Page 49 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

“What happened to your phone?” Wyatt asked, frowning at it.

I didn’t answer. Well, I couldn’t, could I?

DeMarius straightened from the squad car, my chef’s knife in his hand and a stunned look on his face. “Holy hell,” he blurted.

The knife must have fallen out of my tote when it had been knocked to the floorboard. A group of cops, both plainclothed and uniformed, had gathered in a loose knot around us and they all stared at my knife. The wide blade itself was a good eight inches long, and the entire thing measured about fourteen inches. I was proud, because it was an impressive sight.

Wyatt sighed. “Just drop it in the bag,” he said.

The patrolman with my tote pulled it open so DeMarius could deposit the knife, then said, “Wait a minute.” Reaching in, she pulled out my wedding shoes.

They were beautiful, sparkling with rhinestones, the straps delicate works of art. They so obviously weren’t shoes you could wear to any job, unless you were maybe a Las Vegas showgirl, that looking at them was almost like disconnecting from reality. They were magic. They were a fantasy come to life, as if Tinker Bell had suddenly lit in her hand.

“Don’t want to take the chance of cutting these babies,” she said in a properly awed tone. “Put the knife on the bottom.”

Omigod, I hadn’t even thought of that. I was stricken. What if I’d accidentally scarred my shoes?

DeMarius placed the knife in the bottom of the tote, then the female officer reverently put my shoes on top. DeMarius began shuffling through the notes in his hand. Sunrise was close enough now that they could be easily read without needing a flashlight. His eyes widened, and he made a choking sound.

“What is it?” asked someone I recognized, Detective Forester, reaching to take the notes. He quickly flipped through them, his eyes widening, too, then he broke into a guffawing laugh that he tried and failed to convert to a cough.

Wyatt sighed again. “Hand them over,” he said wearily. “Just stick them in the bag with the weapon and the fashion statement. I’ll deal with them later.”

DeMarius grabbed the notes and hurriedly stuffed them into the tote; Wyatt sort of swung me around so he could take the tote into the hand that was clasping me under the knees. I glared at both DeMarius and Detective Forester. I’d been making various points with my notes, and they werelaughing? Maybe it’s a good thing I couldn’t make a sound right then, because if I’d said what I was thinking, it’s pretty likely I’d have been arrested.

“Good luck,” Forester managed to choke out, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder. He didn’t say “you’ll need it,” but I was pretty sure he was thinking it.

As Wyatt carried me to the car I refused to look up at him. Instead I watched the fire department units coiling up their hoses, while two men with “Fire Marshal” lettered on the back of their Windbreakers were poking around in the blackened rubble. The crowd of sightseers was slowly dispersing, some of them going to jobs, others hurrying to get their children ready for school. I also needed to be doing a bunch of things but just about all of them required talking, as well as clothing, so I foresaw a couple of problems there.

I didn’t want to talk to Wyatt at all, but as he was currently my only means of communication, at least until I got to his computer, I’d have to at least write notes to him. This not-being-able-to-talk thing could get old in a hurry.

He put me on my feet when we got to the car, keeping his left arm around me while he opened the car door with his right hand. I rewrapped the blanket loosely enough that I was able to get into the car under my own steam, though I did have to fight with the fabric a little. By the time Wyatt slid into the driver’s seat, I’d worked my arms free and reached for the tote.

He pulled it out of my reach. “I don’t think so,” he said grimly. “I saw the size of that knife.”

I needed my appointment book, not the knife—not that the knife wouldn’t have tempted me. Accepting the inevitable, I made a pad with my left hand and pretended to scribble on it with my right. Then I pointed at the tote.

“I think you’ve written enough notes,” he muttered, putting the key in the ignition.

I slapped his arm, not hard, just enough to get his attention. I pointed to my throat, shook my head, then used emphatic gestures for the pad and pen again.

“You can’t talk?”

I shook my head. Finally he was getting it!

“Not at all?”

I shook my head again.

“Good deal,” he said with satisfaction, cranking the engine and putting the car in gear.

By the time we reached his house I was so spitting mad I could barely sit still. As soon as he stopped the car I unclipped the seat belt and bolted, making it into the house before he did. I zipped straight into his pitiful excuse of an office and grabbed a notebook and pen. He was right behind me, reaching to take it away from me, when he saw that I was writing instructions instead of insults.

CALL MOM!was my first directive. I underlined it three times, and put four exclamation points after it.

He regarded me with narrowed eyes, but saw the wisdom of what I wanted. He nodded and reached for the phone.

While he talked to her, giving her the bad news that I’d been burned out of my home but the good news that I wasn’t hurt, I was writing down more stuff.

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