"Sure." I wondered if I'd hit a sore spot, but I wasn't sure where the misstep had been. He'd talked easily enough about his other sisters and their families, so why would Kate's relationship status be off limits?

  After setting the platter down on Hunter's bare kitchen counter, I moved to the cabinet and took out two cobalt blue plates. Then stuck my head in the fridge. Sure enough, there was a bowl of salad ready to rock and roll. I withdrew that, along with the lone bottle of salad dressing, and carried the haul to the table.

  "I see you've made yourself at home." Hunter watched from doorway.

  "Well, you knew I snooped last time I was here alone. Figured I might as well put it to good use. Other than character assessment, of course."

  This got me a raised eyebrow. "And what does my place say about my character?"

  I paused and looked over my shoulder at him. "You sure you want my assessment?"

  A small smile tilted his lips, and he gave a slight nod.

  I took a deep breath. "Okay, well first off, you're a pseudo health nut, though not as bad as I first thought."

  He blinked. Just once, as though asking me to elaborate.

  "It's the meats and greens combo," I explained. "Most men would just go for the protein and say to hell with the vegetables. No carbs, which is what made me think dietary obsessive, but you're not in a committed relationship with lean meat. This is the second time I've seen you with a steak, so if you eat red meat, you can't be too far gone."

  One corner of his mouth hiked up. "Go on."

  I gestured to the cabinets. "Everything matches, and nothing is personal. These plates don't exactly scream you. Which leads me to believe you picked them out yourself." I held up a plate as evidence.

  One slow nod of confirmation even as he asked, "Not a gift from my mother?"

  I shook my head. "Granted, I've never met your mother, but I have been introduced to your middle sister. If she was much different from your mom, she probably would have said something about it."

  "You just met her," he pointed out.

  I shrugged and set the plate down. "I start kvetching about my mother to strangers in the supermarket. Maureen is bubbly and full of opinions, and I'm guessing your mom is, too."

  "Good guess."

  "And no woman worth her ovaries would have picked out these particular plates for you. You're very dark and quiet on the surface. A woman would want to pair you with some sort of pattern. Maybe gold leaf trim or geometric shapes in jewel tones."

  "You've given this a lot of thought," Hunter mused. "Maybe the plates were on sale?"

  "Oh, I'm sure they were," I agreed, "but that's not why you bought them."

  "It's not?"

  I shook my head. "You were drawn to them because they are dark and calm, most likely the opposite of how you were feeling when you bought them. Also blue is an appetite suppressant as well as a calming color. My guess? You picked out the set soon after your divorce, and you were drawn to these because they weren't at all special or unique. The opposite of you. They were just plates when you needed plates, and the fact that they calmed your appetites gave you a sense of peace and order which you desperately craved."

  Hunter stepped closer. "Desperately craved? You got all that just from my plates?"

  No, I had pieced together the information Maureen had given me about his ex, but I wasn't stupid enough to tell him that. "You asked."

  "So what do your plates say about you?"

  "Mostly, that I shop at garage sales. I've never had enough income or interest to really develop a personal style." Outside of my boot fetish, which I decided not to mention.

  Another step nearer to me. "Are you saying I should get rid of the plates?"

  "If you do, I call dibs. It'd be nice to have a matching set for a change."

  He stood before me, studying my face. "You said the plates aren't special or unique. So why would they be right for you?"

  "Hunter, nine times out of ten, I eat out of takeout containers over the sink. Sometimes a plate is just a plate."

  "You're something else, Red. Let's eat."

  He'd just finished carving the steak when his cell phone rang. "Black," he answered in his crisp, no-nonsense cop voice.

  A pause while he listened and then sighed. "I'll be there in ten."

  "Uh oh," I said, as I snatched a piece of beef from the platter. "You have to go?"

  "Afraid so." He watched me closely as though waiting for something.

  I shifted. "So I guess I should go, too."

  He blinked. "You're not angry?"

