Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  Young, energetic and enthusiastic in spades. But Captain Titus had omitted “brain-damaged”.

  “Really, Ruffles. I’d rather do this alone,” I said for the infinity-plus-one time.

  “Sure thing, Detective Ma’am. You and me alone.”

  I mounted the stoop. Polite hints just didn’t work with this guy. I tried again. “I mean I can handle this from here.”

  “We sure can!” Dirk mounted the stoop behind me.

  “No, I mean you can go back to the station.”

  “And I will, right after we interview the widow.”

  I was being buried alive by a horrible Dirkslide. “Officer…Detective Ruffles. I appreciate the help, but—”

  “Glad to be of service, ma’am. Thrifty, brave and loyal, that’s me. Like a Scout.”

  Like a Scout, or a Saint Bernard? “Just wait here.” I resisted the urge to add, “Stay, boy.”

  “But Captain Titus wanted me in on the ground floor. To charge with the first wave. To be first out of the gate, to run with the leaders, to—”

  “Yeah, okay, I get the drift. Look, Ruffles. I’ve been a detective longer than you.” For all of three weeks, but still. “Let me do the talking, hmm?”

  “But Detective Ma’am. We could do good cop, bad cop. I’d be the bad cop. Not that you couldn’t handle it. After all, a girl can be every bit as good as a guy, or bad as a guy in this case, except in a different way. Softer, and not as strong, and well, really not as bright—”

  That was too much. “All girls? Even—Oprah?”

  His muddy eyes blinked in surprise. “Oprah’s not a girl, Detective. She’s a goddess.”

  “Look, Ruffles, I’m senior cop. I’ll do the talking.” I hitched mental suspenders and raised my hand to knock. The door was a lot like Strongwell’s. Carved wood, gleaming yellow hardware and beveled windows.

  But the yellow metal was brass and the windows were glass. Not gold and crystal. How could a maintenance man own a better door than one of the city’s richest men?

  I wasn’t thinking straight. Well, with Dirkenstein’s yammering, who could? Bo Strongwell wouldn’t own his apartment building. As I put on my regulation cop face and manners I made a mental note to find out who did.

  I knocked. A voice came from inside. “I’ll get it, Martinez.”

  The door opened to reveal Lady Godiva.

  Chapter Nine

  Josephine Schrimpf was naked. Absolutely starkers. Only her long blonde hair, rippling over each breast and fluffing out strategically at the apex of her thighs, kept me from slapping her with a five-hundred-dollar citation for public nudity.

  She stared past me at Ruffles, radiating a sexual heat so strong I had to take a step back. Ruby lips, plump as pillows, glistened. Exotic hazel eyes were outlined black as an Egyptian whore, appraising Dirk as if fitting him with goat hooves and pan pipes.

  It was only after I picked up Dirk’s jaw from the sidewalk that I realized Lady Godiva wasn’t really naked. She wore a peach string bikini under all that hair. An ultra-tiny.

  Or maybe just strategically placed band-aids. “Mrs. Schrimpf?” I said.

  She noticed me for the first time. “Yes?”

  I presented my badge. “I’m Detective Elena O’Rourke, ma’am. May I come in?”

  Next to me, Dirk said, “Ahem.” Really. I swear on my Grandmother Sanchez’s cheese-and-onion enchilada recipe. My eyes rolled. “And Detective Dirk Ruffles. We have a few questions for you about your husband, Mrs. Schrimpf.”

  “Oh.” Widow Schrimpf waved us in with a casual hand. If she was grieving, it didn’t show. “Can I get either of you a drink?”

  “I’ll have a martini,” Dirk said. “Just a hint of vermouth. With an olive. And—”

  “Water, please. For both of us.” Where’d this kid learn law enforcement, James Bond Tech?

  “Martinez,” Mrs. Schrimpf called. “Two waters at poolside, please. And another Old Fashioned.”

  Poolside. Very rich and chic. At least Strongwell didn’t own a pool. I hoped.

  The in-ground pool was the obligatory Hollywood kidney shape, for lying around, not swimming in. Mrs. Schrimpf settled languidly into a lounge chair and gave a blasé wave toward two others. She must have used that lounge a lot. The skin showing on her (i.e. most of it) was evenly tan, a deep brown licked golden by the flickering tiki lights.

