said as I refilled his glass.
“But it’s too dangerous, Jessie. The last time you got involved in a case, you ended up dangling by your toenails off the roof.” He pointed at the ceiling. “You remember that?”
“Ancient history.” I sat back down and poured my own glass.
“We’re talking double homicide this time. At the Wade On Inn of all places.”
“I put myself through Duke University hustling at places just like the Wade On Inn,” I argued. “I can handle it.”
“You’re out of practice.”
“What? Has the game suddenly gone high tech?”
I might have been a bit sarcastic, but the man did have a point. Hustling at age fifty-two would require a different strategy than what had worked in my twenties.
Maybe my young friend Candy could help? Snowflake could outshoot her at a pool table, but Candy has other talents. Clad in one of her miniskirts, she would provide a great diversion. My neighbor Karen Sembler might help also. What would Karen’s role be, I wondered.
The sound of Snowflake purring distracted me, and I glanced over to find her sitting on Wilson’s lap. Everyone was staring at me.
“I’d place undercover cops in there to protect you.” Wilson stroked Snowflake under her chin.
“Well then, I’ll be safe,” I said and stifled a frown when even I noticed how naïve that sounded.
“What about your looks?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re too easily recognized, Jessie. You do remember how Jimmy Beak plastered your lovely mug all over the news last month?”
I sat up straight and sputtered out a four-letter word.
Right behind my ex-husband, Channel 15’s star reporter is my least favorite person in town. Jimmy Beak makes a habit of annoying Wilson whenever he has a tricky case to solve. And during the pesky week when I had been a murder suspect, he hadn’t exactly ingratiated himself to me either.
“Jimmy knows what’s going on?” I asked.
“Most of it, but he steers clear of the Wade On Inn. He’s scared of the place.”
I sighed a sigh of infinite relief.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Wilson warned me. “You won’t run into Beak, but I bet there’s plenty of people who remember his reports about the notorious ‘borderline pornographer.’” He pointed at me, and I repeated that four-letter word.
“What can we do?” I asked.
He scowled at the top of my head. “How about your hair?”
“I can go brunette,” I suggested. “I warn you though—you won’t like it.”
He pulled on my one-inch blond locks. “I promise not to laugh.”
“Gee thanks.”
“What else?” He leaned back and assessed my person as if I were a batch of spaghetti sauce that hadn’t turned out quite right.
I pursed my lips and waited until he lost the frown. “I can change the way I dress,” I said. “Candy will help me.”
Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Miniskirts and stilettos? The idea is to keep you safe out there.”
I assured my beau a miniskirt was not in my future. “But I can borrow some of Candy’s jewelry,” I said. “The gloriously tacky stuff. And I’ll wear way more makeup than usual, and maybe a pair of tight jeans.”
He raised his other eyebrow, and even I had to chuckle at the uncharacteristic image I was conjuring up.
“What about your car?”
My face dropped. “What about it?”
“You can’t be driving into the Wade On Inn’s parking lot in a silver Porsche with those vanity “Adelé” plates.”
“You are jealous of my car.”
“We’ll switch vehicles. You can use my truck.”
“No way!” I protested. Surely the man didn’t expect me to drive around in his beat-up, rusty old pickup truck? Ugly? You have no idea.
“I’m not crazy about being seen in your car either,” he said.
“Liar.”
“No, really. Everyone’s figured out the Add-A-Lay thing, Jessie. You should hear the jokes that go around the station.”
“My pen name is brilliant, I’ll have you know. It ever so subtly reflects the nature of my stories.”
“Subtle?”
“Your friends are just jealous.” I stood up and shooed Snowflake from his lap. “I mean, how many other men your age have a lady friend whose mind is constantly in the gutter?”
Wilson told me I’m a little scary and buried his face in my chest. “So you’re willing to do this?”
“Of course,” I said as he unbuttoned my blouse and pulled me closer. “But I do have one question.”
“What’s that?”
“Do I get to keep my winnings?”
***
Wilson got around to addressing that last question a bit later. He rolled over from what was fast becoming his side of the bed and fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans.
“I realize this is pathetic,” he said. “But the chief would only allot five hundred cash for the whole Wade On Inn operation.” He counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them on my night stand. “Sorry, Jessie, but that’s all we have to play with.”
Snowflake walked over from the foot of the bed and sniffed the money with what I can only describe as disdain.
“Five hundred should get me going.” I tried sounding optimistic. “But I can’t walk into the Wade On Inn flashing hundreds right off the bat. I’ll start with a few twenties.”
“You’re the expert. But if you lose that, our little game is up.”
“If I lose?”
“Oops.”
“Now I will lose some of it,” I said. “But only to lure the regulars into complacency.” I patted his chest. “I’ll be playing to win, and therefore, I will.”
