I heard her and Mrs. P talking faintly as Noel walked me to the car. “Truffles, Jane?”
“Dark chocolate ones, Katt. Let’s eat them all before Dix gets back.”
Noel opened the door to his convertible. Now, I’m not one who’s easily impressed by cars. But having to go undercover in various modes of transportation from time to time, I do know a thing or two about them. I can change tires. I can check the oil, and yes, I even know how to connect booster cables without getting a shock.
And what I knew about Deputy Almond’s car was this: Number one, it was too freaking low to the ground for my dress-wearing comfort. (I’d be showing more than a little leg crawling into that baby and damned if Noel just didn’t keep holding the door open for me. And number two, this was one nice car.
Deputy Almond drove a Corvette convertible. Newer model. Custom painted. Leather seats so soft my ass just kept sinking down in it. And I thought getting in had been hard.
“You like the car?” Noel asked as he slid in behind the steering wheel.
“It’s very nice.”
Not too bad for a Deputy Sheriff’s salary.
The top was down and the warm Florida night felt nice on my skin as we drove along. Noel said the restaurant was nearby but I’m sure he took the scenic route to give me full appreciation of the city. And it was beautiful. Relaxing and calm. And the conversation was light and easy. The guy was charming. The guy was interesting.
Okay, I’ll admit it. I was kind of having fun. Fun in a professional PI, kick-ass way, you understand?
And after a fine meal and a couple drinks at the Maison Petite Colombe, well I was having even more fun.
“How was the shrimp?” Noel asked.
“Decadent.” And oh, and they had been. Broiled shrimp with herbed garlic butter. Sure as hell beat the McMeals I was used to. The burgers and fry lifestyle comes with the job. Comes with the late-night stakeouts and traveling quickly from town to town. It comes with the fast pace of the PI lifestyle. It comes with not being able to cook.
“You’ve got to try the desserts here,” Noel said. “They’re amazing.”
I had no doubt. I’d seen our waiter a few minutes ago at another table with his dessert-laden trolley. Rich éclairs, apricot tarts, chocolate mousse, tiramisu, and a dozen more confections — were displayed. These weren’t just desserts, they were works of art. Works, I had no doubt, that ran at least twenty bucks a pop.
“I’d love dessert, Noel. Thank you. But in the meantime,” I prompted. “Shall we talk about the case?” I waited a moment. No response. “Noel?” He had to have heard me.
“Just a minute, Dix.” Noel’s face took on a nostalgic appearance as he looked around the restaurant.
Yes, I’d noticed it … the last little while, Noel Almond had gotten a little more quiet. A little more subdued. Something was on his mind.
“Been a long time since I’ve been here.” He scratched a hand across his whiskered chin. His eyes took on a faraway look. “This is the place where I met her. This is where I met my Isabella.” Noel wasn’t crying. His eyes were not tearing up. But those baby blues were certainly misting over.
Isabella?
An old flame?
Was I jealous? God, no.
Miffed? Pfft! Hardly. (Heavy on the ‘pfft’, thank you very much.)
Curious? Yes of course. Curious as to why the hell men do that! Talk about old girlfriends on a date (there’s that D word again) with other women.
As if reading my mind, Noel smiled and said, “Isabella was a girl I met when I was six years old. I was six, she was eight. I came in here with my grandparents one sunny Sunday. My mother had long ago passed away, and Dad was a military man. Stationed away a good deal of the time. From the time I was six, my grandparents sort of raised me for the most part.”
“And you met Isabella when you were that young?”
“She was the first real friend I had. I was a short, dumpy kid. You know the type — big thick glasses, awkward. Tripped over my own two feet. Terrible at sports and geeky as hell. And well, with a name like mine….
He left that hanging.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“Noel Almond? First it was Noel Nuts, for about ten seconds. Then it was No Nuts.”
“Th-they actually called you that?”
“Dumb, huh?”
“Oh,” I said, feeling the heat rush into my face. “Some people can just be so … immature.”
“They were just dumb. Dumb, showing off. Rude. No class. People who don’t know any better than to—”
“Okay, I get it!”
Geez, Mr. Chip on the shoulder or what? Just a name, dude! Chill! Then again, I’d sworn my mother to secrecy years ago (pinkie swear over cupcakes and Mountain Dew) as to keeping my real name a secret.
“But with Isabella I didn’t feel so alone,” Noel continued. He was staring into the candle now as if lost in his drifting thoughts. “She never teased about the way I looked. She just saw what a lonely kid I was and kind of took me under her wing. Isabella’s mother owned this place back then, and Isabella and I had free reign after school before it opened for the dinner rush. We did our homework together on a table out back. We danced on the dance floor.”
“Sounds like a good friendship.”
“It was for years and years. She was the only friend I ever had. The only one I ever needed in this lonely world of mine. Then she died. On her sixteenth birthday, Isabella was killed in a car accident.”
“I’m so sorry.”
And I was.
Buttttttttttt … I was sorry in a what-the-fuck, red flag way. My intuition was starting to niggle. I sat up straight. Something was going on here. I didn’t have a grasp on it yet, but it was near. The feeling had been fleeting, but it was real. I didn’t know what I was yet to clue in to, but holy hell, it was there. I stored that in my memory for later.
Noel did the man-tear wiping thing — the fingers to the bridge of the nose. Something-in-the-eye BS thing. He did the give-me-a-minute snort.
Oh, I’d give him a minute all right.
But if he expected a warm-fuzzy moment, well, to tell you the truth, I just don’t have it in me.
And if he was looking for consoling words … does suck it up count?
Yes, of course, I did feel bad about his lost friend. I’m not that hard-hearted. But I just wasn’t the right one if he was looking for someone to reach over and grab his hand. If he were looking for words or wisdom to make him feel better … well that waiter had seemed pretty sensitive. I was just about to excuse myself to the bathroom (I’d wait it out in there) when Noel shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been talking all night about me. I want to hear more about you.”
“Shouldn’t we be discussing the case?”
He smiled. “We’ve got plenty of time. The night is young. And I promise you, we’ll discuss the case. I just want to get to know you a little bit better. I’ve talked on and on about me. Tell me something about yourself.”
Damn. He’d hit upon my favorite subject. But still….
“Come on,” he coaxed. “One thing.”
“Okay,” I said. “I hate crosswords.”
“Now there’s an intimate detail! Does Mrs. P try to get you to yell phallic euphemisms too?”
I snorted a laugh. “Yep.” So the good deputy did know what Mrs. P had been up to.
“Seriously,” Noel’s voice lowered. “Tell me something about Dix Dodd.”
“What do you want to know?”
He shrugged. “Did you always want to be a private investigator?”
“God, yes. I was the kid who looked for every lost puppy. Taped half my parents’ conversations. If a friend or a boyfriend told a lie, I could catch them in it quick as a spider traps a fly. I remember when I first heard there was such a thing as a private investigator. I knew that was for me. Growing up when and where I did, that career choice wasn’t easy. Things were changing, sure, but it was still rare to see women in some professions. Private investigators were almost exclusively men. Society just wasn’t used to seeing women in that role.”