Double Trouble (11 page)

“Missy isn’t loony,” Linda said. “She’s just . . . zealous.”

“She accused Dally of trying to steal her fiancé.” Stacey hopped off the chair. “C’mon
 
—Rick’s no prize. I don’t care if he is built like Mr. Universe. Me, I like thin guys who don’t spend every moment at the gym, flexing. More importantly, Dally’s not the kind of person to steal another girl’s man. Besides, Dally has
 
—” she lowered her voice, turning it soap-opera breathy
 
—“a mystery man.”

PJ laughed, and even Linda cracked a smile.

“Who is her mystery man?” PJ asked.

“Oh, she’s not telling,” Linda said, finishing off her Dr Pepper. “But I do know they broke up. Dally came in a couple weeks ago all red-eyed and teary saying she hated men.”

“Yeah, I get that way about once a month,” Stacey said. “Doesn’t mean she broke up with him.”

“Well, I haven’t seen him around,” Gabby said as she moved over to Linda’s chair.

Linda began to unroll Gabby’s hair.

Stacey leaned close to PJ’s ear. “And she should know.”

“I still have my hearing, little miss.”

Stacey gave Gabby a grin, all teeth, then turned back to PJ. “Missy swore to Dally, right here in this very chair, that she’d get her back for destroying her hair two days before her wedding. And I believe it too, because once Missy followed a second baseman from another team to Jack’s Bar over on Fifty-second, and used her car for home-run practice.” She widened her eyes. “Scary girl.”

Next door in the tattoo studio, the bell over the door jangled. “Uh-oh, the artist is on duty.” Stacey patted PJ’s knee. “The tournament starts at one o’clock. Warm-ups at high noon. Don’t be late.”

The tournament?

Stacey seemed to sense her pause because her smile dimmed. “Wait
 
—you can play, right? I mean, we’re one game short of the top ranking. We can’t lose. Dally wouldn’t let someone take her place who couldn’t play. . . .”

PJ swallowed back a shard of panic. “Sure. Sure. No problem. Played in high school. And I learned all the calls.”

Stacey narrowed her eyes at PJ. “Don’t make me regret turning you into my best friend.”

PJ shook her head, and Stacey winked at her as she headed out the door.

“You’d better climb off that chair and get over here and let me teach you how to fix Gabby’s hair,” Linda chimed in. “She’s in here nearly every other day, and if there really is some
thug from Chicago sitting outside with his binoculars, it won’t do to have me unrolling her. Gabby doesn’t let anyone else touch her hair.”

“Then maybe I
 
—,” PJ started.

“Grab a brush, kiddo,” Gabby said, not looking up from her magazine. “Oh, look at this; Paris has a new video out.”

“You do this every day?” PJ held a plastic bag filled with a box of soy milk, a carton of eggs, a can of peaches, and a bag of peanuts as she walked home beside Gabby, past tiny bungalows and boxy Cape Cods, most with new siding and rich landscaping. The sun still blasted heat into the day, desperate as it fell into the horizon.

PJ couldn’t figure out why her neighbor had stayed all day watching PJ learn to set and comb out hair. Maybe a sort of inherent protectiveness for Dally and now PJ.

The two walk-ins didn’t know Dally, so she hadn’t had a smidge of opposition to her fake identity. However, she’d discovered it felt different imitating a person, rather than just a persona. It was one thing to pretend to be a golf pro or a massage therapist
 
—things she’d done to solve her last crime. This felt more . . . deceitful.

She kept having to remind herself that she was trying to
save Dally’s skin. Still, she’d been relieved that she hadn’t been forced to attempt the lie for Linda or Stacey.

Not that she could have. But could she lie to the entire softball team?

This gig felt more ludicrous with every passing moment.

“I walk every day, but not always to the Scissor Shack. I go to the library or the park. Dally meets me there sometimes, and we have a picnic.”

“You two do a lot together.”

Gabby reached out to drag her hand along a chain-link fence they were passing. She slowed slightly, letting her breath catch up. PJ hadn’t realized they were walking so fast. She just wanted to get home and out of the wig that had indeed begun to itch, sweat beading along the back of her scalp.

“Dally needed a friend. She was so alone when she moved here. Didn’t know a soul.” Gabby took PJ’s arm as the fence ended. “Don’t you have anyone who is missing you right now?”

“My sister, Connie, maybe. Her son, Davy. He’s four. I suppose my mother might wonder where I am. But I was gone for so long before, I don’t think I’ve been home long enough to miss.”

“I don’t think that’s the criteria. Who do
you
miss most right now?”

Jeremy.
The name poured into her mind. Jeremy, with his dark smile, the way he looked at her with eyes that suggested mystery and sometimes pride.

And as quickly as the thought crashed over her, guilt followed. Oh . . . she should have been missing Boone.

“You were thinking of your man, weren’t you?” Gabby lifted her hand to wave at a neighbor.

PJ said nothing.

The sun had fallen low over the rooftops, casting long, boxy shadows over the sidewalks. They passed a yard where three children danced through the sprinkler. Across the street, a neighbor stood at the foot of his driveway in slippers and a pair of Bermuda shorts, holding a newspaper, watching them.

