“Quit making fun of me.”
“Is there a better way to get you to stay out of this? I’ve tried everything else, asking politely, intimidating, demanding, even arresting you. I’m game for trying ridicule…” His voice drifted off, and I heard what sounded like a broadcast turned up and a deep baritone speaking, although I couldn’t hear exactly what was said.
“Hello?” I called to Scythe.
I heard voices raised in the background. Then Scythe swore under his breath. I thought he said, “Damn Rangers,” but I didn’t know why he’d care about the Dallas baseball team in the middle of all this and so early in the season, too. Men, go figure. “We’ve got a big problem. Reyn, go home. Lock your doors. If you’re not home in fifteen minutes, I will send an APB out on your truck.” He disconnected, probably to watch the rest of his precious baseball game. I didn’t know he was even a fan.
I despise being told what to do. But I believed he meant what he said, which meant I shouldn’t give in to temptation and go by Trudy’s house, which would’ve been my next exit off 281. Instead, reluctantly, I headed for home.
No one was waiting for me when I got there. Well, why would they be? The vultures had gotten their pound of flesh out of my Roy Gene interview, headed back to their respective stations to package up their stories for their late-night newscasts, and gone out to celebrate. They’d probably be camped out again first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, I was under house arrest.
Only if I listened to one bossy cop.
Cab and I let ourselves in through the kitchen door. The two outside were whining like I’d abandoned them for years instead of hours. I let them all in for the reunion and a kibble fix, then unlocked the door to my poor, neglected salon to find a note from Bettina about the day’s exciting activities. Yes, clients had canceled for today, but all had rescheduled. She’d taken a hundred calls from people who wanted to come to me for their hair because they’d heard my name on the news. What did getting mixed up in murders have to do with doing good hair, anyway? These potential new clients scared me. I read on. Bettina had juggled reporters’ inquiries all day, and one talent scout who’d seen her on the noon news told her he could make her more famous than Lucy Liu if she moved to Hollywood. I wondered if it was the same one who’d talked to Trudy. Was someone stalking my friends with offers of fame and fortune? Low blow, since all I had to offer was toil and trouble.
I returned to the part of my house I lived in and debated dinner. Food and I have a lifelong love affair that won’t be denied by brushes with death, destruction, or having to fit into Levi’s tomorrow. I opened the refrigerator and jumped back, startled again by its semiclean state. I was used to having to catch something falling out every time I opened it. Nothing even teetered this time. I’d forgotten my mission before Lexa’s fateful call. I managed a moment of panic when I considered I might not have enough choices to satisfy me for din-din, but then I saw the instant egg foo young and I relaxed.
Popping it into the microwave, I reviewed what my second course might be. Some three-day-old jambalaya might not be bad. I set that out. Then I grabbed some frozen tiramisu to defrost for dessert. Vegetables? Hmm, I hadn’t been to the store for four days and had thrown out some half-rotten possibilities the night Wilma was murdered. Veggies might be a problem. Then I brought myself up short. Who said I had to have vegetables at every meal? It was another one of those parental brainwashing things. I was thirty-one years old and wouldn’t have a vegetable course. So there.
Feeling very rebellious, I sat down with some chop-sticks and dug in. The doorbell rang.
A reporter? Scythe? The newspaper wanting me to subscribe? Roy Gene wanting revenge? DD wanting a quickie?
The last one made me check my peephole before I opened the door. The Marlboro Man stood on my doorstep, minus the horse and the cigarette. Maybe he’d left them at the curb. A Stetson with the perfect crease shadowed his face, but the contours of his chest through his button-down shirt and the bulge of his…thighs through his western slacks spoke to me. I decided I ought to let him in.
I opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“Ma’am,” he said in a rich, deep baritone that sounded vaguely familiar and extremely toe-curling. He slid his Stetson off and held it. “I’m looking for Reyn Marten Sawyer.”
