One Hot Mess Part 20

Some half-forgotten thought niggled at my mind.

"Candles?" I said.

"Yes. During my first senatorial term she bought a little bungalow in Baton Rouge so as to be close to her Priscilla."

"Priscilla?"

"Her daughter. I visited once. The dining room was filled with light. I remember thinking it quite lovely. Sometimes the old ways-"

Something clicked in my head. "What color were the candles?"

There was a pause. "It was a long while ago, Christina."

"Uh-huh. What colors do you remember?"

"I believe they might have been purple."

"Purple?" My shoulders slumped as my slippery theories washed away.

"At least that is how they appeared to me with the flame shining through the melting wax. Carma had a flare for the dramatic."

"Carma?"

"That is what we called her when-"

"Could they have been black?"

"What?"

"The candles. Could they have been black?"

"Perhaps. And I believe there was a white one. They were in a circle with the light-"

"I'll talk to you later," I said, and hung up.

I scribbled Wiccan, lesbian, and alcoholic on a sc.r.a.p of paper, then sat in silent thought. Was there a trend, or was I trying too hard? And if there was a trend, did anyone else know about it?

I went back to the computer and continued my search for bizarre deaths, then wrote down anything my convoluted little mind could possibly connect to the Riveras. After that I paced and stared at the phone like it was a viper, but finally I reached for it.

"Officer Tavis."

I tightened my grip on the receiver and wondered, not for the first time, if there was something congenitally wrong with me. "Yes, this is Christina McMullen."

There was a momentary pause, then: "Ms. McMullen." I could hear him settling into his chair like a contented house cat. "How's life in the big city?"

"Fine," I said, voice cool enough to thrill a nun. "I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions."

"I'm not wearing any."

"What?"

"Underwear," he explained.

I scowled, partly at him and partly at my own rapidly deteriorating thoughts, but I frosted my voice and spoke clearly. "Are you and I living in the same century?"

"Not sure. What century are you in?"

"The one where police officers are routinely indicted for s.e.xual hara.s.sment."

He laughed. "Call me old-fashioned," he said.

I rolled my eyes. "Who knew that Kathy Baltimore was gay?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Curiosity."

"You know what I'm curious about?"

"Whether or not a cop can get the electric chair for inappropriate behavior?"

He chuckled. "Have dinner with me," he said.

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"I'll give you my solemn vow not to perform oral s.e.x."

I squirmed in my seat. "And I thought you were irrepressible."

"I'm a man of principle."

"Obviously. Who was aware of Baltimore's s.e.xual orientation?"

"I'm free tomorrow night."

"I'm not."

"I won't even kiss your cheek."

"Seriously! What is wrong with you?"

"I haven't had a date in five months."

"That's probably because you're a pervert."

"It's because I have very strict rules."

"No oral s.e.x with women you've never met?"

"I don't date women from Kern County."

"How big is Kern County?"

"Eight thousand one hundred and seventy-two square miles."

"What do you mean by date?"

"The usual definition."

"No copulating on the mayor's desk?"

"No s.e.x. No necking. No movies. They can't even sit in my car unless they're in the backseat."

"You're lying."

"I wish I were. I'm h.o.r.n.y as h.e.l.l. I won't even shake your hand unless you shake first."

"Still lying."

"Won't even speak unless spoken to first."

"Officer-"

"I'll answer every question you have, unless prohibited by law."

I could feel myself weakening. "Just dinner?"

"Unless you fill out a legal affidavit requesting more."

I felt itchy and a little too warm, but I stayed firmly on my high horse. "If you're lying, I swear I'll sue Kern County for every hummingbird it owns."

"Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Your house," he said.

"I don't divulge my home address," I said.

He laughed and hung up.

18.

Dating is like nightfall-there's got to be a mourning after.

-Chrissy McMullen,

clever to a fault

"'M GOING TO FAX OVER a list of names," I said. It was nine o'clock in the morning. My first client had yet to arrive. "I want you to give each of them due consideration, then tell me if anything rings a bell."

"I'm quite busy today," said the senator.

"Me, too," I said. I had a full client list, then I had to shoot myself in the head for agreeing to date another cop. "But people are dying, Senator, and it's not going to look good for your political future if the press attaches their deaths to you."

"I'll see what I can do," he said.

"Don't do me any favors," I quipped, sa.s.sy as h.e.l.l, but he had already hung up.

Twelve seconds later Shirley rapped on my office door and stuck her head in. "There's someone here who wants to see you."

Unsavory images ran through my mind. Generally when people show up unannounced at my office, screaming commences. Sometimes there's blood. Once there was a dead guy with a hard-on. L.A., always exciting. "I'm sorry" I said, pushing the nightmares behind me. "I'm swamped right now. Ask them to make an appointment, please."

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. "I'll get rid of her if you like, but my gut says you're gonna want to see her."

I scowled. My visitor was a woman. That meant she was 5.6 times less likely to kill me than a man. "What's her name?"

"She wouldn't say."

"Then-" I began, but at that moment the someone knocked on my door.

I snapped my gaze to the offending portal. Maybe there was fear in my eyes, because Shirley's jaw was set like a slandered pugilist's. She turned toward the door, took the k.n.o.b in one meaty hand, and pulled it open a few scant inches. "I am sorry," she said. Her voice, I noticed, didn't sound sorry at all. More gritty. Kind of guttural. A little deadly. Have I mentioned my love for Shirley? "But Ms. McMullen is busy just now. If you'd like to-"

"You must be new here." The voice had a strange, halting accent and was dimly familiar. "Tell her royalty has arrived."

Shirley stepped outside, apparently crowding the princess in front of her. "Listen, I don't care if you're the queen of Sheba. Ms. McMullen is-"

The visitor laughed. And then it hit me.

"Laney?" I said, and stood up.

"You must be Shirley," Elaine said, voice back to normal.

"And who-" Shirley began, but I burst onto the scene like a heat-seeking missile.