Kitabı oku: «Private Investigations», sayfa 3

Christy understood that even while she hated it.

“I’m sorry, baby. Maybe you just weren’t meant to be a P.I. Anyway, it isn’t as though you don’t have a career waiting for you.”

Teaching. He meant she could come back home and go into the classroom. Never. Not without a fight. “Pop, I have a case. Let me solve it. Let me prove to you that I am a good P.I.”

She started to tell him about it, but he held up his hand. “I know all about Glenn Hollister and what you’re trying to do for him. I heard it last night.”

Christy had another bad feeling. Very bad. “How? Who?”

“Our competitor, Dallas McFarland, phoned me.”

“Why, that sneaky, low-down excuse for a—”

“Calm down, baby, and hear me out. McFarland had a proposition. Yes, I know. He already offered it to you and you turned it down. Well, I don’t share your biases about the man. I listened to it and in the end, your mother and I decided it made good sense. McFarland is a seasoned investigator and it’s going to take that kind of successful track record to save Glenn Hollister.”

“Oh, Pop,” she pleaded, “don’t say it. Please don’t say it.”

But he did. “Look, your mother and I agree that you have the kind of talent necessary to be a P.I. What you don’t have is the know-how that comes either from experience or learning, and since you weren’t willing to leave New Orleans to come home to us for that training—Anyway, here’s the deal. You join forces with McFarland, who’ll be kind of a mentor to you on this case and if before the ten days are up, the two of you, working together, have cracked the thing…well, then maybe Hawke’s will be interested, after all, in picking up that lease for you.”

“But that’s blackmail!” Dallas McFarland’s rotten blackmail. And why, why was he going to these extreme lengths to get her?

“Yes, baby, it kind of is. But you need a success and McFarland has what it takes to help you get it. Besides…”

A sly smile had appeared at the corners of her father’s mouth. “What?” she demanded.

“You might get close enough to learn just how he’s managed to steal all those clients from us.”

Yes, she thought, there was that.

“What do you say, baby?”

Christy drew a slow, deep breath meant to steady herself. But with that breath came all the tantalizing aromas of New Orleans—the tang of the nearby river, the perfume of its flowers, the old, mossy smells of its damp earth, the odors of its famous cooking. They were all blended together on the warm, lazy air, and they made her ache inside, as did the sight of St. Louis Cathedral rising so majestically from the edge of the square where they stood. She couldn’t bear to surrender them.

“All right, Pop, I accept your ultimatum. It stinks, but I accept it.”

The crinkles deepened at the corners of Casey’s eyes. “Don’t think of it as an ultimatum, baby. Think of it as a challenge.”

After putting her father in a cab, she went back to her office. “Call McFarland,” she instructed Denise. “Tell him I’ll meet him on the street outside the Claiborne and Hollister houses. He can talk to Monica while I interview Glenn. One hour and if he isn’t there the deal is off.”

Denise had one of her all-knowing looks.

“Don’t say it,” Christy warned her. “Not one word.”

Denise didn’t, but it didn’t help. The idea of Dallas McFarland as her salvation was infuriating.

THE TWO HOMES were situated side by side in the heart of the Garden District. Built by some eccentric Claiborne ancestor after the family had recovered its fortunes, they were something of a curiosity. Not just because they were identical, which they were, in nearly every respect, but because of their architecture. They were in the style known as Steamboat Gothic.

And you didn’t have to wonder what that meant, Christy thought. Their galleries, embellished with elaborate scroll-work, were more like the decks of floating palaces than porches, while the cupolas crowning their roofs resembled wheelhouses.

Christy never passed them without slowing down for a look, partly because she’d known that Glenn and his wife occupied one of the houses, and that Laura’s sister lived in the other. This morning, however, her attention was directed elsewhere.

He was already there, his cream-colored convertible parked at the curb in the shade of a glossy-leafed magnolia. If he was conscious of her arrival when she pulled up behind his vehicle, he was much too occupied to be interested in it. He’d left his car and was standing at the low wrought iron fence that framed both properties. There was an odd intensity in his manner, in the way he was so completely absorbed with the Hollister house, his eyes searching the windows.

What was he looking for? Christy wondered. What did he expect to see? And what was she doing sitting here at the wheel of her Escort watching him?

