The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

HELL.

Dylan and I both stared at it. And we both knew. The answer was here. Had to be here.

“Jennifer didn’t write that last part,” he said. “That’s not her blue; that’s not her hand writing. Someone else could just as easily have found out what she was up to.”

“Someone else did.”

“But who?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Dylan nodded. He reached out and touched my hand. And I didn’t pull away.

Yep. Damn right we were getting warmer.

Chapter 18

Luanne was nothing if not ultra-efficient.

But was she an ultra-efficient murderer?

Dylan and I were motel-bound for the rest of that rainy afternoon. When Mrs. Presley saw us coming in, she said she’d fix up some sandwiches for our supper.

“Or should I fix up some oysters on the half shell?” she asked. “Strawberries dipped in chocolate? Want me to send down a bottle of wine for you two? Candles? I got some old 45s out back. What if I hook up a record player so you two can have some music to dine by. Love me Tender kind of stuff. You like love songs, Dix?”

Subtle, Mrs. Presley. Real subtle.

I told her — emphatically — that sandwiches would be fine, and that I’d be back in a little while to pick it up. But truly, food was the farthest thing from my mind right then, as Dylan and I headed down the hidden hallway to Room 111. We had work to do.

We got down to business immediately, pouring again and again over Jennifer’s journal. That was strange in itself, looking so intimately at the life of this poor dead woman. She’d clearly been taken by the attention of Billy Star. And again, that made me cringe as I reflected on Billy’s initial motivation for wooing Jennifer, i.e., to revenge himself on Ned. And, oh, how she’d soaked up that attention! At least at first. But, if I was reading the cues correctly — and I’m a woman so, hell, of course I was — love was waning as of late.

May 12

J - return (mail) necklace to BS

LL - needs to confirm things for reception — call the bitch and make sure she does.

May 16

J - call EB at spa, re-confirm all my Monday’s

May 20

J - must find that lost BS letter!

May 22

J - tell BS to go FCK himself once and for all!

Now, that last one was a shorthand code you didn’t have to be a detective to decipher. And I doubted very much if the BS here was the Bombay Spa. No, Jennifer was done with Billy Star. There were a couple more references to Luanne (LL), snarkily written. Complete with little frowning faces all over the page — and a fair number of devil’s pitchforks. The (PR) Pastor Ravenspire mentions were equally negative, but the accompanying graphics were a little more intense. And there were many N (for Ned) entries, of course. EB — Elizabeth Bee popped up every so often, always with a note to be sure to tip her for one thing or another. For one who apparently had been saving her money, Jennifer had no qualms about tipping Elizabeth very well. Genuine generosity? Buying her silence? There were a few references to neighbors, appointments to be kept, but nothing out of the ordinary.

And it wasn’t just the re-reading of the journal that kept us occupied that rainy day and evening. Dylan and I also listened to every taped conversation, again and again. We looked over every photo. We went over every note, the crumpled restraining order, every receipt. I swear, Dylan and I could have recited verbatim the contents of any of those documents or recordings.

+++

It was about 6 p.m. when, with a mutual huff, we set the pages down. The whiteboard Dylan had brought along had been written upon and erased time and time again until it was more gray than white.

“I’m missing something, Dylan. Any one of these folks,” I waved a hand over the pictures and pages before us on the bed, “could have killed Jennifer. Could have hired someone to come into the offices to pose as her and set me up. Could have written that NO WAY IN HELL in her journal.”

I groaned in frustration, then yawned on the next indrawn breath. I glanced at my watch. Holy crap, I was tired. And getting a little hungry.

I’d long abandoned the comfy brown housecoat. In fact, the room was warm enough that I’d shucked my socks hours ago. Now, weary and tired, I linked my fingers together and curled my back as I stretched out my arms. My neck was sore from the strain of hunching so long over papers. I rolled my head gingerly, then put a hand to the tight muscles on right side of my neck. Ouch.

“Let me, Dix.”

And before I could utter a word in protest (funny, I’m not usually such a slow talker), Dylan had his hands on my neck. “Whoa!” he said. “You’re tense.”

Well, duh. “Just … long, hard day, Dylan.”

He grinned. “Lucky for you, a master masseuse from the Bombay Spa is here.”

I arched an eyebrow. The mental picture of me beneath the white sheet, naked on the massage table flashed through my mind. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, and lowering in other places. “And here I thought that diploma from the Cordick School was a fake.”

“It’s Cornick School. Not dick.”

“Of course.”

“And yeah, it’s a fake, but I’m damn good with my hands anyway. So let me get that tension out.”

“Oh well, no need. I’m just—”

He cocked his head. “Do I make you nervous, Dix?”

I snorted. “Of course not.”

Technically it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t make me axe-murderer nervous.

“Then just let me help you here.”

Why not? Dylan had made it clear the other night when he’d jumped out of my bed that he wasn’t interested in me that way, hadn’t he? And surely, I didn’t have feelings here myself that I couldn’t handle. No way. Not hard- assed Dix Dodd.

I lay down on the bed, fully clothed. He turned down the light. And I felt the anticipation rise unchecked within me as the mattress depressed, then I felt his hands on my back once again. But this time, it was even more intimate. This time there was no pretense, no Elizabeth Bee in the corner. This time there was nothing to stop us. Except ourselves.

Careful, Dix. Remember the trouble last time you let yourself feel.

But even as I reproached myself, I knew … I could be here. I could drift into this feeling. Give into this feeling. If only—

Though his voice was low, I startled when Dylan spoke into the quiet, darkened room. “You know Dix, sometimes when you’re so busy looking for the bad guys all the time, you miss the good guys. You don’t always have to be on the defensive. You might be missing something pretty good here.”

Maybe it was his voice. Maybe it was his hands. But, holy hell, whatever it was it was working. I was melting