Chapter 8
Dylan was appropriately fawned over by the ladies and put-’er-there’d by the men folk of the Wildoh community. With one exception — Harriet Appleton’s frown was pulled so tight her forehead looked permanently pleated. She didn’t greet the new security guard warmly. She didn’t shake his offered hand (and gave Wiggie a scathing look when he did). Harriet pointedly looked the other way.
You’d think Harriet would be delighted to learn that there was more security on the premises. After all, she was the latest victim. She should be thrilled to learn that there was someone besides Big Eddie and the ever-ready Deputy Almond to look after their interests.
Not the case.
Having already been introduced to Dylan earlier by Big Eddie, I didn’t rise with the group myself for a second introduction. But that worked well. Very well, in fact. Because from my vantage point (still at the crib table) I could watch everyone gathered in that recreation room and how they interacted with the popular new security guard.
People have no idea how much they communicate through non-verbal cues, and I’m not just talking about tone of voice or gestures. I’m talking about how close or how far they stand from others, their orientation to those in the group, their movements, posture, facial expressions. There’s so much to be learned from a lean. Surmised from a slouch. Grasped from a glance. Observed by an ogle.
And speaking of ogles….
Just as I was about to leave the rec room (it’s not that I was worried worried about my disappearing mother but I did want to know where she’d gone), Lance-a-Lot showed up again, announcing his arrival with that loud, musical truck horn of his.
Dylan was left hanging. Or rather, his hand was left hanging in mid-shake by a blue-haired lady from B Complex who made a mad dash toward the window, damned near taking Dylan out with her walker in her haste. Dylan stood there staring at the horde gathering for the Lance-a-Lot show. He looked a little bit dumbstruck, and maybe even a little bit put out.
What an ill-mannered bunch of biddies to abandon Dylan. If I wasn’t so busy elbowing my way past three grey-haired grannies, I’d have said something to them.
Fact-finding missions can be such a bitch.
Lance was at his usual full-mast attention. He gave his customary half turn with a smile. Flexing his butt cheeks for the onlookers, he made his way to the lake and dove in the water. Just like the last time, the ladies relaxed a little once he’d submerged himself, but they didn’t abandon their vigil at the window. Patiently they (okay, we) waited as he surfaced and dove, surfaced and dove. Finally, ten or twelve minutes later, Lance started making his way toward shore again, and the ladies came to full, vibrating attention. Lance emerged from the lake, the mesh bag of white golf balls he’d retrieved gleaming in the sun.
As if anyone was looking at those.
Lance drove off, giving his horn one more thrust. People then started to filter out of the recreation room, which was my cue to exit. My cue to go find Mother and see what was up.
“I don’t get it. What’s that boy got that I ain’t got?” Apparently, Big Eddie’s joke never got old. At least, not for Eddie.
Mrs. Presley and I passed Dylan on our way out the door. Grinning, she winked at him and he gave her an almost imperceptible little smile back.
“Lance-a-Lot?” He whispered, raising a questioning eyebrow.
I raised sheepish shoulders. “Dives for the balls,” I whispered back.
That eyebrow did not lower.
~*~
“I told you, Dix,” Mother said in her and-I’m-not-going-to-tell-you-again tone. “I was feeling tired. That’s it. I simply left.”
“But I didn’t see you leave. How could you have just….”
I was trying her patience. She looked at me with a hand on her hip and a tilt to her head.
I threw my hands up in resignation. “Okay. You just left.” But I couldn’t resist one long, dramatic sigh. Which of course she chose to ignore.
Katt Dodd was nothing if not mysterious. When Mrs. Presley and I had arrived back from the rec room, Mother was sitting on the sofa, tea in hand, soft music playing. I knew the tune. Love for this Desperate While, written by the late, great Peter Dodd himself.
She’d not sat for long after Mrs. P and I arrived. In fact she was up and making lunch in no time flat.
Oh, and yes, very shortly thereafter she was busy selecting my attire for the meeting with Deputy Noel Almond.
“What’s wrong with my own clothes?”
Mother looked at me as though I had three heads, and none of them were making any sense. “Come on, Dix. You can’t be serious. Wear that stuff on a date?”
“It’s not a date!” I protested.
“It’s a date.” For emphasis, she threw a black sequined halter-top at me.
Hot-potato style, I threw it back.
Okay, for the record, I am not opposed to flirty, drop-dead gorgeous clothing. Granted, my 71 year old mother had a more risqué wardrobe than I had (oh, God, even I know how bad that sounds). But still, I liked the stuff I’d brought with me to Florida (t-shirts, shorts, jeans, one blouse and skirt in case I needed to pose as a lady, Capri pants, more t-shirts).
Mrs. Presley was in the kitchen making her spicy pepperoni spaghetti — heavy on the garlic. When we’d been out shopping earlier, I’d made a quick dash in for the basics for Mother. Well, it looked like Mrs. P had dashed herself. She was making enough to feed a small army. Of course, I knew half of it would be heading Mona’s way. But like I said … army style. Yum. I loved Mrs. P’s spicy pepperoni spaghetti.
But my serving would have to wait till breakfast the next day. Not what I needed to be eating before a … non-date. Just as well, anyway. As wonderful as Mrs. P’s spicy pepperoni spaghetti is, when I eat it late at night, it’s been known to throw my sleep disorder into overdrive. Combine that and the stress of the current case, and who knows what Mother and Mrs. P would wake up to find?
Yet, I was glad she was doing the cooking right now. The last thing I needed was her and Mother both ganging up on me over my attire.
Mother held up a hot pink leather mini in her left hand, paired it with a low cut white sweater in her right. She looked at me hopefully.
“Not a chance.”
With a huff, she turned again to her over overflowing closet. “You’re not making this easy, Dix.”
Fine, I’d not packed for a date. But was this really a date date I was going on with Deputy Almond? More than likely we were heading to the nearest Starbucks and I’d be paying for my own Caffè Americano.
Was Noel Almond hot? Yes.
Flirtatious? Definitely had been.
Sexy? As hell.
Was he Dylan?
Shit.
Weirdly, strangely, oh God stupidly, I was thinking of Dylan Foreman and the other night. How could I not be? Not that it had meant anything. Not that it was going anywhere or that it should go anywhere.
So why didn’t I tell Dylan about this dinner meeting with Deputy Almond? Why hadn’t I gotten that message to him? I certainly could have, but I hadn’t.