Teased to Death (Misty Newman 1) (3 page)

"How's your love life?" Donna glanced over a Spider-Man water bottle, a ratty teddy bear, and half a pack of Twizzlers to where I was perched in the minivan's passenger seat.

I stretched one leg on the dash, just like I used to in high school when we "borrowed" her parents' car for football games.

I gave her a
look
. "I've given up."

"I'm sure it's not
that
bad. At least you have funny stories about crazy dates. I live vicariously through your tales. What about that latest guy you were seeing?"

"What guy?" I crossed my arms. "My story well has run dry recently. I've given up. Too depressing. I've gone out with actors and models who think they're successful, bankers who think they're funny, and account managers who think they're interesting. Nothin'. I can't seem to catch a break."

"Well, maybe now that you're back…" Donna trailed off. We both knew that everyone worth having was already taken. According to Little Lake, my prime marrying years had been wasted on expensive, meaningless dates: guys who didn't call when I wanted them to and others who called too often when I didn't want them to.

"Now that I'm back, what?" I sighed. "Donna, don't start. I'm not looking for a date."

"Just curious," she said. "How'd things go with Jax, by the way? I heard you two had a run-in."

I could tell she was trying for casual. Her eyebrows knitted with concentration, and her voice threaded with hope. It didn't work—I could tell she was listening closely for my response.

"Besides the fact that the only reason he stopped to talk was to bring me in for questioning?" I asked, heavy on the sarcasm. "It went wonderfully. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," she said, glancing at her nails as they tapped the steering wheel. "He's actually dating right now." She flicked her right blinker up. "I don't like her, though. Prissy
b
word."

"Mm-hmm. Interesting." I pointed out the window. "Hey, doesn't Anthony's wife live over that way?"

"She does." A small smile quirked at Donna's lips as she pulled a U-turn. "I guess if you're not bringing dating stories to the table…we'll have to create our own entertainment."

I cracked a grin. "You don't have to help, Donna. I just want to chat with his wife for a minute and see if she has any idea why Anthony might've been near my studio, see her reaction of who might want him dead. Maybe he had a meeting at the building with another tenant. And if so, I want to find out exactly
which
tenant that might be."

"I know you find it difficult to ask for help, Misty," Donna said. "So let me put it this way. Nathan and I have been married for ten years. I love the man, but I could use a little extra adventure outside of dirty diapers and spit-up. Besides, don't secret agents get to have cocktails every once in a while?"

"Is Froggy's open?" I asked, realizing my stomach was growling quite loudly. "I want to get to Anthony Jenkins's place, but I haven't eaten all day, and the adrenaline took a lot out of me. Maybe a quick burger first?"

"Of course Froggy's is still open. Mr. Olsen refuses to die. He's preserved by vodka, a little bit of piss 'n' vinegar, and lots of nasty words." Donna clicked her nails on the steering wheel. "Burger and martini time?"

"Don't you have to get the kids?"

"They're at Gram and Gramps for the night. Nathan's picking them up tomorrow morning after his shift. I have time for a quick bite to eat. Then Mrs. Jenkins. I can't imagine she'd be out and about today, with what's happened. The town would swarm her for gossip. She'll be tucked inside her home."

"I just hope she doesn't mind a little company," I said softly. "Because I really need some answers."

*   *   *

"You're back, eh?" Mr. Olsen croaked, the oldest man in the universe, or so it seemed. He'd been ninety since I was born. "I remember ye."

"Really?" I raised my eyebrows. "I've changed a bit."

Mr. Olsen eyed up colorful hair, which was usually a dirty brown, some days blondish, currently with blushing-pink and lusty-lavender ombré tips. I had a tattoo around one shoulder, clearly visible under my stretchy leotard top, and then there were the fishnet stockings, but I didn't think he could see those under my sweats.

He scooted up a pair of antique reading glasses onto his wrinkled face, white whiskers sprouting from orifices I didn't know could sprout hair. "I see ye have. Takin' ye clothes off for money out in that city of Caley-fornia."

"California is a state these days." I leaned against the counter. "And I'm a burlesque dancer,
not
a stripper."

"Don't you be bringing that back to Little Lake, corrupting all the young minds."

"I'm offering classes to those over the age of eighteen." I tapped my fingers. "Can I get a very dirty martini and a very large hamburger?"

"Jax was in here asking about you this morning." Mr. Olsen wiped a glass down, his eyes on me. I guess years of experience made the man capable of moving around the bar like a ballerina. I would've knocked over six glasses and a fifth of vodka by now, but I bet he hadn't broken a glass in over sixty years.

"About what?" I looked at Donna. Her lips were pursed in a tight line as her eyes scanned the numerous choices of booze behind the bar. As a busy mom, probably she didn't get out much.

"Double my order please," I said. We'd be here all day if I let Donna decide. "Mr. Olsen, what was he asking about?"

"He wanted to know if yer was a good egg." Mr. Olsen poured some olive juice straight from the carton into what looked like a jug of vodka.

"What'd you tell him?"

"You'z a troublemaker. Cow tippin', high school boozin', purple hair, and tattoos who knows where, takin' off clothes for money…nah. He could do better."

"I appreciate the honesty." I took two huge martinis, one with extra olives. I smiled. "You remembered. I like a million olives."

Mr. Olsen grunted. I think that was maybe a sign of affection. "Here's your burger. Maybe you have some potential…"

I winked at Donna as he mumbled away about rainbow hair and "fishing line" stockings ruining a girl's image.

"Bottoms up?" Donna extended her arm and hooked an elbow around mine, and together we downed our martinis in one gulp.

"You feeling like a spy?" I asked.

"Probably we should have one more," she said.

"Probably you're right."