“You found her,” I breathed. And boy, is she lucky, or what? The Stetson had been hiding thick, jet-black hair just a shade too long to be considered regulation, and just right to be considered sexy. His hairline showed a cowlick fifteen degrees off-center to the right above green-gold eyes that crinkled at the corners, a chiseled face that bespoke some Native American blood, a seven-o’clock shadow, and a mobile mouth with a thin upper lip and plump lower lip that made a girl think about a kiss. And other things.
He reached into his back pocket. I tried not to stare at the way that made his Wranglers pull across his hips. He could’ve been reaching for a revolver and I wouldn’t have cared. He flashed a badge instead. “My name is Clint Calhoun, ma’am, with the Texas Rangers.”
Oh, were those the Rangers Scythe was so worked up about?
No wonder. This Ranger had me pretty worked up, too.
I hoped I wasn’t panting.
I stared at him a beat. Two beats. Finally, he cleared his throat. “May I come in for a few moments?”
I stepped back too fast and nearly tripped over my own feet as I pulled the door back. Real cool. “Of course. Come in. Please.” Pretty please.
“Thank you.” He stepped over the threshold.
“Let’s go into the kitchen.” It was easier to hide the spread of my thighs under the kitchen table, rather than on the couch in the living room. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. I was still in my camo-wear and Wolverines. The only thing more sexy would’ve been my “Creeps Like Me” T-shirt, which he picked up from where I’d left it slung over the kitchen chair and perused.
I braced for a lewd comment. He smiled instead. “Lyle Lovett fan?” I nodded. He nodded back. “Me, too.”
My dream man.
He reviewed the array of food. I fiddled nervously with the tiramisu. “I was just sitting down to a late dinner. Would you like something?”
“Egg foo young. Jambalaya. Tiramisu. It sounds perfect. If you can spare some, that would be much appreciated.” No snide comments, no cocked eyebrows, like someone else I knew. What a gentleman. I grabbed a plate and a couple of spoons so he could serve himself. “Something to drink?”
“Whatever you have handy, but don’t bother yourself. I’ll get it, ma’am.”
“My mom’s a ma’am. Please call me Reyn.”
“All women are ma’ams,” he said with a wry smile that bespoke some parental brainwashing of his own as he took the glass from me and poured himself some iced tea he found in the fridge. “But I’d be honored to call you Reyn.”
Sigh.
“And what can I get for you to drink, Reyn?”
A dose of reality would be nice, because Ranger Clint was definitely too good to be true. “I’ll have some tea, too, thanks.”
He poured my tea, then sat down in the seat next to mine. I’d been planning on sitting across from him. After all, we’d just met. But I couldn’t exactly move now, could I, without hurting his feelings. I tried to ease gracefully into the chair, but caught the back of my knee, which sent me off balance, and my backside thumped into the seat. I offered an apologetic grin. He answered it with an admiring smile that said I was swan-like.
We ate for a moment in silence. Then he cleared his throat. “Reyn, the reason I’m here is…”
To ask you to ride off with me on my white horse into the sunset….
“…to ask you some questions about the Barrister and Roadkill cases.”
Darn. “Yes?”
“The Rangers decided to get involved in the case after we heard you on the radio tonight. You see, we usually wait to be asked to help localities investigate cases they can’t handle because of a small workforce or la
ck of investigative experience, or because perhaps internal affairs are involved and they need some impartiality.
“However, in rare cases, we invite ourselves into the investigation when we think it’s warranted. Like in this case. Because there are so many departments involved and the case seems so complicated….”
Oh, boy, was I in trouble with Scythe. He had to be catching heat over this.
“Are you all right, Reyn?”
Was Ranger Clint incredibly perceptive, or did I look like I was going to hurl? “Yes—I mean, no. I’m a little worried the local cops are going to be mad at me.”
He nodded, his green eyes softening in understanding. “I hear you are involved with Lieutenant Scythe.”
“Involved? We aren’t involved. We’re just, ah…” What were we, anyway? “Friends.” Contentious ones, but I supposed that was as close as we could get in the English language.
