by Emmy Grace
He just stands over me, looking down into my face with his dark, sincere eyes.
“You hungry?” He bobs his head, snorts once, and darts to the end of the bed to jump off.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I fling back the covers and go first to the bathroom. I grin when I peel off my pajamas to put on real clothes. There isn’t a hair on my body from armpit to ankle. It feels strange, but nice. I can definitely see why women do it.
I’m still smiling when I make my way to the kitchen to take care of the herd. All my pets seem to wake when I do. The fish start circling toward the surface, the bird walks back and forth along his perch, the cat meows and tangles with my legs, Mr. Jingles frisks around at his bowl. Gator isn’t immune either. Even from in here, I can hear his little feet scurrying in his cage. Around my house, we all wake up hungry and looking for breakfast.
The sun is streaming through the windows and I feel just as bright on the inside. Today’s going to be a good day. I’m going to make a discovery at Mayor Dunning’s place and I’ll end up busting this case wide open. And, of course, then I’ll be returning Miss Haddy’s property to her so she can find another sucker to keep it.
After everyone, including myself, is fed, watered, pottied, and coffee’d, I make my way toward the bathroom. Just a quick spiffing-up ought to do it since I took such a long bath last night. I pass my word-of-the-day calendar and stop at it with a resolute nod. “I’m not going to ignore you anymore either. I’m starting over and we’re back on track. Day one and counting.”
I flip the pages over to today’s date. PROGNOSTICATE, it says. To predict according to signs. To foretell.
“I prognosticate that today is going to be amazing and I’m going to catch a killer,” I tell Nemo and Dory when I walk by their tank. Then I bend to Jaws, the betta in his bowl. “I’m a good prognosticator, aren’t I, Jaws? Yes, I am.”
I’m all but singing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” as I turn on the shower and wait for the water to warm. Right up until I step in.
Then hot water meets bare, freshly waxed skin.
And I see stars.
And flamethrowers.
Several of them.
I’ve never been scalded before. Thankfully. At least not on a grand, all-over scale. I mean, I’ve burned my finger a time or two, but nothing severe. But this…this must be what being scalded from head to toe feels like. It’s as though someone has taken me by the hair and dipped the rest of my body into a vat of boiling water. It couldn’t possibly be much different. Every inch of my skin is on fire.
Fire!
I shut off the spray and rip back the shower curtain, screaming bloody murder. I hop out so fast, my left foot slips on the slick bathtub floor and I pitch forward. The only thing I can grab is the curtain that I’m already holding. Unfortunately, it really wasn’t meant to hold the weight of a curvy human, so it does very little to slow my forward momentum. I hear the ting! ting! ting! of the curtain hooks as they pop off, and then I’m falling. Legs fold over the lip of the bathtub, arms tangle in the curtain, upper body goes straight toward the ground.
Lucky for me (see how that works), the last shower curtain hook must be made of titanium or something, because it holds just long enough to slow my descent and dump me onto the bathroom floor with a non-bone-crushing thud. My shoulder takes the brunt of the fall. My left shoulder, to be specific. And that just happens to be the one that was extensively treated with that stimulator yesterday, so it’s still a little numb anyway.
It seems like a bit of a miracle when I get up, unscathed. But when I look in the mirror at my arms and armpits, at my legs and what lies between them, I have to wonder if unscathed is really the right word.
My skin is angry red everywhere the wax touched. And when I say angry red, I mean furious red. Irate red. Five-alarm red. I don’t think it could be redder if someone held me down and colored me in with a Caboose Red crayon.
I do a little turn in front of the mirror. At least my actual caboose isn’t red. One of the few areas I didn’t put wax on. Thank the Lord I’m not a hairy man or I’d have to be medicated just to sit down today.
With great, great care, I dab at my damp skin. To my way of thinking, what irritated skin needs is soothing. Soothing equals lotion. So I smear some on.
It takes about three and a half minutes to realize this was a huge mistake.
