Patrice Lyle - Health Nut 01 - Killer Kung Pao (17 page)

Clocked With an Old Lady Purse

Tattoo Tex and I strode into the Manatee Inn and headed toward the elevators. People milled around the lobby, drinking free coffee and eating frosted pastries and doughnuts. No quinoa cereal to be seen. I wished the hotel industry would provide a greater variety of healthy snacks, but that wasn't my battle for today.

Today, I planned to force the truth out of the delivery kid at China King.

Babette held court in the corner with a small crowd of reporters surrounding her. The maniacal grin on her face and wild flapping arm gestures annoyed me. My anger flared as the elevators doors slid open, and we stepped inside.
Babette will do anything for attention. She doesn't care if Aunt Alfa spends her golden years behind bars.

Tattoo Tex punched the buttons and looked at me. "That Babette woman seems more like a circus director than a psychic."

Jock Cowboy was a perceptive man. "You got that right." I sent Aunt Alfa a quick text.
Stay in the room. Don't come down to the lobby.

"You let Aunt Alfa know to stay put?"

"Yeah. I don't want her to get bombarded by this mob." Not that Aunt Alfa couldn't handle herself. But what about Brownie?

Tattoo Tex glanced at his watch. "How long 'til you're ready?"

A flashback to my LBJC (Life before Jock Cowboy) hit me, and I flinched. Floyd used to ask me that same question every time we had a sleepover, even when he knew the answer. I was always honest with my response, which made the situation worse. The conversation would end with him being disgusted and me being upset.

I braced myself against the mirrored wall and prepared for the
big relationship moment
. "Maybe an hour?"

Tattoo Tex's eyebrows lifted. "You can get that gorgeous in just an hour?"

Aw.
My insides mushed like overcooked pasta, and all I could do was smile. He had no idea how his words impacted me. And I wasn't going to discuss Floyd because I'd read numerous relationship articles, and they all said bringing up ex-boyfriends was a bad idea.

So I flashed him a dopey grin.

He reached for my hands and dotted my knuckles with kisses. "You're amazing, doc. Text me when you're ready?"

"Sure." Wow, what a difference a man made. Stupid Floyd.

The elevator stopped at Tattoo Tex's floor, and he exited. The elevator continued and stopped at my floor. A feeling of freedom overwhelmed me because I wouldn't have to rush getting ready. I hated hurrying through my Sparkle O makeup application. Especially today. It was my inaugural interrogation. With Tattoo Tex.

I had to look good.

My phone dinged when I arrived outside my door. Aunt Alfa texted me.

Mervyn picked me up. We're on our way to some flea market that sells cheap bifocals (for Mervyn, not me). I wore my disguise out of the hotel so don't worry. Oh, and we took Brownie.

Great. Stay gone until I tell you to return,
I texted back.
At least I won't have to worry about you today.

Hopefully.

I hustled inside and began my morning beauty routine. Sixty-seven minutes later, I was showered, dressed, haired, and made up. And most importantly relaxed. Not having to obsess about time was incredible. It would probably add years to my life. I blasted some anti-frizz spray onto my locks, hoping no one would mention a dung-beetle hair day, and emerged from the bathroom ready to question a liar.

I was slipping into my silver-sequined sandals when my auntie texted again.

This flea market sucks. Merv just bought one of those stupid As-Seen-on-the-Tube contraptions. An alarm clock that makes pancakes. Better be gluten and dairy-free pancakes, or I'm not eating any. The only good thing here is a booth of leopard-print, crotchless panties.

I scrunched my face. Weren't thongs kind of crotchless? But again, too much info.

She fired off another text.
Forgot my manners, Pipe, because I never asked about your beach walk with Jock Cowboy? How was it?

I laughed about her interpretation of
manners
and texted,
Incredible
.
Best beach walk of my life. We were gone for almost two hours.

A minute passed before she responded with,
Happy to hear that. That man is one hot dude. Hey, the crotchless panties booth also has some of those banana hammocks. I'm going to buy one for Mervyn. There are red, banana yellow, forest green, teal, and a metallic leopard print. Want me to pick one up for Jock Cowboy?

I closed my eyes and counted to ten.
No, but thanks for asking.

She must have been bored because she texted again.
Good luck on the case today. I'm so glad Mervyn and Tattoo Tex aren't suspects. Wouldn't that suck?

Totally
, I responded.

I felt a bit guilty for lying, but I didn't want to tell her about Tattoo Tex's peanut-oil-fueled truck. The information was irrelevant, and my heart knew he was innocent. If he weren't, Detective Fifi would have questioned him again by now.

Unfortunately, the last time I spoke to Detective Fifi, the only viable suspect was my auntie.

My stomach quivered. The responsibility to rescue her was enormous. More pressure than saving lives at my practice. Then it hit me.

I was saving a life. Hers.

My phone dinged again.
Have a good day, Pipe. Love u.

Love you too
, I typed with a shaky hand. Then I texted Tattoo Tex and told him I was ready. He responded with,
I'll be right up, doc.

A few seconds later someone knocked on the door. I peered through the peephole, and Tattoo Tex's six-foot lusciousness came into view.

I opened the door and eyed his black shirt, khaki shorts, and, of course, his cowboy hat. "You look nice."

He eyed me up and down. "You look incredible, doc. Nice digs."

"Thanks." I'd chosen a white eyelet skirt and a jewel-encrusted hot pink tank top for the occasion. "I love this outfit."

"Me too." He dipped his hat toward me. "You ready to question this punk?"

I laughed. "Come on, make my day."

He threw his head back laughing. "You like Dirty Harry, too? That's so cool."

