Chapter One: New Ride
“What the hell is that?” I stared in horror and simultaneously needed to blink repeatedly to stave off the brightness.
“It’s your new Jeep,” Larry responded without hesitation. Rubbing the sleep from my lavender eyes and shoving back my messy tangle of blonde hair, I tried to orient myself to what I was looking at. My eyes took in the Jeep, the sidewalk, and my feet in their yellow Crocs six feet below me… Everything was real… Real and…
“It’s pink,” I gawked as a group of middle school girls stopped in front of the car and took selfies with it. They threw up peace signs and tried to look cute but sexy, disturbing for pre-pubescent girls, but middle school was like that.
“You like pink,” he countered, and I narrowed my eyes at the Jeep. I’d been happily sleeping in my own bed when Larry had let himself into my apartment, pulled me out of bed, and after a few inappropriate gropes, brought me outside. My apartment was on Main Street, a small single room affair that sat on a third of the library lot above a small office. The office and the apartment belonged to a couple of local senior citizens who let me live there in exchange for investigative services donated to the town.
“It has a giant Hello Kitty on the hood!”
“So does your underwear, Cyn,” he smirked at his own joke. The middle school girls giggled, giving Larry sly glances. Hard to blame them, really. Dr. Larry Kirby was tall, leanly muscled with messy brown hair and flawless skin. Sometimes I just stared at him and giggled too.
Just not when he was talking about my underwear on a public street.
“Where did it come from? Why is it here? I have a vehicle.”
“No, you were borrowing my truck. The insurance money from your Jeep came in, and you left it sitting there for two weeks. So I took it, bought you this Jeep, and now I need my truck keys back.” He held out his hand and I rounded on him.
“Why can’t I keep borrowing your truck? You stole my money? I’m sooo telling your brother!” I said, reminding both of us that his brother, Daniel Kirby, was local law enforcement. Incompetent law enforcement, but still technically tasked with upholding the law. He had been the hottest guy in high school with a reputation for nail and bail. Now he was married with way too many kids, and had the investigative skills of a toddler immediately after reading Sherlock Holmes.
He also had zero sense of humor, at least when it came to reminding him of his own stupidity.
“You would never willingly talk to Daniel. Not after his anniversary party!” Larry’s wide smile reminded me of what happens when a bunch of children covered in food and food-like substances stand too close to a German Shepherd Malinois mix with an uncontrollable appetite. The child had been right at Winnie height, waving a hot dog around like a baton. Hilarious in retrospect, the incident may have taken years off her mother’s life.
“Winnie didn’t eat any fingers, so I think I’m good!” My eyes dropped to the fur monster in question. Sgt. Winifred Pupperson, Winnie for short, and I had been in the Army together. We had been military police and served four years with an impeccable record of chaos, destruction, snack theft and an occasional fire. The Army had been relieved when our contract expired, and they “accidentally” forgot to mention it so we couldn’t re-up. Specialist Cynthia Sharp and Sgt. Winifred Pupperson retired to Cyn and Winnie, Ohio’s most competent demolition experts.
Certified only to work at a farm maintaining livestock outputs for sale.
“Manda won’t touch a hot dog if she’s seen a dog in the last ten minutes!” Larry was now laughing, and I thought of the poor, messy child in her stained dress and muddy feet. She’d pet Winnie for twenty minutes once she stopped crying but it had been a long… however many minutes she’d been crying.
“Ugh, fine. I won’t tell him you forged my name on a check, cashed it, and bought me a hideous pink Hello Kitty Jeep that is probably mechanically unsound and filled with bubblegum pop music. But why can’t I keep borrowing your truck? I mean I fill it with gas, and I haven’t hit anything!”
“Seriously? You don’t know why?” I winced and shook my head. Innocent until proven guilty works in a court of law, maybe it works in the court of your lover knows you took his truck mudding and spilled a two-liter bottle of Cherry Coke and a large McDonalds fries that Winnie ate and then barfed up into the upholstery. “I saw that, you know what you did, young lady.”
I moved really close to him and gave him sexy eyes.
“I could do you… in the truck. Doesn’t that sound fun? Don’t you want to… in your truck?”
“Yeah, I can hold out longer than you can. We’ve proved it. You can’t have my truck, not after the gummy bears.” He tapped a finger on my nose.