An hour later, after another trip into the torture chamber known as my shower to wash off the creamy acid known as my lotion, I emerge, dressed and at least able to walk, albeit stiffly.
Six minutes after that, promptly at ten o’clock, a grumpy knock happens at my door. Gingerly, I swing it open and put on my best smile for Liam Dunning.
He’s looking handsome with his last-night’s stubble and his just-washed hair. I try not to be jealous of how little the man probably has to do to look this good. A swipe with soap and water, a dash of deodorant, scrub with the toothbrush, and done.
I hate him a little bit right now.
But it would never show on my sunny face. “Good morning,” I say brightly, moving slowly through the door when he backs up. I pull it closed behind me and lock it. When I turn around, Liam is standing a couple of feet away, frowning at me. As always.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
“Nothing. Why?”
He doesn’t respond, so I keep smiling and start walking toward the truck. I don’t even want to think about how I’m going to get up into that thing like this. Every slight shift of my clothes against my raw skin is like sandpaper on a rug burn. I’m one big chafed spot.
“What did you do?” he asks from behind me as he reaches around to open the passenger door.
“Do?” I’m blonde. I can play dumb when I need to.
“Yes, do. You must’ve done something. You’re walking like you’ve been trampled by bulls.”
“I wasn’t trampled by bulls. I stayed in last night. Stayed out of trouble. I told you I would.”
He makes a noise of suspicion, but doesn’t say anything else. He just stands behind me and waits. Probably for me to attempt to climb into the seat, which might as well be Everest at this point.
I stare up at it. I’ve never hated a truck more than I do right in this minute.
“Uh, could I get a little help?” It kills me to have to ask, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as it will if I have to try to tackle-climb this thing with what feels like third-degree-burned skin.
When he reaches for me, I hold up my arms, hoping that he can get me up into the cab without touching any of my skin on basically any surface that isn’t air.
I suck in a breath when I hit the seat, mainly because the backs of my legs scream at the contact. I do some Lamaze breathing until the pain subsides, and then I turn a shaky smile to Liam, who is standing in the V of the door, staring at me like I’ve just told him I’m the Dalai Lama. “What?”
He gazes at me a few more seconds before he starts shaking his head. “I know I’ll regret asking this, but is there something wrong with you? I mean, more than the normal stuff?”
“Normal stuff?”
“Yeah. I mean, you’re always kooky and crazy, but this…” He waves his hand at me, indicating me from top to bottom. “This seems weirder than usual.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “And you might as well go ahead and tell me, because I can make this trip really uncomfortable for you otherwise.”
I wish he’d given me that ultimatum before I got in the truck. I grunt and roll my eyes. “Fine. I tested an at-home waxing kit last night. It was painless when I did it, but evidently skin doesn’t like water the next day. Or clothes. Or air. Or life.”
His face screws up into an expression I haven’t seen on him.
“Disgusted or sympathetic?” I ask.
“What?”
“Which are you? Disgusted or sympathetic? I don’t know what that expression means.”
“It’s sympathy. I feel bad for you. You can’t tell the difference?”
“Interpret it however you want. That’s what you’ll do anyway.” He slams the door and walks around to the driver’s side.
Snark. Now this I’m familiar with.
When he climbs into the cab, it looks like he’s suppressing a grin. Or maybe he’s just constipated. How the heck should I know? Liam Dunning is like no one else I’ve ever met, especially no other man.
“What all did you wax?” He doesn’t glance over at me when he asks. He just stares straight ahead.
“You don’t want to know.”
11
Mayor Dunning’s house is as beautiful and extravagant as I would expect from someone like him, now that I’ve met him. It’s a large, gray, stone monstrosity with peaks galore. It reminds me of an old English manor—cold and dank. I’m not the least bit surprised when Liam rings the doorbell and a butler answers. I am surprised by his name, though.
“Mr. Dunning. How are you sir?”
