Though police declined to give more details, Jeremy Poole, lawyer and friend of Ned Weatherby, elaborated on the situation. “From what we’ve been able to ascertain, Dix Dodd apparently had an obsession with Ned. She’d been stalking him for at least a week — recording his every movement, snapping pictures, even going so far as to sleep outside his house in her car at night. You have to feel sorry for a woman like that.” But Poole quickly changed his tone when asked if perhaps Ned Weatherby had returned Dodd’s romantic interest. “He’d never be interested in a floozy like that.” (see ‘Floozy’ page A-4)
I recognized the 555 number, of course. It was Dickhead’s cell phone. He must want me badly to give that number out to the paper.
I turned to page A-4 and quickly scanned the pictures. It would serve no purpose at this point to read further. What more could they add that I didn’t already know? Breaking news! Dix Dodd totally fucked!
No, I reminded myself, not totally. I was still free, still able to investigate, and I intended to remain that way.
There were no other pictures of me. There was one of the parking area outside my office, with uniformed cops heading every which way (in the wake of my giving Dickhead the slip, no doubt). In one frame, Dickhead, in a moment of total frustration, was launching a small package across the yard. Toothpicks, I figured. There was a picture of Jennifer Weatherby — the real Jennifer Weatherby, not the phony who’d posed as her in my office — and my heart ached for her. There was a picture of Ned, leaving the church, I assumed after making funeral arrangements. Pastor Ravenspire had one arm around Ned’s shoulders, providing whatever comfort he could. The other arm was raised in failing effort to block the access by the flashing cameras. Luanne Laney stood looking severe and efficient behind them. There was a picture of Jeremy Poole, too, standing in front of the Court House, looking very lawyerly in his long black robe. Looking serious. And looking like he had a stick so far up his ass, he’d need three surgeons and a skilled dentist to extract it.
“Good call, Mrs. Presley,” I said.
“Getting Craig to pick up the paper?”
“No, getting me to eat before I saw these pictures.”
She laughed, and handed me the other muffin.
“I’m not hungry.” I put the paper aside.
“Put the muffin in your pocket for later. When you’ve got your appetite back.”
Pocket, right. That reminded me. “Were you able to put together an outfit for me?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
One of the … er … benefits, of running an establishment such as Mrs. Presley’s was that clients sometimes left things behind when they dashed away in a hurry. And when they did, they often didn’t want to risk coming back for them. After thirty days, Mrs. Presley claimed the articles as her own. She got such a kick out of these little treasures. Money was her favorite (and least frequent) find, followed by jewelry, mostly of the costume variety. But Mrs. Presley also had a wide assortment of clothing and accessories that had been left behind. The undergarments (or what was left of the undergarments after some enthusiastic nights) she tossed out. But the other stuff, she kept. Feather boas, fur-lined handcuffs, tight-fitting skirts, dark glasses, assorted scarves. Oh, and lots of trench coats with high collars.
“Oh, yes, I got you an outfit, Dix. You’re gonna love it!”
She went to the closet, hipchecked the door open and popped herself out for just a moment. And when she returned with the outfit on a hanger, she held it out to me like the girl at the car show, showing off the latest model.
“Oh, my.”
One look at the skirt, told me it would be a tight squeeze. A very tight squeeze. And my knees would be pressed together so tightly, I’d be doing that penguin walk. It was black and straight and leather. Mrs. Presley had also provided me with a blouse. Sparkling white, of all things. But judging by the dated style, I knew it would have been a dingy white had it not been for Mrs. Presley’s meticulous domestic skills. The topper of the outfit, the most important ingredient, was a bright red blazer. The latter was classy-looking, and I knew without a doubt that it was new. And not cheap by any means. Two hundred bucks, easy. Two hundred of Mrs. Presley’s bucks. It would take a dose of sodium pentothal to make her admit it, but I knew she’d gone out and bought it for me.
“This … this is wonderful, Mrs. Presley.”
“Ah hell,” she said, “I’m glad to get rid of the old stuff. Been gathering dust in my closet for too long.”
Now I knew she was lying. Dust wouldn’t dare settle in her closet.
“Oh, I almost forgot this.” She reached into the deep pocket of her flowered skirt, and pulled out two things: a bottle of black hair dye and a bright pink disposable razor.
Okay, the hair dye I could understand, along with the finger-wagging warning not to get any on the bedding. Black hair would be great for my disguise/transformation.
But just how did she know I needed to shave my legs?
I looked at her quizzically. “The razor, Mrs. Presley?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Dylan told me I’d better send that along. He said you should probably give your legs the once over before you headed out.”
My jaw dropped. “He didn’t.”
“No, he didn’t.” She smiled like the cat that swallowed the canary. “But now that I know how close you two got, I’ll be on my way.” With a nudge and a wink and a laugh at my expense, she leapt up and left through the regular door.
I groaned and covered my face.
Great morning so far.
Chapter 15
It was barely dawn when I prepared to leave the Underhill Motel.
The hair dye Mrs. Presley had gotten me was a temporary one, thank God, but somehow I couldn’t see getting my natural blond hair back in one shampoo as promised on the label. Maybe a week of shampoos, if I was lucky. It was so … well, black.
I’d piled my hair up high on my head, and set it in place with bobby pins. And before you groan, it looked great. Really. Just because my underwear isn’t that fashionable and I seldom bother plugging in an iron doesn’t mean I’m not damned good with my hair. Hell, I can fix it a dozen ways, and I can do it faster than a runway model can change outfits. All part of the job. The quick change, the ability to convert my looks on a dame.
Get it … on a ‘dame’?
But I digress.
By the time I perfected my makeup and put on the Roberto Cavalli shades Mrs. Presley had provided (at least one guest must have left the Underhill in a hell of a hurry to forget those puppies), I hardly recognized myself. Now as long as no one else did. Maybe the horrible picture of me in the Marport City Morning Edition had been a blessing after all.
As I stood looking at my reflection and admiring my handiwork, I let myself think the thought I’d been trying to suppress: You could run, Dix.
I closed my eyes and pressed a thumb and forefinger against my lids as though I could push the thought back. But there was no budging it.