Mission Canyon (24 page)

And there by the fireplace, looking as smooth as a string of pearls, was Jax Rivera.

Taylor shoved a notepad and pen into my hand and nudged me down onto a sofa.

Tater, you potato head. You invited a hit woman to my bridal shower.

Patsy Blackburn wriggled her derriere onto the sofa next to me, rattling the ice cubes in her glass. Jax settled onto the sofa across from me, as relaxed as a cat. She looked classy in a black dress, with a gold scarf draped over her shoulders.

I looked closer. The scarf. Hermès. It was the one she had used to gag Cherry Lopez.

I said, ‘‘I need a drink.’’

‘‘In a bit,’’ Tater said. ‘‘I want everybody to write down one fact about themselves that nobody else knows. Anonymously, and we guess who said what.’’

I started to stand up. ‘‘Just a drink of water.’’

Just air to breathe. An open window to dive through. A SWAT team.

Tater put a hand on my shoulder. ‘‘Nikki, get Evan a glass of water.’’

Nikki gave her a look that could have frozen electricity.

Patsy Blackburn said, ‘‘I could use a fresh round, myself.’’

Jax was writing on her notepad. Exactly what, I could only dread.
Took out KGB station chief with a single round to the head
. Ooh, neat, you win the home-pedicure gift pack. Swerving out from under Tater’s arm, I headed to the dining room.

Nikki found me drinking a glass of water. She said, ‘‘We can gut this out.’’

‘‘We have a situation.’’

‘‘Right. And when the party’s over we’ll stuff her down the garbage disposal.’’

‘‘No, not Taylor; it’s—’’

Jax walked in. ‘‘Planning a dismemberment?’’

I felt the water trying to lurch back up.

She put an arm against Nikki’s back, looking big sisterly. ‘‘I know the woman gets on your last nerve, but keep this in mind.’’

She picked up a jalapeño popper, a deep-fried green chili stuffed with cheese.

‘‘Taylor’s already eaten half a dozen. So next time she treats you like Prissy in
Gone With the Wind
, picture how she’ll look at fifty.’’

Nikki smiled.

Tater stuck her head in the room. ‘‘Get on out here; we’re ready."

Nikki piled a plate with poppers and handed it to Tater on her way out. ‘‘Here.’’

I held Jax back. ‘‘I want you to leave.’’

The gentleness sloughed off her face, leaving rock. ‘‘Give me five minutes. It’s critical.’’

‘‘This is my friend’s home. How dare you come here?’’

‘‘I was invited.’’ She stepped closer. ‘‘And you ignore me at your peril.’’

From the living room Tater called, ‘‘Girls, hustle it.’’

Jax leaned in. ‘‘Listen well. I don’t speak in riddles. I say peril, I mean it literally. You need to hear me out. For the sake of your man, if not for yourself.’’

I felt my temples pounding. I heard Nikki call, ‘‘Bring more poppers, Ev.’’

I looked at Jax. ‘‘Fine.’’

Tater appeared again, an orange banshee. She grabbed me by the arm and hustled me to the sofa. Jax ambled back to her seat. Taylor held a handful of notes and read aloud.

‘‘First off. ‘I’m helping in an FBI investigation.’ ’’

Dead silence.

She waved the note. ‘‘That’s me, and wait till I tell you. You won’t believe it.’’

An hour later I stood at the dining room table, eating poppers as if they were Tic Tacs and washing them down with wine. I hadn’t had five seconds to talk to Jax, let alone five minutes. The music had switched to Wyclef Jean, and now Taylor was fighting Nikki for control of the stereo, demanding Shania Twain. Outside, a red sun sagged toward the ground.

Harley came up to me. ‘‘If a party like this doesn’t make you swear off romance, you’re insane.’’

I knew her breakup with Cassie was eating at her, but I wasn’t in the mood for sniping. I stuffed another popper in my mouth.

She ran her fingers through her silver hair. ‘‘And by the way, now I understand why you look like death. You and Jesse both. The FBI? When’s the last time you slept?’’

‘‘It’s Jesse who’s not sleeping. He’s having nightmares about the hit-and-run, flashbacks.’’

‘‘Flashbacks.’’ Her face changed. ‘‘Tits on fire, I had no idea it was hitting him so hard.’’

Shania Twain came on the stereo, the country sound popped up, singing that, man, she felt like a woman.

Tater called, ‘‘Everybody, it’s time for the show.’’

‘‘What show?’’ Harley said.

We walked into the living room. Tater was wheeling in a clothing rack bulging with lingerie.

