The trouble with hairy, p.29
The Trouble With Hairy, page 29
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
The owner of the Arrow Market, hearing the commotion caused by Burman’s altercation with the butcher at Mayfair Market across the street, refrained from complaint. He simply began closing down his business establishment from noon until two o’clock. And, after Burman stopped in one night before going home after work, he extended this practice so that he was also closed from 5:30 to 6:30. While Arrow Market’s new hours of operation were inconvenient to the local residents who shopped there on a regular basis and undoubtedly hurt business, a confrontation with the city manager, the owner felt, was to be avoided at all costs. The decrease in business was more than made up for by the money he managed to save on Valium and in Worker’s Compensation claims when Burman left his employees, as she invariably did, on the verge of nervous breakdowns.
And Louis, whether he wanted to be or not, was unfailingly at her side. Burman rarely let him out of her sight, even insisting that he accompany her into City Hall — when she could bully him into remaining in human form — and setting him up at a little desk in one corner of her office. In short, Burman was driving the poor lad crazy.
She was also oblivious to the rumors that were starting to spread around town. The familiar sight of Pamela Burman, stalking down the street in a rage, wearing her outlandishly patterned, multicolored, florescent outfits and bright green running shoes was altered slightly. Now, speculation was rife as to how and why the city manager had become such an animal lover, as she very often had a large German shepherd in tow.
What’s more, to everyone’s astonishment, Pamela Burman flagrantly violated West Hollywood’s dog leash laws. Ed Larsen created a series of new political cartoons showing Burman and her pet, to his readers’ unending delight, and wrote a series of blistering editorials blasting the city manager’s hypocrisy in ignoring a municipal ordinance. Burman ignored them.
Even Daniel Eversleigh couldn’t resist, at a city council meeting, a long diatribe about city officials who felt they were above the law. But, rumor and public statements to the contrary, Burman’s pet continued to be allowed to roam free. The fact was, no one had the courage to cite her for the violation — not even Eversleigh himself.
The mayor, however, was not to be entirely daunted. He checked with the city’s animal control department and found that Burman had not registered her pet. With glee, he’d introduced legislation banning certain breeds of dogs from the city absolutely, unless they had been previously registered. Owners of those breeds with a known propensity to snarl, bark viciously or to scare people, German Shepherds among them, who had not yet registered their pets would be forced to pay an Unregistered Snarling Dog Tax. To please his constituents who protested, dogs that merely yipped or yapped, Daniel assured them, would be exempt.
The dog tax, however, failed resoundingly. When a vote on the measure was called at the Council meeting, each council member voted against it, in veritable fear for his or her life, as both the city manager and her ubiquitous pet, snarled loudly at each one of them just prior to their vote. As for Louis, he’d proven invaluable in the planning of Gay Pride; he had a magnificently developed sense of strategic logistics. He’d taken one look at the huge maps depicting law enforcement deployment for crowd control during the Gay Pride parade, made several suggestions and increased the street coverage while at the same time freeing up the services of half a dozen deputies. Burman and Clive had oohed and aahed appreciatively.
Well, Becky thought. At least he’s stopped growling at everything. And his table manners have certainly improved.
Several nights after the incident at La Boheme, Louis and Carlos had gone out on their first real date — alone. Carlos was no dummy, Becky thought. Surely he’d sensed something strange about Louis, especially if Burman hadn’t exaggerated about Louis’ antics at the restaurant. Becky had continued to treat his burns without comment and was surprised, not only at their severity, but with how rapidly they had healed. In any case, Carlos chose to ignore Louis’ peculiarities, delighting in his company.
Pamela’s feelings about the budding love affair between the two seemed to be mixed. On one hand, she was encouraging it as best she could; on the other hand, where the werewolf was concerned, she was more over-protective than Mama Rose. Becky had to restrain Burman from following the two lovebirds to the movie theater and, by the time Louis arrived back at the condo fifteen minutes late, Pamela had already telephoned Clive twice at home to demand that a search party be sent out. Chris had taken the major brunt of Pamela’s ire, Becky recalled with a smile, as he’d insisted on assuming full responsibility for the werewolf’s tardiness. He’d driven Carlos back to his apartment before dropping off Louis, unwilling to take a chance that Burman’s assistant would become the fourth murder victim.
