Getting Off On Frank Sinatra. Megan Edwards
had set me up with a new place to live.
Chapter 4
I woke up an hour earlier than usual the next morning, my mind racing. I’ve got to send Daniel my new address, I thought, before I forget. More sleep would have been nice, especially after the three glasses of Chateau Mal de Tête I’d had at the Neon Museum party, but with a school tour and a new home looming on a near horizon, I was way too exhilarated to doze.
While my coffeemaker gurgled, I logged on and sent a message to the guy who once called me “babe.”
Dear Daniel,
Amazing news! I’m going to be house sitting while you’re here. My new address is 425 Vista Miranda Street (see attached map). I haven’t seen the place yet, but it’s a huge house (with a swimming pool!) that was built for a mobster’s girlfriend and later lived in for years by a family that owns a mortuary. The current owner had to go to Singapore to rescue her daughter from the aftermath of a whirlwind romance with a Canadian diplomat, and her original house sitter unexpectedly bagged out to go into rehab. In exchange for free rent, all I have to do is take care of her houseplants and let some workers in who are doing some remodeling. And get this—in addition to free rent, she’s going to pay me. I didn’t let on that I would have gladly paid her.
Looking forward to seeing you on Saturday. I just might throw a party!
XXOO,
Copper
At work, I was extra happy to have the Parks Academy and moving plans to think about, especially when David showed up at my desk. My heart stopped briefly when I looked up. Damn those eyes of his. They’re these dark pools of wisdom and emotion, and when he’s upset, they smolder all the more. They burn straight through to my core. The guy melts me faster than Vegas sun on butter.
“Can we talk?”
His voice was even, but I could still hear a plaintive note. Combined with the look in his eyes, it very nearly made me stand up and hug him. Instead, mustering the anger I also felt, I continued leafing casually through my mail. David didn’t seem to notice that my hands were shaking.
“I’ve got news,” I said. “I’m moving.”
Silently, I thanked Curtis Weaver once again for setting me up with a house-sitting gig. Talking about my new home was a great tension reliever.
“You’re going to live in the old Nash house?” David asked when I finished telling him. “The love nest Nylons DeLuca built for Lollipop Lassiter?”
I wasn’t surprised that David recognized the house. I’d done a little Web research on it earlier and already knew that Lollipop’s real name was Betty.
“I thought the guy’s name was Vincent.”
“Yeah,” David said, “but strangulation by panty hose was his signature murder method.”
“Oh,” I said, regretting that I hadn’t looked beyond Wikipedia. “Well, somebody named Kayla Lord just bought the place. She’s a real estate broker.”
“I’ve heard of her.”
I am always amazed at what a small town Las Vegas really is.
“She made headlines a couple years back when she bought some land the airport sold off,” David said. “She was accused of being in cahoots with the appraiser because she got a real sweetheart of a deal.”
“She’s crooked?”
“Nothing was ever proved. It’s possible she was just lucky.”
“Anyway, I’m her house sitter for a month. I’m moving in tomorrow after work.”
“Need some help?”
I hesitated. I’d filled the last two days with as many distractions as I could find, but now that David was standing in front of me—damn it. I couldn’t deny I missed him. Why had he gone and wrecked a beautiful thing?
I looked at him and heaved an inaudible sigh. Maybe we could morph into those mythological creatures known as “just friends.”
“Well, could you bring takeout to the Nash place tomorrow?” I asked. “Around seven?”
“I’ll stop at Lotus of Shanghai,” David said, brightening up considerably. “And maybe I’ll pick up some incense and a Bible on my way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You may not be safe there without an exorcism.”
I shrugged off the small wave of uneasiness that David’s last comment left me with. Who cared if the Nash house was built by a murderer? Living in a Las Vegas landmark was going to be fun, I told myself. Something to dine out on. Something to shock my parents with, which suddenly made me remember that I actually could show the place off to my dad.
He was going to be in town the next week for something called the LifePower Convention. It was exactly the sort of New-Age-find-your-bliss-self-help thing that my father used to laugh at. That all changed when he announced he was gay last winter and started listening to Bette Midler CDs and spiking his hair with sculpting gel. And then, along came the boyfriend who’s a “life coach.” I wasn’t sure how I’d feel hanging out with them, but inviting them over for dinner seemed like a good way to get used to the new dynamic.
And in addition … a swimming pool all to myself! The mercury had climbed to 110 yesterday, and today was ripening into an even hotter scorcher. I closed my eyes and imagined myself floating at midnight under the stars. If the backyard was as private as Curtis had told me, there’d be no need for a bathing suit.
“Good morning, Copper.”
Oh, brother. Mary Beth Sweeney was back. At least she was smiling this time.
“How are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” I said warily.
“I hear you’re going to be staying in the old Nash place,” she said.
Damn! News travels fast around The Light. But I guess I hadn’t told David it was a secret.
“Yeah. I’m house sitting for the new owner.”
“So I heard, and your experiences there would make a great column. Nobody but a Nash has been inside that place for thirty years, but the stories from back when Lollipop Lassiter lived there—”
“Why was she called Lollipop?” I asked.
Mary Beth smirked. “Well, the story is that she had a talent. Think Monica Lewinsky.”
“Oh,” I said, hoping I wasn’t blushing too obviously. But it’s not like Mary Beth had embarrassed me. I’m just programmed to turn fuchsia whenever I’ll look the silliest.
“You write a column now?” I said. Had I missed the latest round of new assignments?
“Not quite,” she said. “Greg’s put out the word that he wants a new human interest column. He’s been rearranging the editorial lineup ever since Ed Bramlett died and Lorraine Baxter moved to Seattle.” She shifted her weight, reached inside her blouse, and hitched up her bra strap. “He’s says the field’s open, so I’m working on a few spec pieces to convince him to pick me.”
I managed to ease Mary Beth out of my cube without making an actual agreement to let her write about me. As the sound of her clodhoppers died off down the aisle, I called Chris Farr. He’s my boss, but he’s very collegial. If our editor-in-chief was making new assignments, I could count on Chris to tell me all about them.
“Yes, that’s right, Copper,” he said when I reported what Mary Beth had told me. “He wants a new Art Braverman. Art was before your time. His ‘man about town’ column ran three days a week for over twenty years. Nobody’s ever really replaced him, and Greg thinks the time is right.”
I took a breath and let