renovated and restored to its former, quiet dignity and in the heart of this discreet but tasteful business district, Nick found Lee Fox’s office. Five minutes too early, he arrived at Suite 7, 1257 W. Mesa Street. He wrapped his knuckles upon the glass door and tried to peer through the frosted panes. The door opened abruptly and he nearly fell inside.
A short, nutmeg-haired woman stood before him. Her hair, cropped in pixie cut, would have looked fine on a child or teenager but seemed abruptly out of place on a grown woman. Bug-eyed glasses with rims too dark and oversized perched upon her short, upturned nose. Her dress was an awful blue-checked affair, cut way too long and loose over her slight frame with huge shoulder pads. It dwarfed the already small woman, who glanced at her tiny gold wristwatch as if hoping he were late. Nick felt a childish satisfaction that she seemed disappointed.
“I’m here to see Mr. Fox. I’m Inspector Nick Thayne.” He sincerely hoped Lee Fox was a little more with it than his frumpy secretary.
“I’m Lea Fox,” said the short woman and Nick blanched. “And the name is L-E-A Fox, short for Lea. Do come in.” She led the way into a rear office, a strange thumping noise accompanying her slow progress. Nick’s dark oval eyes shifted downwards to note the metal half-crutch she used to help her progress. She set down across from an expansive polished desk, leaning the crutch against a filing cabinet.
“You had an accident?”
“Years ago, but I re-injured it a couple days ago. So, what do you want?”
Her violet eyes shrewdly analyzed his slender, handsome features as he lowered himself into her brother’s old chair much as a fox might do before it was about to attack a chicken. Lea noted he was incredibly attractive, the kind of man women view as a sinful indulgence for the eyes. Some women, however, probably labeled him simply as an exotic treat; the kind you sample at an ethnic restaurant but never take home. The more racist among them would probably shift uneasily in their seats, uncomfortable with that tightening sensation in their lower regions, the kind of heat their own overweight WASP husbands could no longer inspire within them. Lea Fox felt none of these.
Charm was his best friend. “First, I must apologize. I’m sorry about before. I just assumed Lea Fox was a man.”
“It’s a common mistake. There’s no offence taken. You’re here because you want the files on the Peebles’ murder?”
“You have them?” asked Nick leaning forward in the squeaky chair.
“Just copies. Their originals are in the County Records Office behind the courthouse.”
“They may have been at one time,” said Nick, “but they’re certainly not there now.”
She chose not to comment about the missing records and just continued staring at him. He wanted to smooth back his hair or something under her unwavering gaze.
She finally asked, “And why would you be so interested in a twenty-five-year-old murder?”
“It has a lot to do with your ex-mayor. Mr. Thad Fisher was just found murdered this afternoon in an empty field on Chester Street. His finger—his ring finger to be exact—was hacked off exactly like Ashley Peebles’. I’ve been informed by Police Chief Rollins that she was reported to have been missing a silver ring. A similar silver ring was found on Thad Fisher’s pinkie finger, and I’m hoping you might have a photograph of the original ring so I can see if it’s a match.”
“I might,” said Lea, not seeming inclined to stir from her red-cushioned swivel chair.
“May I look at the report?” asked Nick, wondering what on earth was wrong with the woman. She was that kind of female who made a man acutely uncomfortable, and he was uncertain whether to ignore her, throttle her, or sign her up at a beauty resort for a weekend hoping it might have some modifying success. Yet, there was something acutely odd about her. The glasses were too large and
A short, nutmeg-haired woman stood before him. Her hair, cropped in pixie cut, would have looked fine on a child or teenager but seemed abruptly out of place on a grown woman. Bug-eyed glasses with rims too dark and oversized perched upon her short, upturned nose. Her dress was an awful blue-checked affair, cut way too long and loose over her slight frame with huge shoulder pads. It dwarfed the already small woman, who glanced at her tiny gold wristwatch as if hoping he were late. Nick felt a childish satisfaction that she seemed disappointed.
“I’m here to see Mr. Fox. I’m Inspector Nick Thayne.” He sincerely hoped Lee Fox was a little more with it than his frumpy secretary.
“I’m Lea Fox,” said the short woman and Nick blanched. “And the name is L-E-A Fox, short for Lea. Do come in.” She led the way into a rear office, a strange thumping noise accompanying her slow progress. Nick’s dark oval eyes shifted downwards to note the metal half-crutch she used to help her progress. She set down across from an expansive polished desk, leaning the crutch against a filing cabinet.
“You had an accident?”
“Years ago, but I re-injured it a couple days ago. So, what do you want?”
Her violet eyes shrewdly analyzed his slender, handsome features as he lowered himself into her brother’s old chair much as a fox might do before it was about to attack a chicken. Lea noted he was incredibly attractive, the kind of man women view as a sinful indulgence for the eyes. Some women, however, probably labeled him simply as an exotic treat; the kind you sample at an ethnic restaurant but never take home. The more racist among them would probably shift uneasily in their seats, uncomfortable with that tightening sensation in their lower regions, the kind of heat their own overweight WASP husbands could no longer inspire within them. Lea Fox felt none of these.
Charm was his best friend. “First, I must apologize. I’m sorry about before. I just assumed Lea Fox was a man.”
“It’s a common mistake. There’s no offence taken. You’re here because you want the files on the Peebles’ murder?”
“You have them?” asked Nick leaning forward in the squeaky chair.
“Just copies. Their originals are in the County Records Office behind the courthouse.”
“They may have been at one time,” said Nick, “but they’re certainly not there now.”
She chose not to comment about the missing records and just continued staring at him. He wanted to smooth back his hair or something under her unwavering gaze.
She finally asked, “And why would you be so interested in a twenty-five-year-old murder?”
“It has a lot to do with your ex-mayor. Mr. Thad Fisher was just found murdered this afternoon in an empty field on Chester Street. His finger—his ring finger to be exact—was hacked off exactly like Ashley Peebles’. I’ve been informed by Police Chief Rollins that she was reported to have been missing a silver ring. A similar silver ring was found on Thad Fisher’s pinkie finger, and I’m hoping you might have a photograph of the original ring so I can see if it’s a match.”
“I might,” said Lea, not seeming inclined to stir from her red-cushioned swivel chair.
“May I look at the report?” asked Nick, wondering what on earth was wrong with the woman. She was that kind of female who made a man acutely uncomfortable, and he was uncertain whether to ignore her, throttle her, or sign her up at a beauty resort for a weekend hoping it might have some modifying success. Yet, there was something acutely odd about her. The glasses were too large and
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