The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

bathroom mirror, and I combed out my long blond hair. Despite having opened the lone, small window, the bathroom was steamy when I’d finished. Hot. And when I let myself out, despite the terrycloth bathrobe Mrs. Presley had provided, the cool air hit me.

I grabbed the remote and clicked on the room’s small TV, not at all surprised to find it tuned to a program that gave new meaning to the phrase ‘love triangle’. Hell, I was never that flexible. Quickly … well within an hour … I clicked to another channel, one that displayed the time. It was just after two o’clock. Dylan wouldn’t be along for hours, possibly not until after dark. And I knew better than to be out and about in Marport City. Every cop in town would be seeking my hide. I’d leave the TV on, volume muted. When I awoke, it would be easier to open one bleary eye to check the time than to move an actual major muscle to reach for my watch on the nightstand.

With the shower, the heat, and the coziness of the bathrobe, that bed looked damn inviting, despite its garish red bedcover. Of course, a reasonably clean floor would look inviting, considering I’d been sleeping in spurts of about 40 minutes since I embarked on the surveillance of Ned Weatherby just one week ago. I removed the bedcover, revealing red sheets beneath. Figured. I folded the bedspread and dropped it on the lone chair in the room. I tossed the heavy, warm quilt Mrs. Presley had provided over me.

“I’ll just snooze for a little while,” I mumbled, crawling into the sea of red.

Of course this was the logical choice, I assured myself, closing my eyes. Just until Dylan came.

Dylan. The thought of him was comforting to me. I wanted to see him. Okay, I’ll admit it, I really wanted to see him. I couldn’t wait to see him.

Strictly professional, I assured myself. You’re just tired and anxious to get working on the case and find out what he knows and needing a coffee and horny as a sailor on shore leave….

My eyes opened wide.

It’s been a long, lonnng time since I’d been with a man. Okay, if I was honest with myself, it had been a long time since I’d wanted to be with a man. Not that I didn’t have the physical desires — hell, I wasn’t dead. But it had been a long time since I’d thought of one specific man in that way. A long time since I had allowed myself, if only for the briefest moment, to think that way….

Geez, snap out of it, Dix.

But whatever I was feeling — however I got there and however I justified it, professionally or completely unprofessionally — I couldn’t deny the end result. I wished Dylan were here. He would be soon. As I drifted off to sleep, I allowed myself the self-indulgence of thinking of him.

But only for a moment, because wrapped in the snuggliness of the soft housecoat, I wasn’t long drifting off.

I dreamed of being back in high school, wandering the hallways in my PJs while the cool kids looked on. Then I was riding an escalator wearing just a pair of old blue fuzzy slippers. That morphed into the one where I was riding an elevator that just wouldn’t stop on the damn floor I needed. Okay, normal dreams. But then the dream elevator finally stopped on the floor I wanted. The door opened. And it didn’t surprise me that she was there again. There to taunt and torment me. The Flashing Fashion Queen.

I stared at her. She stood on one side of the elevator threshold, and I stood within it. Her back was to me. Why could I never see her face clearly?

“Hiya Dixie,” she said, her voice gritty.

“Still got that throaty thing going on, I see. Maybe you should see a doctor.” But for what? A polyp on the larynx or a sex change?

“You’re concerned about me! How sweeeet.”

Even as I slept, I could feel my blood beginning to boil. “Concerned? Not a chance. The only thing I’m concerned about is that your stint in jail is nice and long.”

“But you’ll have to catch me first, Dix Dodd. And I bet you can’t.” She waved a backward hand at me.

“I’d be careful on what bets I placed,” I goaded. “After all, I’m not in jail, and I know you wagered that I would be.”

She huffed. “That’s just a technicality. You’ll be there soon enough.”

“Still think you’re too smart for me, Blondie?”

She laughed. “Oh, I know it, honey. If I didn’t, then why would I—”

Quick as lighting, I reached and grabbed her. I jumped that quickly and that forcefully and grabbed this dream apparition. In my dream, I tossed her down onto the elevator floor beside me. No way in hell was she getting away this time. Not until I had some answers. Not until I saw her face. Not until—

“Dix! Wake up.”

And in that instant, murky turned to clear-as-glass as I awoke and discovered that I’d not pulled my nemesis down beside me after all.

It was Dylan who lay there in the red-sheeted bed beside me, eyes wide, his t-shirt pulled taut in my white- knuckled grip.

“You must have been dreaming, Dix,” he said.

“Yeah. I … I was.”

“Her again?”

I nodded, and released my grip on his shirt. I braced myself for the whiplash effect that would ensue as he jumped off the bed like it was on fire.

But he didn’t jump up off the bed in a hurry. He didn’t jump off the bed at all. He didn’t run away screaming. Dylan didn’t do any of those things. He hadn’t when I’d grabbed his shirt and hauled him down beside me. And damn — oh freakin’ freakin’ dammitty damn damn damn! — not even when I leaned over and kissed him.

So much for wildest dreams.

Chapter 13

Okay, here’s the scoop (excuse/justification/explanation) on how Dylan Foreman ended up in my bed at the Underhill Motel.

For my fortieth birthday, my mother sent me glow-in-the-dark thong panties and matching push-up bra (did I mention Jerry Springer would love her?). My sister Peaches Marie (it’s okay, she likes her name), bless her, sent me tickets to the Stones. I’d taken Rochelle, and Judge Stephanopoulos had been jealous as hell. Jokingly, she’d threatened to throw me in jail and confiscate the tickets. (At least I’d hoped she was joking.) Even Dylan had gotten me a present for the big 4-0 — a bottle of wine and a set of two wine glasses. He’d given them to me at the office, just as we were preparing to leave for the night. The wine, he explained, was a 1989 Australian Shiraz. Full-flavored, a little peppery, but luscious. It had gotten better over the years, he’d said, just as I had. (I’d have felt better about that if I hadn’t seen the Museum Wine sticker on the bottle.)

God, I remember that night so clearly. A weeknight, Dylan had hung around late. No plans, he’d told me. Just kicking around the office. I guess he felt like chatting. Mainly about the wine. Of course, I’m more of a rum cooler gal myself, and all I knew about wine was that I preferred red to white. After listening to him sing the praises of this particular vintage yet again, I’d thanked him effusively, set the bottle and glasses in my bottom desk drawer, and yawned widely. I was anxious to get out of there; there was a new CSI on. But man, I didn’t think Dylan was ever going to leave. So I stretched and yawned a little wider, then stretched and yawned again.

Finally, with a long sigh, he’d left, and finally I was able to go home to a frozen dinner and murder on the tube. Geez, hard to figure men sometimes. They just do not pick up hints.

But what did I give myself on my fortieth?