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

by Norah Wilson

  Chapter 19

  Mmmmmmmmmm... homemade breakfast. Mrs. Presley had made enough for two lumberjacks, which pleased Dylan to no end when he arrived. By the look of him, he’d not slept as well as I had, but I had no doubt he’d be ready, willing and able to handle what the day had in store for us. The swelling on the lip had gone down quite a bit. But the bump on his head had turned a lovely purple color.

  “Geez, Dix,” Mrs. P had offered upon seeing the worse-for-wear Dylan Foreman. “How wild did you two get in here? Playing cops and robbers? Or was it good cop, kinky cop? I bet I can guess which one you were, Dix. The kinky one, right? Next time I’ll send down a set of fur-lined handcuffs.”

  Dylan just about choked on his toast.

  I just about spewed my coffee.

  Per usual, there was a single red rose on the breakfast tray. That and a pile of scrambled eggs, perfectly cooked sausage, and toasted homemade bread. Jam and peanut butter served in one of those fancy little silver things. She even had a little dish of mints. There was coffee, of course, and fresh squeezed orange juice. And speaking of squeezed...

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Mrs. Presley had said, after the teasing was done and she’d watch Dylan and I both for a few minutes to make sure we were going to do justice to her breakfast. “Just gotta powder my nose, put on some lipstick, and then I’m ready.”

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Ready,” she affirmed.

  Dylan paused between forkfuls of egg. “You’re coming, Mrs. P?”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  My first impulse was to argue. For her sake, not mine. And in a weak effort, I did so. But Mrs. Presley wasn’t about to budge. So we compromised, and Mrs. Presley agreed to travel with Dylan instead of me. A little less damning for her to turn up with him. And, as she reminded me, Dylan was a damn sight better looking that I was—lumps and all.

  “We’ll have to take my Harley, Mrs. P,” Dylan said, in his best apologetic voice.

  “I’ll go get my helmet!” She clasped her hands together, beside herself with excitement. “And I’ll hold on tight.”

  I bit down on the smile; I just bet she would.

  One last time, I reminded Mrs. Presley that she had hidden a fugitive from the law. Though I had every confidence I was correct about who killed Jennifer, and who (grrrrrr) tried to frame me for it, there was no need for Mrs. P to expose herself as having harbored me. She just shrugged her shoulders. “By the end of the day, you’ll not be a fugitive from the law, Dix. You’ll be a hero.” She stood in that way—shoulders back, hands on hips, feet firmly planted on the floor—that told me there was no sense in arguing with the woman.

  But I really didn’t want to.

  I liked that she had faith in me. And for that alone, this petite little lady in her flowered shirt and granny glasses looked pretty much like a hero to me.

  While Mrs. P went to make herself ready, Dylan and I ate the rest of our breakfast and planned. The players had all received a personal invitation, and I was sure each would be in attendance at the Weatherby mansion. (Of course, in Dickhead’s case, he’d bring half of Marport City’s police force along with him.) More specifically, I’d called the meeting for the very room where Jennifer had died—her study. And this time, I wouldn’t be hiding under the desk.

  At least I hoped I wouldn’t be.

  “One call and I can have you arrested on the spot, Ms. Dodd. And if you try to run, I’ll make that call so fast you’ll think you’re running backwards.” Judge Stephanopoulos held up her cell phone for emphasis.

  “I understand, Judge. And I wouldn’t dream of betraying your trust.”

  She huffed. “If it wasn’t for Rochelle’s faith in you...”

  I sent a quick ‘thank-you-I-owe-you-big-time’ look at my friend. Rochelle flashed back a ‘you-can-bet-I’ll-collect’ acknowledgment. And I bet that she would.

  I didn’t like the formality with which Judge Stephanopoulos addressed me this morning. But I couldn’t blame her. Technically, she was helping someone wanted by the police. Technically, she could get in a bit of trouble here herself—the line she was walking was pretty thin. But, this was a woman made of some brass. And honor. She was also a woman who believed in justice, and I had a feeling she’d do whatever she could to see that it prevailed.

