by Emmy Grace
I head inside for some downtime with my animals before I have to make my next call. An hour later, I realize I can’t put it off forever, so I call Felonious, the mysterious teenaged hacker who lives somewhere in Salty Springs.
I think.
“Are you in trouble again?” she asks by way of answering the phone.
“Not me, per se. I just need your help.”
“If I actually charged you, I’d be able to pay all my bills just from helping you.”
“I guess it’s a good thing you don’t charge then.” Sometimes I wish she would. It would be much simpler—and more predictable—than the strange things she has me do as payment. I can only imagine what she might have in store for me this time. “Do you just sit around making lists of embarrassing things for me to do? ‘Hmmm, I wonder how much Lucky would hate parading around town in a bikini for a week, wearing a clown nose and rainbow hair?’”
“You’re not entirely wrong. Sometimes my life needs a little excitement.”
“Well, in that case, I’m glad to help.”
I’m not.
At all.
“What do you want this time?”
I explain about the online orders for the figurines, and how I want to know where the charges originated. I tell her the information I wrote down, but as I suspected, it’s of no help to her.
“I should have something for you by the end of the day.”
As always, she just hangs up. I assume her social skills are so sorely lacking because she spends her time behind a computer instead of out doing rowdy, teenage-girl things. That fact that she needs my antics for excitement and that she isn’t out getting into youth-type trouble makes me feel sad for her.
Since I have the afternoon free, I work on my scathing report and review of the automatic eyebrow trimmer. When I type up the email to Regina, I add a personal note.
This thing sucks! I have one eyebrow that’s beautifully trimmed, and the other is missing in action. And before you ask, I read the directions. ALL OF THEM.
With a huff, I hit send.
When I turn away from the computer, Gumbo is standing behind me, staring up at me with his sweet brown eyes. “How are you doing, big boy?”
I pick him up and rub my cheek over the top of his head. It’s prickly and always makes me giggle. Who knew a pig could be so much fun?
“How about I make us some stew, Gumbo?” He makes a snorting noise, so I add, “Not actual gumbo, though. I’m thinking more like a vegetable soup. You’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?”
I set him down and go to the freezer to check for ingredients. Some frozen squares of chocolate catch my eye. I’m in need of chocolate.
Chocolate cures everything.
Right after ice cream.
Music blares in the background as I cook. The kitchen is one of my happy places, especially when there are either loved ones or animals close by. Ideally, both, but I take what I can get.
I turn down the soup to a simmer and start work on dessert. I’m sliding the chocolate pudding cake into the oven when my phone rings for an incoming Skype call.
“Yello,” I answer cheerfully, smiling into the camera. I know who it is without looking. My adopted grandmother, Beebee, is the only person who Skypes me. I made the mistake of teaching her how right after I moved to South Carolina. This is probably the first time she’s ever called at a not terrible time.
“Chère, what happened to your face?”
I look heavenward. What is it with people and my eyebrows today?
“They’re not that bad.”
I walk to the bathroom and flip on the light. I actually stumble back a step.
Okay, maybe they are.
I don’t remember making them this dark, or this thick, or this…aggressive when I penciled them in this morning. I’ve never seen eyebrows with attitude until now. They’re like weapons of mass terrorization, like they could hop off my face and slit a man’s throat and then hop back on. It’s weird. Maybe this is Mrs. Snuffleupagus’ secret to intimidation—the brows.
Also, I must grudgingly admit that Liam was right. I look like a Marx descendant. And with my blonde hair and fair skin, the humongous brows only stand out that much more.
When I return my attention to the phone, Beebee’s stare is fixed on my brows.
“Want me to wash them off and call you back?”
“Would it be too much trouble?”
“Not at all. I’ve been asked to redo them before five o’clock tonight anyway. Might as well give myself ample time.”
“Okay, but you call me right back, you hear?”
“Give me five minutes, Beebee.”
“Take longer than that, child. Looks like you might need it.”
I agree and hang up.
All this fuss.
Over eyebrows.
I wash off the crazy brows and redo them with a much lighter hand, but they still don’t look right. I wash those off, too, and quickly admit defeat. That’s why I text Regina and ask her to stop by when she has time. She’ll be able to make short—and appealing—work of this.
Two hours later when she walks in, she takes one look at me and doubles over in laughter. I stand in front of her, tapping my foot until she settles down. When she does, I hand her my brow pencil.
“You owe me.”
She takes the pencil, her eyes still watering from laughing so hard. “Gladly.”
I know she’s done a good job when I walk out to meet Mrs. S. at ten till five and she sighs in relief.
“Better?”
“Better. Now I won’t wreck and kill us on the way to the gun range.” She veers toward her detached garage. “We’ll take this one.”
She must be feeling very frisky. Mrs. Stephanopoulos has an old Oldsmobile that she drives most places, but she also has her dead husband’s 1966 Plymouth Barracuda, which she keeps in the garage on lockdown. She calls it her baby and probably loves it more than people.
“Wow! This must be a special occasion,” I say as I duck into the passenger seat.
