Not One Clue (6 page)

“Oh?” Due to Shirley’s early-morning long john offering, I had opted to skip lunch. Hence, the smell of lo meiny goodness was all but overwhelming. “What’s wrong?”

“It is my sister.”

I frowned, trying to focus on her words instead of noodles in white sauce. “I thought you said she was doing better. That she and her husband had made amends.”

“That is what she told me.”

I sighed and lowered the bag. Lo mein goodness would have to wait. “What happened?”

“I have no word from her in two weeks of time.”

Damnit. I glanced toward her yard. It was, as always, groomed to gleaming perfection. Considering the wasteland of my own property, it was a small miracle she would even speak to me. “How often do you usually hear from her?”

“Once each week, without the exception.”

“Maybe she’s having phone difficulties.”

“Then she would write the letter.”

I was scrambling. “Maybe—” I began, but she shook her head.

“There is trouble.”

There was something about the way she said the words that made the hair prickle on the back of my neck. “What makes you so sure?”

“Aalia and I, we are more than the sisters.”

“Still—”

“She is my Elaine.”

I scowled.

“Elaine, your friend, if she were troubled, would you not know?”

In fact, we had proven that to be the case on more than one occasion. There was a weird connection between us. A closeness I sometimes thought I couldn’t live without. My soul mate of the wrong gender. “Yes,” I said, and quite miraculously, forgot about the lo mein.

6

Hard work and talent are all well and good, but don’t underestimate the power of trickery and deceit.

—
Gregor Gooding, Elaine
Butterfield’s most
motivated agent

M
inutes later when I stepped inside, my vestibule was dark. Which probably meant that Laney was home. She didn’t believe in wasting electricity. Which often meant that she also didn’t believe in light. Elaine is a tree-hugger down to the sap-sucking little roots of her being.

I turned to close the door, still carefully juggling the lo mein.

“Babekins!” someone chirped.

I screamed as I spun around. And sure enough, there was Solberg. Short, balding, and barely human, he had burrowed into my home like an unwanted boll weevil.

“What are you doing here?” I was struggling to breathe normally. He was lucky my instincts were such that protecting dinner was more important than fighting intruders.

“I came to adore my stunning bride-to-be,” he said.

“Why?” I asked, and checked the side of the bag, making sure no yummy juices had spilled.

“Why?” He grinned at me. Or maybe he had colitis. I believe the results can be similar. “Because she’s the air that I breathe. The wind beneath my wings. The light of my—”

“Try not to creep me out,” I said, and pressing past him, made my way into the kitchen.

Laney was there, setting the table. It looked as if she was just recovering from laughing at my expense. “Hard day?” she asked, far too smart to admit she habitually finds my grouchiness amusing.

“I actually thought it couldn’t get any worse,” I said, and she chuckled. Somehow my aversion to her betrothed completely failed to upset her.

“Jeen just stopped by to discuss the floral arrangements.”

“Buying the tropics, are you?”

“It
is
getting a little out of hand,” she admitted.

“Uh-huh. So Solberg’s leaving soon?” I tried not to sound jubilant at the idea, but I’m not much of an actress. There had been a time I could have said the same of Laney. But no more. She was now the darling of Hollywood and would start filming her first motion picture soon. But that wasn’t entirely due to her thespian skills. She was built like a fairy-dusted goddess and smart as a firecracker. Not to mention she was the most adorable person on the planet.

“Sorry I can’t stay for dinner,” Solberg said, walking into the kitchen. “But I’ve got stuff to do.”

Despite my better judgment, I glanced up at his mysterious tone. “What stuff?”

His lips jerked as his colitis acted up. “Stuff I can’t talk about when Angel’s here.”

Which meant I would never know, because I wouldn’t be caught dead alone with him. I’d made that mistake before. In fact, I had dated him once. But that was before he’d caught his first glimpse of Brainy Laney. As far as I know his jaw hasn’t been located since.

“He’s buying my wedding gift,” Laney said.

