A Veiled Deception (10 page)

“why.”

“It’s a nice
electric
blue,” I said, which didn’t help at all. The Wiener growled—well, he made a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “The last time I saw a perp come in with a face this color, he stayed blue for three days.”

“Blue perps
are
supposed to be easier for the cops to find.”

“Police, not cops! Madeira, you were born to be the thorn in my side.”

“
The?
You mean I’m your only thorn?”

“Yeah. Snort. My one and only.”

“Why, thank you, Lytton. I’m honored. I think your perp probably stayed blue because he didn’t bathe. There’s a shower up here. Do you want to try giving your face a soapy wash beneath a stream of cool water?”

He relaxed and nodded at the wall. “I’d be eternally grateful.”

Maybe I’d sprayed him for a bit too long?

“Which way to the shower? Walking blue-faced into the station,” he muttered,

“would be worse than overcoming the name Wiener for half my life.”

Heat rose up my neck and burned my cheeks—poetic justice at its finest—so I took the Wiener by the hand and led him toward the bathroom, making a wide detour around my treasures.

In the tiny afterthought of a bathroom, too intimate by far, the Wiener suddenly seemed taller and broader. I used his hand to pat the shower stall door and shut him inside the small room.

“Where’s the light switch?” he called.

“There’s no electricity,” I yelled back, “but you’re blind anyway.”

I heard another “duck,” some Wiener-meets-the-wall encounters, a clearly stubbed toe, and a few more “ducks” before the peaceful sound of running water. Nick walked in. “Hey, ladybug.”

Scrap! “What are you doing here?”

“Nice welcome. But I have news.”

“What kind of news?” I whispered.

“I’ve got a lead on Jasmine. Our medical examiner went to school with the Mystick Falls med—”

“Shh. Shh. Let’s go out to the stoop.” I tried to push Nick out the door.

“Wait a minute,” he said, taking me in his arms and forcing me to stop pushing him away. “You smell sweet, like . . .”

“Orange blossoms, honeysuckle, and sandalwood? It’s Red, my perfume. You’ve got a great nose for a Fed.”

He cupped my bottom. “You’ve got a great as—”

“Ask and you shall receive?”

“If you’re offering, I’m asking.”

He smelled good, too. Too good. “Are you wearing Ultraviolet Man?”

“Yep!”

Yum. I was a sucker for ambergris, so sensual and manly.

Nick pulled me close for a hot and hungry kiss. I fell into it without my own permission, yet every nerve in my body sang.

“Does this place have a bedroom?” he whispered against my lips.

“Mmm.”

“Lead the way.”

I opened my eyes. “The way?” Past the bathroom. Down, girl. Get a grip. I stepped back and tried not to inhale seduction. Also tried not to listen to my libido: More Nick, more Nick, my body sang. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the offagain half of our relationship. You slept on my sofa bed last night. Didn’t that give you a clue?”

“Ladybug, we’re spending all this time together, and you’re
so
hot, and I’m
so
—”

“Horny? In lust. Deep like?” I suggested.

“Attracted, physically, emotionally, and intellectually, so I thought we’d be onagain sooner rather than later.”

My body said, “Yes!” My brain said, “Not
now
!”

I tried pushing. He tried pulling. My body ended up plastered to his. Have mercy. I stepped back. “Later,” I said. “Now let’s go outside. This is no time to be spontaneous.”

“You like spontaneous. Isn’t that what we’re all about?”

“Maddie,” the Wiener called. “I can’t find a towel.”

Nick stilled. “What the hell?”

I started toward the bathroom, but Nick passed me and went in. I turned my back, so I wouldn’t see anything wiener-like.

“Hey!” Werner shouted. “I’m naked in here.”

“And colorful,” Nick said. “Here’s your towel.”

After Nick came out, I opened my mouth to explain, but I didn’t have to.

“Did you mace him?” he whispered, his shoulders shaking.

I nodded and firmed my lips. I am not proud. I am not amused. I am a lowly
thorn
who—at the end of the day—owes some loyalty to its personal puncture device. I took a large sip of my tea to keep my lips occupied and unsmiling, but mirth tightened my throat. Restraint became difficult. I couldn’t even swallow. One look at Nick’s grin, and I lost the fight, laughed, and spit tea in his face.

“Argh.”

