The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

here. You know, check out the news-ie.”

Okay, I could see him mentally reaching on that one. He was desperately trying to think of something. Was I actually going to win this one? Was I—

“Why don’t you read it to me?” He pointed to his forehead. “That smack on the head has left me kind of woozy.”

I shook my head, and gently touched the goose egg growing on his forehead. “Dylan, you’re more than a flirt. You’re an out and out floo….

A chill went along my spine and I held deathly still as it did. The feeling niggled itself up my shoulders. Nagged it’s way up my neck. Every fiber in me knew there was something here. Knew I’d hit upon something. My mind reached for it. My intuition grabbed for it. Goddamned well caught it!

“SON OF A BITCH!”

“Er, that doesn’t rhyme with oozie, Dix.”

“Oh my God!” I shrieked (and I’m not one to shriek). But I had it! I freakin’ well had it! I jumped away from Dylan, bounded off the bed and cranked up the light Dylan had earlier dimmed.

“Jesus, Dix!” With both hands now, he felt along his forehead. “How bad is it?” He ran to the bathroom to check himself out in the mirror.

I raced around the room looking for my cell phone, finally having to call it from the motel phone in order to find it (I’d left it in the red blazer which I’d folded on the dresser — that blazer was just bad luck!). I grabbed my cell and raced back, already dialing as I jumped and landed cross-legged on the bed.

“It doesn’t look that bad, does it?” Dylan came out of the bathroom still rubbing his forehead. “Like, you don’t think it’s permanent?”

“It’s fine. Get your phone, Dylan. We’ve got some calls to make.”

He blinked. “To whom?”

I nodded to the pictures strewn all over the bed. “The whole lot of them.”

Genuinely perplexed now, Dylan shook his head. “What am I supposed to say?”

Before I could respond, the party I’d called answered the phone. I held a finger up to Dylan, signaling him to wait. I could tell his frustration was growing, but with any luck….

“Hey, Dickhead,” I said into the phone. “Where the hell have you been?”

He said something about the nude limbo videos Dylan had packed for him. Something colorful. (I took it he wasn’t impressed.) Then he went into detail about how he personally was going to see to it that my ugly butt was in jail for—

I cut him off mid-rant. “Meet me at the Weatherby house tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Dixieass?” he snarled. “You finally coming to your senses, gonna turn yourself in?”

I laughed. “Hell, no I’m not going to turn myself in. I’m going to do your job for you. Because I know who killed Jennifer Weatherby.”

I hung up before he could scream at me anymore. And before he could trace the call.

Dylan stood dead still. He stared at me wide-eyed. “You know who killed Jennifer Weatherby? And who framed you?”

I nodded. I stood. I jumped on the bed. And jumped and jumped!

“I know, Dylan. Finally, it’s all come together. There’s only one person who could have killed Jennifer Weatherby.”

I stopped jumping and filled Dylan in on what I knew.

As soon as he’d heard me out, Dylan picked up his own phone and started dialing. Both of us now were calling in the players. Calling them to the Weatherby house for 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. And each and every one of them would show up. They had a reason to. We gave it to them: “Come to the Weatherby mansion at eight in the morning, because we know who killed Jennifer. And we know how you’re involved.”

An hour later, calls made, Dylan left. We both aimed to get some sleep before we executed our plan. Excited, of course. Happy. But … there was something else there. He kissed me on the cheek as he left the motel room. Shoved his hands in his pocket, and hipchecked the hidden door to exit the room via Mrs. Presley’s secret entrance. This time, he remembered to duck.

I remade the bed my jumping had messed, stripped down and crawled between the sheets.

And of course, I dreamed of her — my Flashing Fashion Queen.

Still she tried to elude me. Still she was out of my grasp. Ah, but I didn’t reach.

With her fancy, flouncy twists and turns, she managed to prevent me from getting a clear view of her face. But I didn’t look so very hard this time.

Didn’t have to.

And still, the bitch taunted me. Or rather, tried to.

“You’re not going to do this successfully, Dix. You’re going to fail. You’ll never catch me. I’m just too smart for you. Haven’t you learned that yet?”

And I chuckled as the Flashing Fashion Queen bounced away. “We’ll see, Blondie,” I called. “We’ll see.”

I slept wonderfully. Hands linked behind my head, I slept on my back, no doubt snoring like a sailor lulled by the waves of the ocean. And when I awoke well rested and ready a few short hours later, there was barely a wrinkle in the sheets.

Yep, it had been a perfect snoozie.

Chapter 19

Mmmmmmmmmm … homemade breakfast. Mrs. Presley had made enough for two lumberjacks, which pleased Dylan to no end when he arrived. By the look of him, he’d not slept as well as I had, but I had no doubt he’d be ready, willing and able to handle what the day had in store for us. The swelling on the lip had gone down quite a bit. But the bump on his head had turned a lovely purple color.

“Geez, Dix,” Mrs. P had offered upon seeing the worse-for-wear Dylan Foreman. “How wild did you two get in here? Playing cops and robbers? Or was it good cop, kinky cop? I bet I can guess which one you were, Dix. The kinky one, right? Next time I’ll send down a set of fur-lined handcuffs.”

Dylan just about choked on his toast.

I just about spewed my coffee.

Per usual, there was a single red rose on the breakfast tray. That and a pile of scrambled eggs, perfectly cooked sausage, and toasted homemade bread. Jam and peanut butter served in one of those fancy little silver things. She even had a little dish of mints. There was coffee, of course, and fresh squeezed orange juice. And speaking of squeezed….

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Mrs. Presley had said, after the teasing was done and she’d watch Dylan and I both for a few minutes to make sure we were going to do justice to her breakfast. “Just gotta powder my nose, put on some lipstick, and then I’m ready.”

“Ready?” I asked.

“Ready,” she affirmed.

Dylan paused between forkfuls of egg. “You’re coming, Mrs. P?”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

My first impulse was to argue. For her sake, not mine. And in a weak effort, I did so. But Mrs. Presley wasn’t about to budge. So we compromised, and Mrs. Presley agreed to travel with Dylan instead of me. A