“Ahhh, no. But she did spend a lot of time on stage.”
“Oh, you mean she was a dancer. I guess that’s where you got those great get-away sticks, huh? Dancer’s legs.”
Okay, that shut me up. Since when had Dylan Foreman been checking out my legs? And how? I wasn’t exactly a high heel and miniskirt kind of girl, although there had been a few times undercover….
I cleared my throat. “No, not quite that kind of an entertainer, either. Mom was more of a … well … more of a show girl, if you know what I mean.” When Dylan still looked in the dark, I continued. “She went on stage … skimpy costumes … feather boas … applauding gentlemen….”
I could practically see the wheels spinning in Dylan’s mind. Just about there….
“Holy shit!” His eyes saucered wide. “She was a peeler!”
“Dylan!” I clapped a shocked hand to my chest. “That’s my mother you’re talking about.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. But you said—” He relaxed when he saw my ‘gotcha’ smile. “Okay, you got me. So, what was she?”
“Magician’s assistant,” I supplied. “And from what I’ve heard, a damn good one. She worked mainly with this Lazlo Von Hootzeberger fellow. I gather more than a few other magicians tried to lure her away, but she stuck it out with Lazlo. She toured with him all over Europe and North America before she met and married my father.”
“Did she ever teach you and your sister any magic tricks?”
I shifted back in my seat. That was a tricky question. And I wanted to answer slowly and get this right. And I really didn’t want to try to explain it again. “You have to understand my mother. She doesn’t do tricks. She does magic. That’s what she always told us.”
“Like the Harry Potter stuff?”
“Not quite. But somewhere along the line, she convinced herself that she really had the ability to do magic and not just sleight of hand. Don’t get me wrong: she’s perfectly sane. But she’s….”
“Fun?”
I had to smile. If I ever had the privilege of picking out business cards for Dylan Foreman, they’d read Dylan Foreman — Diplomat.
“That’s a nice way to put it,” I said dryly. “Mother always told us she despised tricks. But she loved the real magic in the world. We believed her as kids. And you know, I think she believed it too.” I shook my head.
In the back seat, Mrs. P snorted in her sleep. (Well, it was loud and ripping so we’ll go with ‘snort.’ I rolled down the window.)
I looked at Dylan, and unfastened my seatbelt. “Now’s my chance.”
“Dix, what the—”
I turned, leaned over the back of the seat and gently took the magazine from Mrs. Presley’s sleep-loosened grip. I plunked myself back down in the seat beside Dylan. “Let’s copy all the answers from the back for the next few puzzles.” I began flipping through the pages. “That way, when she asks for a clue we can — wait a minute!”
“What?” Dylan flicked a glance at the book on my lap, then back to the road.
“These aren’t crosswords.” I snapped it closed. “It’s a circle-a-word book. Mrs. Presley was just trying to get us to talk dirty.”
From the back seat I thought I heard another sound. I turned around quickly to see a sweetly-sleeping, angelic Mrs. Presley.
Chapter 2
My ass died on the highway. About six hours after the A/C did.
Somewhere on Interstate 75 between Atlanta and Macon, Georgia, my hindquarters officially called it quits. That’s what 23 odd hours in a car will do to you. Between all that sitting, the lack of sleep, lack of a good meal, and my all-consuming desire (spelled N-E-E-D) for a long, hot shower, I was glad to see this road trip nearing its end.
Mrs. Presley had stretched herself out quite comfortably in the back of my mother’s car for most of the trip. True, Mom’s Bimmer wasn’t that big, but neither was Mrs. Presley. Shoes off, of course. She wore moisturizing patches on her eyes and a dark sleep mask over that. When she wasn’t sleeping, she did her ‘crosswords’. She sang along with the radio and pulled out a small hand-held battery operated fan. Cal and Craig had packed her a picnic basket for the trip, and she chomped most of the way there.
She was in prime shape by the time we hit the Sunshine State. Fresh as a daisy.
Dylan on the other hand wore a scruff of beard. And, damn him, it looked good. Sexy. Manly. I wanted to run my hands over it to feel the roughness against my palm. Not that I would, of course. It had been awkward enough the few times we’d bumped each other in the closeness of the BMW.
No, there’d be none of that. Not while we worked together. And shit, not with that decade between us. Still, there was a spark there.
Man, he even smelled good, which should have been an impossibility. Granted, we’d freshened up in rest stop bathrooms along the way — a splash of the face and a quick swipe of the pits. But whereas I was beginning to smell like old socks left in a gym bag too long, Dylan had an earthy, musky man-smell thing going on. And it worked for him.
Well, okay, it worked for me.
(I said my ass was dead — other parts of me were very much alive. Compensating even.)
That was Dylan Foreman, though — sexy without trying. And if his ass had died somewhere along the highway about the time mine had checked in with the coroner, well someone forgot to tell the jeans that packaged it.
Frankly, I was anxious for Mother to get a look at Dylan. Yeah, juvenile, I know. Especially given the seriousness of Mother’s situation. But Katt Dodd was certainly one to appreciate the finer things in life. She loved men. Handsome young ones, distinguished older ones. She appreciated class. She appreciated looks. She liked when a man refilled her wine glass and opened doors for her. And Lord knew she certainly appreciated the young men at the strip clubs. (According to Peaches, she was on a first name basis with more than a few of them.)
Which is why it had surprised me when she cut short her visit with me in Marport City and took off back to Florida with that Frankie Morell. Frankie was not much of a looker.
I’d had misgivings about Frankie from the start. He was a little too smooth to be glass, a little too clean to be squeaky. Yet his leather-soled shoes squeaked with every step he took. I should have run a criminal records check, had my sources in Florida ask around about him, check out his credit history, INTERPOL background check, fax his mug to America’s Most Wanted to see if anything cropped up. You know, normal daughter stuff.
But I’d been busy. I’d put my misgivings about Frankie Morell on the shelf. And now my mother was apparently paying the price.
Coincidence?
I feared not.
Missing Frankie — missing jewels. There had to be a connection. I’d have to find it. True, my
