Family Jewels (Dix Dodd Mystery #2)

“I’m overdressed, Mother,” I whined behind her as she went to open the door. Mrs. P was already standing there, waiting. Wooden spoon in hand. ‘Kiss the kook’ apron tied around her twice. “Deputy Almond simply wants to discuss the case,” I said to them both. “Nothing more. Just two professionals discussing a case. This is not a date!”

Mother opened the door.

Shit! This was a date.

Deputy Noel Almond stood framed in the open doorway. The uniform was gone. No gun. No handcuffs (fur- lined or otherwise).

But my sharp PI mind did not have to take in these details to conclude that this was a date. No, the real giveaway was the box of chocolates he handed over to Mrs. Presley and the flowers he handed over to my mother. And extra flowers and chocolates, presumably for me.

Damn, that was … charming. If I were another woman, I’d probably be swooning. But (as I reminded myself) I was hard-assed Dix Dodd. Men were trouble, and I was immune to their charms.

Yep.

Even the really tall, handsome, muscular ones bearing chocolate.

Though if it was dark chocolate truffles … I could see myself slipping.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, walking through the doorway. “Mrs. Presley, you’re looking lovely this evening. As are you, Mrs. Dodd.” He kissed firstly Mrs. P’s hand (she wiped it on her skirt).

Then he kissed my mother’s.

“Deputy,” Mother said dryly.

If Noel Almond caught the tone of my mother’s voice, he didn’t let on.

“Yes, you ladies are all looking lovely this evening.”

Well, duh, of course we were. But if he expected a titter and giggle or some fool thing like that, well he’d picked the wrong trio.

“Especially you, Dix,” he said handing me the flowers and chocolates.

I’m not one to get flustered by compliments. I snorted a half laugh. The flowers were nice — pink and white. Not too showy but not too small. And dammit, still alive even. And the chocolates … I stole a quick look. Ahhhh, dark chocolate truffles.

Knowing my black thumb, my mother quickly took the flowers from my hands. “I’ll just put these in water for you, Dix.”

“Say, Deputy,” Mrs. P said. “Got a question for you.”

Oh shit, this couldn’t be good.

Noel smiled. “What can I help you with, Mrs. Presley?” .

“Damn crosswords! I’m stuck again. I’m looking for a four letter word….”

Nope, definitely wasn’t looking good here!

“…. useful object used in construction trade.”

Noel’s forehead knit in concentration. He folded his arms across his chest and laid a manly knuckle to his chin. Then the a-ha moment. “I think you’re looking for a tool, Mrs. P.”

She tilted an ear toward him. “A what?”

“Tool,” he repeated loudly. “I said tool.”

She nodded in satisfaction.

Noel turned toward me. “Are you ready to go, Dix? I picked out a nice little French restaurant on the boardwalk. I think you’ll like it.” He held out his arm for me to take.

Oh, come on!

Play along, Dix, I silently reminded myself. The more cozy-cozy Deputy Almond felt with me, the more I could get out of him.

I took his arm. Yep. I took his strong, toned, sexy, all-man arm.

“You two have a nice time,” Mother said, politely.

I heard her and Mrs. P talking faintly as Noel walked me to the car. “Truffles, Jane?”

“Dark chocolate ones, Katt. Let’s eat them all before Dix gets back.”

Noel opened the door to his convertible. Now, I’m not one who’s easily impressed by cars. But having to go undercover in various modes of transportation from time to time, I do know a thing or two about them. I can change tires. I can check the oil, and yes, I even know how to connect booster cables without getting a shock.

And what I knew about Deputy Almond’s car was this: Number one, it was too freaking low to the ground for my dress-wearing comfort. (I’d be showing more than a little leg crawling into that baby and damned if Noel just didn’t keep holding the door open for me. And number two, this was one nice car.

Deputy Almond drove a Corvette convertible. Newer model. Custom painted. Leather seats so soft my ass just kept sinking down in it. And I thought getting in had been hard.

“You like the car?” Noel asked as he slid in behind the steering wheel.

“It’s very nice.”

Not too bad for a Deputy Sheriff’s salary.

The top was down and the warm Florida night felt nice on my skin as we drove along. Noel said the restaurant was nearby but I’m sure he took the scenic route to give me full appreciation of the city. And it was beautiful. Relaxing and calm. And the conversation was light and easy. The guy was charming. The guy was interesting.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I was kind of having fun. Fun in a professional PI, kick-ass way, you understand?

And after a fine meal and a couple drinks at the Maison Petite Colombe, well I was having even more fun.

“How was the shrimp?” Noel asked.

“Decadent.” And oh, and they had been. Broiled shrimp with herbed garlic butter. Sure as hell beat the McMeals I was used to. The burgers and fry lifestyle comes with the job. Comes with the late-night stakeouts and traveling quickly from town to town. It comes with the fast pace of the PI lifestyle. It comes with not being able to cook.

“You’ve got to try the desserts here,” Noel said. “They’re amazing.”

I had no doubt. I’d seen our waiter a few minutes ago at another table with his dessert-laden trolley. Rich eclairs, apricot tarts, chocolate mousse, tiramisu, and a dozen more confections — were displayed. These weren’t just desserts, they were works of art. Works, I had no doubt, that ran at least twenty bucks a pop.

“I’d love dessert, Noel. Thank you. But in the meantime,” I prompted. “Shall we talk about the case?” I waited a moment. No response. “Noel?” He had to have heard me.

“Just a minute, Dix.” Noel’s face took on a nostalgic appearance as he looked around the restaurant.

Yes, I’d noticed it … the last little while, Noel Almond had gotten a little more quiet. A little more subdued. Something was on his mind.

“Been a long time since I’ve been here.” He scratched a hand across his whiskered chin. His eyes took on a faraway look. “This is the place where I met her. This is where I met my Isabella.” Noel wasn’t crying. His eyes were not tearing up. But those baby blues were certainly misting over.

Isabella?

An old flame?

Was I jealous? God, no.

Miffed? Pfft! Hardly. (Heavy on the ‘pfft’, thank you very much.)

Curious? Yes of course. Curious as to why the hell men do that! Talk about old girlfriends on a date (there’s that D word again) with other women.

As if reading my mind, Noel smiled and said, “Isabella was a girl I met when I was six years old. I was six, she was eight. I came in here with my grandparents one sunny Sunday. My mother had long ago passed away, and Dad was a military man. Stationed away a good deal of the time. From the time I was six, my grandparents sort of raised me for the most part.”

“And you met Isabella when you were that young?”

“She was the first real friend I had. I was a short, dumpy kid. You know the type — big thick glasses, awkward. Tripped over my own two feet. Terrible at sports and geeky as hell. And well, with a name like mine….