Sprayed Stiff

by Laura Bradley

  “Nothing,” Byron mumbled. He rubbed his eyes, took a swig of his coffee, and looked back at the television.

  The other leg appeared, in the window on the other side of the television. Same drill. I definitely saw some slobber on Byron’s mouth this time. “There!” He pointed.

  “Oh, yes.” I nodded toward the flexing leg. “Looks like we have company. Should I go answer the door?”

  He jumped up. “No! I’ll go. Why don’t you lie low?”

  “Good idea. It’s probably one of Scythe’s girlfriends. You know, one of the Flavors of the Week, or whatever y’all call them at the cop shop. I’d hate it if she got the wrong idea and ruined his date for the weekend. I’ll just hide around the corner here.”

  His eyebrows drew together like he felt sorry for me. “Okay.”

  I ducked out and peeked around the corner as Byron opened the door and nearly fell to his knees. Trudy had almost overdone it, in a nearly see-through white halter top and those hip-hugging, butt-cupping red leather shorts. “I’m looking for Jackson,” she whined.

  “Uh, I’m sorry, ma’am, but he’s not here right now….”

  Giving Trudy the thumbs-up, I pointed toward the right side of the house. She sent me a half wink as she pointed to her knee and complained of an owee. Byron was in another world. I tiptoed fast to the bathroom, closed the door silently, turned the lock, and climbed into the tub. I yanked at the window and nearly lost hope until I heard a small crack, and it gave way. Hoisting myself up, I shimmied my torso through and then, with an extra shimmy or two, my heinie, and let myself drop headfirst onto the ground, which was a lot harder than it looked.

  “Oof.”

  I wasn’t sure where all my body parts were when Trudy came prancing up. All I saw were spike heels and toenails.

  “Mangy minxes and conscientious con men, Reyn, get a move on. We’ve got to split this sundae. He’s onto us.”

  That’s when I heard banging at the bathroom door. By the time I got up and started to run, I heard the splitting of wood. Oops. Scythe was not going to be happy about this.

  Trudy was flying down the hill. Don’t ask me how she did it in spikes, but she did. I, on the other hand, was barefoot and catching every sticker between here and there. Limping, I caught up with her as we reached the oaks next to the creek. “Where are we going? Where’s your car?”

  “Mario took it. We’re taking this.” She dragged a six-foot skiff out of the bushes and shoved it into the water. She put one high heel in and let the other sink into the muck on the bank. I bet those were Manolos I was going to have to buy. Trudy was a shoe freak, and no set of heels was too expensive. She probably went out shopping just for this.

  I hopped in the boat and nearly tipped it over. With much not-too-graceful throwing around of weight, we got it rebalanced. Trudy shoved off, and we were water-borne.

  Now, I know Huck Finn had a bunch of excitement while he was floating on a raft down the river, but let me tell you something. Water moves slowly. I swear he experienced all his adventures along a two-mile stretch of the Mississippi, because what seemed like hours later, even with a paddle, I don’t think we were three hundred yards farther than when we started.

  “What’s your plan, exactly?” I tried to be diplomatic. After all, she had busted me loose successfully.

  “We’re going to float until we reach someplace recognizable, then I’m going to call Mario, and he’ll pick us up.” Trudy was very proud of her plan.

  We looked around us. Oaks and cypress and more oaks.

  “Well, you’re free, aren’t you? And I don’t think they’ll think to look for us escaping by the Cibolo.”

  “True.” Scythe just thought he knew me. Wait till he found out about this.

  “I say the next house we see, we park this getaway skiff and call Mario.”

  “But what if Scythe and that leg guy check the neighbors?”

  “What are they going to say? ‘Hey, I took this girl on a date and decided to hold her hostage. Her friend came over in red leather hot pants and they got away. Seen them lately?’ No, I think he might put out an APB for me, put some SAPD uniform at my house, but he won’t shake any trees in Floresville. He’s in enough trouble with enough police departments as it is.”

  “Really? Why?”

  I grinned like the Cheshire cat. Trudy shook her head. “This is no way to get a man, Reyn.”

