The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen

“Jennifer said they weren’t.”

“So that’s why they were planning their 20th wedding anniversary party for tomorrow? That’s why the invitations were sent out, and Kenny Kent, the caterer, booked? That’s why Ned bought a $50,000 diamond ring?” He held up a receipt, one he’d apparently found in Jennifer’s study. “And why she bought him a Rolex watch just last week? Because they weren’t getting along?”

Holy shit.

“Holy shit.”

“It was getting to you, wasn’t it, Dix? It was getting to you to watch the man you secretly love so in love with his wife. That’s why you killed her, wasn’t it, Dodd?”

I waited for a sound. There wasn’t one. No one would have breathed out loud at that moment. Especially not me.

“I was hired.”

“Prove it.”

“I will,” I said. “Just as soon as I get out of here.”

The toothpick broke between Detective Head’s teeth.

“Look, I’ve cooperated with your investigation. Now, either charge me with something or let me go, Detective. I have work to do. I have a job to do. A job I’m damn good at, as you’re well aware.” Not to mention that I had to get my ass out of the fire. My grin ached, but it held. And I stared at Head just as hard as he stared at me.

“Get out of here, Dodd,” he snarled. “But don’t leave town.”

A half dozen retorts jumped to mind, all ending in ‘fuck you’, but for once, I said nothing.

I grabbed my jacket, and crossed the room on legs of rubber from sitting too long. My ass had fallen asleep, and I hated that. My hand was on the doorknob, and I was almost out, when Detective Head had to toss one more piece of crap my way.

“I’ll need the proof, Dodd. I’ll need the paperwork.”

I turned. “What do you mean?”

“You claim that Jennifer Weatherby hired you for ten thousand dollars, and that she already paid you half. I’ll need to see something. Carbon of the receipt you gave her, the copy of the contract for services.” He smiled. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you.”

“Of course it’s not a problem!” I snapped back at him.

Big problem, big problem, big problem.

Often clients don’t want any paper trail back to them. Jennifer was — had been, rather — one of those. Thus we had no contract, and she hadn’t wanted a receipt. My mind whirled. I could still produce a receipt. I’d just started a new receipt book two weeks ago. I could re-copy the other receipts, then slide Jennifer Weatherby’s in on the right date, in the event my receipt books were seized by the police. Of course, if the thought occurred to me, it would occur to Dickhead, too. No way he’d buy it, especially without a corresponding deposit record. He’d just go looking for the other people to whom I’d issued receipts and do a forensic comparison of the carbon with the original. I cursed myself for not depositing the cash the very next day. Instead, I’d pocketed five hundred, stashed the rest of it in the monstrosity of a fireproof filing cabinet at the office, and headed out to tail Ned Weatherby. Dylan had even offered to deposit it for me, but I told him to leave it there for a few more days. That way he could bring me more cash if I needed it, which he’d done when I’d had to come up with another hundred to buy access for that boardroom shot. Dammit all to hell.

“Good,” Head said. “Because otherwise, I’d have to believe I was right about you, Dodd. That you had the hots for Ned Weatherby, and that’s why you were stalking him. And that’s why you murdered his wife.”

Detective Head snapped another toothpick into his mouth.

I turned on my heel and left, imagining the shit-eating grin he was no doubt wearing.

Oh just smoke, damn you!

Chapter 4

Earlier in the evening, after Dylan had been grilled by Detective Head, I’d told him to go home. By that time, it was already 10 p.m., and since we’d need to be sharp in the days ahead, I ordered him to get some rest.

“Home. Straight home. Do not pass go; do not collect two hundred dollars. Home, Mr. Foreman.”

It was well after midnight before I got away myself. Of course, I had no intention of taking my own advice. I stopped by my place just long enough for a power shower (not to mention the first leisurely pee I’d had since I began this case) and a change of clothes before driving to the office.

When I pulled into the parking lot and saw a light shining from my office window.

Dylan. I should have known he’d ignore my instructions.

Despite myself, I felt a little warm and fuzzy.

Then I caught the drift of my thoughts and got a grip. Oh, man, it must have been a harder night than I’d thought. Dix Dodd didn’t do warm and fuzzy. I was cynical. Chippy. Tough as shoe leather.

To underscore my ’tude, I climbed out of my car and slammed the door. Then slammed it again because the freakin’ thing never did close right.

I spat on the asphalt because that felt about right, squared my shoulders and marched across the moonlit parking lot towards the building. And I mean across the parking lot. I’d parked as far away from the building as I could, a practice I’d started in an effort to work some much-needed exercise into my day, but which had become habit.

It had rained and the asphalt shone black beneath my feet. The air was fresh, clean and damp. And appreciated. Really appreciated for the first time in … ever. Fear of jail can do that to a person — make them take notice of the finer things.

Yes, it was true. Dix Dodd, hard-assed PI, was scared this time. Not that I’d cop to it. Nosiree. I could hide it very well, thank you, under my smart-mouth and fuck you attitude. No one would be the wiser.

But, dammit, things didn’t look good for me.

There was no paperwork from Jennifer Weatherby to prove that she’d hired me. And Richard Head would do whatever he could to prove my guilt.

I dashed moisture from my cheeks. Goddamn rain.

It was shortly after one in the morning when I let myself into the building and climbed the dimly lit stairway to my office.

+++

“You look scared,” were the first words out of Dylan’s mouth.

I snorted a laugh. “Nah. That’s just caffeine withdrawal.”

He handed me a cup of coffee and perched himself on the edge of my desk. He half sat/half stood with one foot firmly planted on the ground and the other dangling lazily off the side of the desk. He looked tired. Tired and scruffy at this late hour. He’d not shaved in a day or two judging by the stubble that roughened his face. I suspected he was dying for a shower. He ran a hand through his hair, then across his face, making that uniquely masculine rasping sound. He crossed his arms easily over his chest. I swallowed, and out of ever-growing necessity, I crossed my arms over my chest too.

“How did it go with Head?” he asked.