But the answer to that one was obvious, much as she hated to acknowledge it. She was admiring him, that’s what she was blatantly doing. And, worse luck, there was a lot to admire.

McFarland’s long, lean figure was clad in a trim, light gray business suit that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. And wouldn’t you know, she’d be dressed in her regulation knee-length shorts and baseball cap. Oh, they were going to make quite a team all right, a real contrast in styles.

As a concession to the warmth of the morning, however, he did have the jacket off and slung over one shoulder, the knot of his tie loosened, the sleeves of his deep blue shirt turned back over a pair of strongly corded forearms. Unfortunately, the effect wasn’t as casual as it was downright sexy. Drat. Working with this guy was going to be even harder than she’d figured.

Tugging grimly at the brim of her cap, Christy left her car and joined him at the fence. He turned his head, favoring her with one of his cocky grins.

“So, grits, what’s your take on your new partner?”

So he had been aware that she was checking him out. Great. “We are not partners,” she informed him brusquely. “Not even remotely are we partners. This is a temporary arrangement, McFarland, and when it’s ended—which can’t be soon enough for me—we go our separate ways.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. Rules.”

One of those dark, aggressive eyebrows lifted. “Rules?”

“Rules. And either you agree to them, or I walk.”

“Listening.”

Christy used the spikes on the top of the iron fence to count them off. “First, we split down the middle all fees and expenses. I don’t care what Monica Claiborne is paying you, it gets equally divided between us. Second, we share all information. No holding back and if I find out you have any hidden agendas—”

“Such as?”

“Just don’t have them.” She jabbed at the next spike. “Third, and this is very important, we stick to business. All business. No more touchy-feely stuff like up in that attic.”

“Ow, that’s a sharp one, grits. Painful.”

He didn’t know how painful. Those lethal green eyes of his were reminding her, all over again, of that brief, breathless intimacy they’d shared. Made it tough to concentrate on delivering her rules.

“And that’s another thing. I want you to stop calling me grits.”

“Well, now, see, that one might be a little difficult. It’s kind of gotten inside my head.”

“Then get it out.”

“Does it qualify as a spike?” Her expression must have warned him that her aggravation was at a dangerous level, because he added a hasty, “I’ll try. Is that all?”

“For now.”

“Then shall we go to work?”

She watched him roll down his sleeves, button them, tighten his tie, slip into his jacket. And she wondered why she should be so annoyed that he was making himself gorgeous for Monica Claiborne?

THEY MET AGAIN by their parked cars to share the information they had gathered in their separate interviews.

“This could take a while,” Dallas said. “We might as well sit while we talk. Your car or mine?”

Christy wasn’t certain that she cared to get comfortable with him in either car. She preferred a neutral ground for their exchange. Where? The clang of an approaching trolley on nearby St. Charles Avenue provided the answer.

“How do you feel about streetcars?”

“Streetcars are good.”

“Then let’s ride one.”

They reached the corner in time to board the old, olive-green car that served one of the last lines of its kind. Paying their fares, they squeezed into a slatted seat.

Dallas barely gave her a chance to get settled before he wanted to know, “And how is ol’ Glenn holding up?”

The sarcasm in his tone whenever he referred to Glenn irritated her. He obviously considered him capable of his wife’s murder, which was not exactly the best way to represent your client. All right, so strictly speaking Glenn was her client, but still…

“He’s just dandy. Or would be, if he didn’t have a murder charge staring him in the face.”

“There’s a little girl, isn’t there? She okay?”

“I didn’t see Daisy, but I imagine someone is taking good care of her.”

Dallas fell silent as the trolley rumbled on through the Garden District with its classic mansions. His face was impassive and she wondered what he was thinking. Before she could ask, he had another question for her.

“And Hollister has no idea who might have wanted his wife dead?”

“Not a clue.”

“What about Laura’s car? It must have been parked somewhere near the old plantation house. If Glenn followed her out to Resurrection, why didn’t he see it, know that she must still be there? Did you ask him about that?”

“Of course I asked him. He said it was there, that the police had found it parked out of sight behind this tangle of shrubbery. But since Glenn had no reason to suppose she might have hidden it or to check out the cemetery either, he assumed she wasn’t there, after all, and he left.”

“In an agitated state. Why, if he never saw her?”

