by N.L. Wilson
Chapter 10
I was sitting at my desk, reading and re-reading the notes I’d taken that day the mysterious blonde had come into my office when I heard the police sirens in the distance.
Uh-oh.
Tensing, I sat there and listened for the sirens to draw closer and closer until they converged in my parking lot. Just how many cruisers would Detective Head send my way when he heard I’d violated the restraining order? Two? Six? Would he call in the military from the nearby base? A helicopter and a half-dozen tanks, maybe? But as I sat there, the sirens peaked then faded until I could no longer hear them.
Huh.
I’d thought that Luanne Laney, a.k.a. Weatherby’s psycho secretary from hell, would have had the police on my doorstep in no time. Damn, she was like a crazed German shepherd on Red Bull. True, she didn’t seem to know about the restraining order being in place when she threatened to slap me with another one. But I figured when she raised the matter of my incognito visit with Ned, or worse, lawyer dude, my ass would be grass. I pictured Ned and his lawyer racing each other to the phone to call the cops to report my transgression.
I glanced down at the yellow legal pad I’d been studying. Too damn sunny of a yellow, if you asked me. It lay there on my desk, mocking me with its happy yellowness. I picked it up and looked over my notes and doodles again. Was I missing something? Maybe the answer was there, if I could just see it.
I stared into the pad, like when you’re looking at one of those 3D thingies and the hidden picture suddenly leaps out at you from behind all those dots and squiggles if you can let your eyes drift out of focus.
Nope. Nothing leapt out at me.
I looked at the pad again. The tight little circles I’d already decoded. That was my subconscious saying, Dix, honey, your client could be a dude. Although looking at them now, they could also be my nerves. Lord knows they were wound tight enough.
But the other stuff... stairs going to nowhere. Was that significant? Did it relate to the many floors of the Weatherby building?
I’d learned a long time ago that women were better off when they trusted their instincts. What had my intuition been telling me that day when I’d made those scribbles?
Damned if I knew.
With a sigh, I tossed the pad down and picked up the phone. I punched in my password and checked the voice mail. No messages, but there were 33 hang-ups since Dylan and I had last been at the office, all from an unknown number.
Dylan’s female friend? Something fluttered in my stomach.
Okay, Dix, what’d you think? That the guy was celibate? Ha! Not in a hundred years. But he’d never talked about anyone seriously, never invited a guest up to the office. Not that I’d be jealous if he did. Not that we had the kind of relationship where I had the right to be jealous. No, it was strictly professional between Dylan and me.
My mind flashed to the memories of the massage room and his strong hands...
The phone rang, scaring the shit out of me. I glanced at the call display. Unknown number. This should be fun. I picked up the receiver.
“Dix Dodd,” I said in my sweetest, I-am-so-not-jealous voice.
Click.
Grrrrr. All that feigned sweetness for nothing.
I thumped my boots onto the desk, and turned my mind to the more pressing matter at hand.
Apparently my hunch had been right. Billy Star’s frequent guest at the Underhill Motel was none other than his boss’s wife, Jennifer Weatherby. (I made a mental note to send Mrs. Presley a basket of goodies for her help.) I must admit, my stomach turned at the thought of Billy seducing Jennifer to revenge himself on Ned. What a selfish asshole. Yes, Billy Star was definitely a rat. But I really doubted that he was a killer rat. He’d said everything changed when he fell in love with Jennifer, and I believed him. He’d been torn apart when I’d come across him at the office. I doubted that he was that good of an actor, especially since he had no idea he’d had an audience.
Still, Billy Star knew something. Something that I’m sure he would have told me had Luanne not walked into the office just then. And the way his face dropped when she did told me something else. I’d never seen a man pale so quickly. Clearly Billy was scared of her.
She kind of scared me, too, in a knuckle-rapping Nazi-bitch teacher kind of a way. She was ferociously protective of her boss.
“Okay, Dix,” I muttered. “Just the facts. What do you know so far?” I was swimming in information; I had to compartmentalize.
The fact was, Ned was looking more and more suspicious to me. Maybe he wasn’t so in-the-dark on the affair continuing as Billy seemed to think he was? And even if he were, even if he truly believed it was over, there was bound to be residual jealousy. People didn’t just forgive and forget overnight, especially when it came to something as volatile as infidelity and sexual jealousy. Could Ned have orchestrated all the events that were now in motion? Could he have had Jennifer killed, and set me up accordingly?
If he did kill his wife and set me up, one thing was for certain. He’d hired an actress (actor?) to play Jennifer. Neddybear was at least 6’ 2” without heels. If he’d presented himself in drag, I’d have drawn a frank to go with those beans. And if he were responsible for Jennifer’s death, he would have hired out the hit, too. Made sense, really. Hire a PI to watch him all week so when the hit went down, he’d have a rock solid alibi.
And Billy had told me that he knew Ned had had mistresses in the past. Maybe he did again. Maybe someone he wanted to replace as the current Mrs. Weatherby? Was the planned renewal of vows all a hoax? Or was the mistress usurped when Ned ‘found’ the new religion and the pastor he seemed so very fond of?
Except Ned as the killer felt too neat. Plus he’d looked so horrified when he’d found Jennifer.
As I wrestled with all this, another fact dawned on me—I was hellishly tired. Sometimes the rush of adrenaline can backfire. It suits you fine when you need it, but the coming down from it usually means a crash.
I slouched down in my seat, my butt hanging precariously close to the edge of the chair. Before my bleary eyes closed, I looked at the coffee pot in the corner that seemed to be calling me. Ah, sweet, sweet caffeine. Dylan should be here any minute. I could start the coffee for us. Or I could grab a few minutes sleep, something I hadn’t had in almost 24 hours. It was a short contest. Within minutes I’d drifted into dreamland.
And of course, The Flashing Fashion Queen, was waiting for me there.
