Strip Poker

by Nancy Bartholomew

  Great, I thought, some detecting you’re doing. I dried for a few more minutes, then moved toward the back porch, intending to drape my towel over the railing to dry. But as I stepped out onto the back stoop, I half tripped over a small form. The eldest Watley daughter sat on the top step, her head resting on the arms that wrapped her knees to her chest, quietly sobbing her little heart out. At her side sat Fluffy, all concern and wet-tongued kisses.

  “Oh,” I said, ignoring the tears, “you found Fluffy. I am so glad!”

  The girl’s head shot up and she turned, trying to wipe away the tears so I wouldn’t see.

  “I hope she wasn’t any trouble,” I said, plopping right down beside her and offering her my hand. “I’m Sierra Lavotini. This is my little girl, Fluffy.”

  Fluffy yipped softly and the little girl struggled to smile and take my hand. She couldn’t have been more than twelve.

  “Sarah,” she whispered, hiccupping with the effort not to cry. “Sarah Watley.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m so sorry about your dad.”

  Sarah’s eyes filled again. “Thanks.” She looked away, staring at a spot on the wall, thinking, I guess, that we’d leave. But she didn’t know Fluffy.

  Fluffy nudged her way under the little girl’s arm, forcing her way up into her lap and licking her right on the tip of her nose. Sarah smiled again, but tears spilled over the reddened rims of her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

  “I know you miss him,” I began softly.

  Sarah shot a quick, angry glance at me. “No,” she said, “no you don’t know, ’cause I don’t miss him! He was mean to us, and worse to Mama! I’m glad he’s dead! Glad! You hear me?” Her voice rose with each sentence, bordering on hysteria.

  “Really?” I said. “Then why are you crying?”

  Sarah really thought I was stupid now, but she was putting up with me because Fluffy was being her most charming and adorable self, licking the little girl and sighing with pleasure whenever Sarah stroked her head.

  “I’m crying because the police found a dead guy and for some reason they think my mama and Turk know something they’re not saying! What do you think I am, stupid?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Not you. Aren’t you the oldest?”

  Sarah flashed me another look. “Yep. So what?”

  I stretched my legs out over the steps in front of us and rubbed my kneecaps. “Nothing. It’s just a known fact that the oldest is usually lightyears ahead of her siblings in maturity. You can fool a younger kid pretty easy, but not the oldest. They catch on quick.”

  Sarah nodded ever so slightly and focused her attention on Fluffy.

  “So if you say they didn’t have nothing to do with it, why, I’d take your word.”

  “Well, they should, but they don’t. Stupid cops!”

  “Yeah, cops don’t always know what’s what.” I took a quick look over at the girl and saw the frown lines ease up. “Why, I could take one look at your mama and Turk and see that he was taking the best care he could of her. Now, how could he kill a guy when he’s looking after her?”

  Sarah nodded her agreement so I went right on. “He loves her. I know we women can see that as plain as the nose on your face. And somebody oughta help figure out who did dump that dead guy here and get on with it. After all, your mama can’t take much more stress.”

  I talked fast, but like I was absolutely certain of what I said and like it was perfectly okay to acknowledge what everyone took for fact.

  “I know,” Sarah said. “I know all about it.”

  “Good,” I said, and reached inside my purse for a piece of paper and a pen. “Then here’s what we’ll do: I’ll write down my name and phone number on this piece of paper and you keep it and show it to your mama later, after all this dies down. Tell her I’d like to help her any way I can. You just tell her I know all about how it is to be in a mess. Tell her I know all about her friendship with Turk and I’d like to help, okay?”

  Sarah stared into my eyes, checking me out every way a kid can check out an adult, and apparently finding me harmless.

  “Okay,” she said at last. “Are you part of the police or a detective?”

  I smiled. “No. I’m just good at figuring out the puzzles and helping when it looks like nobody else will.”

