Runaway Mistress

She looked at the phone book in room number eight and saw that she was in Boulder City. Good enough, she thought. She’d never even heard of the place. Surely she wouldn’t draw much attention here. She could have stayed at one of the casinos off the Strip; the bus had passed several of them, but they were large and their parking lots crowded. Too many people around, increasing the odds of being recognized as the missing girl in the newspaper.

She looked at the map the phone book provided. Boulder City, a small town a mere twenty-five miles from Las Vegas, on the edge of Lake Mead on the way to Hoover Dam. This was the last place Nick would expect to find the classy, bejeweled Jennifer Chaise.

She stood in front of the mirror for a while, not recognizing the woman who stared back at her. Wardrobe by army surplus—very unlike the wardrobe she had left behind. Her face, washed clean of makeup, left her looking very plain and pale. Her expensive artificial tan was fast disappearing. The shock of finding herself on the run likely contributed to her wan look. She flushed the colored contact lenses down the toilet and her eyes went from that sexy lavender to an ordinary brown. Her vision, fortunately, was perfect. She clipped her long acrylic nails and felt briefly crippled.

She had attempted to dye her waist-length golden hair to brown, but had ended up with a rather sickly gray—absolute proof that she’d tried to color it with drugstore supplies. Scissors in hand, she meant to rectify the situation, but a tear gathered in her eye. She’d pampered that sexy mane for how many years? Nick adored her hair; he loved to crunch it up in his fists and bury his face in it. Well, that would never happen again. “And if it does happen,” she said aloud, “it would probably be just one last crunch before he crushes my skull.” But the hand with the scissors trembled. “Oh, suck it up,” she told the reflection. “We’ll save a fortune. And it’s only temporary—until we figure out what to do and where to go.” She stared into her own eyes and, realizing she was talking to a mirror image, said, “Oh, my God, it’s hereditary. We have our mother’s wackiness.”

And then she lopped it off, close to the scalp. She continued this drastic amputation, tears running down her cheeks, until all she was left with was a short, spiky cap of really strange-colored hair. It looked as if someone had colored her hair badly—and then cut it badly. How different could she be? And what could she do to become invisible and utterly unrecognizable?

She thought about it for a moment and then she shaved her head. After brief consideration, the eyebrows that she’d spent a fortune having professionally colored and waxed into a curvaceous arch also went. If she remembered correctly, her original brows were black, bushy, shapeless and met over the bridge of her nose.

Then, despite her determination to be stronger than her circumstances, she cried in a bed with a lumpy mattress and a thin sheet. What had she been thinking, getting involved with a man like Nick? With any of the rich older men she’d attracted? It had only served to isolate her from the world. Had she really thought she was so smart, so immune to having her heart broken? This was proof positive that you didn’t have to be in love to have your heart broken. She was in a crappy motel in a tiny desert town outside Las Vegas with nothing. With no one. Even worse, now she was in actual peril. Talk about a plan gone awry.

The month was March and she awoke the following morning to chilly air and leaden skies, and the sound of rain. The heater in the room didn’t work and everything seemed inevitable.

The morning sky was just painting the dark clouds gray when she couldn’t take the cold, dank hotel room another second. She bundled up in a khaki-green windbreaker, her scarf wrapped around her neck and her baseball cap covering her bald head. All her worldly goods were tucked into a canvas backpack. The motel office was still closed; no one there to get the heater going in her room. So she set out to see if there was more to this place than a junkyard and train tracks.

A few blocks away the road forked—the highway went left and she went right. Another few blocks revealed a small town, a street lined with cafés and shops not yet open. She counted three restaurants, all apparently of the no-tablecloth variety. It was an old street with worn sidewalks, but some trendy shops and eateries were peppered amid the older ones, perhaps recent additions to snag the visitors to Hoover Dam, and travelers en route to the Grand Canyon as they passed by the town. The manager of Starbucks was just unlocking the door. A clock in the window of a gift shop read six-thirty. There was a small corner market that looked no bigger than a convenience store, but it displayed a large variety of fresh fruits and vegetables in the window, and a sign that boasted a sale on ground sirloin.

A big white hotel with signs that advertised Underground Dancing and a Dam Museum stood down the street. Across the parking lot was a small brick building painted pink—a dance studio.

She took a left, getting off the main street, and a few blocks later found a park, library, theater and an old residential neighborhood full of tiny, multicolored houses nestled amid tall, full trees. They looked like playhouses, street after street of them. There were obviously no neighborhood-association rules about conformity in this part of the world, as interspersed with well-maintained houses and manicured lawns were battered-looking homes inside cyclone fences that surrounded dirt and weeds. The houses, however, were almost all the same shape. Except one at the end of the street, a square two-story, with a huge peace sign painted on a tall tree stump and flowered sheets covering the windows. It looked like a throwback from the sixties.

Around the corner she saw the post office and wondered if this was the center of town. It didn’t even resemble anything close to a desert here in Boulder City; the foliage was thick, and most of the trees had retained their leaves through winter while others showed the promise of new buds on bare branches. Shrubs were dense; grass was green.

She passed a yarn shop, a used-book store and a health-food store. A sign stuck out farther down the street that read Nails. A couple of young women jogged around the park, and farther down the street an elderly man walked his dog. She turned onto a side street, and right between a dry cleaner and dog-grooming salon was a diner with the lights on and a sign in the window that read Open. Above the door in fading red paint was the name of the place—the Tin Can.

