Nicole Peeler - [Jane True 01] (8 page)

And why was I accepting all of this so calmly? I’d just met a talking
garden gnome and the nightmare version of My Little Pony. Oh, and I mustn’t
forget my little race with the saber-toothed canine. Why wasn’t I more alarmed
at what I’d seen?

Because
, the little evil voice I tried to suppress chimed,
you
always knew you were more of a freak than anyone—even Linda or Stuart—could
guess.

Of course
, I considered,
the doctors could just
be correct and you’ve finally gone off the deep end. Maybe you really are Crazy
Jane True.

My blood ran cold at that thought. There had been more than a few times
during my hospital stay when I’d genuinely feared that I was losing my mind.
When I felt there was more than just grief shrouding my thoughts in darkness.
I’d had the most vivid dreams about a stranger who held my hand and told me
stories, all through the night. They’d seemed so real, and yet they could not
have happened.
Maybe I
am
mad
, I thought.
Maybe madness is
what drove Mom away, and she left it for me, in my blood, as her parting gift
.

Whatever, Jane
, my brain admonished.
Either some
“investigator” shows up today, like Nell said would happen, and you know you’re
okay. Or, nobody appears and you check yourself back into the funny farm. In
the meantime, get over yourself and go with the idea it’s all real.

I imagined the whole day spent analyzing Read It and Weep’s customers,
searching for some clue as to their true identity. In other words, I’d play the
supernatural version of
Sesame Street’
s “one of these things is not like
the others.”

Grizzie presented me with my first challenge. She looked resplendent, as
always. Over shiny black leggings she sported purple thigh-high patent-leather
boots with enormous stacks that made her about six-foot-four. On top, she wore
a fuzzy purple angora sweater that fitted snugly down over her hips. The
sweater was cinched tight over her waspish waist by a wide patent-leather belt
that had an enormous silver lightning bolt for a buckle. For a bra, she’d
chosen a very fifties “lift and separate” number that made it look like she was
wearing traffic cones under her sweater. She’d done her long ebony hair up into
a giant coiffure from which a fake ponytail streamed down to the small of her
back. Her makeup was minimal. After all, it was bad taste to wear purple
thigh-high stacks
and
overdone eye shadow. She had only two wings of
black liquid eyeliner accentuating her vivid violet eyes, and the barest hint
of pink blush and lip gloss.

“You look hot, Griz,” I greeted her, eyeballing her appraisingly.

“Thanks, darling.” She grinned, giving me a little twirl so I could
appreciate the outfit in full. “You look edible, as always,” she said as she stooped
to give me a peck on the cheek.

If anybody is supernatural here in Rockabill, it has to be Grizzie
, I
thought. But then again, magical, nearly immortal beings probably didn’t star
in such films as
The Ass-prentice: You’re Nailed!
Not that I didn’t appreciate
Grizzie’s oeuvre.

Tracy had the day off, so the first few hours of work went extra
quickly. It’s not that Tracy was dull by any means, but neither did she use her
spare time to expound upon the difference between a clitoral, versus an anal,
orgasm. I spent half the morning on the floor laughing and the other half with
my hands over my ears trying to drone Grizzie out by humming ABBA’s greatest
hits. But just when I thought Grizzie would succeed in her attempt to prove
embarrassment could be fatal, a silver Porsche Boxster came snarling into the
bookstore’s line of vision. To our mutual surprise, it whipped into a parking
spot right in front of our door.

Well, that didn’t happen often, even during tourist season.

The car’s top was down, another surprise for this time of year. Grizzie
and I exchanged looks. It was cold, at least for everybody but me.

