by Nancy Martin
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
“She’s still pissed off. But less than before.”
“She’s taking rehab seriously?”
“I think so. Look, we can’t worry about her every moment, Nora. We have to allow Emma to make her own mistakes.”
“She’s made more than her share,” I said.
“We’re all at turning points.” Libby licked her spoon and eyed me.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“That Man of Yours . . .”
“Libby—”
“I just want you to know that it makes no difference to me if you’re having a fling. As a reject from the Common Sense Club myself, I encourage an occasional wild, sexual adventure, especially for someone as repressed as you are, but—”
“Hey.”
“But I hope you’re being very careful, Nora. You don’t want to be mixed up with a dangerous man for the long haul.”
“I’m not a teenager,” I said. “So you can lay off the motherly lecture.”
“Can I help it? I care what happens to you! And I know That Man is not the kind of partner who’s best for you. You need a dependable, hardworking, sensitive person who can help you come to terms with the disaster of your first marriage and move—”
“Can we stop talking about this?” I asked.
“Do you honestly see yourself eating spaghetti and meatballs the rest of your life?” she demanded. “Bailing him out of jail every time he gets arrested? A nice, normal sort of man won’t cause you any more heartache. You’ve had your share already, Nora.”
I waved to the waitress. “Check, please!”
“When are you going to wake up? That Man is a criminal.”
I grabbed the check out of the startled waitress’s hand. “Let’s go home.”
On the way back to Bucks County in the minivan, I distracted Libby by asking about Cindie Rae’s Web site. My sister knew everything.
“It’s sorta like QVC, only Cindie Rae has most of her clothes off when she talks about her product.”
“Does she make much money?”
“Well, I noticed she uses a nine-hundred number, which means the customer gets charged for making the phone call to her. She takes requests, you know. There must be a bunch of weird regulars who watch all the time and call in to chat. I don’t know if she sells many of those crazy-colored dildos. I didn’t watch for very long. The fuzzy screen gave me a headache.”
“She can’t be on camera twenty-four hours a day, of course.”
“No, no. She’s got her Web cam on all the time, although she’s not always on-camera. She puts up little signs to advertise when she’ll be back. It’s adorable.” Libby heard my choke and said quickly, “In a very yucky way, of course.”
Libby dropped me off at Blackbird Farm. The house was empty, and I found myself actually missing Spike’s annoying presence.
I went upstairs and took a long, soaking bubble bath with a book, then put on my pajamas and took my laptop to bed. Sitting Indian-style, I typed up my notes on the Aquinas party and e-mailed the piece to my editor.
Then, still wide awake and feeling brave enough to take a look, I located Cindie Rae’s Web site on the Internet.
Chapter 7
Maybe I have a delicate stomach, but when the grainy picture finally came into focus, yucky did not begin to describe how I felt.
I heard her voice first.
“And if you’re feeling frisky, boys, you can try this fun toy outside in the fresh air. Just be careful, because somebody might be watching! Some naughty person could be spying on you. Ooooh . . . For under twenty dollars, you can please yourself or your lady friend. And if you act now, I’ll throw in a special gift, just for you.”
As she giggled, the camera honed in on something large, long, and neon pink. Cindie Rae’s talonlike fingernails scored the length of it as she brightly began to describe the various ways she could employ such a grotesque item. While she spoke, the camera blurred as if run by an amateur photographer, then landed on Cindie Rae’s bare thigh and began a leisurely tour of parts better left unmentioned.
I clapped my hand over my eyes. “Oh, God!”
“And girls,” Cindie Rae continued, “if you’re planning a wild and crazy bachelorette party, let me show you a few fun games you can play with your girlfriends. No, wait— I think I hear a caller! Hello, baby, are you there?”
“Uh, yeah, Cindie Rae, how you doin’?”
“I’m doing great! What’s your name, honey?”
“Uh, Dick.”
“Hi, Dick! What can I do to make you happy tonight?”
I peeked between my fingers. Cindie Rae’s face filled my computer screen, and her smile was perkier than the Friendly’s waitress had been.
I turned the sound off, got up, and went into the bathroom for a Tums.
Padding back to the bed, I heard a whistle from downstairs and then the sound of footsteps on the staircase. With a rush of guilt, I allowed my finger to hover over the “quit” button.
“I’m up here!” I called, still debating.
Michael came in crooning “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” in his best Elvis impression. He carried a glass of milk in one hand. With the other, he plopped Spike into his basket. “What did you do? Take a really hot bath? You’re all pink.”
“Not as pink as some people.” I turned the screen so he could see.
He took a slug of milk first and climbed onto the bed to kiss me on the mouth. “Whoa,” he said when he caught a glimpse of the action on my computer. “This is a side of you I didn’t expect.”
“It’s a onetime deal. Look, it’s Cindie Rae.”
Michael twisted his head sideways. “How can you tell?”
“The implants. See?”
“Yikes. Even scarier without the clothes.” He slurped some milk. “May I ask what you’re doing?”
“Libby thinks I’m repressed.”
He grinned. “And this is your answer? Watching Internet porn? Look, if you want to cut loose, I have some better ideas.”