Even the murders had stopped, at least for the time being. Clive had propounded the theory that Guy Chartreuse was simply biding his time, aware that Louis had been released from custody and that Louis’ friends were on his tail, so to speak. But, Clive’s theory couldn’t be confirmed. His detectives had been unable to locate Guy’s registration at any of the West Hollywood motels, hotels or rooming houses; obviously, he was using a phony name. A search in both Hollywood and Beverly Hills yielded a similarly frustrating lack of results.
Chris was doubtful, pointing out that Guy would have no way of knowing that Louis had joined forces with the vampire and his friends. Clive had no explanation, but Chris was unable to come up with an alternative theory. And so, although no one was completely satisfied with Clive’s speculations, they decided to proceed as if the captain were correct.
Clive sat Louis down with Chris, hoping to use Chris’ dubious artistic talents to get a sketch of Guy. The result, after three hours, was disappointing. Louis had no trouble describing, in great detail, what Guy smelled like, but couldn’t seem to manage anything that helped with a physical description. Chris’ attempts to draw what Louis described resulted in what looked like a portrait of Boris Karloff with a severe hangover. Clive debated about hauling in a professional police artist but, after listening to the vampire and werewolf bicker back and forth for awhile, decided that Guy’s nature would be revealed in a matter of minutes and Clive might find himself spending the rest of his career as an inmate at Camarillo Mental Hospital.
And so, the APB that Clive issued was, of necessity, extremely vague. Nevertheless, it stated that Guy Chartreuse was wanted on a warrant for suspected murder and contained strict instructions that Clive was to be personally notified immediately if Guy were spotted. As to how Guy’s nature would be kept a secret in the unlikely event one of the deputies found him, Clive confessed to Becky that he had no idea. Nevertheless, after putting their heads together with Chris and Louis, they had decided that catching the rogue werewolf was of paramount importance; they’d deal with hushing everything else up later.
Burman was the only dissenter in the decision. She’d ranted and raved against any course of action that, no matter how indirectly, threatened to expose Guy as a werewolf. Burman was so outrageously abusive that both Clive and Chris were close to losing patience with her. It took Becky some time to figure out why. But she did, and quietly filled the others in on her theory when Pamela stalked off down the hall to the ladies room. The source of Pamela’s motivation was simple. She was terrified that, if Guy’s nature became known, Louis’ exposure would soon follow.
“Just think of her as a mother harpy protecting her chick,” Becky had suggested.
Apparently, the suggestion had worked to diffuse the tension as, by the time Burman re-entered the office, the angry red had faded from Clive’s face, Louis once again appeared relatively clean-shaven and Chris’s fangs were no longer quite so prominently exposed.
Becky concluded her ruminations at about the same time she finished the last of the Oreo crumbs. Still feeling a vague emptiness in her stomach — after all, she was making up for weeks of dietary self-deprivation — she turned her thoughts to the arresting contemplation of whether she was in the mood for a jumbo Baby Ruth or whether she should see if the frozen Blueberry Pie had defrosted sufficiently enough for her to eat it without chipping a tooth. Exercising admirable self-control as the pie would be ever so much better after a twenty-minute bake in the oven, she ripped the wrapper from the candy bar and, with a sigh of pleasure, shoved half of it into her mouth and leaned back in the driver’s seat, closing her eyes and chewing contentedly.
“Car trouble?”
Becky’s eyes flew open and she jumped forward with a start. The remaining kernels of caramel corn spilled off her lap and on to the van’s floor.
“Uh, no,” she replied, embarrassed to realize that she’d been sitting alone in the van, eating, for the past forty-five minutes while darkness had fallen unnoticed. “Thanks anyway.”
The young man grinned and folded his arms, leaning on the top of the car door. Becky couldn’t help noticing the flash of his white teeth, perfectly formed, as he grinned again.