  So when I had called Rochelle (to confirm some things I suspected and to ask for—okay, beg for—her help), she’d presented everything to Judge Stephanopoulos who, according to Rochelle, shook her head and reluctantly agreed to meet with me and hear me out. Under one condition—that after I’d had my say, I’d turn myself in whether my suspicions panned out or not. I had agreed. We met. She listened. And she—yesss!—agreed to help me.

  We would go to the Weatherby home together, where I would turn myself over to the police. Judge Stephanopoulos was an officer of the court bringing in a fugitive. But she’d make sure I had a few minutes of say before Dickhead hauled me away. That’s all I asked for. Yet if my theory was correct and I could pull this off, there would be no need for Dickhead to arrest me once this meeting was over.

  Now, as we sat in the Judge’s car, she glanced back at me again as she put her phone away. “All I can offer you is time and forum. But nothing beyond that.”

  “Of course, Your Honor.”

  We were simply driving around Marport City now as we waited for the meeting hour to approach. Having stopped at the local drive-through coffee shop, I was well and truly caffeined. Dylan had gone over to the Weatherby house earlier, with instructions to call me on my cell once everyone had arrived.

  Even though the Judge’s windows were tinted and therefore I wasn’t likely to be spotted, it was strange being out and about the town as ‘me’. There were no disguises today. No hair dye, no tinted shades, no red blazer. Firstly, I didn’t want Ned Weatherby or his parents to recognize me from the real estate agent fiasco, but also because I was through with running from the Flashing Fashion Queen. Through with disguises on this one. Through with hiding because of her.

  “You know, Dix,” Rochelle said, “Dylan Foreman could be in a bit of trouble here, too.” She was sitting in the front passenger seat while Judge Stephanopoulos drove. “If you don’t walk away from this scot free, Dylan doesn’t either.”

  Judge Stephanopoulos nodded. “Rochelle’s right, Ms. Dodd. Detective Head could well arrest Mr. Foreman for aiding and abetting.”

  I’d thought of that, of course.

  I’d given Dylan the option of cutting and running from mi vida loca last night while he still could. As it stood, there was nothing that could concretely link him to me since I’d been on the lam. Sure, he’d helped me escape custody at the office, but that couldn’t be proven. And Dylan was too smart to admit to anything, or be intimated under police questioning. He’d get a genuine chuckle if they pulled the good-cop, bad-cop shit with him. But once he entered that Weatherby house to set this up with me... if my goose was cooked, his good-looking gander was hitting the BBQ too. I had made that perfectly clear to him.

  Dylan hadn’t blinked. Had not hesitated. He hadn’t missed a heartbeat before he answered my offer with, “Forget it, Dix. We’re in this together.”

  Those words echoed through my mind now, as we drove around Marport City.

  Then my cell phone rang. Judge Stephanopoulos glanced at me via the rearview mirror. Rochelle turned once again in her seat to stare as I answered.

  “We’re ready, Dix. Everyone’s here.”

  “Thank you, Dylan.”

  I snapped the phone shut. Drew a deep breath. “Judge Stephanopoulos, Rochelle, its show time.”

  Judge Stephanopoulos nodded, then headed the car to Ashfield Drive. And though I knew what awaited me, she couldn’t drive fast enough for my liking. But once the house was in view, my gulp was audible.

  “Well, isn’t that a proper welcoming committee,” Rochelle muttered.

  I’d expected cops, but good Lord! The street in fro
nt of the Weatherby mansion looked like a river of red and blue bar lights. Shit, there were enough police cars to escort President Obama through Kandahar.

  My thoughts flashed back to Dylan. I’d instructed him to call me only when everyone was convened. Detective Head, on the other hand, would have been dead set against allowing this gathering to happen. He’d have used every threat and intimidation tactic at his disposal, including this display of police might, to make Dylan cave on that point. But Dylan hadn’t blinked. Thank you, Dylan.

  Everyone would be sitting in Jennifer’s study right now, nervously awaiting my arrival. And Judge Stephanopoulos was my ticket in there. I surely hoped.

  I opened the door and climbed out of Judge Stephanopoulos’s car.

  “Dix Dodd, you’re under arrest.”

  Detective Dickhead’s gleeful words reached me at the same time as the reek of the stale cigarette smoke that clung to him.

  “Back on the butts, Detective?”