  "Angry? At you?" I asked, thoroughly confused. "Hunter, you're a homicide detective. The fact that you're getting called means someone is dead. Why would I be mad?"

  He opened his mouth and then closed it again. "Never mind. Rain check?"

  Though the steak smelled incredible and my stomach was growling, I nodded. "Sure. Want me to pack it all up for you?"

  Again his lips parted as though he was about to say something, but he shook it off. "That'd be great. Just lock up when you leave."

  And with that, he vanished into the night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Family is the root of all secrets.

  From: The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living

  An unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI.

  By three a.m., it had become clear that sleep wasn't happening. Mr. Coffee would keep me company. My head whirled with thoughts, the case, the home repair, Agnes's bleach job, Mac's choosing to spend the night with Brett, and dinner with Hunter. Especially Hunter. I regretted that I hadn't come right out and asked about his relationship with his ex-wife. Instead, I'd nattered on about plates. There'd been that weird moment when he hadn't answered me about his youngest sister. And that other weird moment when he thought I would be upset when he got called out to work.

  His response struck me as a Pavlovian sort. A man who'd lived through a set of circumstances before and expected the same reaction. His ex-wife must have been a black belt in emotional manipulation. Poor Hunter. After growing up with Agnes, I knew how that went.

  I sat at the counter and looked around. The apartment sat quiet in the night, light from the streetlamps spilling through the slatted blinds casting shadows on the taupe walls. No music or television, soft snores, or clacking of a keyboard. The stillness made me more aware of the lack of Mac.

  This was ridiculous, sitting around, waiting for her to come home. I was a grown-up, at least part of the time. I had better things to do than wait for my sixteen-year-old daughter to show up. I had a case to solve.

  After my discovery about his parents' financial hardships, I decided I needed to talk to Keith Yates, possibly the one person in Boston that wouldn't view a predawn visit as anything more than a social call by a fellow insomniac.

  Sure enough, Keith picked up on the first ring. "Gwen?"

  My heart lurched. A man who sounded so desperate to hear from his wife couldn't have done her harm. "No, I'm sorry, Keith. This is Mackenzie Taylor. We met earlier this week?"

  "Tall, red hair, big hips?"

  Though I would have preferred he left off the part about the hips, I said, "That's me. I'm sorry to call so late, but is there any chance we could meet? I have a few more questions for you."

  "There's a diner not too far from here. Gwen and I would go there sometimes for early breakfast or late dinner when I was working. They have the best Kentucky Pie on the Eastern Seaboard."

  "You mean Knobby's Place?" I'd waitressed there for a few months when Mac was about five. The owner, Freddy Knobs, who everyone just called Knobby, was still a good friend of mine and would have my back in case my gut proved wrong and Keith actually was a murderer.

  "That's it."

  "I'll be there in about half an hour."

  "See you then."

  After leaving a note for Mac on the off chance she did come home and wonder where I was, I pulled on some jeans and my parka over the T-shirt I'd been sleeping in and headed out into the night.

  Though I'd promised Hunter I wouldn't drive Helga until the spring thaw, I was sorely tempted to renege. My only other option was Fillmore, the needy POS that had been my sole transportation prior to Uncle Al's passing. Fillmore gave halfway decent gas mileage when not leaking oil or out-and-out dying by the side of the road. And it took the car forever to warm up. Surely risking a fender bender with Helga was safer than that.

  In the end, I climbed into Fillmore and started him up, grumpy because I was a woman of my word. The engine sputtered to a half-assed sort of life, and I blinked as I spotted a note beneath one crooked windshield wiper.

  "Don't tell me I got a freaking parking ticket," I grumbled and popped the door on the chilly night. But even as I said the words, I knew that wasn't the case. Fillmore had maintained his current position in front of the villa for the better part of a week. If he'd sat idle in a no-parking zone, he would have been towed, or there would be more than one ticket.

  The windshield wiper had frozen in place, and though I tugged on the paper, it wouldn't come free. In the illumination of the streetlight, I saw it wasn't just a piece of notepaper, but an envelope.

