Killer Chameleon (5 page)

4

“RUN ALL THAT BY ME AGAIN,” DUCK SAID THE
next morning, his brow furrowed with concentration. I had no illusions that the bizarre narrative explaining why I hadn't arrived the night before might be the sole reason for the ridges lining his forehead at the moment. Not that he hadn't been listening, but somewhere on the bottom of his cereal bowl, hidden by an ocean of milk, was an errant raisin he was determined to find. Fortunately, he had the kind of mind that could compartmentalize easily, so it didn't bother me that he appeared to be paying more attention to the raisin chase than to the misadventures that had delayed my spending my first night as a permanent resident in the condo. Duck loves raisins, but again, fortunately, I was confident that he loved me more. Really.

I began again with the prank call that had sent Janeece scrambling all over Baltimore, then the incident in the basement.

“So,” Duck said, giving up and draining the milk in one swallow, “first the bogus call about my alleged accident, then the one to the department while you were down in the storage room.”

“Isn't that what I just said?” I asked, wondering if the raisin had won the battle for his attention after all.

He got up to put the bowl in the dishwasher. “You were definitely the target, not Janeece. I'm thinking that whoever called and got her really thought you'd be home to answer the phone, and when you weren't, assumed that Janeece would be able to find you with no trouble. The caller had to know you'd try to track me down at work first before you'd take off for Baltimore. But—” He leaned back against the sink, arms across his chest. “That assumes she knows you as more than a passing acquaintance. Perhaps she doesn't. Perhaps she thought you'd do exactly what Janeece did: go off half-cocked. But what was the point? Simply to jerk your chain?”

I wasn't ready to pose the only possibility that had occurred to me in the middle of the night. I was fairly certain how it would be received, so I chickened out and kept my mouth shut.

“As for siccing the cops on you, that's the one that worries me. It could have backfired. Unless, again, she figured that since you'd been a cop, you'd know how to react so you wouldn't get yourself shot—assuming she knows you were in uniform for eight years. You say the senior man's name was Willard? I'll give him a call, see what he's found out.”

“If anything,” I said, momentarily distracted. I'm a leg woman. Wearing only a pair of briefs and T-shirt, Duck stood barefoot, ankles crossed, presenting one long line of smooth, yummy, brown, well-muscled thighs and calves. He'd make a great model for Jockeys or BVDs, especially with that nice round butt and . . .

I yanked myself back to the subject at hand. “He left to question some of the people decorating the tree, but face it, what with heightened security and all these days, the department doesn't have the time or manpower to waste on a prank caller.”

“Oh, they'll take it seriously, all right. Think of the number of cops they sent.”

“I'd just as soon not,” I said, with a shudder. All those uniforms, their weapons aimed at me. I'd be dreaming about that for a while.

“Can you think of anyone who'd go to such lengths to shake you up? Someone at one of the districts you were assigned to maybe? Think male
and
female. She might be some joker's girlfriend he's asked to help. Because we've both worked with a lot of practical jokers, but the women in the department don't tend to go in for the kind of juvenile behavior the guys enjoy. Smelly cheese in the bottom of a locker, swiping a dude's lunch while his back is turned, that's the kind of stupid stunt we pull on each other. But this has a really nasty feel to it. You sure you haven't crossed someone here recently? You may not have meant to, but—”

“No, I haven't. Honestly.” I pulled up short, something he'd said opening up possibilities that hadn't occurred to me. They rapidly escalated to probabilities. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Duck glanced at his watch, then sat down, straddling a chair backward. “You remember something?”

“Realized something. The dog and cat turds.”

“Say what?” He lowered his head, gazing up at me, as if over his reading glasses.

“Someone left a pile of dog poop in front of Cholly and Neva's a while back and some cat poop yesterday. It wasn't for them, it was meant for me! Whoever did it didn't know I'd moved out.”

“Until sometime yesterday,” Duck amended, “or they wouldn't have known to call Janeece's.”

