“Because you were getting bored with medieval Europe,” Wilson said. “What did you call them? Dreary dukes and dismal lords?”
I sipped my coffee. “Maybe. But now I may have to break down and do some actual research.”
I curled my lip at that altogether unpleasant prospect, and Wilson chuckled again. “Adelé Nightingale never worries about facts,” he reminded me. “Do what you usually do, Jessie. Twist the history to fit your story, and concentrate on sex scenes.”
“But I can’t write sex scenes anymore. So here I am. Reduced to obsessing about the facts.”
“What is the world coming to?”
“You mean what’s Adelé Nightingale coming to.” I frowned at my cereal bowl. “Unemployment is what.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Perpetual Pleasures Press is threatening to dump me.”
“No way! You just made the Hall of Fame.”
“But only for my past work.” I studied my cat, who had finished eating her own breakfast and settled onto Wilson’s lap. “Maybe I really should try writing children’s books.”
Wilson choked on his coffee. “Would you stop doing that?” he pleaded. “Warn me next time.”
I told him to be thankful he wasn’t driving and kept hallucinating out loud. “My pen name could be Auntie Abigail Nightingale. And Snowflake could be my protagonist.” I reached over to pet my protagonist. “She could solve crimes or something equally ludicrous. Mother could do the illustrations.”
Snowflake seemed to like the idea, but Wilson wasn’t convinced. “Auntie Abigail?” he said. “You really do need to get some sleep.”
I yawned in agreement, vowed to tackle a sex scene before the day was through, and asked Wilson about his own plans for the day. “I have a hard time imagining you sitting on the sidelines during any murder investigation.”
“Unfortunately, I can say the same about you.”
I smirked. “Your plans, Captain Rye?”
“Act irritated while Densmore and Sass track down the whereabouts of every perp who might have it in for me. Willow LaSwann has a better chance of finding water in her well than we have of finding the murderer this way.”
“What about those three men you were looking at last night?” I asked, but he insisted they were only remote possibilities.
I remained positive and suggested that most of the “perps” were still in prison. “That should narrow down the possibilities, correct?”
“What about family and friends?” Wilson insisted prisoners often have connections on the outside, making the list of suspects almost infinite.
He shooed Snowflake down and got up to fill our cups again. “There is another possibility,” he said. “What if my enemy isn’t a criminal? Or wasn’t a criminal until Saturday?” He set my cup in front of me and sat back down. “What if it’s another cop?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I hope so. But every cop in North Carolina knows the Dianne Calloway story. Maybe someone thinks I don’t deserve my job. Maybe Jimmy Beak and Alistair Pritt aren’t alone in their logic.”
“That’s impossible.” I shook my indignant head. “You’re a great cop. You absolutely deserve your job.”
“You want to hear this or not?”
I shut up, and Wilson reminded me how he had become the chief homicide investigator on the Clarence force. He applied right after the Dianne Calloway fiasco because he’d become the subject of far too much gossip down in Raleigh.
I knew all that, but then he gave me a bit more history. “I was the only applicant not already on the force here,” he said. “Some other people were hoping for the promotion.”
I writhed uncomfortably. “Russell?”
“Didn’t even apply.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Everyone knows Densmore will go far,” Wilson said. “But he’s young. Three years ago he wasn’t even thirty yet.”
“What about the people who did apply?”
“Any one of them could be mad at me. Especially the other two finalists.”
“It’s like the Focus on Fiction Contest,” I said. “Maybe one of the finalists is bitter.”
“Which is where this whole idea falls flat. Neither of them is bitter.”
Apparently candidate number one, Gene Fagan, had left the police force, moved back to his hometown in Knoxville, and was doing very well for himself as a private investigator.
“Fagan’s one of the best PIs in the whole southeast,” Wilson said.
“And the other finalist?” I asked “Is he bitter?”
“She.” Wilson took a deep breath. “Darla Notari is dead.”
“Dead!? What!? Where? When? How?”
Oh, yes. I had lots of questions. But my infuriating fiancé chose that moment to inform me he needed get going.
Yeah, right.
Snowflake and I followed him toward the bathroom, and watched while he brushed his teeth. And then we watched while he rummaged around in the closet, looking for a tie.
I finally got the full story once he was standing in front of the mirror tying said tie.