  My heart was thumping, just hoping she’d go for it and get the message straight to her mom. “I know about your friendship with Turk.” I figured those words alone would be enough to get Becky Watley on the phone, even if it was only out of fear and curiosity. And if the truth be known, I did feel a little bad about causing her more stress. But I also figured it like this: Becky Watley had already picked one loser, maybe Turk was another one, and maybe Vincent Gambuzzo wasn’t going to have to take the fall for a man who wanted to steal another man’s wife.

  I stood up, brushed imaginary dirt from the back of my dress, and let Sarah carefully hand Fluffy to me.

  “You call me anytime you need me, Sarah, okay? You or your mom or whoever you think needs me, okay?”

  Sarah nodded again, slipped the paper with my phone number into her pocket and sat staring at me as I walked around the side of the house to my car. I walked, careful to keep a lookout for Nolowicki, ignoring the fact that he told me to stay put. After all, I had my own personal “in” with the police department, and if that detective wanted to question me until all hours of the night, I was ready, willing, and very, very able.

  I reached the Camaro without being noticed. Then I drove off, careful not to chirp tires or rev the engine too loud on account of my Catholic upbringing demanding respect for the newly departed, not that they could hear me.

  Fourteen

  I was back home and asleep within thirty minutes. It was as if someone had slipped a Micky into my lime punch. I slept for almost two hours before the alarm went off at six. Although I seriously doubted that Nailor would be able to keep his date with me, it didn’t hurt to be prepared just in case. So I struggled to wake up enough to slide down into my Jacuzzi and the frothy, lavender-scented bubble bath that would leave me soft and smooth, just like Nailor liked. Fluffy tiptoed up beside me and whined. I looked over at her, pretending I didn’t understand.

  “What do you want, girl? You trying to tell me you made coffee?”

  Fluffy was having none of it. She stamped her little front paw, then jumped up onto the wide rim of the Jacuzzi. I relented and reached up above my head for the blue Styrofoam kickboard and placed it gently into the tub, holding it steady with both hands as Fluffy daintily stepped onto it and settled down for a relaxing float.

  “Better?” I asked.

  She moaned, like I was an idiot.

  “You’re the one floating on a kickboard,” I said. “You know many dogs who do that?”

  Fluffy wisely ignored me.

  “Say, maybe you could call Nailor later and break it to him we won’t be here for Christmas.”

  Fluffy opened one eye and stared at me. She wasn’t happy. Fluffy hated her dog carrier, and she hated airplane rides even more. Fluffy was not cut out for the cold winter weather of Philadelphia either.

  “You know what I think?” I asked her. “I think this is a hell of a time to be leaving town. I mean, the stuff with Vincent and Bruno is one thing, but we’ve got trouble on top of trouble.”

  Fluffy’s ears pricked up, she was listening to every word.

  “Well, it should be obvious what our other problem is. I mean, Carla Terrance has picked a hell of a time to come nosing back around Panama City.” Fluffy sighed. I didn’t have to tell her about the bad blood between me and John’s ex.

  “I mean, think of it like this: the two of them, alone on Christmas Eve, just two cops working a job, hungry, tired, lonely. Fluff, my girl, that’s a recipe for disaster.”

  I sank a little deeper into the tub, trying to convince myself that if Nailor went back to his ex I wouldn’t care.

  “Maybe they’re made for each other,” I whispered. “Maybe it’s better just t
he two of us.”

  Fluffy belched, the mark of total doggie disapproval.

  “Well, you’re the one who loves him, not me.” Fluffy stood up on the board and stared at me. “Okay, so maybe I like how he looks at me sometimes, like he’s got a secret and a promise all rolled into one.” Fluff was listening. “Or the way he keeps me on my toes. I like that I can’t just walk all over him.”

  Fluffy whined and yipped once.

  “I know, girl. There’s something about the way he touches me, too.” I closed my eyes and sighed. “It’s too bad I can’t take him home for Christmas. I just can’t stand the idea of him being all alone … or worse yet, with her.”

  Fluffy yipped again, her tail wagging a million miles an hour. “I know, girl,” I said, my eyes closing again but my imagination showing me a million mental images of Nailor. “You think it’s great when he scratches your itch. Honey, that ain’t nothing compared to the way he scratches mine!”

