One Hot Mess (18 page)

“I'll see what I can do,” he said.

“Don't do me any favors,” I quipped, sassy as hell, but he had already hung up.

Twelve seconds later Shirley rapped on my office door and stuck her head in. “There's someone here who wants to see you.”

Unsavory images ran through my mind. Generally when people show up unannounced at my office, screaming commences. Sometimes there's blood. Once there was a dead guy with a hard-on. L.A., always exciting. “I'm sorry” I said, pushing the nightmares behind me. “I'm swamped right now. Ask them to make an appointment, please.”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “I'll get rid of her if you like, but my gut says you're gonna want to see her.”

I scowled. My visitor was a woman. That meant she was 5.6 times less likely to kill me than a man. “What's her name?”

“She wouldn't say.”

“Then—” I began, but at that moment the someone knocked on my door.

I snapped my gaze to the offending portal. Maybe there was fear in my eyes, because Shirley's jaw was set like a slandered pugilist's. She turned toward the door, took the knob in one meaty hand, and pulled it open a few scant inches. “I am sorry,” she said. Her voice, I noticed, didn't sound sorry at all. More gritty. Kind of guttural. A little deadly. Have I mentioned my love for Shirley? “But Ms. McMullen is busy just now. If you'd like to—”

“You must be new here.” The voice had a strange, halting accent and was dimly familiar. “Tell her royalty has arrived.”

Shirley stepped outside, apparently crowding the
princess in front of her. “Listen, I don't care if you're the queen of Sheba. Ms. McMullen is—”

The visitor laughed. And then it hit me.

“Laney?” I said, and stood up.

“You must be Shirley,” Elaine said, voice back to normal.

“And who—” Shirley began, but I burst onto the scene like a heat-seeking missile.

“Laney!” I said again, and she zoomed in for a rib-cracking hug. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I was coming home.”

“Not 'til tomorrow.”

She laughed, ridiculously beautiful with her face unadorned and her strawberry-blond waves gone wild. “We got done shooting early,” she said, and even though she was smiling, I knew she'd been worried about me. It made me feel kind of warm and sappy, but I squelched the unmanly emotions and made introductions.

“Laney, this is Shirley. Shirley—”

“You the Amazon Queen?” Shirley asked. There was suspicion in her eyes and dire consequences in her tone, but Laney ducked in and hugged her, too.

“I'm so glad you're here,” she said, leaning back and gazing into the other's eyes.

“It's just temporary,” Shirley said, but Laney smiled.

“We'll see. How's it going?” she asked.

“Business is good. A little—” I began, but Shirley interrupted.

“She nervous,” she said.

“About?”

“Girl's got problems.”

“The kind that'll get her killed?” Laney asked.

Shirley shrugged her massive shoulders. “She don't say much. Thinks she the rock of Gibraltar or something.”

“Sometimes you can guilt her into—”

“I can hear you, you know,” I said.

Laney laughed, then turned and hugged me again. She smelled like apple pie, kind of cinnamony and melty and perfect. “I don't have much time,” she said. “I'm going to surprise Jeen.”

I kept my fingernails from curling into my palms. J. D. Solberg is a hair-challenged little dweeb to whom I had introduced Laney some months ago. He's a certified genius, carries more money in his pocket than the whole McMullen clan has ever
made
, and is nowhere near good enough for Elaine Butterfield. But I managed to keep my opinions to myself.

“How long are you home for?”

“Just a couple of days.”

We had only a few minutes together, but by the time she left I felt as if I'd been showered in lilac water. Like the world might not collapse around my shivering ears.

It was nearly five o'clock before I realized my so-called date with Officer Tavis was going to interfere with Laney's homecoming. She dropped back into the clinic just as I picked up the receiver to call her. Solberg—better known (to himself) as the Geek God—was at her side, grinning like a lower primate.

“Hey, we're going to Buddha's for dinner,” Laney said. “Want to come?”