Damn, I’d forgotten about the gummy bears. Specifically, I’d forgotten that the gummy bears were now permanently adhered to the bottom of his glove compartment and one of the seatbelts in the back seat.
“Fine,” I stepped back from him, and felt his eyes on my pajama shorts as I walked toward the pink abomination. For his benefit, I stuck my head through the window and pushed my butt in the air. It’s important to remind a man that while he might be able to hold out longer, the world could see his affliction. With Herculean effort, I tried to execute a perfect Betty Boop sorority squat and hoped it looked sexier than it felt.
As expected, the seats were fluffy pink, the stereo lit up in shades of purple, and the steering wheel was covered in glitter. I picked at the wheel with a nail to remove the cover.
It wasn’t a cover. Someone had silicone lacquered the steering wheel with pink glitter.
I shuddered as another group of girls came by and snapped selfies with it.
Larry had bought me Malibu Barbie’s car, and he looked a little adorable for having done it. Hands in his pockets, nervously ruffled hair… he shifted.
“If you really hate it…”
Glancing at the front of his pants I had to smile and gesture to the door behind him.
I walked back to the front of my building and opened it, holding the door for the parade that followed behind me. First Winnie and then Larry came inside, the last locking the door to the office behind him. My apartment was accessible only via a rear fire door and a door in the back of my office. Both led to the same staircase, and at the top were cozy living quarters that were plenty for an ex-military working dog and her handler.
Larry just plugged himself in wherever there was space.
“How did you get that here?” I asked, walking into the kitchen. A full pot of coffee sat in the machine, and I furrowed my brows at it. Had I progressed to making coffee in my sleep? I know people did weird things on Ambien, but I was fairly certain I didn’t take Ambien. Though if my sleepwalking meant I had coffee ready when I was awake walking, I was willing to keep taking drugs.
“I started the pot before I woke you up because I value my life,” Dr. Kirby said from beside me where he set two mugs on the counter. “Also, I fed Winnie for the same reason. You’re welcome.”
I grabbed his butt in lieu of saying thank you, and he kissed my temple before bringing out milk, flavored syrup, and sauces. Eyes dropping, I just stared at his butt while he made two cups of coffee and passed me one in a delightful mug with a rainbow and a unicorn that declared I was “F***ing Magical”.
“So, how did you get the pink Jeep here?” I asked again after half of the coffee was gone from my pink unicorn cup.
“I drove it.” He left the kitchen to sit on the couch, and I stared. “What? Don’t even pretend there’s a no coffee on your couch policy. We both know that you would drink coffee while we had sex if your hand eye coordination could manage it.”
As I had considered an option with a travel cup and straw, I decided to plead the fifth on that for now.
“You… Drove that? It’s pink!”
“Yeah and?”
“You’re… that!” I gestured the length of his body. Winnie cocked her head to the side on the couch beside him, and he mimicked her gesture. The man was wearing his glasses, sitting with a leg crossed over the other, in a hooded sweatshirt advertising his ridiculously named veterinary clinic. “Weren’t you embarrassed?”
“Toxic masculinity is what’s wrong with America, Cyn. Men can drive pink, glittery, Hello Kitty Jeeps without any loss of manliness,” he patted the couch on his other side. I refilled my coffee and plopped on the couch beside him, being extra careful not to spill.
If the travel mug and straw option didn’t work out, I was willing to work on my grace to have sex and coffee at the same time.
“First of all, toxic masculinity is an international problem. Second, I thought America was anti-vaxxers, systemic racism, lack of respect for nature, a disregard for science, the media…”
“Yeah… it might be a shorter list if we just listed all the things not wrong with the world… and America,” he mused, following my train of thought. I clinked our coffee mugs in agreement and took a long drink.
“If only the Infinity Stones were real, Thanos could solve this problem.”
“Would you snap away half of the population? Who would grow, harvest, and roast your coffee?” Larry wrapped his arm around me, and I leaned against him, drinking my hot bean water as though it could be snapped away at any moment. The question was a little too deep for morning hours, and I didn’t have an answer.
“You know it’s not staying pink, right?” My eyes drifted to the offending vehicle. It was still parked on Main in front of my building, and it had drawn the largest crowd of people not waiting in line for food in the history of Main Street. Almost on cue, my friend and local bakery owner, Mary O’Connor, appeared with themed cookies that she was selling to the gathered crowds.