“Friends?” He looked a little dubious for a moment, then brightened. “Good. That will make things less complicated.”
Things? What things? Oh, I get it, Clint, no more worry that our wedding vows will be interrupted.
“Less complicated.” I was beginning to sound like a parrot.
“Yes, we were going to have to remove him from the investigation if there was anything romantic between the two of you.”
I barked out a laugh. “Romantic. Scythe? As close as he gets is teaching me how to shoot.”
Clint dropped his head and shook it. After another second of mourning, he lifted his head. “If you don’t mind, can we go through your involvement with the case from beginning to end and why you think neither the husband nor the daughter is the killer? I apologize if that makes it a late evening for you, but I’d like to get a running start on this in the morning.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” I rushed to say.
That Clint Calhoun was a thorough man. Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking.
I covered most of what had happened over the last couple of days, leaving out the part about clocking the DJ with the dog bone. That was a little embarrassing. I referred to Annette as my confidential source, and all Clint did was encourage me with those clear green eyes into considering revealing her identity. I almost did, but bit my tongue at the last minute. All in all, he asked some perceptive questions and seemed to appreciate my insight, unlike some other cops who will remain nameless.
My home phone kept ringing off and on during his visit, but since my voice mailbox was full, no one could leave a message. At one point, Clint looked at me sorrowfully and said, “I’m so sorry you are being harassed over this.”
Ah, dreamy.
After he left, I slipped my “Pony in My Boat” T-shirt over my head, pulled on some ancient boxers, and brushed my teeth, letting Char lick some toothpaste off my fingers. I’d let the girls in while Clint was there because they’d been begging to meet him. They loved him. He loved them. If he passed the coffee-in-the-morning test, he’d be the perfect man.
The doorbell rang. My heart jumped. Had he changed his mind about spending the night at La Quinta? I reviewed my holey shorts. This called for a robe. I threw on my thick emerald terry-cloth robe and ran downstairs with the dogs. I flung the door open, and tried to hide my disappointment.
Twenty
A FRUMPY WOMAN with frizzy dark hair shot with premature gray pulled back in a tightly hairsprayed bun stood on my doorstep. It took me a good fifteen seconds to place her as the lady I’d admired for her dedication at the Junior League party. It was midnight. What was she doing here?
Why hadn’t I looked through the peephole?
Her hand shot out. I jumped, then shook it. She bowed her head. “I’m Mitzi Spagnetti. I don’t know if you remember me…”
“Of course I do, Mitzi. Come on in.”
Here I went again. It was the middle of the night, and I was too polite to turn away a near stranger.
I ushered her into the living room, checking out her outfit—red high-water slacks, kelly green long-sleeved shirt decorated with orange embroidered smiley faces, purple fuzzy socks, and yellow clogs. Hmm. I wondered if she was color-blind—unusual for a woman, but not unheard-of. I excused myself to put the dogs out since they seemed on edge, probably because they were expecting the luscious Clint or their best bud Scythe, certainly not Mitzi. Besides, it was past their bedtime. Mine, too.
When I returned, she was hunkered down in my love seat, wringing her hands, which I noticed were ragged with bleeding cuticles. Poor dear. She was barely older than I was, but seemed to have decades on me. I sat down on the couch across from her. “It’s nice to see you again, Mitzi.”
“I am sorry for coming to see you so late, but I’ve been calling all night, and I thought that you probably had your message machine filled up with all the reporters, and I wouldn’t be able to get hold of you until this all died down.” She paused, heard what she’d said, and laughed a lilting little giggle. Odd sense of humor, but at least she had one.
“It’s okay,” I reassured her, “I was still awake.”
“I wanted you to know I was worried about you, with all you’re going through right now. I think the police and reporters should just leave you alone. You can come stay with me if you need to hide from them all. I’m sure they wouldn’t think to look for you at my house.” She gave that weird little giggle again.
“Thank you for the kind offer, Mitzi, but I’m okay. I have a business to run. It’s hard to hide from that.”