As the driver opened his door and stepped out, Grizzie made a lascivious
meowing sound. I seconded that meow, silently. We had a very clear view of the
man as he stretched luxuriantly. He wasn’t extremely tall, probably about five
foot nine. But he was
very
well put together. His shoulders were broad
in his crisp white shirt and his waist tapered invitingly to his brown leather
belt holding up his brown tweed trousers. For shoes, he had on a pair of what I
can only assume were brogues, as I’d never actually seen brogues before. But
whatever they were, they looked expensive. As did his gold-rimmed aviator
sunglasses. He oozed money and confidence, and I felt a pang of disappointment.
Too bad you’re probably a twat
, I thought, snarkily. ’
Cause you are
one fine piece of man-meat.

Jane, don’t be a bitch to the tourists,
I admonished
myself.
Not least because they’re the only people who treat you like a real
person, and not a ticking time bomb.

As if to drive home my point, behind the mysterious stranger I saw Mark,
in his postal uniform with his satchel over his shoulder, head into the Trough
to deliver their mail and grab a cup of coffee. For obvious reasons, Mark no
longer lingered over a latte here at Read It and Weep. On cue, I felt that
familiar little burn of humiliation I now associated with the man I’d so nearly
dated.

So, be nice to the hot stranger,
I thought, forcing
my eyes back to the guy from the Porsche. To my disappointment, he’d finished
stretching.
You missed the whole show
, my libido grumbled at me. I
apologized profusely and dutifully paid close attention as he checked that he
had his wallet before running a hand through his short-cropped, thick brown
hair.

“Bonjour, Brick Shithouse,” Grizzie drooled as, to her evident delight,
he walked toward our bookstore.

He pushed open the door and, just as our annoying little chimey thing
heralded his presence, his eyes met mine. I felt a jolt, and not only because
his almond eyes were gorgeous, but also because those pretty eyes crinkled in a
combination of recognition and interest. I knew I didn’t know this man, and
there shouldn’t be anything of interest to one such as he in the utterly
prosaic Jane True.

He approached the counter and, up close, his face didn’t break with his
body’s precedent. He had high cheekbones that tapered down to a narrow and
shapely chin. His mouth was small but full-lipped, which gave him an extremely
sensual expression, as if he were just about to pucker up to kiss his way down
your belly—

Woah, Jane,
I thought, trying to get a handle on my
suddenly raging hormones. My dirty drawer might be well stocked, but it seemed
I missed the real thing even more than I realized. That fact, however, did not
give me the right to rape random tourists.
And before you get your hopes up,
people who are climbing whatever ladder he is evidently climbing don’t date
crazy women
, I reminded myself.
He wouldn’t want his girlfriend to start
gibbering at his CEO over cocktails.

The sharp sting of my own mental self-flagellation explained why I was
more than a little surprised when the beautiful man grabbed my hand from over
the counter and pulled me toward him. I was so surprised, in fact, that I let
myself get swept up into what must have looked like the most natural of hugs.

“Jane True,” he said, pressing me close. The awkward angle—with both of
us leaning over the counter—meant that our hug mostly consisted of me wedging
my bazongas into his chest. I meeped, in surprise, as he continued.

“I told you I’d surprise you here in Rockabill, and here I am!”

He released me and I took a dazed step back. Not missing a beat, he
turned to Grizzie and was pumping her hand as if he were absolutely thrilled to
meet her.

“You must be Grizelda. I’m absolutely thrilled to meet you,” he said,
putting his actions into words.

“Jane here has told me so much about you.” He let go of Grizzie’s hand
but kept his eyes locked on hers. “I’m Ryu, Jane’s friend from college. I hope
she told you about me. She certainly talked enough about you and Tracy.” Only
then did his eyes break from Grizzie’s and meet mine. He gave me a roguish
wink.

I was waiting for Grizzie to inform him that, no, actually, I had never
mentioned an incredibly handsome male school friend named Ryu. And that from my
reaction when he got out of the car and walked into the store I’d obviously
never seen him before.

Instead, she smiled down at him and said, “Oh, of course! Yes! That’s
great you could make it to Rockabill. We’ve heard so much about Jane’s friend
Ryu!”