When Werner emerged from the bathroom, his face a nice pale blue, he found Nick wiping his own face with an old quilt square.

“What’d she do, mace you, too?” Werner asked.

“Iced tea,” Nick said. “All over my libido.”

That made the Wiener grin. “Nice to hear I’m not her only target.”

“Hel-lo, I’m here. And I’m busy, in case you haven’t noticed. Take your toxic testosterone, the both of you, and
go away
.”

“Busy?” Werner asked, eyeing the disarray of overflowing preservation boxes.

“Busy doing what? Opening a branch of the Salvation Army?”

“Hey, mock all you want, but you’d be surprised at the prime vintage you can find at Sal’s.”

Nick furrowed his brows. “Why
do
you keep buying vintage and parking it here?”

“Instinct?” I suggested, not sure myself.

The Wiener gave us a double take, his surprise landing on me. “You paid
money
for this junk?”

“It’s not junk. It’s vintage.”

My off-again . . .
forever
and my personal puncture device with a death wish gave each other a “women . . . can’t ignore ’em, can’t score without ’em” glance. I wanted to smack them both for good measure. “See the shoes I’m wearing?

They’re Manolos.”

“Is that like Rolos?” Werner asked.

“Consider that a freebie, Lytton, since I owe you one.”

“Two. You owe me two. Big ones. Huge. Gargantuan.”

“Whatever. This is you, now robin’s-egg blue and half paid off. Live with it.”

Lytton raised questioning hands Nick’s way. “Why do I feel as if I’ve been screwed and not in a good way?”

“She’s no lightweight. Don’t mess with her. She’ll pin you to the mat.”

“My hero!” I snapped, trying without success to herd them out the door. “My point is that these shoes sold retail for eight hundred ninety-five dollars but I got them at a vintage shop in the Village for two hundred dollars.”

“Mystic Village?” Nick asked.

“No, dinosaur brain. Greenwich Village, New York.”

He picked up a one-piece, bell-bottom playsuit. “Psychedelic orange? You? A famous designer? Bought this?”

“Faline is the famous designer. I’m her head assistant. But that’s not the point.”

I picked up the Day-Glo orange playsuit and held it to my heart. “
This
was my mother’s. I kept her clothes after she died, and now they’re vintage. Then I bought more vintage. Fiona helped me get everything preserved.”

Nick raised a brow. “Preserved . . . until?”

“Hell if I know.”

Werner looked interested. “So you’d sell them cheap, because they’re secondhand?”

Sell them? “No, the laws of supply and demand apply especially well to quality vintage. The fewer number of designer outfits or accessories made, the more valuable they become. These shoes are a recent Blahnik design. I could have bought them uptown for full price, so they’re a bad example.”

“But besides you,” Nick said. “Who buys vintage, honestly?”

“Vintage is hot. All the rage in New York. Old is new again. Remember that old Mark Twain quote? ‘Clothes make the man’ (or woman). ‘Naked people have little or no influence on society.’”

“Naked people? Oh, I don’t know about that,” Nick said. “I like naked people . . . of the female persuasion.”

Lytton looked thoughtful for a minute and shook his head. “Nope. Nope, I think you’re wrong. Naked women within
my
society definitely influence me. I’d like to be influenced more often, as a matter of fact.”

“Pervert.”

“Go for it; I’ve been called worse.” He wiped his eyes once more, the sympathy hound.

“What did you want to talk to Aunt Fiona about?” I asked Werner. “I could give her a message.”

He shook his head. “I was in the area talking to your neighbors, so I thought I’d stop in, rather than call. I’ll call her later.”

“If it’s about my sister, you can tell me.”

“No, I can only discuss Fiona’s client with Fiona.”

I shivered. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

Eleven

Fashion anticipates, and elegance is a state of mind . . . a mirror of the time in which we live, a translation of the future, and should never be static.—OLEG CASSINI By accident on purpose, or so it seemed, both men followed me into Fiona’s house. Frankly—and this is weird because of this new sixth sense I’m trying on for size—I think neither of them wanted to leave the other alone with me. Now maybe I’m full of myself. I often am. But I was feeling a major pissing contest coming on, and I had no intention of getting downwind of either of them. It was only a hunch, mind you, but men were such easy reads. Not too many brain cells to muck up the works.

I turned on them. “Why are you following me?”

