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Authors: Amanda Matetsky
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styled like Marilyn’s (Monroe or the former Mrs. DiMaggio, take your pick). One hand was propped on her hip and her head was thrown back in laughter—such outright laughter you could almost hear it.
Judy’s other hand was stretched out in front of her, gracefully, like a dancer’s, and was resting on the shoulder of the other person in the picture—a tall, thin, dark-haired young man dressed all in black and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache and a Vandyke beard. He was looking directly into the camera, glowering like a comic book villain, and cradling one of those long skinny little weenie dogs—a pointy-faced dachshund—in the crook of his arm.
I gazed at the two photos for an eternity (okay, five or ten minutes), smoking another cigarette and peering deep into those gray paper faces (even the dog’s), searching for psychic clues, trying to pull the truth—like a rabbit—out of my perfectly empty hat. But I finally abandoned that balmy endeavor. Who did I think I was, anyway? The Great Houdini? The Great Goof was more like it.
How had I ever let Terry talk me into this mess? What part of my feeble brain had allowed me to think—even for a second—that I could crack another murder case? Was I a mindless, thrill-seeking adventuress or just a mad glutton for punishment? And now that I’d given my promise —my truly honest and heartfelt promise to help—how was I going to keep my big fat commitment to Terry a big fat secret from Dan?
Head spinning, and heart reeling with the fear of my own inadequacy, I couldn’t bear to think about the murder anymore. I stuffed the names, addresses, phone numbers, and photos back in the shoebox, and put the shoebox on the top shelf of my coat closet. I hung up my coat, propped my snowboots on the floor near the radiator, washed the dishes, and cleaned out the ashtray (I may not be a mental magician, but at least I’m tidy!). Then I heaved a dramatic, self-pitying sigh and directed my stocking feet toward the squeaky narrow staircase leading to my creaky narrow bed.
Chapter 6
I WAS HALFWAY UP THE STAIRS WHEN THE phone rang. I spun around and scrambled back down to the living room to answer it, hoping it would be Dan.
“Hellohhhhh?” I said, making my voice as soft and sultry as possible in case it was .
“Hi there,” Dan said, in his deep, delicious baritone. “Did I wake you up? You sound kind of groggy.”
So much for sultry. “I wasn’t sleeping,” I admitted, reverting to my normal voice, “but I am tired. I was just on my way up to bed.”
“Tough day?”
He should only know. “It was the worst!” I exclaimed, widening my eyes and flapping my lashes, doing my best Lucille Ball—even though Dan couldn’t see me. “We had to meet a major deadline at work,” I told him, furtively evading all mention of you-know-who and what, “and all the afternoon pickups and deliveries were late because of the snow. ”
I felt terrible that I had—once again—put myself in the position of having to hide the truth from Dan, but I soothed my feelings of guilt by reminding myself that it was his own darn fault. I mean, if Dan hadn’t forbidden me to ever get involved in another unsolved murder case (which was a pretty harsh ordinance when you consider my line of work!) then I wouldn’t have had to be keeping any secrets from him. I could have told him all about my late husband’s friend Terry Catcher, and the horrible murder of his little sister Judy, and the diamond jewelry hidden in the oatmeal box. And then Dan might have been able to help me instead of making me feel like a felon—and lie like a rug.
Okay, okay! I guess I’m not really being fair here. I mean, I knew the main reason Dan ordered me off the Babs Comstock story—and all dangerous murder stories thereafter—was for my own protection. And I knew he felt even more protective of me now that we’d become romantically involved. And I loved the fact that he worried about me so much—I
Judy’s other hand was stretched out in front of her, gracefully, like a dancer’s, and was resting on the shoulder of the other person in the picture—a tall, thin, dark-haired young man dressed all in black and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache and a Vandyke beard. He was looking directly into the camera, glowering like a comic book villain, and cradling one of those long skinny little weenie dogs—a pointy-faced dachshund—in the crook of his arm.
I gazed at the two photos for an eternity (okay, five or ten minutes), smoking another cigarette and peering deep into those gray paper faces (even the dog’s), searching for psychic clues, trying to pull the truth—like a rabbit—out of my perfectly empty hat. But I finally abandoned that balmy endeavor. Who did I think I was, anyway? The Great Houdini? The Great Goof was more like it.
How had I ever let Terry talk me into this mess? What part of my feeble brain had allowed me to think—even for a second—that I could crack another murder case? Was I a mindless, thrill-seeking adventuress or just a mad glutton for punishment? And now that I’d given my promise —my truly honest and heartfelt promise to help—how was I going to keep my big fat commitment to Terry a big fat secret from Dan?
Head spinning, and heart reeling with the fear of my own inadequacy, I couldn’t bear to think about the murder anymore. I stuffed the names, addresses, phone numbers, and photos back in the shoebox, and put the shoebox on the top shelf of my coat closet. I hung up my coat, propped my snowboots on the floor near the radiator, washed the dishes, and cleaned out the ashtray (I may not be a mental magician, but at least I’m tidy!). Then I heaved a dramatic, self-pitying sigh and directed my stocking feet toward the squeaky narrow staircase leading to my creaky narrow bed.
Chapter 6
I WAS HALFWAY UP THE STAIRS WHEN THE phone rang. I spun around and scrambled back down to the living room to answer it, hoping it would be Dan.
“Hellohhhhh?” I said, making my voice as soft and sultry as possible in case it was .
“Hi there,” Dan said, in his deep, delicious baritone. “Did I wake you up? You sound kind of groggy.”
So much for sultry. “I wasn’t sleeping,” I admitted, reverting to my normal voice, “but I am tired. I was just on my way up to bed.”
“Tough day?”
He should only know. “It was the worst!” I exclaimed, widening my eyes and flapping my lashes, doing my best Lucille Ball—even though Dan couldn’t see me. “We had to meet a major deadline at work,” I told him, furtively evading all mention of you-know-who and what, “and all the afternoon pickups and deliveries were late because of the snow. ”
I felt terrible that I had—once again—put myself in the position of having to hide the truth from Dan, but I soothed my feelings of guilt by reminding myself that it was his own darn fault. I mean, if Dan hadn’t forbidden me to ever get involved in another unsolved murder case (which was a pretty harsh ordinance when you consider my line of work!) then I wouldn’t have had to be keeping any secrets from him. I could have told him all about my late husband’s friend Terry Catcher, and the horrible murder of his little sister Judy, and the diamond jewelry hidden in the oatmeal box. And then Dan might have been able to help me instead of making me feel like a felon—and lie like a rug.
Okay, okay! I guess I’m not really being fair here. I mean, I knew the main reason Dan ordered me off the Babs Comstock story—and all dangerous murder stories thereafter—was for my own protection. And I knew he felt even more protective of me now that we’d become romantically involved. And I loved the fact that he worried about me so much—I
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