Murder Curlers and Kites Read online

  He tossed the book on the counter and crossed his arms over his toned chest. “You ever hear of The X-Files?” He nodded to his book. “This is The Idiot Files. I’m documenting all the stupid things Phyllis says and does. If it’s comical enough, maybe I’ll send it to Hollywood. They’re always looking for good material.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to this idea, but a flood of images from Phyllis’s exploits rushed to mind. Like the time she coaxed Clive—her name for the tiny, white-bearded man in a constant alcoholic fog on our recent cruise—into a hair contest. Or the time she butchered Ziggy Stoaks’s hair, unaware he was an escaped murder convict. And what about the bathroom explosion that singed her cornrows and brows?

  While I could see the humor in Max’s mission, it seemed wrong to use Phyllis and her disasters as the material to build on. Then again, Phyllis’s life could provide ample fodder for a dozen seasons of a sitcom. So who was I to judge?

  “I have a better question for you.” Max gave one of his shrewd, wise-guy stances. “Why are you walking like you’ve been horseback riding?” He gaped at me with huge eyes, realization suddenly dawning. “Valentine! How many times is that this week? You keep this up, and that stallion you’re riding will have to be put out to pasture.”

  “Stop it.” I sat delicately on the wheeled stool, controlling my smile from getting away from me. “There aren’t any pastures in Rueland.”

  He blinked at my rascally comeback, at a loss to say anything.

  I looked from Max to Phyllis. “Does she know you’re documenting her actions?”

  He grinned. “She thinks I’m detailing her training as a geisha.”

  “You mean this isn’t simply another homemade outfit?”

  “You got it. She’s taking lessons in the Japanese art of entertaining.” He snorted and plopped onto the second wheeled stool. “If you can believe it.”

  What didn’t I believe when it came to Phyllis? “There’s something wrong with this picture. I mean, I don’t know much about Japanese traditions, but aren’t geishas supposed to be Japanese? And don’t they start training as teens?”

  Max shrugged. “Tell that to the idiot out there.”

  More questions flooded me, things I wondered if Phyllis had thought through. “Has she considered she might be exploiting another culture by dressing up as a geisha?”

  “Lovey, you know Phyllis as well as I do. She doesn’t think. Why not let her take the ride? We both know what the outcome will be. I don’t know about you, but I’m due for a good laugh.”

  I smacked his arm. “You’re awful. You could set her straight, and the whole messy outcome would be avoided.”

  He jerked his head back. “Where would the fun be in that? Anyway, have you ever known Phyllis to take advice? I warned her last week against using chlorine bleach to remove mustard stains from her red pantsuit. Did she listen? No.”

  “What happened?”

  “Let’s just say if Phyllis wears that outfit again, she’ll resemble Miss Piggy in the raw.”

  I sighed. I had enough on my mind without worrying about Phyllis’s fiascos. I stared at the page again, getting on with the day. “You know who that Carrier car belongs to?”

  “What Carrier car?”

  “The silver car out back. The sporty one. It says Carrier on it.”

  He slapped his hand on the counter, almost knocking the fancy handset from the French provincial phone onto the floor. “That’s Jock’s new Porsche, lovey!”

  Of course. The other day. Left early to look at a car. If I hadn’t had so many distractions this morning, I would’ve thought of this.

  Jock strode into the dispensary. “And it’s not Carrier, it’s Car-rera. It’s a 4S.”

  “I knew that.” Big lie. I knew little about cars except you got in, started the engine, and put it in D to go.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about Jock’s new mode of transportation. But the sleek and seductive look was as mysterious, magnetic, and dangerous as its owner. Plus, we were talking expensive. Jock made a good living at hair, but I suspected his private life as a stunt double was what afforded him finer luxuries. “What happened to the bike?”

  He leaned his well-defined butt against the cupboards and spread his palms on the counter behind him. “It needed maintenance.”

  I bobbed my head thoughtfully. “Next time I need maintenance on my car, I’ll buy a Lamborghini.”

  He curled his toe under the stool legs and wheeled me toward him. “I hope you’re this witty tonight on our date.”

  “Date?” I coughed on saliva that caught in my throat.

