by N.L. Wilson
Chapter 19
Mmm... homemade breakfast. Mrs. Presley had made enough for two lumberjacks, which pleased Dylan to no end when he arrived. By the look of him, he’d not slept as well as I had, but I had no doubt he’d be ready, willing and able to handle what the day had in store for us. The swelling on the lip had gone down quite a bit. But the bump on his head had turned a lovely purple color.
“Geez, Dix,” Mrs. P had offered upon seeing the worse-for-wear Dylan Foreman. “How wild did you two get in here? Playing cops and robbers? Or was it good cop, kinky cop? I bet I can guess which one you were, Dix. The kinky one, right? Next time I’ll send down a set of fur-lined handcuffs.”
Dylan just about choked on his toast.
I just about spewed my coffee.
Per usual, there was a single red rose on the breakfast tray. That and a pile of scrambled eggs, perfectly cooked sausage, and toasted homemade bread. Jam and peanut butter served in one of those fancy little silver things. She even had a little dish of mints. There was coffee, of course, and fresh squeezed orange juice. And speaking of squeezed...
“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Mrs. Presley had said, after the teasing was done and she’d watch Dylan and I both for a few minutes to make sure we were going to do justice to her breakfast. “Just gotta powder my nose, put on some lipstick, and then I’m ready.”
“Ready?” I asked.
“Ready,” she affirmed.
Dylan paused between forkfuls of egg. “You’re coming, Mrs. P?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
My first impulse was to argue. For her sake, not mine. And in a weak effort, I did so. But Mrs. Presley wasn’t about to budge. So we compromised, and Mrs. Presley agreed to travel with Dylan instead of me. A little less damning for her to turn up with him. And, as she reminded me, Dylan was a damn sight better looking that I was—lumps and all.
“We’ll have to take my Harley, Mrs. P,” Dylan said, in his best apologetic voice.
“I’ll go get my helmet!” She clasped her hands together, beside herself with excitement. “And I’ll hold on tight.”
I bit down on the smile; I just bet she would.
One last time, I reminded Mrs. Presley that she had hidden a fugitive from the law. Though I had every confidence I was correct about who killed Jennifer, and who (grrrrrr) tried to frame me for it, there was no need for Mrs. P to expose herself as having harbored me. She just shrugged her shoulders. “By the end of the day, you’ll not be a fugitive from the law, Dix. You’ll be a hero.” She stood in that way—shoulders back, hands on hips, feet firmly planted on the floor—that told me there was no sense in arguing with the woman.
But I really didn’t want to.
I liked that she had faith in me. And for that alone, this petite little lady in her flowered shirt and granny glasses looked pretty much like a hero to me.
While Mrs. P went to make herself ready, Dylan and I ate the rest of our breakfast and planned. The players had all received a personal invitation, and I was sure each would be in attendance at the Weatherby mansion. (Of course, in Dickhead’s case, he’d bring half of Marport City’s police force along with him.) More specifically, I’d called the meeting for the very room where Jennifer had died—her study. And this time, I wouldn’t be hiding under the desk.
At least I hoped I wouldn’t be.