“I didn’t know there were still continents for sale,” I said. Solberg was just a little bit richer than God, which, oddly enough, had absolutely nothing to do with why Laney was marrying him. It was anybody’s guess what her mind-boggling reasons might be. But I suspect they might have had something to do with eye of newt and possible necromancy. Voodoo is still alive and well in the greater Los Angeles area.

“I’m not
buying
your gift,” Solberg said.

Laney and I looked at each other. She shrugged. He grinned.

“I gotta go,” he said.

I turned away as he kissed Laney’s cheek. Why spoil my appetite now?

The door closed behind him.

“You really don’t know what he’s getting you?” I asked.

“Not a clue,” she said, and reached up to fetch the glasses from the top shelf. She was wearing green canvas shorts she had gotten from Goodwill in junior high. There was not a molecule of cellulite on her thighs. The sight made me want to eat until I was catatonic.

I opened the carton of lo mein. It was as pretty as a picture. “What did he mean by he’s not
buying
it?”

“Maybe he’s making me something.”

I fished out a noodle and tasted it. Asian ambrosia. “Or renting you a slave.”

“Can you do that?”

I shrugged one shoulder. The other was on sabbatical. “I’d rent myself out for the right price.”

“I’m going to have to think about that. Tell me about last night,” she said, and sat down at the table.

I did the same, then scowled as I dished up the lo mein and passed it to her.

She only took some lo.

“A client called,” I said, beginning slow.

“Here?”

I nodded and tasted the sauce. It made chocolate pale by comparison. I swear to you, I wasn’t drunk.

“How’d he get this number? You didn’t give him your home phone, did you?” she asked, and taste-tested an onion as I slurped down a skein of noodles.

“I’m not brain-dead.”

“I was wondering but I thought it would be rude to ask,” she said. “What did he want?”

I gave her a look, but the meal was singing its siren song, pulling my attention away. “He wanted me to take his son.”

She raised one brow. “Take his son or
have
his son?”

“Take
him. Which seemed like enough of a commitment.”

“He must be pretty good-looking if you’d even consider the possibility of procreating.”

“Think Don Cheadle face, Matthew McConaughey body.”

“Wow,” she said, then, “Did I tell you I might be doing a movie with McConaughey?”

The fork dropped from my hand as the image of McConaughey jumped into my psyche. And voilà … suddenly I remembered what was better than chocolate. We’d been McConaughey fans ever since he’d played David Wooderson in
Dazed and Confused
. In fact, Laney and I had spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in the dark watching everything from bad sitcoms to award-winning feature films. It had eventually made her a star. It had only made me pale.

“A movie with Matthew McConaughey! Are you serious?” I asked.

“No,” she said, and stabbed a mushroom. “I just wanted to see your reaction. So when did Micky call?”

“I didn’t say … what makes you think it was Micky?” I asked.

She didn’t answer immediately. She was busy masticating. A sesame seed can take her half an hour. It could be morning before she finished up with the mushroom.

“How do you even
know
Micky?” I asked.

“When did he call?”

“Maybe it
wasn’t
Micky,” I said, and she laughed.

“You’ve got fourteen black clients. Three of them are under the child-bearing age. One is a grandfather, and nine are women. I don’t know a lot of women with McConaughey’s pecs.”

“You’ve been talking to Shirley.”

“Someone’s got to keep you from getting yourself killed. And seriously, Mac, I don’t think it’s ever going to be you. What were you thinking, galloping out there at midnight?”

Galloping? “Have you been talking to Rivera, too?”

“Should I?”

“No!”

She grinned. “Then tell me what’s going on.”

I succumbed. Not that I wouldn’t have anyway. But the idea of her and Rivera comparing notes made it easier to capitulate. Of course I swore her to secrecy first.

Fifteen minutes later I had consumed enough noodles to feed Cambodia. Laney’s meal could have fit in my molar.

“So you think this Jackson guy was high?”

“I think so. He had just been shot and he acted as if he was floating on cloud nine. Crooning about rosewood and retribution.”

“Retribution.”

