Family Jewels (Dix Dodd Mystery #2)

Dylan elaborated: Cotton Carson was the senior man in Carson, Carver and Associates, attorneys at law. Smart as they come. Tough as nails. Expensive as hell.

I’d pay.

Cotton had thirty-five years criminal law experience. He was known as the Black Suit of Death to local prosecutors. Not only because the man always dressed in black from head to toe, but because he kicked ass in court.

Why, I liked him already!

He’d be at the bail hearing in the morning. Had his secretary shifting things around at this very minute to accommodate it.

“And Dix,” Dylan said. “Cotton had one piece of advice he insisted your mother follow.”

“That is?”

“Under no circumstances is she to talk to the police unless he’s there.”

I thanked Dylan. Told him I’d see him later. I clicked the phone shut, and knew Mother would follow the advice I’d given her earlier.

~*~

I arrived bearing gifts. Well, not my gifts. But I carried them.

I arrived at the door to Dylan’s room at the Goosebump Inn bearing the basket of goodies Mrs. Presley had packed with the remnants of her spicy pepperoni spaghetti — still enough to feed an army (and when I considered the great big hulking sons Mrs. P usually cooked for, I didn’t wonder why) — and fresh rolls from Mona.

Apparently, Mona had insisted Mrs. P take the rolls when she delivered the spaghetti. Mother and Mrs. P had gone over to Mona’s before the big arrest scene, but hadn’t stayed long. Tish was there — with her feet up on the coffee table and a drink in her hand while Mona ran around the condo baking and cleaning.

I just didn’t get that — Tish was such a bitch, and Mona just seemed to cater to her. But it wasn’t just Tish’s presence that prompted Mother and Mrs. P to leave. Mona had been busy baking a cake for her upcoming birthday party. Two days from now. Which I thought was kind of sad, that she had to make her own cake.

But it was Big Eddie’s cake for the party really, Mrs. P explained. There was going to be a potluck for Mona. (“And it’s a surprise, Dix, so don’t go blabbing it.”) But Mona was making a special dietetic cake. While Mother, Mona and most of the others would be enjoying the finest of ice-cream cakes, a few Wildoh residents (Big Eddie and Harriet included) were diabetic. This was generous of Mona. Well above and beyond what most people would think to do.

A hell of a way above and beyond what I would have done.

I’d told Mrs. P what was going on as soon as I arrived home from the police station. And she gave me her first-hand account of what had happened when the cops had come — in multiple squad cars with sirens blaring. Just as Deputy Almond had wanted, every Wildoh resident had dashed out to witness my mother’s arrest. To see her humiliation at being placed in handcuffs.

According to Mrs. Presley, Roger Cassidy had looked angry.

Harriet Appleton had looked smug and satisfied.

Mona had cried. Tish was drunk.

Big Eddie had shaken his head. “But really, I’m not surprised,” he’d declared to the crowd in general.

Mrs. P sat on the couch and listened quietly as I filled in the other blanks. I was tempted to leave out the parts where I told Deputy Almond that mother was such a great escape artist, but I didn’t. I told Mrs. Presley everything — starting at point A and moving on to Z, hitting all points in between, even when those points weren’t so pretty. And I told her about Cotton Carson.

She nodded. “Things’ll be fine, Dix. You’ve got it under control. The lawyer will have your mother out in the morning, and you’ll have this case solved in no time flat.”

I sighed. I believed her on all accounts, but still this had not been a banner day.

“You say you racked up Almond’s bill?” A smile played around Mrs. Presley’s face.

“With the desserts and champagne, I’m thinking by at least a grand.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see the look on his face when he gets that bill, eh?”

I snorted a laugh. “Oh, I’d love to.”

Mrs. P got up and went to Mother’s room and shut the door. I know she made a call or two in there because I could hear the murmurs through the wall. And then this dear sweet little old lady (ha!) told me with all of her usual warmth, “Get out, please.”

Well, okay, not in so many words. (She didn’t say please.)

“Go see Dylan tonight, Dix,” she said. “You two have to solve this thing before whoever is committing the crimes and planting this evidence plants more on your mother. I packed you a bag: toothbrush and stuff, cozy pajamas and a housecoat.”

My initial reaction? I couldn’t picture me ‘sleeping over’. But the possibly that Dylan and I would be working into the wee hours of the morning was not a remote one. Best to be prepared.

I took the bag from her. “You be all right here alone, Mrs. P?”

In response, she steered me to the kitchen and loaded my free arm down with the basket of food.

“Always.”

I followed her into the living room. “You could always come with me to the Goosebump to see Dylan.”

She gave me a ‘what-are-you-nuts?’ look.

Why do I get those so often?

“Don’t worry about me, Dix. I’m cozy as can be. You and Dylan just get to the bottom of this.” She started flipping through the channels — numbers getting higher and higher. What was that science fiction channel you were watching the other night? Maybe they’ll play that big monkey-man movie again. King Dong wasn’t it, Dix? Wasn’t that what you hollered out?”

I locked the doors, checked them, twice and made a hasty exit.

And now here I was at the Goosebump.

As I stood there waiting for Dylan to answer the door, the smell of spaghetti sauce wafting around me, hungry dogs were starting to show up. They were looking at my basket with … well, puppy-dog eyes. One particularly pushy Labradoodle was sniffing around my purse. Apparently the Goosebump Inn was pet friendly.

“No way, doggie.”

Lifting my cheesecake-containing purse up out of reach, I knocked on Dylan’s door again, this time a little more desperately. Damn it, he should be around. It was after 9:00 p.m. Surely he wasn’t working at the Wildoh at this hour.

Just as I saw a pair of particularly menacing toy poodles tripping their way along the stone walk heading in my direction, Dylan swung the door open to let me in.

He was barefoot. Wearing jeans. No shirt. Just a towel draped around his neck. His hair was tousled and wet, and he racked a hand through it as he stepped back.

“Sorry Dix, just got out of the shower.”

“No … no problem.”

His room was a hundred and forty degrees. Okay, maybe not quite that hot, but I was fanning myself nevertheless.

He reached for my goodies. I mean the basket of goodies.

But rather than digging in to see what Mrs. P had packed, he set it on the dresser.

I tossed my overnight bag besides it. I doffed my little jacket and flopped myself on the bed. I kicked off my heels one at a time and the thump thump of them hitting the floor was somehow satisfying. But it did serve to remind me of my attire. I was still dressed in Mother’s finest. Which meant I probably looked as good as I was ever going to. Which seemed appropriate, seeing as Dylan was looking positively edible.

I shook the thought away. “Thanks for organizing the lawyer, Dylan.”

“Welcome. From what I hear, he’s the best.”

He bent his head and gave it a quick once over, then tossed the damp towel onto a chair. And, dayum, he made a nice picture. Shirtless, jeans riding low enough to give me a clear glimpse of the iliac furrows that stand out so well on a lean man. Dylan was lean but lightly muscled. And God help me, I badly wanted to trace each of those furrows from hipbone to groin.