Phone Kitten: A Cozy, Romantic, and Highly Humorous Mystery

by Marika Christian

  “I usually hide in the back corner over there.” I gestured toward a round table in the back. “It’s quieter.”

  “Maybe we could meet over there tomorrow. If you don’t mind, I could make a copy of your notes, and if you felt up to helping me, you could go over them with me.”

  I nodded. “Sure, that won’t be a problem at all.”

  Of course. All he wanted was my notes. Why was I thinking that he’d want anything else from me? Sometimes I regretted giving up my invisibility.

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” He leaned over and pushed the hair out of my face “Emily, you have pretty eyes. You shouldn’t hide them.”

  I lost my voice and had to clear my throat. “My hair gets out of my ponytail, and I can’t help it.”

  His smile hinted at minty freshness. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  My bones had turned to water, and movement was an impossibility at that point. What the hell was all that about? Why was he touching my hair? Why was he talking about my eyes? It was times like this when I missed having Dani to call. If I called Dennis, he’d say something about how he pushed the hair out of my eyes because Rick was sick of it hanging in my face. That’s it. It’s that easy. Dennis maintains that guys mean what they say, and say what they mean. Where’s the fun in that? What’s the point of talking to a hottie if you can’t agonize over what he really meant? A real girlfriend would spend the next three hours on the phone with me, analyzing every minute of the conversation. That’s what I wanted to do. Just for one night it would be nice to imagine that Rick the Latin fireman god was interested in me for something other than my notes.

  I saw Rick waiting for me at the back table the next day. It was his fault I was late. His hair touching ways had crawled into my head, and I hadn’t been able to decide how to do my hair. Obviously I didn’t want to wear my traditional I-can’t-do-do-a-thing-with-it ponytail. I wore that yesterday and he pushed the hair out of my eyes, and while it would be nice to have Rick push the hair out of my eyes, I wanted him to see my eyes. I also didn’t want him to think I was doing anything special for him, because God forbid he should actually know that I’d listened to what he said. I curled my hair, then I straightened it, then I curled again until finally I decided to keep it a little curled and down, with just the sides pulled back in combs. I looked cute when I left the apartment, but by the time I got to the library, the curls had disappeared, strands had managed to escape, and I was wishing I’d gone with the ponytail. Florida is hell on hair.

  He looked glad to see me. “That’s better. I can see your face today.” He reached over and pushed one of the stray strands out of my face and behind my ear. “Well, most of it.”

  What was with this guy and all the hair pushing? I tried my best to pretend not to like it, or at least to seem indifferent. But inside, my heart was tap-dancing on my intestinal tract, and I was thinking I might be sick, but in a good way.

  If I were another girl, I would’ve said something witty or flirty. I would’ve batted my eyes. I certainly would’ve done something other than pull out my history notebook and start talking about the American Revolution.

  Since I’m me, that’s exactly what I did.

  “So you’re telling me this Ethan Allen guy was in the American Revolution? The furniture guy?” Rick asked.

  “He was a guerilla fighter, and he negotiated with the Governor of Canada to establish Vermont as a British province after the war. He wasn’t satisfied with the United States. He was charged with treason.”

  Rick thought for a moment. “Did he make furniture in his spare time? I’m wondering where that fits in.”

  “I’ve never read anything about that. I think they’re just cashin’ in on the name.”

  Rick leaned a little closer to me “You really like history, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “I love history. I’ve always thought of it as a collection of stories. You know — love, revenge, passion. Like Benedict Arnold. Most people think he was a bad guy, but it’s not that simple. He was never recognized as the good soldier he was, and he had this young pretty wife, and…” I stopped dead in my tracks. Perhaps now was not the best time to reveal my secret crush on my country’s most famous traitor.

  “Sounds like a soap opera.”

  “It was.”

  “Emily, I’ve had to pull a lot of overtime so I’m not sure about my schedule for next week, but I’d like to see you again. We could have dinner. You could tell me all about Benedict Arnold.”

