Chapter 32
BUTT OUT OR ELSE.
Or else what? This monster would use the cria for target practice? What kind of sick excuse for a human being would do such a thing?
I stumbled over the wrecked groceries and checked my doorknob. Still locked. The smell of fresh paint tainted the scorching afternoon air. I touched a two-inch rivulet of red running below the L in ELSE. Still damp. The brute had not been gone long. Or was he gone? Had I walked into an ambush? Was it Camo Man—the intruder I’d seen leaving Jack’s driveway the week before?
I inched along the outside wall and peered around the corner. No one there. My windows were all locked and there was no sign of tampering or broken glass. I managed to maneuver my groceries through the door without smearing paint on my white dress.
After satisfying myself there was no evidence of an intruder inside, I changed into an old pair of shorts and a tank top and tried to clean the door before Nick showed up. If he saw the scrawled warning, he’d tell Harry, who already had enough to worry about. I scrubbed my fingers nearly raw before I gave up. Although I’d managed to smear it into a barely legible blob, the paint would not come off.
A few groceries survived the free-fall, so I put them away and checked the time. Six thirty. Nick would show up in half an hour expecting me to be dressed for our date. I agonized over leaving the llamas alone while Nick and I participated in this ridiculous mate-swapping charade.
I wasn’t ready to tell Harry about the vandalism, so Hannah was my best hope. She and Johnny were planning to adopt the cria when it was old enough. I called and explained about the spray paint and mentioned I had a date with Nick that couldn’t be broken.
Hannah was torn between worry about the vandalism and excitement over the prospect of my date with Nick.
“Johnny and I will bring a DVD over to grandpa’s house and keep a lookout until you and Nick get home.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? What if the creep comes back?”
“We’ll sic Rufus on him.” Rufus being their lily-livered Doberman.
“You’re kidding. What’s he going to do, slobber the guy into submission?”
“All Rufus has to do is show up and bark a couple times,” Hannah said. “Which reminds me, you shouldn’t be staying out there alone. Why not let Nick spend the night?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
With worry about the cria simmering on the back burner, I contemplated my closet. What in my meager wardrobe would send the necessary signal to the Underhills? Have mate, will swap.
I settled on a sheer white silk blouse over a black lace push-up bra. I left a few extra buttons open, allowing a view of what little cleavage there was to see. A floor-length red shantung skirt slit above the knee on both sides, and the red satin three-inch sandals I’d bought on impulse and never worn completed the costume. I pulled my hair back over my left ear with a fake magnolia blossom attached to a comb. The right side hung free, making what I hoped was a seductive curtain over my eye.
By the time I had applied lipstick and used a tissue to clean a red smear off my teeth, Nick was pounding on my door, yelling like a madman.
“Aimee? What the hell’s going on?”
I yanked the door open and nearly got a face full of Nick’s fist. “Bring it down a notch, will you?”
He stood staring at the smeared message on the door. “What is this bullshit?”
“Just what it looks like,” I said. “Do you want to come in?”
He stepped into the kitchen and started to speak, but then stopped with his jaw hanging open. I figured he’d finally noticed my getup.
“Close your mouth,” I said.
“Sweet … you look ….” At that point he must have aspirated some saliva, because he choked and proceeded to have a coughing fit that left his eyes streaming with tears.
“Water,” he gasped, when he could speak.
Nick dragged the rest of the story out of me on the way to Chez Philippe, but only after I had extracted his promise not to tell Harry. We agreed the person responsible for the red paint had to be our murder suspect. If that were true, it became less likely that either or both of the Underhills were guilty. Unless they were desperate enough to drive out to Coyote Creek to spray paint a cria just before getting gussied up for a double date. Guilty of fraud and sleaziness, no question. Guilty of murder? Doubtful.
“So let’s stand them up,” I said. “I’ll call the restaurant, make some excuse, and offer apologies.”
