Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [46]
“Julie. What a . . . surprise.” He tried to discreetly tie the belt on his robe tighter.
“Nice to see you, Murray.”
“You, too. Ah. Was there something you needed?”
A life, apparently. “No. Just thought I’d swing by 155
and remind Kim I’m . . . coming in for a haircut next week.” Christ, that was a lame excuse for coitus inter- ruptus.
Murray blinked. “Oh. Well. I’ll be sure to tell her.”
“You do that.” I turned to leave, then turned back.
“Next time, get dressed before you answer the door. Peach is so not your color.”
I crawled in my truck and brooded. This was a perfect example of what happened when I ditched my lone wolf persona and started to rely on people; invariably they’d let me down. Usually when I needed them. Kevin. Martinez. Kim. Maybe I oughta call Jimmer and make it a four-bagger of disappointment. The Circle S wouldn’t let me down. I’d find plenty of chocolate solace in the candy aisle. I dumped my purse on the seat, searching for loose change. A white business card tumbled to the floor mat next to a crumpled cigarette package. Probably a dental appointment reminder. How could I look Murray in the eye again and not see him wearing ruffles?
I picked the card up, flipped it over, and read: Luella Spotted Tail. Ooh, looky, it even listed her home address. Which was only six blocks away. Maybe I should cruise by, make sure everything was A-OK with the A-Number-One senior volunteer—who got paid. Or to confirm one of those fucking boneheads from Prairie Gardens actually deigned to check on her after the morning’s fiasco.
Don’t do it.
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Enough shit had gone wrong today. I didn’t need to add to it.
Did I?
Then again, what else could possibly go wrong?
I heard a chorus of mental groans from both Kevin and Martinez as I whipped a U-turn.
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I shivered on the stoop to Luella’s house and rang the doorbell. Twice. Be my luck if she answered the door in a full-out vinyl dominatrix outfit, complete with a ball gag in one hand and a leather flogger in the other.
The interior door opened. “Yes?”
Surely this stoop-shouldered woman wasn’t Luella.
“I’m looking for Luella Spotted Tail.”
“I’m Luella.”
Holy shit. And I thought I looked bad in the morning.
She squinted at me through the glass window of the storm door. “Who are you?”
“I don’t know if you remember me. We met a couple of days ago?”
“Oh. Kate, right?”
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“Ah. No. My name’s not really Kate.”
Luella frowned. “I don’t have my glasses on, but you sure look like—”
“Maybe I could come in so I can explain who I am?”
“Why should I let you in when you just told me you’re not who you said you were?”
Smart. “Do you want to see my ID?”
“No. But I’ll warn you. If you come in it’ll be at your own risk. I’ve been sick as a dog with the flu the last three days.”
The glass and germ-killing cold separating us didn’t seem like such a bad thing. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll get right to the point. Did anyone from Prairie Gardens contact you today? Either by phone or in person?”
“I don’t know. My phone’s been out since the storm hit, and I’ve felt too lousy to care. You’re the first person I’ve seen in days.”
It finally dawned on her how weird it was that I was standing on her steps.
“If you’re not Kate, who are you?”
“I’m Julie Collins with Wells/Collins Investigations. I was hired to check out a few concerns at Prairie Gardens for a client.”
She considered me, and her back snapped straight.
“I should’ve known.”
“What?”
“Your eagerness to wiggle your way into checking 159
my routine and the facility. About needing care for your elderly aunt and praising Prime Time Friends. Everything you said was a lie, wasn’t it?”
My face flushed.
“What about when you chewed out those workers? Shee. Was the story about your dead half-Indian brother just a way to get my sympathy so I’d talk to you because I’m Indian? We all stick together, right? Did you think I’d be so grateful that a white girl sees my worth I’d spill