``Expecting company?'' he asked.
``Not at this hour.''
``Want me to get scarce?''
I ruffled his hair. ``No need.''
Spike dragged his cart to the entry hall. When I hauled open the front door, I found a former Penthouse Pet on the porch.
Cindie Rae Smith glared at the sagging doorjamb and the warped porch floor. ``God, does this museum even have indoor plumbing?''
``Hello, Cindie Rae,'' I said. ``Is it cookie season already?''
Cindie Rae's morning attire did not resemble a Girl Scout uniform. She wore a hilarious attempt at a business suit--pinstripes with a white blouse that actually bow-tied under her chin. But the jacket barely buttoned around her wasp waist, and her breasts threatened to explode from their prison any moment. The pants were tighter than the SLAY BELLES 35 skin of a tomato, and she tottered precariously on very high heels. She had managed to stuff the hugeness of her blond hair into a Monica Lewinsky beret. No amount of Botox or plastic surgery on her face could have hidden the fact that she hadn't slept much since I'd seen her the night before.
``I need to talk to you,'' she said.
``I can guess what this is about, Cindie Rae, and I don't think the police would be pleased to hear we tried to get our stories straight.''
``I don't care what your story is,'' she snapped. ``I need your help.''
She pushed past me into the house. ``Boy, that's an ugly dog. Do I smell coffee?''
She headed for the kitchen, hesitating only when she ar- rived in the butler's pantry and couldn't figure out which door to choose. I led the way into the kitchen. Spike fol- lowed Cindie Rae, ready to bite her if she made a wrong move.
Michael lowered the newspaper and looked at Cindie Rae over the tops of his reading glasses.
She stopped dead at the sight of him, too. ``Oh, wow.''
``Morning.''
``You must be . . .'' She simpered, awaiting a formal introduction.
Briskly, I said, ``Cindie Rae, this is Michael Abruzzo. Cindie Rae Smith.''
Michael appeared not to notice the jiggle in her blouse or the camel toe foot in her pants. He picked up the news- paper and went back to reading. I suspected he was playing it safe.
I could almost see the steam rising from Cindie Rae's overtaxed brain as she desperately tried to figure the best way to engage Michael in a conversation that dealt with her area of expertise. Before she reached a decision, I poured her a cup of hot coffee and pushed it into her hands. ``Here you go. Sit down.''
``Thanks.'' She took a tentative sip and eased her bottom into the chair opposite Michael's. She leaned sideways to peer around his newspaper. ``I, uh, hope I'm not interrupting.''
``What's on your mind, Cindie Rae?'' I knocked my 36 Nancy Martin knuckles on the table to get her attention. ``You said you needed my help.''
From behind his paper, Michael shot me a grin.
``Is it safe to have a discussion while . . . we're not alone?''
``Safe?'' I said. ``That depends on your definition, I guess. Why don't you try, and we'll see what happens?''
Cindie Rae sighed. ``I don't have a choice, is that it? Well, surely you know all about last night. Popo dying, I mean.''
``Popo's murder, you mean.''
``Right. Somebody said you locked yourself in the bath- room. I'd like to know what you saw before you ran in there.''
``I didn't run or lock myself anywhere, Cindie Rae. And I've already told the police what I heard and saw. If they want to know more, I'm sure they'll ask.''
``But . . .'' She set down her coffee cup. ``Okay, I'll put my cards on the table. Early this morning, the police ar- rested Alan.''
``Alan!'' I sat down hard. ``You're kidding. For Popo's murder?''
``Yes, they say he's the only one who could have turned off the electricity and the security systems. How silly is that? My little Pookums wasn't in the store at all. There's a tape that shows him leaving. And besides, why would he murder his best sales associate? The store is worthless without Popo.''
``Who told you that?''
``It's what Alan says. Of course, he could have mentioned that teensy detail a little sooner!'' She worked her oversize lower lip into a huge pout. ``How was I supposed to know Popo was so damn valuable?''
Michael put the paper down. ``Exactly how valuable?''
Perhaps annoyed that Michael hadn't sufficiently noticed her yet, Cindie Rae unbuttoned her jacket to reveal her weapons of mass seduction. ``Alan says other retail compa- nies have offered to buy Haymaker's, but only if Popo's employment contract was renewed.''
``And now that Popo is dead?'' I prompted. ``The store is less valuable?'' SLAY BELLES 37
``She sold a lot of shit,'' Cindie Rae said. ``Apparently, she was more important than I thought she was.''
``So why did the police arrest Alan?'' I asked.
``Because there's a tape. The same one that shows when he left the store. Earlier in the evening, Alan and Popo had a big fight. And it was caught on one of the security cameras.''
``What kind of fight?''
``A lot of yelling, that's all I know.'' Cindie Rae directed her answers to Michael, although I had been the one ask- ing questions.
I said, ``I presume Alan has a lawyer?''
``God, yes, the executive suite is crawling with them.''
``Not a corporate lawyer, a criminal lawyer.''
``Why would he want a criminal lawyer?'' She dragged her attention away from Michael to frown at me. ``Oh, I get it! You don't mean a criminal who's a lawyer, you mean--''
``Cindie Rae, what exactly do you want from me?''
Michael got
