by N.L. Wilson
“Just want to get all the information on the table,” Dylan said. “Best way to protect your mom.”
He was right of course. “You know she’s innocent, right?”
“Absolutely,” he answered.
And bless him, I believed him.
Silence.
I’d pretty much been looking at him while we’d been talking. But now I caught myself staring into my wine. Staring into my thoughts. And somehow, now, drifting into the feeling of being so very close to Dylan Foreman.
When I looked at him again, he was looking back at me. Seeing me.
He set his glass on the end table, then reached for mine. Heart pounding, I surrendered it. He placed it beside his, then turned and hauled me down beside him on the bed. Gently. He never would have pulled me hard enough to lie down beside him if I hadn’t met him half way. But I went willingly. And there we were, face to face, body to body.
Come morning, I would probably blame it on the sagging middle of my mother’s pull-out couch, but right now I knew it was something entirely different. It was two magnetically charged bodies moving toward each other, following the immutable laws of physics. And sweet gentle Jesus, it felt good! I think I missed this the most about being celibate, the solidity of a male body beside me, the warmth of his breath on my skin, the feel of his heart thudding as hard as mine was.
Then he slipped his hand under the hem of my t-shirt to find a breast.
Correction — this was what I missed the most. I reached for him, my fingers bunching the denim at his lean hip, pulling him closer with my hand and with the leg I’d looped over his.
“Dix….”
He found my mouth with his. And unlike that first time all those weeks ago when we’d shared that one kiss, there was nothing tentative about the way this one started. He kissed me like he was sure of his welcome. Maybe that had something to do with the way I was moving against him like I wanted to crawl inside him. Or maybe because of the way I was kissing him right back, with lips and tongue and teeth.
When he lifted his head, I wanted to pull him back down to me, to taste again the wine’s soft, ripe tannins on his tongue. Then I felt the air on my skin as he pushed my t-shirt up and decided I liked his plan better. He applied that talented mouth to my breast, and a soft gasp escaped me.
Okay, this was what I missed most.
He pressed me down onto my back … and right onto the freakin’ remote.
The volume blasted just at the very same time the channel changed to last channel selected.. WAW-WAW-WAWWWWWWWWW.
“What the—” Mrs. P’s distinctive voice cut into the living room.
The light snapped on in my mother’s room, as evidenced by the clear bar of light showing under the bedroom door. Mother called out, “Everything all right, Dix?”
“Everything’s f-f-fine, Mother.”
I pulled my shirt back down and Dylan jumped off the bed. With one hand he adjusted himself in his pants and with the other he frantically began searching for the remote (yes, it was somewhere under my butt).
“Omigod, what a huge dong!” the appreciative red-headed female in the movie cried out.
“What’s that, Dix? Did someone say ‘dong’?”
“No, Mrs. P.” — where was that fucking remote? — “It’s an old movie. King Kong, I think. Yeah, that’s it … a huge King Dong!” Shitttttttt. “I mean King Kong!”
Through a frantic flap of the sheets, I flipped the remote onto the floor. Dylan grabbed it and clicked the TV off again.
The room was in darkness except for the light from beneath mother’s bedroom door. I could hear Dylan’s breathing. Oh, I liked his breathing. Then I could hear his giggling. It was pretty much matching my own.
We waited a few minutes, without of course admitting we were waiting a few minutes, but the light stayed on in mother’s room. God, I felt like a teenager all over again. Horny as hell. Young and smitten. Falling head over —
That did it for me. I pulled myself back in. Dix Dodd didn’t do close. Not anymore.
Dylan sighed, as though he sensed the change in me.
“I’d better get going.” He walked to the patio doors. “Gotta hike it back to the Goosebump Inn, and I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
I followed him to the door, at his insistence. He wanted to be sure that I locked it after him. I wrapped a sheet around me, and walked with him outside onto mother’s little patio and wiggled my bare toes on the patio stones.
“Some dark out here, Dylan,” I offered. “Better use your flashlight.”
He grinned, oh so handsomely under the light of the Florida moon. “I didn’t bring a flashlight, Dix.”