  “Yeah, and just see what it’s done for my mood,” he smiled. “Now, hands behind your back, Dodd.”

  He was in a better mood, all right. Hell, he was almost dancing as he pushed me up against the car and nodded to one of the female officers present. The officer—Officer H. Lapp according to her badge—frisked me quickly, then put the handcuffs on me. This I’d expected, given my last encounter with Dickhead when I’d taken off on him, leaving Blow-Up Betty in my place. He would make damn sure it wouldn’t be happening again, and the female police officer was there to ensure that no pleas of feminine emergencies would throw things off.

  But when Officer Lapp moved one hand to my head and another on the small of my back to prompt me into the police car, Judge Stephanopoulos, followed by Rochelle, stepped out from the Judge’s car.

  “Unhand Ms. Dodd,” the judge said, quietly but with unmistakable authority.

  The female officer glanced at Judge Stephanopoulos, then did a double take. “Oh, Your Honor.”

  Judge Stephanopoulos had presided over a great many criminal trials in Marport City, and most cops had testified before her at one time or another. She had a reputation for being intelligent and fair, for running a tight and efficient courtroom, and for being someone you just did not want to piss off. Officer Lapp looked to Dickhead for instructions. Yet she relaxed her hands enough to allow me to stand straight again.

  “Judge Stephanopoulos,” Dickhead said. “You’re a little out of your jurisdiction aren’t you?”

  “I’m an officer of the court, Detective Head,” Judge Stephanopoulos replied. “I’m making this my jurisdiction.”

  “Not from where I’m standing,” he grated. “From where I’m standing, Dix Dodd is a dangerous fugitive on the run. I have to haul her in.”

  Okay, this is where it got tricky.

  And I watched the two—Judge Stephanopoulos and Dickhead—my head snapping left to right, right to left with every volley of words. My money was on the judge. And, well, my everything was on the judge.

  “This doesn’t concern you at this point, Judge,” Dickhead said. “This isn’t your courtroom. This is my bailiwick.”

  “This may not be my courtroom, Detective. But I assure you it concerns me. According to Ms. Dodd, a crime has been committed.”

  “Yeah, by Ms. Dodd, and I’m— “

  Judge Stephanopoulos raised her hand quickly, silencing him. “And, again according to Ms. Dodd, I’m directly involved.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, as though trying to summon patience. “Look, dear, if you’ve got information we should consider, I’ll be happy to look into it. Right after we finish processing this prisoner.”

  Yeah, I caught it—dear.

  And by the way Officer Lapp was biting her lip, she’d caught it too.

  Rochelle jabbed me with her elbow. “Oh, man,” she whispered, “the judge’s gonna castrate him.”

  Castrate him? Why, was it Christmas already? I felt the excitement bubble up inside; I heard the carols playing in my head: Deck the halls with Dickhead’s balls, falalalala la la la la.

  Only when Rochelle elbowed me a second time—harder—did I realize I’d been humming.

  Eyes narrowed, Judge Stephanopoulos regarded Detective Head. Like something out of a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western, she stood with her arms at her sides as if she was ready to whip out a six-shooter. He glared right back. And though I had little doubt before, I really had no doubt now as to who would be winning this exchange, because she smiled at him. It was not a sweet smile.

  “Let me explain something to you, Detective,” Judge Stephanopoulos began. “And I’ll say it slowly so that hopefully you won’t get hung up on the big words.”

  Dickhead blinked.

  Another elbow in the ribs from Rochelle, and I bit back the ‘you go girl!’ that threatened to erupt.

  Judge Stephanopoulos continued, “Ms. Dodd is in no danger of fleeing at this point, Detective. You have her in handcuffs. You have her in custody in the pure definition of the law. You have many officers on the premises. On the other side of the coin, I have knowledge that an injustice has been done, and is continuing to be done. And I believe that this injustice will not be rectified until and unless Ms. Dodd addresses those gathered within that house, and gives the information to all, including yourself, that she has given to me. I am an officer of the court, acting in—”

  “She can tell her lies downtown!” Dickhead interjected.

  “She’ll tell her truths here!” Judge Stephanopoulos’s voice rang with authority.

