Dipped, Stripped, and Dead (16 page)

“Figure?” he said, as two plates with steak and tastefully arranged—what looked like sculpted deep-fried or baked vegetable sticks—were slid onto our table.

“The . . . you know how wood is all one color, but it has veins? Even when the veins aren’t very big or very visible?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Well, if you use lye, it doesn’t remove the figure, but it can obscure it. You get . . . opacity, the sense that you can only see one layer of wood anymore, not that feeling a really good finished piece gives you, that you’re looking into layers and layers, into the core of the wood itself.”

He nodded. “I think I get it,” he said.

I had taken a bite of my beef tenderloin and was experiencing culinary nirvana, so I didn’t answer, and that gave him a chance to say. “So, how did you get into furniture refinishing? It seems like . . .”

“An odd job for a girl?” I said. “Yeah, my mom tells me that all the time. So does Ben . . .”

“Ben is very protective of you,” he said, his eyes half-closed, with a note of something—was it suspicion or just curiosity? I got a feeling he was trying to verify that Ben and I truly weren’t an item. Well, I didn’t expect Ben would have told him about his own private life. However, he was very good at giving hints, so Wolfe might be unusually suspicious.

“Oh yes. You see, he’s like an older brother in many ways, even though we’re only six months apart. But he’s the oldest in his family and I think his manner stuck like that. He’s always picking up . . . birds with broken wings. Even though most of them are human, if you know what I mean.” And I found myself telling him all about my friendship with Ben and how I’d come to learn refinishing, though—thank heavens—I wasn’t so far gone as to tell him everything about the weird attacks today. I was still convinced they were some sort of college prank, probably from the students who lived upstairs from me. Perhaps their key fitted my door. I knew that the rental company could be very careless like that. Okay, so slashing Ben’s tires was over the top, but then Ben could be the original cranky old man and had probably already done the equivalent of shaking his fist at them and telling them
to get off his lawn. Suddenly I worried about him alone in my place at night. He had been known to object to the noise from upstairs.

I realized I’d fallen silent and that Officer Wolfe was looking at me speculatively. He had finished his steak without my realizing it. He was resting his elbows on the table, and his hands were crossed well above his plate as he looked at me with a speculative expression. I wondered if he was auditioning me for the part of first murderer.

“So . . . your ex-husband has part custody of your son?” he asked.

Oh. The last few words I’d said were about All-ex, and now he probably thought I was one of those embittered divorced women who thought all men were scum. I shrugged. “Sure,” I said. “We have different styles . . . different approaches to parenting, but he’s still E’s father, and I think E will benefit from knowing his parents at least agree that he’s important enough for us to bury our differences.” Those eyes were still fixed on me, attentive, inquiring, and I added, “It’s not that he’s a bad person, you know? I wouldn’t have married him if he were. He’s . . . we are very different people, and he drove me nuts. I think I drove him nuts, too.” Nuts enough to resort to physical violence, which I didn’t think had been in All-ex’s repertoire before or since.

“And that’s it,” Officer Wolfe asked. “For refinishers in Goldport?”

“Sort of,” I said. “There’s someone else who does occasional refinishing, but usually only to order. You know, someone buys a piece and calls him and asks him to work on it. Most of the time he does antique reproductions. Very detailed, commissioned antique reproductions. He once said that two or three pieces a year support him.”

“Oh? Would he have a lye vat?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Not normally.”

He raised his eyebrows at me, even as someone removed
our plates and set little glass bowls filled with white chocolate jalapeño mousse in front of us, accompanied by little cookies shaped like dessert spoons. “I sense,” he said as he spooned up the mousse and licked at the spoon in a way that should have been worthy of arrest for lewd and lascivious right there on the spot, “that you don’t want to talk about this man. Is he a friend?”

I giggled before I could stop myself. “A friendly acquaintance,” I said. “We met back when I was taking things to flea markets, and he was just starting out and put some stuff there, too. You know, small stuff like shelves. He has since developed a very select clientele and lives
quite
above my pancake level.” I tasted a spoon of mousse and had to bite my tongue to keep from moaning. Oh, this was . . . oh, where had this been all my life? There was only the edge of a bite, the tip of a sting in sheer delicious chocolateness. It was like a slow kiss with the teeth scraped lightly across the tongue.

“So why the giggle?” he asked, with just a hint of a smile.

“Oh, because . . .” I took a deep breath. “You see, you were so confused about Inobart Oakfriend, I’m afraid you’ll think I’m crazy and making stuff up.”

He put the cookie spoon down and looked straight across at me. “Not another elf lord?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Nothing as simple as that. You see, Charlie Manson—”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, he prefers to go by Michael Manson, because Michael is his middle name.”

“I should hope so,” Officer Wolfe said. “I should
hope
he prefers to go by it.”

“Yes, he does. Because of the . . .” Laughter was threatening to erupt behind my composure, and I was having all I could to keep it down. “Because of the associations.”

“I’d say.” He resumed eating his mousse. “So, the poor man has an unfortunate name . . .”

“Yeah. Well, two . . .”

“Two?”

“His other name, that he goes by when he’s . . . er . . . wearing different clothes is Miss Charity Jewel.”

The cookie spoon went down again. “I beg your pardon?”

“See, I told you you’d think I’d gone crazy,” I said.

“Uh . . . not really, I’m considering whether I might be asleep and dreaming. Only my dreams aren’t usually this . . . interesting. Are you telling me this . . . gentleman is a transvestite and . . . calls himself
Charity Jewel
?”