“He was upset about their marriage,” Christy explained. “He’d been upset for some time. He’d counted on having it out with her about their problems and was angry that she wasn’t available.”

“Seems a funny thing to do, going out there like that on the chance she’d be there. Why not wait until she got home to talk to her about it?”

“It was one of those spur of the moment things. An I’ve-had-it-and-I’m-going-to-settle-it-right-now emotion. We’ve all had them.”

“Yeah, but a couple of hikers didn’t see us tearing away from the scene and a teenager out hunting rabbits the next morning didn’t find our wife with her head bashed in.” Aware of Christy glaring at him, Dallas offered a quick, “Hey, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, trying to look at all the angles. I’m not condemning the guy. I know that his marriage was in trouble. Monica told me that.”

“I hope she also told you that her sister had gotten very strange these past few months. Glenn said Laura had become withdrawn and wouldn’t talk about it. Something was going on with her and I’m thinking it could have been another man, that she was meeting him at Resurrection, which would explain why she was out there so much and didn’t come home some nights.”

“That would be a handy solution. Laura cheating on ol’ Glenn and her secret lover doing her in.” Dallas shook his head. “Except it doesn’t work. And not because Laura Hollister wasn’t the type to have an affair. She just wouldn’t have been troubled about it.”

“How do you know what type she was? Oh, Monica, I suppose. And would you please stop crowding me?”

Christy had grown increasingly aware of his disarming closeness. He was pressed so tightly against her that she could feel the heat of his solid body, smell the scent of his soap. His nearness was making her slightly woozy.

“Can’t help it. In case you haven’t noticed, these seats aren’t exactly generous.”

“Do you have to have your arm there?” It was draped along the back of the seat, not exactly around her but close enough to be threateningly cozy. She was beginning to realize the trolley hadn’t been a safe choice.

“Nowhere else to put it,” he said with an innocence she was learning not to trust. “And it’s not about sex. It’s about money.”

“Huh?”

He chuckled. “Pay attention. The Hollister marriage. Money was the problem there. Laura liked to spend it, particularly on jewelry, and her husband earned a teacher’s salary. Monica said they argued about that all the time.”

“But there should have been plenty. Glenn told me that, though Monica controlled the sisters’ inheritance, she doled out a generous monthly allowance to Laura.”

“Not enough to suit Laura. Monica said her sister asked to have that allowance increased and was furious when she turned her down.”

Dallas fell silent again. There was a faraway look on his face that Christy wondered about. Why did she have the persistent feeling he had some personal stake in this case, something he was unwilling to reveal to her?

“Hello,” she prompted him.

“Sorry. You were saying?”

“Actually, I was hoping you would be saying it. You spent as much time with Monica as I spent with Glenn, but nearly everything we’ve got so far has come from Glenn. Didn’t you get anything useful from her that could provide us with a strong lead?”

“Well, now that’s interesting,” he said with an exasperating casualness, “because it’s just possible I did.”

“Do I get to hear it?” she asked him impatiently.

“Would I hold out on a partner?”

Yes, if it suited you, Christy thought, but she didn’t say it.

“It seems,” Dallas went on with that same nonchalance, “that the police investigators went and turned up something curious in this little clearing behind the family cemetery where Laura’s body was found. They questioned Monica about it. Wanted to know if she knew anything about her property having been used as a setting for voodoo practices.”

“Voodoo! You mean the kind people don’t kid about? The sick stuff?”

“Could be.”

“And you’re just now mentioning this? What exactly did they find?”

“Evidence that there may have been midnight ceremonies, the sacrifice of small animals. Monica was shocked.”

Christy suddenly remembered the chicken feathers blown up against the iron fence enclosing the cemetery and how she had ignored them, which didn’t make her happy about her detecting skills.

There was something else she remembered—that small bunch of dried plant material she’d been reaching for in the attic when the swallows had startled her. She told Dallas about it.

“So that’s how you ended up down in that hole doing a trapeze act from a gas pipe. What happened to the stuff?”

“It crumbled to bits as I grabbed at it, and since by then I had, uh, a few other things to occupy me, I forgot about it. But it occurs to me now it could have been a voodoo charm. That means,” she said excitedly, “Laura might have been involved with some kind of cult. And that could explain why she went out so often to Resurrection and didn’t come home some nights. It could also explain her death.”