  “I’ve decided men are overrated anyway. Look what the chump did to me last night. What a tease.”

  “He did it because he cares about you, Reyn.”

  “ ‘He’s not good, he just has good intentions…’ ” I sang.

  “You sound like Lyle Lovett,” Trudy groused. She was more of a pop fan, but knew my boy because I played all his CDs until she couldn’t help but memorize them.

  “Now, there’s a perfect man. I want to meet him. I bet he’d bring me coffee in bed. So would Clint Calhoun.”

  “Are you talking about that dishy Texas Ranger?” Trudy let out a low wolf whistle, then looked at me sharply. “Did you get to talk to him?”

  “At midnight, in my house, alone…”

  “Were you in one of your stupid ugly nightshirts and boxers?” Trudy groaned.

  “He wouldn’t know. I wore a robe the whole time,” I answered with a lift of my chin.

  “So Ranger Clint is good, no matter his intentions. How boring.”

  A house appeared as we rounded the next bend, and we made preparations to land on the right bank. The preparations included me making moves with the paddle on the port side of the boat. Awkward, I know, but this seemed to work for me, although I almost dumped Trude in the drink in the process.

  “Tadpoles’ tits and fornicating fishes, Reyn. Be careful!”

  We got there and Trudy stuck a pump into the bank as an anchor. I jumped out and we went to find out where we were so Mario could come claim us.

  No one was home, but we hiked to the mailbox. Fortunately, the residents were the kind who liked country craft fairs and decorating with blue geese. Some artist had painted their whole address on a big goose with little geese numbers and letters. Trudy made a mental note to call them and offer her design services—she liked to do that sometimes to the design-impaired, like me. I pointed out that if they hadn’t been so goose crazy, we would’ve had to hike God only knew how far down the road to find another address. Rural residents weren’t famous for advertising their technical position—they had too much real work to do.

  Mario was as far away as he could be, assuming, apparently, that we’d hijacked a hydroplane boat and made it to the Gulf of Mexico by now. So we got friendly with a few fire-ant beds while we waited in the bushes. Finally, the bubble-gum-blue Miata came roaring up.

  After kissing and cooing over Trudy and her ant bites and barely noticing me, Mario got back behind the wheel and we were off.

  “Where to, mi hermosas?”

  “Your house,” I said.

  “Her house,” she said.

  “We can’t go to my house,” we said to each other simultaneously.

  There was a long pause during which we stared in a Mexican standoff. Then I got it.

  “Lexa’s at your house, isn’t she, Trude?”

  “Ooh, she’s good, no?” Mario whistled. “You could be James Bond. We call you Jamie Bond because you’re a girl—”

  “No, I’m an idiot. I should’ve figured that out a long time ago, with the way you disappeared, the way you’ve been acting cagey. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me.”

  “Lexa asked me not to. She and Asphalt are just scared kids, with absolutely no street smarts. She’s upset she dragged you into this. We knew we couldn’t have you come over to the house in case you were being followed. She didn’t want you culpable for their disappearance.”

  “Did she tell you the whole story?”

  Trudy nodded. “She says about a year ago, she brought Asphalt over to her parents’ for dinner. Wilma, as could be expected, hated him. Behind Wilma�
��s back, Percy pretended to like him and acted interested in the band, and he offered to come watch the Roadkill one night.

  “Well, Lexa now knows that Percy just wanted a conduit for the drugs his associates were peddling, but then, she just thought Dad was being supportive. Asphalt is clueless. He’s a lower-middle-class kid from a nice family who played in the school orchestra. He’s working his way through UT by dressing the part and playing in the band. He wants to be a band teacher when he gets out.”

  “So they don’t know any more than we do about who killed Wilma?”

  “No. And that’s what scares them.”

  “Okay, we’ll give them a couple more days while Clint and the gang sort this all out.” I still thought the link was Shauna. She had to have done the clown makeup, but for whom and why?

  “We could go to my mama’s house,” Mario offered.

  I shook my head. Mama Tru lived catty-corner to my house. “Too close.”

  “Daffy’s?’