He walked away after I locked the door.
Probably a good thing, I reminded myself.
Yeah?
…Yeah.
Chapter 6
No, I did not wake up with a hangover. Not a bit of it. Though I did have a slight headache. And I couldn’t really stomach the big breakfast Mrs. Presley offered to fry (yes fry) up. I was a tad on the dry side, but well, Florida air must be dryer than Southern Ontario air. And fine, I admit, I really could have used an extra hour or so of sleep. And a Tylenol.
But hungover?
Not a chance.
The first thought/image that crashed into my mind on awakening was that of banging Dylan Foreman. All. Night. Long. Every way imaginable. (And I have a very good imagination.) Feeling those hands that had explored my breasts exploring even further. Feeling that lovely erection of his sprung from those snug jeans.
No, I had not banged Dylan Foreman. Hands had not explored brave new worlds, and Dylan’s spring had remained (sigh) unsprung. But I couldn’t have stopped those thoughts with a … thought stopper thingie.
I hate metaphors.
Suffice to say, I had every confidence that if Tish, Beth Mary or any of the gang down at the Wildoh rec room wanted to discuss my erotica-writing career today, I could match them fantasy for fantasy. Inch for inch. Lusty comment for lusty comment. Tit for….
Yet truthfully, had we done it, had we gone there, I knew deep down inside that I would have awoken with more than a non-existent (I’ll never admit to it!) hangover. There would have been regrets. Big regrets, and there would be no going back. I knew this. So it was best that we stopped when we did.
Right.
Getting close to Dylan — hell, to any man — would only lead to heartache. One colossal heartbreak in one lifetime was enough to last … well, a lifetime.
For the record, I am completely over Myles Gauthier. Yep. Over and done with. That time I’d caught him at the Underhill Motel in the arms of the proverbial other woman had done it for me. The first time hadn’t, but that second time….
I know. Pitiful, isn’t it? But I’d let the worm off the hook the first time. I’d even accepted some of the blame. Accepted his tearful apology and his pledge that it would never happen again. Then it happened again. I’d sworn off Myles Gauthier that night. Sworn off all men for that matter. And it was working out just fine.
But Dylan Foreman is nothing like Myles Gauthier.
Damn inner voice. And with that, the thoughts of Dylan began creeping back in … the warm ones. And it took every bit of will power I could muster to shove them back out. This was one matter on which intuition would be taking a back seat to logic.
Besides, I had other things to worry about. This was going to be a hell of a day. I’d promised to take Mrs. P out sightseeing. I know, I know, I was here to solve a case — a case of great personal importance — but I had my cover to consider. I had to make sure I looked suitably touristy to the occupants of the Wildoh, and I wasn’t going to achieve that hanging around the Wildoh all day, every day. Also, my biggest clue-seeking expedition was dinner with Deputy Almond this evening. I could afford to take some time with Mrs. P.
Speaking of the Deputy, I had every confidence he was planning to play me. I was, after all, his prime suspect’s daughter. But Deputy Noel Almond had no idea who he
was dealing with. I squared my shoulders. I looked in the mirror, narrowed my eyes and gave my best evil laugh/snicker/snort.
And wiped the spit off my chin.
Mrs. Presley had made a list of the places she wanted to go. I had her list-topper figured for bingo (they have bingo around the clock down here!), but it wasn’t. At least not today. Today, the one item on her list was ‘Mall’.
“First, thing I need,” said Mrs. P, “is a new crossword book.”
Oh, joy.
“I want to get some souvenirs for the boys. Cal wants a Panther’s hockey sweater and Craig wants a Buccaneers jersey. Oh, and I’ve got to pick up some underwear for Craig. He’s got holes all through his. Damn, I don’t know why that boy’s so hard on underwear. And Cal’s getting low on sport socks. I better pick him up a few pairs. I have to get him the one hundred percent cotton ones. His feet sweat so bad.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what those boys would do without me.”
Shudder to think.
