~*~
Wrestling.
When I clicked on the remote the first channel I came to was wrestling. There was a guy bent over in a head-lock with his red-shorted butt to the camera. I don’t care what Mother and Mrs. P thought, this just was not sexy! Faster than the speed of light, I hit the mute button. Unfortunately, my speed of light apparently wasn’t quick enough for Mrs. Presley’s sharp hearing.
“Was that wrestling, Dix?” she called from the bedroom.
She and mother had retired about a half hour earlier. And I had thought after the big meal, the bottles of wine and the fairly uneventful and restful evening, the two would be sound asleep by this time.
“I’d get up for wrestling you know, Dix.”
I didn’t want to lie to Mrs. P, but I needed some time alone to relax and think. Quickly — so I wouldn’t technically be lying — I flipped the channel. “Wrestling is not on the television, Mrs. P.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” Not on this TV right now.
Remote still in hand, ear cocked toward the bedroom, I waited for more questions. Nothing. Apparently, sans wrestling motivation, Mrs. Presley had resettled for the night.
And I settled a little easier back into the pull-out again.
What was on?
I flicked through the channels. Not that I was in much of a mood to concentrate. And not that I was much for TV at the best of times, unless there was a kick-ass CSI on (and they’re all kick ass). But tonight, I clicked right past all of them — Dallas, Vegas, and especially Miami.
Horatio and the gang would have a field day if Frankie the Froggie came into the morgue.
Parking it on CNN, I stretched on the sofa bed best I could (which surprisingly was pretty well). I wore my pajamas, which consisted of gray t-shirt and sleep shorts fresh from the dryer, but I wasn’t cozy-cozy yet. I reached around, and undid my bra in the back, did a few contortions, then pulled it out through an arm hole. There. Now I was cozy-cozy.
Mother had set out two blankets for me, but being used to cooler climes, I was fine with just the thin sheet. I set the blankets on the decorative white rocker beside the bed. Definitely decorative. It cradled three teddy bears and the runners on the bottom hadn’t so much as one crack in the paint from wear.
As Piers Morgan droned on in the background, I went over and over again in my mind the details of the day. When my thoughts started circling back on themselves like a snake eating it’s own tail, I gave up in disgust. The case of the family jewels wasn’t going to be solved tonight.
Okay, TV it was. I picked up the remote again and started flipping. Mindlessly.
Nope, I wasn’t even thinking at all as I surfed up the numbers. Looking for nothing in particular as I clicked up higher and higher. Yep, just flicking away….
“Holy kamoly!”
I sat crossed-legged on the bed and leaned back against the head of it and watched the tangled trio — okay, outie, innie, outie … yep that was a trio — for a moment.
Now where did that remote go? Oh, yes, somehow I’d managed to toss it across the bed. I reached for it, of course. Eventually grabbed it, and yes my hand was edging in on those numbers.
Research!
My hand stilled.
Yes, definitely research. After all, I had to keep up the Dix Dodd erotica writer persona. No doubt Tish would be at me again tomorrow looking for more details on my literary career. I’d be prepared. I’d be damned prepared. Why, if I had to watch this channel into the wee, wee hours of the morning, I would. All for the sake of getting off. I mean, all for the sake of getting my mother off and clearing her good name.
I turned up the volume just enough — just barely enough — now I really didn’t want Mrs. P and Mother coming out here to catch me doing my research.
Yes, volume certainly added to the plot. Not that I’d have been lost without it. Oh, and I got to hear that really cool music you just couldn’t find anywhere else.
There was a tall, handsome blond guy in the flick, moving to the waw-waw-wawwww music pretty well. That is, pretty well, for someone with such a massive distraction. I half waited for him to stand up and trip over it. And of course tall blond guy got me thinking about the good deputy and our ‘date.’ I still hadn’t decided if technically it was a date. I wasn’t so naive as to think Deputy Almond was only asking me out to get my take on things as he’d professed. And it was more than a straight he/she date kind of thing. I knew he was playing me, or trying to, rather. Hell, he’d played all the parts perfectly in the rec room earlier in the day. Best bud to Big Eddie Baskin. Charming young man to Tish and Beth Mary. Consoling gentleman to Harriet and Wiggie. (So why had he been so stern with my mother? He’d play me to get information, probably on my own mother. Deputy Almond was a looker, but those blue eyes and good ol’ boy charm would only get him so far with me. I’d be playing him right back. I’d let him think I was being charmed while I found out everything he had to know.
Hee hee hee. I swear that giggle had come from the wine glass.
And since no one likes to laugh alone, I poured myself a second glass and snuggled down under the thin sheet, my head nestled down into the soft pillow Mom had provided.
And so there I found myself late that Florida night, cozy in my near nothing, laying back in the darkened living room, enjoying a nice glass of Shiraz with only the glow of the television washing over me as I watched the happy — couple now — on TV.
I stretched out my legs and wiggled my toes. I played a fingertip around the edge of the wine glass. Slower and slower.
And I damn near threw the fucking glass across the room when I heard someone outside my mother’s patio door.
Miraculously, I didn’t scream. Fighting back the rush of adrenaline, I set the wine glass down on the small end table with barely a click. Staying out of the light from the television, I tiptoed my way to the patio doors.
The jewel thief? God, wouldn’t that be convenient?
Or, hey, Frankie Morrell, maybe?
Whatever the case, someone wasn’t using the front door here. Someone was breaking and entering my mother’s apartment. My mind went immediately to our family’s lucky diamond. The one Dad had given Mother all those years ago. If someone was coming in here with a mind to steal that from my mother, they’d be getting one hell of a big surprise.
I’d be their welcoming committee. Hell, I’d be their worst nightmare.
The doors were locked, of course. Both Mother and Mrs. P had checked them twice, including the patio’s French door. But a locked door wasn’t much of a deterrent to a determined thief. These condo locks were fairly high quality (I’d checked), but they weren’t the high security jobs with the floating collars that resisted picking and drilling. They wouldn’t thwart someone who knew what he — or she — was doing.
I stood by the door and quickly looked around for something I could use as a weapon. Mother had deposited a few personal items on the nearby table. Her pierced earrings? Sure, poke him to death with the stems. Her hair brush? Sure I could brush him to death.
Fuck!
I hadn’t brought my gun. Guns and border crossings just do not mix. But I was clever and resourceful, Dix Dodd, private eye.
Shit! Why are there no brass candle sticks lying around when you need them? Why no lead pipes? No wrench? (Clearly I’d been playing too much Clue.) Besides, it was likely a geriatric jewel thief. Old people had thin skulls, didn’t they? And brittle bones. Wouldn’t want to kill anyone by coshing them.