“Lots of people were surprised Notari didn’t get the job I now have.” He looked at my reflection behind him in the mirror. “She was stellar.”
“So are you.”
“Maybe, but Darla Notari was a groundbreaker on the Clarence force. She was one of the first women to make sergeant, and the first woman to be promoted to lieutenant. And she was married with two kids. She was one of those super-women.
“But she died in the line of duty,” I said quietly.
He turned around. “How do you do that?”
I chalked it up to intuition, but considering Wilson’s behavior, it wasn’t very difficult to figure out.
“Well, you’re right, Jessie. When she didn’t get the promotion, Darla moved her family and took a job as the sheriff of one of the counties outside Atlanta. It was a great job.” He frowned. “Until she got killed.”
I asked how, and he frowned some more. “During a routine traffic stop. Routine until the bullets started flying.”
I let that tragedy sink in as Wilson donned his suit jacket. “Most everyone went down for her funeral. Densmore, Sass, a bunch of others.”
“Not you?”
“I’d only known her for a year before she left Clarence, so I volunteered to stay here. Someone had to keep this city safe for democracy. Speaking of which.” He gave me a peck on the cheek and headed toward the door.
But the stack of
Sensual and Scintillating
languishing on my coffee table caught his attention. He picked one up, and shoved it into my hands . “Sex scenes,” he said and was gone.I clutched
S and S
to my chest and stalwartly marched over to my desk. While I booted up my laptop, Snowflake made herself comfortable on the windowsill.
“A sex scene if it kills me,” I told her, and my muse yawned accordingly.
But who knows if it would have killed me? Because a sex scene, or any other scene for that matter, evaded me completely. I was actually relieved when the intercom buzzed and the less-than-dulcet voice of Rita Sistina wafted through my condo.
“Get me out of here!” she demanded.
Snowflake found her safety spot on top of the fridge, and I buzzed in our guest.
***
“Lunatics! Every last one of them!” Rita was saying—or rather shouting—as I opened the door. She marched over to the couch and sat down. “Can’t you at least offer me coffee?”
I did so, and while I prepared a pot of decaf, Rita gave me a refresher course on the shenanigans at street level.
“It was bad enough the other day,” she said. “But now it’s a three-ring circus—Alistair Pritt and his clowns, Jimmy Beak and his, and now that romance woman and her group. They’re the scariest of all, you know? They invited me to dance with them.”
I swallowed a smile and served the coffee. “At least Roslynn Mayweather’s on my side,” I said as I sat down.
“And at least she’s keeping busy.” Rita glared at me over her coffee cup. “Which is more than I can say for some people.”
I cleared my throat and insisted I was trying. “But sometimes the writing just doesn’t flow as smoothly—”
“Writing!” Rita snapped forward. “I’m not here to talk about your writing! We had a deal, Jessie. In fact, why are you even here?” She waved an exceedingly agitated hand to indicate my condo. “You should be at the high school! Elizabeth tells me she hasn’t seen you there since that one measly visit days, and days, and days ago!”
I reminded Rita I had visited the school on Monday. “And today is only Wednesday.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? Elizabeth’s future is at stake! We had a deal, you and me!”
“Yes, but the situation has changed.” I explained, as vaguely as possible, that the murder investigation had taken a new direction. “I can’t be more specific, but I really can’t be sleuthing right now.”
Rita put down her coffee cup. “Well then, let me be specific. You stop sleuthing, and Frankie stops seeing my daughter. A deal’s a deal.”
“Come on, Rita.” I sat up and prepared to do battle. “You’re the first person to insist Lizzie wasn’t to blame for the murder, so why punish her?”
“Her name is Elizabeth. And the Smythe boy has got to go.”
I studied my guest. “So tell me,” I said. “How did Elizabeth do on that algebra test?”
Rita blinked twice.
“You know,” I continued. “The one she and Frankie were studying for the other night?”
Rita took a deep breath. “The teacher’s giving them back in class today. But she posted the grades on the school’s internet grade book last night.”
“And?”
“And Elizabeth got a 95. Your stupid friend Frankie called. He got a 98.”
By the look on Rita’s face I assumed she had hoped Lizzie would do even better. But with a bit more prompting, I learned that 95 was the best math grade Lizzie had seen all year.