I refrained from clearing my throat. It wasn't that I didn't want to watch Solberg drool over Laney while I ruminated bean sprouts and lentils, but… “I'm afraid I'm busy.”

“Do you have a date?” Laney asked.

“No.”

“An undate?”

“Just a… meeting.”

“With a man?”

“Ummm … kind of.”

“Well…” Solberg was holding her hand and
still
grinning like a primate. “Rivera can come, too.”

“I—” I began, but Laney interrupted.

“It's not Rivera.”

“Not Rivera?” The grin disappeared from his monkey face. “You kidding me? You're stepping out on the lieutenant? Does he know? Have you done it before? Are you sure—”

Laney squeezed his hand. He fell into monkey silence.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

I shrugged. I don't know how she knew about the falling out between Rivera and me, but she knew. I knew she knew, and she knew I knew she knew. It was freaky, but one can become accustomed to the freakiest of things if given enough time. Murder attempts generally being the exception.

“Well…” Solberg was temporarily stymied. “You could bring the other guy.” He blinked. He'd traded in his glasses for a pair of contacts, at least while in Laney's presence, but he still managed to make it appear as if he were gazing through the bottom of Coke bottles. “It is a guy, right?”

I gave him a look. Laney was watching me like a falcon.

“You sure this is a good idea, Mac?”

No. “Sure,” I said. “Rivera and I were never serious.”

Except maybe the time he threatened to incarcerate me.
That was as serious as hemorrhoids. Or the time he accused me of murder. Or the time in the bathroom when he kissed my neck and I was within breathing distance of climbing him like a coconut tree.

“He could come, too,” Solberg repeated, apparently reassured that I had remained on the hetero side of life, but Laney hugged me.

“Don't do anything stupid,” she said.

“I'm insulted.”

“I mean it,” she warned, and after assuring me she'd see me on the following day, she left with Solberg trailing along like an inebriated puppy.

“That Laney, she's something else,” Shirley said as I pulled my purse strap onto my shoulder and prepared to depart.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I know.”

“And my Mandy…” She scowled as if confused by the complexities of the universe. “She took over Laney's job here?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, and left me to my misery.

was all business when Officer Tavis arrived at my house. He was spot on time. Not a second early, not a second late. I was dressed all in black, barely an inch of skin visible below my clavicle. My slacks were creased down the front and classily cuffed. My jacket was stylish, my blouse buttoned up past respectable and well into the frigid zone.

“Hi,” I said.

He stood on my stoop, looking clean-cut, wearing a pair of camel dress pants and a cinnamon button-down
shirt with short sleeves. The hairs on his forearms sparkled like gold in the sunlight, matched to perfection by the hair on his head, which was parted just so and freshly shorn to a boyish but attractive cut.

“Hello,” he said, and grinned just a little.

I didn't grin back. This was a business meeting and nothing else. “Did you have any trouble finding me?” I asked, ignoring the fact that I hadn't given him my address.

“Still a cop,” he said, and ushered me down the stairs without touching my back, according to our agreement. I was hardly disappointed at all.

He drove a late-model Hyundai. It was a relatively modest car but still had my Saturn beat all to hell, unless you figure gas mileage. Which, at four bucks a gallon, I do. All the time.

We ate at a place called Fat Frankie's. I liked the sound of it. Not a bean sprout in sight. He ordered a rusty nail. I ordered a lemonade. If I was any more mature I'd have to reserve my plot at Whispering Pines.

I was perusing my artery-clogging options when I felt him staring at me over the top of the menu. His eyes were laughing.

“Out of sackcloth?” he asked. “Or just don't believe in pigment?”

I tugged down my jacket and gave him a prim glance. “I didn't want to give you the wrong impression.”

“Then you're not in mourning?”

“I usually wait until
after
the date,” I said.

