Tressed to Kill by Lila Dare

governor.
She shrugged. “Oh, you know politicians. He promised to push for better technology for RJ’s school—for all elementary schools in ‘the great state of Georgia,’ but you know how that goes. Politicians are like Alzheimer’s patients: their long-term memory is great—who contributed to their first campaign, who tried to sabotage their bill in 1990—but their short-term memory is nonexistent. I’ll bet if you asked him right now who Vonda Jamison was, or what I talked to him about, all you’d get was a blank stare.” She stabbed at a cocktail napkin with the little plastic sword that skewered a lime in her drink.
“I’m sure he remembers you,” I said. Men always remembered Vonda.
A rumble of thunder drew our attention to the window. As I watched, a fat drop of rain splatted against the glass. Others quickly followed.
“More rain,” Vonda said, her voice as dreary as the weather.
“We need it,” I reminded her. “Think how happy the town’s gardeners will be.”
She spun her forefinger in circles. “Whoop-de-doo.”
As if the rain had washed the last remnants of sun from the sky, darkness fell and opaqued the window so I could no longer see the heaving water. I could still hear it, though. A busboy meandered around the bar, lighting the candles in round amber-colored holders that squatted on each table.
The server arrived with refills. “That gentlemen over there wants to buy you a drink,” she said, nodding her head at a suited man watching us hopefully from the bar.
Vonda looked him over. “Salesman,” she said disparagingly. “Office products or restaurant supplies. Something boring.” Nevertheless, she sent a thank-you smile his way. The moment of flirtation seemed to have chased away her doleful mood. “Hey, I saw Minnie Parker at the car wash yesterday.”
“So?” I was totally uninterested in the whereabouts of my former mother-in-law. She’d suggested I have a boob job before Hank and I got married so I could “fill out the wedding gown a bit more.” She’d had her breasts augmented for her fiftieth birthday, and she “just knew” that every woman short of Dolly Parton would have a more fulfilling life if they upped their cup size. When I told her I was perfectly happy with my 34Bs, she asked archly, “But is my Hank?”
“So, she looked fit as a fiddle, healthy as a horse . . . didn’t Hank say he moved back here because she was ill?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t much want to ruin the evening by talking about Hank.
“I think that was only an excuse,” Vonda said, leaning across the table to peer into my face. “He moved back here because he wants you back.”
“Well, as the old saying goes, ‘wantin’ don’t make it so,’ or something like that.” I finished the wine in my glass and eyed the replacement sent over by Mr. Salesman. I didn’t want to encourage him by drinking it. Vonda had no such hesitations and was halfway through her second mojito.
“You wouldn’t get back together with him, would you?”
She tried to sound casual, but I heard the anxiety in her voice. Vonda had never thought Hank was good enough for me, as she put it, and she’d dragged me out to celebrate when the divorce became final.
“Vonda.” I gave her a look.
“I knew you wouldn’t,” she smiled, “but I had to make sure. You haven’t gotten laid in—What? A year?—and long stretches without sex can make any port look appealing in the storm.”
I laughed, forcing the image of Special Agent Dillon out of my head. Where had he come from? “Believe me, I could be celibate for the next ten years and not get a hankering for Hank. I don’t know why I stuck with him so long, except he got to be a habit.”
“A bad one. They should make a patch for getting over exes . . . you know, like a nicotine patch helps you go cold turkey with cigarettes.”
I heard the wistfulness in her voice. “Missing Ricky?”
“Hell, no.”
Her swift response and sidelong look at Mr. Salesman didn’t convince me.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, afraid that in her current mood