“It could,” Dallas agreed, “but since she died in the afternoon around the same time as her husband’s visit out there, the police aren’t ready to connect her murder with any late-night rituals.”

“But we have to be serious about that possibility,” Christy insisted.

“Right. Let’s go.”

He came abruptly to his feet, moving out into the aisle as the trolley slowed for one of its stops. Christy followed him as he headed for the exit.

“Where to?”

“Back to our cars.”

“And then?”

He didn’t reply. He was too busy making a path for them through a party of chattering tourists trying to board the trolley as they were leaving it. By the time she caught up with him, he had reached another trolley headed in the opposite direction.

“Lots of questions to be answered, grits,” he said as he hustled her aboard the car. “Yeah, I know. Don’t call you that. Look, don’t think of it as food. Think of it as all the courage I admire in you.”

Christy let that one pass. For now, anyway. “And just where are you taking us to get them answered?” she demanded again as she sank into one of the seats.

“Someplace that’s going to fascinate you,” he promised as he settled beside her. “Either that or scare you to death.”

Chapter Three

Christy had always believed she knew the city and its environs so well that she could qualify as a New Orleans cab driver. That was before Dallas McFarland took her into a neighborhood so alien to her she would have sworn they were no longer in New Orleans, maybe not even Louisiana.

The houses, packed shoulder to shoulder along the tangle of narrow streets, looked like something Charles Addams might have executed in one of his more sinister cartoons. And their occupants, eyeing the cream-colored convertible as it passed, wore expressions that were even less cheerful.

“You sure we’re not lost?” Christy demanded.

“Relax,” Dallas assured her, negotiating the maze with perfect confidence.

“Well, I think we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost.”

“Then why won’t you tell me where you’re taking me?”

“Don’t have to. We’re there.”

He pulled over to the curb, parking in front of a structure that seemed to be listing dangerously. Vines smothered its walls, climbing onto the mossy roof.

“It doesn’t look safe,” Christy decided. “Who lives here?”

“It isn’t a house, it’s a store,” he said, sliding out from behind the wheel. “And stop being so nervous. You’re a P.I., remember?”

“I’m not nervous. I’m just cautious, that’s all.” She exited the car from the passenger side and followed him up onto the porch. “What kind of store?”

“The kind that sells voodoo supplies.”

Which shouldn’t have surprised her. This was New Orleans, after all, and they were after answers. But Christy was still a bit uneasy as she followed him into the store. With good reason, too, she thought as she gazed around the dim interior.

The place was like a wizard’s cavern. Black candles burned on either end of a counter and shelves ranged along the walls were piled with dust-laden merchandise that didn’t bear thinking about. There was a strong aroma in the air that seemed to be a combination of incense, fried onions and an old graveyard. Definitely on the creepy side.

“Everything but a smoking cauldron,” Christy whispered.

Dallas chuckled. “She could probably produce one for you, providing the price was right.”

“Who?”

“The reigning queen of voodoo in New Orleans. This is her store.”

“Oh.” Christy looked around. They were alone in the shop. “Where is she?”

“Patience.”

“Maybe we should call out a hello, ding a bell or something to let her know she’s got customers.”

“She knows we’re here. Look,” he urged, “why don’t you have a look around while we’re waiting? You know you want to.”

Christy had to admit she was curious. She wandered along the shelves inspecting masks, the skull of a goat, ritual altars, dolls and various powders and charms. “This is fascinating.”

“All for the tourists,” he said, trailing after her. “I suspect the serious stuff is in a private room by invitation only.”

She leaned down, squinting at a label on a sealed jar. “What’s High John the Conqueror’s root?”

“How should I know?”

There were other jars, other labels. Stop Evil Floor Wash, Luck-in-a-Hurry Incense, Come To Me Oil, Mogo Love Drops, and something called Bendover that Christy preferred not to question. The instinct that promised to serve her well as a P.I. kicked in again without warning when she saw a jar marked Black Snake Root. The word black seemed to leap out at her.

“There’s something that’s just occurred to me,” she told Dallas. “What if Laura Hollister’s need for money had nothing to do with her expensive tastes? What if it was for something else?”

Dallas didn’t seem to find it at all odd that she should start discussing a subject that probably had little or no relation to the voodoo supplies she was examining. “You don’t mean voodoo, do you?”