“Good, Drake. How have you been?”
Drake? Drake is a cool rapper. Drake is a guy with swagger and street cred. Drake is not a short, sixty-year-old with a toupee and a Hitler moustache.
“Exceptional, sir. Do come in.” He swings his arm out as he steps back from the door.
Liam enters. I follow behind him, very slowly and very carefully. Fortunately, this house and household seem so stiff, they’re probably used to people walking like they’re trying to hold in a fiery hot enema. Liam seems to have something permanently lodged in his colon. The butler likely won’t even notice my strange behavior.
When Drake closes the door, he pivots and clasps his hands together behind his ramrod-straight back. “Your father has already left for the day. Would you like something to eat or drink before you go?”
What a beautifully polite way of telling us to leave. I glance over at Liam. He appears calm, his feathers unruffled. “I must’ve gotten my days mixed up. My fault, Drake. Apologies.” Liam pauses and turns toward me, as if he’s reconsidering. Spur-of-the-moment. “Actually, would you like a tour of the house since you’ve never been here? We could end it with coffee on the patio before we head back.”
Liam smiles like he’s sweet on me, which in this case is a bigger lie than him pretending he had plans to meet his father. But I know what he’s doing, so when he nods slightly, I turn on a smile as well, beaming up at him.
I lean in and lay a hand on Liam’s chest. If I’m to play Smitten Barbie, I’d better lay it on thick enough to be believable. “That sounds just perfect. Maybe even a little romantic.” I give a breathy laugh to which Liam’s customary frown flickers into place. Just for a second, though, then he turns a casual smile back on Drake.
“It’s settled then. Would you mind, Drake?”
“Of course not, sir. I’ll tend to the coffee. Take your time.”
He walks off so quietly I wonder if the bottoms of his shoes have felt on them so his Oxfords don’t make any sound on the hardwoods. When he’s out of earshot, I turn my impressed expression to Liam.
“Being the mayor must pay a lot better in Salty Springs than I thought, because…dang!”
“It doesn’t. This is more of a stepping stone for him.”
“It’s a pretty posh stone. How does he afford it?”
Liam doesn’t answer right away, which just makes me curious. “He was a successful businessman before he became mayor. That pays for all this.” He sweeps his eyes around the tall foyer. Before I can ask any more questions, Liam turns to stand beside me and holds out his crooked arm. “Shall we? I guess I should give you the tour.”
So formal. I do a little curtsy and loop my arm through his. I lapse into my deepest Southern drawl. “Oh, yes. By all means, kind sir, please show me this beautiful mansion, room by glorious room.” I bat my lashes up at him for effect. He rolls his eyes and clamps my hand to his side. “Ouch!”
“That’s what you get,” he mutters as we take off to the right. He raises his voice for the next. “On the main floor, there are the kitchen, living, sitting, and dining rooms, as well as my father’s office and the master suite.”
I make a show of nodding and looking around. I don’t have to fake being impressed. It’s the nicest house I’ve ever been in, which isn’t saying much. I grew up in the swamps of Louisiana. I graduated high school with three people who lived in cabins that still didn’t have indoor plumbing. Outhouses and wash ponds I’ve seen. Mansions and estates, not so much.
When we get to the office, Liam makes a point of saying he wants to show me some rare books in his father’s collection, since he knows what kind of literary buff I am. Whether he remembers that I really do love to read or he’s just playing the part, I don’t know. Either way, I’m excited to see the rare books.
Slick Willie’s home office is like a den and office and library, all rolled into one. It’s done in dark woods, rich rugs, and heavy furniture. The kind I could curl up on and read for days and days and never want to move.
“I feel like one of the hillbillies, invited to a Beverly Hills house for dinner.” I widen my eyes and round my mouth for my best Ellie May. “Wow, Pa, do you think someone actually reads all these books, or are they just here to be purty?”
Liam says nothing. He just looks at me with disdain as he crosses over his chest, like he’s waiting impatiently for me to get serious.