*   *   *

Giggly and a little bit tipsy, we walked down the sidewalk and made our way slowly up the steps of the now-widowed Mrs. Jenkins's house.

"Are you all right?" I whispered a bit loudly.

Donna shrieked her response, throwing her arms wide. "I haven't had a martini since kid numero four. I feel alive!"

I belatedly put a hand over her mouth, but it didn't stifle a thing.

The front door was whisked open by none other than the widow herself, a cigarette dangling from plum-colored lips, her toes separated by those pedicure doohickeys, and a bathrobe half open, exposing a small lacey bra and granny panties.

"Whadda ya doin' here?" Mrs. Jenkins rasped. "Donna? What the hell? I'm a widow. People is supposed to be leaving me alone. But
no
. They're bringing all sorts of pies and lasagnas and crap like that. How'm I supposed to keep this figure with all that food?"

I cleared my throat. Mrs. Jenkins was forty-nine going on eighty-four, having tanned about a hundred times too many in her teens. Her skin put her in the same class as an elephant, and her hair was as fried as a chunk of hay.

"Well, we didn't bring any food—don't worry." I thought wildly about what might get us through that door.

Donna, meanwhile, took a step and started to speak but got distracted and stumbled, her right foot coming down a little too far off the side of the cement stairs leading up to the front door. She face-planted beautifully into the rose bushes, her arms flailing, hair splayed like a spiderweb between the thorns.

"Are you
drunk
?" Mrs. Jenkins asked.

I extended a hand to Donna, but an idea popped into my head, and I looked behind Mrs. Jenkins hoping for a glance of her kitchen. I was rewarded with a perfect view of a liquor cabinet, more than a single person's supply of wine and a wide variety of the hard stuff.

I patted Donna on the back and met Mrs. Jenkins's gaze. "I brought you a drinking buddy."

Donna pulled herself up, nearly toppling me right over with her in the process. Thankfully, she caught on quickly. It was possible the fall had shaken some
sober
into her.

"Yep. We thought you might want a swig of vodka, and a girl knows it ain't classy to drink alone," Donna said.

Mrs. Jenkins's eyes scanned us skeptically for a brief second.

I took a deep breath, my mind fighting through the alcohol fog to appear as coherent as possible.

"You gals drink tequila?" Mrs. Jenkins flicked her ashes onto the front steps, barely missing my toes.

"Heck yeah." I'd drink anything that got me some questions answered. Plus, for all I knew, I was headed to jail soon—I should probably drink as much tequila as I could while I was still a free bird.

Mrs. Jenkins turned and walked inside her smoke-filled home. It was dusty, rusty, and all sorts of unorganized. I covered my mouth in an attempt to neither cough nor snort as our hostess led us to the kitchen like an awkward duck, thanks to her pedicure toe doodads.

"I don't got limes. There's a shortage in Mexico, thanks to those drug dealers, so I can't afford them. Salt is in those McDonald's packets by the sink."

I retrieved three packets as Jenkins poured three double shots. We poured the salt on our hands, licked it off, and downed the shots like we were twenty-one again. Except now it burned much worse, and I could already feel the start of a hangover.

Jenkins smacked her lips. "So whaddya really want?"

I stared at her blankly. "What do you mean? We came to pay our respects."

"Ain't nobody
respectin'
my husband. He wasn't a man to be respected, and that's just the facts."

"Well, he was my landlord, and I wanted to express my condolences." I rubbed my forehead as the tequila shot straight into my brain.

"Were you sleepin' with him?" She stared at me with beady eyes.

"What? No!" My eyes probably bugged out of my head. "I mean, no offense, Anthony's just…not my type."

Anthony had been a notch above unattractive in the greasy way a struggling used-car salesman might look almost presentable. He was creepy, morally loose, and a cheater in multiple senses of the word. I'd dated my fair share of fixer-uppers, even one with a unibrow, but I liked to think I retained
some
standards.

Jenkins took another shot and crossed her arms. "Yeah, you too pretty, I believe ya. But I tell ya, he was cheatin' on me with someone. I just don't know who."

Donna gave me an obvious stare. It was a good thing Jenkins was too busy lighting another cigarette and missed it completely.

"Any idea who it might be?" I asked.

"Who wants to know?" She blew a perfect ring of smoke right into my face.

I admired it for a long moment before responding. "Me."

"Why do you care?"

"Just curious. You don't have to answer." I shrugged and poured another shot. Like most citizens of Little Lake, Mrs. Jenkins thrived on gossip. Maybe a dose of reverse psychology would get her talking.

I handed the round out. I raised my glass. "To Anthony."

Mrs. Jenkins snorted. The three of us clinked glasses. I downed about half mine and dumped the rest over my shoulder into the sink.

"So, are you doing okay?" Donna asked, putting a hand on Jenkins's shoulder.

"I'm fine." She shifted. Something in her body language suggested she wanted to talk but was still skeptical. "House will be quieter without him around."

Donna made a clucking sound in her throat. I think it was one of those noises that came with being a mother. My mom had made similar soothing noises when I was upset.

"No, no. That's a good thing." Jenkins looked out the window. "I like quiet. Prefer it, even."

Lost in a daydream, Jenkins blew out a few more rings of smoke. Donna and I looked at each other, and a prickling crept down the back of my neck. The nonchalance with which Jenkins spoke was eerie, as if she rather preferred her husband permanently silenced. She suddenly grabbed a lemon from the ledge above the kitchen sink, slapped it onto the counter, and slashed through it with a very large knife.

"I think we should probably get going." I jerked my head in the direction of the door.

Donna was eyeing the bottle of tequila again and didn't notice.

I cleared my throat.

An icy palm gripped my wrist. It felt like a frozen, nicotine-riddled skeleton clinging to my arm, and I shivered on reflex.