‘‘Sit down, y’all. Courtesy of Countess Zara lingerie, I’m thrilled to present the Dazzling Delicates collection.’’

She began handing out brochures that showed a European lady in what looked like Marie Antoinette’s bedroom. ‘‘This is party fun, in honor of the bride-to-be, but all y’all are invited to purchase for yourselves.’’

People stood where they were. Lavonne looked as though she’d swallowed a hairball. Nikki’s mouth hung so far open that I thought her teeth might drop out. Jax stood swirling a glass of wine, her expression inscrutable.

Amber Gibbs clasped her hands together. ‘‘It all looks so elegant.’’

Tater said, ‘‘I just need to know one thing that’ll determine which garments we look at tonight.’’ She supplied a coy smile. ‘‘Are you girls naughty, or nice?’’

Jax said, ‘‘No question. We’re naughty.’’

Tater started tamely, with bra-and-panties sets in pastel colors, lifting each set off the rack and showing us, fingering the fabric. ‘‘Silkesse,’’ she called it, the miracle fabric used in all Countess Zara garments.

‘‘It has
silkicity
, the patented quality that gives our garments a sleek feel on your skin.’’

She showed us underwear with lace, and bows, and ribbons, and flowers. Bras with uplift, and with padding thick enough to stop a .32 slug. The Marvel Bra, she called that one, able to create cleavage on
anybody
. Looking at me. She held up panties to lift, shape, separate, or constrain your rear. Teddies, bodysuits, moving now into the black stuff, and the thongs, really getting going.

I gazed around. Everybody looked like guests who’d just asked about checkout time at the Hotel California. Except for Amber, who sat transfixed, with a longing on her face that neared the religious.

‘‘And now for our special bachelorette selection. Who’s feeling frisky?’’ Tater twirled a garter on her finger and fired it at us. ‘‘Who likes leather? Who likes toys?’’

I stood up. ‘‘I’m getting another drink.’’

Harley said, ‘‘Bring the bottle.’’

When I came back, the costume show was rolling. Tater was already into the American History line of erotic lingerie: the Hester Prynne, a bustier with a big red A; and the Pocahontas buckskin body thong, leather strips and fringe. I heard Nikki saying, ‘‘Ninety bucks for ass floss? I don’t think so.’’ By the time Tater hit the Jackie Kennedy, a pearl G-string and a pillbox hat, my eyes were swimming. She segued into the Heroes line: the New York Firefighter, the Army Ranger, the Paramedic, the Astronaut, the Girl Scout.

‘‘With a special range of sexy merit badges,’’ she said.

Lavonne, staring at the green beret and push-up sash, said, ‘‘That has to be a trademark violation,’’ and Harley said, ‘‘I’ll file the papers.’’

And then we were into the sports lingerie. The Bowler. The Archer. The Fly Fisherman, with green hip waders and a clear plastic bra, for the girl who likes to play with rods . . . until finally, breathless and flushed, Tater reached the pinnacle, Dazzling Delicates’ new season premieres: the Rodeo Collection. Not pronounced ro-
day
-o.

The Barrel Racer, the Steer Wrestler, the Bronco Buster. When we hit the Bull Rider, I said, ‘‘Tater, where does Countess Zara come from?’’

‘‘What did you call me?’’

I should slow down on the wine. ‘‘Is she from Tulsa? Muskogee? Bartlesville?’’

She tossed aside the spurs and the fleece-lined flank strap. ‘‘The countess lives in Luxembourg. But she knows her market.’’

Was it my imagination, or was she swerving in and out of focus, doubling and coming back together? Perhaps this was a subatomic fluctuation, and she was about to disappear into a parallel universe. No. She wasn’t swerving, I was. Rapidly I felt ill.

She said, ‘‘Who wants to try on some of our selections? If y’all’s purchases total more than two hundred dollars tonight, there’ll be a gift of lingerie for our bride-to-be.’’

I felt Harley’s hand on my arm. She said, ‘‘You look green.’’

‘‘Maybe it’s the jalapeño poppers.’’ I put down my glass.

‘‘Come on, ladies,’’ Taylor said. ‘‘You want to ensure a correct fit.’’

I saw Amber standing in front of the clothes rack, pointing out selections. I saw two Ambers. And panties dancing in the air like birds. I stared at my wine. I’d had only a couple of glasses, but I felt woozy.

Harley said, ‘‘You need fresh air.’’

‘‘Right.’’ I closed my eyes, a mistake. My head spun like a centrifuge.

