Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  "Mom!" I wheezed through the burn. The sound of his running feet got further away. I spat, choked, and called out my last ditch effort. "Get his license plate number!"

  But since it was my mother, she ignored my instructions, instead scrambling out of the car to rush to my side. "My God, Mackenzie, are you all right?"

  The burn seemed to intensify. "No," I choked.

  Sirens sounded. "Oh thank heavens, it's the police."

  "Tell them he tried to carjack us," I panted.

  I couldn't see, could barely draw breath, but my hearing was sharp as ever so I didn't miss the outraged squawking noise, as though a fat man had sat on a large bird. "What? You can't lie to the police."

  I ran my sleeve under my running nose. "Sure I can, and you will too, or I swear I will never speak to you again. They can't know we were watching the Foxes. We were heading out, and he tried to carjack us, and he dosed me with pepper spray."

  "Mackenzie."

  I wiped enough of the goo off my face to look her in the eye. "This is my job on the line. I can't get a reputation as a nut job who runs around town imagining a perp in an Escalade everywhere I go."

  "But I saw him too," her voice warbled, and I could tell her conviction was wavering.

  "Please," I begged before rolling over and vomiting right there on the street.

  "Oh all right," she groused. "But I want it on the record it was under protest.

  "Noted," I wheezed just as the first cop car came to a halt beside us.

  "This was sort of exciting." My mother rubbed my back in a soothing manner. "Almost fun, even."

  I gagged and managed to sputter, "Yeah, fun. That's exactly the word for it," before upchucking once more.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There's something to be said for having an honest face in private investigation. If you don't have one, fake it.

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

  It took almost an hour for the worst effects of the pepper spray to die down. Without the distracting presence of Hunter Black, I experienced my latest dosing in all its scathing glory with the sound of my mother fretting in the background.

  She was such a horrible liar.

  "And then he came out of nowhere, yanked my daughter's car door open, pulled her out into the street, and sprayed her right in the face! Can you imagine?"

  Though my eyes were still running, I could see the cop's face well enough to judge that no, he most decidedly could not imagine her farfetched story even before he muttered, "Wasn't she wearing her seat belt?"

  "We were pulled over," I explained.

  The scowl grew on his dark face. "In the middle of the street?"

  "I thought I hit a cat. I intended to go out and check and see if it was all right."

  "So you stopped your car in the middle of the street after hitting a cat and then were suddenly carjacked?" He didn't have eyebrow hair, but I could tell if he did, they'd be raised up under his hat.

  "Maybe it's a scam," I offered. "Guy picks up stray cats and sets them loose in front of vehicles he wants to carjack."

  "Mmm hmm. What did this cat-hating carjacker look like?"

  "It happened so fast." My mother made a fanning motion with her hand as though she were a Victorian matron about to keel over in a crowded ballroom.

  "His face was covered by a hoodie, though he was Caucasian and hadn't shaved in a while." There had been stubble, golden stubble, and a full mouth. I remembered because I wanted to knock all the teeth out of that mouth.

  "So an unshaven guy wearing a hoodie set a stray cat in front of your car on the off chance you'd stop and unbuckle your seatbelt, and he could pull only one of you from the car and dose you with pepper spray? And then he just ran off, on foot?"

  There was farfetched, but this was stretching into the outer reaches. Taking a deep breath, I pointed a finger at my mother. "She did it."

  "What? That's ridiculous, I would never," Agnes sputtered.

  "It was an accident. She meant to scare off the carjacker, but her aim was off." I knew for a fact that could happen.

  "And why did you stop?" the officer probed.

  "We were arguing. About my lack of a husband. And poor wardrobe choices." All good standbys.

  "Mackenzie," my mother hissed.

  The cop looked between the two of us. "And the carjacker just came upon you while you were arguing?"

  I stumbled over to the car and withdrew the vile of pepper spay. "One dose down. I don't know if you have a way to measure that or not. The carjacker probably collapsed from laughter not far from here." I doubted they could actually measure such a thing, but if he tried, it'd back up my claim.

