Page 56 of Power of the Mind

I laughed. “Stop what?”

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“You know what?”

“I really don’t.”

“Just stop.”

I chuckled. “Oh, sweetie. Would you rather pretend yesterday didn’t happen and keep this nonpartnership strictly platonic? That’s too bad.”

Diem opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, then shook and nodded his head somehow simultaneously while growling, scowling, and kicking at invisible dirt on the ground.

“Succinct as always.” I popped the last bite of the cookie into my mouth as I glanced at the clock. “I’m locking up in five minutes. I can meet you in the parking lot if you want.”

Diem made an indiscernible gesture and violently bullied his way out the door like it had insulted his mama. If the poor guy hadn’t been a complete mess to begin with, I’d have thought kissing him had broken his brain.

Why was it so hard for him to admit what he wanted?

On a separate note. What the fuck was I doing? Did I want this, or was I fucking with the guy simply because it was fun and challenging? Was Kitty right? Was I being a manipulative prick? Using my powers for evil instead of good? I’d all but told Diem we could date if he found the nerve to ask. Dating implied monogamy. Monogamy implied no more random hookups at Gas. No more variety. I liked variety dammit. I liked my random hookups.

Dating meant settling down. With Diem? There were ten thousand more eligible bachelors in the city, but for some reason, the awkward, socially crippled giant of a man who could barely touch me let alone hold a conversation or eye contact for more than three seconds was the one I wanted.

Nothing made sense.

***

Winifred O’Neil was a spunky fifty-six if her appearance told us anything. She answered the door wearing three-quarter-length hot-pink leggings, an eighties-style sweatband in the same color, and a tie-dye T-shirt that boastedIf Only Sarcasm Burned Caloriesin bold black text across the front. Jogging in place, bright blue Nike runners on her feet, and a workout video of some kind blaring from the living room TV, Winifred greeted us with a beaming, white-toothed smile.

“Well, howdy-do.” The woman wasn’t even out of breath, her eighties-style perm bouncing on her shoulders. “I thought I heard someone tap tap tapping at my door like the raven. Not often I get visitors. You gentlemen selling something?”

The soft twang in her voice made me think of someone’s southern grandma. Winifred checked a fitness watch on her arm and picked up her stationary running pace as the instructor on the TV counted, “…five, six, seven, eight.”

“I’ll tell you boys what. Y’all got three minutes to run your spiel. I know it ain’t much, but I’m trying to keep my heart rate up, see?” She flashed her watch. “And my girl Jane won’t wait forever. I didn’t pause the machine, so she’ll keep trucking along without me. Are you sales folks? Don’t get many of them anymore. Used to be a big thing when I was a girl. You could buy almost anything at the door. Magazines, Tupperware, vacuums. Saw a guy selling household gadgets once. Mom bought a fancy vegetable chopper from him. Ah well, we all gotta work for a living, don’t we? I get that, but I gotta warn you, I’m not easily conned into making purchases willy-nilly. Got the internet for that now. Boy oh boy, my credit card gets more of a workout than me some days. But hey, can’t be too cautious. I don’t mean to judge. Anyhoo, you knockity-knocked, and I answeredy-answered. So watchya’ll want?”

Winifred jogged as she waited for an explanation.

“And you think I talk a lot,” I said to Diem. “I’ve met my match.”

The television screen was visible over Winifred’s shoulder, and the workout instructor, wearing dated workout clothes coupled with the cringy background music, made me think hergirl Janewas none other than the famous Jane Fonda from the eighties. My mother had gone through a Jane Fonda kick a while back until I’d convinced her to return to the twenty-first century before they took away her license.

Diem didn’t crack a smile as he glanced between me and the jogging Winifred. His body language spoke volumes. The woman was verbose, and he wanted nothing to do with her. It was up to me. My case. No problem.

I offered Winifred my most winning, boyish smile. The one that often got me whatever I wanted. “Good evening, ma’am.”

“Now, don’t you ma’am me. I’m not that old. Fifty is the new forty or something like that. You can call me Winnie, like Winniethe Pooh, except I ain’t tubby.” She patted her flat stomach. “Sit-ups,” she explained, even though I didn’t ask.

“Five, six, seven, eight…” yelled Jane in the background.“Again.”

“Winnie it is. I’m Tallus Domingo, and this is my partner, Diem Krause. We’re private investigators, and we’re looking into your neighbor’s death.”

Diem’s bear had something to say about that statement. He hated it when I stole the title of PI or implied we were partners. Too bad.

Winifred didn’t stop jogging, but her smile dimmed. “Allan? You’re here about Allan?”

“Yes. Do you have a minute? We saw you were interviewed for a magazine, and we’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions.”

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