Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) Page 15

  "Thanks," I said taking the straw between my lips and sipping. After a minute I frowned down at the glass then back up at my mother. "I thought you said these were virgin?"

  "I had one of those little liquor bottles of rum in my purse. You look like you needed it."

  I raised the glass in a mock toasting gesture. "All she had to shout was a 'You're ruining my life,' and she'd be my clone."

  "Why do you think I carry little liquor bottles in my purse? Déjà vu."

  I laughed in surprise. "Was that a joke? I don't think I've ever heard you make a joke before."

  Agnes puffed up like a wet chickadee. "I'll have you know in my day I was quite the kidder."

  That made me snort daiquiri through my left nostril. "Oh, that stings!"

  She scurried back into the kitchen and handed me a paper towel, which I used to wipe off the blotch on my shirt.

  "Honestly, between the drink and all the pepper spray I don't know how much more my sinuses can take."

  Agnes sat down in the spot my daughter had vacated. "So, where were you?"

  "Mom!"

  "What? I was on a case with you last night."

  "Not on a case. We were doing surveillance. Poorly."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Says who?"

  "Another PI. He's someone I used to know, actually."

  "Oh really. Who's that?"

  My gaze slid to the closed bedroom door and back.

  It took her a minute and then her mouth fell open. She snapped it closed with an audible click. "No, it can't be. Are you sure?"

  "Positive. I spoke with him."

  "Did you tell him about Mac?"

  I shook my head and sipped from my drink.

  I could see her struggling with the information the same way I had. "And he's an investigator too?"

  "Small world."

  "A little too small." Agnes hesitated. "Are you going to tell her?"

  I sighed and leaned back against the couch, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I think it's time. I don't want it to be time but I don't want to keep lying to her, either. I'm not sure if I should tell her first or if I should talk to Brett and prepare him."

  Agnes didn't say anything, and I straightened so I could see her more clearly. She'd set her drink down and was wringing her hands.

  "What? What is it?"

  "Have you ever regretted something, a choice you made that you thought was right at the time but later on changed your mind?"

  I snorted. "Story of my life, Mom."

  She shook her head. "You don't have regrets though. I see you. You did what you thought was right, keeping the baby and raising her into an intelligent young woman with a bright future. You make plenty of mistakes, Mackenzie, but when it comes to the things that matter, you always choose the right way."

  I blinked at her, unable to say anything. Was my mother actually complimenting me?

  "Anyhow, I have a long list of regrets, most of them to do with you."

  "Tell me something I don't know," I spoke in an acerbic tone.

  "I mean our relationship. You were my baby, my only child. I'm not sure when this…bone of contention got in the way, but it did."

  "How many tiny rum bottles went into your drink?" I asked skeptically.

  "I only had the one." Her tone was dry. "I'm not drunk, just seeing things in a different light."

  "Things?" I asked.

  "My life. The world around me. Your father couldn't accept that."

  "And that's why you left him?" The question was low, quiet. "Why you're divorcing him?"

  "Partly. Your father and I were a great team, but we never had what you would call a happy marriage. All couples have their issues."

  "But all that history," I countered. "You and Dad together. How can you just give up on it?"

  "I'm not giving up. I'm moving on. Besides, we're getting off the subject."

  I'd forgotten there was one. "So, what's the regret you were talking about?"

  "When you turned up pregnant, you said you didn't want to ruin your boyfriend's life."

  I nodded. "The one decision we agreed on."

  "No, it wasn't. I wanted you to tell him about Mac. He had a right to know."

  I stared at her for a full minute before saying, "Are you freaking kidding me with this?"

  She blinked. "No, I—"

  "Don't even." I stood up so abruptly that the entire coffee table rattled. "Don't you think I have enough to deal with without hearing that you think one of the fundamental decisions of my life, one you'd agreed with me about to my face, was a mistake?"

  "I'm not trying to upset you," she said.

  "No, you aren't trying. You're succeeding in upsetting me." I was too tired and emotionally tattered to deal with her right now. "Movie night isn't happening. You should go."