“That’s Bernard Lewis. He works nights. Probably just getting ready for his shift. Wife died about three years ago. Has a daughter who comes around about as often as Evelyn, although she’s of course much younger.”

They’d reached Gabby’s front walk and PJ turned in to it. “Don’t you ever drive anywhere?”

“Not anymore. Evelyn picks me up for church. And Sammy takes me to the shopping center if I want to go. An old lady like me doesn’t need all that stress.”

“Did you sell your car?”

“Oh my, no!” Gabby reached into her purse, an ancient white handbag with a gold clasp. She pulled out her keys. “It’s in the garage out back. Was Sebastian’s pride and joy. I couldn’t part with it. Sammy keeps it tuned up and running for me. Just in case I want to cruise Lake Calhoun.” She winked at PJ before she put the key in the lock, turned it. “Will you stay for supper?”

PJ followed her inside and put the bag on the table. “I need a shower. And I should probably track down Jeremy.”

“Jeremy? Who’s that?”

“He’s my boss.”

Gabby stood there silent, her gaze on PJ’s face. “Oh, I see.” She said it with a tight smile, her eyes sparkling. “He’s not the one who’ll find you hiding in the costume room, is he?”

“See you tomorrow, Gabby.”

Inside Dally’s house, PJ closed the front curtain that looked out on the street. Then she stripped off the wig and Dally’s crazy clothes. An hour later she sat in the kitchen polishing off a cup of pudding she found in Dally’s pantry. The house felt more her own after twenty-four hours. From the side window, she occasionally saw the curtain at Gabby’s window rustle. No doubt the woman would be on high alert tonight
 
—PJ’s own private security detail.

She tossed the pudding container and stood for a long time in the bath of refrigerator light, wishing for a pizza. Closing the fridge, she settled for the dregs of Cap’n Crunch in the box on the counter. Turning off the kitchen light, she opened the front door, hiding in the growing darkness and letting the summer evening caress her skin. The sun had vanished, and at its departure, the crickets had begun to sing, the fireflies pulsing in the velvet twilight.

She wondered what Connie was doing
 
—most likely wrestling dinner down Davy, who, after two weeks alone with PJ, had turned into an amateur junk foodie. Vera was probably in the kitchen frying something inedible. Boris would be at work, hopefully loving his new job.

Boone . . . was it a bad sign that he walked into her thoughts last? Maybe she should call him, at least tell him she missed him.

She did miss him. Missed sitting on the porch with him after a hot day, sipping lemonade, hearing his laughter as she told him stories of Davy or Boris and Vera. Missed his hand in hers as they walked on the beach, their feet in the warm sand. Missed the tangy smell of his aftershave, his sturdy hands on
the wheel of his Mustang as she lifted her face to the sun, the wind tangling her hair.

Yes, she could probably love him a very, very long time.

But be the father of her . . .
children
? Did she want her own mini Boone to leap into her arms? Someday, perhaps. And yes, Boone would be a great father, remembering the way he tousled Davy’s hair. In fact, with very little effort, she could see the house, Boone’s car in the driveway, even a curly-haired boy with Boone’s smile . . . although where she fit into the picture she hadn’t quite figured out.

She closed the door and wandered into the living room, staring at the dragon peering at her in the faint lamplight. “You don’t scare me.”

The chinchillas were waking, snuffling about in their cage, jumping from one ledge to another. She suddenly remembered that Dally’s instructions about their care had included a mandate to let them out for an hour a day so they could run around
 
—“supervised, of course.”

Supervised chinchilla care.

Well, she supposed . . . She set the cereal box on top of the cage and opened it to reach in, maybe let the white one out
 
—

It bit her. Hard, spearing down in the webbing between her thumb and finger.

“Ow!” She yanked her hand back and closed the cage. “Fine. No hour of exercise for you.”

She retrieved the cereal box, turned on the television, cruised over to the old movie channel, and watched five minutes of the Duke, then channel surfed to a reality cop show and turned it off.

She had enough drama in her life.

Lying back on the sofa, staring at her toes, she thought of a pedicure, then the Scissor Shack, Linda, then Stacey and her words about Missy. Would Missy really come after Dally for a bad dye job? And what about Missy’s husband? Could he be Dally’s mystery man?

What if said husband
 
—Rick?
 
—and Dally did have a thing and he’d snuck into Dally’s house to erase all evidence . . . including Dally?

What had the intruder been hunting for?

She got up and opened the television cabinet. Looked under the sofa. Pulled up the cushions.

Then she opened the door to the attic and looked up into the darkness. A long string dangled from a lone bulb above the stairs.

She eased her way up, the third and seventh steps groaning under her weight, and found a light switch as she neared the top. She flicked it on and gasped.

This was an attic and more. An extended wardrobe room.

Truthfully, when PJ had stared at Dally’s supply of clothing yesterday, she’d run Dally’s warnings through her head and wondered what all the fuss was about. Now she stood at the top step, the Cap’n Crunch box in her hand forgotten.