  “Is that so?” Nailor said, stepping from the doorway into my line of vision. I jumped, tipping the kickboard over and dumping Fluffy right into the lukewarm bathwater.

  Nailor reached down and scooped poor, indignant Fluffy out of the water and wrapped her in a towel.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “How long have you been itchin’?” he drawled. He stepped closer to the tub, grabbing a towel as he approached and holding it out to me.

  “Come here,” he whispered.

  “Make me,” I said, the challenge laid out before us.

  “I reckon I don’t have to,” he said. “I reckon you’ll be coming all on your own.”

  And he was right. He sat on the edge of the tub, leaned over, and kissed me, his tongue slipping slowly inside my mouth, his lips hungry and insistent. His hand reached behind my head, supporting me as his lips kindled a flame that spread throughout my body.

  He stopped abruptly and leaned back watching me. I looked into his eyes and I was hooked. It was the way he’d stood there with his red tie loosened just enough to make me want to take it off … the way he guaranteed satisfaction just by the self-assured manner he had of waiting for me to realize I needed to feel him against my skin. Any woman who walked away from that was a total fool, and Sierra Lavotini was certainly no fool.

  I stood up slowly, running my hands down my sides, smiling and sluicing off bubbles. So he wanted to show me a thing or two, huh? Well, we’d just see about that.

  He waited until he had me where he wanted me, naked and in bed, sweaty and satisfied, before he started talking. He ran one fingertip down my side, trailing it around my nipple and delighting in watching it harden in response to his touch. He spoke so softly I almost missed the words.

  “Sierra, you don’t have to worry about me. I had a life before you and I won’t fall apart if you go.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, and I almost couldn’t meet his gaze.

  “What you said earlier, before you knew I was there. That you aren’t going to be here for Christmas.”

  I looked up at him then. “John, something’s wrong up there,” I said. “I’ve gotta go home. I’d take you, but …”

  Nailor placed two fingers over my lips and silenced me. “Sierra, I don’t own you. You’ve got to go home. It’s no big deal.”

  “Yes it is,” I said.

  His finger trailed across my stomach creating a swirl of tingling skin. “No, honey, it’s not.” He leaned back and looked at me. “I’m guessing you have some thinking to do. I’ve been feeling you pull away.” I moved to protest, then thought better of it. Instead I felt tears welling up behind my eyes.

  “You’re afraid you’re going to fall in love with me, really fall in love, and that scares you. You think if you love me, I’ll die like Tony, or leave you like all the others.”

  “No, I’m not afraid of that!” I said, but there was no use in trying to fool him. He knew.

  Nailor pulled me to him and held me close. “Yes, honey, you are. You’re scared shitless and we both know it.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “Maybe it would be a good idea for us both to take a little time to sort this through.”

  I pushed away and stared at him. “What do you mean? Are you having second thoughts about us?”

  Nailor’s eyes softened, but I couldn’t tell what he was really thinking. “I just think we need some time. You aren’t the only one who’s been hurt before. I could use a little while to sort things out, be clear about where we’re heading. I don’t want to be going down one path thinking one thing and have you be thinking something else, that’s all.”

  This was not at all what I had intended. What was going on? I closed my eyes and willed it all to vanish, but this wasn’t a bad dream.

  “Okay,” I said. “We’ll take some time.”

  Nailor was moving to the edge of the bed, reaching for his clothes, no longer vulnerable and available.

  “I’ll take you to the airport,” he said. “When do you leave?”

  “In the morning.”

  That shocked him. He stopped for a second, momentarily angry. “Sierra, when were you going to tell me?”

  “Tonight. At dinner.” I looked at him and saw that I’d hurt him. “I kept trying to tell you,” I said, “but I guess I just wanted it to all work out somehow.”