Cal and Craig — the ‘boys’ — were damn near 30 and she still mama’d them. They still loved it.
As Mrs. P took a couple hundred bucks in bills and eight rolls of American quarters from her purse and deposited them in her fanny pack (God help the fool who tried to wrestle it from her), I told her we absolutely had to be back in time for the late morning gathering at the recreation room.
“Relax, Dix,” Mrs. P said as she folded up two one-hundred dollar bills and put one in each side of her bra. “Have I ever let you down?”
Okay, she had me there. She’d not. And she wouldn’t start now. She’d have me back at the Wildoh on time.
And with suspicions running high, it was just where I needed to be. Everyone would have to show up to avoid being suspected. Avoid being talked about and collectively declared guilty by dis-association in this instance. And of course, the gossip itself would keep people coming back.
Mother would be going, too, but not for the gossip. She’d go to the Wildoh rec center to keep suspicions about her from growing even further.
Granted, she hadn’t ventured out last night, and she didn’t go on her early morning walk today (had not donned her walking suit and shoes at all and was in fact still wearing her housecoat). But I knew Katt Dodd. She’d put on her Pinch-Me Pink lipstick, some dangling earrings and hold her head high as she walked into that rec room, even if it killed her. But it didn’t take bucketloads of intuition to know it wouldn’t be easy for her. Katt Dodd was one tough cookie. She’d handle what she had to. But still….
I swallowed down the lump in my throat.
Never had a case been so important to me.
Though the last one had been close, when it was my own ass in the sling.
“Gonna let Mona kick your ass at crib again?” Mrs. P teased when I mentioned our need to be back in time. “How much you going to lose to her today? Eight bucks? Ten?”
Mona was a gambler, that’s for sure. Small dollar amounts, but I saw the desperation in her when she played. That was one woman who absolutely craved a win like some people craved a smoke.
“We’ll see, Mrs. P.”
“Oh, and don’t forget that Lance fellow? Eh, Katt.” She elbowed my mother, trying to draw her into the teasing. “Is he coming around today?”
“Let’s see,” Mother said. “Yes, Big Eddie instructed golf yesterday, so Lance will be around to dive for the balls today.”
“There you go then, Dix! Gonna bring your camera?”
I rolled my eyes. Shook my head. Tsk tsked. Discreetly pocketed my digital camera.
Okay, yes, I knew this was going to be a weird day…. I just didn’t know how weird.
Mrs. P and I were on our way out the front door, waving goodbye and promising to pick up a few things at the store. It was then that I (sharp PI that I am) noticed something else about my mother this morning.
She was screaming.
Her eyes were saucered wide, and her hand shook as she pointed to the floor by the patio door. The exact same door via which Dylan Foreman had entered the condo last night and made his way into my bed.
~*~
“Oh my God! He’s been here! Right here in this very room last night!”
Crap! Busted!
Weirdly, this felt like the time in high school when I’d been caught sneaking Cody McNally into the house late one night. (We were just going to watch a movie together, I swear.) Not that I thought I was in for the same lecture now as I’d gotten then. But still … Dylan Foreman’s presence at all was something I necessarily had to keep a secret from mother.
And the other stuff … that I definitely wanted to keep under wraps.
“I … I can explain, Mother,” I sputtered.
Mother looked at me like I’d lost my last marble. “Why would you explain anything?”
“Guilty conscience, Dix?” Mrs. Presley’s grin spread across her entire face. “Something we don’t know you’d like to tell us about? Something about last night?” Mrs. Presley gave an exaggerated wink.
Damn, she knew. Her catlike smile confirmed it.
Thankfully, while I was silently instructing Mrs. Presley (okay, pleading with hands clasped together in prayer and mouthing no, no, no) not to tell Mom about my visitor, Mom was crouched down staring at the floor. I joined her.
There was a puddle of water on the hardwood floor. A very small puddle. Barely noticeable, in fact. Mother picked something up as I looked at the lock on the patio door.