  He looked from my bloodshot eyes and runny nose to Agnes, who wrung her hands fretfully. "You're lucky he wasn't armed."

  "My mother, the hero." I smiled. "So can we go?"

  He nodded, returning to his patrol car.

  "That's it?" Agnes asked.

  "Are you disappointed?" I headed back to the car. "Come on, I think we've disturbed the peace enough for one night."

  We were barely a block over when she lit into me. "I can't believe you made me lie to the police. And what possessed you to tell him that I sprayed you?"

  "He wasn't buying the cat thing. I could tell from his browbeaten look he has either a harridan wife or mother, and I decided to roll the dice with mother. Damn, I'm out of tissues. Do you have any?"

  She whipped some out of her purse. Her purse tissues were the organized little packs that one could pick up in line at the grocery store. What passed for tissues in my bag were a hodgepodge of donut napkins and woodchip-riddled toilet paper snagged from public restrooms. It was the difference between blowing my nose with a cloud instead of attacking it with a sander.

  "So that was a waste of time," she sighed as I headed back to Uncle Al's.

  I gaped at her. "You're kidding, right? We know the Foxes are having severe marital difficulties, and whoever killed Paul Granger was lurking in their neighborhood. That's totally suspicious behavior."

  My mother folded her arms over her chest. "I don't like this job of yours."

  "Good thing you don't have to do it then. Still want to hit the market?"

  "Too bad the liquor stores are all closed," she grumbled.

  I must have looked like either a strung-out meth fiend or an extra from the Walking Dead because I received a lot of odd looks as we entered the all-night supermarket. If I'd been with Mac she would have teased me about my new head-turning look, and I would have played it up. With my mother I just put my head down and concentrated on filling my shopping cart.

  Of course, since it was my mother, she had a commentary on that, too. "You really shouldn't buy so many processed foods. It's not good for Mac. Or your waistline."

  I bared my teeth in what I hoped passed for a smile and snagged a bunch of bananas just to shut her up.

  "Oh, look, kumquats." She scurried over to a display.

  "Sounds dirty," I muttered and headed off to the bread aisle. Only carbs could save me now.

  I was just putting the last frozen dinner in the cart when my cell phone rang. "Mom?"

  "Mac? What are you still doing up?"

  "I dug up that info you wanted about Rose and Robert Fox. It took longer than I expected. They must be the only two people on the planet not on Facebook."

  I eyeballed Agnes scurrying toward me, kumquats brandished in victory. "I can think of at least one more. So what's the verdict?"

  "Rose filed for divorce about a week ago. Quietly. It was in the county records, but didn't pop up on any radars."

  "After what I witnessed tonight I'm wondering if that was what set her husband off." Briefly I summed up the domestic abuse as well as the guy in the Escalade that had spritzed me.

  "So what are you thinking? That he works for Mr. Fox, like, does his dirty work?" There was the slam of a cabinet door on Mac's end of the line. "Did you get any peanut butter crackers by the way?"
/>   "I'm on it." I veered down the snack aisle. "And about the guy in the Escalade, I don't know what to think. If he worked for either Rose or Robert, why was he parked a few streets over? For that matter, how come he used something non-lethal on me if he shot Paul Granger?"

  "I still can't believe you went after him like that." My daughter sounded impressed.

  "I'm setting a bad example for you, aren't I?"

  "No more than usual. Besides, you're all badass as a PI. It'll be even better if we get paid. Oh and get me Pizza Rolls."

  "Sausage or extra cheese?"

  "Both," Mac answered and hung up.

  I stowed my phone in my purse and maneuvered the cart back toward the frozen food.

  "Did you get milk?" Now that I wasn't on the phone Agnes was back on my case at full volume.

  "No."

  "It's important to get calcium."

  I picked up two gallons of Friendly's ice cream. "I got it covered."

  "Honestly, Mackenzie." She threw up her hands in exasperation.

