I think you’re being very upsetting.”
I’m pretty sure Miss Frankie said something just about then, but I couldn’t hear her over Quinn’s shouting. Sullivan perched on the arm of the sofa, his expression a mix of amusement, concentration, and morbid fascination.
Jabbing one acrylic-tipped finger toward the door, Quinn snarled, “I think you should leave.”
When I made no move to obey her, she screeched, “I mean it! Get out of here now, before you upset Miss Frankie anymore!”
“You’re the one who should leave,” I snarled.
Quinn stepped over the broken glass and came at me. “You’re old news, honey. Philippe loved me .”
“Yeah? Then why did he leave a message for me this morning asking me to get back together with him?” I blame exhaustion, grief, and shock. The words came tumbling out before I could stop them. And in the sudden silence that followed, I realized that I had some ’splaining to do.
Seven
Silence rang in Miss Frankie’s elegant living room for about ten seconds before Quinn let out a feral yowl and lunged for me.
If the situation hadn’t been so tragic, and if I hadn’t been in such deep trouble with Detective Sullivan, I might have laughed. I held my ground outwardly, but those old insecurities nibbled at me from the inside. Quinn was tall, blonde, and gorgeous, with a figure straight out of a fashion magazine. From her Coach bag to her designer shoes, she belonged to a world I couldn’t even hope to inhabit.
As I imagined steam pouring from her ears and nose, another layer of my hair frizzed, and my extra twenty pounds settled heavily on my hips. The jeans I’d picked up at Ross for a song and the blouse I’d ordered from a favorite online discount store had cost a grand total of thirty dollars. I felt dumpy and frumpy, like Philippe’s used-up, worn-out castoff. But, I suppose, that’s exactly what I was.
The headache I’d been fighting all afternoon pounded in rhythm with my heartbeat, and the sound of Quinn’s screeching only made it worse. I was seriously thinking about using a few tricks on her that my cousins had taught me growing up, but Sullivan stepped over the coffee table to get between us.
“All right, that’s enough. Both of you sit down and be quiet.”
I didn’t like being lumped with Quinn, but it seemed like a bad idea to argue. I circled back to my place on the sofa and sat. Quinn glared at me as she floated toward an empty chair near Miss Frankie’s.
“Now, then.” Sullivan looked at me as if he wanted to lock me up and throw away the key. “About that message . . .”
“I’m sorry. I know I should have told you.”
“It’s a lie,” Quinn said with a smirk. She crossed her legs and jiggled her top foot nervously.
“Quinn, sugar, let’s you and me stay out of this, shall we?” Miss Frankie’s voice was syrupy sweet, but the expression in her eyes could have melted steel.
Blondie didn’t like the suggestion, but she was smart enough not to argue with Miss Frankie. She sank back in her seat and contented herself with shooting daggers at me with her eyes.
“The message?” Sullivan prompted. His mouth had thinned almost to the point of disappearing.
“Right. Well, like I told you, I left a message at Zydeco for Philippe yesterday. He called this morning while I was in the shower.”
“What did he say?”
The message was still on my cell phone. I could have let him hear the whole thing for himself, but Miss Frankie would insist on hearing it as well, and that might be too much for her. Later, maybe. I summarized instead. “It was a very short message. He said we needed to talk and asked me to meet him at Zydeco.”
Miss Frankie latched onto that. “Did he say what he wanted to talk about?”
“Not exactly, but he did say that he’d made a mistake when he broke us up.”
“That’s it?” Sullivan’s voice was as tight and angry as Quinn’s expression.
I shook my head. “He said that we were a great team and
I’m pretty sure Miss Frankie said something just about then, but I couldn’t hear her over Quinn’s shouting. Sullivan perched on the arm of the sofa, his expression a mix of amusement, concentration, and morbid fascination.
Jabbing one acrylic-tipped finger toward the door, Quinn snarled, “I think you should leave.”
When I made no move to obey her, she screeched, “I mean it! Get out of here now, before you upset Miss Frankie anymore!”
“You’re the one who should leave,” I snarled.
Quinn stepped over the broken glass and came at me. “You’re old news, honey. Philippe loved me .”
“Yeah? Then why did he leave a message for me this morning asking me to get back together with him?” I blame exhaustion, grief, and shock. The words came tumbling out before I could stop them. And in the sudden silence that followed, I realized that I had some ’splaining to do.
Seven
Silence rang in Miss Frankie’s elegant living room for about ten seconds before Quinn let out a feral yowl and lunged for me.
If the situation hadn’t been so tragic, and if I hadn’t been in such deep trouble with Detective Sullivan, I might have laughed. I held my ground outwardly, but those old insecurities nibbled at me from the inside. Quinn was tall, blonde, and gorgeous, with a figure straight out of a fashion magazine. From her Coach bag to her designer shoes, she belonged to a world I couldn’t even hope to inhabit.
As I imagined steam pouring from her ears and nose, another layer of my hair frizzed, and my extra twenty pounds settled heavily on my hips. The jeans I’d picked up at Ross for a song and the blouse I’d ordered from a favorite online discount store had cost a grand total of thirty dollars. I felt dumpy and frumpy, like Philippe’s used-up, worn-out castoff. But, I suppose, that’s exactly what I was.
The headache I’d been fighting all afternoon pounded in rhythm with my heartbeat, and the sound of Quinn’s screeching only made it worse. I was seriously thinking about using a few tricks on her that my cousins had taught me growing up, but Sullivan stepped over the coffee table to get between us.
“All right, that’s enough. Both of you sit down and be quiet.”
I didn’t like being lumped with Quinn, but it seemed like a bad idea to argue. I circled back to my place on the sofa and sat. Quinn glared at me as she floated toward an empty chair near Miss Frankie’s.
“Now, then.” Sullivan looked at me as if he wanted to lock me up and throw away the key. “About that message . . .”
“I’m sorry. I know I should have told you.”
“It’s a lie,” Quinn said with a smirk. She crossed her legs and jiggled her top foot nervously.
“Quinn, sugar, let’s you and me stay out of this, shall we?” Miss Frankie’s voice was syrupy sweet, but the expression in her eyes could have melted steel.
Blondie didn’t like the suggestion, but she was smart enough not to argue with Miss Frankie. She sank back in her seat and contented herself with shooting daggers at me with her eyes.
“The message?” Sullivan prompted. His mouth had thinned almost to the point of disappearing.
“Right. Well, like I told you, I left a message at Zydeco for Philippe yesterday. He called this morning while I was in the shower.”
“What did he say?”
The message was still on my cell phone. I could have let him hear the whole thing for himself, but Miss Frankie would insist on hearing it as well, and that might be too much for her. Later, maybe. I summarized instead. “It was a very short message. He said we needed to talk and asked me to meet him at Zydeco.”
Miss Frankie latched onto that. “Did he say what he wanted to talk about?”
“Not exactly, but he did say that he’d made a mistake when he broke us up.”
“That’s it?” Sullivan’s voice was as tight and angry as Quinn’s expression.
I shook my head. “He said that we were a great team and
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