Dally had a wardrobe that rivaled a fashionista’s from Fifth Avenue. An oval stand mirror stood in the center of the room, and along the walls hanging racks held enough leather to outfit the entire Harley-Davidson rally in Sturgis. Next to that hung faux fur: lime green leopard, pink and black zebra, orange and yellow tiger stripes, and a vest of white rabbit and silky . . . chinchilla?

Beyond the fur hung a dozen or more vintage-looking gowns: beaded chiffons with matching boas and headwear. Fringed flapper dresses from the twenties. Long, opulent satin and velvet gowns from the thirties. Wedding dresses from the forties. Strapless cocktail dresses from the fifties.

Apparently Dally’s flamboyant style didn’t stop at her body art.

On the other side of the attic, a dressmaker’s stand wore a creation that looked even older, with a high-sashed waist and a straight skirt, a simple boat neckline and long puffy sleeves. Beside it, a sewing table held a fancy machine, and next to that sat a book titled
Vintage Replications
.

Dally Morrison was a seamstress. More than that, she had real talent.

And what was even better, she had a great sense of shoe fashion. Vintage high heels spilled from a box near the stairs.

PJ liked Dally Morrison more and more every day.

Leaving the cereal box at the top of the stairs, she looked through the dresses, finding a pink lace and tulle gown complete with a sewn-in crinoline and a faux
 
—she hoped it was faux
 
—white rabbit stole. It even had a pair of long white gloves pinned to the hanger.

What was a girl to do?

PJ wriggled out of her T-shirt, shucked off her yoga pants, and pulled the dress over her head, losing herself for a moment in all the fluff. When she emerged out of the top, she’d transformed into a . . . princess? She zipped up the side closure and twirled, watching the skirt levitate. Rooting through the box of shoes, she found a pair of gold high heels
 
—probably the wrong era, but she didn’t care. Then she pulled on the gloves.

“Oh, do you want to take me to dinner? Really? Ask me to the ball?” She pursed her lips and posed before the mirror, a few shots that Marilyn Monroe would have been proud of, then of course accepted this dance from Boone, or maybe someone else, and let herself be led around the room. “Sure, I’ll dance with you too.” She switched partners and finished the dance, accidently knocking over a stack of books piled below the sewing table.

She bent down to restack them and discovered they were all tawdry romances. Not only that but the top one was half-read, an unmarked envelope stuck between the pages.

An envelope.

With a letter.

She opened it, the dance forgotten.

Dear Dally,

You made your choice. Now I have to make mine.

I wish things could be different.

~ R

R.
As in Rick? As in Missy’s husband? Was this Dally’s “mystery man”? Was this who had broken into her house? Rick, looking to find and destroy incriminating evidence?

A thump downstairs made her freeze. She listened and heard it again. Her heart had already fled through her mouth, and she grabbed the railing before her knees followed and left her in a heap on the floor.

Another thump.

Someone was in the house.

Again.

She flicked off the lights and wished desperately for her phone. Okay, okay, this time she’d speed-dial Boone, she promised.

She reached out in the darkness for a weapon
 
—any weapon
 
—and her hand closed around the Cap’n Crunch box. No, that wouldn’t work.

The shoes.

She pulled off the beautiful gold stilettos, holding one in each hand, and tiptoed down the stairs. The third step creaked and she froze.

Another thump, this time followed by a rattle.

The chinchillas began to scream.
No, no, no.

With a howl PJ leaped, shoes at the ready.

The prowler jumped off the cage and right at PJ, landing on her face, hissing. PJ screamed and pushed the cat away. It landed on her feet and shot off into the back of the house.

“Simon!” PJ gasped, shaking, the shoes still gripped in her hands. The softball lay in the middle of the carpet
 
—one mysterious thump. Next to it lay a book Dally had left on the television. The other thump.

“PJ?”

The voice behind her startled her and she whirled before she had a chance to think, to stop, to consider. She just reacted, fast and hard, and whacked the man with the heel of her shoe, right above his ear. “Stay back!”

“Ow!”

See, this was what came from skulking around in the semidarkness. Predators and boyfriends could sneak up with impunity.

“Oh, Boone!” She dropped the shoe and launched herself into his arms.

“I really hope this means you’re glad to see me.”

She buried her face in his neck and inhaled the sweet safety of Boone.
Boone.
Yes,
yes
, she’d missed him! First.

She pushed away from him. “What are you doing here?” Then, “Oh no, you’re bleeding!”

Boone clutched the side of his head. “I think you took off a foot of skin. It hurts.”

“Don’t bleed on the carpet!”

“Is that all you can say?”

“Don’t get it on this dress either.” PJ headed for the kitchen and turned on the light so she could examine the pink dress.

“I’m hurt here.” Boone followed her into the kitchen, grabbed a towel, and held it to his head.

PJ opened the freezer, looking for a bag of peas or corn. Of course, Dally, a girl with PJ’s exact eating habits, had only a half carton of peppermint chocolate-chip ice cream. She grabbed the ice tray and closed the door.