by Norah Wilson
“Good call, Mrs. Presley,” I said.
“Getting Craig to pick up the paper?”
“No, getting me to eat before I saw these pictures.”
She laughed, and handed me the other muffin.
“I’m not hungry.” I put the paper aside.
“Put the muffin in your pocket for later. When you’ve got your appetite back.”
Pocket, right. That reminded me. “Were you able to put together an outfit for me?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
One of the... er... benefits, of running an establishment such as Mrs. Presley’s was that clients sometimes left things behind when they dashed away in a hurry. And when they did, they often didn’t want to risk coming back for them. After thirty days, Mrs. Presley claimed the articles as her own. She got such a kick out of these little treasures. Money was her favorite (and least frequent) find, followed by jewelry, mostly of the costume variety. But Mrs. Presley also had a wide assortment of clothing and accessories that had been left behind. The undergarments (or what was left of the undergarments after some enthusiastic nights) she tossed out. But the other stuff, she kept. Feather boas, fur-lined handcuffs, tight-fitting skirts, dark glasses, assorted scarves. Oh, and lots of trench coats with high collars.
“Oh, yes, I got you an outfit, Dix. You’re gonna love it!”
She went to the closet, hipchecked the door open and popped herself out for just a moment. And when she returned with the outfit on a hanger, she held it out to me like the girl at the car show, showing off the latest model.
“Oh, my.”
One look at the skirt, told me it would be a tight squeeze. A very tight squeeze. And my knees would be pressed together so tightly, I’d be doing that penguin walk. It was black and straight and leather. Mrs. Presley had also provided me with a blouse. Sparkling white, of all things. But judging by the dated style, I knew it would have been a dingy white had it not been for Mrs. Presley’s meticulous domestic skills. The topper of the outfit, the most important ingredient, was a bright red blazer. The latter was classy-looking, and I knew without a doubt that it was new. And not cheap by any means. Two hundred bucks, easy. Two hundred of Mrs. Presley’s bucks. It would take a dose of sodium pentothal to make her admit it, but I knew she’d gone out and bought it for me.
“This... this is wonderful, Mrs. Presley.”
“Ah hell,” she said, “I’m glad to get rid of the old stuff. Been gathering dust in my closet for too long.”
Now I knew she was lying. Dust wouldn’t dare settle in her closet.
“Oh, I almost forgot this.” She reached into the deep pocket of her flowered skirt, and pulled out two things: a bottle of black hair dye and a bright pink disposable razor.
Okay, the hair dye I could understand, along with the finger-wagging warning not to get any on the bedding. Black hair would be great for my disguise/transformation.
But just how did she know I needed to shave my legs?
I looked at her quizzically. “The razor, Mrs. Presley?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Dylan told me I’d better send that along. He said you should probably give your legs the once over before you headed out.”
My jaw dropped. “He didn’t.”
“No, he didn’t.” She smiled like the cat that swallowed the canary. “But now that I know how close you two got, I’ll be on my way.” With a nudge and a wink and a laugh at my expense, she leapt up and left through the regular door.
I groaned and covered my face.
Great morning so far.
Chapter 15
It was barely dawn when I prepared to leave the Underhill Motel.
The hair dye Mrs. Presley had gotten me was a temporary one, thank God, but somehow I couldn’t see getting my natural blond hair back in one shampoo as promised on the label. Maybe a week of shampoos, if I was lucky. It was so... well, black.
I’d piled my hair up high on my head, and set it in place with bobby pins. And before you groan, it looked great. Really. Just because my underwear isn’t that fashionable and I seldom bother plugging in an iron doesn’t mean I’m not damned good with my hair. Hell, I can fix it a dozen ways, and I can do it faster than a runway model can change outfits. All part of the job. The quick change, the ability to convert my looks on a dame.
Get it... on a ‘dame’?
But I digress.
By the time I perfected my makeup and put on the Roberto Cavalli shades Mrs. Presley had provided (at least one guest must have left the Underhill in a hell of a hurry to forget those puppies), I hardly recognized myself. Now as long as no one else did. Maybe the horrible picture of me in the Marport City Morning Edition had been a blessing after all.
