by N.L. Wilson
She was as blond as ever, this dream lady of mine. But she no longer was the mysterious lady in my mind; now she was the Flashing Fashion Queen. Purple clad, hat wearing, Flashing Fashion Queen. And she was pissing me off.
It was not uncommon for me to dream of the cases I was currently working. It was not uncommon for ‘aha’ moments to come within the dreams. And even as I slept, I knew better than to dismiss the dream lady before me. I knew she wasn’t Jennifer, but she had something to tell me.
Again she flounced into my dream, swirling her purple skirt around. It flew up over her knees to about thigh-high on her smooth legs. The scene was hazy around her, and this time again, she twirled away and eluded my reaching grasp. Coyly, she turned from me, and I still couldn’t see her face.
“So what shall I call you?” I asked.
“Why, Jennifer, of course.”
“But that’s not your name.”
She giggled. “Jennifer’s a lovely name. I think I’ll keep it.”
“But you’re not her.”
“Oh, poop!” She stopped dead in her tracks. Her back was to me but I could see the stiffening of her shoulders. “Given the chance, I’d make a wonderful Jennifer.” Her voice turned pouty. “How did you know I wasn’t her?”
“I’m smarter than you think,” I said. “I figured it out.”
She laughed out loud. “Oh, you’re not half as smart as you think, Dix Dodd.”
I ran a hand through my hair. God, I knew I was dreaming... why was I so very tired? “What am I missing, Blondie?”
She began to walk away. “You’re not missing anything, Dix. Everything’s right before your eyes. Always has been.”
“But who are you?” I screamed at her. “Just tell me who the hell you are!”
It was then that she stopped and turned back to me. Her face was now obscured by the haze of the dream and by the same glasses, hat and ton of make up she’d worn into my office the day we’d met, the day I’d dubbed her the Flashing Fashion Queen. She snarled at me. “I’m you’re worst nightmare, Dix Dodd! Because you’re just too damn stupid to figure it out!” She ran then and I could barely hear her trailing-off voice.
I awoke with a teeth-rattling jolt as I slid from my chair and my butt hit the floor.
Damn! Even in my dreams I was thought of as incompetent.
I ran a hand over my sore rear as I stood and climbed back into the chair. My legal pad stared up at me. I grabbed it quickly and started to write under the doodles I’d drawn. I wanted to get all the elements of the dream before they drifted away.
She’s a bitch... and not in the good way.
Okay, now that that was out of my system:
She’d swirled and swirled and swirled.
She wore the same clothing: bright purple dress with the mile-wide shoulder pads (or mile-wide shoulders?), floppy hat and dark sunglasses.
“I would make a lovely Jennifer.”
Jealousy.
No, not me. My dream mind was telling me that jealousy was the motive for this whole mess. Responsible for Jennifer’s dying.
I pressed the pencil to breaking as I wrote down the last glimpse of dream I retained.
“You’re just too damn stupid to figure it out.”
The phone rang again.
I snatched up the receiver without looking at the call display.
“Dix Dodd,” I answered. And yes, to hell with the sweet voice. My tailbone hurt, dammit!
Silence.
Well, almost silence. I could hear someone breathing very heavily on the other end of the line. Okay, kind of breathing, kind of panting. I glanced at the call display, and surprise, surprise, it displayed unknown. Either Dylan’s girlfriend had worked herself into an, um... frenzy and had breathlessly been expecting him to answer, or the caller of the day had just finished running a marathon.
Or maybe he was some pervert looking for a little phone fun?
And if this latter reason was the plan, boy, did he have the wrong number.
The heavy breathing continued.
“Listen, pal, I don’t know what kind of kinky stuff you think you’re going to pull here. Maybe you get your kicks by shocking women, but I’ve heard it all. Hell, I’ve seen, it all, and it ain’t as pretty as they make it sound. And let me tell you, you depraved little shit, if you think for one fuckin’ minute—”
“Dix Dodd, don’t you remember me?”
Oh shit. It was her. For a moment I wondered if I was still asleep. Because the voice on the phone belonged to the one and only Flashing Fashion Queen. The self same lady who’d been in my office just a few short days ago, and in my dreams a few minutes ago.
“Ah, Jennifer Weatherby,” I said. “I thought you were dead.”
“Maybe... maybe I am. Maybe I’m calling from beyond the grave?”
“Beyond the grave? Wouldn’t that be one hell of a long-distance charge?”
“You don’t believe me?” She was mocking me in her slow, throaty voice. “Oh boo.”
