But our largest monument to town-twinning has got to be the Boulder Dushanbe Teahouse, which was a gift from the people of Dushanbe, Tajikistan, back in 1987. The idea is that the Teahouse represents a really, really expensive version of Tajikistan traditions, with gorgeous hand-carved and hand-painted art, a central pool with copper sculptures, delicate china, and the kind of menu where the waitstaff knows the exact humane method used to kill every animal that died for your meal.
Basically, the moment you walk in there you have to start throwing around the word “artisanal” a lot.
I had to admit, from a thematic standpoint, the Teahouse was an appropriate place for me to mend some fences with the ladies of Clan Pellar. It was also, however, pretty damned swanky. Oh, you could get away with dressing casually, although Lily had specifically requested that I dress up, but the atmosphere was upscale and sophisticated. Which meant I’d be uncomfortable the whole time I was in there. I’m not a particularly clumsy person, but whenever my mother or Sam managed to drag me to the Teahouse in the past, I always ended up feeling like the proverbial bull in a china shop.
After my shift, I raced home, let the dogs out, and unearthed a cocktail dress from the back of my closet: a sapphire-blue silk dress with a kicky skirt, small pockets, and a deep V-neck. I’d had it so long I couldn’t remember how I’d originally acquired it, but it was both flattering and comfortable. It would show off my large, intricate tattoos, which I wasn’t crazy about, but this was Boulder: it wasn’t like I’d be the only tattooed person on the block.
The sports bra I was wearing actually had a low V-neck, so I was good there, and I put on some lipstick and a pair of simple hoop earrings. After a moment of hesitation, I tugged my hair out of its ponytail and shook it out, ignoring the slight wrinkle left by the elastic band. Then I stepped into a pair of flats—I wanted to make a good impression, but it took a lot more than tea to get me into heels—and even had the foresight to toss some street clothes into a gym bag for later, in case there wasn’t time to come home before my stakeout with Simon. Then, I headed into the spare bedroom where I kept both a cranky iguana and my firearms safe.
I said hello to Mushu, dialed the combination, and swung open the safe door, looking over the contents. If we managed to find the creature and I had an actual shot at it, I would need stopping power and accuracy a hell of a lot more than I’d need to conceal my weapon, so I skipped over the Springfield in favor of the .357 Smith & Wesson revolver I’d bought at an estate sale shortly after returning from Iraq. I wanted a shotgun too, so I took out my favorite, an Ithaca Model 37 I’d inherited from my grandfather. Well, okay—my grandfather, a prolific hunter, had left it to my hippie father, who was extremely squeamish about firearms. He’d given me the Model 37 “and good riddance” in between my two tours. I owned a newer shotgun, but like my grandfather, I had a soft spot for the John Browning-designed weapon. This shotgun and I had done our part to combat the scourge of clay pigeons invading the skies of Boulder.
Picking out weapons to kill the sandworm, I decided, was way more fun than picking out clothes to impress Lily’s sisters.
I put the new pup back in her crate and carried both weapons out to the car. I locked the revolver in the glove box and circled around the car to stow the shotgun in the back. I had a permit to carry concealed, but I didn’t like to leave weapons in the car where someone could get them. I’ve had nightmares about punk kids stealing my car and using my weapons to shoot up a school or something. I couldn’t exactly bring them to the table with me, though, for so many, many reasons.
When I opened the back, however, I was surprised to see a Post-it Note stuck to the spare-tire container. I picked it up.
I took the liberty of installing this when you were in LA. Thought it might come in handy. —Q
Underneath the note was a small key, which fit into a new lock that had been affixed to the spare-tire compartment. Puzzled, I unlocked it and pulled up the top, which is when I discovered that I no longer had a spare tire in there. Instead, the space had been enlarged and refitted with soft foam, the kind that’s cut in small squares you can remove so that something nestles perfectly inside. It was big enough for the shotgun I’d packed, and about four more weapons, if I’d felt so inclined.
Quinn had built a weapons safe into my car for me.
He’d also left another gift: the soft leather quick-draw holster I’d borrowed before we stormed Billy Atwood’s house looking for Charlie. It was a custom job that could be worn either right- or left-handed, and I suspected he’d bought it with me in mind. He’d even punched a new hole in the belt, so it would fit around my hips better. The Springfield would be too short for it, but the revolver fit perfectly. I grinned. Quinn was such a romantic.
I loaded my shotgun into soft foam, relocked the little cabinet, and took off for downtown Boulder.
The Teahouse itself is a brightly colored building just off Arapahoe Ave, a breathtaking oasis of color and exoticism that always takes me by surprise when I drive by it. I parked on the street, paid the meter, and walked through the front door at exactly 4:02. The hostess took me straight to the Pellars’ table, where Lily and her sisters were already waiting.
As I approached I could pretty easily guess which Pellar sister was which: One of the two women was pleasantly plump, with glossy straightened hair, an easy smile, and a warm earth-mother confidence that exuded from her in waves. This could only be Morgan, the heir apparent. The other was a painfully thin woman with angular cheekbones, a pinched expression, and eyes that flicked around, suspicious and hungry at the same time. Obviously Sybil, and obviously unhappy.