Okay, yes, the world’s dumbest retort. But I was getting a little stressed here; he was so happy. Just what did Dickhead know that I didn’t?
I forced up a chuckle.
“Laugh all you want now, Dix Dodd,” Detective Head said. “You won’t be laughing for long.”
“You going to get to the point today, Detective?”
“The point is that Jennifer Weatherby wasn’t anywhere near your office on Monday. The late Mrs. Weatherby was at the Bombay Spa for her weekly treatments. Left early in the morning, came home late at night. You lied, Dix. There is no way in hell that she was in your office.”
I could feel my grip on calm slipping. Dylan moved closer, his gaze intent on my face, no doubt reading the growing panic there. “There has to be a mistake….”
“The mistake is you messed with the wrong people, Dix. I’m going to haul you in.”
“Give me forty-eight hours.” The words were out before I’d clearly thought them over.
“Why should I?” Dickhead asked, clearly enjoying himself.
“Because I’ll deliver the murderer to you by then.”
Now I appreciated his pause. He was thinking it over. And then I realized: there were no blaring sirens on the way to pick me up. No cops banging on the door. No police dogs sniffing my car. Detective Head, through he would dearly love to see me in jail, wouldn’t let the real killer get away.
“Okay,” he grumbled. “You got your forty-eight hours.” Then he hung up the phone.
“Where do we go from here, Dylan?” God, was it just two minutes ago that he’d put that question to me? It felt like hours. I swallowed hard, but when I spoke, my voice was as strong as I could make it. “I’ll tell you where we’re going. To the Bombay Spa.”
Dylan slowly nodded, erased the whiteboard and we began again.
And when the phone rang, we ignored the damn thing.
Chapter 7
Forty-eight hours.
Not too damn much time to save my butt. But it would be enough. It had to be.
As we sat down to brainstorm, it was clear that Dylan shared my anxiety.
Here’s the thing about Dylan — he’s not just good to look at; he’s pretty damned good at this job. He is always intensely committed to solving the mystery at hand. I’ll confess that over the period of our association, I’ve enjoyed watching him apply himself to a puzzle. There is something positively fascinating about watching an intelligent guy think. You can almost see the wheels churning, the adrenaline rushing. But this time, with this case … well, I’d never seen him look so fiercely focused as we went over the details and attempted to chart the life of Mrs. Weatherby.
You’d think at first glance that Jennifer Weatherby had lived a fairytale existence. She’d grown up dirt poor, the stereotypical girl from the wrong side of the tracks. When she was barely twenty-one, she’d married the dashing young businessman, Ned Weatherby. Rumor had it that Ned’s parents had never thought Jennifer was good enough for their Neddy, but he had fallen head over heels for the young and beautiful Jennifer. And some say it was Jennifer’s fear of being poor again that lead Ned to work so hard, and be so ruthless in business over the years. To keep the dragons at bay.
After Ned had made the millions, Jennifer’s life seemed to revolve around shopping at the most exclusive boutiques and spending her days at the Bombay Spa. Literally rags to riches. Safe and perfect.
But I never trusted fairytales. Too simplistic. Too black and white.
I’d been the one in grade school who’d scoffed all the way through the Sleeping Beauty play, finally yelling, “Wake the hell up!” After which, of course, I was escorted out of the tiny gymnasium. Little Red Riding Hood drove me nuts; she should have pulled a gun out of her handbag and just shot the damn wolf. Now that would have been happily ever after. Clint Eastwood style happily ever after, but … well, it would have put a smile on my face.
And I really, really didn’t like Cinderella.
I never thought of it as a story of princess meets prince, falls in love. It just drove me crazy that Cinderella morphed into something to capture the heart of her true love, and that the fairy Godmother helped her do it! I mean, shouldn’t she have shown up in her everyday clothes and seen what old Prince Charming thought of her then?
But yet, we all do that, don’t we? We dress to impress. Play the part according to the audience. And yeah, okay, we judge on first impressions.
And whereas I was on my way to the Bombay Spa, I knew I’d have to play the part too. No way could I go in as Dix Dodd, Private Detective, with her assistant, Dylan Foreman. That would make me an outsider.
No, I would enter the spa as Dixie Davenport, rich bitch, needing a day of pampering. Rest and relaxation. Small talk and gossip. I had the wardrobe for it (okay, one outfit, an authentic Chanel charcoal blazer and pant suit that made me look like a million bucks rather than the hundred bucks I’d paid for it at a fire sale, and a decent pair of black pumps), and I could fake the attitude. Just throw those shoulders back, lift the chin and pretend you smell something vaguely unpleasant. And gossip? I could hold my own with the best of them. If there were any juicy details to be learned about the fairytale life of Jennifer Weatherby, I’d ferret them out.
When I called the spa and told them that I wanted to book for that very afternoon, I was told there was nothing available. The waiting list to get in was at least a month long. Remember those winged bills that had been flying overhead? My big payday? Well, they started flying toward the spa.
I told a few lies about being the wife of a movie producer from Hollywood, a producer who hoped to be shooting a Matt Damon thriller in the area. But, maybe I should tell hubby dearest to reconsider. No way could we make our temporary home in a podunk town where I couldn’t get an appointment at the spa when I so desperately needed one.
The little squeally shriek that followed half convinced me the receptionist was having an orgasm. She put me on hold. Less than two minutes later, she came back on the line to inform me that they would certainly make an exception for any friend of Mr. Damon’s.
That’s how I got myself into the Bombay.
Dylan? Well, no way in hell would he sit around and be left behind.
“And just how,” I’d asked, “do you propose to get in there? The clientele are all female.”
“Way ahead of you, Dix.” He had smiled. “I called the head of personnel. They’re hiring.”
“You got yourself an interview, just like that?”
“An interview?” He looked insulted. “Are you kidding? With my qualifications, I was hired on the spot, over the telephone.”
I didn’t even ask which qualification he was referring too.
+++
I was appropriately gushed over as I entered the spa. One attendant took my coat, which I shoulder-shrugged out of perfectly. I caught the staffer sneaking a glance at the coat’s tags, which made me glad I’d had the forethought to stitch a Hilary Radley label scavenged from a vintage coat I’d picked up at a yard sale over the real label. Another staffer offered me an herbal tea, which I declined with a wordless wave. I was then escorted to the office, where a nervous, bone-thin redhead in a thousand dollar pantsuit did her best to accommodate. Her name was Ms. Pipps, and she was as efficient as her name sounded. Crisply efficient. On such short notice, they’d put together a pretty comprehensive spa day. I’d start with a massage, move on to a mud wrap, followed by a manicure and pedicure, then a full facial. I ordered the lemon chicken for lunch, which I’d have out on the terrace.