Voice Mail Murder - By Patricia Rockwell Page 0,1

to call it a day,” she chirped. She was gorgeous—almost as tasty dressed as undressed. A beautiful, lush, shapely figure. Smooth, glowing skin. A remarkable face with huge eyes that absolutely sparkled with every word she said. And all that hair. Hair a man could get lost in. Hair he could dig his fingers in and grab hold of. She was buttoning her blouse now, fixing the collar just so.

The man stretched back on the bed, his arms crossed behind his head, leaning against the headboard. His tanned, toned body with every muscle on display, contradicted his face now contorted by a mock hang-dog scowl. It was hard to look desirable in boxer shorts, he realized.

“Don’t be sad,” she pouted, tweaking his chin. “We’ll do it again, soon.” She gave him a beaming smile and pulled on a tailored suit jacket that matched her skirt. Altogether, a very professional business look, he mused. Not the outfit of a lady who had just indulged in an afternoon roll in the hay in a low-rent motel room. He could choose them, he thought. A classy broad. Do it again? For sure. He smiled. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

Balancing on one foot after another, she slid on a pair of tan leather three-inch heels and pranced away from him. She picked up a small black leather book that lay beside the television set on the long dresser and opened it.

“Same time, next week?” she asked as she ran her finger down a page.

“I’ll arrange something and call you,” he nodded, dutifully, laughing. He leaned back again on the bed and watched her final preparations. There was something totally engaging about watching a woman get dressed—not as engaging as watching her get undressed, he thought, but he liked to watch the ceremony of it all. Like locker room preparation.

“It’s easier for you than me!” she scolded him with a shake of a well-manicured fingertip, tucking the black book into the purse and placing the strap of the purse over her shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied. “I have all this free time . . . ” He gestured around the small motel room.

“You at least have more control of your time than I do,” she teased. “I’m at the mercy of . . . others! You know that!” She headed towards the door.

“Be careful when you leave,” he said as she reached the door. She stopped abruptly.

“I always am,” she whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards him. She smiled. “I don’t want to be seen any more than you do.” She opened the door, remaining slightly behind it and peered out carefully into the bright afternoon sunlight. After a second or two, she gave him a silent kiss, donned a pair of sunglasses, and slipped quietly out the door and disappeared from sight.

After she closed the door, the man stood up and stretched. He was exhausted but pleasantly so. He could easily take a nap—maybe a two or three hour nap. He could probably get away with it. No one really paid that much attention to his goings and comings—at least in the early afternoons. Even so, he couldn’t stay here indefinitely. Looking at his watch, he saw that he’d already spent over an hour with the woman. He needed to get going. He rose and ambled towards the bathroom, grabbing his shirt and trousers along the way. He slipped into his clothes and was just splashing water on his face as a sort of wake-up call when a knock on the door to the room caused him to freeze.

Was she back? Did she forget something? Must be. Or it could be the maid.

“Who is it?” he called out as he walked to the door. No response. Gingerly, he peered through the small glass peep hole. What the . . .? He pulled back sharply, flattening himself against the wall.

Another knock.

“I know you’re in there,” said a voice he recognized.

Double checking the peep hole, he realized that he was right. What was going on? Maybe it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Probably something totally innocuous, he told himself. Carefully, he opened the door.

“Uh, hi.” Play it cool.

“What are you doing here?” asked the visitor at the door.

“What do you mean?” he stammered. “I. . . I. . . was just trying to get away. You know, some privacy.” He could feel his face redden and a thin layer of sweat was beginning to form at his temples. The visitor moved closer to him, looking first