Heh heh heh. Thanks to Wyatt's high-handed actions the night before, all the cops thought we were involved. Why wouldn't the detective give Wyatt's cell number to me? That was a tactical error on Wyatt's part.
Wyatt might be in the middle of something important, and calling him would be a big distraction. Damn, I hoped so. I started punching in the numbers, then stopped. He probably had Caller ID on his cell, and he might not answer a call he knew was from me.
Smirking, I put down the cordless and retrieved my own cell phone from my bag. Yes, Detective MacInnes had been kind enough to return it to me last night, once he had determined I hadn't shot Nicole. I turned it on and called Wyatt.
He answered on the third ring. "Bloodsworth."
"Where's my car?" I demanded in as menacing a tone as I could muster.
He sighed. "Blair. I'll get to it. I've been a little busy today."
"I'm stranded. If you had listened to reason last night, you could have retrieved my car then and we wouldn't be having this conversation, but, no, you had to throw your weight around-"
He hung up on me.
I shrieked in fury, but I didn't call him back, which he probably expected. Okay, he was going to be a jerk. Fuck him. Well, not literally. Though once upon a time I-never mind. I wasn't going there.
I drummed my fingers and considered my options. I could call Mom and Dad and they would gladly give me a ride to a grocery store, or even lend me one of their cars, which would be an inconvenience for them. Siana would also ferry me around. Jenni might, if she didn't have anything else going on, but her social calendar made me exhausted just to think about it.
On the other hand, I could simply rent a car. Several of the name-brand rental agencies would pick you up and take you back to their office to sign the papers and get the car.
I don't dillydally around when I come up with a plan of action. I looked up the number of a rental agency, called them, and arranged to be picked up in an hour. Then I raced around watering plants and packing what clothes I thought I'd need for a few days at the beach, which wasn't many. Makeup and toiletries took up way more room than my clothes in the duffel bag. I added a couple of books in case I felt like reading, then stood at the front door impatiently waiting for the rental car guy to show up.
The traffic had lessened; maybe all the gawkers and/or reporters had decided I was in hiding somewhere, or had maybe gone shopping. Still, when my ride appeared I didn't want to dally around on the front steps, an easy target for either an eager reporter or a desperate killer. I got my keys out to have them ready to lock the dead bolt on the front door, and that was when I noticed I still had my car keys. I was surprised into laughing; there was no way Wyatt could have had my car delivered, because I hadn't given him the keys and he hadn't thought to ask for them.
The car would be all right at Great Bods until I got back. It was locked, and it was under the awning. At worst, Wyatt would have it towed to the city impound lot, which he had better not do because if my car was damaged in any way, I'd definitely sue him.
A red Pontiac with a magnetic sign on the side announcing it belonged to the rental agency pulled to the curb. I grabbed my duffel and was out the door before the guy could get out of the car. I paused only to lock my door, then hurried down the steps to meet him. "Let's go before someone shows up," I said, opening the rear passenger door and tossing my duffel inside, then sliding into the front seat.
The man got behind the steering wheel, blinking in confusion. "Who? Is someone after you?"
"Maybe." If he didn't know who I was, that was all to the good. Maybe no one much read the newspaper anymore. "An ex-boyfriend is really making a nuisance of himself, you know?"
"He's violent?" The man threw me an alarmed look.
"No, he just whines a lot. It's embarrassing."
Relieved, he put the car in gear and drove to our small regional airport, where all the rental agencies were located. After some discussion about the type of car they wanted to put me in-I nixed the bare-bones economy models because they were too bare bones (one even had roll-up windows, which I didn't know Detroit still made)-I settled on a sharp black Chevy short-bed pickup. Black isn't the most sensible color in the south, because of the heat, but it's undeniably sharp. If I couldn't have my Mercedes, I thought riding around in a pickup truck would be cool.
I have good memories associated with pickup trucks. Grampie had owned one, and during my junior year in high school, for two whole months I'd dated a senior, Tad Bickerstaff, who drove a pickup. Tad had let me drive his truck, which I thought was the best thing ever. Our romance faded as fast as it had bloomed, though, and Tad and his truck had moved on to another girl.
All the papers signed and the gas tank filled, I tossed my duffel in the seat of the pickup and buckled myself in. Beach, here I come!
I admit, summer isn't the best time to head to the beach if you don't have reservations. Even worse, it was Friday, when all the weekenders were doing the same. But since it was only noon, I figured I had a good head start on the weekend crowd, and among them had to be people like me who trusted they'd be able to get a motel room once they reached the shore. People do that only because-duh-it usually works.
Driving from the western part of the state to the eastern shore takes several hours, especially since I had to stop for lunch. I decided I loved driving a pickup, because sitting higher meant I could see so much better, plus this particular truck had plenty of power and all the extras I could want. The ride was smooth, the air-conditioning was top-notch, the sun was shining, and Wyatt Bloodsworth had no idea where I was. Things were looking up.