by N.L. Wilson
Chapter 15
It was barely dawn when I prepared to leave the Underhill Motel.
The hair dye Mrs. Presley had gotten me was a temporary one, thank God, but somehow I couldn’t see getting my natural blond hair back in one shampoo as promised on the label. Maybe a week of shampoos, if I was lucky. It was so... well, black.
I’d piled my hair up high on my head, and set it in place with bobby pins. And before you groan, it looked great. Really. Just because my underwear isn’t that fashionable and I seldom bother plugging in an iron doesn’t mean I’m not damned good with my hair. Hell, I can fix it a dozen ways, and I can do it faster than a runway model can change outfits. All part of the job. The quick change, the ability to convert my looks on a dame.
Get it... on a ‘dame’?
But I digress.
By the time I perfected my makeup and put on the Roberto Cavalli shades Mrs. Presley had provided (at least one guest must have left the Underhill in a hell of a hurry to forget those puppies), I hardly recognized myself. Now as long as no one else did. Maybe the horrible picture of me in the Marport City Morning Edition had been a blessing after all.
As I stood looking at my reflection and admiring my handiwork, I let myself think the thought I’d been trying to suppress: You could run, Dix.
I closed my eyes and pressed a thumb and forefinger against my lids as though I could push the thought back. But there was no budging it.
Because, dammit, I knew I could do it. I could disappear. With my skills and resiliency, not to mention the five large in cash that the Flashing Fashion Queen had given me, most of which I still had, I could get away. With my connections, I could easily score fake ID, after which I could just evaporate. Poof into thin air. Granted, five grand wouldn’t carry me far, but it wouldn’t have to. I could certainly get far enough away from Marport City to start a new, anonymous, keep-to-myself life, with a nice, boring job. Hell, I could fly under the radar forever.
But that would mean the Flashing Fashion Queen would have won. And oh, God, it would mean Dickhead had won. And dammit, when I really thought about it, it would mean all those chauvinistic bastards at the Jones Agency had won. I could still hear their snickers when I told them I was going into business on my own. Still see the condescending eye-rolls.
I shook my head. No way in hell was I going to rabbit. No Plan B for me. It was Plan A all the way. The only plan I needed. The only plan that cleared me of the murder of Jennifer Weatherby, and put the guilty party, whoever she was, behind bars.
I put on the red blazer, which clashed slightly with my shades but matched perfectly the tint of my lipstick, and presto change-o, there I stood, the quintessential real estate agent.
The item I’d asked Mrs. P to get for me was a Marport First Realty Ltd. sign. I had no doubt she’d asked Craig to borrow one, and even less doubt he’d have to sneak back with it this evening. Craig had set the sign in the back seat of Mrs. P’s red Hyundai. Mrs. Presley was taking a chance lending me her car, but when I mentioned this to her, she waved me off with a flick of the hand.
“Someday, Dix Dodd, it might be me needing the favor.”
My throat tight, I just nodded. I’d do my damnedest to make sure that car wasn’t noticed. Starting with smearing dirt on the immaculate license plate, which I did as soon as Mrs. P went back inside (she’d have had a bird to see me sully her baby). I stood back and examined my work. Upon close inspection, it wouldn’t hold up, but on not-so-close inspection, it would do just fine. And fortunately, there was enough of a lip over the license plate that the rain wouldn’t directly hit it. Not unless a wind came up, which was entirely possible. No, it wasn’t a perfect plan, but it had to do.
I wiped my hands best I could on rain-damped tissues and climbed into the car—no small feat considering how tightly my lower half was packed into that pencil skirt Mrs. Presley had provided. Automatically, I checked my cell to make sure it was set on vibrate, then dumped it in the inside pocket of my red blazer. All set for Dylan’s call.
Dylan’s call...
It struck me then that I was more nervous about that than I was about the pending break and enter. Schoolgirl nervous instead of jail-time nervous? Ack! The hair dye must be affecting my brain.
I stuck the key in the ignition, then checked my watch. It was time.
