The Brush Off (23 page)

“A
DEAL
?” I
TRIED NOT TO SHRIEK, BUT
I
THINK
I failed, because Trudy swerved and nearly hit a light pole. Behind us, Crandall honked. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Neither do I. Do you think he’s making fun of my driving?” Trudy huffed into the rearview mirror.

“I’m not talking about not liking the sound of the honk, Trude. I’m talking about not liking the sound of a deal.”

“How do you know you don’t like it when you don’t know what the deal is.”

“I know you, and I know Señor Sneaky Snake, so I don’t like it.”

“Sneaky Snake. Ooh, that sounds sexy. I’m glad to know you’re thinking along the right lines.”

“What lines are those?” I demanded, openly shrieking this time. “Are you pimping me out to Scythe for some information?”

Trudy grinned as she negotiated a turn going about twenty miles an hour too fast. I think she was angling to get pulled over by the pair behind us. The only thing she’d forgotten was that we were still in Terrell Hills, which is a two-square-mile incorporated,
muy
expensive enclave with its very own police force whose members will pull anyone over because they are simply bored. I saw the flashing lights coming at us as we whizzed past a cross street. I didn’t warn her, that’s how mad I was at her. I prayed they’d throw her conniving heinie in jail.

The Terrell Hills patrol car wheeled around the turn so fast I wondered if the cop thought we were bank robbers. The guy even had his siren on. Maybe Scythe had put an APB out on us and it was still hot. Well, swell.

“Witches’ tits and bats’ butts,” Trudy swore under her breath as she pulled over. When she used vulgarities with body parts, she was mad.

I watched the Crown Vic ease in behind the patrol car in my rearview mirror. The officer got out. She was pretty and slightly built but posturing like a bulldog. Uh-oh, this would be worse than a short cop with small man complex. And she still had the siren on. It was giving me such a headache, I felt like getting out and turning it off for her. Before I could follow through, Scythe appeared at the woman’s side, flashing his badge. It was as if she were butter and someone turned the burner on high. Copette melted. She cocked her head and her hip; her hands fell to her sides to mold to her waist. She smiled sweetly. Ugh, couldn’t she see how damned arrogant, uh, vainacious, he was? Couldn’t she see that whatever charm he was using, it was to get something from her?

I was almost so distracted by their body language that I forgot to wonder what their voice conversation could be about. It had to be about us. It couldn’t be good.

Suddenly, the Miata lurched forward, nearly giving me whiplash. Even whiplash would’ve been worth the look of surprise on Scythe’s face right before he spun and ran back to the Crown Vic. Hee hee.

“What are you doing, Trude?” I screamed as she cranked the wheel to the left and the Miata leaned hard on the two right wheels. Before I could get my seat belt buckled, she took a hard right straight into what looked like no more than a space between two wisteria bushes. I closed my eyes, envisioning being buried in the brick of someone’s historic mansion. All I felt was the flap of a wisteria leaf on my face (so much for the allure of a convertible) and the bumps of a bad road. Slowly, I opened my eyes. We were headed down a secret lane that cut behind a row of estates.

I heard the zoom of a souped-up V-8 engine passing behind us. We’d lost the cops. Again. I looked at Trudy.

“Way to go, girl. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Trudy looked at me in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t think you were devious enough to run from the cops and succeed.”

She looked confused for a moment. “I’m not running from the cops. I just looked at the time and realized I’ve got to get home. I’m doing
carne guisada
for dinner for Mama Tru and Daffy. I’ll be dog meat if I’m late.”

“You’re serving dog meat, why not be it?” I shook my head. I couldn’t believe she’d lost the cops twice in one evening
by mistake
. Only Trudy.

“I know you don’t like
carne guisada,
which is why you’re not invited.”

Carne guisada
aside, if Daffy were coming, I was eternally grateful to not be invited. Daffy was Trude’s mother, and if anyone ever lived down to her name, it was Daffy. She made Trudy look like a Rhodes scholar on Trude’s worse day.

“How did you know about this shortcut?” I asked as the Miata poked its nose out on North New Braunfels between two white-bloom-filled crepe myrtle trees.

“One of the drapery seamstresses I use told me about it.”

“How does she know about it?”

She dropped her voice. “She had an affair with one of the famous residents.”

I held up my hand. “Don’t tell me what guy it is. I can’t handle any more intrigue right now.”

Trudy flashed a grin. “It wasn’t a guy.”

“I lead a sheltered life,” I muttered.

Trudy snorted as she snaked through another back road on the way to my neighborhood. “Right. One of your best pals is murdered with a brush, you stick yourself in the middle of the investigation—”

“Hey! The cops did that by calling me to identify him.”

“And instead of sitting back and letting them do their job, you have to threaten a psychic, break into the victim’s house, taunt the killer into coming after you at the funeral, and accuse the wife of one of the most powerful men in America of having an illegitimate child. This is all pretty extreme just to get some attention from a cute cop.”

We’d arrived at my house, Trudy having used so many shortcuts even a bird couldn’t have flown a more direct route from the Villita house to mine. I was sure we’d beaten Scythe and Crandall, who no doubt would be showing up in minutes. I’d pretend I wasn’t home. Trudy pulled into the driveway.

I glared at her. “I’m not the one obsessed with him, you are.”

“Methinks you protest too much.”

I was caught. I couldn’t protest now, could I, or I’d be proving her right.
Bitch.
I got out of the car. “Okay, so I can obsess some more—what’s the deal you made with him?”

“You’ll know soon enough,” she said as she backed out without waiting for me to close my door. It swung open, then shut as she floored the gas and zoomed up McCullough.

