Part 21 (1/2)
”A sports bar? Why didn't you tell me? I would have dressed down.”
”Don't toy with me,” Eve said. ”You don't know how to dress down, but I'd pay good money to see you try.”
At the bar, we were escorted to a table on the deck overlooking Mystic River where Lolique waited.
Was she for real? Between her fluffy name and leopard nails, I half expected her to be wearing a midriff-baring leopard corset and mini skirt with fishnets and thigh-high boots, though I mentally conceded that she wouldn't bring a whip to a restaurant.
I was almost wrong. She wore a yummy, uber-expensive b.u.t.terscotch leather skirt, a black cashmere top with an ”oops, my b.o.o.bs fell out” V, and a politically incorrect genuine leopard jacket. She also wore a loose chain twenty-four-karat gold belt-or so it appeared-with a Prada bag and matching shoes I'd die for.
Despite her lack of concern for animal rights, she signed autographs with flair and enthusiasm, her rings, all four, gleaming like they'd come off a pirate s.h.i.+p.
Once we sat at her table, the celebrity hounds backed off. Eve introduced us before we gave our drink orders.
Never having been one for equivocation, subtlety, or small talk, I let Eve take the lead with what Lolique seemed to like most: fan wors.h.i.+p, however fake.
Me? I needed to chill before I put the knot in my knickers on the table, metaphorically speaking, of course.
”I must say, Madeira,” Lolique purred, ”I didn't figure you for a margarita girl but a fine white wine.”
”And I spotted you correctly as the dirty Manhattan type.”
Lolique raised a brow. ”I'm a 'what you see is what you get' kinda girl.”
How scary was that, considering what we could see? ”Lay it on the table, do you?” I asked.
She winked and called for another, dirtier Manhattan. ”Whether people want me to lay it out or not, that's how I made my rep.”
”Mind if I lay it on the table, then?”
She nailed a cherry. ”I'd find that refres.h.i.+ng.”
I leaned forward. ”Good. Why did you leave me a fingernail trail, like bread crumbs, to make me come looking for you?”
She chuckled and raised her gla.s.s. ”You're a smart one!” She sipped her drink. Slowly. Like she needed time to compose an answer. She set down her gla.s.s. ”I wanted to sweet-talk you into letting me do a story about Vintage Magic.”
”I was under the impression that you never ask permission, and you already did a column about me.”
”Not a gossip column, a real story. We have a lot in common, you and I.”
I so did not think so. ”Like what?”
”A love for vintage and couture fas.h.i.+on, a love for this town-”
She was a good little liar. Eve b.u.mped my knee with hers. She thought so, too.
”You could have waited to drop off those boxes until I was there so you could ask me straight out. And while we're speaking of vintage couture, the clothes you left are amazing. Thank you doesn't begin to cover it.”
”Well, the drinks are on you, then.”
I raised my gla.s.s. ”On me.” I'd have to read between the lines to figure out what the town's biggest celebrity really wanted. ”You can do a story about Vintage Magic, right before my grand opening to plug the event.”
”Deal.” She shook my hand. ”When would be a good time for me to come by the shop and talk to you? I don't feel like working tonight. Do you?”
I shook my head, agreeing with her and wondering what her real goal for tonight was. ”Tomorrow at noon,” I said. ”You can pick up some scarecrow clothes.”
While checking her vibrating BlackBerry, she looked curiously up at me, so I told her about the contest.
Eve got another beer and I got another margarita.
”I'm jonesing for a cigarette,” Lolique said, ”because I know I can smoke out here, but I also know how bad secondhand smoke can be, so I won't. I usually only smoke around my husband so I can inherit sooner.” She laughed at her own joke.
Eve and I about choked on our drinks.
”I tell him that all the time. He doesn't laugh like he used to.” She shrugged.
I recovered first. ”How did you and Councilman McDowell meet?”
”We met accidentally on purpose lots of times over the course of a few months before he finally smartened up and decided to rescue me.”
”How lucky is he?” I raised my margarita to soften my snark.
”You're right. I'm a catch.” She ordered a third and told the waiter to keep 'em coming. ”Saw him on TV again tonight, the blowhard. He practiced his playhouse fire speech the night before it burned, you know?”
I set down my drink. Was she trying to frame her husband, or was she planting seeds like a good little gossip columnist? I did not know if I should take this woman seriously or not. ”Lolique,” I said, ”that sounds a bit like an accusation.”
”Not really. He's ready for any disaster. h.e.l.l, he's ready to be president of these United States. I just thought the fire speech trumped his usual weird. He didn't like that I caught him at it, either.”
I shook my head. ”Is this something you should be telling the police?”
”Oh, Lordy, no. If I do that, I'll never inherit the old goat's money. Eve, why are you wearin' the goat's sweater?” Lolique fingered the wrist of Vinney's cardigan.
Eve straightened. ”This is my boyfriend's sweater.”
”Not if it has a little bitty cigarette burn under the left arm.” She accepted a fresh drink.
Eve raised her left arm, and there it was, a little bitty cigarette burn.
”Is he doin' you, too?” Lolique asked, clearly having at least one Manhattan too many.
”Councilman McDowell?” Eve looked both shocked and nauseous. ”I don't think so!”
Lolique waved away her protest. ”I don't even care.”
”Here,” Eve said, ”you want it?” She started to shed the sweater, but I kicked her, because now I really wanted to try and get a visual from it. Why would McDowell's sweater be at Vinney Carnevale's house on the night Vinney robbed my shop?
”You keep it,” Lolique said. ”He's been bellyachin' about losin' it for days. He loves the d.a.m.ned thing because she gave it to him. He only wears it in his sanctum sancto rum, anyway. That means his office. Now I'll get some kicks knowing where it is while I'm forced to listen to him whine.”