“No, blackmail.” He was thoughtful for a second. “That’s a possibility. Definitely a possibility. We’ll need to look into that, too.”

There was approval in his voice. Christy would have been pleased by it, had she not become suddenly aware of the silence in the store. It was unnerving. “I don’t know about you, but I get the feeling there are eyes on me.”

“We are being watched,” he said calmly. “She just wants to be sure you’re okay.”

Christy refrained from shuddering as she peered at another label. “What on earth would you do with alligator teeth?”

“Bite your enemy?”

“Anyway,” she went on, “maybe Glenn will turn up a connection. I asked him to go through all of Laura’s personal effects as soon as possible and let us know what he finds.”

“Good thinking.”

This was twice within the same moment that he had complimented her. Did he mean it? Christy glanced at him, fearing he might be laughing at her again behind those compelling green eyes. No, she could see his praise was genuine, leaving her with a warm glow—a reaction that was definitely disturbing.

The situation threatened to turn awkward. Christy was saved from that by a sudden rattle of the beaded curtain hanging from the doorway behind the counter. She turned to see a stately African-American woman emerge from the back regions of the store, a smile of welcome on her handsome face.

The voodoo queen would have made Brenda Bornowski green with envy. She was a riot of color in a scarlet turban, a boldly printed caftan and heavy rings that covered the long fingers of both hands. Christy was impressed.

The voice that issued a delighted, “Sugar!” as she swept toward them was strong and deep. “What a wicked coquin you are to neglect us all these weeks! But I forgive you.”

She expressed that forgiveness by wrapping Dallas in a lusty embrace. Christy groaned. Not another one! Wasn’t there any female in this town immune to this brash devil?

Pecking Dallas on both cheeks, the voodoo queen released him with a quick apology. “I’m sorry you had to wait. I was in the back with a client.”

Casting a spell? Christy wondered as the woman turned to her, luminous dark eyes registering her curiosity.

“Who have you brought with you?”

“This is Christy Hawke,” Dallas explained. “We’re working together on a case. Christy, I have the honor, the very great honor, of introducing you to Camille Leveau, a direct descendant of the famous Marie Leveau.”

No one lived in New Orleans for any length of time without knowing that Marie Leveau had been a celebrated nineteenth century voodoo queen. Christy was no exception. She also knew that Camille Leveau wasn’t the first voodoo practitioner to claim descent from Marie. There were even those who had boasted they were the reincarnation of the voodoo queen. How authentic was Camille’s own assertion was anyone’s guess. And as the glint in Dallas’s eyes when they met Christy’s gaze told her, what did it really matter?

All dignity now, Camille extended her hand. Christy took it, murmuring her pleasure as the beaded curtain parted again and Dallas swiftly rounded the counter to pump the hand of the new arrival, an elderly man with skin like seamed mahogany, who moved with the aid of a cane.

“Chester! I haven’t seen you since that night at Preservation Hall,” he said, referring to the French Quarter’s famed jazz center, “when you had all of us cheering.”

“Oh, I can still blow a mean horn all right, when my daughter here lets me.”

Christy gazed at Dallas as he and Chester exchanged pleasant memories. She realized that these people were comfortable with him, obviously fond of him. It was understandable because this was an unexpected Dallas McFarland, one she hadn’t discovered until now. Gone were the arrogance and the cynicism. In their place were gentleness and kindness as he listened patiently to the old man. Christy found herself liking what she was seeing, and that worried her.

There must have been a softness in her expression that the voodoo queen observed and mistook for longing, because as the two men went on reminiscing, Camille drew her aside.

“You want him, huh?” she whispered. “And why not? He is one exciting man, that one. Those shoulders alone are—”

“Hey, hold on! You’ve got it all wrong!”

Ignoring Christy’s objection, the voodoo queen went on earnestly. “I can make it possible, chérie. I can give you a potion that will not only put him in your bed, it will have him performing with great power.”

“No, really I, uh—”

“And if the strength of the potion is right,” she promised, “he will be your love slave for as long as you desire.”

“No,” Christy choked. “See, this is strictly a business arrangement with McFarland and me, nothing else, and, um…well, anyway, thank you, but, no. Definitely no.”

Camille lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.