  Which was fine now, at twenty-something. When she was fifty, she’d be spotted and leathery from UV damage.

  All right, that was catty. But I was discouraged from the captain’s chewing and Drusilla’s disappearing and Dirk’s…Dirking. And it seemed everyone I met lately was either heart-poundingly handsome or rocket-salute beautiful.

  Maybe they all read some article I hadn’t. “Six Secrets to a Gorgeous New You…Unless You’re Elena O’Rourke, Then Forget It.”

  Ruffles clumped over to the chair next to Mrs. Schrimpf and dumped himself in, and I felt cheered. Not quite everyone was perfect. I pulled out my notebook, angled it to catch the flickering light. “Mrs. Schrimpf. You were out of town the night your husband died?”

  “Yes. Attending a fitness convention in Las Vegas. I help Nappy with the business.” A maid shuttled out with the drinks. Josephine took hers without a glance, drank off half. “I was Nappy’s lead aerobics instructor. Until we became partners.”

  Smiling at the maid, I took my water from the tray. A sunny orange slice was deep-sea diving amid a coral reef of ice blue and green cubes. Good grief, didn’t rich people even do plain water? This was almost too pretty to drink.

  So I used it to rinse the coffee out of my shirt. It took most of the glass, and by the time I was done cloth was plastered to my entire front, every asset outlined. My nipples stood out like two little pebbles. Dirk didn’t even notice, riveted to Mount Widow. I did not care.

  “It isn’t called aerobics any more, of course.” Josephine laughed, slightly brittle. “It’s called power walk.”

  “Or step class,” Dirk said. “If you want trendy.”

  That earned a smile from the widow. “Or even cardio kickboxing. But in my day we called it aerobics.”

  I looked closer at her. Fine lines decorated her face, and her neck was ever-so-slightly crepey. A discreet scar ran along her hairline. Widow Schrimpf was not the youthful goddess I first thought her. “You were with your husband how long, Mrs. Schrimpf?”

  “Five wonderful years.” Her voice broke at the end. Finally, a sign of grief. My internal lie meter pointed to genuine.

  Dirk patted her hand. “You two must have been very happy.” I wanted to poke him. Who was doing the interview here?

  She sniffed, slewed him a grateful look. “They were the best five years of my life.”

  I consulted my notes. “I have that you were married four years ago.”

  “Oh, we couldn’t marry until Nappy divorced Cora.”

  “Well obviously.” Dirk patted her hand again. She smiled into his eyes.

  Was this an interview or old friends week? “All right, Mrs. Schrimpf. Who exactly is Cora?”

  “Nappy’s previous wife. Had a face like a dog. In her divorce suit, Cora asked for an absurd amount of money. A huge alimony plus child support.”

  Dirk sat forward, expression all sympathy, if a little muddy. “How old were the children?”

  “What children? Cora had five poodles!”

  “No,” Dirk said.

  “Yes!” Josephine said.

  “The Magic Eight Ball says ‘Maybe’,” I muttered. Which reminded me of when I asked Bo about his name, and found he was so clever (or so attuned to me) he might have been reading my mind.

  Fortunately, these two weren’t Bo. They paid no attention. “Of course, with Cora’s face, maybe those dogs really were her children.” Josephine laughed. Dirk joined her, a sort of snort-wheeze sound. I rolled my eyes and waited.

  While I waited, my brain ran this new info through the hamster wheel. Maybe ex-wife Cora Schrimpf killed Schrimpf for revenge. I ad
ded Cora to my notebook.

  When the widow finally wound down, she rearranged herself on the lounge. “Naturally, Cora didn’t get a cent. Nappy had made her sign a prenup.” Josephine took her time rearranging, displaying most every asset she had. She was rail-slim, but her boobs stood out like basketballs.

  Dirkenstein’s snort-wheeze faded into a pant. He had caught sight of the Rocks of Gibraltar. All these men and their blubbering around big boobs was getting irritating.

  Until I remembered that Bo liked my Near-B’s. Maybe I didn’t have to resort to “Relationship Deflating? Pump Up the Cleavage!” I said, “You weren’t your husband’s first wife, Mrs. Schrimpf?”

  “Oh, heavens, no. I’m seven. Lucky number.”

  Seven wives? Talk about compensation. And some men only bought sports cars.

  And talk about possibilities. I now had six more suspects.