I tweaked his ear. “I thought we’d done it all.”
“We’ve hardly scratched the surface.” He offered me his glass.
I accepted the drink. The milk was warm and smelled slightly of rum, but I handed it back without sipping. “No, thanks. My stomach is a little upset. No, look at the background. Behind Cindie Rae.”
“If you’re looking at the background, maybe your sister is right.”
“No, look.” I pointed at the screen.
“Yeah,” Michael prompted. “What am I looking at?”
“A handbag. See? Hanging on the back of the closet door. To be specific, it’s a Lettitia McGraw handbag.”
“Okay. What’s the significance?”
“Cindie Rae was in Popo Prentiss’s salon looking to buy exactly this handbag. Why would she want one if she already had this one at home?”
“Maybe this is the purse in question.”
“Yes, Watson, you could be right.”
“What the hell is she doing now?” Michael asked. He squinted at the computer screen. “The camera is too damn fuzzy.”
“The lousy camera work,” I said, “means there’s somebody else in her studio. Someone’s running the camera.”
“It’s not her fiancé. I hear he’s still in jail.”
I didn’t ask how Michael knew that information. He had various twisted lines of communication that reached all echelons of law enforcement. “Is Alan all right?”
He hesitated. “Rutledge isn’t great. Somebody broke his nose. He’s got bruises that would scare Mike Tyson.”
I forgot about Cindie Rae in a hurry. “Michael! What happened?”
Unwillingly, Michael admitted, “Where he’s locked up, things can get out of hand very easily.”
“Is he safe?”
“The quicker he gets sprung, the better.”
So I had to work faster, I thought. Alan Rutledge didn’t belong in jail, where he was incapab
le of defending himself.
“So who could the cameraman be?” I asked.
“Why don’t you phone Cindie Rae and find out?” He pointed at the nine-hundred number displayed above Cindie Rae’s now writhing body.
“No way!”
“Why not?” With a grin at my squeamishness, Michael put his glass of milk on the bedside table and pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. “Here. You want to talk? Or should I do the honors?”
“Michael, don’t!”
He laughed at me as he punched in the phone number. “It’s not a crime. She’s got a legitimate business going.”
“Your definition of legitimate and mine—”
“It’s not very appetizing, I’ll admit, but she’s earning a living.”
“At what cost? She’s perpetuating the perception that women don’t have to be treated like human beings.”
“The lady is making a buck with the talent God gave her. Okay, a plastic surgeon helped. He ought to be sued, if you ask me. See that pucker near her navel?”
“I thought that was her navel.”
He pinned the cell phone to his ear with his shoulder. “She’s contributing to the economy. For all we know, she could be a member of the Better Business Bureau. Hell, maybe she belongs to the Rotary Club and— Hey, Cindie Rae, great show tonight!”
I stifled a cry of humiliation and flung myself down on the bed. I yanked the pillow over my head so I couldn’t hear whatever conversation Michael had in mind. Soon I heard him laughing.
When he disconnected a couple of minutes later, he patted my behind. “It’s safe to come out now.”
I threw off the pillow, but remained prone on the bed. “What did you learn?”
“I can get three of Cindie Rae’s gadgets for the price of two if I act before midnight.”
“What would you do with them?”
“They might make nice roadside flares.” He shut down the computer and closed the screen. “And her cameraman is a guy by the name of Calvin. He’s camera-shy, though. I didn’t see his face. Or any other part of him, thank God.”
“Calvin,” I murmured, trying to dredge up some kernel of information that niggled in the deepest part of my brain. “I don’t think I know any Calvins.”
“You suspect Cindie Rae killed the shopping lady now?”
“Yes. No. Why would she ask me to help exonerate Alan if she was the one who murdered Popo?”
Michael finished his milk in a long gulp and unlaced his boots. “Can we think about this in the morning?”
I watched him peel off his sweater and start to unbutton the shirt underneath. “They’re not married yet. If Alan is convicted, Cindie Rae won’t get his money. She’ll have to continue to make her living by that Web site.”
“Not a lot of career options for someone with her background,” Michael agreed.
Absently, I ran my fingertips along the curve of his bare back. “Did you have any luck finding Elvis tonight?”
“Who said I was looking?”
“You only drink a toddy when you think you won’t be able to sleep. I assumed you were working on your Monty Python situation.”
“Monty is my father’s problem, not mine.”
So where had Michael been tonight? What problem was so knotty that he needed help to shut off his brain for the night?
The forces of Michael’s life had begun to tangle darkly around mine, and no matter how intensely we both wanted to build a future together, there were still circumstances neither of us could control. I didn’t want to think Michael’s choices might alter the relationship we were still so tentatively forging.
If I didn’t ask, he didn’t need to tell.
Or to lie to me.
Michael got up and kicked off his boots. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and came back a few minutes later without his clothes. He pulled the cord on the lamp and slid into bed with me, all warm muscle and peppermint. I slipped into his arms, but Cindie Rae’s explicit Web cam antics had cooled all carnal thoughts for one night. It felt good just to hold on tight.