  "Mackenzie."

  I shook my head. "Mom, I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I have zero patience right now. Go home."

  "I'll stop by tomorrow. Maybe we can all have a nice Sunday dinner?"

  Crap. I'd forgotten all about Dad coming, but was in no mood to go another round with her over the fact. "Sure."

  She rose and headed to the door, but paused. "I didn't tell you that to make you feel badly. I just wanted you to know that I'm supporting your choice now."

  The door clicked behind her, and I stared at it for a full minute, not knowing what to make of her words.

  Hefting the box of photographs and high school memorabilia I'd left by the door, I headed down the hall. Mac's door was shut, and my hands were too full to knock, so I depressed the long thin old-fashioned handle with my elbow.

  Mac lay curled on top of her comforter, Snickers curled up against her back.

  "Hey," I said.

  She rolled to look at me, and my heart broke when I saw the tear tracks. "Ever heard of knocking?"

  I raised a brow. "Ever heard of teenage cliché?"

  She made a disgusted noise and sat up. "Thanks for dropping by. Feel free to leave whenever."

  I had the oddest sense of history repeating itself and realized that I was having almost exactly the same conversation with my daughter as I had with my mother, only this time I was on the other side. Genetics were freaky like that.

  "Look, I'll give you all the space you want, but I promised you I'd get you the stuff you needed for your project."

  Her gaze fastened hungrily on the box. "What is all that?"

  I set it down on the foot of her bed. "Mostly junk. Notes I passed with my friends, random pictures, my old yearbook and other tidbits. You're welcome to keep whatever you like."

  Her hands trembled as she reached for the lid, but she paused. "Don't you want to keep any of it?"

  I stepped back. "No, I have all the keepsakes I want." Like her baby blanket, the first book I'd read to her, her first pair of boots, and a monkey butt ton of pictures. The contents of the high school box belonged to a different era, a different Mackenzie.

  I turned towards my bedroom, but a small voice called out, "Mom?"

  "Yeah, kid?" I glanced at her over my shoulder, hoping for an olive branch.

  "This is a lot of stuff. Would you…that is, will you go through it with me?"

  "Sure thing," I said and smiled. My long night was far from over.

  * * *

  "And that was Mr. McNutt. Your dad swore up and down that his first name was Buster." I tapped the photograph of the health and PE teacher before passing it over.

  Mac raised an eyebrow. "Buster McNutt? His parents must have hated him. Who's that?"

  We'd decided to spread the trophies of my misspent youth out in the living room. Instead of parking it on the couches, we sat across from each other on the floor, the box's innards dotting the landscape between us. It was cold, and my backside was asleep, but my daughter was smiling again which was all that mattered.

  I craned my neck. "That's Jimmy Hogan. He was in the sailing club with your dad."

  Mac studied the image of a large blond teenager who had a scar bisecting his
left eyebrow. "He looks like a jackass."

  "Not just any jackass. He was the king of the jackass mountain—always had something lousy to say, flushed cherry bombs down the toilets, stupid stuff like that. I never knew what Brett saw in him, friend-wise, but he's a loyal guy."

  "Brett." Mac picked up another picture, one I thought was swiftly becoming her favorite. It was of the two of us at the homecoming dance. I had on a green sheath dress with spaghetti straps and had my hair piled on top of my head, fastened in place with one of my grandmother's classic combs. It had been a marvel of modern engineering and a testament to extra hold hairspray. "He's so good looking. You both are."

  "Don't sound so shocked." I reached into the bowl of popcorn by my side and plucked out a few kernels.

  "I am shocked. You date such plain guys."

  "Hey!" I threw the fistful of popcorn at her. "I do not."

  She lowered her chin and gave me her get real look. "Mom."

  "Okay so maybe I do go for more of the average men. They're nice, stable, and worship the ground my designer knock-off heels tread upon."

  "And they bore you." My daughter reached across the pile for my sophomore yearbook. She had me there.