“Well then, you can consider whatever you win as your official salary, courtesy of the Clarence Police Department.”
I thought about my father and laughed out loud. “Daddy must be rolling in his grave right now.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because, Captain Rye. Cue-It Hewitt’s little girl has managed to get the Clarence Police Department to be her stakehorse. I have the cops—the cops!—bankrolling me.”
I laid back and stretched contentedly. “Daddy would say this is one sweet gig.”
Chapter 3
Who was that vision of loveliness? Who was she?
Trey
Barineau stood at the window of his drawing room, but he barely noticed the hamlet of St. Celeste nestled in the valley below Luxley Manor. For the Duke was thinking only of the lady of the lavender fields, and of that glorious moment two days earlier when he had lifted her into his carriage.
Trey reminded himself he was a gentleman, but he couldn’t help but notice how her bodice had gotten torn. Her left shoulder was bared, and as she leaned forward, he had caught the slightest, sweetest glimpse of her bosom.
The Duke broke out into a cold sweat and had to sit down.
As they drove into town, he had endeavored to engage the fair damsel in conversation, but she was far too distressed and clutched the golden necklace she wore, as if for courage. At last she seemed to relax, and as she released her necklace, Trey again noticed her almost-exposed bosom.
He had gotten a bit distracted just then and lost control of the carriage. As they veered off the lane, the startled lady clutched his arm, clinging to him for fear of life and limb. Thank goodness he had managed to right the carriage before they tipped over!
Trey wiped his brow and returned to the window. He again reminded himself he was a gentleman, but still his thoughts wandered to what might have happened if the carriage had but overturned. Surely the lady would have fallen on top of him? And her frock would have ripped open even further?
The Duke of Luxley stared out the window, but his mind was most assuredly somewhere else.
***
The Honorable Trey Barineau might not have understood what had gotten into him, but Adelé Nightingale certainly did. An Everlasting Encounter had to have at least one vivid sex scene within the first fifty pages or the thing would never sell. So until I concocted a scheme to get Trey and Sarina back together again, in the flesh, the Duke of Luxley would continue to enjoy a hearty and hale imagination.
But I had been writing all morning, and Snowflake was literally screaming for attention. She paced the windowsill in front of my desk until I closed my computer and glanced up. And that’s when I noticed the scene down on Sullivan Street.
“No way,” I hissed and leaned forward to get a better view.
Candy Poppe was out walking her poodle in a purple mini-dress. Candy that is, not Puddles. But even that cute little puppy could not distract me from whom my neighbor was talking to.
“No way,” I tried again.
Snowflake stopped pacing, and together we stared aghast as Candy spun on her stilettos and pointed up to our window.
Three minutes later someone was knocking at the door.
“We’re ignoring that,” I said firmly.
“It’s me, Jessie,” Candy called out.
I eyed the door suspiciously. “Are you alone?”
“Puddles is with me.”
I opened the door, and Puddles bounded in.
Mayhem? The puppy ran to and fro, back and forth, and hither and thither, his tiny toenails pitter-pattering and clitter-clattering against the wood floors. In the space of thirty seconds he managed to find every one of Snowflake’s toys.
But the cat was not in the mood to play. She sprang to the top of the refrigerator and offered a disapproving yowl.
“Did you see us talking down there?” Candy asked me. She threw a kiss to Snowflake and commenced tossing a jingle-bell ball for Puddles. “You’ll never guess in a million years what he wanted.”
“Therefore, I won’t even try,” I said, and before she could enlighten me, I changed the subject. “I need your help tonight, Sweetie.”
I kept my plea for assistance brief for a couple of reasons. First of all, Puddles had gone a whole five minutes without piddling, and I didn’t want to push my luck. And more importantly, I didn’t think it prudent to mention the Wade On Inn at all. Despite the lack of details, or because of it, Candy was willing to help.
I glanced at Puddles, who had taken an inordinate interest in Snowflake’s scratching post. “He’ll be okay alone for the evening?” I asked doubtfully.
“Gosh, no. But Mr. Harrison just loves him, Jessie. He says he’ll babysit anytime I’m away. He says Puddles likes piano music.”
Our elderly neighbor Peter Harrison lives on the first floor, across the lobby from Karen. Once upon a time he taught music at Clarence High School. Nowadays he gives piano lessons in his home. “To stay young,” as he puts it.
I watched Puddles take yet another frenzied romp around my condo and wondered just how youthful Peter Harrison was feeling these days.
Candy and the puppy decided another trip out to the fire hydrant was in order. And while Snowflake reclaimed her toys and inspected them for damage, I called Karen Sembler. I used the same vague approach that had worked with Candy, and lo and behold, she was also agreeable. We would meet at my place at eight.