He chuckled. The sound wasn't unpleasant. I had to remind myself that something wasn't quite as it should be. For instance, cops are supposed to be mean sons of
bitches. What was wrong with him? “If you think a little black is going to discourage me, you've forgotten how long I've been celibate.”

“You promised—” I began, and he laughed.

“Hands off,” he said, and held them up as if to show that they were, indeed, not on my person.

I closed my menu, though I hadn't really decided between the heart-attack T-bone or the instant-stroke prime rib.

“About Ms. Baltimore—” I began, but he interrupted.

“What's your IQ?”

I paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was wondering if your IQ is equivalent to your looks.”

“I don't even know what that means.”

“There's a rating scale.”

Our drinks arrived. I took a sip. “Please tell me there's not.”

“If your IQ matches your looks, that'd put you in the forget-everything-you-learned-from-your-shoot-yourself-in-the-head-divorce-and-beg-her-to-bear-your-children range.”

As compliments went, that wasn't bad, but I just straightened primly. I had learned not to trust cops. “Thank you, I think,” I said, “but you agreed to answer my questions.”

He lifted his hands again. They were still not on my person. “Fire away.”

I didn't particularly like his phraseology. Sometimes folks really did “fire away.” Have I told you about the dead guy with the hard-on?

“How much did you know about her?” I asked.

He shrugged. His shoulders were broad. If I cared about that sort of thing, my spine would have been melting just about then. I straightened with an effort and reminded myself that these days I was mostly impressed with men who didn't try to kill me. I had yet to determine whether Officer Tavis was among those revered few.

“It's a small town,” he said.

“And?”

“And I'm pretty thorough. Not to mention intelligent. Ask me about
my
IQ.”

“Just the facts,” I said, and he smiled.

“Her name was Kathleen Kay Baltimore. Born March twenty-seventh, 1958. Maiden name Schultz. One child, a daughter named Jessica, age twenty-four. She was divorced from Mr. Kevin Myron Baltimore on May 7, 2000. Bought her home on Parsley Street five years ago and died November twenty-seventh. Cause of death determined to be loss of blood, but the autopsy showed there may have been an undetected heart condition.”

That was a lot of facts to remember without crib notes. What
was
his IQ?

The waitress appeared. After an elongated moment of agony, I ordered the prime rib with a salad instead of soup. I was pretty sure that would bring my caloric intake out of the spontaneous-obesity range.

Officer Tavis ordered the salmon, lightly crusted, accompanied by a lean Caesar salad.

He smiled when we were left alone. “I'm intelligent
and
health conscious.”

“If you weren't a sex addict, that would almost be impressive,” I said, a little miffed that he had out-matured me.

He laughed. “If I were a sex addict, I'd have died of withdrawal four months ago.”

I couldn't help but smile, so I took another sip of lemonade to cover for it. “What did you know about Ms. Baltimore on a more personal level?”

He sighed. There was something in his eyes. A little sadness certainly. But was there guilt, too? I scoured his face.

“Pretty. Ambitious. Tough. Kindhearted.”

Wow.
“Sounds like you were infatuated.”

“I think everyone was a little bit smitten.”

“Smitten?”

He grinned. “My mother read gothic romance novels.”

“Out loud?”

“She was a big influence on me.”

“How so?”

He smiled again. “I thought we were talking about Kathy.”

I was appalled at myself. I wasn't interested in this guy! Yes, he was good-looking and intelligent and funny, but he was liable to wind up in jail soon for sexual misconduct, and I wanted no part of that. “Of course. Thank you.” I smoothed my jacket. “Why was everyone smitten?”

He glanced toward the bar. The stools had long wooden legs and brown fringed cushions. None was unoccupied.

“Seven months ago Arty Netz thought it'd be a good idea to run his crotch rocket into Mrs. Parker's retaining wall. Town had a spaghetti dinner and silent auction to help pay hospital bills. Kathy donated a dining-room set. Solid oak with matching chairs. All handmade.”

“Furniture? That's what it takes to smite a whole town?”