Free Chill Factor by Chris Rogers Page B

same roof—for Dixie, some of the most sensational weeks of her adult life. At thirty-nine, she’denjoyed her share of long- and short-term relationships without ever desiring more permanence. Parker changed that, and she wasn’t ready yet to give up the intimacy.
    When the elevator spit her out at ground level, Dixie returned Parker’s page, briefed him on the bank robbery, assured him she’d escaped with no injuries, and promised to elaborate later.
    “How about over dinner tonight?” she suggested. “My calendar says Tuesday’s a fine day for seafood. I’ll buy.”
    His hesitation told her he wasn’t going for it.
    “Tonight, I need to take care of some paperwork. For a fifty-footer that ships tomorrow.”
    “Sounds better than ‘I need to wash my hair.’”
    “Dixie—”
    “It’s okay, Parker. I’ll call you later.”
    Another hesitation. “How about if I call you? About eight?”
    “Okay. If I’m not there, leave a message.” She powered the phone off before he could say another word and piss her off even further.

Chapter Ten
    “Another balmy spring evening,”
the radio weather girl predicted as Dixie drove home.
“Enjoy it.”
    “Easy for you to say,” Dixie grumbled.
    A stained-glass bauble dangled from her rearview mirror. Shaped like a sunburst, it bore the sentiment,
My day begins with your smile, your scent, your touch. Without those I would be cold and dark inside.
The sun catcher had arrived in a Valentine the day before Parker decided to end their intimacy.
    He owed her no explanation now about his private life. For the three months they’d been apart, the “just pals” arrangement had remained rigidly intact. And she respected his concern over her choice of occupation. Hell, it wasn’t even a choice, merely something that needed doing. Something she did damned well. She refused to sit idly at home until a new career decision struck her. If Parker couldn’t accept who she was, then so be it. But if he was dating someone else, Dixie wished he’d be forthright enough to tell her.
    Before she closed the gate and started down her long driveway shaded by rows of pecan trees, a hundred pounds of canine energy loped to meet her. She braked, opened the passenger door, and Mean Ugly Dog, her half Doberman, lumbered onto the seat. His larger, uglier half had never been divined.
    “Hey, there, boy. Nice to know someone’s glad to see me.”She scratched his ears as Mud sniffed out the various aromas she’d acquired during the day.
    Dixie parked the Mustang in the old pecan-shelling barn, no longer in use since the year Kathleen turned ill, when Barney farmed out the physical end of the business. Also in the barn, alongside the tow truck, sat a taxicab and a van with magnetic side-panel signs—plumber, exterminator, delivery service. In the skip-tracing business, all four vehicles came in handy at times.
    As they exited the barn, Mud ran ahead to retrieve his Frisbee from the back steps, then turned and blocked her path, his great ugly face eager.
    “Okay,” Dixie agreed. A brisk game of fetch might work off her own tension. “Just give me a five-minute bathroom break.”
    Mud dropped the Frisbee beside the steps and plopped down to guard it.
    With her other mail on the kitchen table, Dixie found the invitation from Mike Tesche to visit The Winning Stretch. She opened it envisioning his unruly hair and lighthearted grin.
    Please join us for a Sundown Ceremony.
Last Sunday in May, five p.m.
    On the back, a map showed the location, marked by an orange dot, in a far north Houston area near the town of Kingwood.
    Dixie propped the invitation near the phone, and shed her clothes on her way to the bathroom. Outside again, dressed in shorts and running shoes, she played twenty minutes of hard Frisbee with Mud, while a frozen pizza baked in the oven. When Parker’s phone call came, she was draped over her favorite club chair watching a rerun of
The Rockford Files
and scanning through a