by Norah Wilson
“Right, and all in use. Would she sell if she had to?”
I thought so. Didn’t I? Mother owned the condo I lived in. She insisted on keeping it, wanted me to live there, and wouldn’t take a cent of rent. Would she tell me if she needed me to move out so she could sell it? Dammit, Mother.
I dug my fingernails into my palm. “If she was having money trouble, she would come to me or Peaches Marie.”
“You sure?”
Was I? My sister, Peaches Marie, was currently vacationing in Europe with her college professor girlfriend. She was certainly closer to Mom. They lived closer to each other and they were more alike. Peaches was just as carefree as Mother, just as irresponsible. I was the steady one. The serious one. Peaches was well-educated, with that coveted Ph.D. in Philosophy, but I was the one doing better in business. I was the take-charge older sister. Surely if Mom was having financial problems, she’d tell me. We weren’t close, but were we really so far away?”
I must have drifted too long into my thoughts for when Dylan spoke again, he startled me from them.
“What did your mother do, Dix? For a living?”
I shrugged. “She was our mother. Things were different in my day.” Yes, as soon as I said the words I caught myself self. My day. As if he needed a reminder of the age difference between us. As if I did. I pressed on, before he could dwell on that too much. “When my mother was in her mid-twenties, she married my father, Peter Dodd. He was a musician and toured North America. So she quit her own job and followed him. Until I came along, that is. And Peaches two years later. Then we all followed him on tours when we were very young. I can remember some of it — the lights, the instruments, the other musicians. Me and Peaches running around the tables and playing under them while the band set up in empty clubs, preparing to play gigs that we would never see. But that didn’t last. Dad took sick. All those smoky nightclubs finally got to him, and he had to quit touring. But music was all he knew.”
“Bummer. How’d your family survive?”
“Dad knew music, and … well, music knew him. Peter Dodd was famous in the club scene in Ontario and parts of Quebec. So if he didn’t have the lungs to sing the songs, he still had the mind to write them. Eventually, his work got some attention. I can remember the first time one of his songs played on the radio. Then the first time one that topped the R&B charts. And I remember the first thing Dad did was call the jewelers and order my mother a honking big diamond ring. God, she loved that diamond. Not the most practical expenditure, but Dad always said it was worth it. He was in a wheelchair then, but looked ten feet tall as he put that rock on Mother’s hand. Mom saw that too. She dubbed it our lucky diamond. She said that nothing bad would ever happen to us because of that rock. She said it was magic. Things got better then. More secure. More songs on the radio. Big name stars calling the house. It was pretty wild. Before Dad died, he’d tucked a bit away I know. Probably thinking it would last our mother a life time.”
“But times changed,” Dylan said. “Age isn’t what it used to be. Lifetime isn’t what it once was.”
“No, but I’m sure Mother is doing fine. But even if she were having difficulties, Katt Dodd would not steal.” I bit my lip. Of course she wouldn’t steal. Not in a million years.
“Dix?”
“Yeah?”
“What did your mother do before she married your dad?”
I looked half hopefully at the approaching sign indicating food, gas and lodging available at the next exit. A fresh coffee sure would be nice. Of course, if we stopped, Mrs. P would wake up and restart our crossword contest. It was a long drive to Florida. Abandoning the idea of coffee, I shifted in my seat. “Mom was an entertainer, too.”
“A singer?”
“Ahhh, no. But she did spend a lot of time on stage.”
“Oh, you mean she was a dancer. I guess that’s where you got those great get-away sticks, huh? Dancer’s legs.”
Okay, that shut me up. Since when had Dylan Foreman been checking out my legs? And how? I wasn’t exactly a high heel and miniskirt kind of girl, although there had been a few times undercover….
I cleared my throat. “No, not quite that kind of an entertainer, either. Mom was more of a … well … more of a show girl, if you know what I mean.” When Dylan still looked in the dark, I continued. “She went on stage … skimpy costumes … feather boas … applauding gentlemen….”
I could practically see the wheels spinning in Dylan’s mind. Just about there….