“When do you think Mo made kitty cookies?” I asked, using her nickname and getting on my knees to look out at her artistry. Despite being too far away to actually see the cookies, I was certain they were as brilliant and adorable as everything she made.
“Do you think she’d bring me a kitty cookie if I asked?” My eyes drifted over my shoulder to Larry who licked his lips.
Larry was not looking at the cookies.
He also wasn’t looking at the car.
“Some people are really into kitty… speaking of which?” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and my lower body flooded with warmth.
“Depends… Aren’t you still allergic to cats?” I asked, studying him over my coffee cup. He took the cup, verified it was empty because he values his life, and put it on the table.
“I’m not allergic to this one,” his mouth pressed against mine, parting my lips with his tongue while his hands slid up the pajama shorts I was wearing. “In fact, I think I want to adopt it so it’s mine forever.”
“Hello, kitty,” he whispered.
“What the hell is that?” Marvin asked, and I followed his gaze through the front window of the shop. Sitting in front was the pink, Hello Kitty Jeep that now shimmered in the sun. The paint had just looked matte pink in the morning light, but at high noon, it was a beacon of mental and visual torture.
Also, the glitter steering wheel trapped heat and my hands had melted on the two-block drive despite the sixty-degree temps outside. I’d spent fifteen minutes I was waiting for Marvin’s shop to open trying to buy a new steering wheel but kept getting outbid on eBay.
“It’s apparently mine. Can you fix it?”
“With matches and lighter fluid.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the pink Jeep and I started to nod agreement but then remembered I didn’t have any other money for cars. Not when I was constantly forking over money to repair Winnie catastrophes and keeping us in caffeine and snackage.
“I was more thinking about a paint job,” I told him, and he shook his head. Apparently he really wanted to set something on fire.
“It’ll take days for color to get delivered.” He tapped into his computer. “Also, you gotta pick a color, and your dog ended my sample book.”
I looked down at Winnie and she wagged her tail, a few crumbs and a smidge of mustard still on her muzzle.
“Sorry,” I said to my shoes.
We’d walked into the body shop, and Winnie had been off-leash. Marvin had been eating a sandwich which we interrupted with our arrival. His shop hadn’t opened yet, but lunch had arrived for the man. I was too distracted by the behemoth that was my car to notice he was eating. Marvin set the sandwich down on top of a book to help me, and Winnie had jumped onto the counter, devoured the sandwich, and picked up the book while holding half down with her paw, splitting the inventory from the ordering section. I’d jumped forward to get it back from her with a stern no, but that became a game of chase faster than Hello Kitty Pink Jeep could draw a crowd. A pursuit ensued, Winnie lunging and dancing just out of reach, straight into the workshop for vehicle restorations. She startled a man working with a caustic liquid that spilled when Winnie dropped the book to shove her snoot into his butt and give him what was likely his first proctology exam ever at the hands, or rather nose, of a canine.
The liquid spilled, missing the young man’s shoes but dissolved the book in less than a minute.
“I’ll pay for a new one,” I glared at my partner, and she wagged her tail again. “Do you have any… left-overs from other jobs lying around? I’d like it to not be pink until I can pick what color it will be.”
“Options are limited,” he warned.
We watched a group of girls leave the pottery-painting place across the street and gush over my ride. They begged their moms to take their picture with the Jeep, throwing up peace signs and cupping their hands beneath their chins.
“Literally, any color,” I confirmed, and he shook his head in disgust.
“Who would do that to a perfectly good automobile?”
“Who would do that to anything?”
We stared out of the window in silence as a bus of Asian tourists arrived, forming a line to take photos with the Jeep on their way into the restaurant next door. The nearest point of interest was an hour and forty-five minutes away, but the Noodle House must have paid someone a fortune to get their establishment added to a tourist itinerary.
A fortune they did not spend on ingredients since I found three-dozen packages of Top Ramen in their trash last week.
Finding the wrappers was unrelated to the reason I was looking in the trash, but they’d bought my silence with beef and broccoli. Silence and the gift of a bus boy to help me go through the trash looking for a purloined wedding band.