  I'd had enough. "Mom, look. You're welcome to stay with us, but as long as you do, you don't get a say in what we eat, how I dress, how I parent, who I date, or anything else I choose to do. If you want to boss someone around go home to The Captain, capiche?"

  "I'm only trying to help." She sounded both sulky and defensive.

  I couldn't imagine a world where her nitpicky little comments could be interpreted as help, but having scored a victory, I didn't want to push my luck. Instead we headed toward the checkout line where a bored-looking teenager who was only slightly older than Mac scanned our items.

  "I've got it." My mother practically hip checked me out of the way.

  "No," I said firmly and handed over my credit card, holding my breath that there was enough room on it for the kumquats as well as all our normal junk.

  "You don't let me do anything," Agnes kvetched. "You're flat broke and yet still too proud to let me pay."

  "Next time," I said to pacify her.

  "Well some of that was for me," she said, digging in her wallet for cash.

  Why did everything have to be a big public scene? "You lent Mac money, so I owed you. Consider this payback."

  "But that was for Mac," she protested.

  "Who is my financial responsibility." I shot her an exasperated look. "I've got this."

  "Stubborn," she grumbled.

  "Pot call the kettle much?" I muttered.

  "Pardon?"

  "Never mind."

  The girl raised an eyebrow at us but thankfully didn't comment.

  The card cleared, and I bagged our items, barely containing my sigh of relief. I envied those people who had to just move some money around to pay groceries. Or shoes. If the PI gig didn't pay off, I'd end up selling plasma and my unwanted bananas on street corners. Still a better option than accepting money from my mother.

  It was late enough that our trip home took half the time it normally would have, and soon Helga was secured in her garage for the night. My mind automatically shied away from the thought of selling the Hellcat. She represented everything I wanted my life to be—free, sexy, and fun. The thought of riding off into the sunset with Fillmore was just too damn depressing.

  We humped the groceries across the front walk, and I instinctively checked to see if Hunter's light was still on. It wasn't. Probably a good thing, considering I didn't want to explain my current appearance.

  "You like that man," Agnes spoke softly.

  I knew what she meant, but did she really think I was going to open up to her after her earlier crack about unplanned pregnancies? Way to humiliate your only child, Mom. Deflecting her was probably my best move. "Of course I do. He's nice, and I feel safer having a cop for a neighbor."

  She got that pinched look that I secretly called her constipation face. "Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor, that is not what I mean, and you know it."

  "Mom, please. Not tonight."

  She looked me over from my rat's nest hair to my scraped knee showing through the new hole in my jeans and finally relented. "Oh, all right. But this conversation isn't over."

  "Of course not," I grumbled. "I'm not that lucky."

  * * *

  I fell into bed, exhausted down to my bone marrow.

  I'd agreed Mac could drive Fillmore to school, and she was gone when I stumbled toward the coffeepot, bleary eyed and grumpy. A fresh pot stood waiting for me like a long-lost friend. I inhaled gratefully and then turned toward the counter where I'd stashed my Bruns mug.

  It was gone.

  Frowning, I opened the cabinet above where we'd stockpiled our meager few dishes and was surprised to see the pantry goods from the night before arranged there. No dishes.

  I turned and gaped at the sight of the living room. Not a single box in sight. The place was completely unpacked, every book lined up on the small bookcase built in next to the bay window seat, every cable for Mac's computer coiled neatly and secured with a zip tie.

  Unfortunately, the organized room only showcased all the stuff wrong with the place—cracks in the walls from where the foundation had settled, scuffs on the hardwood floor, dents and dings in all the wood trim, water stains on the ceiling, not to mention the heap of boxes blocked the draft from the failed seals on the windows.

  I swallowed hard and whispered, "Java preserve me."

  That was just what I could see. Who knew what else might be wrong with the house's innards? The roof, the electricity, the water heater? I'd never been a homeowner before, and loathe as I was to admit it, my mother might have been right. This house could have been too much for me to handle.

