Addison

FOLLOWING DYLAN DOWN the hall, I ignored the strong smell of antiseptic wafting toward me. We stopped at the third door on the left, where Dylan knocked and peeked inside. “Grandma?”

“Dylan? What are you doin’ here?” the old woman said.

Dylan’s shoulders slumped as she said, “I brought my friend with me. We thought we’d see if we can help find your jewelry.”

“Allow me,” I whispered, and stepped in front of Dylan. “Mrs. James? I’m Addison Allen. Are you up to answering some questions?” I refused to tell her it was nice to meet her because I didn’t want to start the conversation off with a lie.

“It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“Wonderful.” I faced Dylan. “Do you want to head to the next name on the list and I’ll take this one?”

“Well...if you insist,” she said, a little too brightly.

I stuffed down a giggle and pulled a chair up to Mrs. James’s table, scanning my notes. “Says here you’re missing a couple of rings, some necklaces, and some bracelets. When did you first notice your jewelry was missing?”

“Are you that rich girl my granddaughter has taken up with?”

“‘Taken up with’?”

“You know, in an unnatural sorta way.”

I frowned. “I don’t think I do know, Mrs. James.”

“Oh yes you do, Lebanese. You’re both Lebanese.” She waved her hand.

“Excuse me?” Was she really accusing us of being foreigners? “I was born in Portland, and I can’t imagine Dylan lying about being born in this town—”

“Funny. Queer. Gay. You know, Lebanese.”

Not foreigners, lesbians. She thought we were gay. I just stared at her, unable to even defend me and Dylan.

“Don’t look at me like that. We all know your dirty little secret. That’s why Dylan ran off to the city and left that nice Rowe boy high and dry.”

“Dylan and I aren’t...wait, what Rowe boy?”

“Dylan’s childhood sweetheart, Dakota Rowe. If you ask me, that boy is far too good for her. Easy on the eyes, too. Don’t know what he ever saw in my granddaughter. She looks just like her momma, with that fiery-red hair. She probably put some sort of spell on him, just like her momma did to my boy.”

Dakota Rowe? Dylan had a childhood sweetheart she hadn’t told me about? Since when? Switching my focus from finding the missing jewelry to pumping the nasty old bat for Dylan information, I said, “Tell me about this Dakota fella.”

“Oh, he’s a lovely boy. His daddy is best friends with my boy, so they raised those kids together since birth. I think I have a photo around here of them in the bathtub when they was five.” She reached over to her cabinet.

As much as I was dying to see a picture of five-year-old Dylan in the bathtub with a boy, I worried she’d come back before I got the full scoop on Dakota, so I leaned forward to conspire. “That’s okay, Mrs. James, I’m sure we can find it another day. What does Dakota do for a living?”

“Oh, he takes care of the shitters.”

“I’m sorry?”

“He owns Howdy Doodies. Took it over from his dad.”

“I’m not following.”

“Listen, girl, it’s not that hard,” she snapped. “The shitters you see on the side of the road...toilets.”

“Oh, Porta-Potties,” I provided.

“Right. Portable shitters. He runs the company his daddy, Howard, started. Him and his brother.”

Okay, this was going down a weird path. “So, he deals in excrement.”

“Makes a lotta money dealin’ in shit, missy, so don’t you go raisin’ your rich nose in the air like your shit don’t stink.”

I didn’t point out that I probably wasn’t the only one raising their noses when they had to deal with a Porta-Potty. I shuddered. Gross.

“I would never,” I said, making sure to keep my nose lowered. “So he’s gainfully employed. I wonder what Dylan doesn’t see in him.”

“Well I thought it was on account of you two doin’—”

“I can assure you, ma’am, Dylan and I are as straight as they come.”

“Well then, why did she turn Dakota down?”

“I have no idea. I’m sure whatever reason she had, though, it was a good one.” And I had a pretty good idea it had something to do with the way she looked at my brother.

“Then you don’t know my granddaughter.”

I bristled under her patronizing stare. “I know Dylan better than anyone, and I can tell you one thing, she’s the most honest person I know, and she’s one heck of friend, so regardless of whether or not you agree with her decision or why she made it, if she made it, it was for a good reason.” I shifted in my seat and picked up my pad and pen again. “Now, let’s get back to the missing jewelry.”