“The whole town should celebrate your new face,” she says dryly, grunting as she drops down behind the wheel.
“You’re so warm and cuddly, Mrs. S.” It slips out before I can stop it, and I inwardly cringe at what kind of reaction such a comment might earn me.
I’m surprised by the one I actually get.
Mrs. S. gives a short, harsh bark of laughter and is still grinning when she starts the car. “You got spunk. I’ll give you that.”
“That’s one thing I’ve never lacked.”
“We’ll get you handling a gun the right way so you can back up that mouth of yours.” Her head bobs in one stiff nod as she turns to look over her shoulder and back out of the garage. “Otherwise, it’s liable to get you shot.”
Now that’s more the reaction I was expecting.
11
Two hours later, Mrs. Stephanopoulos parks her car back in the garage and I exit, frustrated and hungry. I’m about to make my escape when my landlady says, “You want some supper? I made rolls from scratch.”
In the South, bread is important. Like, almost main-dish important. Homemade bread, even more so. So to say to someone that you made rolls or biscuits is sort of like saying “we’re having five-star cuisine that you don’t want to miss.” For me and my chunky thighs, that’s quite a temptation.
“Normally, I’d love to, but I started something before I left. Would you like to come and eat with me?”
She shakes her head and wrinkles up her trunk-like nose. The very tip jiggles and I think there might be a hair growing from it. “That what I smelled earlier today? You cooking?”
I smile proudly. “Yes, ma’am. I love to cook.”
“I thought someone was burning an old mattress down the road.”
“Oh. Well, it’s just vegetable soup, with a few secret ingredients.”
“Like what, latex?”
“Now you’re just being mean.” I’m still smiling, but bare
ly.
“Not trying to be mean. I’d just hate to see you get sick. That didn’t smell right.”
“I’ll be fine, Mrs. S. Don’t you worry a thing about it.”
I wave and thank her as I walk toward my house. Before I can even get through the front door, a vehicle roars into the driveway. I don’t have to look to see who it is. The engine is deep and gravelly and grouchy.
Just like it’s owner.
I leave the front door open and wave him inside. I talk to my creatures on my way back to change clothes. When I come out, Liam is standing in my kitchen with a strange look on his face.
“What?” I ask as I pull on my sock. “I know it can’t be my eyebrows.”
“No, they look much less…less.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“It smells weird in here.”
“It’s probably the combination of what I cooked for supper and dessert. I’m just getting ready to heat up a bite. You want some?”
He’s hesitant, but still agrees. “Sure.” As I go about getting the giant tub of soup out of the fridge and ladling out two big bowls full, Liam chats. “So, how’d it go at the range?”
“Just fine.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
It’s not so much his question as it is the hint of humor I hear in his voice that has me whirling toward him.
“What did you hear?”
“Old Tom said you dropped your gun into the gallery.”
“It was heavier than I expected.”
“And shot someone else’s target.”
“That isn’t—”
“Twice.”
“That’s not fair. It was—”
“And blew out a light.”
“That gun kicks like a mule. I didn’t think it would—”
“He said you even scared Mrs. Stephanopoulos, and no one in this town has ever seen that woman scared.”
“Oh, I did not. She was fine.”
“She’s probably in her bedroom right now, breathing into a paper bag.”
“Now you’re just being crazy.”
Lord, I hope I didn’t give that ornery old lady a heart attack or something.
“He suggested that if you try again, maybe I ought to accompany you. For safety purposes.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake, it’s not like I’m going to shoot myself in the foot or anything.”
“I don’t think he was worried about you.”
I take the soup bowls out of the microwave and give them a stir. “Fine. I didn’t want to learn how to use a gun anyway.”
“Actually, it’s probably not a bad idea. At least you’d have protection. Well, after you’ve had some practice. A lot of practice.”
“Laugh it up, farm boy. You’d better be glad I don’t have a gun on me right now, or I’d chase you out the door with it.”
I carry the bowls to the dining room table and plunk them down in front of our respective chairs. Liam takes a seat and grabs his spoon almost gingerly.
“It won’t bite.”
His eyes flick up to mine, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he scoops up a steaming spoonful and puts the whole thing into his mouth, without even blowing on it.
“It’s h-hot…” My words trail off when his face starts to turn red. I don’t want him to be permanently maimed or anything, but a little second-degree burn on his tongue might not hurt my feelings too bad.
“You don’t need a gun,” he finally says, shaking his head.
“Pardon?”
“You don’t need a gun. To hurt someone.”
“I don’t?”
“No. Just invite anybody you hate or want to harm over for dinner.”
I stare at him with my most caustic expression. “Then by all means, let me offer you a second helping. And dessert.”
He shakes his head vigorously.
I slurp my own spoonful of soup. I smack my lips after I swallow, testing the flavor. “You know, maybe the cinnamon wasn’t such a good idea.”
“You put cinnamon in vegetable soup?”
“Yeah. I read that it’s a great spice for warm dishes.”
Liam gets up, wagging his head all the way to the sink.
