The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen: A Dix Dodd Mystery (Dix Dodd Mysteries)

by Norah Wilson

  “An interview?” He looked insulted. “Are you kidding? With my qualifications, I was hired on the spot, over the telephone.”

  I didn’t even ask which qualification he was referring too.

  I was appropriately gushed over as I entered the spa. One attendant took my coat, which I shoulder-shrugged out of perfectly. I caught the staffer sneaking a glance at the coat’s tags, which made me glad I’d had the forethought to stitch a Hilary Radley label scavenged from a vintage coat I’d picked up at a yard sale over the real label. Another staffer offered me an herbal tea, which I declined with a wordless wave. I was then escorted to the office, where a nervous, bone-thin redhead in a thousand dollar pantsuit did her best to accommodate. Her name was Ms. Pipps, and she was as efficient as her name sounded. Crisply efficient. On such short notice, they’d put together a pretty comprehensive spa day. I’d start with a massage, move on to a mud wrap, followed by a manicure and pedicure, then a full facial. I ordered the lemon chicken for lunch, which I’d have out on the terrace.

  But even as I made these elaborate arrangements, I had no intention of sticking out the day. I’d stick it out only as long as it took to get what I wanted. Then I’d pay up, drop the rich chick persona, grab a Big Mac and head back to the office.

  “So a friend of mine comes here,” I said, hoping to pique the interest of the redhead.

  “Oh? Who would that be?”

  “Jennifer Weatherby.”

  Ms. Pipps clapped her hands together forcefully, which scared the crap out of me, for I thought I heard something snap in her bony hands. “Yes, Jennifer Weatherby has graced the Bombay Spa with her presence on many occasions. She’s taken advantage of not only our wonderful services and full line of beauty and relaxation products, but also the warm hospitality that is the Bombay’s trademark.”

  I’d get nothing here. And it wasn’t just the canned promo that the Redhead no doubt gave to everyone. It was the expression on her face—or rather lack of expression.

  “I have another friend who’s spoken of this place.”

  “Oh? Who would that be?”

  “Justine Smithee. Married to Alan Smithee, the famous Hollywood director. Does that ring a bell?”

  She clapped her hands again. “Oh, my goodness, yes. Justine has graced the Bombay Spa with her presence on many occasions...”

  I tuned her out after that. I mean, I could have said Fanny Fartsalot or Ima Hoare and she’d have given me the same spiel.

  Redhead insisted I must start with the top-to-toe relaxing massage. She assured me the Bombay was famous for their massages. Surely I’d heard that from Mrs. Smithee? I’d agreed, mainly because I wanted to play the part well. I mean, every day at the spa began with a relaxing massage, didn’t it?

  But here’s my problem. Getting a full body massage means getting naked, and I don’t like being naked around other people.

  I’m not a prude by any means, and I’m certainly not ashamed of my figure. Sure, I could drop twenty pounds and it wouldn’t kill me. And granted, things weren’t as perky as they were when I was twenty, or even thirty, but I was happy enough with myself, a byproduct, I think, of turning forty and deciding this is me, baby, and I like it. But unless the circumstances are right—which reminded me they hadn’t been for quite some time, dammit—I just have this... uncomfortableness about being naked around strangers. Bottom line, if the Jerry Springer Show had to depend on me, they’d be in bad shape.

  So lying face down on the massage table in room 102 of the Bombay Spa with just a thin white sheet over my naked butt wasn’t exactly the highlight of my week. Well, actually, maybe it was the highlight, considering how badly my week had sucked so far. Right after cleaning the bird crap off my car and that call from my mother (shudder) to tell me she’d nearly got caught skinny-dipping. Again. Now, that’s a show for Jerry Springer. My seventy-year-old mother could do naked in a heartbeat.

  Just then, the door opened. I reached back to make sure the sheet was covering my derriere, and in the process looking, I have no doubt, like an awkward flapping seal as I raised myself and slapped the sides of the sheet into place. With a sigh (oh God I hoped it didn’t sound like a moan) I set my chin in my hands.

  “Hi,” said the petite young woman who now stood before me. I assumed she was the masseuse. “I’m Elizabeth Bee!”