In the morning, Michael woke with his usual ardor and left me weak as a kitten in the bed while he showered. An hour and a half later, my nephew Rawlins showed up to hide from his “crazy mother” in front of my television. He volunteered to look after Spike, so Michael and I were free to go into the city unencumbered.
On the highway, I caught him glancing into the rearview mirror more often than usual. “What’s going on?”
“One of us has a tail.”
“A . . . ? You mean somebody’s following you?”
“Or you,” he said, already reaching for his cell phone. He made a call, spoke briefly, and clicked the phone closed a moment later. “Okay, it’s me,” he admitted. “Dammit.”
“Is it the police? Are you going to be arrested?”
“I doubt it. But I hate your being in the car when they stop me. Let’s do a little fancy driving.”
“Michael, you can’t outrun the police!”
“I’m not outrunning them.” But he squeezed his car between two tractor-trailers, where no other vehicle could fit without endangering lives. At a perfectly moderate speed, he drove the rest of the way into the city between the two trucks, humming along to the music on his radio. Finally, we scooted off an exit. Among the city streets, Michael ran a traffic light on the yellow and zipped into a parking garage. He took a ticket from the automated machine, drove up two floors and back down again to exit on the other side of the city block. When he paid the confused attendant, he turned onto the one-way street and down a few more blocks to another garage. He passed several open parking spaces until he found a spot he liked between two very large SUVs.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
“What would you think about going up to New York before Christmas?” he said. “We could see the decorated windows, have a nice dinner someplace expensive, go ice-skating . . . ?”
“You can ice-skate?”
We got out of the car and Michael opened the trunk. From inside, he dug out another license plate.
“Is that legal?” I asked as I watched him swap the new plate for the one already on the car.
“Technically?” He dropped his screwdriver and the original plate into the trunk and closed it. “Maybe not. I just happen to have two cars the same make and color. Confusing the plates might be an honest mistake.”
“Hmm.”
We walked across the street and into Haymaker’s department store. As far as I could see, nobody followed us.
“There are a lot of cameras in this place,” Michael observed on the escalator. “Somebody really knew what they were doing when they shut down the whole system.”
“Maybe Popo’s murder wasn’t a one-person job,” I said.
We arrived at Popo’s salon, where the sentry at the door was still the mannequin wearing the Oscar de la Renta dress. Inside the salon, Darwin Osdack gave a squeak of terror when we walked in.
“What are you doing here?” he cried, seizing a leather coat off the nearest rack and holding it against himself as if it were a bulletproof shield. He stared from me to Michael and back again. “Oh, my God, you’re going to kill me!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Darwin. I just want to talk.”
“Who’s he?”
“A friend.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Michael ignored us and took a tour of the merchandise that crammed the salon. He flipped over a price tag or two, picked up a spike-heeled shoe decorated with dragonflies, and nudged a thousand-dollar suitcase with the toe of his boot.
“Don’t let him do that!” Darwin hissed. “It’s worth more than my monthly salary!”
“Darwin, how about telling me a little more about the night Popo died?”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to know what I missed after you locked me in the bathroom.”
He flushed. “I did no such thing.”
I sat down in
one of the Louis Something chairs that stood before Popo’s desk. “I’m sure the store security cameras recorded the truth. Shall we find out?”
Darwin lowered the leather coat at last. “All right, so what if I did lock you up? You deserved it.”
“Darwin, if I promise to help your career in whatever way I’m capable, will you please drop the wounded act and talk to me? The fate of this store is probably at stake.”
He took a tentative step toward me, unable to resist the drama. “It is? How?”
“Trust me when I say that Alan Rutledge’s future is the key to the store’s future, too. After you made sure I was stuck for the night, what did you do with the Lettitia McGraw handbag?”
“I told you. I put it into the store safe.”
“Try again,” I said. “It never arrived. Did you sell it to Cindie Rae?”
“What if I did?” Darwin demanded. “She’s going to be Alan Rutledge’s wife! I didn’t see any point in denying her what she wanted.”
“But Popo had other plans for the bag, right? Like maybe she planned to keep it for herself?”
Darwin frowned at me. “I don’t think I should discuss this with you.”
“I know about Popo’s business on the side, Darwin. She was stealing from the store, wasn’t she? And reselling goods privately at parties she conducted at her apartment.”
“That would be very wrong.” Darwin staunchly defended his mentor. “Any employee would be instantly fired for stealing store merchandise.”
“But Popo blamed the shrinkage on you. Why are you protecting her now?”
Darwin glanced nervously at Michael, who made a pretty good pretense of looking through some dresses on a rack. Darwin jerked his head. “Is he okay? I mean, really?”
“He’s not working for store security, if that’s what you mean.”
Darwin sighed and drooped into the chair beside mine. “All right, here’s the real deal. Popo planned to let Cindie Rae have it. But Cindie Rae jumped the gun and came here to the store to get the bag. That was supposed to happen at Popo’s house.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m not dumb. But Cindie Rae certainly is.” He edged his chair closer to mine. “She left a message on Popo’s voice mail, which I am supposed to check every hour. When Cindie Rae showed up for the bag that night, Popo was furious.”
