Because, dammit, I knew I could do it. I could disappear. With my skills and resiliency, not to mention the five large in cash that the Flashing Fashion Queen had given me, most of which I still had, I could get away. With my connections, I could easily score fake ID, after which I could just evaporate. Poof into thin air. Granted, five grand wouldn’t carry me far, but it wouldn’t have to. I could certainly get far enough away from Marport City to start a new, anonymous, keep-to-myself life, with a nice, boring job. Hell, I could fly under the radar forever.
But that would mean the Flashing Fashion Queen would have won. And oh, God, it would mean Dickhead had won. And dammit, when I really thought about it, it would mean all those chauvinistic bastards at the Jones Agency had won. I could still hear their snickers when I told them I was going into business on my own. Still see the condescending eye-rolls.
I shook my head. No way in hell was I going to rabbit. No Plan B for me. It was Plan A all the way. The only plan I needed. The only plan that cleared me of the murder of Jennifer Weatherby, and put the guilty party, whoever she was, behind bars.
I put on the red blazer, which clashed slightly with my shades but matched perfectly the tint of my lipstick, and presto change-o, there I stood, the quintessential real estate agent.
The item I’d asked Mrs. P to get for me was a Marport First Realty Ltd. sign. I had no doubt she’d asked Craig to borrow one, and even less doubt he’d have to sneak back with it this evening. Craig had set the sign in the back seat of Mrs. P’s red Hyundai. Mrs. Presley was taking a chance lending me her car, but when I mentioned this to her, she waved me off with a flick of the hand.
“Someday, Dix Dodd, it might be me needing the favor.”
My throat tight, I just nodded. I’d do my damnedest to make sure that car wasn’t noticed. Starting with smearing dirt on the immaculate license place, which I did as soon as Mrs. P went back inside (she’d have had a bird to see me sully her baby). I stood back and examined my work. Upon close inspection, it wouldn’t hold up, but on not-so-close inspection, it would do just fine. And fortunately, there was enough of a lip over the license plate that the rain wouldn’t directly hit it. Not unless a wind came up, which was entirely possible. No, it wasn’t a perfect plan, but it had to do.
I wiped my hands best I could on rain-damped tissues and climbed into the car — no small feat considering how tightly my lower half was packed into that pencil skirt Mrs. Presley had provided. Automatically, I checked my cell to make sure it was set on vibrate, then dumped it in the inside pocket of my red blazer. All set for Dylan’s call.
Dylan’s call….
It struck me then that I was more nervous about that than I was about the pending break and enter. Schoolgirl nervous instead of jail-time nervous? Ack! The hair dye must be affecting my brain.
I stuck the key in the ignition, then checked my watch. It was time.
+++
I parked a few streets away from the Weatherby mansion, near a walking trail, to await Dylan’s call. I checked my watch again. I wanted the chatter of morning radio to keep me company, but I wasn’t quite up to hearing about myself on the news. It was just quarter to six. Figuring it would be a news-free zone until top of the hour, I flicked the radio on and quickly tuned it to the local station, the one with the ultra-cheery early-morning DJ banter.
“So it looks like another rainy day in Marport City, Kevin.”
“Great weather for ducks, Caroline. Ha ha ha.”
Someone pushed a sound effects button and a canned rim shot sounded.
Lame.
Well, no one said they were original ultra-cheery early-morning DJs. I turned the radio off again.
A couple walked by. They wore matched walking suits — his navy blue and hers pink — that must have cost what I spend on clothing in a year. And which perfectly matched the navy blue and pink jackets on their two pugs. Double Income, No Kids, I decided. They held close under Mr. DINK’s umbrella, while Mrs. DINK held the leashes of the two straining pugs. As I watched, I noticed them give more than just a sideways glance my way. I lowered my head and busied myself going through a stack of papers (which turned out to be takeout menus upon this close examination) I’d picked up from the seat beside me. Then I faked a sneeze, grabbing a tissue from the box squeezed between the seats to cover my face in an over-zealous nose-blowing effort. Eventually, the DINKS moved on, but not before the pink-clad one (the human, not the pug) gave a good hard look back at me.
“Okay,” I counseled myself, “don’t overreact. It’s raining. Any glimpse through the windshield would be blurred. I’m in disguise — a damn good disguise. Nobody is out this morning looking for a dark-haired real estate agent. They’re looking for a blond Dix Dodd, not….”
Which reminded me I needed a name. Not just to put me in character (though that was important), but in case I was asked and had to think of something quick. I glanced back again at the real estate sign in the back seat. There would be a name on the sign, of course. I turned and leaned back to read it. “Okay, they’re looking for Dix. Not … Bert Cartsell.”
Damn.
I glanced in the rearview mirror, staring into my well made-up eyes. “Hello there, Bert. How’s it hanging? Oh, it’s not hanging? Well, that’s probably a good thing.”
Had Mrs. DINK seen the sign? Would she necessarily put two and two together if she did? Maybe she knew Bert Cartsell? Who the hell sells carts anyway in this day and age? Apparently Bert.
“Argh!” Sometimes, I swear, I was my own worst enemy. Yeah, me and the Flashing Fashion Queen.
I felt the vibration in my pocket and glanced at my watch. Almost six. It had to be Dylan; I knew this before I even flipped the cell open and glanced at the number. “Bert here.”
“What’s that, Dix?”
“Never mind.”
“Coast is clear. Ned Weatherby just left.”
“House is empty?” He’d pretty much told me that, but I wanted to keep him on the line. We’d left things tense last night, and I wanted to make sure that was going to blow over.
“Empty,” he repeated.
“Well,” I said stupidly. “Empty is good.”
“Yep.”
“Yep.”
I waited for him to say something. Desperately hoped that he would. The tension was too heavy. And I didn’t want to lose my best friend. My best employee. Hell, I didn’t want to lose Dylan in any respect. “Well, I’ll head over, then.”
“Dix?”
“Yeah?”
“Want to know if this love is true? Call me and I’ll make sure you do.”
Jesus! I nearly dropped the phone. “Dylan, I—”
“For the business cards, Dix,” he said, and damned if I couldn’t hear the grin in his voice. “I know it’s not as catchy as my other suggestions, but I kind of like it. Cute, you know?”
I kind of liked it too. And I found myself smiling for the first time since last night.
“Not too bad,” I agreed. “If I ever get out of this mess….”
“When,” he corrected. “When we get out of this mess.”
I swallowed. “Thank you, Dylan.”
“You’re welcome, Dix.” His voice turned serious. “I’ve got an excellent view of the Weatherby house. I’m parked across the street, in the driveway two houses down..”
“Where are the owners?”
“Japan for four months while renovations are being done. Which I discovered the other day when I was talking to the neighbors, asking about Jennifer.”