The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

How did I know this? Mrs. Presley found a package zippered into the cushions of the sofa she’d been sitting on in Jennifer’s study (“Something’s scratching my butt, Dix.”). The package had turned out to be stuffed with cash (nearly a hundred large!) and a note from Jennifer. The note had been tucked inside an envelope addressed to Ned. ‘I’m writing this in case I get hit by a bus or car-jacked or something equally embarrassing,’ it was prefaced. ‘If you should find this, I needed you to know it was for US, not for ME. And after the thing with Billy … well, I just need you to know I wasn’t squirreling this away to leave you.’ She’d gone on to state her suspicions about the reverend and her hope that he would heed the warnings in death that he refused to hear in life. ‘This is in case we need it to get back on our feet. We can do anything together.’

The tears had filled Ned’s eyes as he held the note tightly in his hands.

I’d gotten a little teary-eyed, too. Mostly at the thought of a woman who’d been unable to outrun her past and the fear of sliding back into poverty that must have dogged her despite the poise and sophistication she’d acquired. If Jennifer had been thinking rationally, she’d have realized that no matter how much cash the reverend managed to weasel out of Ned, it probably wouldn’t have made too sizeable a dent in his overall wealth, the vast majority of which would not have been liquid enough to be at risk. And the sum of $100,000 — so colossal to Jennifer — hell, to the rest of us — was pitifully small by Weatherby family standards. Not quite pocket money, but pretty close. To think of the contortions she’d gone through to amass it without alerting Ned and setting off jealous suspicions … all that buying and returning of merchandise…. It was just so sad.

She’d loved him. Right to the end, she had loved her husband. Sure, she’d made a mistake with Billy Star, but so what? Life goes on. People make mistakes and then get up again and keep on going. I knew this. Jennifer knew this.

So yes, Detective Head’s arrest of Jennifer Weatherby’s murderer, as well as the infamous Pastor Take-Your-Pick, had made him less hell-bent to see me behind bars.

This time.

Last I heard, Dickhead was back on the toothpicks and just as irritable as ever. God help the criminal element of Marport City.

So it was that two weeks after my performance in the Weatherby study, we settled in for a celebration at the Six Shooter. My treat. Business was on the upswing. The publicity generated by the case kept me on the front pages of the newspaper (sans picture, thank you very much). I couldn’t have paid for that kind of exposure. Clients were calling. Clients were signing. Heck, clients were even paying. And as I sat there waiting for the arrival of my guests, I was feeling pretty good. I wouldn’t have to go back to the old firm. Ever. Jones’s and Associates and the old boys club could amuse themselves all they wanted. They’d been wrong. Not only could I survive in their ‘man’s world’, I could kick ass in it.

So, yes, a celebration was in order.

+++

Dylan was late, but not by a great deal. Mrs. P caught me checking my watch and craning my neck to check the side door. For once, she didn’t say a thing. Just smiled her knowing smile as she tipped up her third draft.

But before my neck developed a permanent kink, Dylan did arrive. His eyes caught mine as he walked in the door. And so did his smile. We were both on top of the world.

I couldn’t help but notice the dropped jaws on half the female (and quite a few of the male) patrons of the Six Shooter as he strolled in. But Dylan didn’t turn a glance toward any of them as he walked toward our table and pulled out the chair reserved for him to take, the one on my right.

“Hey, Dix. Sorry I’m late.”

I looked from his sparkling eyes to his forehead. The lump was gone, not so much as a bruise left. That war wound was officially behind us.

He plunked two packages on the table, and with a bent knuckle, knocked on the smallest one — a small white box. “Had to pick these up.”

Well, I knew what the smallest package contained. The business cards.

I’d let Dylan go ahead and order them. He told me he’d finally come up with the perfect slogan. So perfect, he was embarrassed he’d not thought of it before. He’d asked me to trust him.

And I realized — not without a little panic — that I did.

So I’d let Dylan order the business cards, slogan and all, without my sign off.

I moved a hand to open the white box.

And he placed his hand over mine. “Not yet.”

Well, hell! I was dying of curiosity.

With a casual signal to the server, Dylan ordered a beer.

“You … you going to sing tonight, Dylan?” the male waiter asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

The server walked away quickly, shaking his head all the way to the bar.

“Is it time for presents?” Elizabeth Bee looked quickly at the two packages Dylan had placed in front of me.

I was surprised she even had time to notice what was happening on the other side of the table. She seemed pretty happily occupied herself as she sat sandwiched between Cal and Craig Presley. Under the amused, watchful (and increasingly glassy) eyes of their mother, the two boys were each paying close attention to Elizabeth, and the young woman was soaking it up. Dylan had raised a questioning eyebrow when I’d announced I had invited Elizabeth to our little gathering. But I had a feeling about this young lady. She was smart, confident, and could lie like a rug — all qualities that came in handy in this business. And I just plain liked her. I wanted to keep her around.

“Sure, it’s time for presents,” Mrs. P answered for me.

I pretended to look surprised. Pretended not to have known that the gang gathered here tonight had been sneaking behind my back arranging for a cake (yes, provided by the one and only Kenny Kent, who’d also be joining us later) and presents for me. But hey, I’m a hotshot private detective. I’m smart as they come. I have intuition about these things.

Plus I’d overheard Dylan on the phone with his mother discussing the details.

Mrs. P handed me a parcel — small and flat, wrapped in brown paper. “This is from the boys and me.”

“Thanks Mrs. P,” I said. “Hmm, wonder what it could be?”

I unwrapped it, read the cover of the CD, and showed it around. It was a copy of Jailhouse Rock by Elvis Himself. But superimposed over the head of the dancing black leather clad Elvis, was a picture of me. Not just any old picture, but the horrible mug shot they’d used in the paper.

Mrs. Presley cackled. “I thought it was perfect for you, Dix, considering how close you came to singing it!”

“Er, perfect doesn’t describe it, Mrs. P. Thank you very much.”

“Me next, me next.” Elizabeth jumped from her seat — left hip banging into Craig, right hip banging into Cal (oh, she was good) as she scooted around the table to me. She handed me a small, red envelope. The familiar Bombay Spa logo was a dead giveaway in the top left hand corner. “It’s a gift certificate,” she gushed even before I had it open. “For a free massage.”

Dylan pffted a spray of beer onto his chin.

“It’s signed by Mrs. Pipps and everything!” Elizabeth said. “It cost me a whole week’s worth of tips. Oh, Dix, I hope you’ll come.”

I had to smile. First of all, there was no way in hell this was Ms. Pipp’s signature — too flowery, too large and loopy for such a crisp, efficient woman. Secondly, there was no way in hell the young Ms. Bee would be spending a week’s worth of tips on anyone but well, the young Ms. Bee. Thirdly, in faint print at the bottom of the certificate it read ‘display sample only’. Okay, now I had to smile widely. There was no way I would be going back to the Bombay Spa unless I had to for a case some time. Certainly not as Dix Dodd. And Elizabeth knew it.

“Thank you, Elizabeth. That was very kind of you.”

“Well,” Elizabeth said modestly. “It’s not much, but it’s the thought that counts.”

“Damn right,” Cal said.

“Double damn right,” echoed Craig.

Moving quicker than I’d ever seen these guys move, both reached to pull out Elizabeth’s chair as she returned