“Holy shit!” His eyes saucered wide. “She was a peeler!”
“Dylan!” I clapped a shocked hand to my chest. “That’s my mother you’re talking about.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. But you said—” He relaxed when he saw my ‘gotcha’ smile. “Okay, you got me. So, what was she?”
“Magician’s assistant,” I supplied. “And from what I’ve heard, a damn good one. She worked mainly with this Lazlo Von Hootzeberger fellow. I gather more than a few other magicians tried to lure her away, but she stuck it out with Lazlo. She toured with him all over Europe and North America before she met and married my father.”
“Did she ever teach you and your sister any magic tricks?”
I shifted back in my seat. That was a tricky question. And I wanted to answer slowly and get this right. And I really didn’t want to try to explain it again. “You have to understand my mother. She doesn’t do tricks. She does magic. That’s what she always told us.”
“Like the Harry Potter stuff?”
“Not quite. But somewhere along the line, she convinced herself that she really had the ability to do magic and not just sleight of hand. Don’t get me wrong: she’s perfectly sane. But she’s….”
“Fun?”
I had to smile. If I ever had the privilege of picking out business cards for Dylan Foreman, they’d read Dylan Foreman — Diplomat.
“That’s a nice way to put it,” I said dryly. “Mother always told us she despised tricks. But she loved the real magic in the world. We believed her as kids. And you know, I think she believed it too.” I shook my head.
In the back seat, Mrs. P snorted in her sleep. (Well, it was loud and ripping so we’ll go with ‘snort.’ I rolled down the window.)
I looked at Dylan, and unfastened my seatbelt. “Now’s my chance.”
“Dix, what the—”
I turned, leaned over the back of the seat and gently took the magazine from Mrs. Presley’s sleep-loosened grip. I plunked myself back down in the seat beside Dylan. “Let’s copy all the answers from the back for the next few puzzles.” I began flipping through the pages. “That way, when she asks for a clue we can — wait a minute!”
“What?” Dylan flicked a glance at the book on my lap, then back to the road.
“These aren’t crosswords.” I snapped it closed. “It’s a circle-a-word book. Mrs. Presley was just trying to get us to talk dirty.”
From the back seat I thought I heard another sound. I turned around quickly to see a sweetly-sleeping, angelic Mrs. Presley.
Chapter 2
My ass died on the highway. About six hours after the A/C did.
Somewhere on Interstate 75 between Atlanta and Macon, Georgia, my hindquarters officially called it quits. That’s what 23 odd hours in a car will do to you. Between all that sitting, the lack of sleep, lack of a good meal, and my all-consuming desire (spelled N-E-E-D) for a long, hot shower, I was glad to see this road trip nearing its end.
Mrs. Presley had stretched herself out quite comfortably in the back of my mother’s car for most of the trip. True, Mom’s Bimmer wasn’t that big, but neither was Mrs. Presley. Shoes off, of course. She wore moisturizing patches on her eyes and a dark sleep mask over that. When she wasn’t sleeping, she did her ‘crosswords’. She sang along with the radio and pulled out a small hand-held battery operated fan. Cal and Craig had packed her a picnic basket for the trip, and she chomped most of the way there.
She was in prime shape by the time we hit the Sun
shine State. Fresh as a daisy.
Dylan on the other hand wore a scruff of beard. And, damn him, it looked good. Sexy. Manly. I wanted to run my hands over it to feel the roughness against my palm. Not that I would, of course. It had been awkward enough the few times we’d bumped each other in the closeness of the BMW.
No, there’d be none of that. Not while we worked together. And shit, not with that decade between us. Still, there was a spark there.
Man, he even smelled good, which should have been an impossibility. Granted, we’d freshened up in rest stop bathrooms along the way — a splash of the face and a quick swipe of the pits. But whereas I was beginning to smell like old socks left in a gym bag too long, Dylan had an earthy, musky man-smell thing going on. And it worked for him.
Well, okay, it worked for me.
(I said my ass was dead — other parts of me were very much alive. Compensating even.)