  “‘B’ as in...”

  “Just Bee, you know, like the bug. But don’t say that, it drives me nuts.”

  She was in her bare feet.

  “You’re not going to walk on my back, are you, Elizabeth?” I glanced down at her feet and the toe ring that looked particularly menacing.

  “No, Ms. Davenport.” She smiled but gave the slightest suggestion of an eye roll at the same time—which didn’t endear her to me. “I’m here to prepare the room.”

  “Prepare the room?”

  “Oh, yes. You’ll get the full pampering at the Bombay Spa. Scented candles, warm towels, music.” She sent me a sidelong glance. “You’ll be sure to pass all this along to your friends?”

  She meant to my non-existent Hollywood friends.

  I assured her I would.

  “Actually,” I said. “Another good friend of mine is a client here. Someone from Marport City.”

  “Oh, who’s that?”

  “Jennifer Weatherby.”

  There was no rocking back on the bare heels. There was no change in the expression, except for a shift of light in the eyes. A fast blink. And I knew, sure as anything, Elizabeth knew something about Jennifer Weatherby.

  “Well,” said Elizabeth, “Jennifer was certainly an... interesting lady.”

  Yes, I caught it: Was.

  “Wasn’t it awful, what happened to her?” the young woman whispered in that hushed tone that habitual gossipers use, as if the walls might overhear and collapse with the news. As if the hushed tones made it less terrible. Or that much worse.

  Okay, now she was endearing herself to me.

  “It was terrible,” I agreed. “And Jennifer was such a... such a sweet lady.”

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows crinkled skeptically, but she quickly recovered. “Why, yes. You’re so right.”

  Mentally, I urged her to say more. With any luck, I could get the information I needed and get out of this popsicle stand before ten. But obviously my Jedi Mind Trick was not quite up to snuff this morning. She didn’t say another word.

  I knew the next step. I had to build up a friendly little atmosphere with Elizabeth.

  “So tell me about yourself,” I invited.

  She blinked at me, clearly startled to be asked about herself by a client. “Oh, well, I’m twenty-three. I’m from Maine originally, but you know, just didn’t seem to be anything left for me there anymore, once my mom died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to heart that.” And I genuinely was.

  “Oh,” she said, “there were other things too.”

  That usually meant a man. And I knew at Elizabeth’s age, that could sting.

  “Have you been here at the spa long?” I wanted to change the conversation, from heavy to lighter.

  “About two years now. I love it here. And, well, the pay’s pretty good. With the tips I make, of course.”

  Yes, I caught the hint. And I’d tip her well.

  “It must be an interesting job.”

  She smiled. “Oh, you’ve no idea! But I don’t want to just assist forever, you know. I want to go back to school and take some courses in reflexology. I just... you know... need the cash first. I really don’t have anyone to help me. My Dad is gone, too. And both sets of grandparents.”

  Why the lying little... Then I smiled.

  This was going to work out fine.

  “Hand me my wallet, will you?” I’d left my purse behind, since it would never pass muster here, but I figured the Gucci-inspired wallet might be mistaken for the real thing.)

  She did. I withdrew the fifty as though it meant nothing, folded it twice and handed it to her. “For your education fun
d.”

  “Oh, my gosh, Ms. Davenport I couldn’t. I just—”

  “Nonsense, Elizabeth. And at the end of the session, if I’ve enjoyed the services here, there’ll be another of those.”

  “A glass of wine, Ms. Davenport?” Elizabeth asked me, smiling so wide I thought her face would crack. “Champagne? Fresh orange juice, perhaps? They’ll have it down at the restaurant. Shall I go and get you some? It would be my pleasure.”

  “Actually, Elizabeth, what I wanted—”

  My words were cut short by a knock on the door. Argh! Of all the crappy timing for the masseuse to arrive.

  Then the door swung open and Dylan Foreman walked in with a mile-wide, unapologetic grin.

  “Wine would be good, Elizabeth,” I croaked.

  Good? Wine would be necessary under the circumstances!