“Then why do you seem so disappointed?” I asked, and to her credit, Rita answered honestly. Apparently my “stupid friend Frankie” was helping Lizzie in her hardest subject.
“He’s always been a straight-A student,” I said proudly.
“As has Elizabeth.” Rita frowned. “Except in math. I made a deal with my daughter. I promised her an electric piano to join a band with her girlfriends. But only if she improved her math grades.” Rita sighed dramatically and informed me Lizzie’s math grades had been steadily improving all semester.
I smiled. “Since she started dating Frankie.”
“Okay, yes,” she snapped. “Since then.”
I sat back and smiled some more.
***
Thus assured that Frankie’s love life was safe and sound, I fortified Rita with another cup of coffee to face the circus on Sullivan Street, and sent her on her way.
Then I had a choice. I could tackle
A Singular Seduction
and Willow’s well issues, or I could tackle the voice mail messages I’d been avoiding all morning. Geez Louise Urko had left numerous messages the previous night while Wilson and I were busy narrowing down murderer suspects. I deleted the first five, warned Snowflake to stay put in her safety spot, and hit play.
“Jessica! I’m so sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry!”
“Sorry?” I asked as Louise continued.
“Dee Dee promised we’d get at least four minutes’ airtime. Stupid, stupid, stupid Congressional budget impasse! But the short segment was fantastical enough! Lemonade out of lemons! Didn’t Roslynn do fantastically?”
I nodded silent agreement.
“Oh!” Louise’s voice continued. “And didn’t the debutante look fantastical?
The Debutante’s Destiny
is one of 3P’s best, best, best covers! Don’t you just love the fuchsia pink?”
I nodded again.
“And don’t you just love Alistair Fitt?”
I most decidedly shook my head no to that one, but Louise continued anyway, “The Queen of Smut has a fantastical ring to it! It’s a great new by-line for your next book! We’ll put it right on the cover! Right under Adelé’s name! Oh! And speaking of
A Singular Seduction
, how are the sex scenes coming along? Sex, sex, sex!”
I hit delete, and was apologizing to Snowflake for listening as long as I had when I noticed one final message.
“My mother called,” I said. Snowflake meowed her approval and hopped down to listen. Instead, I hit delete and punched in Mother’s number.
“Hello, Miss Queen of Smut,” she chirped happily. “I so enjoy this caller ID system you suggested, Jessie.”
“Mother! Please tell me you haven’t programmed me in as the Queen of Smut.”
“Don’t be silly. But wasn’t Dee Dee Larkin’s report last night marvelous? You and Louise must be so pleased. Roslynn, too. She certainly held her own again that Alistair fellow, didn’t she?”
I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess. You think it was good publicity.”
“Don’t you? I’m no expert on these things, but have you considered putting ‘The Queen of Smut,’ below Adelé’s name on your next cover? I bet
A Singular Seduction
would sell like hotcakes if you did that!”
***
Somehow satisfied my mother wasn’t traumatized by Dee Dee Larkin’s report, I called my neighbors. Maybe if I begged, one of them would agree to come upstairs for a brainstorming session.
“I need your help,” I told Karen. “Maybe you can convince Willow and Kipp to hop into a haystack together.”
“Are you feeling well, girlfriend?” Karen reminded me she doesn’t read romance, much less write it, and claimed she had a pressing appointment with some custom cabinetry.
“I’m finishing up a few pieces and then heading out to install them before the big wedding.”
“These cabinets aren’t for Trisha Fister, by any chance?” I asked.
“Well, yeah. The wedding of the century is this Saturday. So I better get a move on.”
“Believe it or not, this same wedding is keeping Candy busy also. Mrs. Marachini’s related to the bride.”
“Kiddo told me,” Karen said. “And this bride is something else, Jess. A fire destroyed all her shower gifts, and now everyone in town is hustling to keep her happy—aunts, uncles, cousins, godparents.”
“You.”
“Me,” she agreed. “You should see the honeymoon mansion. The kitchen alone stretches a good half mile. The mother of the bride promised me I’ll never work in this town again if I don’t get these cabinets installed before the wedding.” Karen hesitated. “Speaking of the W-word.”
I groaned out loud, but she ignored me.
“I saw Wilson leaving this morning,” she said. “He didn’t look so good. The poor guy needs a wedding of his own.”