“It sounds better than revenge, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“It’s all so sad,” I said, and sighed. “From what Micky’s said in the past he’s got everything—brains, education, money. He looks like a forty-year-old Jimmy Trivette.”

“From
Walker, Texas Ranger?”

“Yeah.”

“You have a Texas Ranger swearing revenge?”

“I have a
nutcase
seeking
retribution.”

“Why don’t I feel better?” I shrugged.

“I think you’re a natural pessimist.”

She gave me a look. “What makes him a nutcase?”

“According to Micky, it’s mostly stuff he’s done to past girlfriends.”

“Physical stuff?”

“That, too,” I said, scraping the last bit of sauce from my plate. “But probably more emotional. Psychological. Micky’s been checking into Jackson’s past. There’s a girl named Becca. Says he’d make her call him ‘Sir’ and cook his meals in the nude.”

“That’s unusual?”

I jerked my gaze to her. Her expression was absolutely serious, but her eyes were too bright.

“You’re so not funny,” I said.

She laughed, apparently disagreeing. “So Micky’s grandmother didn’t know about Jamel?”

“I don’t think so. As of Micky’s last appointment he hadn’t told her yet. He’d just gotten the test results back and needed some time to think things through.”

“So how did she know to show up at Jackson’s house?”

I shrugged and fished the last noodle out of the box. I needed it about as much as a bullet to the brainpan. “Micky said she can be spooky. Maybe she uses the same voodoo witch you do.”

“Shirley? Would Shirley have told her?”

The noodle drooped from my fingers mere millimeters from my gaping maw. “She wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s my receptionist. It’s her job to keep things confidential.”

“What’s
your
job?”

“You blackmailed me into divulging all that information about Jackson.”

She didn’t comment on her threat to contact Rivera. “I guess it would have been worse if no one showed up for Jamel.”

“I was there.”

“And what would you have done with him?”

I shrugged. One of my past boyfriends had told me I had the maternal instincts of a snail. “I would have worked something out.”

“You and François?”

“François happens to be a very sensitive guy.”

She didn’t respond to that other than to roll her eyes. Maybe because François runs on batteries and lives in a drawer beside my bed. Laney rose to her feet and started clearing dishes.

“I take it Rivera wasn’t happy about the situation, either.”

I watched her work. “The François situation or the Micky situation?”

“He knows about François?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably?”

“I don’t even know how
you
know.”

She grinned as she put the dishes in the sink. “What was the good lieutenant’s major concern regarding the Micky situation?”

“Probably that he couldn’t tell me what to do.”

She turned, putting her ridiculously well-toned derriere against the counter. “Have you considered that maybe he worries about you?”

“I’m a big girl.”

“Mac, a guy was shot. A woman was stoned. Not to mention armed. And Micky’s been accused of rape on more than one occasion. Maybe he’s not as innocent as he seems.”

“He’s had a tough road. And how do you know—”

She raised a hand. “Just be careful. Okay?”

“I don’t intend to get myself shot,” I said, trying for levity. “I mean, how embarrassing would that be?”

She glared at me. “Sometimes you’re an idiot.”

I gave her a hopeful expression for the “sometimes.” “Things are looking up, then?”

“I’m serious, Mac. You just keep putting yourself out there. Looking for trouble.”

“I do not.”

“Really? What did Ramla want?”

I was pretty sure my earlier conversation with my neighbor wasn’t something I should be ashamed of, but somehow I was. “What?”

“Ramla.” Laney was adopting her combative mien. Generally, she’s about as aggressive as a daisy. Other times she seems to think I need a mother. Which, by the by, I already have in spades. “What did she want?”

“Do you have spies out there or something?”

“Yes. I thought her sister was doing okay now.”

A while back, I had told Laney about the Al-Sadr situation. She’d informed me that a friend of hers from the Middle East might be able to help. But before any plans were made, Aalia, Ramla’s sister, had reported that all was well. Unlikely as that had seemed, there wasn’t much I could do about it. “I guess she’s not anymore.”