  “D-a-t-e,” he spelled out, peering down into my eyes.

  Max’s silence screamed he was waiting for the next move.

  “You’ve forgotten,” Jock said, his tone even.

  How could I remember anything with his erotic leather-citrus aroma stirring my senses? “Not really forgotten.” I held my ground. “Just…not remembered.”

  A smile crept up Jock’s face. “Does it ring a bell that I bought tickets a week ago to the ballet?”

  Gulp. A bell. A gong. And an alarm. After recently teasing me about being a child ballerina, Jock had offered two front-row seats to the ballet. I didn’t want to know how he’d secured them on such late notice, but in a weak moment, I’d agreed. I mean, front-row seats to the ballet! Who’d turn down those?

  “I know you dread riding my Harley, so I thought why not go in style.”

  “A minute ago you said you bought the Porsche because your bike needed maintenance.”

  He winked. “Killing two birds with one stone.”

  Butterflies fluttered in my belly from his sexy wink. “Are you saying I’m a bird you’re trying to stone?”

  “Stone isn’t the word I’d use.”

  A nervous gasp erupted from Max. I knew what he was thinking, and he was right. I was romantically involved with Romero, the hard-muscled cop in my life, the man of my dreams. There was no reason I should be tempted to go out with anyone else. I peeked up at Jock. Even if he was the second-hottest man in the world.

  I backed up and stood, gathering my wits. “So we’re clear: this isn’t a date.”

  Max regained his voice and stood next to me. “Sounds like a date to me.”

  I cut him a dirty look, then eyed them both. “A promise is a promise. That’s all.”

  “Call it what you want.” Jock gave a confident nod. “This ballet is so popular, they’ve added an extra performance. I’ll be at your place by eight tonight.” His hot stare traveled down the front of my dress. “I like the mod look, but you might want to get rid of the coffee stains.”

  With that, he headed to the gorgeous client waiting in his chair. Thank goodness. Every time I thought about going to the ballet with Jock in his sleek car, my heart palpitated harder.

  * * *

  The morning slid by, a steady stream of seductresses filling Jock’s chair, a steady stream of traumatized clients leaving Phyllis’s. Max kept his eye on his colleague click-clacking around in her wooden flip-flops. Likely taking mental notes for The Idiot Files.

  I waxed Mrs. Benedetti’s legs and confirmed her daughter’s appointment for tomorrow. Mrs. Benedetti left the shop on top of the world, confident Carla would be a changed woman after Jock worked his magic on her.

  I wished I felt as confident about my near future as Mrs. Benedetti felt about Carla’s. But the end of the day was closing in, and what I felt was indecisive. My legs were still weak after last night’s exploits with Romero, and here I was stepping out again…with Jock. Not that I was seeking trouble, but Romero wasn’t going to be thrilled with this idea.

  The minute Jock roared away for the day in his Porsche, Max pushed me into my office, all ruffled. “What are you telling Mr. Long Arm of the Law when he finds out you’re cheating on him with Mr. Argentina?”

  Trust Max to make the most of my sticky situation. I elbowed past him with a handful of combs I was taking into the dispensary to wash, my heart p
alpitations returning. “I’m not cheating on Romero. He knows my relationship with Jock is strictly platonic. I’ll be home before midnight.”

  Max waited at the dispensary doorway and tapped his toes, arms crossed defiantly. “Cinderella thought the same thing. And look what happened to her. In rags before she made it through the door, and without her sparkly carriage.”

  Why me? I disinfected the combs and set them on a towel to dry overnight. “Don’t you have anything better to do than slow me down? I plan on telling Romero about my night out with Jock. Okay?”

  “When?” Max was in my face, eyes narrowed with suspicion. You’d have thought I was cheating on him.

  “I’ll tell him after my outing. Probably tomorrow.” Or next year.

  I dampened a rag and sponge-cleaned the coffee stains off my boots, not sure why I was stalling. “It’s not as though he’ll miss me. He’s working tonight.”

  “While the cat’s away, Cinderella and the mice will play.”

  Oh Lord. I smacked the rag on the counter. “You’ve seen Jock. Is there any part on that man that resembles a mouse?”