I opened my eyes again and saw a hallucination, I thought—Amber in all her plumpness, standing in the center of the room wearing the Cowpuncher outfit, cowboy hat and chaps, holding the little branding iron in her hand.

‘‘God help me,’’ I said. It’s the last thing I remember.

My mouth felt as dry as concrete. My stomach had been tied into a pretzel. I opened an eye and the light hit me like sand, gritty and painful.

I didn’t know where I was.

I cursed to myself. Even that made me feel like vomiting. After a minute I eased my head off the pillow and squinted through my lids. The view confirmed my fears. The far wall sloped away from me, and across from the bed stood a row of pillars painted with hieroglyphics.

Meticulously I turned over. The drapes were drawn. I saw gold-painted furniture and more Egyptian designs. Daring to sit up, I inched my feet over onto the floor. The carpet had a bold pattern of gold and red and blue rings that set my head humming. I looked away.

The television had a card on top listing channels. I was in a hotel. Where? And how did I get here? Standing up, I bumbled to the window and pulled open the drapes.

I saw a sky as sharp as a knife, khaki terrain, brown mountains wrinkling on the horizon. I was in the desert. I hated the desert.

Looking down, past the angled wall to the boulevard beyond, I saw hotels, the Sphinx, the Eiffel Tower, hotels.

‘‘Oh, no.’’

I was in Las Vegas.

The Strip stared me in the face, swimming with noon-day heat. I felt a hot chill, a cramp in my gut. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up.

Afterward I splashed water on my face. I was four hundred miles from home, with no memory of traveling here. I was hugely hung over without having been drunk, and, now that I saw my face in the mirror, I looked like I’d lost a fight with a psychopathic hairdresser. I was wearing a T-shirt that said, ZERO TO HORNY IN THREE SECONDS.

Heading back into the room, I saw my red dress folded over a chair, my shoes underneath, my purse on the seat. Anxious, I looked inside, found my wallet intact.

Item one: Get out of here. If I could remove this T-SHIRT without taking my head off with it.

A key clicked in the door, and I froze. In walked Jakarta Rivera. She was carrying a cardboard container holding coffee, juice, and bagels. My head pounded.

‘‘What did you do to me?’’ I said.

She held out an orange juice. ‘‘Drink this. You need to rehydrate.’’

‘‘I’m not touching that. You drugged me.’’

‘‘It wasn’t me.’’

I grabbed my dress from the chair and heaved toward the bathroom to change. Jax stopped me, pressing a bottle of aspirin into my hand.

‘‘Brand-new. Check the antitamper seal; it’s fine,’’ she said. ‘‘And you don’t want to put that dress back on.’’

I held it up and saw the stain, smelled the greasy salsa.

She said, ‘‘Taco Bell in Barstow, two thirty this morning. You insisted on stopping.’’

I tossed it on the bed and went to take the aspirin. ‘‘Are you holding me here?’’

‘‘Honey, I’m not doing anything. I’m along for the ride, just like you.’’

I came out of the bathroom. My head hurt too much to make facial expressions, but she caught my confusion.

‘‘You don’t remember anything?’’ she said.

‘‘Fill me in.’’ I sat on the bed, among the messy covers. ‘‘Just tell me the night didn’t involve carny people or a video camera.’’

‘‘Harley decided to take a road trip, and we came along.’’ She took the lid off a coffee and drank.

‘‘Spur of the moment,’’ I said. ‘‘Middle of the night. To Vegas.’’

‘‘Are you saying it’s out of character for her?’’

‘‘No. Not at all, actually. She thrives on impulse. She had a fight with her lover and this is a typical pepper-upper. ’’ I looked out the window. The light was piercing. ‘‘God, I can hear my hair growing.’’

Standing up, I took the coffee from her hand and drank a swallow.

She gave me a sly look. ‘‘Attagirl. Trust no one.’’

The coffee was hot and strong. ‘‘What hotel is this?’’

‘‘The Luxor.’’

‘‘My wine was drugged, wasn’t it,’’ I said.

‘‘I presume. Best guess, someone gave you rope.’’

‘‘To hang myself with, you’re implying?’’

‘‘Rohypnol.’’

My head started thumping again. ‘‘The date-rape drug?’’

‘‘Yes. Somebody wanted you incapacitated.’’

This had to do with i-heist and the missed deadline. My eyes throbbed.

‘‘Jax, I’m not in the mood for games. Tell me if it was you.’’

She got the other coffee. ‘‘Realize something. I am not here to hurt you. I have your back.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘You couldn’t look out for yourself last night.’’

‘‘Thanks. But that’s not good enough.’’