Undying Laughter

“I hope you have a girlfriend, Dr. Porter,” she said, trying to keep her tone light.

“Why?”

“Because,” she began as they reached the package covered by bright green floral wrap, “she’ll think you’re wonderful. But if I were you, I’d lose the card first.”

Wesley had begun to reach inside the paper when Destiny automatically grabbed for his hand. His skin was heated beneath her palm, momentarily distracting her.

“Don’t bother,” she said.

But apparently this man had a mind of his own. Destiny’s hand fell away as he gently removed the envelope and pulled the card from inside.

His brows drew together as he read what she knew was the neatly typed message: SOME DIE LAUGHING.

Chapter Two

“What the hell does this mean?” Wesley demanded, waving the small card in his hand.

“It means I have an admirer with an even sicker sense of humor than my own,” she answered, trying to make light of the situation. “If I ever find out who has been sending these to me, I’ll refer them to you for professional help.”

It was obvious from the ominous expression in his blue eyes that Dr. Porter shared Gina’s concern over the succession of notes.

“How long has this been going on?”

Averting her eyes from the potted blossoms, Destiny answered, “About three months.”

“Have you contacted the authorities?”

She met his gaze. “Do you have any idea how many cities I’ve been in during that time?”

Wesley shook his head.

“My manager did hire a private detective,” she began, unable to keep the disgust out of her voice. “He proved himself completely inept, to the point of not even bothering to show up last night. Instead, I received a crumpled bill from his office, along with a poorly typed memo indicating that Greg Miller, private investigator, hadn’t uncovered squat.”

“Then maybe you should hire someone here.”

“And waste more money?” she scoffed. “No, thanks. I’m sure whoever is sending these things will eventually get the hint. Or,” she added as she leaned closer, “the florists will run out of gardenias, and he’ll be out of luck.”

“This note doesn’t give me the impression that we’re dealing with an admirer,” Wesley told her. “It’s too threatening. Too indicative that he is not overly fond of you.”

Destiny rolled her eyes. “Fond?” she repeated with a throaty laugh. “Live dangerously, Dr. Porter. This bozo obviously hates me. But that’s okay, I hate gardenias. So I guess he and I are running about even.”

She watched as deep lines appeared at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

“Lighten up, Doctor. I’m not saying I’m thrilled by his persistence, but he’s hardly overtly threatening. He hasn’t come near me.”

“Why are you so convinced it’s a man?”

“Gina’s picked him out of the audience. Wait until tomorrow night. If he comes, which he always does, I’ll have Gina point him out to you.”

“Did your assistant have a vision, or is there something in particular about this man that makes you believe he’s your morbid admirer?”

“Can we get out of the sun?” she asked, not really interested in discussing the matter any further. Lord knew, it was a topic both Gina and David had beaten into the ground during the past several months.

“Sorry,” she heard him mumble as he slipped a key into the ornate lock and opened the door.

It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior, even after he’d flipped a switch to turn on dim, period chandeliers.

“Wow,” she said as she admired the long, rectangular room. Tables were arranged with wide aisles leading up to a small, but certainly sufficient, stage. The lighting she saw at the base of the stage was fine upon inspection. All in all, The Rose Tattoo promised to be a fairly decent engagement. “When David told me I’d be playing in an outbuilding, I sure wasn’t expecting anything like this.”

“That’s because my oldest boy and his wife did the renovations.”

Destiny twirled around at the sound of the female voice echoing through the room. A woman she placed somewhere in her early fifties sashayed toward them. Her outfit was outrageous—animal-print, skintight pants, a form-fitting blouse and bleached hair that nearly touched the ceiling. Garish clothing aside, Destiny was drawn to the woman’s warm, welcoming smile.

“I’m Rose Porter,” she said, extending her hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

She turned to Wesley and said, “I saw the flowers outside. Your idea?”

Wesley shook his head. “I’m afraid they came with Miss Talbott,” he answered dryly.

“Maybe we should make it a practice to send all our performers a little something,” Rose said thoughtfully. “Maybe an Elvis tape.”

Destiny watched as Wesley tried to hide a cringe behind square-tipped fingers. “We’ll think about it.”

“Anything you need,” Rose began, “just let us know.”

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Destiny answered. Especially if I get to catch the occasional glimpse of Dr. Porter while I’m here.

* * *

“I‘VE CALLED THE STATION house,” Gina was saying, her words running together in an agitated string.

Destiny had barely time to deposit her purse on the rattan sofa before her friend had launched into a long, involved explanation for her failure to show up at The Rose Tattoo. Destiny had stayed through dinner, at Rose’s insistence. Unfortunately, Dr. Porter had disappeared before the lunch crush.

“I can call Western Union and make an immediate cash transfer. I think they said five hundred dollars for the bond.”

“Don’t bother,” Destiny said with a sad sigh.

Gina’s faced wrinkled in astonishment. “What do you mean?”

“He can spend the night in jail. God knows he’s done it often enough before.”

She walked over to the refrigerator and rummaged around until she found a diet soda, then lifted one of the leaded glasses from a neatly arranged tray. Each ice cube made a pleasant sound as she dropped it into the glass. She retrieved the bottle of soda and poured herself a generous portion.

Gina stood a few feet away, her hands resting on her nonexistent hips. Destiny never ceased to be amazed by the slenderness of the woman. She often remarked that even during the throes of PMS, Gina never managed to balloon above a size three. The fact that she was five-eight in her stocking feet mattered little, or that she still carried herself like the famous cover model she had once been.

“C’mon Destiny, Carl’s your father. And your mother was really adamant when she called.”