  He narrowed his eyes more, not impressed with my retort. I couldn’t blame him. Panic was building inside me at an alarming rate. What was I getting myself into?

  “You heard what Jock said,” I squeaked as if I were turning into a mouse. “He’ll be at my place by eight. That’s an hour from now.”

  I returned the rag under the sink, tripped out of the dispensary, and rushed to lock the front door, acutely aware that Lady Geisha was also gone. “Where’s your subject? You can’t do much documenting if she isn’t around.”

  “Don’t change the topic.” Max was on my heels as I turned the deadbolt. “Phyllis left along with Jock. I’m meeting her at the Geisha Gap in an hour.”

  I was afraid to ask. “Geisha Gap?”

  “The okiya or geisha house.” He gave an impish grin. “Remember when I said she was taking lessons in the Japanese art of entertaining? She’s training to sing, dance, play an instrument, and become the perfect hostess.”

  “What are you doing while she’s learning all this?”

  He shrugged. “Taking notes. Clicking pictures. Whatever feels most amusing.”

  “And they’re allowing you to be present during her training.” It was a statement filled with doubt.

  He gave a head tilt. “The Okiya Corral is a Japanese restaurant in a seedy area in Cambridge. The Geisha Gap is in the back of the restaurant. There’s a sitting area for family to wait.” He chuckled. “So you’re now looking at Phyllis’s long-lost cousin.”

  I gulped. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t find the humor in his words. My relationship with Phyllis was the very secret I’d kept from him all this time. Sustaining a neutral expression, I grabbed my bag, flicked off the lights, and sprinted down the hall to the rear door. “Have fun.”

  “Don’t you have too much fun.” He snapped the lock in place after we’d exited the building, then pointed his finger in my face. “You may have forgotten you’ve got a hot stallion at your disposal. But I haven’t.”

  I slanted into my Bug and gave him a shaky thumbs-up. He had no need to worry. Nothing would ever make me forget I had Romero.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I live in a Cape Cod bungalow in a neighborhood dominated by Italian-Americans. Hard-working, honest, friendly people, except for the odd crank—namely Mrs. Lombardi whom you’d expect more from since her son was a priest. Clearly, the benevolent gene skipped a generation.

  I passed Ray Donoochi’s and could smell Nina’s fresh-out-of-the-oven bread wafting into the street. Ray worked for the Boston PD and was a good cop regardless of his ample size. That alone would scare the pants off me if I were a crook and saw him coming.

  I parked in my driveway and was heading up the porch when Leo Donoochi, their oldest teen, jogged toward me from across the street. “Mom said to give you this bread and veal parmigiana.” He handed me a container and a loaf partially wrapped in a paper towel, threadlike steam swirling around it into the air.

  I inhaled the yeasty smell. “Mmm. Thanks, Leo.” I was often the recipient of Nina’s home cooking because I was “a bella donna” living on my own with, admittedly, not much in my fridge. “Your mom,” I said with affection, “she didn’t have to do this.”

  Leo was as muscled, handsome, and tough as his younger brother, Jake. They roughhoused with each other and acted macho in public, but their behavior always softened around me. “Aww, she likes doing it.”

  With Leo’s dark looks and cool swagger, he could likely sweet-talk the girls his age into anything. Visions of another sweet-talking, cool-swaggering Italian named Romero came to mind. Probably what he’d been like as a teen.

  “Still, tell her to come in for a free manicure sometime, okay?”

  Leo gave me a quick smile and nod, then jogged back home, looking over his shoulder once. “Buon appetito.”

  I let myself into the house, dropped my bag by the door, and carted the food onto the kitchen counter. I tore off a piece of loaf and popped it into my mouth. Mmm. Sweet, warm, and buttery. I wrapped the rest up, tucked it in the corner of the counter for later, and placed the veal in the fridge. Then I peeled out of my go-go boots and set them by the front door next to my bag.

  “Howdy, Yitts.” I bent over the black beanbag chair in the living room and kissed the top of my black cat’s head. Then I hurried into the bathroom to brush my teeth. “I’ll feed you in a minute,” I promised.