“Right. That rules out the residents; they can probably give you the precise date I carried my clothes across the hall. Which means it has to be an outsider, perhaps someone in Gracie Poole's group. They're members of her arts and crafts classes at the Seniors' Center and were in and out of the lobby all day, plus hitting all the floors to collect ornaments from people—”

“A perfect opportunity to leave the cat crap.”

“Poor Neva and Cholly. I don't know if I have the guts to tell them. I guess it's just as well I'm moving out so they don't ask me to.”

“Hey, none of this is your fault, at least as far as you know.”

I waved that away as irrelevant, still trying to work out a plausible scenario. “If this woman helping with the tree just happened, intentionally, of course, to mention my name, sooner or later someone was bound to tell her I've been bunking with Janeece.”

Duck smiled, got up, and planted a kiss on the top of my head. “Smart girl. That's it, then. So we find out who was in the Poole woman's group and go from there. Come on. I've got to get dressed.”

I grabbed a banana from the counter and followed him into the bedroom. I still wasn't used to seeing my bed in here, in fact, got a small jolt every time I saw my furniture in this condo. But of all the items that had been moved from my apartment to Duck's, the bed seemed as if it belonged here the most. It looked at home, the head- and footboard with their unfussy, clean lines. Like Duck, I realized, who had helped me pick it out back in the spring. We had similar tastes, and on the few occasions we'd been in furniture stores, had always gravitated toward the simple and uncluttered—Scandinavian or Shaker or, like the bed, mission style.

I patted the pillows to say hello, then stretched out on my stomach to watch Duck get dressed, something I love to do. Truth is, I love to watch him do anything, love the way he moves, like a well-toned athlete, smooth, with a masculine grace.

Funny thing about Dillon Upshur Kennedy. At first glance there's nothing remarkable about him. He's your basic black brother, average height and weight, average looks. Round face, skin the color of Hershey's (with almonds, my favorite), and dark eyes with obscenely long lashes. What gets you is that he always appears to be smiling, something about the curve of his lips, I guess.

And he has a way of looking at you that gives you the impression he's glad to see you and whatever you have to say is important to him. He makes you want to be his friend, which probably accounts for how easily he's managed to get bad guys to confess. Got a hard case who refuses to talk? Call Duck. The local jails are populated with criminals who spilled their guts to him, yet still yell his name and wave whenever they see him there. In spite of the fact that he was instrumental to their being there, they like him. Go figure.

As for his effect on women, it can be devastating and something I decided I'd just as soon not think about at the moment.

He disappeared into the walk-in closet and came out with a gray shirt and charcoal slacks on hangers. “There's plenty of space for your clothes in there,” he said. “In case you missed it, that's a broad hint.”

“It was? Duh! I hope you've enjoyed all that room to yourself because that's over. But wait a minute, honey.” My mind had skittered back to the previous subject. “All the women Gracie had working with her on the tree are seniors. You know how dopey I am about old ladies. I'd probably love them even if Nunna hadn't drummed ‘respect your elders' into me. No way would I do anything to antagonize one. And frankly, I can't imagine an old lady making those calls.”

Duck snorted in derision as he grabbed a pair of black socks from a dresser drawer and perched on the side of the bed to put them on. “Inside every old lady is a young one, babe. You know how I feel about the b-word, but if one of those old biddies was a bitch thirty years ago, chances are she hasn't changed.”

I found myself resisting the whole notion. It simply didn't feel right. “Tell you what,” I said, undoing the buttons on his shirt for him. “Check in with Willard when you have a chance, and I'll do some fishing around with Gracie Poole, no pun intended.”

Duck rolled his eyes at that and extended a hand for his shirt. “Deal. Let's hope that whoever she is, she's shot her wad. What are you up to today?”