As I stood looking at my reflection and admiring my handiwork, I let myself think the thought I’d been trying to suppress: You could run, Dix.
I closed my eyes and pressed a thumb and forefinger against my lids as though I could push the thought back. But there was no budging it.
Because, dammit, I knew I could do it. I could disappear. With my skills and resiliency, not to mention the five large in cash that the Flashing Fashion Queen had given me, most of which I still had, I could get away. With my connections, I could easily score fake ID, after which I could just evaporate. Poof into thin air. Granted, five grand wouldn’t carry me far, but it wouldn’t have to. I could certainly get far enough away from Marport City to start a new, anonymous, keep-to-myself life, with a nice, boring job. Hell, I could fly under the radar forever.
But that would mean the Flashing Fashion Queen would have won. And oh, God, it would mean Dickhead had won. And dammit, when I really thought about it, it would mean all those chauvinistic bastards at the Jones Agency had won. I could still hear their snickers when I told them I was going into business on my own. Still see the condescending eye-rolls.
I shook my head. No way in hell was I going to rabbit. No Plan B for me. It was Plan A all the way. The only plan I needed. The only plan that cleared me of the murder of Jennifer Weatherby, and put the guilty party, whoever she was, behind bars.
I put on the red blazer, which clashed slightly with my shades but matched perfectly the tint of my lipstick, and presto change-o, there I stood, the quintessential real estate agent.
The item I’d asked Mrs. P to get for me was a Marport First Realty Ltd. sign. I had no doubt she’d asked Craig to borrow one, and even less doubt he’d have to sneak back with it this evening. Craig had set the sign in the back seat of Mrs. P’s red Hyundai. Mrs. Presley was taking a chance lending me her car, but when I mentioned this to her, she waved me off with a flick of the hand.
“Someday, Dix Dodd, it might be me needing the favor.”
My throat tight, I just nodded. I’d do my damnedest to make sure that car wasn’t noticed. Starting with smearing dirt on the immaculate license plate, which I did as soon as Mrs. P went back inside (she’d have had a bird to see me sully her baby). I stood back and examined my work. Upon close inspection, it wouldn’t hold up, but on not-so-close inspection, it would do just fine. And fortunately, there was enough of a lip over the license plate that the rain wouldn’t directly hit it. Not unless a wind came up, which was entirely possible. No, it wasn’t a perfect plan, but it had to do.
I wiped my hands best I could on rain-damped tissues and climbed into the car—no small feat considering how tightly my lower half was packed into that pencil skirt Mrs. Presley had provided. Automatically, I checked my cell to make sure it was set on vibrate, then dumped it in the inside pocket of my red blazer. All set for Dylan’s call.
Dylan’s call...
It struck me then that I was more nervous about that than I was about the pending break and enter. Schoolgirl nervous instead of jail-time nervous? Ack! The hair dye must be affecting my brain.
I stuck the key in the ignition, then checked my watch. It was time.
I parked a few streets away from the Weatherby mansion, near a walking trail, to await Dylan’s call. I checke
d my watch again. I wanted the chatter of morning radio to keep me company, but I wasn’t quite up to hearing about myself on the news. It was just quarter to six. Figuring it would be a news-free zone until top of the hour, I flicked the radio on and quickly tuned it to the local station, the one with the ultra-cheery early-morning DJ banter.
“So it looks like another rainy day in Marport City, Kevin.”
“Great weather for ducks, Caroline. Ha ha ha.”
Someone pushed a sound effects button and a canned rim shot sounded.
Lame.
Well, no one said they were original ultra-cheery early-morning DJs. I turned the radio off again.
