Love Game (25 page)

“Delete them without listening to them, Bridget.”

“What if they’re calling to hear more about Gloria Steinem?” she asked.

Poor Bridget. She was the last suffragette standing.

I DROVE
to Gold Digger Avenue and parked in front of a gray-and-white ranch house. I knocked on the door, and Jim Farrow answered. He was middle-aged, trim, with long hair and a beard. He was head to toe in denim. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Hi, Mr. Farrow. I’m Gladie Burger. I found your dog on the mountain.”

“Come on in,” he said.

Farrow’s house was tidy and modest. He offered us coffee and invited us to sit at his kitchen table. “I loved that dog. I know it’s stupid for a grown man to love a dog, but she was something special.”

“Very well behaved,” Bridget said. “You brought Paws over to my place once. She was sweet.”

“How did she die?” I asked.

“The police think she was poisoned. Why would someone do that to her? For kicks?”

“We thought she died normally and you buried her up there,” Bridget said.

“No, we were walking in the Main Street park, and she took off. She does that sometimes to say hi. She’s very social.
Was
very social.”

“Who was she saying hi to?” I asked.

“I don’t know. She disappeared. I didn’t think anything about it for a while, and then I looked for her in her usual haunts.”

“She had haunts?” Bridget asked. Farrow’s dog had a more active social life than I had.

“The cheese shop, the hardware store, like that,” he explained. “I even checked my last work site, but she wasn’t there.”

“Where was your last work site?” I asked.

“The old Terns house.” The house across the street. The Rellik house. Time stopped in Farrow’s kitchen, as we all reached our own conclusions.

“That bastard,” Farrow said after a minute. “He killed my dog.”

“Wow. He poisoned Paws while he had us locked up,” Bridget said.

It was a good theory and probably right, but I was stubbornly seeing things differently. We finished our coffee and left Farrow’s house.

“That is so sad,” Bridget said. “He’s going to be lonely now.”

“You could give him your number.”

“Not funny, Gladie.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” I said. “Check out the neighborhood.”

We didn’t walk far. Cup O’Cake was only a few houses down from Farrow’s. The shop was experiencing an after-lunch lull, and we were the only customers. Nevertheless, Mavis and Felicia gave us the cold shoulder. Gone were the effusive customer relations and free cupcakes.

“Maybe we should go to Tea Time,” Bridget whispered to me. “I heard Ruth is up and running but you have to bring your own cup.”

“I’m not running away with my tail between my legs,” I said, continuing with the dog theme of the day. “Order for us.”

She ordered two ham-and-cheese paninis and a box of cupcakes to take home.

“Is it me?” Bridget asked me. “They must have heard about the sex calls. People can be so judgmental!”

“They didn’t hear about the sex calls,” I said. “It’s not you; it’s me. They don’t like me.”

“How can they not like you? You’re so likable. I like you.”

“I like you, too,” I told her. “You know, despite the sex calls.”

Bridget took a bite of her panini. I was surprised to realize I wasn’t hungry.

“Maybe I should get the number changed.” Bridget had deflated, like a balloon a week after a party. “I’m not doing any good. They’re very persistent. And numerous.”

I nodded. “There’s no shortage of horny men in this world,” I agreed. “And they’re reluctant to give up their perversions.” I was an expert on horny men
not giving up their perversions. I had worked at an adult bookstore in Butte for one memorable evening.

“This is the best panini I’ve ever tasted,” Bridget said.

“I’ve gained three pounds since I discovered this place.”

“You’d think they would have more customers. Where is everybody?”

“It’s usually busier,” I said.

“I like it this way,” Bridget said, and slumped down in her chair. “Relaxing. No craziness.”

The door slammed open, knocking the little bell onto the floor with a clang. Luanda danced in with a flourish, her shoes hitting the floor like
Lord of the Dance
. Her soggy feathers stuck to her face and back, and her layers of skirt were filthy.

“I am Luanda, and I speak to dead people!” she announced.

“Yes, we’ve been introduced,” I said.

“Oh, my. Oh, my.” Mavis swatted Luanda with her tea towel. “Shoo! You’re traipsing dirt into my store.”

Luanda grabbed the tea towel and yanked it out of Mavis’s hand. “I have an announcement,” she said, her voice deep and ghostlike. She put her arms up like she was going to hit a home run.

“I know who murdered Michael Rellik!”

I gasped, and so did Bridget, Mavis, and Felicia.

“The spirits have imparted their knowledge, and I will make the announcement today,” she continued.

“Okay, we’re waiting,” I said.

Luanda woo-woo’d and danced in a circle. “Two hours,” she sang. She pointed at me. “You be there,” she commanded. Then she went around the shop,
pointing at everyone. “You be there. You be there. You be there,” she repeated. She floated back to the door.

“Where?” I shouted, as she was leaving.

“Your grandmother’s house, of course,” she said, and ran off like a crazy, soggy, New Age bird.

“Do you think she really knows who the murderer is?” Bridget asked me.

“Probably not, but when the hordes arrive, we’d better be there to help my grandmother, not to mention to protect Luanda from her.”

I paid and took the box of cupcakes with us. We drove back through the historic district. Bridget turned her phone on and began to listen to her messages.

“Is this what men want?” she asked me. “All these unconventional acrobatics? All this dirty talk?”

“I have no idea what men want,” I said. “Maybe it’s not unconventional or dirty. Maybe we’re behind the times.”

“No, that can’t be it,” Bridget said.

