by Mary Hughes
Julian turned so I couldn’t see his face. “Go with Strongwell, Nixie. You’ll be safe with him.”
“But what about you?”
“Go.” His voice was strange, hollow. And though I don’t follow anyone’s orders, I found my feet moving.
I had gone half a block before I realized what I was doing. “The fuck!” I dug in my heels and spun.
Julian and the body were gone.
Chapter Five
“So all I have to do is pick some pretty women and have them to dress up in bikinis?” Detective Dirk Ruffles’s muddy eyes brightened. “And pick some judges? That sounds easy. Not nearly as hard as being a detective. I know who I’ll ask to judge. I bet my uncle’d do it. He likes pretty women, almost as much as I do. I bet he’d say yes. My uncle, and maybe Captain Titus. Or maybe not Captain Titus since Elena found out he’s a pimp, which means he’s manager to a group of prostitutes—”
“Dirk! Heel!” Elena snapped her fingers in front of her partner’s face, stopping the inexhaustible flow.
For about two seconds. Or maybe Dirk was just taking a breath before launching back in. “I was just saying, Detective Ma’am. My uncle the Chief of Police would be good as a judge.”
I stepped in. “Your uncle would be great, Dirk. And the women are already expecting the swimsuit competition. All you need to do is, er, well—” All he needed to do was nothing. But I didn’t want to come out and say it.
“But I get to pick some pretty women, right?”
“Um, no. Actually, all the pre-competition stuff is taken care of.” By my good, efficient friend Twyla Tafel. “You don’t have to pick the women. They’re already signed up.”
“But Nixie, I’ve got an idea!”
Uh-oh. Dirk with an idea was as dangerous as a monkey with a gun.
Now that I thought about it, Dirk sort of looked like a monkey, too. Skinny, with a potbelly. Like an orangutan—well, maybe not an orangutan, because they were apes, not monkeys. Like a chimpanzee…no, wait, those were apes, too. Like a macaque! Yes, those were monkeys. Except, no…no, he really didn’t look like a macaque.
No, Dirk Ruffles looked like Tarzan’s chimp, Cheetah, in a bright yellow fedora. On anyone else the hat would have looked all Humphrey Bogart. It made Dirk look like a duck.
Actually, when he spoke, Dirklet reminded me of Huey, Dewey, and Louie, too.
Elena flashed me a sympathetic look. “What’s your idea, Dirk?”
“That you’d be a perfect contestant, Detective Ma’am!” Dirk grinned like an idiot. “You’d look great in a bikini, Detective Ma’am! Like a Bond girl. In a bikini with a gun belt strapped across your hips!”
Bo, leaning against the wall, straightened suddenly. Growled.
Dirk was either deaf or just plain baka. Despite the obvious imminent danger, he continued blithely on. “What a great draw! My uncle would love it!”
Elena put a hand on Dirk’s shoulder, keeping a wary eye on her husband. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea, Dirk. Um, think of how it would reflect on the department. Captain Titus probably wouldn’t like it.” She kept her tone mild and reasonable, like speaking to a child. Elena once told me crowd control of a thousand drug-freaked groupies at a rock concert was easier than keeping Dirk in line.
I sympathized. I’d gone to school with the Dirkenator. He’d been clueless then, and maturity hadn’t been any kinder to his brain cells.
Under it all, Bo continued to growl.
“You know who else would be good?” Dirk continued happily on. “The Widow Schrimpf. The one you said looked like Lady Godiva? I don’t know what chocolate has to do with it, but the Widow Schrimpf sure looks good in a bikini. I think a lot of guys would like looking at her. Even though she’s gay. But the guys wouldn’t know. And it’s just looking. Not like fondling or anything.”
“Just looking,” Elena repeated soothingly to Bo.
“Not like fondling,” I added helpfully.
The growling deepened.
Dirk ignored it. “But you, Detective Ma’am. In a bikini with guns…yum, yum.”
Elena shot an alarmed look at her husband. Bo was normally the most placid of men. But at the yum yum he bared his teeth. And his eyes had gone that peculiar shade of bright violet that meant he was extremely pissed.