“I don’t know why you outta-towners have your noses in our business. Ain’t no cause for it, since everyone knows who took it anyway.”

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

“Wyatt Adams,” she spat.

“Who’s Wyatt Adams?”

“The heater guy.”

“Right, Mrs. Rogers told us about him. Blond, nice butt, wears cowboy boots, right?”

“I tried to tell Yvonne that boy would lead her straight to hell, but she insists on ogling him.”

“Yvonne?”

Ms. James sighed. “Mrs. Rogers.”

“Yes, of course.” I scribbled Yvonne next to Mrs. Rogers, hoping I’d be able to keep these women straight somehow. “Why do you think he’s stealing jewelry?”

“Why else would a man like that come into a place like this? He walks in here with those tight jeans on, showing his goo-goo like he thinks he’s Magic Mike or something.”

Ohmigod, this woman cannot be real. I stifled back a groan. “His goo-goo? And wait, you watched Magic Mike?”

“No, I most certainly did not. They had the commercials on. And his goo-goo...his package.” She waved her hands over her nether regions and I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Tight Wranglers aside, was he in your room at any point, or did you see him in a place he wasn’t authorized?”

“Was he in my room?” she gasped. “What sort of woman do you take me for? Hell no, he wasn’t in my room.”

I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get anywhere with this woman and, luckily, I didn’t have to try, since Dylan returned, her expression hopeful yet guarded. “How did it go?”

“About as well as you would expect,” I admitted. “I have a possible name, though.”

“Oh, really?”

“Hello, Grandma, how are you Grandma? It’s good to see you, Grandma,” Mrs. James said snottily.

Dylan rolled her eyes. “Hello, Grandma. How are you?”

“I have gout.”

“Well, that sounds—”

“And hemorrhoids that are drivin’ me nuts, and don’t even get me started on the yeast infection.”

Dylan winced. “Nope, that’s just fine. I won’t get you started on any of it.”

Before Mrs. James could say anything else, another elderly woman came shuffling in on her walker, stalling when she caught sight of us. “Bess, you got visitors!”

“Yeah, Nance. This is my granddaughter Dylan, and her friend.”

“The Libyan?” Nancy asked.

“No, I’m American,” Dylan replied. “Grandma, what have you been telling people?”

I bit back a giggle. “Oh, you have no idea, Dylan.”

“The rich one says she’s not gay,” Dylan’s grandma continued, without acknowledging Dylan had even spoken.

My friend groaned. “We should really get going.”

“Yes,” I agreed, and rose to my feet. “Thanks for the information, Mrs. James. We’ll be in touch.”

“Wait.” Dylan paused at the door. “Grandma, do you know what’s going on with the train tracks?”

“Of course I know what’s going on. It’s my town isn’t it?”

“Can you tell us?” I asked.

“It’s a ploy to get tourists here. They’re adding one of those old-fashioned stagecoach trains and trying to turn this place into some new-fangled tourist trap. It’s a waste of city money if you ask me, but nobody ever does.”

“All right, thanks,” Dylan said, pushing me out of the room.

I couldn’t stop myself into breaking out into hysterical giggles. I leaned against the wall and let the mirth overtake me for a minute.

“It was that good, huh?” Dylan asked.

“Ohmigod, she thought we were lesbians, but she kept calling you a Lebanese.” I broke into giggles again.

“She’s insane. Didn’t I tell you she was insane?”

“You totally did, but she also told me about Dakota.”

“Crap,” Dylan whispered.

“I hear a story there, lady. Spill.”

“Later. Believe me, there’s not much to tell.”

“Dylan James?”

I was taken by the deep voice with a slight southern twang and turned toward the sound.

“Wyatt?” Dylan crooned. “Is that really you?”

The tall, gorgeous man chuckled and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet. “Hey beautiful! You haven’t changed a bit, except gotten cuter.”

Ooh, lordy, this man was a looker, as they say. Probably six-foot-four, but muscular, and his Wranglers really were tight over his nether regions. But it was totally fine by me. He had short blond hair, nothing like Jake’s long dark silky...nope, I was not going to think about Jake. Jake was dead to me.

Dylan giggled. “You’ve always been a great liar.”

Wyatt set her back on her feet, and I cleared my throat.

