Sleuthing for the Weekend Page 13

  "Fine, fine." At this point I didn't really care. I just wanted to get her out of the house ASAP. "And pack a bag. You're staying with your dad tonight."

  When she frowned, I pushed, "Mac, I need to know your safe. Until I get to the bottom of the Crystal situation, I won't feel comfortable going out to work and leaving you here alone."

  She studied me a minute then crossed to the door to let Snickers back in. Ushering the dog back to the sanctuary of her room, she said. "Just promise that you'll be careful. No getting abducted or held at gunpoint."

  "Hey, I've got an attack cat now. What could go wrong?"

  She smiled, but it looked a little forced.

  Brett's slow grin when I emerged from the bedroom told me the sapphire dress had struck the right chord. Gratifying since I hadn't spent hours primping the way I normally would for the rare formal affair.

  "Anyone home upstairs?" I asked as I transferred my wallet, keys, and cell phone from my heavy-duty shoulder bag to a sparkly black clutch.

  "No answer on either door. They must be out treasure hunting."

  "Aren't you worried they'll get hurt?" I asked.

  He shook his head and offered an elbow. "Nah, they're tough old birds. They can hold their own."

  I ignored his elbow, but Mac, looking cute as a button in a black skirt, stockings, and red sweater, emerged and took it. "I'm gonna ride with Dad, see if I can get a little intel on who all's going to be at this shindig."

  He frowned at her bag but took it from her without a word.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was following Brett's taillights out into the night. City traffic inched along the icy roads, and with nothing to do but wait, I dialed Hunter's cell.

  "Don't want to worry you, but you have an uninvited houseguest hiding out in your place. Not sure what her damage is yet, but I'm on it. Call me when you can. And be safe."

  What case was he working on? A few weeks ago, Hunter had been transferred from homicide to narcotics. Maybe he had infiltrated some drug lord's inner circle or was closing in on the kingpin of a supply chain.

  Dwelling on the potential threats Hunter might be facing made me feel like a less crummy girlfriend for doubting him. Part of me wanted to call the cops, report Crystal's breaking and entering, and have her hauled out of his apartment before he even knew she was there. I didn't like having her in his space—never mind his bathrobe. But what if she really was in trouble? Letting her hide out in his empty apartment allowed me to keep my eye on the situation and maybe do a little digging.

  In spite of the frigid weather, people were everywhere. Standing in line in front of every open bar and restaurant, hustling between slowly inching cars, rushing down the sidewalk. It seemed as though everyone was wearing green of some sort. Scarves, sweaters, even leprechaun hats.

  St. Patrick's Day weekend, day 1.

  We crawled passed O'Flannigans. It had a line snaking out the door and around the corner. I spied the Captain about twenty feet away, behind a black hatchback. He held a green umbrella in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. He made his way down the line, handing out some sort of paper to all the waiting patrons.

  He smiled, a big welcoming grin. One he'd never once had for Agnes or me.

  Love at first sight, she'd said. Had he flashed that grin on her? Was that why she'd made the calls she had, because he'd smiled at her the way he was at that elderly couple in the rain waiting to go into O'Flannigan's? Like they mattered? Condemned both of us to a life of being unable to live up to his BS expectations?

  I glanced at the traffic then back to him. Checked the rearview. My gaze crept back to Reg Taylor, bar owner.

  He'd moved on to two thirty-something women. One was tall and lithe with a dark mass of curly hair. The brunette next to her was short and curvaceous. Again that accepting grin, a warm welcome, a handshake, and nod of respect.

  Something snapped. It was like a little pinging sound in my brain, a piano wire that had reached its breaking point and now curled up inside my head, bouncing untethered.

  Heedless of oncoming traffic, I flung open my door and strode over to him, ignoring the outraged shouts and honks. I snatched the stack of papers from him to get his attention. Half the pile slid to the slippery cobblestones.

  "Mackenzie?" He blinked at me, obviously shocked to see me swoop down on him like a harpy.

  He hadn't seen anything yet.

