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 incapable 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 Cin- die 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.'' SLAY BELLES 63
``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 pat- ted 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 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 back- ground,'' 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?'' 64 Nancy Martin
``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 tenta- tively 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 min- utes later without his clothes. He pulled the cord on the lamp and slid into bed with me, all warm muscle and pep- permint. 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 be- tween two tractor-trailers, where no other vehicle could fit without endangering lives. At a perfectly moderate speed, SLAY BELLES 65 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 ga- rage. 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 origi- nal plate into the trunk and closed it. ``Maybe not. I just happen to have two cars the same make and color. Confus- ing the plates might be an honest mistake.''
``Hmm.''
We walked across the street and into Haymaker's depart- ment store. As far as I could see, nobody followed us.
``There are a lot of cameras in this place,'' Michael ob- served 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 Mi- chael and back again. ``Oh, my God, you're going to kill me!''
``Don't be ridiculous, Darwin. I just want to talk.'' 66 Nancy Martin
``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 abou
t 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 cam- eras 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 SLAY BELLES 67 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.''
``Because she hadn't had a chance to steal the bag for herself yet?''
Darwin nodded. ``Plus she realized I finally figured out what she was doing. I've been taking the blame for months, and it was Popo all the time!''
``Did the two of you argue?''
``We had customers,'' Darwin said with a lift to his nose. ``Popo and I would never be so unprofessional as to have a disagreement in front of customers.''
Michael sauntered closer and leaned against a tall mirror. Darwin's loyalty crumbled entirely.
``We were going to argue,'' Darwin admitted. ``But Popo died before I could confront her.''
I sighed. ``Do you see my problem, Darwin? As far as I can figure out, you're the only person with a real motive to kill Popo.''
``Then you haven't looked very far.''
``Oh?'' 68 Nancy Martin
Darwin leaned in and whispered, ``Popo was boinking somebody.''
I tried to comprehend such an impossibility. ``You're jok- ing, right? Who would have an affair with Popo, of all people?''
Darwin looked me in the eye. ``You promise to help me get a new job if I get fired from this one?''
``I promise.''
``Okay, then. It was Mr. Rutledge.''
``Alan?'' I cried. ``You're saying Popo and Alan were seeing each other? But he's engaged to Cindie Rae.''
``He was seeing Popo before he met Cindie Rae. As soon as his parents kicked the bucket, Popo went after Mr. Rut- ledge like a barracuda. They met every week at the Four Seasons before his Wednesday matinee.'' Darwin shud- dered. ``I don't even want to imagine what that scene must have been like. But then he met Cindie Rae. And when he tried to break things off with Popo, she went ballistic.''
``Let's get this straight,'' Michael said. ``The dead lady was having a little WrestleMania with the store owner. Then she blew a fuse when he found true love with the Penthouse Pet?''
``Yes,'' said Darwin.
``So who smoked Popo?'' Michael asked.
Behind me, I heard another customer arrive at the salon door. Darwin looked up and turned a color that made me fear he had thrown an embolism. I turned to see who had come in and got hastily to my feet.
A store security guard walked in, followed by two men I knew instinctively were police officers. One wore an Eagles jacket with a green scarf double-wrapped around his neck, and the other had a Columbo-style trench coat.
The cop with the scarf showed us his badge and made a pretense of courtesy. ``Mick Abruzzo? We'd like to ask you some questions. Will you come with us, please?''
Agog, Darwin gave a squeak.
The security guard stood aside and allowed the police to do their business, but his hand rested tensely on the pistol that hung on his hip. He was a gangly young man with pale eyes and a shaved head.
``Don't go anywhere by yourself,'' Michael said to me as he departed with the police. ``I'll be out in a few hours.'' SLAY BELLES 69
I followed them out of Popo's salon, but the store secu- rity officer blocked me from entering the employees-only elevator with them. He said, ``Sorry, ma'am. You'll have to take the next car.''
``All right.'' I found myself suddenly staring at him. ``Aren't you the security guard I met night before last?''
He peered more closely at my face, and recognition dawned. ``Sure, I remember you. How are you feeling?''
In the instant before the doors met, I looked at his name tag.
It read, CALVIN REILLY.''
Calvin.
Darwin said to me, ``Are you okay? You look like you're going to faint.''
I pushed past him and ran for the escalator. Half a dozen shoppers clogged my path, but I wiggled through them all, apologizing as I headed down. At the bottom, I heard someone call my name.
``Nora! For heaven's sake, wait for me!''
Libby bore down on me, laden with shopping bags. ``I spent some time thinking last night,'' she reported without preamble, ``and I decided to return most of the things I bought so far. I don't know what came over me, but shop- ping seemed the best medicine at the time and now--My God, what's wrong?''
``I just figured out who killed Popo Prentiss.''
``What!''
``I have to hurry. The police are taking Michael now and--''
``Oh, my God, he killed Popo?''
``Of course not!''
``Then who--?''
``I don't have time to explain.'' I rushed away from her, hoping to catch the police officers before they left the store.
``Wait!'' Libby called.
I reached the main entrance of the store, plunged through the revolving door, and dashed onto the sidewalk.
And collided with the Salvation Army Santa who stood ringing his bell just outside the door. When I hit him, he gave a startled grunt and sprawled on the pavement, knock- ing his bucket off its tripod and causing such a clatter that every pedestrian for two blocks turned to look. His bell 70 Nancy Martin clanged onto the sidewalk and proceeded to bang its way into the street, where it was run over by a bus.
Libby burst out of the revolving door and crashed into me. ``Oh, my God, Nora, you've killed Santa!''
``I'm so sorry,'' I said in a gasp, kneeling down to help the poor man. ``I'm so, so sorry! Are you hurt?''
``M-merry Cwithmuth.'' Santa lay stunned on his back, blinking dazedly up at the sky.
I tried to loosen the big black button at his throat, but I couldn't paw my way through his synthetic beard. ``Oh, God, I think h
e's got a brain injury! Libby, call an ambulance.''
Libby dropped her shopping bags and leaned over us to peer more closely at the man in the red suit. ``He doesn't have a brain injury! His hat and wig broke the fall.''
Santa sat up unsteadily. ``Whath happem?''
Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) Page 8