  I shivered. A note. Someone had left a note on my car. And I couldn't read it.

  Chilled to my marrow, I scrambled back inside Fillmore and locked all the doors. One might assume after the whole mold incident, I would've learned my lesson about putting off unpleasant tasks. One would've been mistaken. Deep down, I knew the person who'd left the rose also left the envelope, and discovering another eerie-ass gift at oh dark hundred before interviewing a potential murder suspect wasn't high on my list of fun ways to start a weekend.

  I'd wait until I got back home, when the sun came up and when, with any luck, Hunter would be home to run to if whatever was in the envelope sent me into a frothy tailspin. And if it blew off into the ether while I was driving? Well, then I wouldn't have to worry about it.

  My mother was right. I needed to grow up. Be an adult. Well, a better adult. One who didn't keep her boyfriend secret from her daughter and didn't avoid things just because they might—definitely—be unpleasant.

  I'd get right on that. Later.

  The classic rock station paused from their back-to-back Bon Jovi to announce an unidentified victim had been found in a dumpster behind an apartment building. No ID, and the body had been badly burned. Possibly a homeless person who'd been trying to keep warm in the frigid night. The report was followed by a reminder to keep pets indoors and check on elderly relatives and neighbors.

  Keith was already seated in a booth by the front window. He'd brought a laptop with him and was typing away furiously, didn't even look up when the bell over the door jingled as I entered.

  "Is that who I think it is?" Knobby, who was ironically short and compact, flashed me a welcome wink and a smile. "Be still my heart."

  "That's called a heart attack, Knobby. I keep telling you, you don't really want it to still."

  "Long time, no see, sweetheart." Knobby circled the counter to give me his trademark bear hug, lifting me a few inches off the floor, even though I topped him by half a head. He set me down and then frowned. "Where's your gearhead shadow?"

  Knobby had been one of the best bosses I'd ever had. He'd let me bring Mac in to work when I had a night shift and taught her how to fix a toaster. Even a decade later, I could still picture her sitting in a back booth, hair in pigtails, turning a screwdriver in her fat little fist, tongue sticking out from the corner of her mouth as she concentrated on her task.

  "She had plans." I wasn't about to go into the whole Brett thing. Instead, I nodded toward Keith's booth. "You know that guy?"

  "Yeah, I've seen him before. Lives in that monstrosity up the way." Knobby lowered his voice. "Used to come in with his wife before she ran off on him." Knobby's was an institution— he knew everyone worth knowing in Boston. And it didn't hurt his case that he brewed the best cup of joe in New England. The man could have retired comfortably years ago, but he was a creature of habit, liked working the graveyard shift and taking in strays like me and Mac. And of course, spreading gossip.

  "You think Gwen ran off? Why?"

  "She had a sugar daddy. A man she'd meet here from time to time."

  There was a little pink camo notepad in the pocket of my ski jacket. I extracted it and snitched his order pen. "Describe the guy."

  "Late fifties to early sixties. Big guy. A-little-down-on-his-luck sort. Dressed kinda shabby, like a college professor."

  "White?"

  "As the driven snow. Drank coffee by the gallon. Like someone else I used to know."

  "Speaking of which…" I threw a hopeful glance at the pot.

  Knobby grinned and reached for a mug. "Some things never change."

  Getting back to Gwen's rendezvous with the older man I asked, "Did you hear what they talked about?"

  He set the mug down in front of me. "No."

  "Then how do you know that he was her sugar daddy?"

  Knobby considered the question. "They always came in late, somewhere between three and five, and once I saw him pass her an envelope."

  My gaze slid back to Keith, and I lowered my voice. "Do you think he suspected?"

  "I think the world could end and that guy wouldn't notice until his Wi-Fi went down. What's with all the questions? You join the force or something?"

  "Or something." I returned his pen and took my coffee to the booth where Keith was typing away furiously.

  He looked up, startled when I set my mug down. "Oh, it's you."