  Huh? Was he asking me on a date? Was this a date thing? Notes at the library didn’t qualify as a date, but dinner might, even if we were talking about Benedict Arnold. If food is involved, it’s usually a date.

  “It’s not that interesting a story.”

  Rick stood up. “I bet the way you tell it, it is. I hate to do this, but I have to go. I’m working the night shift right now. I’ll see you in class?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, we sit next to each other, remember?”

  He stood there for a second, “Can I have your phone number so I can call you about dinner?”

  “Sure.” I scribbled down my phone number and handed it to him.

  He tucked it in his pocket and smiled that Crest smile. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  A date. He might be calling me for a date. The idea of it left me giddy for the rest of the day.

  Chapter Five

  Peyton turned out to be the little money-maker Leena had promised she would be. Working for Leena was completely different from working for Dimensions. I posted a few advertisements on adult web sites, then I sat back and waited for the phone to ring. That was all there was to it. Peyton came to life on the phone. She earned straight A’s and did so without sleeping with any of her teachers, although she certainly wasn’t above that. She was witty and vivacious. I was right about the freckle thing, too. Her clients melted when she purred, “That’s where the sun kissed me — maybe you’d like to kiss me there too.” Peyton was flirtatious, fun, and up for anything. To me, she became an adventurer.

  Peyton taught me that phone sex had very little to do with actual sex. Oh sure, there were still the seven-minute stroke calls, which made it very clear to me why they were calling. I mean, come on, seven minutes? No woman in her right mind would tolerate that. Most of Peyton’s callers were repeat callers though, and they called because she listened to them. She laughed at their jokes, she congratulated them on their victories, and she understood them.

  For instance, one of Peyton’s callers was fascinated by Peter Frampton. If there was one thing Peyton and I had in common, it was a lack of knowledge of all things Frampton. Our new phone friend was only too happy to educate us, and educate us he did, for hours at a time. I figured everyone else in his life had said, “Enough with the Frampton!” That meant cash for me. He never made one sexual comment; it was all Frampton, all the time. Once I commented that I thought a young Leif Garrett looked like Peter Frampton, and he freaked out, adding an additional twenty minutes to his call. When I said the only reason anyone should ever watch the remake of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was for the laughs, I earned even more money.

  Peyton had another caller whom I’d nick-named “Car Guy.” He called and “self-satisfied” while I told him about Peyton’s poor driving skills and inability to parallel park. Luckily, that’s another thing that Peyton and I had in common. We’re both crappy drivers. Car Guy loved hearing how Peyton caused near-accidents when she cut people off in traffic or forced someone off the road while applying her favorite lipstick. How Peyton was able to keep her license was beyond me, because frankly, she was a menace. She drove on sidewalks, plowed into trash cans, and threatened any soul brave enough to enter the crosswalk. She did as she pleased and didn’t care about any of it. That was the part he liked the most, her sense of entitlement. When Peyton curbed it, parking half on the street and half on the sidewalk, he reveled in it. When she left her parking spot bumping the car in front of he
r, as well as the car behind her, he was surprised, shocked, excited, and simply delighted.

  There were those guys, and then there was Jim Alexander. If only I had known how answering that first call would change my life.

  The first time Jim Alexander called Peyton, he was at work. He had me on speaker phone, something I hated. I was getting paid to whisper sweet nothings in one ear. If there’s going to be a whole conference room of ears to whisper into, I’m charging extra. Of course I recognized the name, but I figured there were a lot of Jim Alexanders in the world. It wasn’t until he gave me his credit card information that I realized he was the Jim Alexander. He was the man responsible for recreating or destroying downtown St. Pete, depending on who you asked.

  I live downtown. I have a small apartment on the second floor of an old convalescent home built in the early 1900s.

  My first night there had been memorable. After taking a little walk around the park, I came back to discover two burly-looking men dressed in black, lurking by the porch. One of them came to the edge of the light and told me that, if I lived on the second floor, I should stay in my bedroom for my own safety. They were bounty hunters and planned on catching their fugitive that night. Apparently he lived across the hall from me. It was a sleepless night.

