Luck Be a Lady - Cathie Linz [18]
A gate with an intercom blocked their entrance. Logan pressed the button and a male voice immediately answered, “Welcome to the Butterfly Ranch. We accept cash and most credit cards.”
“Credit cards?” She looked around. Several extra-wide trailers were plunked amidst the sagebrush with bright lights illuminating the parking area. “They’re open 24/7 and they charge to see the butterflies?”
“You could say that.”
“They keep the displays in the trailers?”
He nodded as the gate went up. As soon as they pulled into the parking area, a huge guy who looked like a bouncer greeted them.
“Nice wheels,” he said with an approving look at the car.
“Thanks.”
“It’s a pretty aqua,” Megan noted as she got out.
The bouncer and Logan both looked at Megan with disapproval.
“It’s blue,” Logan said.
“Other women aren’t allowed inside the ranch,” the bouncer said.
“Right. We’re here to talk to Fiona.”
“She doesn’t do tricks.”
Megan’s brain was slow, but things were starting to sink in. “This isn’t a butterfly farm, is it?” she whispered to Logan.
“No, it’s not.”
“Right.” She knew brothels were legal in several counties in Nevada, but she’d certainly never anticipated that she’d end up visiting one of them. “It just didn’t occur to me. I’m not thinking clearly or I would have figured things out earlier. You could have warned me.”
“Do you want to leave?” Logan asked her.
“No way,” Megan said emphatically. Addressing her next statement to the bouncer, she said, “We need to speak to Fiona about my mother.”
“We don’t talk about our employees.”
“No, she didn’t work here.” At least Megan prayed she hadn’t. “She and Fiona were best friends and went to Woodstock together. She wrote about my mother in a blog.”
“Is something wrong?” A woman came from inside the trailer to ask. Her black capri pants and sequined turquoise tunic top accentuated her terrific figure. Her short hair, with its caramel and gold highlights, had obviously been styled by a pro. She had the husky voice of a smoker. She also fit the definition of a cougar, an older woman on the prowl.
She eyed Logan appreciatively. “The guy can come in, but not the female.” She came closer to run her hand along Logan’s muscular arm. “You don’t need her, honey. We’ve got everything you could possibly want inside. You name it, we’ve got it. Beyond your wildest sexual fantasies. 24/7.”
Megan quickly spoke up. “Are you Fiona?”
The woman nodded absently, her attention clearly remaining on Logan and his biceps.
“You knew my mother. Astrid Meyer. You went to Woodstock with her and talked about her on your guest blog. I’m her daughter, Megan.”
Fiona reluctantly tore her gaze from Logan and switched it to Megan. “Oh, yeah? How’s Astrid doing these days?”
“That’s what I need to speak to you about.”
Fiona gave her an appraising look before nodding at the bouncer. “It’s okay. We’ll talk in my office.” She tilted her head toward a smaller trailer to their right. “This way.”
Megan entered with some trepidation. She’d never been in a brothel before. As it turned out, she still wasn’t. This trailer was indeed a dedicated office, looking like it could have belonged to an accountant—an accountant who liked French country décor in sunny yellow. Two wing chairs upholstered in gold-and-red toile faced a large dark oak wooden desk. Framed oil paintings of Paris street scenes hung on walls not covered by built-in bookcases. A rustic wrought-iron chandelier with dark red lampshades hanging from the ceiling matched the wrought-iron desk lamp.
Megan was not about to comment on this version of a red-light district. Instead she kept her focus on Fiona’s connection to her mother. “So you were her best friend in high school?” Megan asked.
Fiona gestured for them both to take a seat. “I wouldn’t say bestfriend. I was a friend. Astrid didn’t really have a best friend.”
“Was she popular in school?”
“She was smart. Good at math. She loved the Band. That