Family Jewels (Dix Dodd Mystery #2)

my troubles and woes and looking for misplaced watches.” She rubbed her wrist again, as if willing the watch back on her arm. “You and Dix go out and get those things you wanted for the boys. See some sights. Play tourists. That watch will turn up somewhere.”

“If you’re sure, Katt….”

“Mother, why don’t you come with us?” I really did want her to come along now. If she were traveling along the malls with Mrs. P, I could check in with Dylan and see if he had any more information, maybe even check in again with the Deputy. If I could drop these two at the mall and do a little checking at the local pawn shops, it would save me from having to go back later. But moreover, I was worried about my mother. She looked tired to me. Worn and worried. God, for the first time in … ever … Katt Dodd looked old to me.

“Yes! Come with us, Katt. You know how stuffy and boring Dix can be. I’d love some real company.”

It wasn’t to be.

“Dix,” Mrs. Presley said when we were out the door, “you know we don’t have to go. I mean, your mom’s looking pretty miserable back there.”

I sighed. “She’ll want the time alone now, Mrs. P. She’ll sit for a bit, and think things through, and then, if I know my mother, she’ll be up doing the dishes and putting on her dancing shoes.”

“And looking for that watch,” Mrs. Presley added.

“Yeah.”

I was taking Mom’s BMW, of course. I’d opened the passenger door for Mrs. Presley, who’d adjusted the seat and belted herself in. I walked around the car and was just about to open my own door when I heard a, “Hey there, Dixie!”

“It’s not Dixie … just Dix.”

Big Eddie Baskin grinned from ear to ear. “Oh sorry, Dix. Me and my old brain … not what they used to be. I’m terrible with names.” The multiple charms/chains on his neck jingled as he raised an arm to point to his head (as if I needed a visual on where his brain was located). He was standing by the garden, making a half assed attempt at horticulture (half assed being there was a clump of lime at his feet and a overturned lily looking for attention.)

Mrs. P rolled her window down and called, “Hey, Eddie.”

“Well, hello, Jane. You’re looking lovely this morning.”

“As always,” she answered.

Big Eddie smiled back at me. “Just wanted to let you know that with all the troubles we’ve had, we’ve hired an extra security person. I’m telling all the folks I see out and about this morning. I’ll introduce him to everyone officially at the rec room later this morning, but he’s right here. Just give me a minute and I’ll introduce him.

I fidgeted with my keys. “We’re kind of in a hurry this morning.”

“Oh, it’ll just take a second.” He turned to face one of the other Wildoh buildings (Complex A, which from the outside was identical in every way to Mother’s B Complex). I looked at my watch and reminded myself I was posing as an erotica writer. Not a PI with a ‘tude against people who said ‘this will just take a second’ when clearly I was in a hurry. Grrrrrrrrr.

“Hey,” Big Eddie called. “Hey … hey, New Guy.”

He turned back to me and pointed to his brain again.

“Yeah, I get it. You forget names.”

I waited. I stomped my right foot a few times. I — I said “Holy shit!” as Dylan Foreman came jogging around the corner. So this was what he’d meant when he’d said he had an early day tomorrow. But … holy shit. I mean, I knew Dylan was smooth, but to land a job so fast?

And just wait until the ladies at the Wildoh got a load of him. Six foot four and hot as hell. And those jeans….

Whoops. Guess those early morning fantasies hadn’t departed so very far after all.

But nor had the early-morning … regret.

Dylan beamed a smile when he looked at me, with a little bit of something extra behind it. Those sexy brown eyes were sparkling. And when he shook my hand he squeezed it with suggestion. I pulled away.

Nothing that anyone but the two of us would catch. And of course Mrs. P who had leaned over to look through the driver’s side window (she was laughing in there, I know damn well she was).

“The name’s Dylan,” he introduced himself.

“Got a last name, Dylan?” I asked. I had to play the part. Did not want Big Eddie thinking we knew each other.

“Sure do,” said Dylan. He waited. I waited. Big Eddie … kind of waited too.

“Why don’t you tell her what it is,” suggested Big Eddie.

“What what is?”

Eddie threw his hands up. “Your last name!”

“Oh, that! It’s Hardy. Dylan Hardy. Heavy on the “har”. Get it? Har, as in laughing.” He put his hands on his flat belly and mimed a head-tossed back, har har har of a laugh.

Oh God, that was awful.

I smiled. He’d not used that cover name before. Chances were that by now he even had a fake Florida ID with it. “Well, nice to meet you, Dylan Hardy.”

He flashed me one last grin before he looked to Big Eddie again. “Want me to patrol that C place again, Big Eddie?”

“Sure, sure kid,” he said. “You go right to it. Oh, and you know, why don’t you vacuum around while you’re there? Polish the mirrors and shine up all the buttons on the elevator.”

“Do security guards do that, Big Eddie?” Dylan asked.

“Oh, yeah, all the time.”

With a salute to Eddie and a golly-gee kind of wave to me, Dylan jogged off.

“Heavy on the ‘Har’,” Eddie echoed watching Dylan head off to the C complex. “Thick as a brick.”

But I had to smile as I watched him go. He truly was a genius.

Chapter 7

I am not stuffy and boring, contrary to what Mrs. P might claim to my all-too-agreeable mother. I’m a PI, for God’s sake. Posing as an erotica writer, no less. How is that boring?

Okay, maybe it didn’t help my image that the only two things I bought at the mega-mega mall were a turtleneck sweater and some granny panties. But I look great in turtleneck sweaters. And honestly, what woman doesn’t really love her granny panties?

Speaking of the mall, I’m here to tell you that no one on the planet can outshop Mrs. Jane Presley. Not outshop as in who can spend the most money the fastest, but as in bargain hunting. Mrs. P could find steals like nobody’s business. And she was quick about it, which was good. Both of us wanted to get back to Mother as soon as we could. But not too soon. I really think Katt Dodd needed some time alone for a damn good cry. Get it out of her system, and step up to the plate again.

No, Mrs. P was not the dallying type. More like a general with a battle plan. She got in, she got out, and she invariably got what she came for at bargain-basement prices. Which was great with me. My traipsing through the granny panty aisle notwithstanding, I’m not the shopping type. Though Mrs. Presley did dither once. She spent more than a few minutes pondering a completely tacky Florida Gators bobblehead collection. She kept tapping their little plastic helmeted gator skulls and setting them … well, bobbling.