Her face brightened when she heard the plan for the evening. “Pink, you’ve finally gotten a good idea.”
I tried to be offhand in my remark about not mentioning the evening to Mrs. Shedd.
“Why exactly is it that we’re having it then?” she persisted.
Knowing it was probably a mistake, I told her about the crochet piece Matt had said he was going to bring me.
“So it’s Nancy Jessica Drew Fletcher Marple in action again.” Adele paused for a moment. “You know, I’m taking Marple off of that. She was a knitter.”
“Here’s another dance-related book,” I said, reading the computer screen. “It’s a diet book called Dance Your Way to Size Zero. That’s even better.”
Unfortunately, Adele recognized a chip when she had one and basically said if I wanted her silence, I’d have to let her be partners with me on the evening. But this time I was actually glad for the help. It took us both until closing time to get everything set up. Grey Fairchild seemed a little confused about why it had taken us two years to call her about a book signing, but she was excited about doing it nonetheless.
When I finally walked outside, I saw Mason standing in front of the bookstore.
“Burning the midnight oil, aren’t you, sunshine?” He stepped toward me and hugged me hello. “I called your house and your father said you were working late.”
Adele came out behind me and after locking the door, looked at Mason. “Pink, did you and the cop break up?”
I hardly wanted to start discussing my personal life in the parking lot or with Adele, so I did what politicians do. I didn’t answer and instead I said good night to her. She harrumphed and then went to her car.
“I thought I’d bring this to you here,” Mason said, holding out a shopping bag. “I told one of my associates about the blankets you’re making for traumatized children and she was so touched by it, she wanted to donate some yarn.”
I took the bag and examined the skeins on top. They were the same kind of soft yarn we were using. I was impressed that he had paid that close attention when I’d been talking about the project. “You could have just dropped it off at my house.”
“I’m more of an in-person sort of guy,” he said with a friendly smile. He brushed a strand of hair the wind had blown across my face. “So, tell me, has my status changed?”
Adele zoomed past us in her Honda and with a warning beep to the traffic on the side street, zipped out of the parking lot. I knew Mason was wondering if he had moved from an occasional dinner companion into the boyfriend slot. I’d given up fighting the title as nothing else seemed any better.
Since I wasn’t sure how to answer him, I did the politician thing with him, too, and simply didn’t say anything. But Mason was not one to let it go that easy. “Your mother liked me,” he said as though if he racked up enough points, he’d win the prize, which oddly enough, in this case, was me.
I couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t you know in the rules of relationships that is the kiss of death?”
He chuckled softly. “If I’d known that, I would have worn my motorcycle jacket and told your mother she looked old enough to be your grandmother.”
“Well, thanks for the yarn and going to all the trouble to get it to me.” I made a move toward my car, but he put his hand on my arm.
“A bag of yarn ought to at least get me a cup of coffee.”
“Why not? I’m just going home to rehearsal central. Time is getting short and they’re in overdrive.”
“Great,” he said. We walked to my car and I put the yarn in the trunk. “We could go to Mulligan’s,” he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the all-night coffee shop a few blocks down on Ventura. “Or my place. You probably don’t know this, but I grind my own beans.”
“Mulligan’s would be fine.” I closed the trunk. Since it was a short distance, we decided to walk. We crossed Ventura and moved in the direction of the coffee shop. I glanced across the street. Most of the stores and restaurants were dark. Then I noticed something odd. When I looked toward the second floor, the lights appeared to be on at the Lance Wells Dance Studio. There was some kind of coating on the window so you couldn’t see in, but I could tell the interior was illuminated.
Mason noticed me staring and followed my gaze. I explained it was the dance studio. “I wonder why the lights are on now?”
Mason linked his arm through mine. “It’s after eleven. It’s probably just the cleaning crew. Don’t worry about it.” Then he changed the subject. “You probably missed the news since you were working. They did a little bit on me and Rome O’Brien leaving the courthouse.” He didn’t have to explain the case. Everyone knew about the actress’s DUI, leaving the scene of an accident, having an expired driver’s license and the cherry on the sundae: slapping the cop who arrested her.
There was a tone of pride to Mason’s voice as he told the outcome of her trial. “Everybody was saying jail time for sure, and none of that serving eighty-three minutes and getting released, either. Once she slapped the cop, she kissed that option good-bye. They were talking months, but I got her off.”
“But maybe she should have gone to jail,” I offered. “It sounds like she did everything to deserve it.”
“That’s not for me to judge. My job is to present the best case for my clients,” Mason said. “And I did. And to make up for it I’m on the board of directors of every charity,” he added with a grin.
While he was talking, I kept my eyes on the dance studio and suddenly I had an idea. “Can I get a rain check on the coffee?”
“It’s the lawyer thing, isn’t it?” Even in the darkness I could see his expression had deflated. “I’m sorry I’m not a white knight like Greenberg. But just remember who you called when you thought you were going to be arrested.”
I told him it wasn’t that. I had just remembered something I had to do. As we retraced our steps, he saw me looking up at the dance studio window.
“Does it have anything to do with that?”
I tried not answering, but Mason didn’t go for it and continued cross-examining me.
I finally took the fifth.
“As your lawyer, I’m advising you not to do anything unlawful, and I’m suggesting a cup of coffee is a better option.” When I politely declined, Mason walked me back to my car.
He told me to stay out of trouble—but if I got in any to be sure and call. Then he leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was an extremely persuasive argument not to go. I understood why he won most—but not all—of his cases. I didn’t change my mind.
“I’m glad you’re not a prosecuter,” he said as I got in my car.
CHAPTER 22
“WHY DO YOU NEED A MOP?” DINAH SAID WHEN she sleepily answered the phone. “Another emergency at the bookstore?”
“I have a plan. Are you in?” I asked.
“Am I ever not? Where are you?” she said.
When I told her I was parked in front of her house, she had the front door open before I got out of the car.
She was wide awake by now. She pointed to the pile of essays she’d been grading on the couch. Apparently they had bored her to sleep.
While I explained the plan, we raided her cleaning closet. A few minutes later we were heading out the door, each with a pail filled with a bottle of spray cleaner and rags, along with a mop and a story. We were dance-floor cleaner specialists.
“What cleaning crew is going to turn down help?” I said as we started toward Ventura. Dinah’s house was just a couple of blocks away from the dance studio, so even with our supplies, we walked. “Besides, it’s not like there’s anything valuable they have to worry about up there except maybe some dance charts.”