Fiancé at Her Fingertips (6 page)

“Oh, dear, yes!” Debra’s mother replied. “It was always, ‘Logan this,’ and, ‘Logan that.’ I must tell you, it was taking her so long to bring you home to meet us, I was beginning to wonder if you even existed.”

Debra snorted. “He doesn’t, Mother,” she said, hovering nearby. “He’s a product of our collective neuroses.”

“As you must have gathered by now, Logan, my daughter is something of a wisecracker,” Stuart Daniels remarked.

“An understatement,” Logan replied. “One thing I can
say about my time with your daughter, Stuart, is that I’ve never been bored.”

“Do sit down, Debra, and quit fluttering about the table,” her mother directed. “You’re making our guest nervous.”

“I-I’m making
him
nervous?” Debra stammered. “I’m the one who’s ready to pop a handful of Dad’s antacids. And for the last time, he is not our guest! I tell you, this is a colossal mistake!”

“I’m afraid your daughter is still put out with me, Alva,” Logan said. “Tell me, what’s the best way to get back in her good graces?”

“Uh, try the front door for starters,” Debra answered. “And don’t let it hit you in the—”

“Debra Josephine Daniels!” Her mother had reached her limit. “Where are your manners? Sit down! And if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

Frustrated, Debra grabbed a chair and yanked it out from the table. “Fine,” she said, sitting down, ramrod straight. “You want to sup with a shyster, be my guest.” She glared at the tan Greek god, who flashed a smug smile in her direction with his set of perfect pearly whites. He leaned toward her.

“Uh, did I hear right?
Josephine?
” he queried. “You forgot to mention that little tidbit of information. What else are you keeping from me, young lady? I warn you, I plan to learn all your secrets.”

Debra jumped to her feet, feeling like a spastic yo-yo.

“Mom, Dad, this has gone on long enough! I’m not sure what’s happening here, but I do know that this man is not my boyfriend. Not now. Not ever!”

Her fabricated fella cocked a dark brow skyward and fixed her with a steady gaze, yet it was to her parents that he spoke.

“Stu, Alva”—he wiped his mouth with a napkin— “maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for me to surprise Debra like this.”

“That’s the first sane thing you’ve said since you finagled your way in here,” Debra remarked.

Logan sighed. “She obviously isn’t ready to forgive me
yet. I realize I hurt her when I took off for St. Louis. You see, I was helping out an old friend—an old girlfriend, to be quite truthful. She was having some difficulty with her divorce and needed some additional legal advice and a shoulder, so she called me. I didn’t take the time to explain the situation to Debra, and, as a result, I’m paying the price now. Tell me, Alva, should I be encouraged by the fact that she’s got that cute little nose out of joint? That means she cares. Right? Please, Alva, give me some hope here I can hang my hat on.”

“How about some rope you can hang yourself with?” Debra suggested.

“Debra!” Her mother wagged a finger at her. “Tell me you haven’t been giving Logan here a hard time about helping out an old friend.”

“A hard time? A hard time? Mother, I haven’t given him the time of day! I told you, I do not know this man! I don’t know what he hopes to accomplish by this outrageous conduct, but—”

“It seems to me it’s not Logan’s conduct that is outrageous, Debra.” Debra’s father stood, breaking his silence. “I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness, Logan. The only thing I can say in her defense is that this is very much out of character for her. Very much. Although she has always been encouraged to speak her mind, I have never known her to be deliberately cruel until today. Under the circumstances, Debra, I think it would be best if you left.”

Debra stared at her father. “What? You’re asking
me
to leave?”

Logan stood. “That’s all right, Stu. I should be the one to go.”

Debra’s father shook his head. “No, Logan, my daughter is leaving.” He turned back to Debra. “When you’ve remembered how to treat a guest in this house, Debra, you’re welcome to return. Until then, don’t let the door hit
you
on the way out.”

Debra couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her father
was throwing her out in favor of this…this brazen barrister who had invaded their home and her life? She fought the sudden impulse to break into tears, and straightened her shoulders. “Fine, I’ll leave. When you’ve come to
your
senses and are willing to listen to my side of this horror story, you know where to find me. Bye, Mom.” She walked to the door, then pivoted to face her folks. “Just one thing. Don’t turn your back on Lawyer Logan there for a second. And you might want to consider locking up your valuables and the family silver, because whether you believe it or not, you’re harboring a lying opportunist in your midst.”