“Yes. He wears miniskirts and six-inch stilettos, which would be more appropriate if they weren’t size thirteen, and if he weren’t about six-five to begin with.” Officer Wolfe’s mouth had fallen open, and I was sure he was considering one of several quiet establishments with padded rooms where I could rest quietly till I came to my senses, but his expression goaded me on, and I couldn’t stop. “He’s an ex-Marine and has the craggiest face I’ve ever seen.” I had to pick up my napkin and press it against my mouth to stop what promised to be a shout of laughter from erupting between my lips. “But he thinks . . . he thinks with false eyelashes, rouge, and lipstick, everyone believes he’s a woman.” My laughter could not wait. All I could do was prevent it from being loud enough to have everyone look at us.

“Good Lord!” Officer Wolfe said, at last. “I suppose he’s a friend of Ben Colm’s?”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean, all gay men know all transvestites?”

He looked surprised, then shrugged. “Well, no. But . . . my cousin is gay, so I’m fairly well informed. There are two bars in town: the Leather Up, which Ben doesn’t look the type for, and the Pool Queue, which is where my
cousin hangs out. Been there a couple of times. They do good steak.”

I pressed the napkin on my lips to prevent myself from laughing aloud again.

“You have a dirty mind,” Officer Wolfe said—not like someone who disapproves, either. “So, I take it this Manson doesn’t run in Ben’s set?”

“Oh no,” I said, speaking in a strangled voice through the napkin. “No, no, no, Michael Manson is strictly hetero. And let me tell you, it’s creepy beyond belief when he hits on you while wearing a miniskirt and speaking in what he thinks is a feminine voice.”

“Good Lord,” he said again.

“See,” I said, lowering my napkin. “I told you you’d think I was making it up.”

“You were wrong,” he said dryly, though a shadow of a smile still twisted his lips. “I don’t think even you could make up a tale half that funny, I mean starting with his names.”

Even I.
Uh. The man had known me for half a day and he thought he knew what I could make up.

“Good Lord,” he said again, apparently expecting divine intervention right then and there, and impatient of getting it. “I didn’t know the furniture refinishing world was this . . . exciting.”

“Well, think about it,” I said, setting my napkin back on my lap. “By and large we’re loners who want to do something we can live from independently. And if we actually procure our own refinishing pieces, it involves some creativity and initiative. It’s no wonder we get all sorts of misfits.”

“And in what way are you a misfit, Ms. Dyce Chocolat Dare?”

I squeaked. I’m sure I did. “He told you.”

“Who?”

“Ben told you my middle name.”

“No, it’s the name your car is registered under,” he said.

“You looked up my car registration!” I said, shocked.

“Not really, we were seeing whether you also had a truck registered to you, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“There were tire prints at the scene of the . . . near the Dumpster. Huge tires, the sort for a truck . . .”

“Oh. No, all I have is the Volvo.” And a car registration I’d need to change somehow.

He was quiet a moment, as though finishing the mousse took all his concentration, and then he asked, “So, do you want to dance?”

I should have said no. If I were sane, I would say no. After all, what was the point of this man buying me an expensive dinner and dancing with me? What did he want? I was fairly sure it wasn’t my home-cut curls, or my all-too-short body that commanded this attention. And yet he must want something.

But like with the steak and the mousse, it had been too long since I’d engaged in the civilized business of dancing.

So I danced with Officer Hotstuff, who insisted I really must call him Cas.

When he drove me home, I was feeling very mellow and my view of the law had softened considerably. I’d almost forgotten what had brought us together. Perhaps the man—who was an excellent and intuitive dancer, who could lead a woman around the dance floor while making her feel like she was part of a seamless whole—just had trouble finding women who could slow dance with him. Perhaps he suspected I could, and perhaps that was why he’d asked me out.

But then on my doorstep, I realized that he’d paid for a very expensive dinner, and I wondered if he wanted something else. The idea left me tongue-tied and turning red.

“I’d . . . I’d ask you in for coffee,” I said. “But . . . Ben is staying with me and . . .”

I looked up to find Cas Wolfe smiling, amused. “We had coffee at the restaurant,” he said. “Was it that un-memorable? I thought it was very good.”

“Oh, it . . . it was,” I said, and looked down at my shoes. They were still shoes, and still there. Flat Mary Janes, with a little strap. They were Ben’s despair because he thought I should have at least a little bit of heel, given my lack of height.

“Good,” Cas Wolfe said, and his big, square-tipped fingers came under my chin and tilted it up.

I knew it was going to happen a second before it did. I always wondered if other people had more warning of these things. Surely men at least knew? Or did they just find themselves kissing women without knowing how it came about?

His gray eyes flashed amused-blue and soft, and then his lips were on mine, demanding and very sure of themselves. The tip of his tongue pushed gently in between my lips, and I let it. His mouth tasted of coffee and milk and his touch sent a feeling through me that I wasn’t used to and hadn’t experienced in a long time. Perhaps never. I realized, rather shamefully, that if Ben weren’t staying in my living room, I’d probably ask Cas Wolfe in. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.

Yes, I thought, as Cas leaned back and I was left with a befuddled mind and confused thoughts. In a few years, I was going to be a serious danger to the UPS man, acne scars and all.

Cas’s hand pulled my curls back and he said, “Thank you, Dyce Chocolat. For a very enjoyable evening. Now, please open your door; I want to make sure you get in without any problems.”

I unlocked my door and opened it, almost slamming into Ben, who seemed to be getting hastily up from his
knees. I stepped in quickly and turned around, hoping Officer Wolfe hadn’t seen that very undignified scramble. “Thank you, Officer Wolfe. I liked dinner very much. And . . . and the dance.”

He smiled and touched my cheek, just the barest of touches with the tips of his fingers. “The pleasure was mine.”

CHAPTER 12

The Trials of Friendship