At the Drop of a Hat (20 page)

When you're not a morning person, eight o'clock is an ugly hour to be functional. I had set my alarm for six thirty and then slept through it. Okay, I shut it off, until some internal clock woke me up at seven forty-five and I had to scramble out of bed in a blind tangle of sheets, twisted jammies and bed head. Not my best look.

Knowing Harrison most definitely would not be late, I threw on a sweater and jeans and lace-up boots. Then I braided my hair and jammed a knit hat on my head. A quick stop in the bathroom for the necessaries and I was jogging down the stairs at seven fifty-nine on the button.

I glanced at the front door and saw Harrison striding toward it, looking disgustingly showered, shaved and suited up like the business mogul he was. He was as heart-stoppingly handsome as always, and I wasn't sure I could bear to have him see me looking like a college kid on a bender, but really, what choice did I have?

I sighed and crossed the room to unlock the door and let him in. If he was surprised by my appearance, he didn't say anything. Instead, he gave me a smile that I took to mean he knew I had just woken up.

Then he hammered the lid on my vanity coffin shut by saying, “You look cute.”

Cute!
Puppies were cute. Gerbils were cute. I was pre-coffee. I was not cute.

As if reading my mind, Harrison opened the paper sack in his hand and lifted out a cardboard tray that had two hot coffees on it. If I hadn't still been smarting from being called cute, I might have kissed him on the mouth. Good thing I can hold a grudge, yes?

“Thank you,” I said.

I pried the lid off the coffee and took a deep inhale. The steam and pungent coffee aroma did more for my sleepy synapses than anything else could have. I glanced at the brew. It was just the right shade of pale brown. I took a sip. It had just the right amount of sugar in it. I gave Harrison a curious glance.

“I pay attention,” he said. There was more awareness in his gaze than I was prepared to deal with at the moment so I glanced away.

“This was very kind of you,” I said. “Thanks again.”

“Not kind at all, Ginger,” he said. His voice was teasing. “I know better than to go out there and face the world with a noncaffeinated Scarlett Parker on my hands. It'd be like going out there with a loaded gun.”

I laughed because, yeah, it was true.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I took another long sip. Then I nodded. I had Ariana's receipt in the purse hanging off my shoulder. My sweater was thick enough to keep out the late September chill. I was as ready as I'd ever be.

*   *   *

It took us a short trip on the Underground and a fair bit of walking to reach the dry cleaners in Russo's neighborhood. When we arrived, there were two people ahead of us picking up garments. I finished my coffee while we waited.

The first woman looked to be a housekeeper, wearing a camel overcoat on top of a plain black service dress and sensible black shoes. She wore her hair in a knot on the back of her head and reminded me of Mariska's housekeeper, Jean. She left with an armful of clothes after charging the amount due to her employer's account.

The next person in line was a young businessman, or so I assumed from the navy suit with the slim-cut trousers and pointy-toed shoes. I looked at his hands, manicured; his eyebrows, waxed; and his hair, highlighted. If the word “fop” were still in fashion, he would definitely be one. Now I think they go with the kinder term of “metrosexual.” So lame.

Call me crazy, but a dude should look like a dude. I glanced at Harrison beside me. He was handsome, yes, but he had big callused hands, broad shoulders, and a certain knuckle-dragging charm that I found very refreshing. Maybe it's just me, but I think a man should be big and hairy and barely housebroken; otherwise what's the point of opposites attracting?

“Do you have hair on your chest?” I asked him.

Harrison had tipped his head back to finish off his coffee, and I caught him on the inhale. He sputtered and choked, hacking into one fist until the go juice was out of his airway.

“Beg pardon?” he asked.

“Hair on your chest,” I said. “Do you have any?”

He glanced around the shop as if trying to figure out where this question had come from. I gestured at the man ahead of us. He was texting on his smartphone, and I could see the man at the counter getting irritated when he didn't stop texting to hand over his claim receipt.

“I'm betting he does a full body wax,” I said. I made a face to make it perfectly clear what I thought about that. “So do you?”

Harrison grinned. “If you show me yours, I'll show you mine.”

My mouth popped open in surprise. Then I laughed. Yes, he was definitely in need of domestication. No doubt he had hair on his chest. Thank God. Not that I was interested or anything at this juncture but it was good to know for future reference, of course.

“Please, sir, your receipt.”

The man behind the counter spoke with an accent I couldn't place, but he looked ready to throttle the
GQ
wannabe in front of us. His thick brown mustache was positively twitching.

When the texter still didn't look up from his phone, the man behind the counter gestured us forward. As I made to move around the young man, he snapped his head up from his phone and shoved me back into Harrison, who caught me around the waist before I fell.

“Oy, I'm next, you cow,” the texter snarled at me.

I was about to reply that maybe he should pay closer attention then, but I didn't get the chance. The man behind the counter started yelling at him in a language I didn't recognize, but it was clear he was incensed on my behalf. So sweet.

