to be harassing Chandelier Wells, I decided to spend the morning probing the jealous rival. Jealousy is always a fertile field, and after a late night contemplating Jill and my birthday, I didnât have enough energy to go up against domestic outrage.
Viveca Dane lived on Francisco Street a block west of Columbus. The house was a tidy two-story stucco number typical of the cityâs residential districts, although this one possessed some grass and some shrubbery in contrast to its more barren brethren out in the avenues. I should probably have called first, but people are more likely to be helpful if theyâre knocked a bit off-balance when I show up at the door like a Mormon.
I had rung the bell four times and made ready to retreat down the stairs when the door squeaked open at my back. âWhat do you want?â a husky voice demanded in the middle of an audible yawn. After it coughed to clear itself of a stew of congestion, it swore like a trucker in traffic. âNothing happens in here before noon.â
I turned to see a small woman, wiry and wired, age well over sixty, hair spectacularly awry, skin creased and crisscrossed with wrinkles but untouched by anything other than age. Her hair was artificially blonde, her eyes chocolate truffles afloat in a dish of sour cream, her fingers a fistful of knotted twigs curled in arthritic arcs. She wore a royal blue housecoat that looked to be in its second decade of use and white silk slippers she could have worn to a ball. She was obviously irritated at being disturbed at that hour, even though it was after ten oâclock.
âI said what do you want?â she repeated in a sandpaper voice that had seen a lot of smoke and a lot of straight booze during a lot of late nights in a lot of dark bars.
I tried to look charming but itâs not my best guise. âMy name is Tanner. Iâm a private investigator. Iâd like toââ
Her frown turned from surly to thoughtful. âIâve heard of you, havenât I?â
âCould be.â
âYou got shot a year or so back. Along with some policemen.â
âThatâs right.â
âYou killed a policeman yourself that night, as I remember.â
I felt myself color. âYes, I did.â
âSo why arenât you in jail?â
There was a lot I could have said to that, but what I chose to say was, âIt was self-defense.â
âSays who?â
âThe district attorney.â
She cocked her head in the universal mark of the skeptic. âLucky you.â
I remembered my best friendâs body, its last seconds of life leaching toward death in a scruffy, vacant lot down by the bay from the bullet Iâd put in his chest. And I remembered precisely how it felt to have done it. âLucky me.â
She folded her arms across her wool-wrapped chest. âSo why are you here? Am I being investigated for something?â
I raised a brow. âShould you be?â
Her eyes twinkled and blinked and squinted. âOnly for my fantasies these days, Iâm sorry to say.â
âI hear your fantasies have made you lots of money over the years. And lots of fans as well.â
She was pleasantly surprised and showed it. âYou know my work, Mr. Tanner?â
She seemed likely to quiz me about it, so I stemmed the urge to lie. âI know your reputation.â
Her laugh was brassy and sarcastic. âYouâre twenty years too late for my best moves, big boyâmy reputation has mellowed to the consistency of tapioca. But in my prime, well, you could have burned your tongue on my reputation, donât think you couldnât. And a few other items as well.â
I smiled. âToo hot to handle, I guess.â
She tossed me a hip with the panache of a New Orleans stripper. âWhen I choose to be. But once in a while, if the right man comes along and treats me the way I like to be treated, I can be as smooth as Baileys Irish