All Sleuth and No Play, page 2
We'd both freeze if I didn't acquiesce. "Fine, thank you."
I shivered, and he put an arm around me, guiding us both across the slippery sidewalk and up to the brick and concrete porch of the villa. His scent was intoxicating, a combination of wood smoke and snowy pine boughs. The heavy weight of his arm around my shoulders was comforting more than smothering, and I barely resisted the urge to lean against him. He waited while I fished my key out of my shoulder bag and opened the front door.
The radiators hummed, and a blast of heat so delicious nearly sent me to my knees right there in the tiled hallway. Hunter shut and locked the door behind us before turning to his own apartment. I opened my mouth to say thanks again, but closed it without speaking. I wanted to keep him there, badly, and because of that compulsion, it was wiser to let him go. Though I did want to do a better job of explaining that while I really did like him, it wasn't a good idea for us to get involved while we lived so close to each other. Tell him that my daughter had asked me to stop seeing him, and that I'd agreed. No, I couldn't tell him that. It would sound like I was blaming Mac.
After a minute, I realized there'd been no rattling of keys or the clicking of locks from his side of the hall. I risked a glance over my shoulder and saw he faced his door, motionless. Keeping his back to me, he spoke softly. "It seems to me like you're doing the one thing you said you didn't want."
Frowning, I moved a step closer to him as he turned to face me. "Oh? What's that?"
"Avoiding me."
"I'm not—" I began and then cleared my throat because the lie had wedged itself in there. The truth was I had been dodging him, keeping watch at my front window to be sure he left for work before heading out myself. Timing my return for odd hours so I didn't run into him. Of course he'd noticed. He was a detective.
"Should I be looking for another place to live?" he murmured.
My head snapped up. "What? No, of course not." I lived for those glimpses of him, all broad shoulders that looked like he could easily carry the weight of the world, dark eyes that could see into a woman's soul, rare but utterly enchanting smile. We'd been almost friends for one brief moment and then lovers for the space of a heartbeat before my daughter had asked me to end it. And I had, the same way a good parent should, regardless of how much it smarted.
He searched my face, his big body so still as though luring a wild animal into thinking he was part of the environment. "I've seen Mac's dad around a lot."
"He's been stopping by," I answered cautiously, recognizing the fishing expedition for what it was. "To get to know Mac. He's not comfortable with her on his own yet. I'm the bridge, mostly because I never shut up and it's hard to have awkward silences in my presence. Though you seem to manage okay."
There was my reward, the little lip twitch of amusement that indicated he'd received the message. That he understood what I hadn't said. No, I am not getting back together with my ex and yes, what we had was special to me, too. You are not easy to replace. At least I thought he got it. Even smart men could be surprisingly thick at times.
I took a step forward and reached for his arm. "Please don't move out. I like knowing that you're right next door."
"Why?"
"Maybe I'm a masochist."
"You're not." He scrutinized my face, and his lips parted to say more.
The front door burst inwards, crashing into the wall with a bang. We sprang apart, or rather I sprang. Hunter stayed where he was by his own front door as my mother dragged a wheelie cart full of groceries into the foyer, hat askew, wind tugging her short hair free from her hat.
"Mom, what is all this?" I asked a bit breathlessly.
"Honestly, Mackenzie." She huffed as she stood the cart upright. "What does it look like?"
"A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips?" I replied as I eyeballed her purchases. My mother normally subsisted on wheat germ and herbal tea, so seeing her with actual food was unusual.
"I'm taking a cooking class. You and Mac will come up for dinner tonight." She waved in an offhand manner, a queen issuing a command performance.
"You're going to cook. For us. For me," I said slowly. The statement didn't make sense as my mother was always encouraging me to eat less, lose weight, find a man, and get a real job, not necessarily in that order. Mac had inherited her father's lightning quick metabolism, but I always sported a little extra junk in my trunk, a fact my mother found distasteful and a symbol of my total stubbornness.
She beamed. "Chicken, risotto, and almond green beans. And I even bought wine. I know what a big drinker you are."