  “No!” Being in that museum-perfect mausoleum gave me the heebie-jeebies. I knew all those antiques were beautiful and expensive, but it was too much combined history in one place. Besides, it hurt me to watch Daffy blink for extended periods of time.

  “I have an idea,” I said on impulse. “Take the next exit.”

  Twenty-Three

  “COME IN, COME IN,” Charlotte whispered, brandishing a big black sheet and wrapping it around us as we got out of the Miata. I knew she was just trying to protect us, but I imagined any neighbors looking out an upstairs window at her backyard would be more alarmed by a trio under a black sheet than three unfettered folks walking into the house. It wasn’t like we were on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list.

  Not yet, anyway.

  “Thanks for having us,” Trudy said.

  “Are you kidding? This is my next assignment. Didn’t Reyn tell you? I’m the Holmes to her Sherlock!” She giggled. “Get it? Even the name is right. It was meant to be. Isn’t this fun?”

  Trudy raised her eyebrows. I shrugged. Charlotte gasped, “Oh no.” We all jumped. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Trudy. I know you’re a big help to Reyn, too. You’re her best friend, but it’s just that I’m her assistant. We just work together, you understand.”

  Trudy put her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “I’m glad she has such a wonderful assistant.”

  “When do your parents get home, Charlotte?” I asked. I doubted that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would consider her associating with me any safer than her driving to the corner store. They were probably right.

  “They both get home from work at about seven.”

  “Okay, I have another assignment for you.” She nodded, looking an overeager puppy. “Get Bettina to let you into my house through the salon. Next to the telephone is a ticket. Grab that and something for me to wear tonight. Footwear included.”

  I had decided that I needed to find out more about Shauna’s business. I needed to talk to the people who worked and lived around her, the ’09ers. Then I’d remembered that Mitzi had invited me to that fund-raiser. Who went to fund-raisers? People with money. Where did most people with money live in San Antonio? 78209.

  I was going to the damn fund-raiser after all.

  Charlotte gave me the thumbs-up, grabbed a brand-new trench coat off the coat stand next to the door, and left to talk to the chauffeur. Having a driver take her on her various detective assignments probably compromised her effect, but oh, well. Mario went back to work. Somebody had to make some money, since amateur sleuthing didn’t pay so great.

  “What are you up to?” Trudy demanded.

  I explained about going to Fiesta Texas.

  “You’re not going alone.”

  “I only have one ticket.”

  “I can get in.”

  I didn’t doubt it. Trudy was one of those women who managed to get in anywhere she had a mind to. Good gams did their part, but her exceeding beauty and dazzling charm probably had something to do with it, too. She’d probably gotten into bars when she was twelve just by winking at the bouncer. She was a handy friend to have around. For that and lots of other reasons.

  As per Charlotte’s invitation, we took showers in a bathroom with an Arabian theme that reminded me of Omar the Tent Maker. It was gussied up with her array of overpriced cosmetics. I’d never worn Lancôme before, and frankly it felt the same as Revlon, but what did I know? I bet if you had better than peasant skin, it did make a difference. It still didn’t cover up my freckles.

  Charlotte did own some cool colored eye shadows, which forced me to resist going overboard. I stuck with golds and browns since I didn’t know what I was doing when it came to makeup. Where was Shauna when you needed her? Trudy helped a little, but I didn’t trust her to improve me much because she started with perfection every day, so she couldn’t be very adept at transforming ordinary.

  After an hour went by, we started getting nervous. I wondered if Charlotte had gotten lost, was undergoing fingernail torture at the hands of the feds, or had been kidnapped by the killer. After we’d speculated enough to put my stomach in knots, the alarm system informed us of an opening door. Still in our towels, we rushed downstairs.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I’m sorry.” Charlotte blushed. “I got a little sidetracked. It was so much fun, this sneaking around!”

  “You did get the ticket?”

  She nodded, holding it out to me along with a grocery sack of clothes. “Oh, yes. Bettina said things were under control at the salon, and Rick is taking care of your dogs. There was a guy parked in front of your house.” She described Byron. “He didn’t look very happy.”