Goddamn it! I knew that door had been locked when I’d gone to bed! But now it was open. And no one had been out yet this morning. The lock itself was unscratched. Very few lock pickers can actually do the job without there being at least one or two tell-tale nicks and scratches (present company excepted, and Dylan, too, it seemed). The unannounced company of last night had either had his or her own key, or been damn good at what they were doing. This was no hack job.
“Did Frankie have a key, Mom?” I asked.
“Of course! How else would he have gotten in.”
Was she finally ready to admit Frankie could be the culprit? Was she finally admitting that the man remained in human form after all? Was she —
“Though it’s beyond me how his little green arms could reach all the way up to unlock the door,” she said.
Crap.
I crouched and touched the water on the floor. As I suspected, it was cold. I looked at it on my fingertips as I rubbed them together. Nothing out of the ordinary. I smelled the water — odorless.
Okay, in case you’re wondering, no way in hell was I going to taste it.
It had not rained last night. Florida weather is unpredictable at best, but a quick check of the weather station this morning confirmed what the tanned, blond, bubbly weatherman had promised last night. No rain in sight.
So where did the water come from?
I looked up at the ceiling. No drips.
Open door, water on floor — there really was only one answer.
Someone else had broken into my mother’s home while I’d slept soundly through it. That unsettled me. Big time. They’d have seen me sleeping. They might have watched me, and I had not stirred. They might have stood right over me….
“Mother!” I gulped. “Go check the lucky diamond.”
“But Frankie would never—”
“Just humor me, okay?”
She tsk-tsked, but went to the wall safe. Discreetly, with an ‘I’d better go pee again’, Mrs. Presley headed to the bathroom rather than be there when Mother opened the safe.
Mother laid the picture of me and Peaches Marie flat on the table. I watched over her shoulder as she worked the clicking dial. Not that I was trying to see the combination. I knew it, of course, Peaches and I both did — 2 left, 18 right, 4 left. But what red-blooded offspring wouldn’t be at least a bit curious to see what their parent kept in their wall safe. It was like snooping through the bottom dresser drawer when your parents are out. Finding a lost love letter in someone’s old coat pocket — you had
to read it, it was practically the law, wasn’t it?
But it’s not like Mother was trying to hide the safe’s contents!
My heart beat hard and fast as the safe door swung open. I looked and….
The ring box was there. Safe in the safe. And the small box was solitary in its occupation of that 12-inch square box.
“See,” Mother said. She waved a hand to the opened safe for emphasis. “It’s right here.”
“Open the box,” I urged.
This time there was no protesting tsk tsk. She snapped open the box with a flick of the wrist. And before she opened her mouth to say the ring was there, I knew that it was. I could tell by the look on her face as she gazed lovingly at the gift that Peter Dodd, her husband/my father, had given her.
“You know, your Dad was so proud on the day he gave me this diamond. I guess I’m so used to having it there. Safely there. It’s like a part of Peter’s still with me, you know. I always felt … that nothing bad would truly happen to our little family as long as we had that diamond.” She gave half a mocking laugh. “I just don’t know what I’d have done if I’d opened that safe and that diamond had been missing.”
Nor did I. I sighed my relief.
“I knew it would be here,” Mother said. “Frankie would never take my lucky diamond. He’s crazy about me and he knows how much it means to me. Besides, Frankie Morrell knows damn well better than to come in here without wiping his feet, I mean his flippers … I guess.”
“Mother,” I said. “This insisting that you turned Frankie into a frog really isn’t helping.”
“Then how do you explain this?” She held her palm flat, and in the center of it lay was a little heart-shaped piece of green. Not quite grass, not quite a leaf…. It was more like —
“It’s a piece of lily pad,” Mother asserted. “And it’s a gift from Frankie.”
Okay, I’d heard of cats bringing dead vermin ‘gifts’ to their owners as a show of affection. When we were kids, Peaches Marie and I had a great big tabby that left field mice at the foot of our beds. Great fun to tiptoe to the bathroom in the dark at our house. My grandmother supposedly tamed a great big bobcat (she called him Bently) when she was a girl in Northern New Brunswick, and he used to bring her bunnies.
