The Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen: A Dix Dodd Mystery (Dix Dodd Mysteries) by Norah Wilson & Heather Doherty

Author:Norah Wilson & Heather Doherty [Wilson, Norah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Norah Wilson writing as N.L. Wilson
Published: 2011-04-22T04:00:00+00:00

“Geez, Dix, what’s wrong? You look all shook up.” Mrs. Presley winked and elbowed me hard. “Get it...‘all shook up’?”

“Yeah, I get it Mrs. P.”

For a woman who day in and day out worked below a sign that emphatically told the world she was not related to Elvis, Mrs. Presley had no qualms about stealing a line to get a good laugh. Even if it was her own good laugh.

God, I liked this woman.

We were sitting side by side on the lone bed in Room 111 of the Underhill Motel. This was her ‘special’ room, reserved for ‘special guests’. For the drop of a few quarters, the bed would start vibrating. The lampshades were red and when the lights were on, cast a red haze around the room. There were mirrors on every wall and built into the headboard of the bed. And I’d bet anything that the light fixture hanging from the ceiling would support the swinging weight of at least one nimble person. Hell, the toilet seats were even padded! (God, I hated the deflating sounds those things made when you sat on them, but far be it from me to complain.)

But that’s not what made Room 111 special. What made it special was its location, far away from the street at the other end of the motel, with a view that was unobstructed by trees or other structures. A person could keep a pretty good watch on traffic in and out of the motel—be that traffic irate husbands/boyfriends, johns, or in my case, the cops.

But even better, Room 111 had a secret back door. Not one with a doorknob, but a hidden one in the back of the never-used closet. A solid hip to the left of it, and it would open, but only when unlocked from the other side. That back door just happened to lead to a narrow, unlit hallway, low-ceilinged but straight. Those in the know (and few of us were) knew that there was a small penlight stashed up over the doorway. And that passageway led right into Mrs. Presley’s kitchen, and thence to the outside via a private exit.

Room 111 was always the last to be rented out. And the door was locked to most clientele, who were unwitting of its existence. But I knew for a fact that at least two women had escaped from abusive ex-husbands that way. And here was the best part—if anyone unwanted were foolish enough to find and burst through that hidden door, they’d receive a lovely how-do-you-do from one of Mrs. Presley’s hulking sons at the other end of it, neither of whom would have qualms about beating the crap out of an intruder. Those boys were just that protective of their mom.

“I don’t want to get you into trouble, Mrs. Presley,” I’d said, when I’d landed on her doorstep. “But holy shit, I’m in trouble!”

She’d raised an eyebrow. “Cops after you?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “ I can understand if you don’t want to—”

“Trouble? Ah hell, we all have troubles.

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