Only when I was with her. "Gee, Mom that sounds swell and all but—"
"What about you, Detective Black?" My mother bowled right over the top of me. "Would you care to join us for dinner? Unless of course, you have other plans."
What? My mother had almost cordially invited Hunter to dinner? She hadn't liked him at all when she'd first moved in, had grumbled disdainful and dismissive things about our downstairs tenant. He'd been polite but had kept his distance. And now all of a sudden he was invited to an actual family dinner where I was being encouraged to eat?
I narrowed my eyes at her. "Who are you, and what have you done with Agnes Taylor?"
She gave me her patented stink-eye and then glowered at my boots. "Take those ridiculous things off before you break your neck. You look like a streetwalker."
"There she is," I muttered, partly relieved.
Hunter cleared his throat. "Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Taylor, but I'm working tonight."
"In this weather?" My mother cast a horrified glance through the stained-glass front door.
"It's not like criminals will take the night off due to precipitation, Ma."
She glowered at me, mostly because she hated when I called her Ma. Which was why I did it. It was a nonstop passive-aggressive thrill ride when the Taylor woman went head to head. Hunter should pay us for his front row seats.
"I'll save you some risotto," Agnes promised to Hunter, who had stepped forward and in a swoon-worthy display of muscle and testosterone had lifted her humongous shopping cart and was carrying it up the stairs, leaving me gawking behind them.
The front door opened again, and Mac pushed in, shaking the wet off her purple jacket and frowning. "Why is Detective Black taking groceries to Grams' apartment?"
"Weird, right? And she even invited him to dinner. And us."
Mac's baby blues narrowed. "I didn't know Grams could cook."
"She signed up for a cooking class, and apparently that's all you need to become proficient."
Mac gaped. "Wait, she's really going to feed you. Like people food? What is this, invasion of the body snatchers?"
"Doodoo doodoo doodoo," I hummed a bit of the Twilight Zone theme and opened our apartment door. Hunter was still upstairs, and I could have sworn I just heard Agnes laugh.
"So how did the test go?" I asked Mac as we entered our apartment. Snickers, our inherited puggle, danced around her feet in greeting.
Mac shrugged and set down her backpack. "Okay, I guess. And there was a pop quiz in geometry too, but I totally aced that."
"That's my girl. Although now I suppose I have to share the glory with your Dad. He asked how 'our girl' was earlier." I made little air quotes around the our and girl so she knew it was straight from the horse's mouth.
Mac beamed. "He did? Wait, when did you see Brett?"
"He came to the law office." I caught her up on the case and Brett's proposal.
Mac's face lit up with excitement. "So you two are going to work together. That's awesome!"
I dropped my purse and made my way to the fridge to see if maybe the answers lurked within. Leftover Subway sandwich, Styrofoam containers filled with fries gone soggy, and something green and fuzzy. It was either a tennis ball or a lemon that had seen better days. Why would I have bought a lemon? "I haven't said yes, yet."
Mac waved that off, a gesture that resembled one from my mother's arsenal. "You totally will. You're getting all cynical and jaded from the cheating-spouses shtick, and it's not a good look for you."
I shut the fridge and mock glared at her. "Hey, I can pull off cynical and jaded with the best of them. I only need to accessorize better. More leather, less suede. Especially in this weather."
"Maybe you could get a fake mustache to twirl." Mac struggled not to laugh.
"That's evil villain, not cynical and jaded PI."
"A hat then. A fedora. And stop washing off your eye makeup. And you need to drink cheap booze."
The only kind I could afford. "Especially if we're headed up to your grandmother's. You sure you don't want to come down with a case of typhoid or something at the last minute?"
"Mom, get real."
"Whooping cough then."
Mac extracted a water glass from the cabinet over the sink and turned on the tap. "We need to support Grams. She's having a hard time being single, and it's good that she's showing interest in something outside of marrying you off."
I propped my hip against the counter. "I still can't believe she invited Hunter."