This place hadn’t seen a renovation in a long time yet was clean and well kept. Since there was a Starbucks on the main street, she supposed this diner was seeing less action than it used to—there was only one customer. With the stools at the counter, booths covered in Naugahyde lining the wall and Formica tabletops, it had the look of a fifties greasy spoon. But a nice, warm one. It reminded her of a place she used to go with her grandpa when she was small.

The bell jingled as she entered. “’Morning,” a man called from behind the counter.

She took a stool right in the middle of the completely vacant counter. The man in the booth at the back of the diner had a newspaper spread out in front of him.

“’Morning,” she returned. “Coffee?”

He had a cup in front of her in seconds. “Cold and wet out there, ain’t it.”

“Freezing,” she said, pulling her jacket tighter.

“It should be a lot warmer by now. There’re buds on the trees and the grass is greening up. Spring’s ’bout here. I’ll let you warm up a little, then we’ll talk about some breakfast,” he said. She looked up at him. He squinted at what he could see of her face under the bill of her hat. For a moment she was confused, and then she remembered she had no eyebrows. With a self-conscious laugh, she plucked the cap off her head and exposed her bald head and naked brow. He almost jumped back in surprise. “Whoa. That’s a new look now, ain’t it?”

“Shocking,” she supplied, putting her cap back on.

“Cold, I take it.”

“That’s for sure.”

He was a big man around sixty. Overweight, with a thick, ornery crop of yellow-gray, strawlike hair and square face and rosy cheeks—like a sixty-year-old little boy with big ears. She saw a face she could only describe as accessible. Open. He had friendly blue eyes set in the crinkles of age, a double chin and an engaging smile—one tooth missing to the back of the right side. “I got biscuits and gravy,” he said proudly.

“I’m not really hungry,” she said. “Just cold.”

“You been outside long?”

Oh-oh. He suspected she was homeless. The army surplus fashion, the backpack, the ball cap. “No. Well, maybe a little. I’ve a room at that roadside place about six blocks from here and I woke up freezing. No heat. And the motel office wasn’t open yet.”

“Behind that scrap heap and junkyard?”

“That’s the one.”

“Charlie is not generous with his guests,” the man in the booth said with a heavy Spanish accent. “You should say he give you the night free.”

“He should,” the man behind the counter said. “But he won’t. They don’t come much tighter than Charlie.”

The man in the booth folded his paper, stood up and stretched. Then he took an apron off a hook and put it on. Ah, the cook, she realized. “Um—are you done with that paper?” she asked him.

“Help yourself, mija.” He proceeded around the counter to the grill and began heating and scraping it. The sounds of breakfast being started filled the diner and soon the smells followed. Jennifer settled herself into the same booth so she could spread the paper out in front of her.

A little while passed, then the owner brought the coffeepot to her. “Have any interest in breakfast yet?” he asked.

“Really, I’m not very hungry.”

“You don’t mind me saying so—you look a little on the lean side.”

“I’m just lucky that way.”

“If it’s a matter of money—”

She was startled. “I can pay,” she said, maybe a little too proudly. Truly, if he had any idea how much money was stuffed inside the Kate Spade bag that was stuffed inside the backpack, he’d be stunned. Not to mention the jewelry. The dawning came slowly. Don’t protest too much, she told herself. It was perfectly all right if people thought she was a little down on her luck. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t know the role—she was intimately acquainted with it. “I might have something in a while. I just want to warm up. And have a look at the paper.”

“Sure thing. Just say the word when you’re ready. Adolfo has started breakfast.”

She drank two more cups of coffee while she combed the paper and found nothing about the Nobles or herself. How long would Nick get away with pretending his wife was out of the country? Surely someone would begin to miss Barbara! Her masseuse, for example.

But who would miss you, Jennifer? she asked herself. Would her boss raise an alarm? Ah, her boss actually introduced her to Nick, whom he would probably call. “Nick,” he would say. “Jennifer didn’t come back to work. Do you have any idea…?” “Oh, Artie, my fault,” Nick would say. “I should’ve called you. She skipped in Las Vegas with most of the cash in my wallet. Met someone with a bigger yacht, I guess. You know these bimbos.”

And the women in the office who didn’t like her would be just as glad she was gone. She had eschewed the friendships of women to avoid the inevitable jealousy. And, to be free of the commitments friendship brought so she could be available at the whim of her current gentleman friend. Nick, like the others before him, didn’t like to plan in advance; he expected her to be ready at a moment’s notice. She had kept herself virtually friendless. For the first time in ten years, she regretted that.

Oh, why didn’t I go to the police right away! Too afraid. Afraid that, unable to prove anything, they wouldn’t believe her. They wouldn’t protect her, and before very long she would meet with some unfortunate accident. Or maybe she’d leave the country, like Barbara Noble….

A shadow cast over her newspaper caused her to jump, and there he was again, coffeepot in hand. “Ah, I maybe ought to say I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make light of your—you know—hair. Was it, ah, chemo? Something like that?”

She had a momentary temptation to pretend to have had cancer, but she didn’t dare tempt fate that far. Her head bald, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, she probably looked horrible to the old guy. What to tell him? But then, did she have to admit to anything at all? This was a diner, for God’s sake. Not a shrink’s office or police interrogation.

The look on his face was so sweet. “You just worry about people all the time, don’t you?”

“No, I—” He stopped and seemed to gather himself up. “I worry about people,” he admitted.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m not sick and I’m not homeless.” I am merely a brainless bimbo on the run from a murderer, she wanted to add.