  "The pretty ones are trouble," I cautioned, thinking of her new lab partner and a certain detective. Although pretty was the wrong word for Hunter Black. He was visually arresting. The pun made me snort.

  "I don't really look like either of you." Mac was studying our yearbook photos. "Maybe around the nose a little."

  "You have my hair. Same color as your dad's mom, my nana. And you have Brett's eyes. Same exact shade of blue. And Gram's stubborn chin."

  "So what happened—" Mac set the yearbook aside "—when you told him you were pregnant? Did he, like, freak out or demand you get an abortion?"

  "You've been watching too much television. Something you also get from me. Write that down." I pointed to her notebook.

  "I'm serious. How did he react?"

  Suddenly all the fun had gone out of the game. "It's getting late."

  Mac rose as easily as only a sixteen-year-old could. I rocked a bit, swearing as my back spasmed. It was the same muscle group that had made itself known earlier when I was hanging out of Brett's neighbor's window. Too much abuse in too short a time span.

  "You okay?"

  "Fine," I grated, though I was anything but. Oh, for the love of java. Eventually I made it to hands and knees. A hand appeared in my peripheral vision.

  "I'll help you up, if you tell me." Mac waggled her fingers in my face.

  "You'll help me up because I gave you life." Was I actually sweating? Maybe I had better scale back on the snack cakes for real. I flailed for her hand, and she gripped it but didn't pull.

  "Mom, just tell me. What's the big secret?"

  I tried pulling myself up without her help, but my screaming back muscles weren't having it. "This is not how I wanted to do this," I grumbled under my breath.

  "What was that?"

  "Okay, I promise I'll tell you, just help me up before anything else goes hinky."

  "Swear on something you love."

  "Your life?" I panted.

  "Helga. And your coffeepot."

  Damn it, she was playing hardball. "Fine, I swear on both Helga and Mr. Coffee that I will tell you after you help me get up."

  "Right after," Mac insisted. "No putting it off until I'm twenty-five."

  "If this whole tech genius gig doesn't pan out, maybe you should go to law school." I was a little in awe of her closing a loophole I hadn't even considered. Of course I was stiff and under caffeinated and having the back spasm from hell, but still.

  "Promise me, right after."

  "I promise within five minutes."

  She glared down at me.

  "I have to pee. Can I at least pee first, maybe get a pain reliever?"

  "Immediately after."

  I gave a weary exhale. "Agreed."

  Mac helped me up, and I stood as erect as possible, stretching my aching back.

  She waited, arms folded across her chest, one toe tapping. There was no way out of it.

  I looked at the ground, at her Converse sneakers with the little mutant head she'd drawn on the toe portion in pink neon. Up and down it went, up and down. "I didn't."

  The head froze. "You didn't what?"

  I looked her in the eye and finished. "Tell him. I never told Brett I was pregnant."

  I gave her a moment to digest that—my bladder was screaming— and shuffled down the hall to use the facilities. Snickers leapt off the bed and followed me.

  After flushing and washing, I snagged the bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol and headed back into the living room. Mac was in pretty much the same position she'd been in when I departed.

  There was still some daiquiri in the glass my mother had poured for me earlier. After popping two pain relievers in my mouth I knocked the drink back, almost choking because the mixed cocktail had begun to unmix. Ick.

  "Did he rape you?"

  My head snapped up. "What?"

  "Did Brett, I mean did my dad—"

  "No Mac, of course he didn't."

  "Then why didn't you tell him?" There was pleading in her tone—pleading for understanding the why behind my choice.

  I shrugged helplessly, knowing the truth would hurt her but unable to lie about something so important. "It's complicated. And he wasn't…well he wasn't ready. Neither of us was, but my life had to change, his didn't. And it would have the second I told him." I left out the part about why I'd felt so sure he wasn't ready and the real reason I hadn't told Brett, the fact that I'd walked in on him with another girl when I'd been on the verge of telling him.

  She stared at me for a full minute and then moved down the hall.