Nick shook his head. “Not yet. They told you they were thick with Bonnie up until she died. Let’s try to find out what they know.”
“Good point, but we can’t pretend to be swingers one minute then suddenly start pumping them like a couple of amateur detectives.”
Nick grinned. “Haven’t you ever heard of pillow talk?”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
“We can divide and conquer,” Nick said. “The restaurant has a dance combo. Maybe you and old Grover can take a turn or two around the floor while I do my best to charm the lovely Willow.”
“You have no charm.”
“You’ve been vaccinated,” Nick said. “I’m guessing Willow’s not immunized.”
As we pulled into the parking lot, I realized I hadn’t briefed Nick on our pet names—something I dreaded, since he was already enjoying this caper entirely too much.
He walked around and opened my door. I stepped out and scanned the lot. No sign of Willow and Grover.
“There’s something I forgot to mention,” I said.
“Oh?” Nick shut the door behind me and locked it.
“I told them you and I have pet names for each other.”
“You vixen.” Nick’s look would have done the devil proud. “What’s mine?”
“You’re Sundance.”
“Ah, Redford. I like it,” Nick took my arm. “And you are?”
“Princess Moonbeam.” Wobbly on the three-inch heels, I stepped on a small rock and stumbled, catapulting myself into Nick’s arms.
He held me close. “Umm, the sun and the moon. How’d you come up with that?”
I pushed away, regaining my equilibrium. “It seemed cheesy enough to fit the situation.”
Inside, Nick confirmed our reservation while I slipped into the restroom to check my hair and makeup. So far, everything was still in place, even the fake magnolia.
No sooner were we seated with our menus open, than a piercing voice called from across the room.
“There they are, Sundance and Moonbeam.”
Anxiety danced a tarantella in the pit of my stomach as the Underhills advanced toward us. Willow was in the lead, wearing a snakeskin print miniskirt and a black tube top that revealed way too much of the crinkled skin on her arms and upper chest. Grover brought up the rear in faded jeans riddled with phony rips and tears, and a fringed suede jacket he must have stolen from a Buffalo Bill museum. His lofty pompadour and luxuriant moustache both looked as if they’d been touched up with black shoe polish.
“Damn,” Nick whispered. “They’re the Underhills?”
“Still think this is funny?” I murmured.
Before he could answer, our dinner companions reached the table. Grover sat down without bothering to help his wife into her chair.
She seemed not to notice, plopping down and scooting close to Nick.
“Hi, you must be Sundance,” she cooed.
“And of course we already know our little Princess Moonbeam.” Grover reached over and gave my hand a squeeze.
Willow curled her fingers around Nick’s bicep. “Wow,” she said. “I’ll bet you work out.”
“I keep in shape,” Nick said. His bicep flexed under the sleeve of his gray silk polo shirt. I glanced down at the table to hide a hot rush of jealousy.
Willow licked her lips. “Would you like to know our pet names?”
I kicked at Nick’s leg under the table, but missed.
“Sure, why not?” he said.
“I
’m Honey Pot,” she pointed at Grover, “and he’s Pooh.”
She’s got that right, I thought. Neither of them asked for Nick’s real name. He didn’t volunteer it, and neither did I.
Grover waylaid a waiter who was en route to another table with a tray full of meals.
“Can we get some service here?”
The waiter assured us someone would be right over. I wanted to slide under the table, but when I caught Nick’s glance, his message was clear. If we were going to learn anything about Bonnie Beardsley, we had no choice but to humor these socially handicapped perverts.
Grover ordered a bottle of the house red and poured for all of us. He and Willow each finished their second glass before the entrees arrived. Dinner seemed endless. Willow ordered lobster, which she proceeded to rip into with both hands while melted butter made trails from her wrists to her elbows. Grover tackled a prime rib the size of Arkansas. I sipped tomato bisque, hoping it would stay down, while Nick devoured our chateaubriand for two.