  Dickhead’s struggle was written clearly on his face. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to concede. He ran his tongue over his lower lip quickly. He rocked on his heels. Just when I thought he was going to agree, his glance fell on me and his face hardened.

  “No.” He snapped. “Not going to happen. This is my show and what I say goes. And I say Dixielicks is going downtown.”

  “Then let me put it another way, Detective,” Judge Stephanopoulos said. “Dix Dodd is going into that house right now. Rochelle and I are going with her. And if you try to stop us, you’ll have to arrest me along with Ms. Dodd. And in that event, you’d better make damn sure that you keep me behind bars a good long while. Because I assure you, Detective, when I am no longer a guest of the county, and when Ms. Dodd has proven her innocence, I will make it my personal mission to have you busted down to picking up dog shit in the park. And if you don’t believe me, Detective, then just try me.”

  It was the way she said ‘try me’... with the barely-there restraint in her voice. Almost as if she was daring him to call her on this. Almost as if she wanted him to do it.

  Dickhead stared at the judge, hard. But not for long.

  “Ah, hell!” He turned away and snarled in the general direction of Officer Lapp. “Well, what are you waiting for? Take Dodd into the house!”

  Officer Lapp took me by the elbow, but not hard. Rather as a demonstration that I was indeed in custody.

  Inside the Weatherby house, police lined the walls. Though no weapons were drawn, it was still intimidating walking the gauntlet. Obviously, they were serious about my not escaping custody this time.

  And all eyes were on me as I entered the study.

  “Dix!” Dylan had been sitting on a small sofa beside Mrs. Presley, but surged to his feet at the sight of Officer Lapp’s grip on my obviously cuffed arm.

  “Hey, Dylan.” I smiled reassuringly. “Everything’s cool.”

  Judge Stephanopoulos and Rochelle followed me into the room, and stood beside the door. And of course, Dickhead came to stand beside me, breathing down my neck.

  I looked around the room.

  Ned’s lawyer, Jeremy Poole, sat beside a nervous looking Elizabeth Bee on a matching sofa placed on the other side of the room. She looked from Dylan to me, then back to Dylan again with a confused, questioning look on her face. A tall, portly man completely decked out in baker whites stood between the two sofas. I knew this had to be Kenny Kent, the Wea
therby’s caterer. Billy Star was there, standing beside Jennifer’s bookcase beside a rigid Luanne Laney. The latter had a steno pad and pen poised in her hands to take notes. Wow, that woman was efficient. Or psycho.

  “Well, if it isn’t Dix Dodd! I haven’t seen you in ages,” Mrs. Presley shouted into the room. “Why when Dylan picked me up this morning and told me about the party, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Bless her little ass-covering heart. “And didn’t I see your picture in the paper the other day? Something about... some case you were working on or something?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Presley,” I said. “Good to see you again. And yes, that was me you saw in the paper.”

  She smiled and looked around the room. “You know, it’s just like old home week here—all these familiar faces.” Half the men in the room averted their gazes—looking up, down, sideways and everywhere, except at Mrs. Presley.

  Detective Head just looked angry. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  I turned to expose my handcuffed wrists to him. “Can you remove these?” I had visions of dramatically pointing to the guilty party as I made my Sherlock Holmes-style speech.

  “Not a chance,” he sneered.

  Damn.

  “Damn.”

  “Please watch what you say, Ms. Dodd,” Pastor Ravenspire said. He was standing between Ned and his father, and all three stood over the chair where Ned’s mother sat behind Jennifer’s desk. “I’m not used to such language. And frankly,” he looked around the room—a little too quickly, a little too nervously. “I don’t know why I’m here in the first place.” He looked at his watch. “I... I can’t stay long.”

  Mr. Weatherby Senior took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on again. “You... you look familiar,” he said to me. He turned to his wife. “Doesn’t she look familiar, dearest?”

  “Yes,” the old woman said slowly, thoughtfully. “Yes, she does. Give me a minute... I’ll place that face.”

  Oh great, that was all I needed for Dearest to recognize me. I’d have to do this quickly.

  I drew a deep breath, expelled it, and began. “Each one of you has been called here today for a reason. Each one of you knew Jennifer Weatherby. Each one of you was close enough to murder Jennifer Weatherby. And one of you... one of you did just that.”