Werner stopped and Nick inched around him. “We’re protecting you,” Nick said.

“We’re law enforcement officers.”

“Oh, so you
know
that you’re both on the same side?”

They pretended they didn’t catch my “tone” and followed me to the box with the litter of kittens, where they visibly relaxed.

“What?” I said. “You think you can take them?”

Okay, so I couldn’t help myself. I’d worked in an industry ruled by men and a rare few big female cats. The rest of us were perceived as Barbies: right shape but nothing between the ears. I could be a formidable
biotch
for fun, sport, or sheer survival. I’d won the gold in a particularly “cutting” triathlon once. Earned me a place with the cats. My signature talent: ball blasting, gonad gutting, cojon clipping; you get the picture. Sure, I’d toned it down for Mystic, but I got the power, baby. I handed Nick the kitten and squeaked the mouse.

Chakra screamed.

The house shook.

Nick dropped her.

Werner caught her.

“Lytton! My hero!”

“Uh, you wanna go back to third grade and say that?”

I took my baby from the Wiener’s arms. “Poor little Chakra Citrine, you scared Mommy.”

Having lost the pissing contest, Nick frowned. “She’s got vocal cords that exceed the sound barrier.”

“It’s not like she clawed you. You could have held on.”

Werner scratched Chakra behind an ear. “Did she sound like she might have screamed ‘Maddie’?” he asked.

Nick scoffed.

“Yes! You heard it, too. Isn’t it wild? She can say my name. She’s gonna be our guard cat and sleep on my bed.” I gave Nick a pointed look, since, at the moment, he wasn’t allowed on that piece of furniture.

Werner caught the exchange and turned his chuckle into a cough. Before they could come to blows, I locked Aunt Fiona’s house, and we each got into our separate cars. The dopes followed me until I turned into Mrs. Sweet’s driveway. I parked and called Nick’s cell.

“Jaconetti here.”

“Jaconetti, you have info on the autopsy?”

“Yes and no. It’s not finished. Something about a tox screen, but the Fed ME is going to let me know when he gets the report.”

“A tox screen? Does that mean they suspect poisoning?”

“Could be.”

“Poisoning and strangling? Why bother?” I asked. “Dead is dead.”

“The tox screen may be routine, then again, maybe there were two attempts and only one success. It’s also conceivable,” Nick continued, “that if something toxic skewed or slowed Jasmine’s instincts, she might not have been able to fight her strangler. Seems as if Jasmine ticked off half the town. Last night, they wanted to lynch her.”

“Nick, that was like Sherry saying she wanted to kill her, a figure of speech.”

“Jasmine was a raptor, who cut at least one local way deeper than the rest. Listen, I’m giving you her home address, almost against my better judgment, but I know you. I know that you have to be working on fixing this for your sister, under controlled conditions, or you’ll run amuck.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, my ego’s still a little bruised from your recent gentle handling. Anyway, I’d rather set you on a safe course than let you hurt an innocent bystander.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but I’d be stupid to further alienate my personal information system.

Nick appeared to expect me to blow, because he sighed, as if with relief, after a minute. “Remember that this is a murder investigation, as in somebody died. Dead is forever, ladybug. Screw the word games. I want you safe. Hell, I just want you. Always have, Mad. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Oy, he was Madeira-mocking and I was getting the warm fuzzies over it, darned close to flipping that relationship switch to on-again.

He cleared his throat. “I ran the Updikes through the system. No red flags, so go see what you can find. I know that’s what you want to do. But, Mad, any other jaunts you feel like taking for the cause, you pass by me. Not for permission,” he quickly added, “for backup. Got it?”

“Got it. And, Nick, thanks for watching my back.”

“Well . . . I watch your front a lot, too.” Husky voice, evocative tone, filled with tingly implications.

Seduction via cell phone. Who knew I’d be susceptible. Focus, Madeira, I told myself. “The address?”

“It’s Two-two-seven Updike Circle, Wickford, Rhode Island.”

I wrote it on the back of the guest list. “The Updikes live on Updike Circle?”

“Wickford used to be called Updike’s Newtown. I’m guessing they’re descendants.”

“You’d think she would have been wearing real couture.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Werner probably got the address from Deborah and gave Jasmine’s family the news last night. I might go take a look around, offer my condolences.”