Debra slammed out of the house. She stomped to her car and opened the door. She stopped. What was she thinking? She couldn’t just leave. At this moment her unsuspecting parents could be dining with a serial stalker or a certifiable loony tune. Then again, maybe he was just a pumped-up pinup with an overinflated ego who got his jollies using his physical attractiveness to hawk novelty gifts to desperate old maids. Either way, she was not budging until Lawyer Logan vacated the premises. If her father didn’t like it, well, he’d just have to have her hauled off by Springfield’s finest for trespassing.

She shut the door of her red Pontiac and leaned against the car. It was times like this that she wished she smoked. She could blow smoke rings in the air and watch them rise and dissipate. She could study the ash on the end of her cigarette and delicately tap it now and again, sending white-gray ash to the ground while contemplating how her life had become a freaking Stephen King novel.

She stomped her foot against the cement driveway. What on earth could they be talking about in there? She looked toward the street, and her eyes came to rest on the shiny, immaculate Chevrolet Suburban sitting in her parents’ drive. Her eyes narrowed. She glanced back toward the house, then over at the buffed and polished vehicle. With a casual move she pushed away from her car and ambled down the drive, whistling “Secret Agent Man” as she made her way to
the four-wheel-drive vehicle. She snorted when she read the vanity plate.

“‘Made4U’? Yeah, right. In your dreams.”

Debra cast a look back toward the house before she reached out to grab the driver’s door handle. It was unlocked. “Yes!” She slid behind the wheel and looked for the ignition key.
Rats
. He must have pocketed it.

She examined the interior of the vehicle. It was ultraneat and clean. She sniffed, envious. It still had that new-car smell. Her own car smelled of stale fries and wet dog. She slid the ashtray open. It was spik-and-span. No smoking allowed here. She flipped the visor down to reveal a lighted mirror.

Sliding along the dark gray leather seat, she opened the glove box and pulled out the contents: three road maps— Illinois, Missouri, and a city map of Springfield. A State of Illinois vehicle registration for the 2005 Suburban made out to one Logan Tyler Alexander, 1300 State Street, Springfield—the site of a high-rent high-rise, if Debra’s memory served her right. She tossed the papers aside and continued her search of the glove compartment. Her efforts yielded nothing more interesting than a small package of facial tissues, a half-empty container of wintergreen breath fresheners, and a set of keys on an Alexander Chevrolet key ring. She picked the keys up. Office keys, she decided. Or maybe apartment keys. Her eyes narrowed.

Taking no time to consider the wisdom of or reason for her actions, Debra stuffed the set of keys in her shorts pocket. She slid toward the center of the bench seat and hit her knee on a cell phone bracket, then stared at the charging cell phone. She picked it up. Most models had a feature that allowed you to save certain frequently used numbers in the memory. And most attorneys Debra knew would never permit their high-powered, high-paid fingers to do the walking. She hit the power button, then memory number one. She got the recording for the law offices of Brown, Craig, Alexander, and Hughes, Attorneys-at-Law, with the regular
business hours quoted. She hit memory number two. A long-distance call beeped in, and she heard the phone ringing.

“Good afternoon. Alexander Chevrolet. How may I direct your call?” Debra hit the end button.

She tried the next one, another long-distance number. “Hello,” a woman’s voice answered. “Hello?” Debra punched the end button again.

Memory number four was the clerk of court. Memory number five was the county attorney’s office. She hit memory number six.

“This is the office of the Crime Victims Assistance Bureau,” Tanya’s voice played in her ear. “Our regular office hours are eight a.m. to four thirty p.m., Monday through Friday. If you wish to receive a call back before Monday morning, please leave a message, and our on-call staff person will contact you as soon as possible. Thank you for contacting the Crime Victims Assistance Bureau.”

Debra stared at the phone. Confusion and fear vied for top billing in her befuddled brain. Why in God’s name did this…this…cock-and-bull counselor have her office number in his speed dial? She’d never spoken to him before his astonishing appearance at her folks’, unless, of course, you counted those times she’d talked to his photo in jest. She pushed the end button, took a deep breath, pressed memory number seven, and waited.

