Killer in Crinolines (23 page)

“The girls will not be amused.”

And they weren’t. But it did get me to thinking about what KiKi said as I cranked up the volume on
Gypsy Fire
and started the belly-dancing warm-up routine. What
was
Boone doing on Broughton at midnight? City Market and River Street and Bay Street were all about nightlife but that end of Broughton was small shops and daytime eateries.

And why did he suddenly show up at Suellen’s when I was there looking around? Then there was Pillsbury suddenly behind me without an ounce of perspiration and wanting to jog with me? Why was he over here in the middle of the Victorian district when he lived on the west side? And what about that crack of Doc Hunky and enjoying the pizza!

I told the girls to keep dancing for a minute and ran into the kitchen. I picked up Old Yeller and handed it to KiKi. “Take this for a drive over to Forsyth Park.”

“Why on earth would I take a purse for a drive?”

“You’ll see and when you do tell him he better get his fanny back here right now and not make me come after him.” KiKi gave me a quick once-over. “Fanny, huh. This should be interesting.” She grabbed the purse and hoofed it out the door.

Belly dancing is always passionate but when I tossed in ticked off, mad as a hornet, riled up, and genuinely ready to strangle someone with my bare hands, passionate took on a life all its own.

“There he is,” one of the Silver Spoon gals sang out as the last song wound to an end. She nodded to the back of the room, all eyes following. The women filed past Boone with sultry
hellos
and
how are you doing this fine morning
and
it’s mighty nice to see you again
.

When the last of the class paraded out the door Boone ambled over to me, Old Yeller balanced on the tip of his fingers. “You rang?”

“Blast you, Walker Boone!” I grabbed Old Yeller and dumped the contents on the floor, empty wallet, brush, flashlight, flip-flops, phone, dog collar, dog treats, dog doo-doo bags, gum, water bottle, all piled in a big heap. “Okay, where is it?”

Boone folded his arms and stared, humor brightening his usually dark eyes. I punched his arm. “You held my purse when we were at Simon’s and I was under the bookcase.”

“I rescued you from under the bookcase.”

“I could have crawled out. Did you put it in then?”

“Put what in?”

I rummaged through the pile and picked up the phone. “Pillsbury and you together! That’s how he knew where I was jogging. You bugged me.”

“You always bug me. Seemed fair.”

I faced him nose to chin . . . unshaved chin at that. “You had Pillsbury give me the phone so you would know where I was all the time and if I was someplace questionable, one of you would show up. Right?”

“Why would we do that?”

“Because you think I can’t take care of myself, and I can, usually. Sometimes I just need a little assistance.”

“Sometimes?”

“I’m going to get you for this.”

The superior smirk was firmly in place. “This should be interesting.”

“See all those lovely women who just paraded out of here gaping at you like a piece of raw meat. You just invited them for dinner. I’m sending a text message from the phone you so graciously gave me with time, date, and directions. Twenty women will be camped on your porch Saturday night at seven.”

The smirk slipped a notch. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

Boone grabbed for the phone and I dropped it down my blouse.