  So this is the job he’d convinced the Bombay he was completely qualified for. It must have been a helluva sell-job he’d done for them to send him in to serve their newest VIP client. After all, I was Dixie Davenport, from Beverly Hills, wife of a Hollywood movie producer. Friend of Matt Damon’s! And though he’d been hired over the phone, I had every confidence his good looks upon presentation had landed him with me. Movie star caliber eye candy for the woman who rubbed shoulders with movie stars.

  Why couldn’t I have thought of a more modest lie?

  But even as I fumed about the situation (to wit, me lying naked on a table with my employee as my masseuse), I couldn’t help but be a little proud. I’d trained Dylan well. If Harvard had a PhD in massage, he’d claim to have the same, and be able to identify all the professors. He’d have read up on everything he could.

  “Oh, you’re new,” Elizabeth said.

  Well, duh!

  Dylan crossed the room to shake her hand. “I just started here this morning. I’m Dylan Pulse.”

  Pulse? That’s the pseudonym he came up with?

  “Wonderful!” Elizabeth gushed. “We’ve been short staffed for months now. I’m Elizabeth Bee. Like, you know, the bug.”

  Huh?

  God, the girl was flustered.

  I watched as she gave Dylan the once over. Then the twice over.

  “Well,” Dylan flirted. “You’ve got to be the cutest bug I’ve ever seen.”

  He was good; I’d give him that.

  He looked good, too. The outfit for the male masseuses at the Bombay Spa was simple but classy—white t-shirts and crisp white twill pants. I’d known that from the brochures I’d looked through when I’d selected the day’s services in Redhead’s office. But apparently Dylan’s six foot four frame wasn’t what they were ready for. The t-shirt was about two sizes too small. The inch-high Bombay Spa logo (palm trees and happy coconuts) rode higher on his chest than I imagined it was supposed to, and the material hugged his abs like a second skin. And while I’m sure I’d noticed his biceps at one time or another, they’d never been displayed to quite such advantage before, the skin dark against the startling white of the t-shirt’s snug sleeves. As for the trousers... well, his narrow waist let him get into them, but I suspected the inseam wasn’t equal to his long legs. He’d obviously solved that problem by rolling them up almost to the knee, managing to look casually rugged while escaping the flood pants look.

  If the Bombay Spa thought this was going to impress me...

  Shit, how smart was that? They were going to be devastated when they discovered he wasn’t going to stay.

  “Elizabeth? My wine?”

  “Oh, sorry.” The girl dragged her attention away from Dylan, and in record time, she’d pulled a bottle of chilled Chardonnay from the mini-fridge, poured a glass and put it in my hands.

  I tipped up my chin, completely conscious of my bare breasts against the table and lifted myself only enough to take a sip. An awkward sip. I had more of a slurp/drool thing happening.

  “I think you’re all set,” Elizabeth said, “but I’ll be back in about an hour to check on things.”

  “Wait!” Damnation! I couldn’t let her get away. I’d buttered her up, but I had yet to get the dirt on Jennifer Weatherby. “Couldn’t you hang around?”

  She glanced at Dylan, then back to me, giving me a look that said, ‘What, are you nuts, lady?’

  “I... I wanted to ask you some questions about the spa,” I said. “And if... Mr. Pulse was it?”

  “Yes,” Dylan lied. “Dylan Pulse. As in heartbeat.”

  Oh good grief!

  “If Mr. Pulse is a new hire here, I doubt he could help me as well as you would be able to.”

  Elizabeth brightened like I’d just slipped her another fifty. (And of course knowing I would). “I’d be pleased to. Just let me clear it with Ms. Pipps and I’ll be right back.”

  Elizabeth made her exit, hips swiveling in the kind of model’s runway gait I’d never get away with in a million years (or try in a million years).

  With the world’s coyest grin, Dylan turned to me. “Cool or what?”

  “Or what!”

  He put a finger to his lips, silently reminding me we were undercover. Well, I was undercover. Naked under cover. Dylan was fully clothed.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” I hissed.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the massage table. “Easy. I told them I was a graduate of the Cornick School of Massage in Chicago, class of 2003. Top of the class, mind you.”

  “And they took your word for it?”

