“Yeah, we’ll go with that.”
“So, Lance-a-Lot, aka Lance Devinney, has himself another job, huh? Cleaning pools on the side.”
“Yeah, Rosie says he does a shitload of pools around. Freelances. She says he’s kind of creepy. Never says a word. Never looks at anyone. Just comes in, does his job, and drives away.”
The fact that Lance cleaned pools in addition to his diving work didn’t strike me as strange, but the rest of it did. “Why would he compose himself so differently?” I asked. “Why act so differently in the two places? Why dress it up for the ladies at the Wildoh and dress down so for the younger crowd?”
Dylan shrugged. He dropped the curtain back into place. I sat down on the bed. “Maybe he’s just into older women.”
Oh, fuck me!
“Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Dylan sputtered. “I mean, a younger man and an older woman. Not that you’re older as in ‘older’ older. Just thinking maybe Lance liked the really old ones. Not the … older ones. Not that you’re, like, older….” He cleared his throat.
Cleared it again (and oh I bit down on the you’re-off-the-hook grin that threatened to break).
“So,” he said, changing the subject by the best means on earth. “Let’s get to work on this.” He withdrew the white board from the pile of supplies in the corner. Of all the handy dandy gadgets we’d brought, this — a tool for our minds — was still the one we turned to most.
And so we did again.
Hours later, we had six dozen stick people, lines crossed in and crossed out, diagrams that got down right rude by times (well, Dylan was the one who handed me the marker). We’d drawn up a dozen scenarios. Tens of possibilities. A few possible theories.
It was a start. A damn good start.
“Sleep over, Dix.”
Normally, this would have gotten a jolt out of me. But when Dylan muttered the words at around two in the morning, the look in his bleary eyes told me sex was the farthest thing from his mind. And mine, by this point. Plus, I knew I’d wake Mrs. P up if I went back to Mother’s. She’d told me to sleep over here. And she did pack my PJs….
He nodded to a clunky looking chair in the corner. “I’ll sleep there if you’d feel more comfortable.”
I glanced over to the world’s most uncomfortable looking contraption. Dylan wouldn’t get a wink of sleep on that, and I sure as hell wouldn’t sleep there.
“We can share the bed.”
“You sure?”
My heart sped. My mind shifted in a hundred different directions at once. Then braked in safety. “But like you said, Dylan … it’s complicated.”
“I said it’s complicated right now.”
Yeah, he had.
I grabbed the PJ bag and headed to the bathroom. You know, Mrs. P is tough as nails. Make no mistake about it. But sometimes she can be kind of, well, nice. Like taking the spaghetti over to Mona. Packing a goodie basket for Dylan. Packing my toothbrush and toothpaste and….
A see-through teddy! I could picture her now sitting on the couch, laughing up a storm.
I slept in my clothes. Uncomfortably.
Dylan was the perfect gentleman — he kept to edge of the bed, and I took my stretched-out place on the middle. God, we both must have been tired. Dylan was gently snoring before I was asleep, and it wasn’t ten minutes until I was in dreamland.
To no surprise, my REM sleep disorder kicked in. And dreamland was wild.
I had that dream I was standing on stage with my high school glee club and I was the only one in my underwear. I dreamed Noel Almond was wearing spaghetti and a pack of Labradoodles was hot on his heels. I dreamed of cheesecake, and sticky buns and golf balls and crib boards. I dreamed of a giant frog and a blue-haired hooker.
I dreamed of Peter Dodd.
When I awoke, every sheet and blanket was off the bed. The lamp and clock radio were placed safely on the floor. Dylan knew I had the sleep disorder, but had never truly seen it first hand. Until last night, apparently. My assistant was currently hunkered down on the chair in the corner with the bedspread tucked around him.
Under normal circumstances, I might feel half bad about that. But this was no normal circumstance. For I also awoke knowing damn right well who’d set up my mother for the jewel thefts. And I was betting my bottom dollar, this might just lead us also to good old Frankie Morrell.
Chapter 10
Whereas the night before I looked undisputedly hot, this morning, I looked undisputedly… well, like I’d slept in my clothes. Rumpled. Crumpled.
But I was too pumped to give it much thought.
When I’d awoken with the knowledge of who the actual thief was, I practically jumped on Dylan to wake him up so I could test my ideas on him. Intently, he was right there with me, following my logic, all the while wearing that thinking man look of his. He listened to every word. Followed every bit of evidence and supposition I put forth. And when he asked, I had to admit it; yes, my intuition was tingling all over on this one.
He also interjected his own logic. “Going to be hard to prove, Dix.”
I gave a Harriet-style hmph.
Dylan was right, of course. But hard never stopped me before.
We had to play it cool. Had to play it carefully and not let anyone know just exactly what we’d deduced until we were ready to spring into that beloved a-ha! moment.
Yes, I admit it. I wanted badly to go straight to Deputy Almond and waggle my know-it-all finger (or fist) in his face and tell him who the real crook was. But I knew I had to wait on this. I didn’t want to quietly tell Almond. I wanted to shout it from the roof tops. Hopefully, from the rooftops of the Wildoh. Or at the very least, the rec room. And I wanted to do it with the loudest “Ha! Up yours!” in the world.
Petty of me? Oh, yeah. Big time. But Almond had humiliated my mother in front of the residents of the Wildoh. I wanted to embarrass him and prove him wrong in front of the same.
And personally, I think ‘petty’ is underrated.
Way underrated.
But there was another reason I’d wait to thump the culprit in front of everyone (I mean besides my penchant for grabbing the spotlight every chance I got). First things first.
And the very first thing to be done this sunny Florida morning was to get my mother out of jail. Despite the crumpled/rumpled way I looked, I headed over to the jail rather than going back to the Wildoh to change. I gave a quick call to Mrs. Presley. She was fine, just having an early breakfast with Mona. Mrs. P said she didn’t do a thing last night — just relaxed. Florida was doing her wonders, she said. Big Eddie Baskin had tried to get her to have a go at golf. She’d declined. She had answered a few rude calls from nosy neighbors. Didn’t mince words with any of them. Cal called twice — he’s lonesome. Craig called once but talked longer — he’s more lonesome. Oh, and the young Miss Elizabeth Bee had broken Cal’s heart. Apparently, she’d found greener (greener being more moneyed) pastures elsewhere.
Dylan had headed out the door of the Goosebump Inn a good half hour before I did, on the way to his security job at the Wildoh.
“Big Eddie has me doing windows today,” he’d said. “Followed by more painting, and caulking around his apartment. Think we can wrap this thing up early?”
I smiled. With any luck, Dylan would be out of that security guard outfit in no time.