“Dirk!” I rushed between Bo and the clueless wonder. “I’ve been thinking. Elena is right. Your Captain Tight-ass…um, Titus, wouldn’t want the department to call attention to itself in such a, well, commercial way.”
Dirk, mouth still moving, blinked. “Oh. Maybe.”
“No maybe about it.” I saw Bo start to relax out of the corner of my eye. “So instead of you, I think Bo should run the beauty contest.”
Bo snapped upright. “What?!”
“No way.” Elena gave me such a look.
Dirk clapped his hands. “Mr. Strongwell, you’d be perfect. You know all the pretty ladies in town. Elena, Diana Prince, Drusilla—”
Now Elena started growling.
The fact that the Dirkenator endorsed the idea should have warned me. But considering the alternative, I really had no choice. “It’s easy, Bo. Contestant applications are already at local stores. Twyla Tafel is keeping track. All you have to do is pick judges. Almost a figurehead, really.” I heard my voice drop into pleading.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Bo gave me a long, dark look. I thought his eyes were going to drill out the back of my head.
I whimpered. “But Elena can help you.”
“And it’s for a good cause,” Dirk chimed in.
Bo’s frown slewed to his wife and turned thoughtful. “Maybe…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Not so bad?” Elena shrieked. “Not so bad?” She stared at Bo like his brains had dribbled out his ears. “Not so bad?” She couldn’t seem to think of anything else to say.
“Well, that’s settled then.” I used my brightest third-grade-teacher voice. “Bo will run the beauty pageant. And Elena will help.”
Elena turned her stare on me. She didn’t say a thing, but was obviously thinking words too blistering to speak. Either way, now was the time to get out. While I still could.
Dirk’s muddy rasp stopped me. “But what can I chair, Nixie?”
Bo blinked at Ruffles, then sliced me a grouchy look. “Yes, oh great Fearless Leader. What do you have for Detective Ruffles to do?” Just a touch maliciously he added, “Maybe he should help you with planning.”
“No!” I shouted. Dirk looked hurt. “I mean…Detective Ruffles can be far more helpful running…the Sheepshead Tournament.” Which practically ran itself. Hopefully.
“I don’t know,” Dirk said. “Gambling. Captain Titus wouldn’t like that either. Even though he’s a pimp.”
“And Buddy at Nieman’s Bar is already in charge of the sheepshead competition,” Elena said, perversely helpful.
“Yeah, thanks. I forgot about that.” I thought furiously hard. What could the Dirkenator do? The opening VIP reception? No, he’d bore any potential donors to death. What, then? Not the beer tent. Not the corn ’n wienie roast. Definitely not the kiddie games—that was just a lawsuit waiting to happen. I couldn’t think of a damned thing.
I felt frustrated. Not only because I couldn’t think of anything that would keep Ruffles happy, yet out of the way.
I was also frustrated because of Elena’s and Bo’s crabby faces. Because I didn’t like how I was behaving. I didn’t like cornering friends into running stupid contests. It would serve the mayor right if I just quit. Just because he’d known me since diapers…just because he’d offered my band the break of a lifetime…I didn’t ask to run this foozley extravaganza. I especially did not ask to corner friends to run an extravaganza to pay for an overpriced, overrated, snooty lawyer.
As if the thought brought him, the office door clicked open. Julian Emerson strode in, all graceful power and authority. His cool eyes flicked over the room. Disdain curled in that arrogant gaze. The mighty big-city attorney looking
down on our tiny cop shop. Stupid Boston blue-blood. The fact that Julian exuded waves of barely contained sex appeal only made it worse.
All my frustration and self-disgust channeled itself instantly at Julian. It burst through my system as a big, bad mad. “WTF are you doing here, Emerson?”
“I’m here to walk you home.” So cool. So confident. So fucking sensual.
My jaw kicked up. “You going to carry my books, too? And I’m not going home.”
He kept coming. Didn’t stop until he was standing practically on top of me. He was so close I could have put my nose between his impressively huge pecs. Wickedly, I thought about the smudge of makeup I’d leave on his old school tie.