  I slid into the booth opposite him and waited for him to shut down his computer before I asked, "Why didn't you tell the police that your parents are going to lose their house because they invested in your business?"

  His chin jutted. "They aren't."

  Another reality ostrich, burying his head in the proverbial sand. One more and we could form our own flock. Going along with it wouldn't help his folks or Gwen though, so I held his gaze and spoke the harsh truth. "It's in foreclosure, Keith. You might as well help them pack."

  "If I can finish my app, I'll be able to save it. Or buy them a better place."

  I had to proceed carefully. "Did Gwen ever offer to help?"

  Keith blinked like an owl. "With my game?"

  "With money for your parents."

  He tilted his head to the side as though I was a complex algorithm he was attempting to decode. "Gwen didn't have any money. She was a teacher."

  "But her parents are very wealthy," I pointed out.

  He shook his head. "She refused to take anything from them."

  That wasn't strictly true. According to her financial records, Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg had paid for the wedding as well as Gwen's apartment, but I wasn't about to argue with him. "Why was that?"

  He looked off and to the side. "I don't know."

  "Guess," I urged. Much like Mac, Keith struck me as an observer with a unique perspective.

  He shook his head, telegraphing that nothing was coming to mind.

  I decided to switch tracks. "Did you know Gwen came to this diner sometimes at night?"

  "Oh yes, she loved the pie here."

  Not wanting to tip my hand to earlier I asked, "And she came here by herself? She wasn't meeting anyone? A coworker, one of her girlfriends?"

  Keith frowned. "She never said."

  I finished my coffee and set the mug down. Fishing a business card out of my purse, I slid it across the table to him. "Okay, Keith. If you think of anything else, call me. Not Brett, me. I'm on your side."

  He pocketed the card without looking at it and opened his laptop. Not a sociable guy, old Keith.

  "See ya around, Knobby!" I called to my old boss.

  Knobby emerged from the kitchen carrying a Styrofoam takeout container, presumably with a piece of pie. "Let me walk you to your car." He pulled on a coat and then folded his arm through mine and escorted me out into the parking lot. The gentlemanly gesture gave me flashbacks to the way he'd always done this when I'd worked the late shift.

  "So, did you find out anything from your boy?" he asked when the diner door had shut behind us.

  "Only that he had no idea who his wife met up with when she came here late at night."

  "I remembered something else about the guy she met. He was always fiddling with something in his right hand. I caught a peek at it one time. It looked like one of those sobriety chips they give out at the meetings."

  I frowned. "You mean AA and NA?"

  He nodded. "That might be why they looked intimate. It could be she was the guy's sponsor."

  Or he was hers. No one had mentioned Gwen had an addiction, but if she was new to the twelve-step lifestyle, she might not have reached the atonement portion of her recovery. Unfortunately, the anonymous part of those meetings—never mind the number of them that met around the city—didn't give me much to go on. Might as well hunt for a heroin needle in a haystack.

  "Thanks, Knobby." We'd reached Fillmore.

  "Anytime, sweetheart. Hey, if our girl is looking for part-time work, I could use a waitress on the evening shift. Good tips, as you well remember."

  "Unfortunately for me, she already has an after-school job. But I'll mention it to her." I unlocked my car and slid behind the wheel.

  Knobby stepped back, and I turned the engine over. He waved as I pulled out onto the street.

  I'd driven two blocks when I realized the envelope that had been stuffed beneath my windshield wiper had vanished.

  * * *

  I was hip deep in information about Gwen Yates and Kentucky Pie when Nona knocked on my door. "Hey, doll. Can I use your shower?"

  I wiped my mouth and then hopped off the barstool and went to let her in. "Isn't your shower fixed?"

  Her hair was covered by a shower cap, and she wore a floral print bathrobe and slippers on her feet. She waved off my concerns. "It is, but Maureen warned me that the seal was temporary. I don't want to make the problem worse."

  Guilt didn't compliment the chocolate and nut mixture in my stomach. "I'm so sorry about this, Nona."

 

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