I considered going through the salon just to check that everything was hunky-dory but decided I would just get distracted by the paperwork there waiting for me. I wanted to concentrate on the killer. Daisy locked up on Wednesdays, and she was the most reliable one I had working at Transformations, so I didn’t worry about the lights and fans being turned off and the alarm set. Instead, I walked around to my kitchen door, running through the conversations I’d had with Celine and Jon. The girls came up, Cab sniffing me over to see where I’d been, Char whining because she’d been abandoned all day, Beau rolling her tongue out to show how starving she was.

I was so busy placating them I didn’t see the man waiting in the shadows until it was too late. I jumped, spun, and would’ve run except he wrapped one arm around my waist.

He whispered roughly into my ear, “No way you’re getting away again. Not even if I have to tie you up.”

“Promises, promises,” I muttered. I couldn’t believe he caught me.

“Ah, so your
compadre
told you about our deal?”

“I didn’t agree to any deal. Especially anything involving being tied up or whips and chains!” I shouted.

Scythe put his hand over my mouth. “Hush, Big Mouth, or I’ll shoot you with a stun gun just to shut you up until I can get you into the house.”

I struggled, but it was like fighting a brick wall. He used his body to push me forward past the dogs and up the stairs. I burned a reproving look at the three canine faces. Only Char had the grace to appear embarrassed that they’d let Scythe trespass. Cab and Beau were too busy panting adoringly at Scythe. Usually, they were first-class watchdogs—strange men always sent them into peals of threatening barks. He must have bribed them with doggie treats or something. See, I knew he was sneaky.

“Open the door,” Scythe ordered.

“You wish,” I said into his palm.

“While I would love to be a gentleman and open the door for you, I don’t seem to have an extra hand to dig up your keys. Of course, I can call to action my trusty handcuffs, and that would free up one of my hands.”

“We can talk out here,” I told his hand. It sounded more like “Wick and tackle ho,” but he seemed to understand, not that it did me any good.

“No, we can’t, because I don’t want any witnesses when I collect on my end of the deal.”

Gulp.
“What if you don’t collect?”

He’d leaned down near my mouth to hear what I said behind his hand. He smelled like fresh-cut cedar. “Oh, don’t worry, I always collect. Remember, I carry a gun.”

The adrenaline was wearing off, and I was beginning to feel the contours of his body along my back and rump.
Uh-oh.
Time to go inside so I could get some space.

“Come on now, Miss Sawyer. Don’t make me employ my favorite method of torture.”

“What’s that?” I imagined thumbscrews and guillotines.

“Tickle torture.”

I found my keys in record time, shoved the right one into the lock, and twisted so hard I nearly bent it. As I turned the knob and pushed the door open, he let his hand slip off my mouth, a half second too slowly. I broke his grip on my waist and fell into my kitchen. He followed, shooting the dead bolt behind him.

I hated to admit it, but it was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard. I was in real trouble. I’d tell him anything to get him out of there before I made one
muy grande
mistake.

“What’d you do that for?”

“I’m trying to save the world by keeping you inside.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” I deadpanned as I moved as far away as possible from him without actually leaving the room. I needn’t have bothered, because he walked straight for the front door, where I heard him check the lock, then into the salon, where I presume he was checking the doors were locked there, too. He certainly was making himself comfortable in my home. It grated on my already frayed nerves. Sexual electricity will do that, you know. Maybe I needed to get a vibrator so every time I got near a halfway decent-looking man I didn’t get all goofy about him just out of hard-up desperation.

It was full dark by now, and I reached up to flick on the homey Tiffany knockoff I have to light the kitchen. His hand closed over mine to stop it. I jumped.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” I scolded.

“Use your head, would you, before someone uses it as target practice?” he snapped, dropping my hand.

“I think you’re being a little melodramatic again.” I walked over to the refrigerator and yanked open the door, because I needed to do something to keep my mind off its sudden penchant for various sexual positions. My distraction failed when he suddenly reached around me, brushing me in all the wrong places, to get his finger on the button at the door junction that operates the light. It went dark again, blinding me until my eyes could adjust after the brief flash of sixty-watt light.

“Don’t tell me,” he finally said in the silent dark, “that you’re
hungry?”

Oh, dear. It was the way he said it. And he was way too close. And it was way too dark. And it was way too hot, even with the forty-degree air blowing on us from the refrigerator. He kissed me. Okay, maybe I kissed him. Well, we kissed each other.

Oh, boy, did we.

I’m not sure how long it lasted, because I stopped thinking for a while. That’s hard for me to do. I can’t remember when it last happened.

At some point, his finger came off the refrigerator light button and moved with the rest of his hand to my right breast, because that’s where it was when I started thinking again. I did that only because he said, “What the hell is this?”

His hand was molding my breast, and we could hear the crunching of paper. He ran his thumb back and forth.
Crunch. Crunch. Uh-oh.
With the speed of light, his fingers unbuttoned my pocket and extracted Zorita’s list. I tried to escape, but as his other hand had been cradling my head and now grabbed my hair, I couldn’t go far.

“Would you please let go of my hair, you Neanderthal?”

In all the nonthinking activity, my hands had somehow migrated to his chest, which I now pushed at with all my might, then swiped for the list. He held it easily out of my reach, while trying to read it.

I got fixed with the twin torpedoes. “What is this?”

“A list of Ricardo’s customers he did personally.”

“Gerald Akin couldn’t tell us whose hair Ricardo styled. His receptionist said Ricardo handled that all on his own, and most of them came in after hours. Where did you get this?”

“Ricardo’s
cunandero.”

“I didn’t know he had one.”