  "Just tell me one thing. Did you help Michael plan to kill Lois?"

  "This is hardly the—"

  "Did you use me to help commit murder?" I bit out.

  "No. I swear. I had nothing to do with that."

  "And the treasure? Is that just some publicity stunt to prop up your sinking ship?"

  Several patrons were staring at us, keen to hear the Captain's reply.

  He licked nervous lips, obviously hunting for a response. Which was an answer in itself.

  "Are you really going to lose Nana's house?"

  He shook his head. A ploy, to garner sympathy, to manipulate me to do what he wanted.

  My throat closed up. "You used me. Lied to me and cajoled me into helping you."

  "Keep your voice down! I'm in the middle of—"

  "Hey, toots, move your damn car!" some guy with a New York accent bellowed.

  I gave him the finger, my gaze still intent on my dad. "You used me, didn't you? Dragged me into this mess. What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?"

  His lips parted, but he didn't say anything.

  "I have a job to do, but after this, we are done. Do you hear me? Done."

  I stalked back to the car, grateful to see that the traffic was at last moving and that I could escape from the man I'd thought of as my father.

  A tear rolled down my cheek as I thought of Uncle Al, my real father, who'd loved Agnes, would have loved me, not used me and then discarded me like yesterday's underwear.

  He wouldn't have played me for a fool.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "It's important to blend in with the background in any situation. A successful PI can pass for a lawyer, a plumber, a tourist, or a potted plant. If you feel the need to stand out, you're in the wrong line of work." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI

  I'd stopped shaking by the time Brett turned up the oak-lined drive to his parents' house. It had been almost two decades since the last time I'd seen the grand dame estate house, yet it was exactly how I remembered it. Three-story columns held the large observatory balcony up like a visor over the face of the massive main building. Several other structures dotted the hillside, the working components of the estate known locally as Sugar Grove.

  Though I'd only been in the main house a handful of times, I'd spent countless hours among the leafless sugar maples that surrounded the place. Brett and I had met there whenever I could sneak away from Nana's watchful gaze.

  Sugar Grove produced high quality maple syrup, one of the shortest and most profitable crops in the world, and the place had been passed down to Brett's mother when her parents had retired. His father was more comfortable in a boardroom than out on a grassy hillside, so hired hands did the actual harvesting. When we were in high school, Brett had loved the trees, knew the ages of each sugar maple, and the harvest—which could range from two to six weeks, depending on the daily highs and lows—had been a big part of his life.

  When we'd been together, it'd been a big part of mine too. I'd always thought he'd take over the operation one day, but his brother now ran the harvest. Still, even family members who didn't have a hand in the crop were expected to attend the Sugar Ball.

  Brett drove past the valet and parked his SUV near the gazebo. I followed, pulling up next to him, though I backed in, in case Helga and I had to make a fast getaway.

  Mac's eyes were wide as Brett helped her out of the car. I tucked an arm through hers and turned to look at the scene. The moon hung at a crescent above the house, the beams glinting off the ice-covered tree b
ranches.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  "It's like something out of a dream," Mac breathed.

  "Come on. We're late." Brett hurried ahead of us, since he was the only one not wearing heels.

  Mac drank in the sight before her. A pang went through me. This house, this family were hers by right. If things had been different, if I'd told Brett when I'd been pregnant, Mac would have attended the Sugar Ball every year since her birth instead of seeing it for the first time at age sixteen. I'd had my reasons for keeping him in the dark though, and usually I believed in living sans regrets. After my confrontation with the Captain though, I was having trouble keeping my mind out of the realm of what if things had been different.

  As though she could read my mind, Mac leaned in and hissed, "Want to tell me why you left your sixty-thousand-dollar car sitting open with the engine running in the middle of the city? Did you want someone to steal Helga?"

  "I felt the need to unburden myself. Besides, no one could take the car. Traffic was gridlocked."