But my quarrel wasn’t with his tie. Well, it was, but right now I was picking a fight with him. I tilted my head so I could glare directly into his eyes. My neck started to kink. I ignored it. “You don’t have to stunt, Emerson. I can walk by myself. I am not a child!”
Brightly, Dirk said, “You look like one, Nixie. A child, that is. Next to Mr. Emerson. Him being so tall and you only reaching up to his armpits. Well, not even his armpits—”
“I am not a child!” I said, stomping my foot.
My cheeks burned like a fire when I realized what I’d done.
It was all Julian Emerson’s fault. Damn the man! His cool arrogance brought out the very worst in me. He was everything I hated. Puritanical and rigid (which my parents called stability). Pigheaded stubborn (which my parents called tenacity). Stifling anything creative (consistency) or fun (soberness). Julian Emerson was the epitome of rigid, stubborn, boring old male. Sober. Conscientious. Reliable.
No—pigheaded! Pigheaded Julian, fixated on my not being alone at night. Feening on walking me to the auditions, like I was some little kid who’d lose her way.
“Nixie…think about what happened earlier,” Elena said reasonably. “You really should let Julian walk with you.”
“Safety in numbers,” Bo agreed.
Julian, damn him, simply grabbed my elbow. “Are you finished here?” It didn’t help that, with our extreme differences in height, he had to look down his nose to see me.
But here was a drama-llama question. Did I defy Julian’s smug arrogance and stay? Or did I escape with him—before Dirk cornered me into putting him in charge of something?
In the meantime, Julian’s square, competent fingers were branding a hole in my skin.
“I’m finished.” I yanked my elbow loose. Julian, unfazed, simply put his strong hand on my waist.
Even though I wore layers upon layers of clothes, his heat burned.
It propelled me into motion. “I’ll get back to you later about the pageant,” I called to Bo and Elena as I escaped. Dirk I ignored. Hope springs eternal.
Only to be dashed. Dirklet followed us out, chattering. “So what do you want me to do for the fundraiser, Nixie? I could run a kazoo contest. Or should I book the polka bands? You are having polka bands, aren’t you? Well of course you are. This is Meiers Corners. Is Guns and Polkas playing? Well, of course they are, it’s your band. But will the Elvis impersonator be singing? I like him, though I wish he could play accordion like that nice Lawrence Welk. Do you think Oprah plays accordion, Nixie?”
Julian took his burning hand from my waist to hold it out like a traffic cop in front of Dirk. Still yammering, Dirk ran forehead first into Julian’s palm and bounced like he’d hit a brick wall. “Detective Ruffles. You have work to do.”
Dirk’s muddy gaze met Julian’s blue one. “I…I have…”
“Work to do,” Julian repeated patiently.
To my amazement, Dirk said, “I have work to do.”
“You need to return now.”
“I need to return now.” Dirk turned slowly around and disappeared back into the detectives’ office.
“OMG!” I stared after Dirk. “That was so Jedi.” I waved my hand in the universal Obi-Wan. “You don’t need to see his identification.”
Julian frowned at me. “I beg your pardon?”
I circled my palm at him. “You know. Star Wars. Obi-Wan and the Storm Troopers. Before they go into the cantina and meet Han Solo.”
His frown deepened. Total incomprehension.
“For goodness sake. Where have you been the last thirty years, Emerson? A coffin?”
Julian blinked. “Do you ever speak English?”
“You’re so daggy. Come on. Let’s get this over with.” I put his hand back on my elbow (better than the waist, and who knew where he’d burn if he couldn’t reach that?). And then, because he wasn’t going to leave me alone, I started off to band auditions.
Besides, I could grill him on the way about Cutter and his gang.
Slowly, I wormed my fingers through Julian’s, anchoring him to my elbow. When I was sure he couldn’t get away I launched my offensive. “So what was that back there, with all the fighting and falling bodies and stuff?”
Julian gave an experimental tug. Found himself well and truly hooked. Grimaced. “Dirk looked fine when we left.”
