“Yep. And I doubt she’ll be back until this is all resolved. Which leaves me seriously in the lurch — right before Halloween, no less. I was counting on the foot traffic she brings in. The shop’s profits will take a big hit without her.” I ran a hand through my hair, frustration consuming me. “But even putting my own selfish needs aside, I can’t throw her to the wolves. She may not be my favorite person in the world, but I’m not willing to see her hurt by a hothead like Mickey. If I find her before he does, maybe I can get her to return the jewelry.”
“And if she won’t?”
“Then I’ll call Caden Hightower. He’ll know how to handle things without anyone ending up dead.”
“Plus, you’ll have an excuse to see the sexy, silver fox detective again.”
“That’s not a priority, but I’m not totally opposed to it either.”
Cracking a smile, Flo took another sip of wine. Her head tilted to the side as thoughts stirred in her eyes.
“What are you thinking?” I asked, recognizing herI’ve got a planexpression a mile away. “So help me, if you even suggest stepping foot inside The Banshee…”
“I don’t have a death wish.” She rolled her eyes. “Butyouhave Zelda’s address. No one else does. That’s an advantage we shouldn’t waste.”
“Meaning…”
“Meaning,tomorrow we pay a visit to the Madame.” Her eyes glittered with excitement, firelight dancing on her irises. “We just have to get to her before Graham does.”
* * *
The engine rumbledlike a freight train beneath me as I nudged the beefy muscle car down a narrow side street, disturbing an otherwise quiet Monday morning.
“Cut the lights!” Flo hissed from the passenger seat. She was staring down at the directions on her phone screen, practically shaking with anticipation as we crept closer to our destination.
“It’s daylight,” I noted drolly. “The headlights aren’t on. And we aren’t exactly incognito, headlights non-withstanding. We stick out like a sore thumb in this thing.”
Aunt Colette’s car — a 1966 Ford Thunderbird — was a turquoise behemoth that drew attention no matter the time or place. When we’d hatched out our scheme the night before, we’d originally planned to take Florence’s far more discrete Ford Focus hatchback. Said plan went awry around dawn when she phoned me, frantic. Evidently, Desmond was giving a guest lecture at a college way out in Western Mass today — otherwise known as the sticks — which left us without a suitable getaway car.
Enter:The Thunderbird.
“You know, I think this car is perfect for this mission,” Flo declared. “We’re totally channeling Thelma and Louise energy right now.”
“Weren’t they in love?”
“A love that dare not speak its name.” She waggled her brows at me suggestively. “Go through this stop sign, then take a left onto the dead end. It should be the last house on the right.”
I followed her directions, slowing to a crawl as we approached. The dead-end street where Zelda lived was on the fringes of town in a working-class neighborhood called The Point. Once a notably sketchy area, it was slowly gentrifying as the university expanded and dilapidated tenements became prime student housing. Still, there were traces of its rougher past everywhere you looked. For every newly refinished home, there were two with sagging front porches, rusted chainlink fences, and broken down cars rotting in the driveway.
“It’s that one.” Flo pointed to the double decker with chipped navy shingles at the end of the row.
It took two tries, but I managed to park the Thunderbird (relatively) close to the curb. We scampered out, glancing up and down the abandoned street for signs of life. No one seemed to be around, but I couldn’t shake the sensation that someone was watching us.
I’d had that feeling a lot lately. Frankly, it was getting old.
“Come on,” I muttered, starting up the cracked concrete walkway to the two-family home. “Let’s get this over with.”
A pair of doors waited for us at the top of the steps, each with a labeled doorbell. If the names scrawled in messy sharpie were accurate, Apartment No. 1 was occupied by someone namedHALLOWAY, Apartment No. 2 merely by a single letter.
Z.
“Gotta be that one,” Florence said, reaching out and jamming her finger against the doorbell button without a moment’s hesitation. We heard a resulting muffled ring from somewhere above, then total silence. No approaching footsteps, no answering bellows promising to be right down. After thirty seconds of waiting, Flo tried again, this time holding her finger against the bell for such a prolonged stretch, I finally reached out and smacked it away.
“Hey!” Flo protested.
“You really think she’s going to come down if you annoy her to death?”
“Maybe.”