Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (28 page)

    
“Good. ‘Cuz we need to study them before we hand them to McGowan. No offense to Dad, but this is no time to be all law-abiding. Somebody sent us Saul’s discs for a reason, and I want to know why. So, what’s your theory? Why us? Why now?”

    
We hadn’t talked much after discovering the discs because I had to train a client at the gym. The six discs had been labeled Research I, Research II, Notes, Outline, People and Letters.

    
“Maybe the person who stole them was finished with them,” Mom theorized.

    
“Do you think they changed them in some way? Deleted stuff that was damaging to themselves?”

    
“We won’t know that till we look at them.”

    
“Why not just destroy them?”

    
“Maybe the killer realized they couldn’t incriminate him or her, so why not give someone else a motive.”

    
“I still think…” My attention veered toward a familiar figure strolling to the sauna. “Damn. Guess who I just saw?”

    
“Who?”

    
“Robin.”

    
“Did she hear you? We can’t let anyone know we have the discs. It could be dangerous.”

    
“She didn’t hear me, but that reminds me. Nancy could be lurking around somewhere, too. Maybe even Bunny Beaumont.”

    
“I thought you had a client. Where are you?”

    
“She’s doing twenty minutes on the treadmill first. I’m in the locker room.”

    
“Well, be careful. We’re not exactly on the side of the angels here, keeping evidence from the police.”

    
“Fine. Sheesh.”

    
Mom was silent for several seconds before speaking. “You and your father don’t keep secrets from me do you?”

    
“What? No, of course not.”

    
“Uh-huh.”

    
“I’ll call you when I get home. You can help me pick out something to wear for my date with Jacob later this week.”

    
When we hung up, I did some light weight work with Gloria McClanahan, my sixty-something client who was taking a New Year’s cruise with her husband. She planned to wear a red bikini, just like she had on their honeymoon forty years ago. I thought she’d look damn good in it.

    
When I got back to my loft, Dana was waiting outside my building. I was so not in the mood. I could barely deal with my own love life much less Dana’s train wreck romance.

    
“You want to get some frozen yogurt?” she asked.

    
What I really wanted was to crawl into bed and hide out till the world started making sense again, but a girl’s got to eat and preferably not by herself, so if she’s poisoned someone will be there to call 911. I would just have to steer the conversation away from Dan.

    
In the car, though, it was Dana who was doing the steering. We had both finished our white chocolate mousse waffle cones, and Dana had wanted to ride around looking at houses. It didn’t dawn on me until she slowed the car and cut her lights that she had driven over to Dan’s townhouse.

    
Dana shouted, “Drive-by!”

    
Instinctively, I slipped down in my seat.

    
“Don’t stop,” I warned.

    
She stopped.

    
“Who’s car is that?” she asked slowly.

    
My heart sank.

    
“Look at the bumper sticker - a tanning salon,” she said as if she had never been to one of those dens of inequity.

    
“What are you doing?” I demanded. “And can’t you take me home before you do it?”

    
“I think Dan’s cheating on me.”

    
“Again?” I couldn’t help asking.

    
Dana wasn’t pleased with my reference to ancient history. “It’s been two years.”

    
“Is little Courtney two already? So cute.”

    
Sorry, but we had been over this before.

    
“I can’t do this alone,” Dana pleaded her case. “It’s stalking if you’re alone.”

    
Ah, such a fine line.

    
She cut the engine.

    
“Oh, no,” I said. “There’s no way we’re going to sit here all night. That car could be anybody’s. I don’t have time for this.”

    
“That’s why we should take a quick peek in the side window.”

    
“Absolutely not! You get this car moving.” I used my sternest voice.

     She opened her door.

     “The light,” I hissed. “Close the door.”

    
She did, but she was on the other side of it. She came over and crouched beside my door. I cracked it open, cursing the light.

    
“Come with me. I need to know if he’s seeing someone.”

    
“Why?” I asked. “If he is, seeing them together is just going to hurt. If he’s not, you’re going to look like a fool. Ask him. Talk to him. Or better yet, trust your instincts.”

    
“I need to know. Wouldn’t you love to know where you stand with Jacob - the real reason why your relationship isn’t moving forward? I have that chance.”

    
“This isn’t going to tell you anything.” I whispered. “And I’m telling everyone we know. Don’t think I won’t.”

    
“You won’t if you come with me. Then you’re an accomplice.”

     “I’m not coming with you.”

     “Yes, you are.” She stood up and backed away from the car. “Because you worry about me, don’t you? I ain’t right.” She ran, hunched over, toward the house.

    
“I’m telling.” I stage whispered, but she was gone.

    
I sat there imagining a hundred scenarios - none of them good. I got out and crept after her.

    
We made our way to the patio and squatted in front of the sliding glass doors. The gauzy white curtains, draped just so, didn’t do much to block our view, and I wondered if Dana had been in charge of the decorating and had chosen them for that reason.

    
In the kitchen, Dan was slicing something on the cutting board - alone.

    
“You see?” I said. “Let’s go.”