I smiled as I grabbed my purse. Then I locked up, and we headed to his truck. Climbing into the cab in a skirt that rested two inches above my knees was harder to accomplish than most yoga positions. But Tattoo Tex was a complete gentleman and lifted me in without so much as a brush against my derriere.

Darn Texan gentleman.

He flashed me a smile that made me wish he drove a van with a bed in back—and dark curtains over the windows—before he fired up the truck and pulled out of the parking lot.

The man was fire-roasted jalapeno hot.

I fidgeted with my tank top, feeling suddenly warm, and peered at the gas gauge. "Does the peanut oil register like gas?"

"Sure does, doc." Then he gushed some more about his engineering feat of accomplishment. He finished with, "Took me a while, but I didn't stop until I got it right. I never give up."

Murder weapon aside, it was impressive.

As was he.

I ogled him with my peripheral vision as he drove us to China King. The town of Manatee was small. We passed clusters of palm trees, a tiny city hall, a bank, and a couple of churches before pulling into the parking lot of China King.

"Wait thar." He killed the ignition, hopped out, and circled around to my side. "Here you go, doc."

Aw.
He helped me out like I was a visiting dignitary.

"Thanks." I could get used to being treated like this.

He beeped the truck locked, and we headed for the door. China King looked like a greasy Chinese food dive that had a picture-menu on the wall.
Eeww.
I hated those because it meant the chef probably cooked with MSG.

Tattoo Tex opened the glass door, and I strode inside. A middle-aged man in a red polo shirt with bad skin stood behind the counter staring at the door.

"Hi," I said as we approached him. "I'm Dr. Piper Meadows, and I'd like to talk to your delivery guy, please."

His thin brown eyebrows scrunched. "Me too considering he didn't show up today, and now I'll have to make the delivery runs."

A frisson of fear shot through me, and Tattoo Tex shot me a questioning glance. Was it a coincidence, or was something sinister going on? Like had the delivery guy killed Mystic Ming, stayed around long enough to implicate my aunt, and was now fleeing to Canada?

"Did he call in sick?" Tattoo Tex asked, sounding incredibly official.

"No, he didn't call at all," the man said. "The boss says he's AWOL."

"Has he ever not shown up before?" I stepped forward, making eye contact so I could prepare to interrogate him. I wasn't usually so in-your-face with people, but the flashcards recommended the tactic.

The man shook his head.

"Think you can tell me where he lives?"

The man hesitated. "I'm not sure my boss would want me giving out that kind of information."

"What if I throw in a free health consultation?" I wasn't usually one to utilize bribery, but I had a murder to solve.

The man eyed me warily.

"She's one of those natural doctors." Tattoo Tex elbowed me. "Tell him, doc."

I launched into my
Health Nut Rock
spiel while I retrieved a brochure from my purse—always had one with me—and handed it to him.

Finally the guy shrugged.  "Okay, sounds fair," he said.

I pointed at my brochure. "Call me at that number next week, and we'll set something up via Skype."

"Thanks." He lifted my note and scribbled out an address and phone number on the next page. He tore the paper off and handed it to me.

I glanced at it. "Van or Vanessa?" That was a girl's name.

"He goes by both, depending on the day." He pointed at a yellow apron hanging from a spoke on the wall behind the register. "He's a nice guy, but a bit confused. Don't be surprised if he's dressed as a girl and wearing a long, dark wig and yellow dress."

Interesting. Then it hit me. That could explain Charles' odd reaction to Tattoo Tex's question about where Charles had driven
the lady
.

"Does he ever wear yellow sandals?" I asked.

"Yeah, what you girls call a bling pair."

Holy turkey bologna.
Was Van the mystery woman?

*   *   *

"That's Patterson Drive thar." Tattoo Tex pointed at the street sign as we turned down the narrow road lined with rundown apartments. "And that's unit 200D."

I squinted at the old four-plex. Its brown paint peeled from the frame in depressing clumps. An overturned garbage can flowing with Chinese takeout containers and floral-print thrift store dresses lay in the driveway. A torn yellow recliner with foam bulging from the armrests and a twin mattress covered with dirt decorated the front lawn.
Eeww.

"Poor Van," Tattoo Tex said. "He must have fallen on tough times." Jock Cowboy's concern sounded genuine. Had he suffered a financial hardship? I was curious but decided he would tell me when he was ready.

I opened my door when Tattoo Tex put the truck in park. "I hope Van's home." An uneasy feeling covered me like a sequined velvet cape.

Worry settled into the creases near Tattoo Tex's eyes, and he blew out a breath that didn't reek of Floyd's garlicky hummus. His peppermint scent was a welcome change. "He could be at the police station giving a statement."

"I actually hope he is."

He locked eyes with me. "Me too."

I waited for Tattoo Tex to assist me out of the truck. We approached Van's apartment and knocked on the door. Nobody answered.

"Maybe you should give him a call, doc."

"Good idea." I retrieved my phone and dialed the number. I turned on the speaker so we could both hear.

A classical music ring-tone blasted from somewhere inside the apartment. Under normal circumstances, I loved a good dose of Beethoven, but today it gave me the creeps.

I shivered despite the balmy Florida heat. "That has to be Van's cell phone."

A quizzical expression crossed Tattoo Tex's face. "No one leaves home without a cell phone these days."

I prayed Van would pick up the phone. He was probably in the bathroom or getting dressed perhaps? Surely he would answer. After four more rings, a breathy woman's voice answered. We leaned in to listen to the recorded greeting.

"Hi there, and thanks for calling. You've reached Van or Vanessa, depending on my mood. If I'm Van, I'm watching football and drinking a beer. If I'm Vanessa, I'm doing my hair and makeup. So leave a message, and I'll call you later." The message ended with a girly giggle.

Tattoo Tex raised an eyebrow. "Babette said delivery
guy
, right?"