“Boo?” I scoffed. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Blondie! Who the hell are you?”
She ignored my question. Not that I expected a direct answer, but a clue would have been nice.
“You might not believe in ghosts. But you do believe in money, Dix Dodd.”
Okay, she had me on that one. “What the—”
“I left the rest of the payment in your car. The other five thousand dollars for your week of service. You certainly earned it.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you did what I asked you to do. And I always keep my promises.”
“I repeat, why would you do that?”
She laughed, one of those forced, out loud laughs that always bugged the shit out of me. “You’re not all that smart, are you Dodd?”
I had to retort with something professional. “Bite me.”
“No, thank you,” she replied, “you’re not my type.”
Okay, now I was ticked. “Listen, Blondie, I’ve had just about enough of this—”
“Just check the car, Dix. You left it open, again. And I left the envelope on the front seat. Your payment’s in there. The other five thousand dollars for a job well done.”
“You’re lying.”
She snorted a most unladylike laugh. “Go see.”
Click.
Ah... fffffff-hell!
I had every confidence that this mysterious caller was playing games with me. Every confidence this woman was having the time of her life, yanking my chain. And every freakin’ confidence that I’d find no envelope of money awaiting me in the car.
Yes, my car probably was unlocked, because nine times out of ten, I left it that way. Bad habit, I know, but how did the caller know this?
I had to go see, of course. Stopping just long enough to start a pot of coffee, I headed out the door. As I strode across the parking lot, it occurred to me the Flashing Fashion Queen was probably watching me. I paused, scanning every window, every doorway. Nothing. I could feel myself getting angrier by the minute. I almost turned in my tracks and headed back to the office, because, of course, there would be nothing there!
I glanced in the car window.
There was something there.
“Holy shit.”
On the seat, rested a plain brown envelope. Dix Dodd was printed on the package in wide black marker. It was thick—just thick enough to be a wad of bills equaling five thousand dollars.
Or possibly a bomb.
The thought froze my hand on the door handle. Softly, slowly, I started to back away. That’s when I heard the squeal of tires as a car came speeding around the corner. The engine revved as it changed gears and shot forward. It took me all of a heartbeat to realize it was coming straight for me. It took another heartbeat to realize it was her behind the wheel. She wore the same floppy hat, same blond wig and wide sunglasses. And a mile-wide evil grin as she sped toward me. The damned envelope, the call, it was all a set up to draw me out here!
I dove across the hood of my car, half on my elbows and half on my side, landing hard on the asphalt on the other side. I sat up, and watched as the car sped off. It had barely missed me.
YPC 389, YPC 389, YPC 389. I repeated it another half dozen times until it was burned in my memory.
“Shittttttttt!” I climbed to my feet, swearing as I looked at my bleeding elbow. “Okay, bitch,” I muttered. “I’ll bite.”
I opened the passenger door and retrieved the envelope, which was surprisingly heavy. I was so shaky I wanted to slip into the passenger seat, but I didn’t think that was prudent in case YPC 389 came roaring back to take another swipe at me. Instead, I closed the door and leaned on the car’s fender, letting it take some of the weight off my trembling legs. Ears tuned for a racing motor, I ripped the envelope open.
Of course, I was no longer expecting a bomb. Because—duh—had the Flashing Fashion Queen wanted me dead by means of a car bomb, she’d have slid it under the seat and used her phone call to prod me into hopping into the car to race off somewhere, triggering the big ka-boom when I keyed the ignition.
Nor did I expect the other five thousand dollars. And I sure didn’t expect a plate or warm cookies. But what I really didn’t expect was what slid out onto my hand as I opened the envelope.
A gun. A gun that I had no doubt had been recently fired.
I heard the sirens again, but this time, I had no illusion that the sound of them would drift off into the distance. And as I held the gun, the very gun that I knew had to have killed Jennifer, I could see the flashing red and blue bar lights of a squad car turning into my parking lot. It came to a stop squarely in front of my car. At the squeal of tires from another direction, I turned to see an unmarked Taurus barreling towards me. Instinctively, I raised my hands in the age-old gesture as the unmarked car swung in behind my vehicle, effectively blocking escape. And then—oh, God, my day just kept getting better and better—a snarling, toothpick chewing Detective Richard Head emerged from the second car.
She’d set me up. The Flashing Fashion Queen had planted the evidence, lured me to my car, and called the police to tip them off. And she had left me with the literal smoking gun.
And I couldn’t help but hear her words flipping me off in my brain: “You’re not all that smart, are you, Dodd?”
Okay, even I was beginning to wonder.