“Not Dirk, you moron. Cutter. Remember? Scary gang guys, male chest-beating, ancient blah-blah-blah?”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that. What was that all about? Who were those guys? How do you know them? And how’d you make yourself look taller? Oh, and your hands. Did you put something on to make them look like claws? And did you really chop off that Cutter guy’s head, and was that a machete you pulled out of your pocket and—”
“Nixie, please. One question at a time.” Julian’s eyes closed like he was developing a headache.
“Well…how’d you do the snarling cat thing? You puffed up about half a foot and I could have sworn you had claws. And you moved like lightning.”
“Snarling cat thing.” His eyes opened, tracked like he was thinking hard. “Yes, cat thing. How apt. You see, I study kung fu. A form based on animal natures. I appear larger by pumping up muscles, much as a body builder does. Cat-style kung fu also uses something called claw hand.” He demonstrated, his fingers becoming rigid curves.
I squinted at his hand. I remembered his fingers looking sharper, but that could have been the light. “Okay, say I believe that. And the foot-long knife in your coat pocket? Or was it a sword?”
“Chef’s knife. I do a bit of cordon bleu cooking in my spare time.”
“Uh-huh. And you just happened to carry a foot-long thing in your clothes.”
Both black eyebrows raised.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“Yeah. Well. Um, what about Cutter? It looked like you chopped off his coconut.”
Julian shook his head. “Nixie. Think how unlikely that is. A human neck has bone an inch thick. Tough muscle. Tendons and cartilage. And I sliced through that with a chef’s knife?”
“Well…I saw blood.”
“Yes. I hit Cutter in the head with the hilt of my knife. To knock him out. Head wounds bleed a lot.”
“Oh. And the thing you tossed to the rest of the gang?”
“A bundle of cash. A bribe. Good heavens, Nixie, I’m a lawyer, not a superhero. You didn’t think I physically threatened a dangerous gang, did you?”
I flushed. “No, of course not. Oh, look. There’s the club.” Conveniently, for my embarrassment. “Time for auditions.”
The Kosmopolitisch was the Meiers Corners equivalent of the Bronze in the Buffy universe. It had live music all the time. Most of it was pretty lame, but when you were a high schooler, who knew? And really, who cared? For most non-musicians, clubbing was all about drinking and getting laid. The music was just what got you in the mood.
Tonight was normally open mic night at the club. With less than two weeks until the festival, I’d strong-armed the manager into slotting my bands in instead, not that any of the dozen couples making out would notice.
Julian and I got there just as the first band was setting up. It was a group called Death Turkeys—two guys and a
drum machine. You can see why I needed to do auditions.
Before they could strike their first chord there was a click and the lights went out.
The blackness was so absolute I could feel it. Like black cotton balls in my eyes. I remembered the last two times the lights went out and grabbed for Julian’s arm. I clutched fine worsted wool. “What is it?” More attackers? More…blood?
“I don’t know. Stay here.” He rose.
I clutched tighter. No way. No way he was leaving me when there might be muggers, or attackers, or…or something worse.
Julian’s warm hand slipped over mine. Gently, he worked my fingers loose. Before he could get away I grabbed on with the other hand. “My dry cleaner is going to hate me,” he complained mildly, sitting back down. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to wrinkle onto something other than my suit?”
“I can’t see.” Except I was beginning to be able to see a little. A thin beam of moonlight was just dusting the surroundings into shadowy shapes. The band guys milled in confusion on the stage. Or maybe they were trying to play. They strummed their guitars, getting little toy guitar twinkles for their efforts.
The Kosmopolitisch’s manager, Cary Grant, was hopping around like a crazed monkey, pointlessly flipping light switches. Yeah, I know. And if anyone was less like the debonair actor it was this guy. He was short, he was hairy, and he could have played Gimli in Lord of the Rings. But Cary Grant wasn’t the manager’s real name. He was born Archibald Leach.
Anyway, Grant was flipping hard, click-click-click, but nothing was happening. So he dashed to the bar so fast he did a half-gainer over the edge. “I’m okay!” He jumped up and frantically tried various appliances. Empty clicks told me he had no greater success than he had trying to turn on the lights.
Surprisingly, the couples making out didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. Or maybe that wasn’t surprising, considering their preoccupation. “I can see a little,” I amended. “But not enough.” Not enough to see if bad guys were coming.