Harrison, clearly understanding the dry cleaner's language, grabbed the texter by the collar of his jacket and escorted him outside. The texter took one look at Harrison and the fight went out of him. As soon as Harrison let him go, however, the man let loose a volley of verbal abuse that was impressive for all that it was made out of rude hand gestures with no muscle behind them. Harrison made a show of picking some lint off his sleeve and then took two forceful steps in the skinny man's direction. The texter yelped and took off running.

Harrison rejoined us, and the man behind the counter gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you for your assistance, sir. What is wrong with young men today? Do they not know how to treat a lady? I am so sorry he manhandled you, Miss. You are all right?”

“I'm fine,” I said. “Really, I didn't mean to cause a commotion.”

“You had nothing to do with it,” the man assured me. “It was all him.” He waved a dismissive hand at the door as if to say good riddance. “Now how can I help you?”

I wished I had a pile of dry cleaning to dump on him. I hated that a paying customer had run off, leaving just us here asking questions.

“I was wondering if you recognized this receipt?” I asked.

I held out the crumpled piece of paper that I'd found in Ariana's coat and the man took it from me, pulling a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket as he did so. He perched the glasses on his nose and scanned the receipt.

“This is one of ours,” he said. “Anthony Russo was a longtime customer, but I'm not understanding. Are these items to be picked up, because it looks like they already have been.”

“I believe they were,” I said. “A few days before Mr. Russo died. What I am wondering is did he often have women's clothes in with his own?”

The man shook his head. “I can't remember. We have so many clients with so many clothes.”

I didn't look at Harrison because I didn't want to get an I-told-you-so look from him.

The man scanned the receipt again as if looking for something on it that would trigger his memory. He frowned and glanced up at me.

“One moment,” he said. Then he turned around and yelled, “Mahasti!”

“Coming, Father.”

A few moments later a young woman came from the back. She was lovely with large brown eyes and long black hair and the same olive complexion and prominent nose as her father.

“Do you remember this order?” the father asked.

The young woman looked at it. She started to shake her head and then stopped.

“Wait. Yes, I do,” she said. “There was a coffee stain on the woman's blouse and Mr. Russo was very insistent that I get it out.”

“So Mr. Russo brought you the blouse himself?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Along with his regular clothing.”

“Did he tell you who the blouse was for?” I asked hopefully.

“No,” she said. “Only that it was important that it be perfect. It had a tear on the hem that needed mending and he paid me quite a lot to fix that as well.”

Harrison and I exchanged a glance. I hadn't expected Russo to be the one dropping off the garments. It was blowing my theory that it was Mariska or another woman to heck.

“Can you describe the blouse to us?” Harrison asked.

Mahasti shrugged. “Sure. It was a pale blue silk with matching pearl buttons.”

I sucked in a breath. Harrison looked at me.

“That's what Ariana was wearing the day Russo died,” I said.

Harrison looked grim. If the blouse was Ariana's, it changed everything.

“Do you remember who picked up the blouse?” I asked.

“No, I wasn't here that day,” she said. “Monday is my day off.”

“It must have been Russo,” I said. I looked at Mahasti's father but he shook his head and I knew he had no idea.

We thanked them for their time. Harrison spoke a few words of what I supposed was the man's native language because he perked right up and they talked animatedly for a few more minutes. Then I saw Harrison hand him some folded-up bills. The man waved him off, but Harrison insisted.

I glanced at Harrison as we left and asked, “What language was that?”

“Farsi,” he said.

“Are you fluent?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I'm working on it.”

He looked entirely too humble and I had a feeling he was, in fact, fluent. It was as attractive as it was intimidating. Smart men always are. I decided to go for broke. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Four or five,” he said.

We continued on in silence as I absorbed the fact that I was palling around with a certified smarty-pants. As Harrison and I rounded the corner, I knew he wanted to talk about Ariana and the blouse, but I held up my hand.

“She didn't do it,” I said. “I know it looks bad, but it really doesn't change anything. So the blouse is hers, so what?”

“So why was Russo dropping it off with his cleaning?” he asked. His voice was low and full of disappointment and I knew what he was thinking.

“You heard Mahasti,” I said. “It had a coffee stain and a tear. Maybe Russo just took it to the cleaners as a favor to Ariana.”

“Because he really seemed like the sort to do a favor for a person,” Harrison said. “I think we have to face the facts.”

“And what facts are those?” I asked. I started speed walking, and to my annoyance, Harrison was able to keep up just fine.

“That Ariana may have been sleeping with Russo, which is why he had her blouse. Who knows, maybe she left it there after a tryst and he accidentally spilled coffee on it,” Harrison said.

“You are such a man!” I snapped.

“A few minutes ago, that was a good thing,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “Well, a few minutes ago we were discussing body hair, not slandering an innocent woman.”

“Slandering?” Harrison's eyes bugged out at the mere suggestion.

“Yes,” I said. I paused at the entrance to the Underground. “Typical male, you just assume she must have slept with him. Well, I'm betting there is a much more reasonable explanation.”

I turned to go into the station, and when he would have followed, I stopped him by holding up my hand.

“No, we're done,” I said.

“Oh, come on, Ginger, don't be mad,” he said. But not even the use of my coveted nickname would budge me. I turned and stomped into the station and stepped through the turnstile.