***
Sally Caperton proved less compliant, however. My hairdresser stood behind me at her station at Charlotte’s Web Hair Emporium and frowned.
“I don’t get it,” she told my reflection. “I thought we decided the blond suits you, Jessica?”
The blond did suit me, but I was due at the Wade On Inn in six hours, and this was no time to quibble. I lied and said my publisher wanted me brunette for my next book.
Sally pouted and ran her fingers through my hair.
“It’s only temporary,” I tried. “I’ll get the official photograph taken, and then we’ll go back to the blond, okay?”
Sally repeated how she hated to do it, but that it was possible.“But,” she warned, “your hair has been bleached, so I can’t guarantee how the brunette will take. It could end up extremely dark.”
Charlotte, the beautician at the other booth, scowled at my reflection as she tossed a cape over her next client. “You better want to be a brunette,” she said ominously. “I mean, really, really brunette.”
Okay, so the experts were not joking. A mere half hour later I was blinking at the new me in the mirror, marveling at how so little effort on Sally’s part could produce such catastrophic results. With my fair complexion, I looked positively ghoulish underneath this deep brunette, nay black, head of hair.
“Perpetual Pleasures Press wants me to look dramatic,” I squeaked once I had regained my voice. I appealed to Sally, and Charlotte, and the woman sitting in Charlotte’s chair, hoping someone would agree I looked dramatic.
No such luck.
And the more we stared, the darker it seemed to get. Even Charlotte’s client, a woman with sheets of foil decorating her head and smelling of peroxide, looked better than I.
“While we’re at it, Sally.” I remained resolute. “Would you comb it back, away from my face? Maybe use mousse or gel?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Dramatic,” I said firmly, and she reached for the mousse.
Five minutes later we were marveling at how much worse a little mousse could make things.
Sally managed a weak smile, and in a strained voice explained how she would eventually pull me out of this hideous hair hell. She swore that since my hair is so short, it would only take twelve weeks to get me back to blond.
“Three cuts and colors.” She held up three fingers and offered a brisk nod. “And we’ll have you looking normal again.”
I resigned myself to living with abnormal for three months as Sally whisked off my cape.
“I can’t quite place it.” She rested a hand on my shoulder to keep me seated. “But with your hair like that you remind me of a TV star, Jessica. From an old sitcom, maybe?”
She and Charlotte squinted at me in the mirror. “Someone from the sixties,” Charlotte said.
“They run the repeats on cable,” the woman in foil chimed in. “What show is that?”
The three of them kept scowling and squinting.
“It’ll come to me.” Sally twirled the chair around, and I stood up.
I paid my bill, but she wouldn’t let me leave until I promised to tell no one—no one!—who had done my hair.
***
Speaking of hideous
, I also had Wilson’s truck to contend with. And no sooner had I driven home in that stupid thing, than I was facing Ian Crawcheck, my lowdown, no-good, conniving, cheating, and altogether despicable ex-husband. He was sitting on the top step leading into my building, apparently waiting for yours truly.
I stopped short at the bottom step. “What are you doing here?” I asked cordially. “And why were you harassing Candy earlier?”
He squinted for a full five seconds before curling his lip in recognition. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”
“Answer me, Ian. Or I’ll call Wilson and have you arrested.”
Wilson likely had better things to do, but Ian took the hint. “Like, duh,” he said. “I’m here to see you, Jessie. I work in the neighborhood now. When I ran into your trampy little friend this morning, I asked about you.”
“Speaking of tramps, how’s your wife?”
Ian’s face dropped, and he stuttered out something I didn’t quite catch.
“She threw you out, didn’t she?”
“How do you do that?” he snapped.
I said intuition, but truth be told, in this instance simple logic would have sufficed. Through every fault of his own, my ex had gotten himself into a heap of trouble during the past few months. He broke several laws, and who knows how many professional and ethical standards, and his CPA license had been revoked.
It really didn’t take much imagination to surmise how his lowdown, no-good, conniving, cheating, and altogether despicable new wife Amanda felt about the demise of his career and social standing.
“What do you mean, you work in the neighborhood?” I had to ask.
Ian jerked his head toward my building. “Can we go inside?”
“Keep dreaming,” I said.
But then I reconsidered the option. I had no desire to invite this man into my home, but I wasn’t keen on creating a scene outside either. We could have walked across the street to The Stone Fountain, but the thought of having a drink in my friendly neighborhood bar with Ian Crawcheck was downright nauseating.
“You look like hell,” I said as I climbed past him and unlocked the front door.
“Look who’s talking.” He stood up and followed me inside, and continued to critique my new hairdo as we climbed the three flights of stairs to my condo.
Double Shot Page 2
