Never Happened. Debra Webb

the houses on either side of her had wooden porches.

      Alex returned to her bedroom and opened her lingerie drawer. When she would have selected a clean pair of underwear, she hesitated. Something wasn’t right. Her pulse skipped as she checked drawer after drawer. Everything was there but different somehow…as if someone had riffled through her things.

      The pink suit flashed in her mind and realization made a delayed appearance.

      She was going to kill her mother.

      Not only had she borrowed the pink skirt and jacket, but clearly she’d made herself at home with Alex’s undergarments.

      She hoped Robert enjoyed them.

      A car door slammed outside. Alex’s head came up and she listened.

      Her mother’s voice. Robert’s.

      Alex tiptoed over to the window and peeked past the edge of the curtain. The streetlamp spotlighted Robert’s efforts to pull Marg into his arms, but she resisted. Alex’s jaw dropped. Since when was playing hard to get part of her mother’s third-date routine?

      She heard Marg say good-night, then watched in astonishment as she strode up the walk and across the yard to the exterior stairs that led up to her apartment without a single hesitation or backward glance.

      Alone.

      Unbelievable.

      Robert stared after her a few moments before getting into his sleek sports car and driving off.

      “Hot damn!”

      Maybe her mother had finally gotten her act together.

      Alex owed her an apology.

      She was woman enough to admit when she was wrong.

      With that in mind, she strode out her front door and straight up the stairs to her mother’s door. Just before she knocked, the music beyond stopped her.

      Ten seconds passed before she recognized the music from the workout video Sweating to the Oldies.

      Alex smiled.

      Dear old Richard Simmons.

      Grinning, she did an about-face and went back to her own home. Apparently her mother had opted for one of the alternatives Alex had mentioned. An extensive physical workout could go a long way in alleviating certain types of stress.

      “Good girl,” she muttered as she closed and locked her own front door behind her.

      Maybe you could teach an old dog new tricks.

      The jangle of her landline disturbed the pleasant silence and annoyance flared. It was late, she was ready for bed. Who the hell would call her at this time of night? The answer was not the one she wanted. Work most likely.

      She didn’t want to know about any more trouble.

      “Alex Jackson.” She’d stopped answering with hello years ago. It seemed all her regular customers, various landlords, cops and whatnot, assumed her home number was a business number, too.

      “Hey, Alex, it’s Rich.”

      Henson. What did he want? Guilt pinged her. She didn’t actually mind hearing from him, but she’d learned from experience that maintaining frequent contact proved nothing more than a segue to let’s try again. She pulled the lapels of her robe together, suddenly self-conscious that she was naked under this robe. Was that dumb or what? After three months you would think she’d have her head straight about this guy. He wanted commitment and she didn’t…but he’d made her wonder what if? No other man had ever managed to do that. Everything had been fine until today.

      “What’s up?” She was careful to keep her tone light, but clearly disinterested in anything other than straightforward conversation. She mentally weighed the pros and cons of having another beer. Three was usually her limit, but this night had the definite makings of a six-packer.

      “I just wanted to call and thank you for alerting me to that piece of evidence you found this afternoon.”

      She hesitated at the fridge and her forehead pinched with a frown. Was this call really about business? “The contact lens?” Okay, so maybe they could have a chat without the inevitable invitation to pick up where they left off.

      “Apparently it’s some sort of computer chip. I’m on my way over to Morningside to pick it up from that whiz kid I told you about. He’s done some quick unofficial analysis for me before. I wanted to be sure this was something worth using taxpayers’ dollars to analyze. I’ll be taking it straight to the state lab tomorrow, but you know how slow they are to respond. This kind of heads-up will get the ball rolling. Outstanding call, Alex.”

      “That’s great.” She didn’t know why it mattered or what exactly his obvious excitement meant, but she was glad Henson was happy about it. The moment gave her hope that maybe they could actually be just friends.

      “Anyway,” he went on, his enthusiasm palpable, “I thought maybe you’d let me take you to dinner on Friday night to repay the good deed.”

      Oh, man. There it was. Her hopes deflated. The man would never give up.

      “I’d love to, Henson, but unfortunately I already have plans for Friday night.” It was true. She’d promised to go to a movie with Shannon; the woman swore if she didn’t have ladies’ night out once a month she’d go mad. Alex felt reasonably certain she wasn’t exaggerating.

      “Another time maybe,” he said.

      She nodded, to convince herself evidently since he couldn’t see her. “Another time…maybe.” She hated constantly turning him down. He really was a nice guy. She didn’t get why he didn’t just give up. He deserved someone who wanted the same sort of commitments he did. She was not that girl.

      “Well, look. I’m getting another call. ’Night, Alex.”

      “G’night, Henson.”

      As she hung up the phone she couldn’t have guessed in a million years that it would be the last time she would talk to Detective Rich Henson.

      CHAPTER 3

      The offices of Never Happened sat way, way, way off Ocean Boulevard. Not a bad location but a bit off the beaten path, nestled between the office of Dr. Sherman Holloway, psychologist extraordinaire, and Patsy’s Clip Joint, a pet salon. Things could get a little noisy at times, otherwise the folks on either side of Alex’s offices were pretty easy to get along with.

      There was, however, the perpetual parking problem. The alley between Never Happened and Patsy’s was supposed to be shared space, except her clients weren’t always so considerate. Especially the ones with the big, luxury automobiles and the small, prissy dogs.

      Alex rolled into what she had claimed as her space next to the brick wall of her building. Since most of her staff arrived before seven, morning parking wasn’t usually a problem. Afternoons were a different story, however; things could get hairy.

      She pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the mirror. Eyeliner, lipstick, no smears or smudges. Good to go. Flipping the visor back into place, she grabbed her knockoff gold Fendi shoulder bag, her caramel-mocha latte and climbed out of her SUV.

      As she turned the corner toward her shop front, a long low whistle trilled behind her.

      “My, my, Alex,” Patsy called from the open entrance of her shop, “don’t you look sharp today.” Her wolf call had prompted a cacophony of yelps from her restless four-legged guests.

      Alex smiled. “Thanks.” The low-slung jeans she wore were her favorite. She’d paired them with thonged sandals and a ribbed pullover that didn’t quite reach the extrawide belt buckled around her waist. “You’ve lost more weight,” Alex commented after giving her business neighbor an approving once-over.

      “Forty pounds so far,” Patsy confirmed before a lengthy drag on her Kool 100 Ultra Light. “Twenty-five