  Downtown has changed since then. Artists moved in, new galleries and cafés opened, followed by unique little shops: everything from a New Age bookstore to a tea shop to an ice cream parlor. Craig Boone, Dennis’s man du jour, even opened a “cabaret” that featured poetry readings and artwork, as well as different performance pieces by local artists.

  Thanks to Craig and people like him, downtown was fun. It became the place to be. Developers took notice.

  Plans to “restore” downtown were in the works, with new condos going up everywhere. Businesses were being forced out. Entire blocks were going to be leveled. Those that weren’t facing demolition would have to pay higher rent. Prices were already skyrocketing. My rent had gone up only fifty dollars, but to move into my building, a new renter would pay six hundred dollars for a tiny studio apartment, two hundred more than I was paying. Soon, the New Age bookstore, tea shop, ice cream parlor, galleries, and cabarets, would be forced out of existence. The Craigs were going to be forced out of their businesses. The Emilys were going to have to find new apartments.

  Craig had organized local merchants to try and fight Jim Alexander and the others like him, but I didn’t know how successful they’d be. It seemed to me this was too often the way of the world; someone made something good and someone stronger took it away. Jim Alexander was stronger.

  I had never ever expected someone local to call me. St Pete was The Sunshine City! We were home to sun-kissed beaches, seashells, and sand; not miscreants, reprobates, and scoundrels. But there I was, talking to Jim Alexander, famed local businessman and secret pervert.

  He was very specific in his fantasy. He didn’t want to talk to Peyton. He wanted Peyton to pretend to be his neighbor, Kaz. Kaz was trashy. She wore her shorts too short, her tops too tight, and boy, did he love her open-toed shoes. He would tell me exactly what he wanted and exactly what he wanted me to say. Minutes into the call, he would laugh and say, “I’m done.” What Craig wouldn’t give to know that Jim Alexander was at best a four-minute man.

  Jim liked Peyton. He called her every day. At first it was for the minimum time, and it was strictly business. The next thing I knew, I was hearing about his problems at home, how unhappy he was at work. Strangely, Peyton had become his confidante and knew every detail of his life.

  He was married to a witch—what a surprise. Rachel-Ann was not the earthy, granola-crunching, dancing-naked-under-a-full-moon kind, but the sucks-human-souls kind. The kind usually spelled with the letter “b.” A former Miss Houston, she blamed a “greased” baton for her second-place finish in the Miss Texas contest and felt foul play was involved, because Rachel-Ann had never dropped a baton before, and she never did after. Jim also mentioned she hadn’t touched his baton in some time. Instead, she yelled and screamed at him. She called him names. She threatened to “ruin” him. Her demands for a certain lifestyle had forced them to live beyond their means. As it was, he could scarcely afford the home they had on Snell Isle, the country club membership, or the private school the kids attended. To top it off, Rachel-Ann was bored and had pressured him to open a little store downtown, a venture that would drain his time and money.

  I pieced together the things he told Peyton. I understood a few things he didn’t seem to get. Rachel-Ann didn’t love him. Soon their marriage would be over. He was falling out of love with her, too; he just didn’t know it. So for two dollars a minute, he called Peyton. She offered him support and understanding. Peyton was his Oprah, only with a foul mouth. That’s a service most therapists didn’t offer.

  Jim started calling Peyton more often. He called her on his way to work and on his way home. When the new grill he had special-ordered from the Tampa Home Depot fell off the back of his truck, right on to the Howard Franklin Bridge, it was Peyton he called first. He laughed at how Rachel-Ann was going to scream at him because the grill needed to be in before her parents came to spend the week with them. Jim thought of Peyton as a friend. I was beginning to think the same of him. I trembled in my shoes when I thought of what Dennis would say about that.

  Chapter Six

  “I want to tell you something, but I think I should keep it to myself.”

  That startled Dennis. “When have you ever been able to keep anything to yourself? You always tell me.”

  “This is confidential. It’s about someone who calls Peyton.”