“So how’s the pet cloning business?” Nick asked. “Aimee tells me you’ve expanded into a larger facility.”
“It’s not a business,” Grover said. “It’s a nonprofit. We serve a great need in these troubled times. People crave the solace their pets provide.”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “If I had the right pet I could forget all about terrorists and genocide.”
“And the price of gasoline,” Willow beamed. “There’s just too much to worry about these days. That’s where we come in. We offer people happiness in place of all that worry.”
“That we do.” Grover nodded his head toward me. “Our Princess Moonbeam here is on the road to such happiness.”
“She certainly is.” Willow wiggled her butt in her chair. “Did she tell you we’re going to clone her camel?”
“Llama,” Grover corrected.
Nick looked at me.
“That’s right,” I said, “Old Doolittle.”
“Thank goodness.” Nick didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know how she’d get over the loss of that animal.”
“Well, now she won’t have to grieve,” Willow said. “As soon as we’ve perfected our large animal cloning technique, she’ll have a brand new Doolittle in the barnyard.”
“And if that doesn’t work,” Grover chimed in, “we’ll still have Old Doolittle in cold storage. Our cryogenics lab is up and running. All we need is a little more time to work out the kinks, and we can bring that old carcass back to life, good as new.”
“Have you worked with llamas before?” Nick asked.
“No, but the process is about the same for most animals. They’re what, something like a sheep? Hell, this whole cloning deal started with a sheep.” He looked at Willow for backup. “Dolly, the sheep, right?”
“Sheep. Right.” Willow wasn’t really listening. She was staring at Nick like a hungry barnyard cat.
By the time dessert came—caramel pecan cheesecake all around—there were three empty wine bottles on the table. Nick and I had paced ourselves, but Pooh and Honey Pot were sloshed.
We hadn’t really learned anything useful, and my energy was fading. I used what little remained to set the conversation on a new course.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t asked how the two of you are coping with your loss.”
“Loss?” Willow frowned and glanced at Grover, who drew a blank.
“Your friend, Mrs. Beardsley.” I said.
Light dawned on their faces. Grover spoke first. “Of course we are deeply saddened. She was our largest contributor and most loyal advocate.”
Willow blinked. “Damn straight, we’re sad. We’re going to have a hell of a time finding another—”
“Never mind, Honey Pot,” Grover said. He tried for a sad face, but only managed to look dyspeptic. “She gets pretty upset thinking about poor Bonnie.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Willow whined.
Nick leaned back in his chair. “Let’s hope the police can answer that.”
Willow suddenly raised her hand. “I gotta pee.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Let’s go together.”
In the women’s room, we hit the stalls. While we washed and touched up our lipstick, I took another stab at the Bonnie Beardsley connection.
“I’m sorry if talking about Bonnie upset you,” I said.
“Naw, that’s okay. Grover’s the one who really misses her. They were simpatico, but her husband wasn’t part of the deal.”
“And you didn’t mind?”
“Heck, no. Vane Beardsley doesn’t appeal to me. He’s no Sundance.”
“So you and Grover and Bonnie had a thing?”
“It was okay with me. We had ourselves some awesome champagne parties.”
That got my attention. In literature about street drugs, I’d seen the combination of cocaine and marijuana referred to as champagne.
“That’s cool,” I said. “I love champagne parties.” I gave her a conspiratorial nudge with my elbow. “You’re not talking about the bubbly stuff, are you?”
“No way,” Willow giggled. “Grover and I supplied the pot, and Bonnie brought the coke.” She listed toward me. “The real deal. Liquid.” Another bombshell.
“How’d she get access to liquid cocaine? Did her husband get it for her?”
“Heck no, he’s a big prude. Bonnie used to say the old fart would crap his pants if he ever found out what she was doing.”
“Can you still get the coke?”
“I doubt it. Bonnie was the one with the connection. She said she’d take care of us.” Willow hiccupped. “Well, that ship has sailed.”