  "Mac," I called, hating that I'd hurt her, unsure of where I'd gone wrong or what I could have said or done to spare her pain.

  Her door slammed. After a moment there was a whining sound, followed by scratching. The puggle was at Mac's door begging for entry.

  I shuffled forward, tried the handle, and wasn't surprised to find it locked this time. "Come on girl, you can stay with me tonight."

  The dog gave one more powerful sniff as though she could suck Mac out through the crack beneath it before trotting after me into my bedroom. I left the door open in case Mac emerged and was prepared to fall face first onto my bed when I looked at the wagging tail dusting the floor by the door. "You have to go, don't you?"

  Snickers waited.

  I sighed and then moved over to open the French door so she could relieve herself.

  The night breeze was cold, and I stepped out onto the patio. The yard was large by city standards, almost a quarter of an acre. Ivy had taken over the broken crumbling fountain, which made for eerie shapes at night. The fencing was small pickets, only enough to keep a medium sized dog contained. Maybe I should get some chairs out here. Mac might like that.

  If she ever spoke to me again.

  There were no lights and no streetlights, just the soft glow from a harvest moon. I stared up at it for a minute before picking up on a small shuffling to my left. Thinking it was Snickers, I headed in that direction, only to find Hunter Black sitting on a bench on his patio, his gaze also trained up at the night sky.

  There was something odd about his posture. It wasn't relaxed like a man kicking back after a hard day of work. No, it was more intensely brooding, as if he'd come out here to be alone.

  I was about to creep off back to my own area of the back yard when he looked up.

  "Sorry," I said. "Just letting the dog out. Is everything all right?"

  "No." Hunter shook his head.

  Though he hadn't invited me I sat next to him on the bench. "Want to talk about it?"

  "I don't, but I don't have much of a choice. You know that woman you interviewed yesterday, the one you told me Paul Granger assaulted in the parking garage?"

  "Kimmy. What about her?"

  Hunter put a hand over mine. "She w
as murdered."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Garbology 101, aka Dumpster diving for pros—sifting through trash in an attempt to find information. Aka the holy grail of private investigation.

  From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living by Albert Taylor, PI

  "Morning," I said to Mac's closed bedroom door as I stumbled past heading for the source of vitality that made all things possible, aka my coffeepot.

  Snickers paused hopefully by Mac's bedroom door and gave a pitiful whimper.

  "Your dog misses you," I called over my shoulder. "Punish me all you want, but leaving her with me is basically animal cruelty."

  No response. Not that I'd expected one after the great reveal of the night before, but goading her was better than thinking about what Hunter had told me.

  Poor Kimmy.

  I spaced out as I watched hot brown liquid drizzle slowly into the pot. It had taken me a full minute of staring at Hunter Black's rugged profile to translate his words. "I just talked to her yesterday."

  "I know. Ruth told me when I questioned her."

  "How?" I'd croaked.

  "Same as Paul Granger, execution style with a small caliber bullet. It was at her home, made to look like a B&E gone bad, but even though the place was trashed, there was nothing missing."

  "And you don't think it's a coincidence." I'd started to shiver.

  Hunter slowly shook his head. "I don't."

  Snickers came bounding over to him, and he'd scooped her up into his lap. She gave his hand a few enthusiastic licks, turned three times, and plopped down. Big men weren't supposed to appreciate little dogs, but he'd looked so at ease with the little beastie.

  "I dropped by to tell you earlier," Hunter murmured.

  "I was out." I kept it short and simple and hoped like hell he wouldn't ask me where.

  He didn't sigh, didn't make a peep.

  "It can't be Dr. Granger." I said. "Maybe Paul, but she had no motive to kill Kimmy."

  "I'm not a judge, Mackenzie. I follow the evidence."

  "So do I," Or at least, I'd been trying to. "Kimmy told me Paul came on to her in the parking lot one night after work. She dosed him with pepper spray. So she wasn't having an affair with him, and Dr. Granger would have no reason to kill her."