A couple walked by. They wore matched walking suits—his navy blue and hers pink—that must have cost what I spend on clothing in a year. And which perfectly matched the navy blue and pink jackets on their two pugs. Double Income, No Kids, I decided. They held close under Mr. DINK’s umbrella, while Mrs. DINK held the leashes of the two straining pugs. As I watched, I noticed them give more than just a sideways glance my way. I lowered my head and busied myself going through a stack of papers (which turned out to be takeout menus upon this close examination) I’d picked up from the seat beside me. Then I faked a sneeze, grabbing a tissue from the box squeezed between the seats to cover my face in an over-zealous nose-blowing effort. Eventually, the DINKS moved on, but not before the pink-clad one (the human, not the pug) gave a good hard look back at me.
“Okay,” I counseled myself, “don’t overreact. It’s raining. Any glimpse through the windshield would be blurred. I’m in disguise—a damn good disguise. Nobody is out this morning looking for a dark-haired real estate agent. They’re looking for a blond Dix Dodd, not...”
Which reminded me I needed a name. Not just to put me in character (though that was important), but in case I was asked and had to think of something quick. I glanced back again at the real estate sign in the back seat. There would be a name on the sign, of course. I turned and leaned back to read it. “Okay, they’re looking for Dix. Not... Bert Cartsell.”
Damn.
I glanced in the rearview mirror, staring into my well made-up eyes. “Hello there, Bert. How’s it hanging? Oh, it’s not hanging? Well, that’s probably a good thing.”
Had Mrs. DINK seen the sign? Would she necessarily put two and two together if she did? Maybe she knew Bert Cartsell? Who the hell sells carts anyway in this day and age? Apparently Bert.
“Argh!” Sometimes, I swear, I was my own worst enemy. Yeah, me and the Flashing Fashion Queen.
I felt the vibration in my pocket and glanced at my watch. Almost six. It had to be Dylan; I knew this before I even flipped the cell open and glanced at the number. “Bert here.”
“What’s that, Dix?”
“Never mind.”
“Coast is clear. Ned Weatherby just left.”
“House is empty?” He’d pretty much told me that, but I wanted to keep him on the line. We’d left things tense last night, and I wanted to make sure that was going to blow over.
“Empty,” he repeated.
“Well,” I said stupidly. “Empty is good.”
“Yep.”
“Yep.”
I waited for him to say something. Desperately hoped that he would. The tension was too heavy. And I didn’t want to lose my best friend. My best employee. Hell, I didn’t want to lose Dylan in any respect. “Well, I’ll head over, then.”
“Dix?”
“Yeah?”
“Want to know if this love is true? Call me and I’ll make sure you do.”
Jesus! I nearly dropped the phone. “Dylan, I—”
“For the business cards, Dix,” he said, and damned if I couldn’t hear the grin in his voice. “I know it’s not as catchy as my other suggestions, but I kind of like it. Cute, you know?”
I kind of liked it too. And I found myself smiling for the first time since last night.
“Not too bad,” I agreed. “If I ever get out of this mess...”
“When,” he corrected. “When we get out of this mess.”
I swallowed. “Thank you, Dylan.”
“You’re welcome, Dix.” His voice turned serious. “I’ve got an excellent view of the Weatherby house. I’m parked across the street, in the driveway two houses down.”
“Where are the owners?”
“Japan for four months while renovations are being done. Which I discovered the other day when I was talking to the neighbors, asking about Jennifer.”
“Are you in the same car?”
“Give me a break. I’m in a white van marked CHESTNUT CARPET SERVICE,” he huffed. “I’m not a rookie at this. I’m a big boy, you know.”
Totally inappropriate ‘big boy’ visions filled my mind, and I answered with a too-husky, “I know.”
Then I heard Dylan’s soft, amused laughter coming through the cell.
Way to go, Dix. I cleared my throat. “I’m going to head over to the Weatherby House now.”
Dylan sobered. “I’ll keep watch. Keep your cell on, all right?”
“I will.”
A pause. I could hear him drawing a breath. “Call me as soon as you can.”
The line went dead, and I looked at the cell a moment before I plunked it into my pocket. I started the Hyundai, and drove the short distance to the Weatherby house.
I parked alongside the road. Not quite in front of the Weatherby house as to say I was at the Weatherby house, but close enough that I looked like I might be at the Weatherby house. I glanced at the white van and the form of Dylan sitting in it.