No cavities for this one, she thought, trying to remain clinically detached. But the man’s warm brown eyes, twinkling with humor, were distracting and his grin was contagious. She could not resist smiling back.
“Falling off the wagon,” she explained, hastening to swallow the peanuts and caramel of the candy bar and brushing the crumbs off her lap.
The man’s brow wrinkled in confusion.
“My diet,” she explained and patted her ample middle apologetically.
“Diets!” The youth’s voice was filled with disdain. “Why is it,” he asked, seriously, “that every woman I see around here is anorexic?”
“Or wearing a jock strap underneath her skirt,” Becky added.
“Yeah. That too.” A look of distaste flashed across the man’s face, almost too quickly for Becky to be sure she’d seen anything at all.
“I’ve always liked woman…real women, that is…with some…” He paused, smiling a little private smile. “…With some meat on their bones.”
Ohmygod, Becky thought, scarcely daring to hope. He’s straight!
The young man smiled again. “Forget about the diet,” he said. And then, blushing he added, “You look great the way you are.”
“Thank you,” Becky said, feeling a flush creeping into her own face. Eager to avoid the young man’s penetrating gaze, she glanced into the rear view mirror and, with horror, realized that she had chocolate smeared across her upper lip. Trying to be as discreet as possible, she quickly and clumsily wiped her mouth with the corner of her sleeve, succeeding in upending the bag of caramel corn anew. “Damn,” she said, “I guess I’m just not very graceful accepting compliments from strangers.”
“We don’t have to be strangers,” he said and held out his hand, the perfect gentleman. “Grant Chambers,” he said, after a slight pause.
Hardly believing that, at her age and girth, she was actually flirting with such an incredibly attractive and, what’s more, nice young man, Becky shook his hand on autopilot.
Grant Chambers? a little voice in her head said sarcastically. Sounds like a porn star name.
Another silent voice replied, So what? He’s gorgeous. He even looks like a porn star!
“Rebecca O’Brien,” she replied aloud and banished the little voices from her mind.
“Irish?” he asked.
“Jewish,” she said. “It’s a long story.”
“I’d like to hear it sometime,” Grant said earnestly. “I’ll make you a deal,” he added, with shyness that Becky found extremely alluring, “if you’re not busy tonight.
“Huh?” Suddenly, Becky felt like she was hearing everything through a haze of static.
“You tell the story and I’ll pay for dinner.” He grinned again. “But, you’ve got to let go of my hand first, okay?”
Becky dropped the man’s hand immediately, embarrassed anew. She experienced an unusual yet somehow familiar physical sensation as his palm rubbed across hers. Then, to cover her confusion, she blurted out, “I’m the city coroner. Is that okay?” A moment later, she cursed herself for her stupidity. Just send him screaming into the hills in the first five minutes, O’Brien, she mentally scolded herself.
One of Grant Chambers’ eyebrows rose as an attractive grin appeared. “So?” he teased. “I could wait until I get hit by a bus so we can meet again but, then, I wouldn’t be much fun. So…” Grant straightened up and clapped his hands briskly together. “There’s a chicken place across the street. Meet me there in ten minutes if you’re still hungry.”
“Always,” Becky said. She put the van into gear. “Ten minutes?” she repeated, hardly daring to believe it.
“Ten minutes,” Grant confirmed and waved as Becky pulled out of her space and headed the van toward the Mayfair parking lot exit.
Guy Chartreuse waited until the coroner’s van was well into the intersection before he permitted himself a triumphant smile. Then, preparing for a disgusting meal of cooked meat and reminding himself that, for the duration, he would be Grant Chambers, he broke into a brisk trot and loped across the street after Becky O’Brien.
By Friday, Becky knew for the first time in her life what people meant when they said they felt like they were walking on a cloud. In four days, she and Grant had been on six dates: two lunches, three dinners and a wonderfully romantic midnight snack. Becky’s head was whirling, her heart in a turmoil.