“Well, can’t you just tell the police to go away? You don’t have anything to do with these murders.” Her voice rose, suddenly adamant. It reminded me of the way she’d talked about her pet projects in the Junior League. She was caring, if a little off.
I leaned forward and patted her hand. She jumped. Yikes. “Thank you for your concern, but people I care about are involved and I’m trying to help them. I don’t like to see someone suffer for something she didn’t do. The person who’s guilty should pay.”
She studied me through her thick glasses, her dark eyes bright. “You get as focused as I do about your causes, don’t you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe so. And from what I’ve seen of your dedication, being compared to you would be a compliment. Thank you.”
Mitzi bowed her head and blushed. “Dedication can be a blessing or a curse, depending on where it is applied.”
“True.” The fashion disaster as philospher.
Mitzi wrung her hands again. “Since you are so focused on finding the killer, I guess I should tell you what I know. I really have debated this. But I know it’s right to put this information in such capable hands.”
I suddenly found it hard to swallow. “What information?”
“It’s about another Junior League member. Someone who might have wanted Wilma dead.”
“If you suspect someone, why not go directly to the police, Mitzi?”
“I don’t have any proof, and if I send the police after her, my career with the League will be over. All those teenagers would be without guidance. Babies would be born into sadness and chaos—”
I put up a hand. “If this woman is involved in Wilma’s death, Mitzi, I’ll have to tell the police about you and you will have to cooperate.”
She brightened. “Oh, I know that. If she really is guilty, then it’s a foregone conclusion that I would cooperate. But throwing false suspicion around, that would not be understood within the League.”
I sighed. I was losing track of all the people I was supposed to be protecting. “Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me what you know?”
“It’s Charis Keifer. You met her, at the function at the Harmon home.”
I remembered caramel-blond Charis of the flipped-out fashion stooges. I’d sicced Scythe on her because she’d been openly celebrating Wilma’s death, sourly proclaiming that Wilma had been practicing Darwinism among the provisional members of the Junior League. Perhaps Charis had decided to practice her own version of Darwinism on Wilma?
I kept my v
oice neutral. “I remember Charis.”
“She is the chairman of the provisionals, the new members of the League. How their probationary year goes reflects on her. Sixty percent of the provisional class from last year quit, some say thanks to the emotional torture Wilma put them through. There was talk that Charis should be removed from her position, that it was her fault the provisionals quit, that the League would dry up and die with such low numbers of actual inductees. Some of her supporters in the organization fought to give her another year to prove herself. Wilma had vowed to be just as tough on the provisionals this year. Charis was livid, and she didn’t hide it.”
“Why would anyone kill over being removed from a volunteer position?”
Mitzi looked at me like I didn’t get it. And I guess I didn’t, and never would. “Believe me, it is motive enough.”
I shook my head. “I’ll take your word for it, Mitzi. But motive is one thing and opportunity is another.”
“She had opportunity. Her husband complained to his buddies while he was golfing at the Dominion yesterday that Charis was late coming home the night Wilma was killed. She told him a moonlight sale at Grove Hill kept her. His friends all groused about similar shopping problems with their wives, but they’re all too stupid to know there was no midnight sale anywhere in town that night.”
“That could be explained any number of ways, though. Charis could have a boyfriend. She could’ve been sneaking out for a night with the girls. No telling.”
Sighing, Mitzi wrung her hands. “At least I told you. Now my conscience is clear.”
Wow, that made me feel guilty. “Okay, Mitzi, I will mention it to the police and keep your name out of it for now.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” She blew out a breath and patted at her flyaway hair. “Now, if you are dead-set against staying in hiding until the whole case is settled…” She paused, waiting. I acknowledged that she was right. “Then I would like to invite you to a fund-raiser I’m hosting to get seed money to restart the Teen Advantage pregnancy prevention program. It’s at Fiesta Texas theme park on Friday night. Tickets are one hundred fifty dollars a person, but I’d like you to be my guest.”
Sprayed Stiff Page 20
