“Bummer. How’d your family survive?”
“Dad knew music, and … well, music knew him. Peter Dodd was famous in the club scene in Ontario and parts of Quebec. So if he didn’t have the lungs to sing the songs, he still had the mind to write them. Eventually, his work got some attention. I can remember the first time one of his songs played on the radio. Then the first time one that topped the R&B charts. And I remember the first thing Dad did was call the jewelers and order my mother a honking big diamond ring. God, she loved that diamond. Not the most practical expenditure, but Dad always said it was worth it. He was in a wheelchair then, but looked ten feet tall as he put that rock on Mother’s hand. Mom saw that too. She dubbed it our lucky diamond. She said that nothing bad would ever happen to us because of that rock. She said it was magic. Things got better then. More secure. More songs on the radio. Big name stars calling the house. It was pretty wild. . Before Dad died, he’d tucked a bit away I know. Probably thinking it would last our mother a life time.”
“But times changed,” Dylan said. “Age isn’t what it used to be. Lifetime isn’t what it once was.”
“No, but I’m sure Mother is doing fine. But even if she were having difficulties, Katt Dodd would not steal.” I bit my lip. Of course she wouldn’t steal. Not in a million years.
“Dix?”
“Yeah?”
“What did your mother do before she married your dad?”
I looked half hopefully at the approaching sign indicating food, gas and lodging available at the next exit. A fresh coffee sure would be nice. Of course, if we stopped, Mrs. P would wake up and restart our crossword contest. It was a long drive to Florida. Abandoning the idea of coffee, I shifted in my seat. “Mom was an entertainer, too.”
“A singer?”
“Ahhh, no. But she did spend a lot of time on stage.”
“Oh, you mean she was a dancer. I guess that’s where you got those great get-away sticks, huh? Dancer’s legs.”
Okay, that shut me up. Since when had Dylan Foreman been checking out my legs? And how? I wasn’t exactly a high heel and miniskirt kind of girl, although there had been a few times undercover….
I cleared my throat. “No, not quite that kind of an entertainer, either. Mom was more of a … well … more of a show girl, if you know what I mean.” When Dylan still looked in the dark, I continued. “She went on stage … skimpy costumes … feather boas … applauding gentlemen….”
I could practically see the wheels spinning in Dylan’s mind. Just about there….
“Holy shit!” His eyes saucered wide. “She was a peeler!”
“Dylan!” I clapped a shocked hand to my chest. “That’s my mother you’re talking about.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. But you said—” He relaxed when he saw my ‘gotcha’ smile. “Okay, you got me. So, what was she?”
“Magician’s assistant,” I supplied. “And from what I’ve heard, a damn good one. She worked mainly with this Lazlo Von Hootzeberger fellow. I gather more than a few other magicians tried to lure her away, but she stuck it out with Lazlo. She toured with him all over Europe and North America before she met and married my father.”
“Did she ever teach you and your sister any magic tricks?”
I shifted back in my seat. That was a tricky question. And I wanted to answer slowly and get this right. And I really didn’t want to try to explain it again. “You have to understand my mother. She doesn’t do tricks. She does magic. That’s what she always told us.”
“Like the Harry Potter stuff?”
“Not quite. But somewhere along the line, she convinced herself that she really had the ability to do magic and not just sleight of hand. Don’t get me wrong: she’s perfectly sane. But she’s….”
“Fun?”
I had to smile. If I ever had the privilege of picking out business cards for Dylan Foreman, they’d read Dylan Foreman — Diplomat.
“That’s a nice way to put it,” I said dryly. “Mother always told us she despised tricks. But she loved the real magic in the world. We believed her as kids. And you know, I think she believed it too.” I shook my head.
In the back seat, Mrs. P snorted in her sleep. (Well, it was loud and ripping so we’ll go with ‘snort.’ I rolled down the window.)
I looked at Dylan, and unfastened my seatbelt. “Now’s my chance.”
“Dix, what the—”
I turned, leaned over the back of the seat and gently took the magazine from Mrs. Presley’s sleep-loosened grip. I plunked myself back down in the seat beside Dylan. “Let’s copy all the answers from the back for the next few puzzles.” I began flipping through the pages. “That way, when she asks for a clue we can — wait a minute!”
“What?” Dylan flicked a glance at the book on my lap, then back to the road.
“These aren’t crosswords.” I snapped it closed. “It’s a circle-a-word book. Mrs. Presley was just trying to get us to talk dirty.”
From the back seat I thought I heard another sound. I turned around quickly to see a sweetly-sleeping, angelic Mrs. Presley.
~~~~~*~~~~~