After that first impromptu meal at Chick-A-Boom, she honestly hadn’t expected Grant to ever want see her again. No matter how carefully she used a knife and fork to cut up her chicken and dip it into the variety of succulent sauces, she wound up with a painter’s palette of salsa, barbeque, honey mustard and poppy seed dressings splattered across the front of her blouse. To her delight and surprise, Grant’s table manners were almost as sloppy as her own; he too was reluctant to use utensils, instead, lifting everything to his mouth by hand. By the end of the meal, they were both covered with sauce and grinning at each other’s messes.
They’d talked for two hours, Grant skillfully eliciting every scrap of information about her that he could; he was fascinated by everything she said. Finally, Becky had embarrassed herself by emitting a huge yawn. Then, shyly, she handed Grant her business card, apologized for the smudges of barbeque sauce and tentatively suggested that he give her a call at the morgue. The next day, she didn’t have time to stare morosely at the telephone, wondering if he’d call, before it rang.
Lunch was at Montage; Grant paid again over Becky’s protests. Becky wriggled with delight when Gus, unusually attentive, flashed her a secret grin and the thumbs up sign from the kitchen doorway when Grant wasn’t looking. Even Crystal added her contribution to the budding romance when she presented the two lovebirds with a huge strawberry and whipped crème shortcake, topped with fresh strawberry slices, cunningly assembled into miniature hearts.
That evening, it was off to a movie — a horror film, unfortunately, which was the last thing Becky needed given the current problems in the city — and then to Ben Frank’s for a hot fudge sundae until midnight. On Thursday night, sharing a pitcher of peach Margaritas at Cobalt Cantina, Becky surprised herself by idly wondering whether or not she should invite Grant back to her apartment and what the hell ruse she could use to get him there. Grant solved the problem for her, refusing to let her drive home and insisting that he could drop her and the van off and walk the few blocks back to his own apartment.
He escorted her to her door and Becky, a little tipsy, insisted that he come in and help her polish off half of a pumpkin pie as a nightcap. With only the slightest hesitation, which Becky found quite endearing, he acquiesced.
“I’ll get the pie and be right back,” she told him, after settling him onto the couch. “There’s candy in the dish, if you want some.”
Grant leaned forward and broke into a smile of delight. “Licorice whips!”
“Yep,” Becky said proudly. “They’re my favorite.”
Grant was examining the candy dish sadly. “There’s only one piece. You have it.” He held the dish out to her politely, offering it to her, but Becky could see him trying to mask his disappointment.
“No,” she said kindly, not wanting to totally rebuff his chivalry but wanting, very desperately, for Grant to have anything he wanted. “We’ll share.”
She picked up the stick of licorice and placed one end daintily in her mouth, prepared to take a small bite. In a flash, surprising her with the unexpected suddenness of the movement, Grant was on his feet, his mouth wrapped around the other end of the licorice. Becky tried to flinch away, but Grant’s arms were around her, drawing her closer to his wonderfully attractive brown eyes.
Accruing to both their credit was the fact that they managed to finish the candy first and, when their lips finally met, the lingering taste of anise made the kiss all the sweeter. As Becky melted into Grant’s arms, she doubted that she’d ever be able to experience that taste again without remembering…him.
Becky waltzed past Ty early the next morning singing to herself and completely ignoring his eyebrows, raised in surprise. Once in her office, she stretched languorously and also ignored the stack of paperwork on her desk in favor of flopping onto the couch. Within seconds, Ty was poised in the doorway and itching to know what had put his boss into such a good mood.
“A new brownie mix?” he asked.
“Nope,” Becky rolled over onto her back and grabbed one of the sofa cushions, hugging it to her chest.
“Someone gave you a gift certificate to Mrs. Field’s?”
“Nope,” Becky sighed, wriggling her entire body deliciously.
“I know!” Ty exclaimed. “Tasty Kake’s opening an outlet store in California!”
“Uh uh.” She closed her eyes, trying to indelibly fix the memory of the previous night in her mind.
“Ah,” Ty said, with that oriental smugness that Becky normally found so irritating, “then it must be love.”
“How shall I compare thee to a chocolate chip?” Becky misquoted. “Thou art more lovely and more chocolaty.”