Ducking under the black umbrella that Mrs. Presley had provided, I tugged the real estate sign from the back seat of the car and headed toward the house.
Awkward. The sign was heavier than it looked. I tucked it under my arm but was careful not to hold it against the expensive blazer Mrs. P had gotten for me. I imagined Bert Cartsell for a moment slinging the sucker around—sign in one hand, hefty sledge hammer in the other to pound the post into the ground.
But I wasn’t going to pound it into the ground.
I stepped carefully over the flowerbed, and leaned the sign up against the house. That would hopefully ward off any nosy neighbors who spied me this early morning. And I had every intention of being gone by the time Ned Weatherby returned, sign safely stashed in Mrs. P’s car as I sped back to the Underhill. Hopefully, with the information I sought.
Whatever the hell that turned out to be.
Okay, sign placed. Now I had to go into full real estate lady mode.
I stood back and took a businesslike look at the windows, and then further back to examine the roof (it had windows; it had a roof... good, good). Very quickly, I poked at the flowers. I rapped my knuckles on the siding in a few places—this seemed efficient. In fact, I rapped my knuckles along the entire length of the house. In fact I rapped my knuckles right around the corner of that house. Then I made a mad dash to the back of it.
Yes, I was good with locks, but not so good that I would chance spending a few awkward minutes trying to pick the front door lock in broad daylight. A back door would do just fine.
I was in luck. Which, I realized as I mentally high-fived myself, was a change for me these days.
Not only was there a back door, but there was a sliding glass patio door, and I bit down on the ‘bingo’ I wanted to shout. As long as the security bar wasn’t down...
The security bar wasn’t down.
Things were starting to go my way—the rainy day, Ned leaving on time, the easy access to the house. I quickly jimmied the lock. Easily. No alarm, just as Dylan had told me. No barking dogs. No surprises waiting on the other side.
Just smooth sailing from here on out.
I might have known better.
Chapter 16
You know, I would have made a lousy real estate agent. As you will have figured out by now, I’m not exactly a people person. But I must have looked passably convincing as a realtor. I stepped inside the Weatherby mansion (thank
you, easy-to-open sliding door) and no alarms and whistles blared. No sirens came roaring down Ashfield Drive, summoned by suspicious neighbors. Mentally, I gave myself a pat on the back at my transformation skills.
Okay, yeah, I wouldn’t pass for Bert Cartsell, but hopefully no one would read the pilfered sign that closely. Or if they did, they’d probably assume I was an office underling sent to do the boss’s bidding.
Now, as long as old Bert himself didn’t drive by...
I glanced around the study. It was an eerie feeling being in the room—the very room—where Jennifer Weatherby had been murdered. It’s not that I felt the presence of her ghost, or a tingling up my spine or a rise in the hairs on the back of my neck. It was just that not so long ago, this room had been full of life, until, in one violent instant, it had been turned into a scene of death. Not that there was any lingering physical evidence of the crime. The bio-cleanup crew had been in and erased all trace. But it still felt like a murder scene. Especially in the quiet of the closed-off room.
And even though it had been an imposter who’d been in my office that day, I still felt I owed the real Jennifer something. Still felt for the victim in this crime. And if I didn’t catch her murderer, no one would.
Now, that was a scary thought.
Of course, the police tape had long since come down. The forensics team had done their work. Every fabric and fiber would have been examined; every surface would have been dusted for prints and—if I knew Dickhead—dusted again. And when the police finished processing the room, the cleaners had moved in and restored everything to its former state. Still, the place felt just as totally off limits as though yellow barrier tape still screamed CRIME SCENE—DO NOT ENTER. The double doors on the opposite side of the room from which I entered were closed firmly and the drapes were drawn. Dust didn’t lay heavy on the furniture yet, but a few motes swirled in a thin steam of sunlight that came through a slight parting of the drapes. Other indicators around the room attested to the loss of life. Memories of Jennifer were everywhere—a scarf carefully folded on a chair in the corner, a pair of sunglasses on top of the well-stacked bookcase. No wonder Ned had chosen to keep this room closed off.
