Kelly, Sofie - Sleight of Paw

On the other hand, she could keep a secret better than anyone I’d ever met. And she’d seen every Dirty Harry movie Clint Eastwood had ever made, more times than even she could remember.

“Watch for the sign,” Maggie said once we were on the highway out of town, headed for Minneapolis–St. Paul. “The last time I was by, the B and the R were burned out in the sign.”

“So what I’m really looking for is the Ick,” I said.

“Probably in more ways than one.”

The Brick was a strip club. It was dark and loud and we had to pay a cover charge to get inside. Maggie put her mouth close to my ear. “Follow my lead and try to look uncomfortable.”

I was uncomfortable. There was a woman dancing on the T-shaped stage. At least she had all her clothes on—“all” being a hot pink, feather-trimmed bikini top and matching bottom. She actually looked like she was having fun. She did a slow twirl around the pole, and I caught sight of her face.

“I know her,” I said, grabbing Maggie’s arm. “She brings her little boy to story time.”

Maggie looked past me. “Yeah, that’s Jenna. She’s in my yoga class.”

“I didn’t know she was an exotic dancer.”

“She’s not,” Maggie said. “It’s amateur night. If we’re here very long you’ll probably see some other people you know.” She climbed on a stool and smiled down the bar at the female bartender.

I took the stool next to her and turned my back to the stage. There was a long list of people I had no interest in seeing in feathers and spike heels.

It wasn’t at all hard to follow Maggie’s instructions to look embarrassed. I kept picturing people I knew in town up on the small stage. Abigail. Lita. Rebecca. How would you look someone in the eye after seeing her swing around a pole while wearing next to nothing?

“You want wine,” Maggie whispered as the bartender approached.

“Hi. What can I get you?” she asked. She was about Maggie’s age, blond hair in a ponytail, serious dark-framed glasses, and arms that suggested a regular workout with weights.

“I’ll just have coffee,” Maggie said. “I’m driving.”

“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” I said.

“No problem,” the bartender, whose name was Zoe, said. She put a basket of pretzels between us. I grabbed one and popped it in my mouth. If I was going to have to drink, I wanted to eat something.

The pretzel was good, crisp and lightly salted. The wine was not good. I had another pretzel.

Maggie had paid for our drinks and was talking to the bartender, leaning forward, elbows on the bar. I saw her eyes flick sideways a couple of times at my glass. I was guessing she wanted me to drink a little more or at least look like I was. I took a swallow and chased the taste with a couple of pretzels.

I wasn’t sure what Maggie’s plan was, but it didn’t seem to be working. I was tired, the music was too loud and I was afraid of what I might see if I turned in the direction of the stage. I was about to tell her this had all been a bad idea when she looked at me and said, “You got his picture?”

The picture. I’d put it back in my purse. I pulled it out. Maggie took the photo from me and slid it across the bar. “Were you working last Wednesday night? Did you see this guy?”

The bartender studied the picture, then looked up at Maggie. “What did he do?”

“Well,” Maggie said, holding out both hands. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

I felt my face getting red. I ducked my head, took another drink and followed it with pretzel.

Zoe smiled knowingly and looked at Eric’s photograph again. “No, he wasn’t here. It was very quiet last Wednesday night because of that auction.”

She gave me a look of . . . pity? Sympathy? I wasn’t sure which. Then she turned to Maggie. “He wasn’t here. Is that a good thing?”

“Maybe,” Maggie said. “But everybody has to be somewhere, so maybe not. Thank you for your help.”

“No problem,” she said. There were a couple of guys at the far end of the bar, trying to get her attention. She grabbed another basket of pretzels and headed toward them.

Maggie picked up her coffee cup, drained it and set it down again. She looked at my wineglass. “You want one for the road?”

I grimaced. “No. I think the windshield-washer fluid would taste better.”

“Let’s go, then,” she said, slipping out of her seat.

We were halfway to the door when Maggie caught my arm and said, “Please tell me that’s not who I think it is.” She was gurgling with laughter.

I put a hand up to the side of my face. “I’m not looking.”

She grabbed my wrist and pulled my arm away from my cheek. “If you don’t look I’m going to describe what I just saw in teeny, tiny detail.”

I took a quick look at the stage. Then a longer one. Then I grabbed Maggie’s sleeve and dragged her out of the Brick so fast she tripped over a step and almost landed in a heap of snow in front of the building.

“So was it?” she asked, one arm wrapped around a railing post so she could get her balance.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Probably. I think so.”

She started to laugh. She laughed so hard her feet started to slide on the icy parking lot and she had to wrap her other arm around the stair post. From a distance she looked drunk.

I glanced back at the building. I could hear the music—Bon Jovi belting out “You Give Love a Bad Name”—and I could still see the dancer in my mind’s eye. A black corset, fishnets, heels and a harlequin feather-trimmed mask, all worn by Mary, the kickboxing grandmother who worked at the library and hand-made all those luscious pies for the Winterfest supper.

Because it was her. The mask didn’t hide enough of her face. Maggie was still laughing, hugging the stair post like it was a giant teddy bear.

“It’s not funny,” I said. “I work with Mary. What am I supposed to say when I see her tomorrow? Nice corset?”

“Well, it was a very nice corset,” Maggie laughed. “Where do you think she got it? Not around here.”

I started for the car. “I’m not asking her, so don’t even think about it.”

“I didn’t think you were such a prude, Kathleen,” Maggie said as we got in the bug.

“I’m not a prude,” I said. “And what people do for fun is their own business. It’s just that Mary was the last person I expected to see in a strip club. She’s someone’s grandmother.”

“She looked hot,” Maggie said. “All the kickboxing means she’s in great shape. Why shouldn’t she flaunt her booty once in a while?”

I glared at her. “Thanks for putting that image in my mind.”

One thing was for sure: When I saw Mary at the library tomorrow I wasn’t going to ask her how her evening went.

24

We repeated the process at the next bar, The Hilltop, only with a waitress and with the same result. Now that I knew my role as cuckolded girlfriend, I played it up a little, looking morose and sighing. Apparently Maggie thought I was turning it up a bit too much. She elbowed me in the ribs. Hard.

It didn’t matter. The place had been deadly quiet Wednesday night and Eric hadn’t been in.

At Barry’s Hat, which was more of a jazz place than a dive bar, Maggie charmed the male bartender. It was a side of Mags I’d never seen before. I couldn’t exactly figure out what she was doing. It was nothing blatant.

The guy had gone from businesslike to goofy in about three minutes. By now I had the wronged-woman routine down pat. When Maggie pulled out Eric’s photo, all I had to do was think about the quick glimpse I’d gotten of Mary starting to undo the laces on the front of her corset, and my cheeks burned.