  He was reaching for his shoes, slipping his feet into them, taking his time and considering what he would say next. I had the horrible feeling I knew what would come next. He was going to walk out the door and never come back.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I don’t really feel like going out. I reckon you’ve got packing to do and I’m pretty tired. How about giving me a rain check?”

  His eyes were so open and sad, but he smiled like it was no big deal at all, and for a moment I knew exactly how he felt. We were feeling the very same thing and couldn’t, wouldn’t own up to it.

  I smiled right back. “Sure. I know you’re tired. We’ll do it when I get back.”

  “What time’s your flight?” he asked. His hands were stuck deep into his pockets and he had the look of a man who was already halfway out the door.

  “Eight,” I said. “I should be at the airport by seven-fifteen.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be here to get you about a quarter till. That work?”

  I straightened up and looked into his eyes. I wanted to say a hundred other things, but all I did was say, “Thank you, that’ll be fine.”

  He took three short steps to my side, pecked me on the cheek, and was gone, the sound of the door closing behind him the last thing I heard before I sank back onto the bed and gave myself over to self-pity. How was it possible for things to get so messed up in such a short amount of time?

  I sat there for I don’t know how long, thinking about Nailor and me and the whole mess I’d made of every relationship I’d ever known. When I heard the car drive up outside, and Fluffy yip once and then go silent, I hopped up, hoping he’d changed his mind. But it wasn’t Nailor. It was Becky Watley, looking pale under the light of my back stoop, pale and very, very pregnant.

  I opened the door and wondered for a second if she’d be able to fit through. I think she knew because she smiled a little and ran her hand over her enormous belly.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Baby’s not due for a week and I’m always late anyhow.” Then the smile vanished. “I need to talk to you. My daughter said you said something about Turk and maybe you could help me find him.”

  That was all she had. Her voice trembled and broke as she said his name, the tears following and the composure fleeing.

  “Hey,” I said, reaching out and pulling her into the kitchen, “now don’t do that.” I was thinking the upset could bring on labor and Sierra don’t do home deliveries. “Come on inside. Sit down on the sofa. Shhh, just get a grip and tell me all about it.”

  Becky Watley shivered and let me lead her to the green futon in the living room. When she noticed the open bay window she seemed to panic.r />
  “Don’t you have curtains?” she asked.

  “Sure, sure, don’t wet your pants. It’ll just take a second.” I bustled about closing things and rearranging the thick curtains so that not so much as a sliver of streetlight shone through.

  “All right,” I said, settling down next to her. “What’s the deal? What’s going on that’s got you so freaked out?”

  Becky folded her arms over her stomach and looked at me. Now that the outside no longer scared her, she was going to check me out. I looked right back at her, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. I mean, I didn’t exactly figure the Widow Watley to have a lot of options, what with her husband dead and her boyfriend on the lam for maybe murder.

  “Okay,” she said. “I don’t know what else to do and I need help, so here goes.” She took a deep breath and let fly, every bit of it escaping like hot air from a spent balloon.

  “I heard you know about me and Turk. I don’t know how you found out, but it isn’t what you’re probably thinking.” I didn’t want to interrupt her, didn’t want her to know that I was as empty as a vacuum when it came to having all the answers.

  “Turk loves me, and I love him, but we didn’t kill my husband. We couldn’t, even if we’d wanted to. Denny was doing too good a job of that all on his own.”

  Becky looked at me, like maybe I would contest her statements, but when I didn’t she continued. “He had a brain tumor. It was small, but the doctors told him it was going to grow and one day kill him.” Becky sighed and looked down at her stomach. “They said that though they couldn’t operate, he might live for years, but Denny didn’t care. He just drank that much more, and used all of his paycheck on crystal meth. It was like he figured no tumor was going to kill him if he could do it himself.”

  She sat up a little straighter, tossing her stick-straight black hair over her bony shoulders, trying to look tough.

  “You think it was wrong, watching out for him, making sure he didn’t kill himself with the drugs. You think it was cold of me to wait for the tumor to take him, but I’ve got girls to raise. Turk don’t make enough to take on four children and a wife, and he shouldn’t have to.”