What did men want? Were they merely testosterone jelly wrapped in a skin suit? I thought I had understood Holden’s intentions. He had been devoted and loving, but I hadn’t heard from him since he left town, and, in my book, those weren’t the actions of a man in love. Although it could very well be that it was dangerous for him to contact me and he was only trying to protect me.

Spencer was even more complicated. An avowed womanizer, yet he swore he was turning over a new leaf. And our kiss said something: Affection. Devotion. Friendship.

I knew in my heart that I was finally ready to give
Spencer the benefit of the doubt, to allow our relationship to grow in whatever way it would.

I realized I had been holding my breath, and I let it out, exhaling slowly.

“Is that Spencer?” Bridget asked, pointing toward Saladz.

I slowed the car as we passed by. There on the sidewalk was Spencer, playing mouth hockey with a too-tall, too-thin redhead. It was bad enough that he was back to being a player, but playing with a thinner, younger model was unforgivable.

I skidded to a halt, made a U-turn, and drove up on the curb next to the happy couple.

“Bridget, hand me the box of cupcakes,” I said.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk with the box in my hands. For a brief moment, I thought maybe I should remain calm, cool, and classy, maybe I should get back in the car and just forget about Spencer and what a traitorous jerk he was.

Then the brief moment passed, and I opened the box and beaned Spencer in the head with a cupcake. The fact that half of it landed in his girlfriend’s hair extensions was just an added benefit.

Spencer looked up as if it were raining cupcakes, but then he spotted me, and his face turned from shock to anger and back to shock again.

I threw another cupcake.

THE SKINNY
girl ran for it down the street. I lobbed three more cupcakes and hit Spencer square in the face. I was on fire. I couldn’t miss. I was the Incredible Hulk of cupcake throwing, my body turned superhuman from an uncontrollable rage.

Unfortunately, I had bought only six cupcakes from Cup O’Cake, and they ran out quickly. Spencer wiped his eyes clean with the hem of his shirt. He was madder than hellfire, but not madder than me. I looked for something else to throw at him.

“Are you kidding me?” he yelled in my direction. “Brand-new Armani!”

I growled at him. It came out less like the Incredible
Hulk and more like PMS, but he got the picture. We were drawing a crowd. A lady came up and handed me a plate.

“Go after him,” she urged. “Show him who’s boss.”

I tossed the plate, but my aim was off and it narrowly missed him, crashing against a lamppost instead.

“What the hell?” he shouted. He marched over and leaned down so his face was nearly touching mine. “Have you finally lost all your marbles?”

“I lost my marbles last night!”

“Last night? What happened last night?” he asked. “Oh,” he said, finally recalling the details of the night before.

“I will never ever talk to you again!”

“Is that a promise?”

“Better yet,” I yelled, “I will continue to talk to you! But I will never ever flirt with you again!”

Spencer grabbed my arm and tugged me toward his car. “Okay, that’s it. We’re moving this conversation somewhere else.”

“This conversation is done. I have no more to say to you,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Oh, Pinkie, if only that were really true.”

“What are you doing?”

“Handcuffing you,” he said. “Just until I get you calmed down.”

I fought against him and tried to get free, but he put the handcuffs on me and squeezed them tight. “Ow! I’m not going to calm down if I’m handcuffed!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bridget approach.

“I want a lawyer!” I called out.

Spencer shoved me into the backseat of his car. “You don’t need a lawyer, woman. You need a strait-jacket.”

And then we were gone, driving west out of the historic district, Bridget standing at the curb, her mouth open. He finally stopped when we were far out on a dirt road near the mine. It was abandoned except for us, and the sun was beginning to set.

He pulled me from the car. “I’m going to take the cuffs off you now,” he said. “You think you can refrain from taking a swing at me?”

“I’m not barbaric.”

“Pinkie, you gave me a wallop with the cupcakes. It’s like you’re the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Next you’ll be getting a nose ring. Are there brass knuckles in your purse?”

He took the cuffs off my wrists, and, true to my word, I didn’t take a swing at him.

“So, what’s this about?” he asked.

“What’s this about? The skinny girl. You were kissing a skinny girl.”

“And you don’t like skinny girls?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

He was insufferable. He was worse than his usual smirking, smug self. He was actually bewildered, unsure of why I was upset.

“You said you were off women for a while.”

“The moment ended,” he said. “An opportunity presented itself. Pinkie, I’m a healthy man.”

“Are you in love with her? Is it serious between you two?”

“I just met her.”

“And so you throw everything away for a woman you just met?” I asked.

“Throw what away?”

“You told me you were off women,” I insisted. “You were done with your womanizing ways. You lied to me. You are a big, fat liar!” I was nearly frothing at the mouth. I was seeing red. If there was anything at all I could have thrown at him, I would.

“Pinkie, I’m not fat.”

“How dare you lie to me like that! How dare you go back on your word!”

Spencer waved his hands in the air. “Hold on, hold on. This is none of your business. If I want to see a woman—skinny or not—I will see her, and it’s none of your business. It’s my business; it’s her business. Not your business. You understand? It’s between her and me and my manhood, if you catch my drift.”

“But—” I started.

“No!” He wagged his finger at me. “I’m a grown man. I don’t answer to you.”

My throat got thick, and my nose ran.

Spencer raked his fingers through his hair. “Don’t start that,” he said. “That’s playing dirty.” I sniffed and wiped a tear away. Spencer growled low in his throat.

“It is too my business,” I croaked.

“How is it any of your business?”

“It just is.”

“How? Tell me how.”

“Because—” I started, but stopped myself. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. There was no use
having a heart-to-heart with Spencer Bolton. He didn’t have my best interests at heart.