Hot Stuff by C. J. Fosdick

 
    Chapter One
    “There’s a cop at the door,” my grandmother sang as she popped out my earplug at the bridge of my favorite song.
    The bud dropped to the sleeping cat on my lap, waking him with a start. His tail whacked the can of cola perched on my computer table, spilling half the contents onto my keyboard before I could spring into action using my baggy Einstein T-shirt to sponge up rivers of pop channeling between the letters of my laptop .
    “Cripes, Gran, do you have to sneak up on me!” I unplugged the keyboard, losing the file I was working on. Writing ad copy for a new brand of adult diapers was slipping into writer’s block, anyway. How did anyone come up with clever slogans to hype a personal product nobody admits to needing? Even Wisconsin’s badger mascot wore a tastefully conservative sweater in the logo…without the encumbrance of pants.
    “ Heartlight,” Neil Diamond crooned from the earplug before I unplugged the iPod still dangling from my neck. In a wild toss to my bed, I upset the plastic jar of conversation hearts teetering on my night stand. Like broken pearls, the candy scattered over the hardwood floor.
    The cat pounced after one rolling under the bed.
    I felt the pop stain seeping into the crotch of my leggings. A new use for adult diapers?
    “Clean up in aisle four,” Gran chirped from the doorway, scanning the mess.
    We both dropped to hands and knees, scooping up the candy.
    “There’s a cop at the door,” she repeated. “You know the drill better than I.”
    Right. The drill. Barring salesmen or religious proselytizers, we were used to the occasional visit from irate neighbors or the law. Depending on either complaint or warning, I would paste on an innocent smile, hawk up surprise, and then pour out a heartfelt apology with enough charm to get my brother out of a potential law jam.
    Evan was autistic. Not enough to keep him from bicycling to a job cleaning floors and tables at a local diner. Certainly not enough to keep him home or even medicated. Aside from his lack of eye contact—or his obsession with TV shows like The Amazing Race— he was almost normal to Gran and me…a source of amusement that tapped into the burlesque of life. Living with Evan always kept us grounded.
    Normal as anyone who collects things. Unfortunately, Evan liked to collect garden gnomes, solar lights, any kind of yard ornament with little regard to who owned them. The neighbors who still spoke to us understood. Some of them even nailed down their outside décor and hoisted their flags to a height requiring a ladder. When more than an apology was needed, we queued up a plate of Gran’s specialty—Snickerdoodles. I caught a whiff of cinnamon on Gran as I scooped a handful of candy hearts into my T-shirt pocket. We were prepared for the day.
    The cop was slim and wide-shouldered, with blue eyes that almost matched his shirt. His cap had the familiar MFPD blue and gold triangular badge depicting the waterfall that gave Menomonee Falls its name in 1880. The logo repeated on his shirt sleeve. Dallas, I presumed, was his name, embroidered on the pocket of his shirt. Aside from the standard leather belt and equipment that hung from it, he wore dark jeans and cowboy boots. Not exactly below-the-belt standard dress for most uniformed cops. This one was also younger than most. Tall, dark, easy to look at. I didn’t have to fake a smile.
    He looked ready to use the walky-talky in his hands when I pushed open the screen door and stepped onto our covered porch, hiding the stains embroidering the bottom of my T-shirt by folding my arms across my waist. I hoped I didn’t look too confrontational—or too irrational with a wild-haired Einstein plastered against my chest. “Can I help you?”
    “Are you Mrs. Sanders?” He placed his walky-talky in his belt and glanced at the open notepad he pulled out of his pocket. “Mrs. Marjorie Sanders?” he drawled.
    I always was a sucker for a drawl…and startling