Mac arched an eyebrow. "Does that make him less sexy, now that he's now Grams-approved?"
If only. "Either she's recognized that while he looks like a movie goon, he's actually a decent guy, or she thinks my expiration date is upon us and he was the closest available person with the right anatomy. Good thing she doesn't take the T. I might have ended up with the freaky leaner."
Mac shuddered at the image of the man who rode the blue line from East Boston into downtown and back daily. With Helga out of commission in the winter weather, and Fillmore, my ancient ride, less than reliable, we'd been taking public transportation more often. The man was obviously mentally ill and had some sort of personal space issue. The train car could be otherwise empty, and he'd grip the railing right next to me and then slump until I was practically holding him upright. Ah, the joys of mass transit.
"I'm going to let Snickers out and then try to get some of my math work done before dinner." Mac picked up her backpack and headed to her room, the puggle hot on her heels.
Left to my own devices, I pulled off my poor, abused boots, and then flopped on the couch and stared at the water stain on the ceiling, dreaming of the day I could afford to fix it. The silver lining to having my mother-in-residence upstairs was that I didn't have to go back out into the cold to endure the upcoming meal. I could even go barefoot if I wanted. I'd endure a twenty-minute rant about it, but the way my feet were singing a rousing chorus of hallelujahs, it might be worth it.
Someone knocked on my door. I groaned theatrically, even though I was alone. Hey, if you're gonna be a drama queen, you have to stay in character at all times. "Who's there?"
No answer.
My palms started to sweat. Had Hunter dropped back by to finish our conversation? I didn't know if I had the willpower not to tackle him in the hallway. Or worse, drag him into his apartment for round two of what I'd thought about every night in my lonely bed.
After wiping my hands on the seat of my jeans I moved to the door and opened it a crack.
No one there.
I opened it wider, poked my head out, and called, "Hello?"
No answer. No sound of movement. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
Weird. In order for someone to knock on my door, he or she needed entry into the building's foyer. The villa had a buzzer connected to each individual apartment. Because my front window was right next to the porch, I would have seen someone come up the steps to the buzzer panel. Mac had a key, so did I, and so did Agnes and our upstairs tenant, Nona. And Hunter made five.
Maybe I'd imagined the knock. It had been a crazy long day after a too short night. I was about to close the door when I saw it.
A single red rose lay deliberately across my welcome mat.
CHAPTER TWO
You know what they say about people who assume? That goes double for a private investigator.
From: The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living
An unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI.
"You know, normal people bring wine or flowers, maybe a box of chocolates when they are invited to dinner," Mac pointed out as we ascended the stairs.
"Corn chips are an appetizer." I held the bag of Fritos aloft. "Besides, we want to ensure there's something actually edible at dinner. I just wish we had some dip. Bean dip, maybe. Protein, you know. I should run out to the store." I pivoted to head back down to the first floor, but Mac snagged the back of my shirt.
"I'm sure dinner will be great. She fed you and the Captain for years, and you're both still kicking."
I made a face. "We had a lot of salad. Green salad, tuna salad, pasta salad from a deli, egg salad if someone else boiled the eggs. Meat, maybe, if the Captain grilled. To my knowledge, she's never worked a stove in her life."
"No wonder we never eat real people food." My daughter nodded as though a puzzle piece had just fallen into place, allowing her to see more of the picture. I didn't have the heart to tell her one of my deepest secrets, I actually could cook. My Nana, the Captain's mother, had shown me the ropes to some basic meals when I lived with her. She would have taught Agnes too, if my mother had ever bothered to show any interest. So unbeknownst to my offspring, I could throw together a halfway decent meal. I just…never did. The food battles I'd waged with my own mother had left scars. Plus, it had never been my life goal to be mistaken for a house frau. It was a slippery slope from providing sensible meals to driving a minivan and wearing mom jeans.
The antique staircase creaked beneath our feet as we trudged up to the second story landing. "Last chance to make a run for it," I muttered at Mac.
"Behave," she quipped back and knocked.