  "Good morning!" Agnes bustled past me, an armload of neatly stacked towels balanced precariously in front of her.

  "Were we robbed by very neat burglars?" I glanced about like a drowning woman seeking a life preserver.

  "Of course not." My mother set the towels down on one of the barstools.

  I shivered as a gust rattled the windows. "What happened to all of the boxes?"

  "I collapsed them and stacked them in the basement." She proceeded to unfold the already folded clean towels, arranging them first by color then from pale to bright.

  "And where are my dishes?" I waved desperately at the cabinets. "And my coffee mugs?"

  "Over the dishwasher. It's much more efficient that way." She snapped out a towel to its full length.

  Gritting my teeth, I moved stiffly towards the cabinet. The mugs were there, so the bloodbath was staved off for a little while at least.

  "You could at least say thank you." Snap went the linens, making me flinch.

  "Thank you?" I was stiff as all get-out from the antics of the day before and wasn't a morning person in any sense of the word. Her frenetic tidying frayed my last nerve. The coffee was piping hot, though, and strong enough to crank start a Model T. I gulped, actually glad for the scalding down my esophagus. It gave me something to focus on other than her glaring.

  "Yes, I unpacked all your things and am creating a system for your household. When someone does you a favor Mackenzie, it's customary to offer at least a verbal show of gratitude."

  "Why?" I set the mug aside and braced my hands on the counter. "Mom, why did you do this?"

  She looked at me as though I were the one out of my ever-loving mind. "Well, someone had to."

  The front door buzzed, and she dropped the last towel onto the stack and hurried out of the room. "That will be my furniture delivery."

  I returned to the love of my life, aka the hot pot of java. With coffee, all things were possible, including figuring out what Agnes Taylor was up to.

  Of course the personal sleuthing would have to wait. I had a list of doctor's offices to visit so I could find out more about Paul Granger and the drugs he peddled. After the antics of the night before, I was fairly certain the Foxes had something to do with Paul's death, but spending a day covering my bases wouldn't hurt.

  The sound of a crash from the outer hallway broke me out of my mental plan
ning, and I hurried forward to see what was going on.

  Agnes Taylor stood in the foyer, hands on hips, chewing out the no-necked goons carrying…

  I blinked. "Is that a piano?"

  "Yes, or it was before this oaf dropped it." Agnes glared viscously.

  "What's it doing here?" As far as I knew my mother had never once sat down in front of a piano.

  "I bought it, of course."

  Upstairs a door creaked open, and Nona's head, sporting green curlers, peeked out over the railing. "What's all the racket, doll?"

  "Oh, Nona, wait till you see!" Turning her back on me, Agnes headed up the stairs to talk to her new neighbor.

  I didn't want to be a stick in the mud, I really didn't. She was so enthusiastic, so much less caustic. But there was no freaking way that thing would fit in the tiny upstairs apartment. "Mom, there's no way you're going to fit that thing in your apartment."

  The movers paused, the bald one looking to the one with the porn mustache and then at me. "All sales are final."

  "It won't fit," I insisted.

  "That's what she said," Pornstachio snickered.

  Another door opened, and Hunter Black emerged from his apartment. "What's going on, Red?"

  "My mother bought a baby grand piano for her apartment." I gestured helplessly to the thing.

  "So I see."

  "I'm trying to explain to these, um, gentlemen, that there is no freaking way they'll be able to actually put it in there."

  More snickering, but at least they kept the lewd sidebar to themselves.

  "Sure it will. You just need to take the door off the hinges." Hunter headed up the stairs.

  A moment later I followed.

  "Nona, Mrs. Taylor," Hunter greeted the women waiting in the hallway. Nona was her usual Yiddish spouting self, but my mother didn't respond. At least not until I heard her screech, "What are you doing?"

  I rounded the newel post just in time to see Hunter's broad back disappearing into her new pad. I gripped her arm before she could pursue. "He's just trying to help. Worry about the mouth breathers hauling all our new stuff in. Where did you get the money for all this, by the way?"