No, I did not wake up with a hangover. Not a bit of it. Though I did have a slight headache. And I couldn’t really stomach the big breakfast Mrs. Presley offered to fry (yes fry) up. I was a tad on the dry side, but well, Florida air must be dryer than Southern Ontario air. And fine, I admit, I really could have used an extra hour or so of sleep. And a Tylenol.
But hungover?
Not a chance.
The first thought/image that crashed into my mind on awakening was that of banging Dylan Foreman. All. Night. Long. Every way imaginable. (And I have a very good imagination.) Feeling those hands that had explored my breasts exploring even further. Feeling that lovely erection of his sprung from those snug jeans.
No, I had not banged Dylan Foreman. Hands had not explored brave new worlds, and Dylan’s spring had remained (sigh) unsprung. But I couldn’t have stopped those thoughts with a … thought stopper thingie.
I hate metaphors.
Suffice to say, I had every confidence that if Tish, Beth Mary or any of the gang down at the Wildoh rec room wanted to discuss my erotica-writing career today, I could match them fantasy for fantasy. Inch for inch. Lusty comment for lusty comment. Tit for….
Yet truthfully, had we done it, had we gone there, I knew deep down inside that I would have awoken with more than a non-existent (I’ll never admit to it!) hangover. There would have been regrets. Big regrets, and there would be no going back. I knew this. So it was best that we stopped when we did.
Right.
Getting close to Dylan — hell, to any man — would only lead to heartache. One colossal heartbreak in one lifetime was enough to last … well, a lifetime.
For the record, I am completely over Myles Gauthier. Yep. Over and done with. That time I’d caught him at the Underhill Motel in the arms of the proverbial other woman had done it for me. The first time hadn’t, but that second time….
I know. Pitiful, isn’t it? But I’d let the worm off the hook the first time. I’d even accepted some of the blame. Accepted his tearful apology and his pledge that it would never happen again. Then it happened again. I’d sworn off Myles Gauthier that night. Sworn off all men for that matter. And it was working out just fine.
But Dylan Foreman is nothing like Myles Gauthier.
Damn inner voice. And with that, the thoughts of Dylan began creeping back in … the warm ones. And it took every bit of will power I could muster to shove them back out. This was one matter on which intuition would be taking a back seat to logic.
Besides, I had other things to worry about. This was going to be a hell of a day. I’d promised to take Mrs. P out sightseeing. I know, I know, I was here to solve a case — a case of great personal importance — but I had my cover to consider. I had to make sure I looked suitably touristy to the occupants of the Wildoh, and I wasn’t going to achieve that hanging around the Wildoh all day, every day. Also, my biggest clue-seeking expedition was dinner with Deputy Almond this evening. I could afford to take some time with Mrs. P.
Speaking of the Deputy, I had every confidence he was planning to play me. I was, after all, his prime suspect’s daughter. But Deputy Noel Almond had no idea who he was dealing with. I squared my shoulders. I looked in the mirror, narrowed my eyes and gave my best evil laugh/snicker/snort.
And wiped the spit off my chin.
Mrs. Presley had made a list of the places she wanted to go. I had her list-topper figured for bingo (they have bingo around the clock down here!), but it wasn’t. At least not today. Today, the one item on her list was ‘Mall’.
“First, thing I need,” said Mrs. P, “is a new crossword book.”
Oh, joy.
“I want to get some souvenirs for the boys. Cal wants a Panther’s hockey sweater and Craig wants a Buccaneers jersey. Oh, and I’ve got to pick up some underwear for Craig. He’s got holes all through his. Damn, I don’t know why that boy’s so hard on underwear. And Cal’s getting low on sport socks. I better pick him up a few pairs. I have to get him the one hundred percent cotton ones. His feet sweat so bad.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what those boys would do without me.”
Shudder to think.
Cal and Craig — the ‘boys’ — were damn near 30 and she still mama’d them. They still loved it.
As Mrs. P took a couple hundred bucks in bills and eight rolls of American quarters from her purse and deposited them in her fanny pack (God help the fool who tried to wrestle it from her), I told her we absolutely had to be back in time for the late morning gathering at the recreation room.
“Relax, Dix,” Mrs. P said as she folded up two one-hundred dollar bills and put one in each side of her bra. “Have I ever let you down?”
Okay, she had me there. She’d not. And she wouldn’t start now. She’d have me back at the Wildoh on time.
And with suspicions running high, it was just where I needed to be. Everyone would have to show up to avoid being suspected. Avoid being talked about and collectively declared guilty by dis-association in this instance. And of course, the gossip itself would keep people coming back.
Mother would be going, too, but not for the gossip. She’d go to the Wildoh rec center to keep suspicions about her from growing even further.
Granted, she hadn’t ventured out last night, and she didn’t go on her early morning walk today (had not donned her walking suit and shoes at all and was in fact still wearing her housecoat). But I knew Katt Dodd. She’d put on her Pinch-Me Pink lipstick, some dangling earrings and hold her head high as she walked into that rec room, even if it killed her. But it didn’t take bucketloads of intuition to know it wouldn’t be easy for her. Katt Dodd was one tough cookie. She’d handle what she had to. But still….
I swallowed down the lump in my throat.
Never had a case been so important to me.
Though the last one had been close, when it was my own ass in the sling.
“Gonna let Mona kick your ass at crib again?” Mrs. P teased when I mentioned our need to be back in time. “How much you going to lose to her today? Eight bucks? Ten?”
Mona was a gambler, that’s for sure. Small dollar amounts, but I saw the desperation in her when she played. That was one woman who absolutely craved a win like some people craved a smoke.
“We’ll see, Mrs. P.”
“Oh, and don’t forget that Lance fellow? Eh, Katt.” She elbowed my mother, trying to draw her into the teasing. “Is he coming around today?”
“Let’s see,” Mother said. “Yes, Big Eddie instructed golf yesterday, so Lance will be around to dive for the balls today.”
“There you go then, Dix! Gonna bring your camera?”
I rolled my eyes. Shook my head. Tsk-tsked. Discreetly pocketed my digital camera.
Okay, yes, I knew this was going to be a weird day…. I just didn’t know how weird.
Mrs. P and I were on our way out the front door, waving goodbye and promising to pick up a few things at the store. It was then that I (sharp PI that I am) noticed something else about my mother this morning.
She was screaming.
Her eyes were saucered wide, and her hand shook as she pointed to the floor by the patio door. The exact same door via which Dylan Foreman had entered the condo last night and made his way into my