  I bet not. I bet he was in big trouble. Punished for a leg fetish.

  “When I was upstairs, I thought I noticed a scary-looking pair of men in a car parked in the alley behind your house. But when I looked again, they were gone.”

  Percy’s drug-dealing “associates” maybe? I felt guilty for putting Charlotte in potential danger.

  “But then, as I was returning to my car, a man walking his toy fox terrier stopped me. He was bald, but really handsome, and a little…” She paused to giggle.

  “…sexy. Anyway, he wanted to know if you were going to keep messing around in the Barrister murder, and if so, he was going to put his Porsche in a guarded garage for a couple of days for safekeeping. What did he mean?”

  Humph.

  “Anyway, he gave me some vitamin samples, and we talked for a while—”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, this and that. Not the case, of course. I am your Holmes, I know better than that.”

  Uh-uh.

  She started blushing again. “Before he took Kisses—”

  “Kisses?”

  “That’s his dog’s name. Isn’t that cute?”

  I made a noncommittal sound. Maybe I was looking for less testosterone, but I wasn’t sure I could fantasize anymore about a man who named his dog Kisses.

  “He said he thought my coat was handsome, then he asked me on a date.”

  “What?!” Trudy and I exclaimed simultaneously.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, blushing madly. “We’re going out tonight. Unless you need me for the case, that is.”

  “No, go ahead, have a good time.”

  I peeked into the bag of clothes and groaned.

  Trudy looked like she was headed for a Vogue cover shoot, and I looked like someone’s idea of a bad joke. I was a checkerboard come to life on a really bad high. Huge black and white blocks made up the peg-leg pants. Smaller black and white checks made up the spaghetti-string blouse. It was a rayon blend, which made it a little clingy. I didn’t wear patterns below my waist for a reason. I didn’t wear clingy for the same reason. And I didn’t wear peg-legs—well, you get the idea. I didn’t like to draw any extra attention to my booty. The whole thing made me look like a big target. So much for blending into the crowd at the fund-raiser. I knew Charlotte meant well, thinking I’d just bought the damned outf
it because it still had its tags on. But the truth was, Aunt Big gave it to me for my twenty-fifth birthday (probably so I’d be the only one who looked bigger than she did), and in five years I hadn’t had the heart to throw it out or the guts to wear it.

  The worst part was the shoes. I didn’t wear shoes unless they were running shoes to walk the dogs or flip-flops on the rare occasions I was feeling brave and wore shorts. All other times, I wore boots. Mostly cowboy boots. I was up to about a hundred pairs of boots by now. I knew it was a fetish. And, as the youngest of five kids who lived a childhood wearing holey, worn-out hand-me-down boots, I knew where this psychological baggage came from.

  And I definitely didn’t want to do anything about it.

  Anyhow, these shoes were pointy-toed patent leather with cutouts that showed parts of my foot, mirroring, I suppose, the checkerboard pattern. They had three-inch heels. I’d probably kill myself.

  “You really didn’t have any shoes to go with this outfit. I don’t know what you were thinking. So I bought those for you, Reyn. I saw them in the window as I drove by Carr’s on North New Braunfels. I thought they looked like so much fun!”

  I’d rather have had a trench coat. “They don’t look much like Sherlock’s shoes.”

  Charlotte’s face fell.

  “But they’re perfect for a disguise. Who’d guess I was investigating anything in these?”

  She brightened. I glanced down at the shoes again, trying not to pull a face. Being considerate was certainly painful to one’s pride.

  The doorbell rang. The plan we’d come up with was that Mario would be our chauffeur, taking us to and picking us up from the fund-raiser. He came in, and Charlotte and I had to withstand the minute or so of cooing and kissing and nuzzling that always went on with these two. They’d been married more than ten years, you’d think they’d get over it, but I swear it was getting worse.

  Finally, we were on our way, wishing Charlotte well on her date.

  “Isn’t that funny, Reyn? You’ve lived there all that time and never talked to the vitamin salesman. Charlotte is there five minutes and he asks her out.”