  “Once I showed them my credentials, resume and the glowing recommendations from two of my teachers.” He shook his head. “Of course, I had to give a demonstration massage to the office administrator.”

  “Ms. Pipps?”

  “The very one. Is that one uptight redhead or what? But she seemed impressed enough to hire me.”

  “What do you know about massage?” I demanded.

  He feigned hurt. “Plenty.”

  “Let me guess, you really did attend the Cornick School.”

  “Nope.” He linked his fingers, extended his arms, and cracked his knuckles. “Just the Dylan Foreman School. It’s not that hard, really. I just kind of go on... instinct. Slowly. Deeply. Instinctually.”

  I made a mental note to tell Elizabeth the first thing I needed upon her return was the heat turned down in here. “And that works?” I mocked. “Slowly. Deeply. Instinctually?”

  “Well it certainly worked enough to fool Ms. Pipps.”

  Checkmate.

  Elizabeth knocked and waited until Dylan called permission to enter. As if she didn’t want to interrupt something. Was that why this place was so popular with the ladies?

  “It’s fine. Mrs. Pipps says I’m to accommodate your stay completely, Ms. Davenport.”

  “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth went over to the prep area in the corner of the room and started shuffling through the bottles of lotions, towels and candles, trying to make herself look busy and efficient. To me, of course, but also to Dylan, I had no doubt.

  “Well.” Dylan cleared his throat. “I guess we’d better get started here.”

  Great. Just freaking great.

  I closed my eyes and retreated into my brain. “Hello, is this the Springer Show? I have an idea for you. Why don’t you do a show where a forty-year old woman lies buck-naked on a table at the hands of a handsome, young, totally studly employee. Wouldn’t that be a hoot!”

  Oh well, Mother would watch that episode.

  And then I felt Dylan’s hands on me. My eyes flew open as his hands glided up my back. Oh, yikes! I took a deep, steadying breath. This did not have to be awkward, I lectured myself. It didn’t have to be sexual. I’d just close my eyes and pretend it was Elizabeth kneading my shoulders.

  There. I let my breath out slowly. That was the trick.

  Except Elizabeth’s soft little hands could never feel like this. These hands were large and hard, the fingers strong. Despite my own lecture, I felt myself react to his touch. Then, because there didn’t seem to be a damned thing I
could do about it, I decided to just let myself feel. He started at my shoulders, finding and rubbing free the knots that I didn’t even know were there. I could feel the strength of the man, but also the gentleness within the power. I felt the slickness of the oil, warm and penetrating, the lovely friction...

  “Anything I can get you two?”

  I startled and tensed beneath Dylan’s touch. How much time had passed? How many minutes had I allowed myself to fall under the spell of his hands. Oh my God! What was I thinking? This wasn’t what I’d come here for!

  Dylan’s hands left me for a second, and when they returned to my back, his touch was much more clinical. More buddy-buddy than... whatever that other thing was. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. If I concentrated hard—baseball, baseball—surely it would abate in other places.

  I cleared my throat. “Elizabeth, thank you for sticking around. You know, now that you mention it, my friend Jennifer told me about a particular incense that she always liked when she came here. I think it was...”

  “Jasmine! Mrs. Weatherby loved it. Whenever she was here, I made sure it was readied in the burner for her.”

  “Yes, Jennifer was a creature of habit.” I forced a knowing chuckle.

  Elizabeth smiled. “She liked room 102 always. She wanted the towels warmed, but not too warm. Sweet almond massage oil. She never wanted a glass of wine before or during the massage, but she always enjoyed a coffee afterward. She loved her Columbian dark roast. Then she’d have a seaweed body wrap just before lunch.”

  “Same routine every time?”

  “Oh, yes. We had a standing appointment for her every Monday for the full day. She tipped well. Even the times she didn’t make it, she made sure to send a cheque along.”

  Dylan’s hands stilled. He’d caught the same thing I did. Not only the words, but the teasing little rise in Elizabeth’s voice as she said the latter.

  I tried to match it. “Yes,” I said. “She was sometimes... otherwise occupied.”

  “You know?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, watching Elizabeth as she shot a look at Dylan. Whatever look he gave her back must have been encouraging, because she started talking.