The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

had simply derailed.

“What did I miss, Mrs. P?”

“Sit down, honey.” She nodded towards the small sofa and coffee table in the small lounge. “I’ll ask Cal to make us some lunch. We’re gonna be here awhile.”

My face dropped.

Mrs. P looked at me and grinned. “Ah, come on, don’t look so sad. This isn’t some kind of Heartbreak Hotel, you know.”

Chapter 6

Now, I’m not saying Mrs. Presley is one to gloat.

Oh, hell, who am I kidding? She sat there with a sandwich in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, and a self-satisfied smirk on her face. Yeah, yeah, I guess I asked for it. And man, did she make me suffer, talking about the weather and countless other trivialities before getting to what I was dying to hear.

Damn, I was blown away.

“You can close your mouth now, sweetie,” she said when she’d finished dishing.

I closed my mouth. “Sorry, Mrs. Presley.” Like any well-chastised schoolgirl, I mumbled my apologies.

The frequent visitor to the Underhill Hotel was none other than the fist-shaking, hostile, bristling Billy Star of my surveillance photos. And get this — he always appeared in the company of a blonde. A blonde who crouched low in the seat while he signed in (W.P. Smith). Mrs. Presley even had the dates and room numbers — Room 10 (that was the mirror-ceilinged room) February 5,12, and 19. Room 108 (vibrating bed) on March 12, April 2. Room 101 — that was April 9 — had a notation beside it: Fix light fixture, customer complained of shock. Briefly, I got sidetracked wondering what the hell they were doing in that room to get a jolt off a light fixture, but forced my focus back to the issue at hand.

There were other rooms and other dates. Usually twice a week, sometimes more. Until about a month ago, when the rendezvous ended suddenly. My mind roiled with questions. Who was the blonde? Why the Underhill Motel? And why did it end so abruptly?

And most importantly, how was this connected to the murder of Jennifer Weatherby?

No, wait — the most important question was, how was this all going to save my ass?

Afterward, I’d driven back to the office with a death grip on the steering wheel and Mrs. Presley’s spicy pepperoni churning on my insides. I think she’d spared her son the poison and fed it to me!

But no matter, I would surely live. I had to, if only to impart this juicy tidbit to Dylan. I couldn’t wait to catch up with him, to find out what he’d found out, completely certain that my information could trump his information, in my best school-yard nyah-nyah, my-snitch-is-better-than-your-snitch-so-there mentality. Because, well, I was one to gloat too.

But Dylan had some pretty good information of his own.

+++

The phone was just starting to ring as I took my coat off. My first thought was that it would be the police with more questions. Or worse, the press with some questions of their own.

“Not now, damn you.” I decided to let it click to voice mail. But no sooner had it rung four times and flipped into voice mail, then it started ringing again. Then again.

Damn it. A glance at the display simply showed “Outside Call”, which meant the caller was blocking caller ID. No messages either.

I’d been half surprised to see that Dylan wasn’t back yet, but when I looked out the window I could see him pulling his bike into the parking lot. Damn, he looked good on that thing. My gaze took in long legs straddling the powerful bike. I also took in the fact that he didn’t have his cell phone pressed to his ear. Whoever was calling, it wasn’t Dylan Foreman.

“Oh, just give it up will you. Or leave a message already.”

Who the hell calls ten times?

Truthfully, I didn’t want to answer it. I just couldn’t get my mind around the concept of new clients right now, not while the murder of Jennifer Weatherby still hung over my head. Worse, I thought it might be Detective Head asking me why the hell I’d not brought Jennifer Weatherby’s receipt, deposit record and contract (yes, the non- existent paperwork) in to the station yet.

So I glared at the ringing phone and willed it to stop, scrunching my eyebrows in concentration. I wanted it to stop. Specifically, I wanted it to stop before Dylan walked in. The only thing worse than avoiding a call I really didn’t want to take was having someone else know I was avoiding it. Having Dylan know it….

The door to my office started to swing open. Shit. I dove across Dylan’s desk and lunged for the phone, making a very unflattering oomph/slide across the oak surface.

“Hello, Dix Dodd speaking.”

Dylan arched a questioning eyebrow. I mouthed the words ‘had to pee’ and pressed the phone back to my ear in time to hear a female voice.

“Oh.” A pause. “Oh, I was just about to hang up.”

Well don’t let me stop you.

“Just got in the door,” I lied to the still unknown caller. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m calling for Dylan Foreman. Is he there?”

“Oh.”

“Ma’am? Is he there?”

“Certainly. Just a moment, please.”

I was just about to hand the phone over to Dylan when she said, “And er, sorry to rush your pee break.”

Grrrr.

Oh, great, THIS I was able to mouth silently.

I handed the phone to Dylan.

“I’ll be just a minute, Dix.” Dylan hooked a leg casually over the edge of his desk. With the mouthpiece end of the receiver pressed against his shoulder, he waited. And waited until I got the message.

I turned and walked into my own office.

I closed the door between our offices. Well, almost closed it. I heard him laugh deeply, while my leather chair made a rude sound as I plunked my ass down on it. Nice, Dix. Chances were Dylan heard that, if not the caller on the other end of the line. Great, now they’ll think I’m incontinent and a farter!

All I needed now was to … oh, crap!

Mrs. Presley’s hospitality came back to haunt me. I belched spicy pepperoni.

Feeling about as attractive as Steve Buscemi, I sighed and turned my attention to my desk. Picking up the yellow legal pad I’d used when Jennifer Weatherby had been in the office, I examined my doodles. Stairs going nowhere; tight little circles. The crazy, meandering duck tracks. For some reason, I wanted to laugh. And not a good laugh.

“That’s it! I’ll just hand this over to Detective Head,” I muttered to myself. “There you go, Detective! Proof positive Jennifer Weatherby was in my office. Case closed against Dix Dodd, your friendly neighborhood ball- buster!”

“Dix?” Dylan called from the outer office. “Did you say something?”