  “Damn that pesky phone sex oath! It always gets in the way. I hate to tell you this, but you already told me about the Frampton guy and the one who likes a woman to blow smoke rings around his…” He searched for the right word “…thing. And I know about the guy who likes to pretend you walk on his back in a pair of Nikes.”

  I corrected him. “New Balance. He likes for Peyton to walk on his back in New Balance tennis shoes.”

  “Whatever.”

  “It’s a very big deal. They have to be New Balance, and they have to be gray.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “That he likes gray? Yeah. I mean Peyton would wear pink, not gray.”

  “No I mean the New Balance thing. I’ve never heard of product placement in a sexual fantasy. Why New Balance? It’s not like New Balance sneakers are hot. I don’t get it. I don’t get half the stuff you tell me. Oh, and there’s no phone sex oath, so just spill it.”

  I leaned closer to him. “Guess who calls Peyton?” Before he could answer, I whispered, “Jim Alexander.”

  He looked at me, puzzled, and mouthed the name silently, before it hit him. “Jim Alexander? Condo Man?”

  I nodded. “Yup.”

  “Are you serious? Jim Alexander, the Duke of Downtown Destruction, calls you? Craig’s going to die when I tell him.” For the first time, Dennis was excited about one of Peyton’s calls.

  “You can’t tell Craig anything, and he doesn’t call me. He calls Peyton.”

  He growled at me. Dennis actually growled at me. “You know when you went to the Frampton concert last week, I didn’t say anything. I bit my tongue when you said you were doing research…”

  “I was doing research! A twenty-dollar ticket got Peyton an hour and a half call! Do the math! I more than tripled my money! It was lucky that he was playing at Jannus Landing.”

  “Stop it. You sound like a drag queen! Quit referring to yourself in the third person. Peyton’s a picture; she’s not real. You’re Peyton—better yet, Peyton’s you.”

  How could he say that? I heard myself gasp. “I am not Peyton! She’s a dirty girl.”

  “She’s you, period. She talks like you, she laughs like you. She just doesn’t look like you. You make up all the things she does in and out of bed, and when she’s not throwin’ down with the University of Miami football team, s
he does things that you like to do. You’re the same person. Peyton doesn’t get phone calls, you do.”

  I whispered under my breath, “She’s not me. She’s sexy, and men drool for her, and…” I was having a hard time thinking. “…she drives a 1966 Ford Mustang convertible. I drive a Toyota.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, but you’d like to have a Mustang. You could be sexy if you wanted to be, Emmie. You’ve lost weight, you look good, and you’re still wearing the same clothes. If you got your hair cut, got a new outfit, and put on some earrings, you’d have guys drooling too. You’ve already got a study buddy who likes you. With a little effort, he’d be…” Dennis stopped again. I don’t know if he hated the thought of straight people having sex, or just me, but the idea tripped him up every time. “Well, he’d be a lot more.” He winked at me. “Think about it, Emmie. You wouldn’t just be talking about it. You’d be doing it. That’s research.”

  Haircut, clothes, earrings? Was Dennis suggesting I was a smidge trollish?

  When did Dennis turn into a fashionista? Sure he was gay, but he was never that gay. All he ever wore were black T-shirts and jeans. Frankly, I suspected he bought his t-shirts a size too small, so his chest would strain against them and look bigger. Maybe his tiny-shirt-wearin’-self should just shut up about my clothes. And considering he shaved his head like a Marine to camouflage that he was going gray, he shouldn’t be talking about my lackluster tresses.

  Dennis had managed to crawl into my head, and once he was there, I knew he wasn’t going to leave. I threw my dinner in the microwave. I wasn’t anything like Peyton. We were two different people. It was acting, that was all. I was an actress, and Dennis would never tell Kate Winslet that she and Rose, the character she played in Titanic, were the same person. Actually, he’d tell her that her movies sucked. He's not the Kate Winslet fan, I am.

  He might be right about the clothes though. I could take off my jeans without unbuttoning or unzipping them. I had to hike them up all the time. A new pair of jeans wouldn’t hurt, and maybe one new shirt. I could go to the mall in the morning to look. I didn’t have to buy anything.