  "Girls, hurry up." Brett waved to us eagerly from the top of the steps. Impatiently he hurried down and took Mac by the hand. "Come on, slowpoke. I spy Uncle Earnest over by the bar. Let's get him before he moves on to his third rye and ginger."

  "This is kind of a big deal." Mac swallowed hard. "Do I look all right?"

  "You're beautiful." With her short red hair curling around the base of her skull and her big blue eyes bright with excitement, she looked like a pixie. "The belle of the Ball."

  "I'm at an actual ball." She grinned up at me. "How cool is that?"

  When Brett tried to take my arm to hurry me along, I knocked it away. "Don't ever hurry a woman in heels, unless you want one jammed in a very uncomfortable place, Mr. Archer."

  "Who told you I was into that?" He winked at me and then followed Mac up the stairs.

  "Pervert," I called after him before picking my way carefully to the handrail.

  Someone gasped from behind me, probably at my accusation. Some people just didn't appreciate my banter.

  I stared up at the steps and the spill of light from the room beyond that looked like a gateway to another world. I cast a look back toward the car. Maybe I should just go. Now that he had Mac here, Brett would be tied up with introducing her to all the relatives and acquaintances. He wouldn't even notice if I am-scrayed a little early. After the confrontation with Reg, I was not up for another round.

  But what if Mac needed me? I couldn't just leave without letting her know I was going. And if I didn't at least stick around long enough for a few canapés, she'd know something was up. Besides, what was waiting for me back in town? Hunter's ex-wife, Snickers, and demon cat, plus a boatload of files. Seemed a shame to get all dressed up just to sit in traffic for another hour.

  Fine, I'd go in, stuff my little black bag with anything that might make a good snack for later, have a glass of champagne, and wait for the clogged main arteries of Boston to clear.

  The shoes I'd decided on were both obscenely fabulous and ridiculously uncomfortable. Combined with the fact that I never wore heels, I was having a tough time with balance even without the extra challenge of ice-covered steps. The chilly March wind blew up under my coat and up the back of my stocking-covered legs and pulled curly tendrils from my updo.

  I was three steps from the top when the sole of my shoe skidded on a patch of black ice. I made a grip for the railing, but it too was coated in ice. I let out a scream as I fell backward, knocking into the unfortunate soul behind me.

  In my mind's eye I could see us toppling down the stairs like a couple of well-dressed slinkies. In reality, strong hands pulled me against a solid chest, keeping us both in place.

  "Are you hurt?" a familiar voice murmured.

  I looked up over my shoulder into the hazel eyes of Alan Whitmore. "I'm fine. Thanks to you, Congressman."

  "Alan"—his eyes danced with amusement—"are you following me?"

  I straightened up and pivoted on the steps to face him. "I was just going to ask you that. What are you doing here?"

  "The Archers were generous contributors to my election campaign. They invited me." His gaze assessed my dress. "Allow me to escort you inside?"

  "No date, Congressman?" I looked over his shoulder and saw that sallow-faced aide stalking on his phone but no sign of his trademark beauty.

  "I was going to come with Lois. She was looking forward to it." He held a firm grip on my arm as we ascended the last few stairs. "I hadn't decided if I would actually come until an hour ago. And it seemed rude to ask one of my friends to drop everything at the last minute."

  "My ex had no such qualms. He practically blackmailed me into coming."

  He tilted his head. "You're here with a date?"

  "Not exactly. My daughter's father is one of the Archers."

  "How very civilized of him to invite you. And for you to attend."

  "That's me, civility out the wazoo." Good thing he hadn't seen me shrieking like a banshee at my father in the middle of a busy street.

  A flash of even white teeth and he offered me his elbow. "You're very refreshing, Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor."

  Refreshing? Maybe compared to his world of politics, where no one said what they meant and everyone had an agenda. Of course, I'd had an agenda when we'd met yesterday. I swallowed and took his arm, even as I tried to ignore the guilt.

  Music and laughter grew louder as we ascended, light spilling from the gleaming windows.

  As often happened at winter social gatherings, people clustered by the door, either donning or doffing outer layers, greeting people, or making plans to meet up later.

