Sprayed Stiff (23 page)

“Now, there’s a perfect man. I want to meet him. I bet he’d bring me coffee in bed. So would Clint Calhoun.”

“Are you talking about that dishy Texas Ranger?” Trudy let out a low wolf whistle, then looked at me sharply. “Did you get to talk to him?”

“At midnight, in my house, alone…”

“Were you in one of your stupid ugly nightshirts and boxers?” Trudy groaned.

“He wouldn’t know. I wore a robe the whole time,” I answered with a lift of my chin.

“So Ranger Clint is good, no matter his intentions. How boring.”

A house appeared as we rounded the next bend, and we made preparations to land on the right bank. The preparations included me making moves with the paddle on the port side of the boat. Awkward, I know, but this seemed to work for me, although I almost dumped Trude in the drink in the process.

“Tadpoles’ tits and fornicating fishes, Reyn. Be careful!”

We got there and Trudy stuck a pump into the bank as an anchor. I jumped out and we went to find out where we were so Mario could come claim us.

No one was home, but we hiked to the mailbox. Fortunately, the residents were the kind who liked country craft fairs and decorating with blue geese. Some artist had painted their whole address on a big goose with little geese numbers and letters. Trudy made a mental note to call them and offer her design services—she liked to do that sometimes to the design-impaired, like me. I pointed out that if they hadn’t been so goose crazy, we would’ve had to hike God only knew how far down the road to find another address. Rural residents weren’t famous for advertising their technical position—they had too much real work to do.

Mario was as far away as he could be, assuming, apparently, that we’d hijacked a hydroplane boat and made it to the Gulf of Mexico by now. So we got friendly with a few fire-ant beds while we waited in the bushes. Finally, the bubble-gum-blue Miata came roaring up.

After kissing and cooing over Trudy and her ant bites and barely noticing me, Mario got back behind the wheel and we were off.

“Where to,
mi hermosas?”

“Your house,” I said.

“Her house,” she said.

“We can’t go to my house,” we said to each other simultaneously.

There was a long pause during which we stared in a Mexican standoff. Then I got it.

“Lexa’s at your house, isn’t she, Trude?”

“Ooh, she’s good, no?” Mario whistled. “You could be James Bond. We call you Jamie Bond because you’re a girl—”

“No, I’m an idiot. I should’ve figured that out a long time ago, with the way you disappeared, the way you’ve been acting cagey. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me.”

“Lexa asked me not to. She and Asphalt are just scared kids, with absolutely no street smarts. She’s upset she dragged you into this. We knew we couldn’t have you come over to the house in case you were being followed. She didn’t want you culpable for their disappearance.”

“Did she tell you the whole story?”

Trudy nodded. “She says about a year ago, she brought Asphalt over to her parents’ for dinner. Wilma, as could be expected, hated him. Behind Wilma’s back, Percy pretended to like him and acted interested in the band, and he offered to come watch the Roadkill one night.

“Well, Lexa now knows that Percy just wanted a conduit for the drugs his associates were peddling, but then, she just thought Dad was being supportive. Asphalt is clueless. He’s a lower-middle-class kid from a nice family who played in the school orchestra. He’s working his way through UT by dressing the part and playing in the band. He wants to be a band teacher when he gets out.”

“So they don’t know any more than we do about who killed Wilma?”

“No. And that’s what scares them.”

“Okay, we’ll give them a couple more days while Clint and the gang sort this all out.” I still thought the link was Shauna. She had to have done the clown makeup, but for whom and why?

“We could go to my mama’s house,” Mario offered.

I shook my head. Mama Tru lived catty-corner to my house. “Too close.”

“Daffy’s?’

“No!” Being in that museum-perfect mausoleum gave me the heebie-jeebies. I knew all those antiques were beautiful and expensive, but it was too much combined history in one place. Besides, it hurt me to watch Daffy blink for extended periods of time.

“I have an idea,” I said on impulse. “Take the next exit.”

“C
OME IN, COME IN,”
Charlotte whispered, brandishing a big black sheet and wrapping it around us as we got out of the Miata. I knew she was just trying to protect us, but I imagined any neighbors looking out an upstairs window at her backyard would be more alarmed by a trio under a black sheet than three unfettered folks walking into the house. It wasn’t like we were on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list.

Not yet, anyway.

“Thanks for having us,” Trudy said.

“Are you kidding? This is my next assignment. Didn’t Reyn tell you? I’m the Holmes to her Sherlock!” She giggled. “Get it? Even the name is right. It was meant to be. Isn’t this fun?”

Trudy raised her eyebrows. I shrugged. Charlotte gasped, “Oh no.” We all jumped. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Trudy. I know you’re a big help to Reyn, too. You’re her best friend, but it’s just that I’m her assistant. We just work together, you understand.”

Trudy put her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “I’m glad she has such a wonderful assistant.”

“When do your parents get home, Charlotte?” I asked. I doubted that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would consider her associating with me any safer than her driving to the corner store. They were probably right.

“They both get home from work at about seven.”

“Okay, I have another assignment for you.” She nodded, looking an overeager puppy. “Get Bettina to let you into my house through the salon. Next to the telephone is a ticket. Grab that and something for me to wear tonight. Footwear included.”