“When did you and Grover last see Bonnie?”
“That’s the sad part. We must have been about the last people to see her alive.” Willow looked in the mirror, widened her eyes and pursed her lips. “We’d better get back before Sundance and Pooh get lonesome.”
“What do you mean about being the last to see her?”
“We had a late date that Friday night. We didn’t do much, just got high. She complained about how stingy her husband was getting. He wouldn’t let her donate any more money to our cause.”
“So the three of you got high. How did she get home?”
“She drove. Left around two in the morning, according to Grover. I fell asleep early.”
I thought that might explain why the autopsy found evidence of recent sexual activity. Maybe Grover and Bonnie had a little fling while Willow slumbered.
“You didn’t hear from her over the weekend?” I asked.
“Not a peep. Next thing we knew, the police found her in the Dumpster.”
“Did the police ever question you and Grover?”
“Why would they? They don’t know about Bonnie and us. Except how she supported our cause, of course.”
“So you didn’t contact the police—tell them she’d been with you that Friday night?”
“ ’Course not. That would bring up a lot of questions. We’d have to explain stuff that’s nobody’s business.” She reached out and touched my cheek. “You understand about that, don’t you, Princess Moonbeam?” Her words chilled the air, and her touch chilled me.
“Absolutely,” I said.
Honey Pot adjusted her tube top for maximum exposure and gave me a wink. “Let’s get back to those naughty boys, shall we?”
On the way back to the dining room, I silently cursed myself for agreeing with Nick’s dim-witted plan. I double-cursed myself when I realized I hadn’t asked Willow about Verna Beardsley.
Nick and Grover were deep in conversation when Willow and I approached the table. I was dying to get Nick out of there so I could tell him what I’d learned from Willow, but at the same time, I didn’t want to leave until we could explore the Verna Beardsley angle.
“Hi, Moonbeam,” Nick said. He pulled out my chair, and after I was seated, took my hand and kissed my fingertips. “Missed you.”
“D’ja fall in?” Grover said to Willow.
&nbs
p; She jerked out her chair and flounced down.
“Grover and I were just talking religion,” Nick said.
“Oh?” Where was Nick going with this?
“I was telling him about our vow of celibacy.”
I played along. “Oh, that. It’s kind of personal, don’t you think?”
“Sure, honey, but it came up in conversation.”
“Celibacy?” Willow squeaked.
“You know,” Grover growled. “That’s when you don’t have sex.”
“Not with anybody, or just not with each other?” she said.
“Nada, zip, zilch.” Grover said. “They don’t do it.”
“Well, shit.” Willow said. She grabbed her wine glass and drained it. “How long does that go on? Is it like something you give up for Lent?”
“Lent doesn’t start until next March,” Nick said. “Our vow lasts until we get married, right Moonbeam?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Only two years to go.”
“So what the hell are we doing here?” Willow asked.
I shot a look at Nick. He shot one back. I had no idea what to read into it, but figured he had his reasons for throwing a curve ball at the Underhills.
“We were hoping we could get the two of you to join our church,” Nick said. “Shall we join hands and pray?” He grabbed my hand with his right, and Willow’s with his left.
Willow pulled her hand away and stood up. “What are you, some kind of sicko missionaries?” Her shrill voice echoed off the far wall of the restaurant.
Grover signaled the waiter, who rushed over, obviously willing to do whatever it took to be rid of us.
Nick reached for his wallet. “This one’s on us. You can pick up the tab some other time.”
Grover turned to me with a sorrowful gaze. “Some other time.”
Willow grabbed her husband’s arm. “Let’s go, lover boy.”
We gave them a good lead, then made our way out to the parking lot.
Chapter 33
Nick drove while I filled him in on what I’d learned from Willow in the restroom.
“Bonnie was their source for liquid cocaine. I just wish I’d had time to get to the Verna Beardsley angle. Why did you create that story about celibacy?”
Due for Discard Page 20
