The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen - A Dix Dodd Mystery

Chapter 3

  Yes, I’m cynical. I’ll be the first to admit it. And I have a chip on my shoulder when it comes to some men. Okay, most men. But for good reason. Some days just go from bad to worse to argh!, and when they do, damned if there isn’t always a man smack in the middle of it.

  Detective Richard Head was one such man. To say that he’d been a thorn in my side from time to time would be like saying Johnny Depp was just a little bit hot in that pirate costume.

  You see, Richard Head and I had a history. No, not a romantic one. God forbid! I wasn’t his type, and he sure as hell wasn’t mine. Our history was one based on mutual dislike, and mutual distrust. We’d flipped each other the finger so often it had become automatic, a reflexive action.

  Police Detective Head didn’t like private detectives, and he liked female private detectives even less. And he absolutely loathed a certain female private detective who happened to catch him getting a little too close with the new dispatcher at the 10th precinct awhile back. Actually, Richard’s ex, Glory, had been a client of Jones and Associates two years ago. Or rather had attempted to be a client. But when she couldn’t pay the hefty retainer fee, I’d volunteered my services—off hours and off the books. I know, I know, not very business like. But Glory was a sweetheart. She was only working part time and just didn’t have the money. So I helped her out. And it worked out for both of us. She found out her suspicions of a cheating husband were true. And when I went out on my own, she sent a couple of her friends my way—she had been that impressed with my work.

  But Detective Richard Head had not been impressed by my work. Glory had kicked him out on his ear when I handed over the incriminating evidence. Saddled with alimony payments, Richard had been forced to move in with his mother.

  His mother. God, I’d almost forgotten that part. No wonder the man hated me.

  But my point is, Richard Head never forgave me for doing my job and catching him red handed (or ass handed, if you prefer).

  And I’d never wanted him to.

  Did I mention I have a chip on my shoulder?

  By now, you’ve no doubt figured out which police detective caught this call.

  Yep.

  By the time Detective Head arrived, the patrol response guys had been there probably five minutes. Ned Weatherby had gotten control of himself. Sorta. By that I mean he wasn’t screaming now so much as crying softly (thank you, Dylan). The police had gotten him inside before too much commotion was caused. Ned kept shaking his head and asking, why, why, why would someone want to do this to his Jennifer? He looked bewildered, lost, his bottom lip quivering as he snuffed back the tears. At least he was acting that way. For all I knew, he and his mistress were jointly responsible for Jennifer’s demise.

  I would find out. I sure as hell wouldn’t leave it to Marport City’s finest.

  Of course, Detective Head looked about as thrilled to see me as I was to see him. When the first officer on the scene explained that I’d touched the victim to check for a pulse and that the bloody tracks on the floor were mine, Detective Head launched into a furious attack on me for contaminating his crime scene, compromising the evidence, etc. I fired back that if I hadn’t checked for life signs, he’d be tearing my head off right now for failing to come to the aid of a victim whose life might have been saved by some timely first aid.

  Midway through my counter-attack, I saw his expression change. The fury that twisted his features just moments ago was gone. And just like that, it clicked: he’d like nothing more than to pin this murder on me! Considering I was standing beside the dead body, the victim’s blood on my hands, it’s a wonder he wasn’t standing there with a first class woody.

  Oh boy.