Dallas couldn’t possibly have overheard them, but Christy could swear he knew exactly what they’d been talking about. One of those expressive eyebrows lifted suggestively as he cast a look in her direction that, if not exactly lewd, was positively hot with meaning. She could feel her face flaming. The worst of it was, when their eyes met she experienced something that was more than just embarrassment. She didn’t care to define it.

Christy was relieved when Chester excused himself and they were able to address the matter that had brought them there.

“We need information, Camille,” Dallas appealed. “Whatever you can tell us.”

He went on to explain Laura Hollister’s death, how they had been hired to clear her husband of her murder and the possible voodoo connection with the case. Camille listened without comment, her face betraying no emotion. She was silent when Dallas finished.

“Anything?” he implored.

The voodoo queen slid her gaze in Christy’s direction, commanding softly, “This small bunch of dried plant material he says you saw in the attic out there at Resurrection where she died—describe it, please.”

Christy did to the best of her ability.

Camille nodded wisely. “A gris-gris.”

“What is a gris-gris?”

“A charm. Sometimes they are meant to keep away evil, sometimes they are meant to cause evil. Without seeing or touching this one, I can’t know which.”

“What else can you tell us?” Dallas urged.

“Nothing.”

“There must be something.”

“Only this. There is good voodoo and there is bad voodoo. Me, I practice the good. I am a conjure doctor. People come to me to have curses removed that were laid on them or to buy my cures for bad habits. I help people, I don’t hurt them. You understand this?” She seemed anxious for them to believe that she performed only beneficial services.

“We understand,” Dallas said smoothly. “Now tell us about the other voodoo, Camille. The kind that’s evil. It’s here in New Orleans, isn’t it?”

“I tell you, I know nothing about it.”

She’s lying, Christy thought. She does know something, but she’s afraid to talk about it. That was apparent in the way Camille held herself rigidly and in the way her mouth had tightened so stubbornly. Now why would a voodoo queen, with all her power, fear another form of voodoo?

Christy tried herself to reach the woman. “Would you tell us this then?” she probed gently. “Did Laura Hollister ever come to you?”

“Why should she?”

“Maybe just to buy supplies. Or maybe she needed your help. Maybe she was involved in something she was desperate to get out of.”

Camille shook her head. “Your Laura Hollister was never a visitor to my store.”

“But you do know something, don’t you, Camille?” Dallas persisted. “There isn’t much that goes on in this city that you don’t know about. Come on, why won’t you tell us?”

Camille turned her head, staring at him for a long, indecisive moment. Then, her voice solemn and low, she reluctantly admitted, “I hear things, yes. Things about a dark voodoo that I despise. A destructive voodoo. But it is dangerous to talk about these people and their activities. This I won’t do. I know little enough anyway.”

“Isn’t there anything useful you can give us?”

She considered his request. “If you want to know more, you must go to the old St. Louis cemetery. Use your eyes and if you look hard enough, you may see for yourself.”

“But which St. Louis cemetery?” Christy pressed her. “There are three of them, aren’t there?”

“It doesn’t matter which. Just be careful. The old cemeteries are no longer safe.” She held up her hand as Dallas started to object. “No, sugar, I have nothing more to say, not even for you.”

The voodoo queen conducted them to the front door. When Dallas tried to pay her for her service, she refused. “I don’t want to be paid for something I want no part of. But, wait.”

Leaving Dallas at the door, she drew Christy back into the store. Reaching under the counter, she produced a small, simple red cloth doll and placed it in Christy’s hand. “A gift,” she murmured. “No charge.”

Christy glanced at the tiny figure in her hand, not sure that she cared to be the recipient of what was, plainly, a voodoo doll. Her apprehension must have been evident, because Camille laughed softly.

“There is nothing to fear in a red doll, chérie. Red is for love.” Her gaze slid briefly, but meaningfully, in Dallas’s direction. “Believe in it, and it may bring you all that you desire.”

Christy didn’t know how to refuse the voodoo queen without offending her. Murmuring a quick thanks, she stuffed the doll into her shoulder bag.

When they got outside, Dallas wanted to know, “What was that all about? What did she give you?”

“Oh, just a little charm meant to bring me luck.”

“Uh-huh.”

He didn’t believe her, of course. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. Damn the voodoo queen for thinking she had a thing for Dallas McFarland!