  Then I realized how “lucky” number-seven Josephine was. Schrimpf was fifty-five years old. Seven wives in about thirty-five years meant each Missus lasted an average of five years.

  “Lucky” Josephine was coming to the end of her tenure. And I bet Number Six wasn’t the only one to sign a prenup. If Schrimpf hadn’t died, Lady Godiva here would be naked in more ways than one.

  “Do you happen to know the names of any other ex-wives, Mrs. Schrimpf?” I sat, pencil poised over notebook. No doubt she would know at least a couple, and possibly be eager to implicate them.

  “Of course. Cora, who lasted all of a year. Before her was Carla, the sixteen-year-old. Then there was Candy and Connie and Cathy. They were all models for Playme Boy magazine. And his first wife, Cindy, was the porn star. Apparently she worked with Ron Jeremy.”

  Whoa. That was worse than the L-girls. What was it with Schrimpf? And did his Rolodex only have two letters? “Thanks. Know any of their current locations?”

  “Well, let me think.” Maybe her brains were connected to her boobs, because to “think” she crossed arms under her breasts, plumping them even bigger. Dirk’s eyes bugged out and I think his little mustache caught on fire. “Cindy, Cathy and Connie went into business in Florida, selling hot dogs. They wear really tiny bikinis and skate around. They call their business Go-go Wieners. Apparently they’re doing very well for themselves.”

  “Uh, yeah. Mrs. Schrimpf, that’s a little more info than I—”

  “Nappy loaned them the money to start up. I get Christmas cards from them every year. They seem really happy. I thought, if Nappy ever divorced me, I might join them.”

  “Right.” There went three suspects. “And the others?”

  “Candy and Cora breed poodles in California. Nappy sent Candy to school, you know. To be a vet.”

  “Great.” I made two more hash marks. Apparently Schrimpf was a tightwad—except with heart’s desires. “And the other one?”

  “Carla Donner? She’s on Broad—”

  “Did you say Donner?”

  “Yes. Dieter Donner’s daughter.” She laughed, her chest heaving like a tsunami. “Try saying that five times fast.”

  Dirk obligingly started. “Dieter Donner’s daughter, Dieter Donner’s daughter…”

  But I had made the connection. Not just to my witness, but to my sister. Whose grade-school friend was Carla Donner.

  –—

  I managed to get rid of my Dirkenshadow by telling him I was going home to change. I didn’t lie, really. I only had one tiny little stop to make first.

  The gold on this door was not brass, nor the crystal glass. Expensive, but I banged on it anyway. If Bo Strongwell or whoever owned it could afford it, he could afford to replace it.

  Almost immediately the door opened to Jeeves Butler. I stalked past him into the foyer. The chilly air hit the last bit of damp on my shirt. My nipples woke up, saw Strongwell wasn’t around, and deflated with a mutter. Stupid nipples.

  “Detective! This is a private residence.” Butler Guy flitted after me like a silver moth. “And Master Bo is not at home.”

  “Cool your jets, Jeeves. I’m here to see Gretchen.”

  His wings flapped once before settling down. Butler smoothed a hand over his silver pate. “Oh…well, in that case, my apologies. I’ll get Mrs. Johnson.” He paused. “On second thought, it’s almost midnight. Miss Stella will be in bed, and maybe Mrs. Johnson as well. Perhaps you would come back tomorrow?”

  “I won’t take long. Don’t bother escorting me. I remember the way.”

  “But Detective O’Rourke—”

  I bounded up the staircase, two at a time. Despite the butler’s assurances, I expected Bo to pop out at any second. He didn’t. But I was not disappointed.

  Making it unmolested to Gretchen’s door (unfortunately, my pussy murmured. Shut up, I murmured back), I raised my hand to knock. Heard—running. Some scuffling.

  And a high-pitched giggle, followed by a distinctly male laugh.

  My mind flew to Bo. Not that he was on my mind, I just remembered how my sister acted toward him… All right, he was definitely on my mind. And other portions of my anatomy. Me, me! Down here! To shut her up, I yanked on my pants so hard I gave myself a wedgie.

  Butler Guy was wrong. Bo was here, with Gretchen.

  I shrugged it off with a jerk. Big deal. So Gretchen was entertaining Bo. Six-month widow (with needs) entertaining a man so virile he kept the Rocky Mountains in his jeans. So what?