Marvin shook his head as the line slowly dwindled and the car sat alone once more. Both our phones dinged, and we looked to see we had been tagged in social media posts by every selfie taker that day.
“I’ll see what I can do. Do you need it today?”
“No, I can walk everywhere I need to go today.” A group of teenage boys took the place of the tourists and were now pretending to lick the character on the hood. “Seriously, what is wrong with this town?”
Marvin chuckled and shook his head.
“Let’s be realistic, that Jeep is the most entertaining thing this town has seen since you blew up Roger’s trailer.” He pointed a finger at my chest and I felt my face burn. “Well, and when you managed to get Daniel Kirby stuck in that woman’s cleavage.”
“Can I blame the chickens?” I asked no one in particular. “The chickens and the rocks and… insufficient caffeination?”
“You can, but no one would believe you. We’ve all seen the delivery men going to your building with boxes upon boxes of coffee,” Marvin tossed me a newspaper from a small stack beside his computer. “Catch up on current events, and I’ll call you when it’s done.”
Nodding, I took Winnie’s leash and we walked out onto Main St, carefully avoiding the Jeep. There was now a group of seniors, collectively muttering about the nerve of Millennials to ruin a perfectly good car. While I agreed with them, there was something insulting that they thought Millennials would do that to a Jeep. It was not a generational issue; it was a single person with issues that hopefully got help, which is why they sold the Pepto Bismol monstrosity.
To Larry, who arguably also needed help.
Who I was sleeping with so maybe the three of us could get a group rate.
Without anything to do on my Sunday, I took Winnie to the park, plopped on a bench, and opened the newspaper. A new column had appeared since I’d been back, Yvette Taylor’s Small-Town Scandals. Last month, she’d taken down Amber Carter from Amber’s Shoe Ambrosia with an expose on her life’s failures that included trying to join the Army. While I hadn’t known Amber had tried to join the Army shortly after I did, it was surprising that she failed the medical exam and aptitude tests.
Not surprising in that she’s so helpful and brilliant kind of way. More surprising that she hadn’t paid someone to make it go away.
There was also speculation she was adopted and not actually the daughter of Cartersville’s Town Founder. While it was a stretch considering she was a carbon copy of the man but with breasts, watching her refute it for three days was delightful. Winnie and I had brought popcorn and lurked at the periphery of all of her public appearances.
It was weeks’ worth of free entertainment between work and working Larry. Until Winnie tackled an old lady over some peanut butter, and we decided to make ourselves scarce before we ended up in Yvette’s column. The article itself had been brilliant, but it borderline had made me want to defend Amber. Until I remembered she tormented me from Kindergarten through Twelfth grade, and I cut the article out to stick on the fridge.
Usually, I by-pass the front cover as it holds real news which I avoid, but the headline caught my attention.
Gossiper Gossips into an Early Grave
My eyes scanned the article, then I went back and read the whole thing. Yvette Taylor was dead, murdered in her office with a blunt instrument three days earlier. Many suspects, no leads, and a suspension of her column after this week as it had already been written. The article came off a little too light-hearted for murder, but Yvette wasn’t exactly a pillar of politeness, and she’d exposed her own editor online before the Editor-in-Chief made the editor hire Yvette to raise sales numbers and increase online traffic to the dying paper’s website. After a check of the by-line, I confirmed that the writer was one she’d ripped to shreds as a two-bit hack for hosting a Dear Abby column and accepting corporate sponsorships for advice answers. Coca Cola had paid big money for Mr. Fred Tannins to tell people soft drinks were the cure to depression and lack of energy.
He also liked to tell women that they would be prettier if they smiled more.
I flipped to page four, curious who Yvette’s last victim would be. Though I’d never met her, the woman had made sarcasm and accusatory reporting an artform. While journalism was probably a little better off without her, I would miss the entertainment that came with her exaggerated ideas and her assertions into silence. Folding back the pages before, I smiled at her last headline.
Law Enforcement’s Biggest Loser: Never Solved a Crime
Beneath the headline was Daniel Kirby in his police uniform, looking boyish and charming. A glance toward the shop showed the pink Jeep was gone, taken away to receive a makeover. My iced coffee was only three-quarters empty, so I smiled and settled in to read, delighted for once to enjoy a mystery and a scandal that did not concern me in the least.