  Alan helped me out of my coat then did a slow perusal of my sapphire dress. "You look stunning."

  "No need for flattery, Congressman. The election is over."

  He looked hurt, and it dawned on me that his compliment had been genuine. My lips parted, but I didn't know what to say, how to apologize.

  "Mom?" Mac called from just inside the entryway.

  "Your daughter?" Alan looked in her direction with interest.

  "Yes." I waved her over, glad for the distraction. "Mac, this is Congressman Alan Whitmore. Congressman, my daughter, Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor the Second."

  Mac's lips parted on a puff of air. She extended her hand automatically, which the congressman took.

  "Nice to meet you, Mackenzie the Second." He gave her a real handshake, none of that smarmy oh, you're just a girl wussy shake.

  Mac pursed her lips and then extracted her hand, turning to grip me by the arm. "You too. Mom, Dad's looking for you."

  "See you later," I called to Alan over my shoulder as Mac dragged me across the main room. "Hey. Slow down. That arm is attached, you know."

  She pulled me into a corner behind the buffet table. "Did you know he was going to be here?"

  "Of course not."

  She scrutinized my face, as though checking to see if I was lying.

  I huffed out an exasperated breath. "Mac, no. We just ran into each other out on the steps."

  "He's a congressman," she hissed. "You're the PI investigating his sister's murder. And you lied to him."

  "You're not telling me anything I don't already know."

  "Then why don't you keep your distance from him?"

  "I will." I did the cross-my-heart thing and then held up one hand. "I'd do Scout's honor, but I was never a Scout, so it wouldn't mean anything. Now, speaking of people I plan to avoid, where are your grandparents?"

  Mac rolled her eyes but pointed to the small raised dais where the string quartet played classic music. "Over there. You're not really going to avoid them, are you?"

  I snagged a champagne flute from a passing server. "I'll make sure to say something to them." About thirty seconds before I headed out the door.

  "Something nice?" Mac raised that sardonic eyebrow.

  "Remind me which of us is the parent and which is the child?"

  She crossed her arms and tapped
a foot.

  "Fine, something nice. In the meantime I'll just cover this shady-looking buffeted table until it's socially acceptable for me to leave. Is that all right with you?"

  Mac plucked the glass from my hands. "No drinking if you're going to drive."

  "Okay. Now don't worry about me. Just go hobnob and make an impression, as only you can do."

  She bit her lip. "I'm nervous."

  "Don't be. You can charm the bees if you need to. Knock 'em dead, babe."

  She gave me a tight hug. I watched as she confidently made her way across the crowded room to snag her destiny, a lump forming in my throat. Damn, she was growing up fast. Okay, so no flirting with the handsome congressmen, no scoring points off the uptight Archers, no booze. Time to eat my feelings. I moved to the buffet table and snagged a white china plate. Did I want to go savory or sweet? Knowing Brett's mother, every item on the table would have a trace of maple syrup, to keep with the theme of the night, so I'd have the best of both worlds.

  I'd just plucked up some sort of sausage in golden brown puff pastry when a hand reached out from behind a heavy blue tapestry and dragged me into the dark, the china dish shattering against the ballroom floor.

  * * *

  The person who'd grabbed me pulled me back into a hidden hallway, the entry and exit hidden behind the curtain. I ascertained a few things over my surging panic. Male, big, strong, and determined. The music and conversation grew fainter with every step. As suddenly as he'd grabbed me, he let go, whirling me to face him. There were no lights in this secret space, but I could feel the press of a hard, masculine body. A jolt of terror made me lash out with a knee to the groin.

  He twisted, causing the hit to land against his thigh. I opened my mouth to scream, but his hand covered it again. He said my name on an exhalation.

  My attacker knew my name? Firm, familiar lips descended on mine, claiming my mouth in a hot, needy kiss. The scent of woodsmoke and pine spiced the air, and calloused hands that I knew so well skimmed over my exposed throat and down my arms.