Footsteps approached on the other side of the door, and then it was pulled open with an ominous creak.
"That doesn't bode well," I mumbled.
"Girls, good, you're on time for a change." My mother waved us in and then rushed back to a pot boiling over on the stove. Her tone was unsure as she commented, "Dinner's almost ready."
"What's that smell?" Mac whispered to me.
"Java only knows, but I think we're supposed to eat it."
"Can we help you with anything, Grams?" my daughter called in a louder voice.
A pot lid clattered to the floor as steam hissed on the stove. "No, no, this is my project, I'll see it through."
Someone else knocked on the door. "That'll be Nona," my mother called over her shoulder. "Mac, be a dear and let her in."
My daughter hopped to as I set down the bag of chips on my mother's elegant dining room table. It was clear she'd spent a decent amount of time on getting the place settings just so on the glass table. Red and gold placemats, crystal wine goblets, and red cloth napkins all rolled up in beaded gold rings. A gaudy gold candleholder centerpiece with battery-operated candles flickering away covered the area where the food was supposed to go. How like my mother to spend more time on superficial details and let the substance go to pot.
"Nice table, Mom," I called out as Nona and Mac returned. My upstairs tenant wore a purple wrap dress with a bright red belt. Her iron-gray hair was wrapped up in a purple turban type thing with a bright red feather sticking out the top. And on her feet—bless her— she wore slippers. Agnes would be horrified.
"Pour the wine," came my mother's harried reply.
"Mackenzie, long time no see, doll." Nona greeted me in her thick New Yawk accent. She was holding a large antipasti platter she'd probably picked up from the deli up the street. Between that and my corn chips, the meal wouldn't be a total bust. I made a mental note to crow to Mac later. Parenting tip numero uno—never pass up an opportunity to point out when you did something right.
I relocated the overly large centerpiece to the top of my mother's piano, yet another of her newfound life-after-the-Captain interests. Nona set the platter down, and I gave her a hug. She smelled of baked goodies and powdery makeup, and she flashed me a grin as she pulled away. "How's tricks, Bubala?"
"Still turning." In the few months we'd lived in the downstairs apartment, Nona had become one of my and Mac's all-time favorite people. And not just because she fed us on a regular basis. "What's new with you?"
Nona's eyebrows were pure crayon, but she waggled them impressively. "Oh you know—same old, same old. Did you get a load of Hunter's new squeeze? She's quite a looker."
I'd just picked up my wine goblet and had taken a sip when she'd asked her question. For the record, Chardonnay burns like a mother when expelled through the nostril.
"Oh, honestly, Mackenzie." Of course Agnes looked up from the meal she'd been destroying just in time to bear witness. Mac, angelic creature she was, retrieved a paper towel and handed it to me, fighting a smile at my foible.
"Sorry," I wheezed, nose stinging, head spinning. "I…I didn't know he was seeing anyone."
Nona picked up her wineglass and took a healthy slug. "Oh yes, pretty little thing. Lives just up the way with her mother. Never see her though, the mother I mean. The girl at the deli counter told me the mother's real sickly. Tate's the name, Yvonne Tate."
I've never been the sort to hide my emotions, but I kept my eyes on the faux gold filigree decorating my mother's napkin rings. "Did you introduce them?" Nona was the neighborhood yenta, always matchmaking and gossiping, depending on the day.
But she shook her head. "I think his sister set them up. You okay, doll? You look a little pale."
"It's winter in New England, everybody's pale," Mac pointed out. "You should see my dad. He looks more like me than ever. Did Mom tell you they are going to be working on a case together?"
I sent her a grateful look. My kid could read me as easily as her little tech-genius brain read code on a computer. Of course I still hadn't committed to working with Brett, but what was the alternative? Watch through the lace curtains while Hunter and Yvonne minced off to their happily ever after while waiting for Len to stick me with yet another cheating spouse case? Hunter should have mentioned his new girlfriend to me when I stood there practically begging him not to move out. And, if he was involved with someone, why leave me the rose?