That was Dylan Foreman, though — sexy without trying. And if his ass had died somewhere along the highway about the time mine had checked in with the coroner, well someone forgot to tell the jeans that packaged it.
Frankly, I was anxious for Mother to get a look at Dylan. Yeah, juvenile, I know. Especially given the seriousness of Mother’s situation. But Katt Dodd was certainly one to appreciate the finer things in life. She loved men. Handsome young ones, distinguished older ones. She appreciated class. She appreciated looks. She liked when a man refilled her wine glass and opened doors for her. And Lord knew she certainly appreciated the young men at the strip clubs. (According to Peaches, she was on a first name basis with more than a few of them.)
Which is why it had surprised me when she cut short her visit with me in Marport City and took off back to Florida with that Frankie Morell. Frankie was not much of a looker.
I’d had misgivings about Frankie from the start. He was a little too smooth to be glass, a little too clean to be squeaky. Yet his leather-soled shoes squeaked with every step he took. I should have run a criminal records check, had my sources in Florida ask around about him, check out his credit history, INTERPOL background check, fax his mug to America’s Most Wanted to see if anything cropped up. You know, normal daughter stuff.
But I’d been busy. I’d put my misgivings about Frankie Morell on the shelf. And now my mother was apparently paying the price.
Coincidence?
I feared not.
Missing Frankie — missing jewels. There had to be a connection. I’d have to find it. True, my intuition wasn’t ‘calling’ yet, not pointing me in any particular direction. But give it time….
~*~
While Dylan, Mrs. P and I landed in Pinellas County as a trio, it was only Mrs. P and me who were going to the Wildoh Retirement Home (Motto: We supply the wild; you bring the oh!). Dylan would follow later, but not as my assistant and not as a guest. To investigate fully, he’d need to find a way to come in undercover. Before we’d even hit the Florida state line, we’d formulated a plan, made some calls and put it into action.
Dylan would be staying at the Goosebump Inn, about a mile from the Wildoh Retirement Village. Just a quick jog down the road for the fit Mr. Foreman. We checked him in to Room 46, along with all the fancy electronic equipment we’d brought with us. As command central for our operation, the room was on the small side, but on the plus side of the ledger, it was around the back of the motel and away from traffic.
Did I mention it was small? Barely-turn-around-in small, with a three-quarter sized bed and a chair that looked downright menacing, huddled there all lumpy and mean. Dylan gave it one look, then began piling it high with equipment. There was a small TV in the corner perched precariously on a too-small, too-wobbly chrome stand. In the bathroom, the showerhead was mounted so low, Dylan would have to crouch down to catch any spray.
“And the pool is open for the season,” the receptionist had gushed. All of 16 by my guesstimate, with a nametag that read Rosie Sinatra, she’d eyed Dylan very thoroughly as she showed him to the room.
Dylan thanked her, but pool play was the last thing on our minds.
We’d checked on the Internet, made a few phone calls — that’s what had led us to the Goosebump. I wanted Dylan close, but discreet. Not that I had any illusions that he’d blend in. With that six-foot-four frame and lean good looks, that wasn’t going to happen. But I wanted him separate, seemingly moving in another world. He’d get himself into the Wildoh one way or another.
I felt a twinge of guilt hiding Dylan’s part in the plan from Mom, but it was for her own good. (Jesus, I felt old just thinking that.)
Mrs. Presley had so not been down with the plan as we’d formulated it en route. She hadn’t liked the idea of keeping mother in the dark, even to a small degree. “Family doesn’t do that, Dix. Family sticks together. Trusts each other. Counts on each other, through thick and thin. You hear me, Dix?” she’d said from the back seat. “Thick and thin.”
My dead butt had slunk down further in the seat with every word of admonishment.
But finally we’d convinced Mrs. P to play along. Well, okay, we’d bribed her. One night of bingo before we left Florida, and….
“Okay, you two,” she’d said. “Here’s the deal. If you answer my crossword question in 30 seconds, I won’t breathe a word to Katt about Dylan. Ready? Give me a six-letter word for ‘style,’ starts with D … and go!”