I had decided that I needed to find out more about Shauna’s business. I needed to talk to the people who worked and lived around her, the ’09ers. Then I’d remembered that Mitzi had invited me to that fund-raiser. Who went to fund-raisers? People with money. Where did most people with money live in San Antonio? 78209.

I was going to the damn fund-raiser after all.

Charlotte gave me the thumbs-up, grabbed a brand-new trench coat off the coat stand next to the door, and left to talk to the chauffeur. Having a driver take her on her various detective assignments probably compromised her effect, but oh, well. Mario went back to work. Somebody had to make some money, since amateur sleuthing didn’t pay so great.

“What are you up to?” Trudy demanded.

I explained about going to Fiesta Texas.

“You’re not going alone.”

“I only have one ticket.”

“I can get in.”

I didn’t doubt it. Trudy was one of those women who managed to get in anywhere she had a mind to. Good gams did their part, but her exceeding beauty and dazzling charm probably had something to do with it, too. She’d probably gotten into bars when she was twelve just by winking at the bouncer. She was a handy friend to have around. For that and lots of other reasons.

As per Charlotte’s invitation, we took showers in a bathroom with an Arabian theme that reminded me of Omar the Tent Maker. It was gussied up with her array of overpriced cosmetics. I’d never worn Lancôme before, and frankly it felt the same as Revlon, but what did I know? I bet if you had better than peasant skin, it did make a difference. It still didn’t cover up my freckles.

Charlotte did own some cool colored eye shadows, which forced me to resist going overboard. I stuck with golds and browns since I didn’t know what I was doing when it came to makeup. Where was Shauna when you needed her? Trudy helped a little, but I didn’t trust her to improve me much because she started with perfection every day, so she couldn’t be very adept at transforming ordinary.

After an hour went by, we started getting nervous. I wondered if Charlotte had gotten lost, was undergoing fingernail torture at the hands of the feds, or had been kidnapped by the killer. After we’d speculated enough to put my stomach in knots, the alarm system informed us of an opening door. Still in our towels, we rushed downstairs.

“What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry.” Charlotte blushed. “I got a little sidetracked. It was so much fun, this sneaking around!”

“You did get the ticket?”

She nodded, holding it out to me along with a grocery sack of clothes. “Oh, yes. Bettina said things were under control at the salon, and Rick is taking care of your dogs. There was a guy parked in front of your house.” She described Byron. “He didn’t look very happy.”

I bet not. I bet he was in big trouble. Punished for a leg fetish.

“When I was upstairs, I thought I noticed a scary-looking pair of men in a car parked in the alley behind your house. But when I looked again, they were gone.”

Percy’s drug-dealing “associates” maybe? I felt guilty for putting Charlotte in potential danger.

“But then, as I was returning to my car, a man walking his toy fox terrier stopped me. He was bald, but really handsome, and a little…” She paused to giggle.

“…sexy. Anyway, he wanted to know if you were going to keep messing around in the Barrister murder, and if so, he was going to put his Porsche in a guarded garage for a couple of days for safekeeping. What did he mean?”

Humph.

“Anyway, he gave me some vitamin samples, and we talked for a while—”

“About what?”

“Oh, this and that. Not the case, of course. I am your Holmes, I know better than that.”

Uh-uh.

She started blushing again. “Before he took Kisses—”

“Kisses?”

“That’s his dog’s name. Isn’t that cute?”

I made a noncommittal sound. Maybe I was looking for less testosterone, but I wasn’t sure I could fantasize anymore about a man who named his dog Kisses.

“He said he thought my coat was handsome, then he asked me on a date.”

“What?!” Trudy and I exclaimed simultaneously.

“Yes,” Charlotte said, blushing madly. “We’re going out tonight. Unless you need me for the case, that is.”

“No, go ahead, have a good time.”

I peeked into the bag of clothes and groaned.

Trudy looked like she was headed for a
Vogue
cover shoot, and I looked like someone’s idea of a bad joke. I was a checkerboard come to life on a really bad high. Huge black and white blocks made up the peg-leg pants. Smaller black and white checks made up the spaghetti-string blouse. It was a rayon blend, which made it a little clingy. I didn’t wear patterns below my waist for a reason. I didn’t wear clingy for the same reason. And I didn’t wear peg-legs—well, you get the idea. I didn’t like to draw any extra attention to my booty. The whole thing made me look like a big target. So much for blending into the crowd at the fund-raiser. I knew Charlotte meant well, thinking I’d just bought the damned outfit because it still had its tags on. But the truth was, Aunt Big gave it to me for my twenty-fifth birthday (probably so I’d be the only one who looked bigger than she did), and in five years I hadn’t had the heart to throw it out or the guts to wear it.

The worst part was the shoes. I didn’t wear shoes unless they were running shoes to walk the dogs or flip-flops on the rare occasions I was feeling brave and wore shorts. All other times, I wore boots. Mostly cowboy boots. I was up to about a hundred pairs of boots by now. I knew it was a fetish. And, as the youngest of five kids who lived a childhood wearing holey, worn-out hand-me-down boots, I knew where this psychological baggage came from.