I swung around toward her, unable to believe what I was hearing. But she
just beamed at me. A look of genuine pleasure washed over her features. What
the hell? I had no idea who this guy was, and I’d certainly not attended
college with him. I’d have remembered—and I’d have the fantasies to prove it.

“Why don’t you go into the back, Grizzie, while Jane and I talk?” Ryu
was once again staring into Grizzie’s eyes, and I nearly fell over when instead
of saying, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself,” she just maintained her huge
smile. Then, with a swish of her shiny hips, she headed back into our
stockroom. Gritting my teeth, I rounded on the stranger.

“Who the hell are you and what did you do to Grizelda?” I demanded.

The smile he gave me was no less handsome than the one he’d presented to
Grizzie. But it was more natural, less eerily animated. “My name really is
Ryu,” he replied, his eyes flicking down surreptitiously to rove the top half
of my body that was not hidden by the counter. I forced myself to desist from
squirming as his gaze lingered on my breasts for a split second. “But rather
than a college reunion, I’m actually here to ask you about your involvement in
the murder of Peter Jakes.”

It took me a second to cotton on to what he was saying, as I couldn’t
imagine a policeman zipping around in a Porsche and I couldn’t figure out how
the authorities had figured out my role in finding Peter’s body.

“Ohhh,” I said, as the other shoe dropped. “You’re the one Nell said I
should expect. You’re
that
investigator.”

“Quite,” he said. “I’m
that
investigator.”

This time I went ahead and returned his slow once-over, so we could each
weigh the other up.

“You don’t look right,” I blurted out, before I realized I’d depressed
my edit button. Then I about turned purple.

“I don’t look
right
?” he inquired, raising an elegant eyebrow at
me.

“You’re too… too…” My brain scrambled to finish my sentence. All I could
think of was teeny-tiny Nell, in her rustic clothes, and the kelpie with her
gray skin and oily voice.

“Normal,” I finished, only to regret, instantly, my word choice.

“Normal,” the beautiful man repeated, his voice flat.

“Well, not normal,” I stammered. “Obviously. I mean, you’re really
good-looking. But you know that, already.” I watched, horrified, as his other
eyebrow swept up to join the first. Mentally, my brain scrambled to get my edit
function back online, but it had very evidently gone haywire. “I mean, you’re
totally hot, and obviously super-successful, and I just saw you work some…
magic? Do you call it magic?” He shrugged, neither agreeing or disagreeing.
“Well, so you’re magical, which is not normal. And you’re hot—”

Stop telling the hot man he’s hot!
my brain
commanded, even as my mouth went right ahead ejaculating embarrassment.

“I mean, really hot, but, like, you’re not weird.”

“Not weird?”

“Not… different.”

His lips parted in a feral grin, and for a split second I swear he’d
grown fangs. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, they were gone. Which
meant I was now babbling like a maniac
and
seeing things.
Rock on
.

“I can assure you, Jane True, that I am very different.” He said those
words as if they were a promise, and I felt a shiver at the base of my spine. I
realized, after a stunned minute, that it was a shiver of unmitigated lust.
Haven’t
felt that in a while
, I thought, marveling. But Ryu wasn’t through playing
his little verbal tap dance on my libido.

“Something I’m now very much looking forward to proving to you,” he
said, his eyebrows striking a come-hither pose. I nearly took an obliging step
forward. “But not here, in your place of work, with your friend lurking.”

My brain schismed at that. One half dissolved into a sputtering goo that
belched
gagagagagaga
over and over. The other half latched onto the idea
of “friend” in order to save my fragile sanity.

“So what the hell
did
you do to Grizzie?” I managed to ask,
finally.

“Oh, nothing really. Just a little glamour to help her believe what I
was telling her.”

There was that bloody word again,
glamour
.

“Look,” I said. “I just found out about you guys last night. You really
gotta quit with the supernatural jargon, because none of it makes any sense to
me whatsoever.”