  Yitts hopped onto the pine floor and immediately took her paw and washed the mix of lipstick and butter off the top of her head. Meanwhile, a promise is a promise, the five words I’d uttered from the top of my high horse to Jock and Max earlier came to mind. Right.

  I coughed and choked on the minty toothpaste at the consequences of those words.

  Not bothered that I was gagging or in another predicament, Yitts sauntered over to Ellie, our latest addition to the free-spirited décor, and plunked herself at the wooden elephant’s feet.

  I cleared my throat. “Thanks for the concern.”

  I topped her food and tossed her a sprig of catnip that I’d snipped yesterday from Mrs. Calvino’s garden. Tobacco was Mrs. Calvino’s plant of choice, but she knew Yitts loved catnip and had suggested I help myself to the herb she grew in her flowerbed between our houses. No wonder Yitts liked Mrs. Calvino.

  Not bothering with her food, Yitts dove for the sprig and rolled on the ground, rubbing her head and face in the stimulant.

  Yowza! Here I was, giving Yitts this feel-good plant when it struck me that Jock was my stimulant.

  “You’re welcome,” I said to Yitts, refusing to put any stock into that thought. Maybe my relationship with Jock was a tad intoxicating, but that was as far as it went.

  I wiggled out of my spotted dress, sprayed it with stain remover, lobbed it over the shower rod, then touched up my makeup. After enhancing my eyes and frosting my lips, I slipped into a sleek pair of black palazzo pants, perfect for the ballet, and a cropped silver ribbed turtleneck that I was saving for a special occasion.

  I switched earrings for a sparkly square-hooped platinum pair, then brushed my hair. My heightened mane plus my see-through square heels that I dug out of my closet brought me up to a respectable 5’9”, five inches taller than my natural size and more compatible next to Jock.

  Who was I kidding? Jocko would still be another seven or so inches taller than me. To be well matched to Hercules, I’d need to be built like a Greek Amazon.

  I took a final look in the mirror. Not bad. The only thing missing from the elegant look was an evening bag. I couldn’t go to the ballet with my usual beauty sack slung over my shoulder. How would that look? I wasn’t a jet-setting millionaire, but I did have some class. Why would I even need my tools? I was going out with the son of Zeus. If he couldn’t protect me, nobody could.

  I rifled through my box of purses and found my black satin clutch with rhinestones on the snap. Perfect for my phone, keys
, lipstick, a few dollars, and tissue—since I wouldn’t escape a performance at the ballet without shedding a few tears.

  Giving my palazzo pants credit for the extra flourish in my step, I sashayed into the living room with the clutch and knelt in front of my beauty bag. I was rummaging for the things I needed when a loud bike engine rumbled to a stop outside. I twisted toward the window, my ears perked. Probably one of Mrs. Calvino’s kids visiting. Didn’t one of them have a motorcycle? There was silence, then the sound of footsteps mounting the porch steps, followed by a knock on the door.

  I stiffened. Jock had claimed his bike was having maintenance. Hence the Porsche. In which he was taking me to the ballet. Or was that a ruse to get me to agree to the evening? A sneaky move to get me to hold on tight to him? I smacked my evening bag on the floor, lips pressed together, none too thrilled with this turn of events.

  I flung open the door, ready to give him a piece of my mind, but something was off about my helmeted visitor. While the tall, muscular frame indicated the individual before me worked out at the gym, a place Jock regularly visited, this person clothed in black leather was not Jock. The tinted face shield didn’t make it any easier to distinguish my caller. He snapped off the chinstrap, tugged off the helmet, and shook his wavy dark hair onto his collar.

  Romero!

  I blinked in shock. “Um. Hello?”

  His eyes dilated as they skimmed over my outfit, his full lips twitching into a wicked grin, a look I was getting quite used to. He unzipped his leather jacket, tossed his helmet onto the beanbag chair, and, without as much as a hello back, scooped me into his arms.

  Romero was a tough, streetwise detective with skills that went beyond serving and protecting. With or without the badge, he wasn’t someone you’d want to go up against. His fingers touched my bare midriff and worked the fabric of my top until he was inside, inching his hands higher, his eyes fixed on my face.