     She
saw, alright. A blond came into the kitchen and took the knife out of Dan’s hand, laughingly fussing like he was doing something wrong.

    
Dana started pounding on the glass doors.

    
I tried to jump up and get back to the car before Dan caught us. Unfortunately, my legs don’t recover from a squat as quickly as they once did, so I toppled onto my butt. That’s where I was when Dan flung open the door (as much as you can fling open a sliding door).

    
“What the hell,” was all he managed before Dana pushed past him into the room.

    
The blond came forward, still holding the paring knife, and Dana momentarily lost her focus.

    
“That’s my knife!” She yelled, pointing her finger accusingly.

    
The blond held out the knife handle first, the idiot, but I intercepted. Great, now my fingerprints were at the scene.

    
Even my surprise that a hip little thing like Dana had opted for a country Christmas, with primitive ornaments and folk art Santas, couldn’t distract me from the scene unfolding before me.

    
“I live here, you know,” Dana told the blond who nodded as if that explained things.

    
“Not yet you don’t. Goddamn it, Dana this is the craziest thing you’ve ever done.” That was Dan, and I had to disagree. Had he forgotten the time she had called his mother and pleaded with the woman to make Dan propose?

    
“You bastard,” Dana yelled. “Is there a turnstile in our bedroom?”

    
“She’s just a friend, you psycho,” Dan said.

    
Lovely.

    
“We’re getting married in two weeks, and you’re making gazpacho with some other woman.”

    
“It’s fajitas,” the blond interjected.

    
“Who puts cucumber in fajitas?” Dana demanded.

    
“I think you two better leave,” Dan suggested.

    
“I think she had better leave,” Dana disagreed.

    
“I’m not leaving. Should I leave, Danny?” the blond girl asked.

    
“No, Dana’s leaving. You!” Dan pointed to me, “Get her out of here.”

    
The nerve!

    
“It’s my townhouse, too.” Dana yelled. “I gave you rent money this month!”

    
“My name’s on the lease.” Dan was calm.

    
“I’m canceling the check I gave you.”

    
“I already cashed it.”

    
Dana’s hands flew to her hair, and I actually thought she might tear out handfuls of her shiny black locks. In the end, though, vanity won out, and she settled for raking her hands through its length.

    
“It’s over!” Dana shouted. “The wedding’s off! You’ll never see me again.”

    
Dan took the news well, even holding the door open for Dana to walk through. I handed the knife back to Dan, blade first.

    
“She didn’t start out like this,” I told the blond.

    
“They never do.” She got her purse and followed me out.

    
Dan didn’t even call after her, just slammed the door. As much as you can slam a sliding door.

    
Back at the car I took the wheel. Beside me, Dana whiplashed through the stages of grief.

    
Denial: I can’t jump to conclusions about this. She could just be an old friend.

    
Anger: Old friend my bleep cheating mother bleeper, I’ve known the bleep for ten years. Where the bleep would he get a friend he could bleep in my bleeping bed the minute I turn my bleeping back?

    
Sorrow: I loved him so much. We were perfect together.

    
And finally, acceptance: It’s over. It’s really over this time. Who could’ve seen this one coming?

    
At her apartment, I sat with her as she totally wigged out, now moving without pause through the seven deadly sins. The anger was back, and so was her potty mouth. Then for a while she lazed on her couch - makeup tear-streaked, shoveling cold pita and hummus into her mouth with alarming speed and bad manners. Gluttony did double duty if you also count glutton for punishment, which manifested itself in a phone call to Dan despite my protests and a brief wrestling match. (Dana’s slim, but she’s scrappy.)

    
I told her God wouldn’t begrudge her a little pride, but it was the one sin she didn’t seem interested in.

    
She asked Dan to come over and finish this once and for all. By the time he came roaring up on his motorcycle, Dana was hell-bent on letting him know exactly how he had ruined her life and how much better off she would be without him.

    
I took a beer out on the fire escape to await the inevitable. I was grappling with several emotions - sad that my friend was in pain, relieved this had happened before she got married and not after, happy that I wouldn’t have to wear a honeydew bridesmaid dress, and frustrated that I’d already paid for the damn thing.  I didn’t even bother listening to the scene unfolding inside. The inevitable took less than twenty minutes.

    
The front door clicked, a death rattle came from the apartment (“He dumped me!”) and, finally, the receding whine of a motorcycle. I could almost hear the tuneless song Dan hummed as he roared away.

    
I went inside to help Dana reclaim a sense of self, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of despair, or break out the Hagen Daz and put on an angry-women-of-rock CD.  She wanted none of it.

    
I called my mother to come pick me up.

    
Since it was after ten and Dad still wasn’t home, I had let Mom talk me into spending the night, instead of going all the way back downtown. I was seriously bluesing after the drama filled day. First lunch with Tony Trianos, then the visit to the halfway house, followed by the mystery of the discs and finally Dana’s histrionics. The only thing keeping me going was my curiosity about Saul’s discs and the knowledge that eight-hundred threadcount sheets in Mom’s guest bedroom were only moments away.