“Hello. You’ve reached 591-7579. We’re unable to come to the phone at the present time, but if you leave a name, number, and short message, we’ll get back to you.”

Debra listened to her own, very boring, deliberately ambiguous answering machine recording specifically composed to promote anonymity in a world full of kooks and wackos.
Ha!
Or so she’d thought. Debra’s stomach knotted and her bowels clenched at the idea that a probable nutcase had her home phone number stored in his perverted little memory.

She tossed the phone back in the holder.
Uh-
uh. No way
. She wasn’t pushing memory number eight on her life. For
all she knew, he had her butcher, baker, and candlestick maker saved in his contacts, as well.

She glanced into the rearview mirror and spotted a gym bag on the middle seat. Scrambling over into the backseat, Debra pounced on the bag. She pulled out a racquetball racket, dirty gray socks, gray shorts, and a navy Nike T-shirt, gym shoes, and, of course, boxers as opposed to briefs. In the inner side pocket of the gym bag was a small black book.

Debra opened it and smiled. A datebook! She looked at the name in the front. Logan T. Alexander. She leafed through the calendar. There were numerous handwritten notations in dark, bold script chronicling court dates, scheduled depositions, lunch dates and client meetings, all in keeping with an attorney’s busy schedule. He
was
an attorney!

She scanned the calendar, shocked to see meetings with prominent businessmen and heavyweight political figures documented. She continued flipping until she came to May and stopped. She stared at the page.

May 23,
she read.
Debra Daniels, Crime Victims Assistance,
545-8888. Seven p.m., Mike’s Bikes
.

Despite the heat of the car’s interior, Debra’s teeth began to chatter. She felt woozy, disoriented. She slammed the book shut and closed her eyes for a moment.
In through the
nose, out through the mouth
, she reminded herself, trying to get a handle on her breathing before she started to hyperventilate. She peeked inside the book again, opening first one eye and then the other. Various little notations came into focus. There they were, from June to July:
DD lunch,
dinner with Debra, tee time 9:00, DD.
Even
get helmet for Debra
! Debra shook her head. What was going on here? Had she completely lost her grip on reality? Did she even know what reality was anymore?

With fingers that had difficulty processing the neurological impulses from her brain, Debra turned to today’s date: August 8. There was the racquetball court time of eight to nine, followed by a tee time of 10:10 a.m. She shivered when
she saw her parents’ address printed in the same bold script, with directions written below it.

She stuffed the clothing and book back into the gym bag with shaking fingers. She was going to be sick. Hitchcock couldn’t rival this. Or those Goose Pimple books her nephews loved to read. She’d given a whole new meaning to going to La-la Land. More like La-la Logan Land.

Did they still send out the men in white coats? Debra suspected she’d discover the answer to that soon enough if she didn’t get to the bottom of this demented delusion.

Expanding her search, Debra got down on her hands and knees to peer under the Suburban’s seats. She grunted in disgust. Okay, this cinched it. There had to be something very, very wrong with a person who didn’t have at least one empty pop can tumbling about on the floor or one single solitary candy wrapper or fast-food sack crunching beneath his feet.
Yeesh!
Her car probably had a redeemable can value of close to three dollars.

She put her left ear to the plush gray carpet and surveyed under the middle seat. Nothing. She sighed and turned her head to examine the area under the front seat and spotted a shiny object on the floor under the passenger’s side. She maneuvered her hand under and stretched for the item. Her fingers closed around it just as the driver’s-side door of the Suburban opened and slammed shut.

Debra flattened her torso against the car floor. She gasped when she heard the sudden roar of the engine, and the vehicle began to back out of her folks’ driveway and onto the street. Trapped in the backseat of a lunatic lawyer’s car, Debra knew one thing for certain: This never would’ve happened if she’d stuck with Inflatable Ian.

She tried to keep track of the turns the driver made, but soon lost count. What was she going to do now? She brought her hand out from under the seat, remembering the item she’d clutched earlier. She propped her hand in front of her face and opened her fist. Her heart began a drumbeat against
her chest. She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs. She stared at the dainty charm bracelet in the palm of her hand, touching each charm with a shaky finger. The golf clubs. The hairy-dog charm. The sports car. A book. A basketball. A pair of tennis shoes. A silver cameo head with the initials DJ.