Drape? No that’s five letters.
Dashing? I counted on my fingers. Crap!
Style, style….
“Doggie!” I’d shouted at the top of my lungs, pumping my arm in the air. “I got it! It’s doggie-style!”
“I think the word’s design,” Dylan had said dryly.
Mrs. P had sat back, tsking. “Gracious, Dix, what is it with you?”
But we’d gotten her on side, and that was the important thing.
It was late afternoon before we got Dylan settled and made our way over to the Wildoh.
As I stood outside her little apartment waiting for her to open the door, I squinted my eyes to the slanting sunlight, all Clint Eastwood like. Hands on hips, feet spread wide apart, shoulders back, I braced myself. Steadied myself. Steadied my nerves. Steadied my mind and body before the inevitable.
Katt Dodd opened the door, took in the sight of me, then threw her arms around me and hugged me tight.
Must. Breathe. Now.
I love my mother. I’m just not the touchy, feely type.
“Why, Dix,” she said, finally releasing the death grip. “What a surprise! What are you doing in Florida?”
That was Mother. Not oblivious to the gravity of her situation, but totally making light of it. Not just keeping the stiff upper lip, but keeping it in a smile. Yet there was something more there. I’d seen it when my father had died — those last few weeks when mom had stayed with him night and day. There was worry behind those sparkling blue eyes.
Her apartment — Suite 101 of Complex B — was on the ground floor. I’d not been pleased with a ground floor suite when Mother had told me she’d bought the place, but she was determined this was the one for her. This was the one with the best ‘vibes’, she’d said. And I knew there was no changing her mind after that. The complex itself was nice, and complete with everything — laundry service, bus service into town for those who didn’t like to drive, a recreation room (and I hear a pretty competitive cribbage gang gathers there) and a tennis court. There was even a driving range set over a man-made lake, complete with little floating islands for distance markers. Mother didn’t play golf, but from her frequent emails, I know that the range was a pretty popular place.
“Surprised to see me, Mom? Well, I bet you’re not nearly as surprised as I was when I got the fax from Deputy—”
“And you can be no one other than Mrs. Presley,” Mother said, turning to Mrs. P and effectively shutting me up. “Dix has told me so much about you.”
“Call me Jane. I like your lipstick.”
“Do you?” Mother smacked her lips. “Why thank you. It
’s Pinch-me Pink.”
I rolled my eyes. If there was one opening line that could seal a friendship between the two, that was it. They’d bond like schoolgirls now.
“What am I thinking, keeping you on the doorstep?” Mother stepped back. “Come on in.”
We followed her into the foyer of her tiny apartment.
“What a great place you have here.” Mrs. P left her bags by the door (don’t worry, Mrs. P I’ll get those later), and strolled into my mother’s living room.
“Thank you, Jane! I like it too. Please make yourself at home.”
She would.
Mrs. P sat on the sofa, kicked off her shoes and put her feet up. “You get the wrestling here, Katt? I just love those wrestling boys. All slicked up and broad-chested and stuff.”
I cleared my throat. “You know it’s staged, eh, Mrs. P?”
Mrs. P and my mother looked at each other then looked at me as if I were an alien. “And that matters because…?”
Great, two hormonally elevated little old ladies to contend with over the next few days. I felt like the mother of two teenagers. Except I couldn’t ground these two.
Mother glanced at her watch. It was a new one, I noticed — delicate and thin gold band, dainty safety chain, and I swear those were real diamonds glittering around the outside. And by ‘swear’ I mean I said, “Holy shit! Mother where’d you get the watch?”
She looked at the watch as if just noticing it for the first time. A little shocked at seeing it, perhaps. She pulled her sleeve down and covered it quickly. The Pinch-Me Pink disappeared for a moment as she sucked in her breath. “The watch was … it was a present from Frankie. Before he … before I….”
Mother recovered. She straightened, and said. “Try channel 137, Jane. I think wrestling is on in ten minutes.”
Mrs. Presley began flicking.
“Let me get you a drink,” she said to Mrs. P. “You must be parched after such a long trip.”
