Memoir of a Trapped Housewife

Chapter Fifteen {Whodunit}

           

Chapter Fifteen

Whodunit

The car stopped at a club in Belton, the next town over. The social club was parked near a lake that glittered from the light of Chinese lanterns and lampposts expelling cloudy brightness. A group of women and men dressed to the nines and came out of the swinging glass doors laughing amusedly. Their outfits reminded me of the gala, except they were missing the masks. Self-consciously, my eyes slipped to my frock that mayhap as well been a flour sack.

Next to me Mr. Calvin looked fine for the occasion. Donning a suave suit and a Stetson fedora with a thick black band running around its dip, he would certainly draw attention, but for the different reasons. I, on the other hand...

"What are we here for?" I probed.

"Remember the people looking for your sister? Well, this is where they secretly cluster to conduct business. No one can prove it, but it's well-known."

"You mean the-."

"-Mafia, the Python? Yes. You could say my brother is well acquainted with this place. A few name drops here and there, and we just may figure out where your sister is. I have a hunch she knows who this 'Wolf' is, and the sooner we find her, the sooner we catch him."

"It's that simple?" I asked.

"Hopefully," he said, opening his door and stepping out into the night. The angry rain had changed to a drizzle and softly kissed the deep fabric of his suit, all the while saying pip-pop-pip. He came to my door and opened it wide. "You are coming?"

"I'm not dressed for this," I lowered my voice, gesturing to the frock hanging on me in the manner an askew picture hinged on a wall would. There were still peppers of blood scratching my mahogany skin.

The pavement right outside the vehicle smelled of metallic steam and was washed fully with a thin layer of liquid. It was in this Mr. Calvin stooped to one knee, taking my slick red hands in his. From a discreet slip of a pocket in the upper part of his suit he retrieved a cloth and gently scrubbed the splatters away.

Unknowing of how to respond, I allowed him to continue. As the hands guiding the handkerchief slid up the length of my arms and to the very tips of my fingers, the stains began to vanish.

"Was she a close friend?" His tone fell into a husky wisp.

"Almost," I rasped, watching his fingers. The pads on their bottom felt like buttery satin, though in some places callouses scratched my flesh. To this my eyebrows raised.

Why would he have callouses? People like him didn't work.

Steady keen eyes turned up into mine, slowly weaving a cobra's spell. I'd never say it aloud, but he did have brilliant eyes. To be completely truthful, he made Adonis seem like a wretched hag. His face reminded me of Mr. Cyrus's, but his possessed the kindness that his brother lacked; though there was not nearly as much gentleness as Clarence owned, to be frank. Tacked to a board in his gaze, I felt stuck.

"Finished," he smiled, softly and knowingly, as if he knew my disloyal body had began to hum. "Shall we?" Rising, he offered an arm.

Agreeing with a nod, I marched past him, ignoring the offering. It was rude, but I didn't want him to know how close to putty I felt. He would know the tremors coursing through were the prelude to tears. He would hear the hum buzzing under my skin and know what it was. Perhaps, he would exploit it.

Inside the Dixie Club, as it was called, a harried attendant asked for our coats and seeing we had none, apologized. Instead, he suggested that we use pristine towels brought on a platter to freshen up from the rain.