The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen - A Dix Dodd Mystery

by N.L. Wilson

  Chapter 21

  Certainly, a celebration was in order. Not right away, of course. There were a lot of loose ends that had to be tied up before we could officially celebrate. But eventually, we did manage to get out on the town to yuk it up. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of letting Dylan make the arrangements. My bad. Okay, my very, very bad.

  He picked the Six Shooter. Now, it’s a decent enough bar, makes a wonderful Caesar, and the food is great. The problem? It’s a karaoke bar, and Dylan is a horrific singer, a fact that is painfully obvious to everyone but Dylan. We’re talking peel-the-paint-off-the-walls horrible. But what could I do? He really wanted to put this little soiree together. How could I say no?

  But back to those loose ends. Like getting all the charges against me dropped. That wasn’t the slam-dunk you might think. As you can imagine, the police get a little testy when people escape custody. Even innocent people. But thanks to Judge Stephanopoulos (and, yes, dammit, thanks to Detective Head also), the charges were soon dismissed. I didn’t have to spend so much as a night in jail.

  My being innocent of the charges—not to mention catching the real killer for the police—was certainly instrumental in getting those charges dropped. But I also suspect part of the reason for Dickhead’s cooperation was the fact that he bagged not just one, but two criminals.

  Thanks to me.

  Well, thanks to Jennifer Weatherby, actually. And yeah, okay, thanks to Ned Weatherby’s elderly mother. Mrs. Weatherby never did recognize me (thank you, Jesus!), but she did recognize Pastor Ravenspire. Or should I say Pastor Latray, of Richmond, Virginia? Pastor Slaunwhite of Toronto? Pastor Hanselpecker of Montreal? Well, then how about Pastor Ingles of Las Vegas, Nevada? (Turns out Ned’s mother had not only a good eye for faces but also was a pretty fair card counter.) That man had warrants out for his arrest in a half dozen states and two provinces. It just so happened that Ned’s mother was a huge fan of the blackjack tables in Vegas, and had seen Pastor Ingles’s picture in the paper down there about five years ago. He had been wanted on fraud, embezzlement, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

  While Ned’s eagle-eyed mom had ID’d the Pastor, it was Jennifer, speaking from the grave, who’d allowed Dickhead to eventually haul Ravenspire’s unholy ass away. A message that I’d delivered to Dickhead for her. (See? I can be generous when it suits my purposes.) Turns out the good pastor was the reason why Jennifer was socking away money. She realized early on that Ravenspire was a fraud, but her husband would listen to no ill about his beloved pastor. So until she could get enough on the charismatic preacher to convince Ned that he was corrupt, she was protecting what funds she could, fearing that Ravenspire would bleed her husband dry with his constant appeals for donations. Which was pretty astute of her. As it turned out, that had been his modus operandi in those other cases. He’d pretend to be building a shiny new church, then leave town with the building fund.

  How did I know this? Mrs. Presley found a package zippered into the cushions of the sofa she’d been sitting on in Jennifer’s study (“Something’s scratching my butt, Dix.”). The package had turned out to be stuffed with cash (nearly a hundred large!) and a note from Jennifer. The note had been tucked inside an envelope addressed to Ned. ‘I’m writing this in case I get hit by a bus or car-jacked or something equally embarrassing,’ it was prefaced. ‘If you should find this, I needed you to know it was for US, not for ME. And after the thing with Billy... well, I just need you to know I wasn’t squirreling this away to leave you.’ She’d gone on to state her suspicions about the reverend and her hope that he would heed the warnings in death that he refused to hear in life. ‘This is in case we need it to get back on our feet. We can do anything together.’

  The tears had filled Ned’s eyes as he held the note tightly in his hands.

  I’d gotten a little teary-eyed, too. Mostly at the thought of a woman who’d been unable to outrun her past and the fear of sliding back into poverty that must have dogged her despite the poise and sophistication she’d acquired. If Jennifer had been thinking rationally, she’d have realized that no matter how much cash the reverend managed to weasel out of Ned, it probably wouldn’t have made too sizeable a dent in his overall wealth, the vast majority of which would not have been liquid enough to be at risk. And the sum of $100,000—so colossal to Jennifer—hell, to the rest of us—was pitifully small by Weatherby family standards. Not quite pocket money, but pretty close. To think of the contortions she’d gone through to amass it without alerting Ned and setting off jealous suspicions... all that buying and returning of merchandise... It was just so sad.

  She’d loved him. Right to the end, she had loved her husband. Sure, she’d made a mistake with Billy Star, but so what? Life goes on. People make mistakes and then get up again and keep on going. I knew this. Jennifer knew this.

  So yes, Detective Head’s arrest of Jennifer Weatherby’s murderer, as well as the infamous Pastor Take-Your-Pick, had made him less hell-bent to see me behind bars.

  This time.

  Last I heard, Dickhead was back on the toothpicks and just as irritable as ever. God help the criminal element of Marport City.

  So it was that two weeks after my performance in the Weatherby study, we settled in for a celebration at the Six Shooter. My treat. Business was on the upswing. The publicity generated by the case kept me on the front pages of the newspaper (sans picture, thank you very much). I couldn’t have paid for that kind of exposure. Clients were calling. Clients were signing. Heck, clients were even paying. And as I sat there waiting for the arrival of my guests, I was feeling pretty good. I wouldn’t have to go back to the old firm. Ever. Jones’s and Associates and the old boys club could amuse themselves all they wanted. They’d been wrong. Not only could I survive in their ‘man’s world’, I could kick ass in it.

  So, yes, a celebration was in order.