I hadn't made my to-do list yet, so I had to wing it. “Pick up our tickets to Hawaii, swing by the Bridal Bower for my wedding outfit, check to see if my laptop's been repaired, buy a doormat for Janeece, for a start.”

“You gonna be able to hang around to let Clarissa in?”

It took me a moment to switch gears, primarily because it was the first time I'd heard her name. I was also intrigued by the fact that he felt free to call her that instead of Miss or Mrs. Whatever. That was one of the reasons women of all ages fell for him like a ton of bricks. He was always unfailingly polite and never used their first names without permission.

“I'll be here. Just how old is this Clarissa person?”

Buttoning, he appeared to think about it. “Got me. Thirty-five, maybe forty. With her kind of face, it's hard to tell.”

“And just what kind of face is that?”

He smirked and patted me on the fanny. “What's the matter, babe? Jealous? Well, you should be. I like her.” The smirk segued into a grin. “I mean, I really like her. Man, can she cook!”

For the first time, I was genuinely concerned. It wasn't so much that Duck loved to eat as his delight and appreciation of the process of preparing a meal. He had flirted with bankruptcy to stock his kitchen with Calphalon cookware, his most prized possessions. He'd given them to his sister, Vanessa, when he'd taken off back in August to search for his missing father. Once the search was over and he realized he wouldn't be spending the rest of his life in jail for patricide, he'd taken them back. Vanessa hadn't spoken to him for a week afterward. In other words, Duck loved to cook, and the only danger I sensed when it came to competition from other women was from some female in an apron with a box of recipes from her mama.

“Clarissa has cooked for you?” I asked.

“Man, she makes a mean jambalaya.” He was enjoying himself immensely. “Never tasted anything like it.”

Eyes narrowed, I sat up. “Well, be sure you tell her what you want for your last meal by her because she won't be cooking for you much longer.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh and reached for his slacks. “Oh, well. For you, I'll give her up. But don't forget, you've got to tell her.”

“No problem. And since you've had so much fun at my expense, I'll also tell her you'll give her a month's severance pay.”

He slid his feet into the slacks. “Babe, she's worth it. Gotta tell you, if we weren't engaged—”

I grabbed a pillow and whacked him with it, whereupon he snatched it from me, wrestled me onto my back, and kissed me.

Duck's a dynamite kisser, the kind who makes your toes curl. I forgot Clarissa, dedicated myself to the task at hand, literally, since his slacks were around his ankles, and, in the process, made him sorry that he had less than ten minutes to hit the door or be late for work.

He finally left, and I set about filling up the empty clothes pole in the walk-in closet. In my hurry to get here in time to have breakfast with him, I'd managed to bring only two boxes with me. They didn't make much of a dent, but it was a start.

I wandered into the living room looking for something to do until this Clarissa person arrived. There were a couple of hours to fill. I debated running back to Janeece's to bring another load of boxes, but it was rush hour. Not a good idea. I might not make it back in time. She might not wait, and I wanted to meet this woman in the worst way and begin the process of eliminating her from our lives.

I glanced around and wondered why I wasn't as content at being surrounded by my own furniture as I thought I should be. The condos in this building, like the building itself, had all the personality of a shoe box. No decorative features, like molding or chair rails, no ceiling lights except in the kitchen. Sick of all-white walls, Duck had at least painted, a soft green in the living room and guest room, a medium blue in the master bedroom and bath, and a sunny yellow in the kitchen. That was the end of it. Except for his bookshelves, he had had no qualms about getting rid of his belongings to make room for mine, since his had come from a combination of yard sales and Goodwill. He'd done wonders with the little he'd had, and I missed a few of them.

But ever since his family had been evicted when he was a kid and he'd watched people swipe practically everything they'd owned off the curb, he swore he never wanted to become attached to anything he couldn't walk away from and not look back. That didn't apply to his cookware, of course, and except for his desk, which I'd asked him to keep, he'd cleaned out this place in the space of four hours the day the movers were to arrive with the contents of my apartment.