I’m just finishing up eating (I choke down every bite of soup, even though it didn’t turn out as tasty as I’d hoped it would), when my phone rings. The screen shows an unknown number, which tells me it’s probably Felonious.
“Hello?”
“I have information for you.”
“Oh, hi, Felonious.” At that, Liam’s attention perks up and he comes to lean against the counter nearest the dining room. “What did you find out?”
I repeat aloud everything she tells me so Liam can hear.
“The order placed online was rerouted all over the place. It was a professional job, nothing an amateur could pull off. It took her over an hour just to trace it, but she finally got to the point of origin for the order.” Before I can repeat her last statement, I inhale in a gulp of surprise.
“What?” Liam prompts.
“The orders originated at Vilma’s. Felonious said it looks like she placed them herself. She could be our stalker!” I listen for another few seconds. “What? Oh.” I relay the rest to Liam. “She said there’s a good chance it was made to look like that, but she can’t be sure.”
“But there is a chance Vilma could be involved.”
I nod at him while listening to Felonious.
“Now, to the good part,” my hacker tormentor says. “Your assignment.”
I groan. “What do you want me to do?” I listen, my jaw going more and more slack as she speaks. When I hang up, Liam is watching me closely.
“Well?”
“She wants me to put on a performance at the theater.”
“Performance? Of what?”
“The final scene of Dirty Dancing. With Cruz DiSpirito, no less. She even wants it done with the lift.”
“The lift? I don’t know what that is.”
“Haven’t you seen Dirty Dancing?”
“I’m a man. Testosterone swims in my blood. Why would I have seen a movie like that?”
“Why would you have seen a movie like that?” I’m finally able to smile when I tell him, “Because you get to be the director.” I take my dishes to the sink and grab a bag of popcorn from the pantry. “Take off your shoes, farm boy. I’m making popcorn. We’ve got a movie to watch.”
Liam’s expression is all the revenge I need for the comments about my cooking.
Before he left last night, Liam asked if I wanted him to go with me to speak with Cruz. I politely declined. The whole thing is going to be humiliating enough without witnesses. That last thing a guy like him is going to want to do is a free, unprofessional, and extremely derivative performance with a nobody from nowhere. I’m just hoping he will want justice for his girlfriend enough to help me out.
It’s just after ten AM when I knock on his door. It takes him a while to answer, and when he does, it’s clear I woke him. His dark hair is a sexy, tousled mess and his dark eyes are heavy with sleep.
“I didn’t order room service, but I would have if I’d known it came like this,” he says with a slow grin as he rubs a hand over his bare chest.
I’m caught off guard, of course. I was bracing for groveling and abject humiliation on my part. What I didn’t take into account was my lucky charm. I mean, who’da thunk my charm would work on someone like this?
I don’t know if I’ll ever really get used to affecting men this way. Not when there are young, beautiful, thin, nearly perfect women out there and I am none of those things.
But who am I to argue?
It isn’t hard for me to let my lips curve into a smile. I mean, this is Cruz DiSpirito. No one would dare argue his hotness. It is absolute. He’s not my type at all, of course. I mean, the arrogant peacock who flirts with everything from a camera to a teenager. But I’m not immune to the sparkle and awe of it all either. Maybe a little dirty dancing
with him won’t be so bad.
Regina will surely swallow her tongue when she finds out.
“I’m actually here to ask a favor.” I nod toward the interior of his room. “Do you mind?”
Immediately, he steps back, sweeping his muscular arm to bid me entrance. “I don’t mind at all.”
I move past him into the darkened hotel room. It smells of expensive cologne with a hint of liquor. I don’t suppose I need to ask what he did last night. For a star, there’s probably nothing for them to do in a town like Salty Springs except drink.
I stop and turn around, and he’s right behind me, close enough for me to see how long and curly his black lashes are. That’s something I’m going to ask about when I get to heaven. What kind of a cruel joke was it for God to give men such fabulous lashes?
“Oh!” I mutter, stumbling back a step. He reaches out to steady me, wrapping his long fingers around my upper arms.
“Careful. I’d hate for you to fall. Unless it’s onto the bed.”
I stare up into Cruz’s eyes, and honestly, I feel a little faint. Sweet Mary, am I being drugged? Maybe his cologne is a psychedelic or something.
I sway toward him, and he lets me. But then I jerk back, nervously hiking my purse strap further up my shoulder. “Sorry. I got lightheaded for a second.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen it,” he admits with all the arrogance that reminds me why I wouldn’t want a man like this to begin with.
And, just like that, the spell is broken.
“Mr. DiSpirito, I’m sure you want your girlfriend’s killer brought to justice, right?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“And you’d like to clear your name.”
“Does my name need clearing?” A tiny dent appears between his brows. I guess that’s the actor’s version of a frown. One limited by Botox probably. At least Liam’s ginormous crater is real.
“Well, the fact that you’ve been asked not to leave town would suggest that it might need a little help.”
He steps back and crosses his arms over his chest. “What did you have in mind?”
“There’s a…person that is great at providing information, but her fees are a little, uh, unconventional.”
