Tucker and his mother had fallen silent and turned to look at him.
“Oh shit,” Mango whispered.
His mother gasped and tucked Mango’s head to her breast. “Dylan Benjamin Jackson,” she hissed. “Tell me you did not use profanity in front of Mango.”
For perhaps the first time ever, Dylan was almost grateful to the pink chicken for his timely interruption. “Mom, really, it’s not like he—”
“You know how fond he is of reciting anything said with drama. If he so much as repeats that one time during bingo, I’ll—”
“I’m sure he’s heard far worse at the fire house. And really, it’s not like the ladies have never—”
His mother cut him off with her trademark Glacial Glare of Doom, then flipped her attention back to Liza. Before Dylan could open his mouth to sidetrack her again, or better yet come up with a rapid explanation, she said, “So, you’re the floozy keeping my son from getting married, hmm?”
Liza’s blue eyes—which only a second earlier had been dancing in amusement at his maternal dressing-down—popped wide as she looked from Avis, to him, then back to Avis. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dylan’s stripper. From Vegas.” She turned to him and said, “I guess I should be happy you’re getting it from somewhere. I’d almost begun to think maybe you were hiding something from me. Although you could have told me you were gay, you know. I’m hip. I’m…what do they call it? Down with that?”
Dylan’s eyes bulged. “What? When did you come up with that idea?” And how many people had she shared her little theory with? He groaned, thinking back to the way the old-timers at Pete’s Barber Shop had fallen silent the other day when he’d walked in. “And since when do you use phrases like ‘down with that’?”
Avis had to raise her voice to be heard over Tucker’s howls of laughter. “I have cable. I watch that cute Carson Daly on MTV. And what’s a mother supposed to think when every young lady she introduces you to—”
“You mean shoves down my throat,” he argued, forgetting Liza for the moment. “Like that poor woman who stopped by the VFW Hall last week during bingo to use the rest room?”
“Bingo!” Mango piped up. “B-12, N-35! We have a winner!”
Avis sniffed and stroked Mango’s feathers. “Perhaps I’ve grown a bit desperate. It’s hardly my fault. I want grandchildren to dandle on my lap while I can still sit upright.”
As far as he knew, she’d never even dandled him on her lap. She’d been too busy feeding her flock. “And you think that accosting every—”
“Shush now,” Avis commanded, then turned a forced smile toward Liza. “Introduce me to your stripper.”
“I’m not a stripper,” Liza interjected, looking amused once more.
“No,” Tucker said, still chuckling. “She’s a showgirl, Mrs. Jackson. Remember, Dylan told us all about how she could never find the time to visit due to the two-a-night shows she performs at the Tropicana.”
Avis eyed Liza. “Doesn’t look tall enough to be a showgirl. Aren’t showgirls usually taller? She’s got the boobs for stripping, though.” She looked down at her own meager chest. “Saw a program on the Discovery channel about showgirls. Always thought it would be fun to wear those tassel things and…” She looked at Liza, and in all seriousness, asked, “Do you know how to make them swing in circles and—”
“Mother!” Dylan felt his stomach burn, and automatically fished in his pockets for a roll of antacids. Only he didn’t have any. That’s why he was sheriff of Canyon Springs and not vice squad detective in Las Vegas anymore. So he didn’t have to pop Tums like they were gumdrops. He gently tugged his mother away from the car. “I’m sorry, Liza. This is all a huge misunderstanding.” He turned to Avis. “Mom, this isn’t what you think. She’s—”
“Really pleased to finally meet you, Mrs. Jackson,” Liza interrupted, nudging her door open and climbing out. She bent down and scooped up her slings and slipped them on her feet, instantly adding a little showgirl length to those fabulous legs of hers.
Avis looked her up and down. “Add one of those headdress thingies and I guess you could fill the bill.” She transferred Mango to one sturdy forearm and stuck out a liver-spotted hand. “Sorry if I offended. I just worry about my boy, is all. He’s thirty-two, you understand. Pleasure to meet you.” She shot a reproving look at Dylan. “Finally.”
Liza grinned and winked at Dylan. “Pleasure is all mine, trust me.”
What the hell did she think she was up to? As if this farce hadn’t played out too long already.
Dylan squeezed between them, determined to straighten this out immediately. “Mom, this isn’t—”
“The place for formal introductions,” Liza interrupted. “Your son was just about to take me to lunch. We’d love to have you join us.”
Avis’s face flushed with surprised pleasure. Dylan swore silently. He didn’t know what Liza’s game was, but he wasn’t going to play along.
His mother patted her braid and adjusted her hat. “I’m not really dressed for lunch. I was out in the garden, weeding, when Mango pushed the screen out again and tried one of his little flying hops. He hates to be away from me. Don’t you, boy,” she said, snuggling Mango’s salmon-colored head, which he’d tucked against her chest. “He’s clipped, but the breeze lifted him, and next thing I knew, he was gone.”
“Again,” Dylan asserted, but no one was listening to him.
“You look fine,” Liza assured Avis. She turned to Tucker and gave him her testosterone-booster smile. “I’m sure Marshal Greywolf wouldn’t mind seeing to Mango, as he’s been in the firehouse before, right?”
Tucker took one look at Dylan’s obvious discomfort and stepped right in, all grins and helpful as hell. “Not a problem. Come on, Mango buddy. Let’s take a walk.”
He stuck out his arm and Mrs. Jackson gave the big bird one last cuddle, then said, “Step up, precious.”
The bird dutifully did so, then looked at Dylan as if to say, “It’s not women I prefer, just anyone but you.”
Yeah, same to you pal, Dylan thought as he watched Tucker hold Mango close to his chest and saunter back down the block toward the station.
“Oh goodness, I almost forgot.” Avis grabbed Dylan’s wrist and turned it so she could read his watch. “I have a ladies auxiliary meeting. We’re discussing the final plans for our Fiesta Day booth.” She placed a hand on Liza’s forearm. “You will be staying for the fiesta, won’t you, dear? We’re having our famous salsa-making contest. People come from all over. It’s a real event. Nothing fancy like they have in Vegas, I’m sure, but—”
Dylan stepped in, taking Liza’s arm in his, mostly to get her out of his mother’s clutches. “I don’t think Liza can—”
“Liza can speak for herself,” Liza said, extricating her arm and smiling at Avis, who was looking well pleased at the way she was handling herself.
Great,
