The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

under the touch of this man. And that did make me nervous, paling in comparison to any axe-murderer at the door.

“Dylan, I—”

“Just hear me out, Dix. The other night when I held you was…. I felt something and you felt it too. I know you did.”

He waited, and though I was sorely tempted to, I didn’t jump into that pause. I could feel his warmth — all of his warmth as he touched me gently. I could hear his breathing. Goddamn it, I wanted to be this close to this man. We were alone in the world just then — in the quiet of our room.

“Dix,” he continued, his voice deep and soft as it curled along my spine. He was leaning down toward me. Leaning in to kiss me, I knew. “I was worried about you today. More than I knew I could be. And I knew—”

We both swore when the phone rang into the room.

Me, because that loud, shrill ring startled me. Dylan because when I startled, I jumped and smacked him in the face with the back of my head.

Oh shit!

Even as I picked up the receiver I could see his bottom lip swelling up. I cringed and mouthed a ‘sorry’, but what exactly was I sorry for? Certainly for the growing boo-boo on his handsome face. But was I sorry the mood had been broken? Again? That the kiss had been, shot (or rather smacked) out of existence?

“Dix, Dix you there?”

“Oh … oh, sorry Mrs. P. You just caught me … caught me mid thought.”

I gave Dylan the ‘okay’ sign and he headed to the bathroom. I heard the water running and a sucked in ‘Ow!’ as he put a cloth to his lip.

“Well,” Mrs. P said. “I’ve got your supper ready. And Cal and Craig and I are just settling in for TV bingo. So if you want it hot and you want it before bingo rather than after — jackpot’s twelve hundred — you better come and get it now.”

“Will do Mrs. P.”

“Supper?” Dylan asked coming out of the bathroom. His lip wasn’t bleeding — anymore. But the little smooth bulge on the bottom of it would be there for a day or two. And as my eyes looked southward, that was the only thing bulging on Dylan Foreman now.

Way to break a mood, Dix. That’s me, Dix Dodd, ball buster, lip buster extraordinaire.

“Yep. Supper’s ready. I’ll just go down and get—”

“Let me, Dix.” His grin was self-mocking. “I could use a bit of a walk.”

He hipchecked open the door and backed/dipped his way out. That hidden door was a wonderful idea, but certainly not made with six foot four Dylan Foreman in mind.

I lay back on the bed when the door closed behind Dylan. The lights were still low but I threw one arm over my eyes anyway. I drew the other hand across the slightly rumpled sheets. What had just happened here? More importantly, what had almost just happened here? Saved by the bell?

Damn bell.

“Can you get the door, Dix?”

I jumped up when Dylan called and scooted across the room. He backed up when I shoved the door open. I stood in the dark hallway as with tray in hand Dylan moved around me.

“Leave it to Mrs. P.” He gazed appreciatively down at the tray as he walked forward. “Shaved roast on whole wheat. Grapes. Three different kinds of cheese. And for dessert, cookies. Looks like chocolate chip oatmeal. And they’re still warm.”

I was watching Dylan’s backside and Dylan apparently wasn’t watching at all, because as he tried to step through the door, he cracked his forehead on the top of the frame.

With a loud crash, he and the tray hit the floor.

“Holy shit!” I leaned down over him. “Dylan, are you all right? Are you … quick,” I said, remembering my first aid training from Girl Guides. “How many fingers am I holding up?” I held up a couple. He raised his head a little and squinted his eyes toward them.

“Dylan? Say something!”

He grinned, and put a hand to his forehead.

“Honey, I forgot to duck.”

He was fine. Well not fine-fine (there was a fair sized lump popping up dead-center on his forehead), but he wasn’t seriously injured if he was cracking jokes, calling me honey quoting Reagan. I helped him to the bed.

“You sure you’re all right?” I asked, picking up the wonderful supper Mrs. P had made us. The sandwiches were a lost cause, but the main part — the cookies — were still good. “I can get Mrs. P to—”

“I’m fine, Dix.”

The poor guy looked like he’d done battle with, well, me. Between the busted lip and the lump on his head, he was one sorry looking man.

Actually, we both were pretty sorry looking. Dylan with the lump on his head, me with … well, me with the murder wrap hanging over my head.

I thought we’d hit pay dirt when I’d found Jennifer’s journal. Clues had lain in there certainly, but answers? The answer?

I was missing something. It was niggling at me. Nagging. And it was right there — hanging just out of my reach. What was it? What was I missing here? I stood there with these thoughts twisting in my brain, staring unseeingly at Dylan.

“Is it bad, Dix?” He’d been studying my expression. And now raised a worried hand, and a careful one, to his forehead.

“Oh, sorry. I … I was thinking about the case.” Yes, I felt incredibly sheepish admitting that.”

“But how bad’s the lump on my head?” He patted some hair down over it, and in all seriousness asked. “Can you notice it?”

“Can I notice it? Dylan, it’s a doozie.” I laughed out loud.

“Geez, Dix, you’re all sympathy!”

“Sorry. Sorry. It’s ‘oozie’ words. They get me every time. Always conjures up these weird mental pictures.” And combine that with the lack of sleep and tension that needed breaking … it’s a wonder I wasn’t rolling on the floor. “You know doozie … oozie.” I cracked up all over again.

He grinned. Okay, so he was lacking sleep and under tension himself. “Sounds like quite the affliction. For a moment there, I thought you’d been drinking. Thought you’d gotten all boozie.”

Wow, that was bad. But yes, it sent thoughts of flying pink pigs crashing into skyscrapers in my head, and it sent another snort of laugher into the room.

“What? No comeback?”

Oh, so this was the challenge was it — oozie word sentences that made sense? We’d played dumber games.

“Not enough for you to get beaten at online Jeopardy, Mr. Foreman?” I asked. “Haven’t had your ass handed to you often enough at trivia? Now I have to kick your butt at this, too.”

Okay, I didn’t always kick his butt at trivia. We were about 50/50 on that score. I suck at twenty questions (though I’d never admit to under threat of torture!) And on the slow times when we did play online games, his little blue-shirted avatar was a wee bit more skilled than my pink-shirted avatar. But for the purposes of this current mindless competition, the trash talk was called for. Necessary, even.

He shrugged. “If you’re not up for the challenge, you don’t have to play. I mean, if you so choose-ie.”

I snorted. “Just be prepared Dylan. You’re about to lose-ie.”

He rolled his eyes (a little heavy toward the top I noticed, no doubt trying to see if he could actually see the bump.) “Lose-ie isn’t a word, Dix.”

“It is now,” I said. “And you should talk. Choose-ie?”

He said, “I think this case is getting to you. We need to find some clues-ies.” For dramatic emphasis, Dylan picked up Jennifer’s journal from the bed bedside him.

Not to be outdone, I grabbed the newspaper Mrs. P had delivered with breakfast. “Maybe I should look in