The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

about one way or another, to make the frame job more plausible.

“Let’s take the facts one at a time,” he said. “What we do know is that the Flashing Fashion Queen who came to you posing as Jennifer Weatherby was not Jennifer Weatherby.”

Dylan stood and took his milkshake with him over to the whiteboard I’d propped up on a dining room chair. He drew one of his famous stick figures on the board, and we started filling in the details. About five ten in low heels, dressed horribly, a purse full of feminine hygiene products and five thousand dollars in cash. Dylan drew some dollar signs floating above the stick figure’s head.

I sipped my shake. “How old do you think she was?”

He scratched his chin. “Hard to say with the big glasses on. Mid-forties, maybe.”

Geez, he made mid-forty sound Jurassic. “That old?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.”

Bummer.

“And here’s a thought,” I said. “We don’t even know for certain our imposter was a female. If I can pass for a man, whose to say a man couldn’t pass for a woman?”

Dylan lifted an eyebrow. “You might be onto something there. I mean, remember what she looked like?”

“I know, I know. A purple Amazon with the feet to match.” My stomach sank. I’d only thrown the idea at Dylan because I was always trying to impress on him the need to keep an open mind on an investigation, but dammit, I think I was right. “Christ, Dylan, it could easily have been a man. Probably was a man.” I reached for my yellow pad, looking at the tight pairs of circles I’d drawn, again and again. “Oh, for—” I ground back a curse. “Gonads. That’s what I was doodling while she … oh, hell — he — was talking.”

“Stones?” Dylan leaned close to look at the pad. “Ya think?”

“I think.” I tossed the pad back on the desk in disgust. “How could I have missed something like that?”

“Hey, I missed it, too.”

It was the money, of course. I’d been blinded by all that cash. How many times had I said it? People see what they want to see, and I’d wanted to see an easy payday.

“Or maybe not.”

I glanced up at Dylan. “Huh?”

He shrugged. “Maybe she was just a masculine looking chick. My uncle married a woman who could pass for RuPaul, if you squint your eyes. And if RuPaul were a foot and a half shorter. And white. And quite a bit pudgier.”

I rolled my eyes. “The spitting image, I’m sure.”

“It’s true. I swear. And you know how it can be with some women as they get older.”

I resisted the urge to touch my upper lip. I’d had the latest go-round with the electrolysis needle less than a month ago. I did not have a moustache. Well, not much of one.

“Okay, I get the message. It might have been a woman. It equally well might have been a man. Which means we’ve effectively doubled our suspect pool.”

He grimaced. “Looks like it. But it doesn’t really change what we need to do, does it?”

“Not really.”

We had to find out who Jennifer Weatherby had been seeing. Yes, this assumed that Elizabeth had been telling the truth, but I had little else to go on at this time.

“Shall we talk to the neighbors again?” Dylan asked.

“No. If they haven’t told you anything before, chances are they won’t now. So let’s forget the new neighborhood and check out the old neighborhood.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Maybe Jennifer kept in contact with someone from her old days before she married Ned. If she felt out of place in Ned’s world, maybe she kept her place in the world she knew before him.”

“The other side of the tracks.”

I shrugged. “Worth a shot. We could talk to some of her old neighbors. See what the gossip was on that side of town.”

Dylan looked at me, his blue eyes boring into me with concern and energy. He was chomping at the bit to get going on this. “So you want me on this one, Dix?”

“Yeah. This one’s for you, Dylan.”

I did want him on this. But not for the reasons he probably thought. Sure, he might find out something of use to us. But I also wanted something else. I wanted him safe. Because I had the niggling feeling again, that gut instinct that told me things were about to get a little dangerous.

“I’m all over it.”

The minute I heard his motorcycle fire up and leave the lot, I grabbed my jacket.

Yes, I knew my next move. Knew who I had to talk to. And I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be a pretty conversation. I located my smallest, most efficient tape recorder, slid it into my pocket, and grabbed my purse. I tucked my cell phone inside.

And lastly, I grabbed my gun.

Chapter 9

Something seemed odd about the restraining order. I’d seen a few of them over the years, both at Jones and Associates and since I’d been out on my own. Admittedly, I’d only glanced at the other orders, usually waved under my nose by agitated clients trying to underscore the danger they were in. But this order I had the joy (ha!) of examining more carefully.

I knew whose signature was at the bottom — Judge Stella Stephanopoulos. She was actually, one of the smartest judges in Criminal Court; I’d known her by professional reputation for a long time. But more importantly, I knew her secretary Rochelle. I’d known her for years, actually, and had even arranged some pro bono work (a rarity for Jones and the boys, I assure you) for her little sister years ago. Her sister’s husband was one hundred percent asshole with a pregnant girlfriend on the side, and exposing his assholic nature had been my pleasure. Rochelle’s sister had been heartbroken, of course. But like all women, she eventually did what she had to do. Cried herself out, dusted herself off, and made a better life without the jerk.

Rochelle and I had been friends ever since. She trusted me; I trusted her. At the very least, I thought she’d have given me a heads up to let me know the order was coming. Not so I could dodge it, necessarily; just so I wouldn’t be caught flat-footed. She’d been Johnny-on-the-spot (Jilly-on-the-spot?) on a number of things over the years, and, I was a little miffed that she hadn’t called me on this.

The feeling that my friends were abandoning ship niggled at me, and it took all the will I had to push it aside.

The order had been obtained by that scrawny little poop of a lawyer, Jeremy Poole. You’d think Ned Weatherby was his only client, the way he was hanging off of him. Well, okay, they were obviously friends as well as business associates, judging by the photos I’d taken during that week I’d bird-dogged Ned.

Then again, Ned had so much money, maybe he truly was Jeremy Poole’s only client.

Regardless, it was clearly the young lawyer’s doing to get Judge Stephanopoulos to sign the order. One hundred yards away from Weatherby, the home, the business.

Yeah, right!

All of this to say that as I sat in my car immediately outside the Weatherby offices waiting for my mark to come back from lunch, I was in full disguise. The last thing I needed was to find myself in jail for