Chrissy was too old to be a Chrissy anymore. She was at least a Chris, if not a Christine. Her skin was sun-dried cowhide and stretched nearly as tight in a face-lift that was as painful to observe as it must have been to undergo.
The paragraph on Chrissy could have passed for a singles ad. She liked gardening, horses and had recently become involved in the Lehigh Womenâs League as well as the historical society. In addition to being an avid golfer, Chrissy was a demon on the tennis court and spent every Christmas skiing in Aspen with her daughter, Sasha.
I put down the magazine and soaped up my legs while I pondered the enticing revelation that Stinky and Bud Price weredrinking buddies. I considered Stinkyâs locked and vacant Lexus. Maybe they arrived at the Number Nine mine together the night before. But why? And why trick Stiletto and me into showing up, too, just to try to blow us up? If Stinky had wanted me to be present, all he had to do was call me up and ask. He didnât have to forge a letter from Mr. Salvo.
Now Price was dead and Stinky was missing. And Stiletto and I had barely escaped with our lives.
I had just finished rinsing my hair when the door slammed downstairs and the distinctive low and mellow tones of Stiletto emanated through the heating ducts. Yipes!
I leaped out of the bathtub, dried off and wrapped my hair and body in Roxanneâs hot pink towels. Then I hopped down the stairs.
Stiletto was leaning close to Roxanne, who had the photo album open from which she was removing pictures of Stinky. I heard her remark, âThatâs when Stinky met Bud Price. Now, I donât know if you know who he isââ
âRoxanne!â I shouted, clasping the pink towel with one hand and waving the other.
Stiletto took in my skimpy covering. âAnother distraction, Bubbles?â
âYou two know each other?â Roxanne asked, tick-tocking a finger between the two of us.
I landed at the bottom of the stairs. âRoxanne, this is Stiletto.â
âThe Stiletto? Like the knife?â She batted her false eyelashes.
Stiletto flashed me a victorious grin. Finally, finally someone had bought that, âStiletto like the knifeâ line of his. âMy, Iâve heard all about you from Aunt LuLu,â she gushed. âDidnât I see a profile of you on 60 Minutes ?â
âOnly CNN,â Stiletto replied with false humility. âIt was more a feature on land mines.â
âYou risked your life showing how innocent children played around those hidden underground explosives every day.â Roxanne clasped her hands together. âYou were so brave toââ
âOkay, okay,â I said, moving between them. âBreak it up. Roxanne, donât you have a client to tend to?â I pushed Stiletto toward the door. âAnd donât you know this is a girls-only salon, Steve?â
âDonât make him go,â whined Mrs. Wychesko from the chair as Roxy returned to finish rolling up her hair. âHeâs so cute. He could be our mascot.â
Stiletto tucked the pictures in his back pocket. âIâve got to leave, anyway. I have to shoot the owner of McMullen Coal.â
âOh, please donât!â Roxanne squealed. âHasnât there been enough violence already?â
Stiletto stared at her like she was loopy and I explained that Stiletto meant shoot photos, not bullets. âYou talking about Hugh McMullen?â I asked, seething inside with envy.
âVery good, Bubbles. Donât tell me youâve actually been reading the newspapers?â
I resisted an urge to tweak his sore nose. âHow did you get an interview with McMullen?â
âHe drove into the gas station while I was returning the car. Howâs that for kismet? If your Visa card hadnât been as worthless as the plastic it was printed on, the AP wouldnât have gotten an
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