And I definitely didn’t want to do anything about it.

Anyhow, these shoes were pointy-toed patent leather with cutouts that showed parts of my foot, mirroring, I suppose, the checkerboard pattern. They had three-inch heels. I’d probably kill myself.

“You really didn’t have any shoes to go with this outfit. I don’t know what you were thinking. So I bought those for you, Reyn. I saw them in the window as I drove by Carr’s on North New Braunfels. I thought they looked like so much fun!”

I’d rather have had a trench coat. “They don’t look much like Sherlock’s shoes.”

Charlotte’s face fell.

“But they’re perfect for a disguise. Who’d guess I was investigating anything in these?”

She brightened. I glanced down at the shoes again, trying not to pull a face. Being considerate was certainly painful to one’s pride.

The doorbell rang. The plan we’d come up with was that Mario would be our chauffeur, taking us to and picking us up from the fund-raiser. He came in, and Charlotte and I had to withstand the minute or so of cooing and kissing and nuzzling that always went on with these two. They’d been married more than ten years, you’d think they’d get over it, but I swear it was getting worse.

Finally, we were on our way, wishing Charlotte well on her date.

“Isn’t that funny, Reyn? You’ve lived there all that time and never talked to the vitamin salesman. Charlotte is there five minutes and he asks her out.”

“Hilarious.”

“It just means you and Scythe are meant to be.” She paused thoughtfully. “Or that you just have really bad luck.”

I was voting for that one, since I never wanted to speak to Sneaky Scythe again after what he’d done, luring me to his house, acting like he wanted to be romantic. And I’d bought it! And what’s more, I’d been so thrown by the Zena revelation that I hadn’t let him have it then and there. Just wait until I saw him again!

“I’d vote for the bad luck,” Mario said.

“Thanks.”

“It’s a compliment, Reyn. You are one pretty hot mamá, but still there is no man like me to
besate
—kiss you, love you—every day. Why? It’s
mala suerte.”

I looked at poor, lumpy, dim-witted, sweet Mario, and thought how
bueno
my
suerte
was. If some guy hung all over me like that, it would make me crazy.

Well, maybe not if the guy was Clint Calhoun….

We turned into the immense parking lot of Fiesta Texas. Set in the middle of an old limestone quarry, it was prettier than most theme parks, with its jutting white cliffs. The sun had just set behind one of them, throwing ocher light over the scene scattered with neon lights and streaming flags. People were streaming through the gates. Mario pulled up in front.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Lexa’s been at home searching the Net to help you with the investigation. She asked me to tell you three things she’s found. One was an article in a law journal that quotes her mother as saying all men should have male assistants, that females are too distracting in the workplace. The second thing is that Annette, her dad’s paralegal, and Shauna went to high school together, and Shauna beat out Annette for homecoming queen. And, third, Shauna was a member of the Junior League before she dropped out a couple of years ago. Oh, and Asphalt got a call on his cell phone from Blood from jail. Blood told him to hightail it because DD’s got something to implicate them all in the murder.”

“What would that be?”

Mario shook his head. “I don’t know. The poor kid is scared to death and clueless about the whole drug deal. Percy just used them.”

Trudy and I got out. I paused to warn Mario to watch out in case he was followed on his way home. When I turned around, Trudy was already inside the gates, waving at me. The woman was a magician.

Of course, when I gave my ticket to the gate guard who was dressed up like an eagle, it had a little corner torn off where Char had chewed it. She almost wouldn’t take it and was ready to refuse me entrance. Trudy called out to me to hurry.

The guard looked at me. “You’re with her?”

This was probably the kiss of doom. I nodded.

She waved me through. “Go ahead, then.”

Humph.

“How did you get in?” I demanded when I reached Trudy.

She just smiled enigmatically and kept walking through the crowd. Couples were milling through the courtyard, which was decorated to look like a Mexican marketplace. The mayor and his wife were in attendance, as were several city council representatives and a half dozen former and current San Antonio Spurs. This must be a big deal. Waiters in various animal costumes passed out margaritas and hors d’oeuvres.

I was just trying to place a familiar caramel-blond flip do I’d glimpsed through the crowd when I felt a hand clamp on my upper arm. “I’m so glad you made it.”

I turned to recognize Mitzi’s face poking out from under the big ears of a burro costume, complete with a rainbow stitched shawl, obviously not looking any more fashionable for her big event. Of course, I, currently the human checkerboard, was one to talk.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I answered, trying to shake loose of her viselike grip.

A waiter in an iguana suit appeared at Mitzi’s elbow with a request that—answer to my prayers—drew her away about ten feet. She’d started back toward us when she was intercepted by a woman dressed like a gopher, complete with the buckteeth, who motioned frantically with a walkie-talkie. Mitzi shook her head, bouncing her burro ears, then grabbed the walkie-talkie and hollered into it. In my peripheral vision, I recognized a toy-soldier walk. I turned to see Annette on the arm of a handsome man I knew to be the most famous criminal defense lawyer in town. Her ambition knew no bounds. Trudy got my attention with that best-friend telepathy we had, and we began inching away.