“Wyatt Adams, I’d like you to meet Addison Allen.” Dylan stepped back and Wyatt reached out his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I smiled as I shook his hand. “Are you the one stealing jewelry from old people?”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t seem offended. “No. I’m here fixin’ the air conditionin’ unit. I don’t go into patients’ rooms.”

“I didn’t say things went missing from their rooms,” I challenged.

“What about Mrs. Rogers’s room?” Dylan asked, her eyebrows waggling up and down. “Sounds like you’ve been spending an awful lot of time in there.”

Wyatt chuckled, shaking his head. “I swear that woman keeps dumping shit into her vents. And of course I know someone’s stealin’ jewelry out of the rooms. This is Lakeview. Everyone knows.”

I studied him and he seemed sincere, but men often seemed sincere, so I decided I’d wait to reserve judgment.

“And Wyatt’s grandma’s here,” Dylan said. “Besides, he’s not really the pilfering type. He’s the guy who’d walk a mile to return the extra change the cashier accidentally gave him.”

“That happened one time,” he said.

“Well, that does go to character,” I said.

Dylan grinned. “Her brother’s a lawyer.”

“Yeah?” he said.

I nodded.

“You riding this year?” Dylan asked, and I didn’t miss the minute it took Wyatt to focus on her instead of me. That kind of gave me a little thrill.

“Yeah.” He smiled, elbowing her. “What about you? I can’t believe it’s a coincidence that you’re in town for Roundup.”

“Ha! Total coincidence, thanks to this jewel thief. My barrel racing days are done.” Dylan glanced at me. “Wyatt’s a bull rider.”

“Of course he is,” I said. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yep,” he said. “Been doin’ it since I was little, though, so it’s second nature.”

“Wyatt, there you are.” The breathy voice of Brandy blew through my eardrums like a cat being strangled.

“Hey, Brandy,” he said. “I just finished.”

Brandy gave him a really weird-looking pouty face. “Oh, I thought you’d come find me.”

“Did you need me for somethin’?” he asked.

She sent a derisive look in Dylan’s direction and I stepped slightly in front of my friend in case she needed protection.

“Oh, no. I just wondered if you did, since you’re loitering here in the hallway.”

“We were just catching up,” Dylan said.

“Oh?” Brandy said, her bitch-meter on full. “Did I overhear that you’ll be racing at the roundup this year?”

“Um, no,” Dylan said, stiffening. “You bought my horse from Dad after I moved to Portland, remember? Besides, we’re not going to be here long enough for Roundup. We’re solving this case, and then getting the hell out.”

My ears perked up. Dylan never told me what had happened to her horse. I knew she used to ride competitively, but didn’t know the extent. It felt weird to hear so many details of her life back here that I didn’t know.

“Too bad,” Brandy said. “I’ve held the championship for barrels since you left.”

“Good for you,” Dylan said. “I’m glad Dusty’s still getting up there. I trained him well.”

“I bet Dylan could give you a run for your money, Brandy,” Wyatt said. “Remember how bad she smoked you the year before she left?”

Okay, I was starting to really like this guy.

“My horse went lame,” Brandy said.

“Right, I forgot about that,” Wyatt said, sounding as though he didn’t believe it for a second.

“I could totally have beaten her.”

“Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?” I challenged.

“Addison,” Dylan said on a low groan.

“What do you mean?” Brandy asked.

“Dylan will enter and we’ll find out if it’s your horse or you that’s lame.”

“Holy crap on a stick,” Dylan hissed. Wyatt laughed.

“Even if Dylan could find a horse this close to Roundup, she’d never beat me,” Brandy snapped. “Besides, she would have had to be registered for barrel racing by now. The only event you don’t have to pre-register for is the Buddy Barrel Pick-up, and she’d need a partner for that.”

“Cool, she’s got one,” I said.

“No, no, no, no,” Dylan chanted.

Brandy settled her hands on her hips. “Yeah, who?”

“You’re lookin’ at her,” I said, matching her glare.

Brandy snorted. “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me. You’re a city girl. What do you know about horses?”

Dylan dropped her head back and talked to the ceiling. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

I giggled. “Oh, honey, I’ve owned horses worth more than this building, and probably jumped courses with obstacles taller, so don’t you worry your pretty little pea-brain about my riding abilities.” I was on a roll, which probably should have been aborted several challenges back. “We’ll kick your ass from here to Friday at picking up these buddy barrels.”

Shaking her head, Dylan grabbed my arm and tugged me away.