  So what? I wanted to run away and hide. I wanted to shriek and kick down the door. I wanted—

  More running. More giggling, a child’s. Stella’s? What was she doing up so late?

  But if Stella was with Gretchen and Bo, it couldn’t be too pornographic, could it? I knocked. There was instant silence. I leaned in. Heard some whispering.

  Stella’s voice piped, “Who is it?”

  “Auntie Lena, Starshine. I’m here to see your mommy. Can I come in?”

  The door cracked open and small blue eyes peeped through. “Mommy’s not home.”

  “She’s not?” I tried to keep the shock out of my voice. Gretchen would never leave a five-year-old alone. After the attack that killed her husband, she’d only gotten more protective.

  Except, duh, Elena. Stella wasn’t home alone. Bo was with her.

  Well, Mr. Laugh could be Date Number One. But though I fervently wished otherwise, Bo was more likely. Gretchen wouldn’t leave Stella with a man she’d only known a short time.

  Unless Gretch had known Date Number One longer than a short time, but that meant she’d met him before her husband died which meant…bad things. I couldn’t believe she’d betray her high school sweetheart. So that meant…I was getting all balled up.

  I stopped thinking in favor of doing. I eased into the apartment. Glanced around. “Felt” around with my cop sense. Except for Stella, the place was empty.

  “Starshine. Your mommy didn’t leave you home alone, did she?”

  “Oh, no. Daddy’s here.”

  That did it. The whole “Daddy” thing was just wrong. Steve was dead. What did Gretchen think she was doing, leaving a child alone with an imaginary “daddy”? What was she doing, telling Stella that in the first place?

  Gretch was acting so strangely. All her life she’d been Ms. Abby Solutely Normal. Mrs. American Dream. She married her high school sweetheart, was a stay-at-home mom. She and Steve even had the cute family bungalow inherited from Steve’s grandmother.

  Then bang. Twenty-four hours after the attack that killed her husband, Gretchen sold the bungalow. She moved without a backward glance.

  That was enough to worry me. But what buried the big-sister meter was that it hadn’t stopped there. Gretchen started making other irrational, unnormal decisions. The mugging had messed Steve up pretty bad but she ordered an open-casket viewing. Fortunately Stark and Moss had done a great job piecing him back together. He looked good as new—better, even.

  Then, for no good reason, she’d ordered Steve’s coffin closed.

  At the time I thought she’d get over it. Maybe Dad wou
ld have known better. Because instead of getting over it, she got worse. These days Gretchen refused to go outside after dark. Not for any reason at any time. Not to shop. Not for work. Certainly not to date. Well, not until her wedding anniversary.

  Daddy’s here. It was the thirteenth round in a magazine that held twelve. Maybe I should have minded my own business. But I had to know who Mr. Laugh was.

  So I searched the apartment.

  Trust sure, respect yeah. All that didn’t matter jack when it was my baby sister. So shoot me.

  There wasn’t much apartment to search. Maybe five places a grown man could fit in or under. Only two that could hide a Viking like Bo. I found—nothing. Nobody. Whoever Mr. Laugh was, he had apparently evaporated into thin air. Or he was unnaturally good at hiding.

  Damn. There was that unnatural thing again.

  The front door slammed. “I’m home.” My sister, sounding breathless. “I got pasta for dinner, and a nice Shiraz. Do you suppose…” She stuttered to a halt when she saw me. “Elena.”

  “Gretchen.” I glared at her. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  She paled. “Stella, honey. Go to bed now, sweetie.”

  “I wanna play with you and Daddy and Aunt Lena.”

  Gretchen winced. “Auntie Lena and I are just going to have boring adult talk. But when that’s done, how about I read you a story?” Apparently that was a good bribe because Stella immediately scampered off to her room.

  Gretchen led me to the kitchen, pushing roughly through its tiny saloon doors. She started to pull boxes and bottles from plastic bags. Put them away without a word.

  “Dinner at midnight, Gretch? And what happened to Stella’s bedtime?” I sat at the kitchen table and waited for my sister to say something. Anything.

  She silently stowed groceries, stacking cans of sauce in the pantry, lining up cartons of yogurt in the fridge, as if each item were a carefully placed brick in her levee of normal.

  Her emotional dam might be solid, but mine cracked. “When, Gretch? Steve’s dead. When are you going to tell Stella?”