Stella Cameron - Out of Mind

Stand-in hostess for some man’s pool party? Was she insane? She couldn’t really think all the guy wanted was for her to stand around offering canapés.

Willow swung open two heavy green doors to a crowded space where bicycles and her scooter, complete with trailer, were stored in front of boxes stacked to the rafters.

He could follow her at a distance, but why bother when he would rather be as near to her as possible?

Ben settled his presence into her trailer and grinned at the odd expression on her face when she noticed a change in the balance of her “wheels.”

She looked cute in her little yellow dress, brown sandals, and wearing the green-and-white crash helmet complete with oversize rearview mirrors. Her skirt hiked way above her knees—something else he enjoyed.

The kiss had been enough proof for him. He wanted Willow more than ever.

This was the first close-up look he’d had of the scooter. It was well equipped enough to satisfy a long-distance motorcyclist, complete with GPS, a mount into which she slid a cell phone before adjusting an earpiece beneath her helmet, and a radar scanner.

The scanner made him grin. He wondered about the top speed on a scooter pulling a trailer—even a very small trailer.

With obvious increased effort, she wheeled the scooter into the passageway between the shop and one wing of the Millets’ flats. He did feel a bit bad about the way she had to strain, but he wasn’t happy with her at the moment.

Willow hoped she wasn’t developing a problem with the scooter. Steering or something. The company’s small truck had cost a fortune in repairs lately and she needed to pad the bank account again.

Sometimes Willow thought it would be faster to walk shorter distances than try to maneuver through city traffic with the scooter. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to carry everything she needed in her arms.

She set off for St. Charles Avenue.

Honking on all sides. Vendors with carts on all sides. Screaming people on all sides. Usually when she was out here, she felt more alive than she did anywhere else. This evening she was steaming and everything annoyed her. Steaming, and so sad she kept blinking back tears.

The only really important thing to worry about was that Billy Baker was dead. After the abrupt way Nat Archer left, she didn’t know if there was something she should be doing. Nat said he’d been told to back away from the case.

When she reached St. Charles Avenue it wasn’t so busy. Willow could feel grit spitting against her bare legs. She should have taken the time to put an overall on top of her dress. Riding around like this had to look wacky and it wasn’t comfortable.

The scooter was giving all kinds of signals suggesting it found the trailer too heavy. She had made the mistake of overloading it before.

Billy’s death was unbelievable. His excitement over his own business rubbed off on her. He could make her grin with his ideas for whimsical sweets.

That should be past tense now. Willow sniffed and her eyes burned.

Too bad she had to do this job tonight. She was concerned about money right now. Business hadn’t been so great lately. If it had, she wouldn’t have agreed to do this job for the Brandts—she didn’t like the uncertainty of it. Cleo Brandt had told her to get there at eight to have time to talk to her husband, Val, before guests arrived. A pool party starting so late didn’t make sense to Willow.

The Millets had their rules . Willow grimaced; she also had rules and the main one was that she was completely independent. She had to be vigilant because finance wasn’t her strength.

Her cell rang and she turned it on. “Willow here.” She wished she didn’t have to be connected to all callers at all times, but she did.

“Zinnia’s pissed,” a male voice said and she frowned. “It’s Chris. I didn’t want to bother you so I tried Zinnia at home and you should have heard that bitch.”

Chris was one of Willow’s three supervisors. Zinnia ran the office.

“You know she doesn’t work when she’s not being paid,” Willow said, checking her mirrors. They really gave her a great all-around view. “What’s the problem?”

“I dunno.”

She winced. Chris was good at his job, but there were definite gaps in his communication skills. “Okay, Chris, why are you trying to reach one of us?”

“We’re not catering the Brandt job, are we?” Chris said.

“No,” she said, competing with a lot of noise at Chris’s end.

That was something she had not told Ben. Her job tonight was to play the hostess and nothing more. Not even hand out canapés as he snidely mentioned. Cleo Brandt had called at the last minute and sounded embarrassed when she said Willow didn’t need to worry about anything but making sure the evening went smoothly. In other words, Mean ’n Green hadn’t gotten the most lucrative parts of the event.

“Why wouldn’t they want us to do everything?” Chris asked.

Willow’s patience thinned. “I don’t know the answer to that. You know we’re picking up all the business we can right now. We can’t be picky.”

Chris was quiet for a few moments, then he said, “No. I just don’t like it if I think you’re being taken advantage of, boss.”

She smiled. “Thanks. We’ll try to watch each other’s backs. But that wasn’t why you called.”

“There’s that yellow tape stuff everywhere,” Chris said. “The whole place is off-limits unless you’re a cop or something.”

The Brandt job receded from Willow’s mind. “What place?”

“Where I’ve been watering the inside plants tonight. I took a break to get some dinner. I was only gone forty-five minutes or so, and when I got back, everything was nuts. I want to know if I should go under the tape and finish the job. I still got to fertilize. I’ve got a key.”

“Are you talking about the dance hall on South Rampart? Where the woman lives upstairs?”

“Surry Green. She’s some sort of actress. Complains about the music all the time like she didn’t know she was renting over a dance hall. We do her shopping and take care of her plants. She’s got hundreds of them. You can’t move for the palms in there.”

“There’s crime scene tape all around, you said?”

“Yeah.”

“The dance hall is taped off?”

“That’s what I said. Must be trouble in there. Cop cars all over the place.”

“You left in the middle of a job to get dinner?”

“I knew you’d say somethin’ about that,” Chris said. “She was all in a twist because she had a date. I asked if she’d rather I went in after she left and she said, yes, to give her some time. Should I go up the side stairs anyway? She’ll be apoplectic if she gets home and I haven’t finished.”

“ No . The plants can wait. Call her later and explain.”

“Gotcha.”

Willow smacked off the phone. There had been occasions when Chris had taken duty too far. At least he’d called and given her a chance to stop him this time.

The cell rang again.

“Hey, Chris,” Willow said. “What’s up now?”

“Something bad, I think. One of those coroner’s vans is here. Just a minute.” He spoke to someone in the background then said, “Let me find out what they’re saying now. I’ll call you back.”

Willow moaned with frustration, then felt the rig swing awkwardly behind her and collide with the curb. She looked over her shoulder and slammed on the brakes. The trailer teetered toward the sidewalk.

“I hate this whole day,” she yelled, jumping clear.

Ben jumped, too, just in time to stop the almost stationary death trap from finishing up on its side.