I straighten up and clear my throat. “Sorry. Let’s get down to business.” He shakes his head in exasperation. At least he has nothing to say. Not that he needs to. He can convey plenty without opening that mocking mouth of his.
I ignore the desk and start looking under the edges of all the wall pictures in the room. “I thought he might go for a wall safe, but clearly, he’s smarter than that.”
Next, I pick up the edges of the two area rugs. “Nothing in the floor either.” Without missing a beat, I move on to the couch, lifting the cushions and putting them back down. When I raise my head, Liam is frowning at me. Other than his eyebrows, he hasn’t moved an inch. “What? They make couches with safes under the cushions. I’ve seen them.”
“Where?”
I squirm just a tad. “On TV.”
“That’s almost as good as the Internet. It must be real.”
If I had a cup, I could hold it under Liam’s chin and catch all the sarcasm dripping from his tongue. Probably enough to fill a bucket.
“If you’re not going to help me, then you don’t get to stand there and criticize. Get on board or get out of my way,” I bluster as I push past him to the window seat. Some of the pillows look mussed, and I can’t see Mayor Dunning grabbing a good book and curling up at the window to read.
I pick up the cushion and see hinges. There’s a lid. I raise it to reveal a storage space underneath, but it appears to be only for elaborate quilts. Maybe something his mother or grandmother made. I press down into the stack, more just to feel them than out of suspicion. Surprisingly, they give a little and then stop. Like there’s something hard beneath them.
I push the quilts aside and, sure enough, there’s a metal box buried under their folds. There isn’t a handle or keypad or lock or anything, though.
I replace the quilts, close the lid, and straighten the cushion.
“Arrrrgh,” I groan as I drop down to my hands and knees to search the window seat. My clothes pull and rasp over skin that is far too sensitive for any of this business.
I take a couple of deep breaths before I move gingerly along the length of the front panel, feeling for any kind of lever or switch behind the molding. When I press the upper right corner of the panel directly in front of the metal box inside, I hear a soft click and it pops open. A hidden door swings open and there, behind it, is the safe’s face. It has a combination dial. Old school.
“Ah-ha!” I throw a smug smile over my shoulder.
“I knew it.”
Liam shrugs one big shoulder. “I could’ve told you where it was.”
“Wh-what?” My jaw goes slack. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Like a fish out of water, my mouth works its way open and closed a few times. I’m searching for something to say, but coming up empty. In the end, I just wave him off and get up to start looking for the code. There probably aren’t sufficient words in the English language to express what I’d really like to say anyway.
I rifle through the papers on Daddy Dunning’s desk, flip through his day-at-a-glance calendar, feel along the insides of the drawers. When nothing turns up, I start looking for other places he might’ve jotted the combination. I check the bottoms of the doodads on his desk for notes or pencil marks or scratches. Nothing. I check under his chair and under all the other pieces of furniture in the office. No sign of a hastily scribbled combination anywhere.
Surely that documentary I saw couldn’t be wrong. If we can’t believe what we see on television or read on the Internet, what will the world come to?
Yes, I’m kidding.
I’m surveying the room, trying to think of another plan, but my brain is stuck. When I turn to Liam, he merely raises his eyebrows and holds out one hand, palm up.
I look down at it. “What’s that for?”
“I think you owe me twenty bucks.”
“You’d seriously take twenty dollars from a woman?”
“If she’s crazy enough to bet against me, of course, I would.”
I can’t really angrily retrieve the money from my purse. My hair-free arms are too sore. But when I hand Liam twenty bucks, I think I have enough attitude on my face to make up for it.
“Take it, ya louse.”
“Louse?” He folds the twenty in crisp thirds and sticks it in the front pocket of his black jeans. “You’re probably going to need a better slur when I tell you this next part.”
I feel my entire face droop. “What?”
“I was in the room when Dad had to get into his safe once. I memorized the combination.”
