by Maisie Dean
It was only a little more than a block to August’s house, but it felt like ten miles in the outfit I had on.
An old man in a straw hat caught sight of me while watering his deck plants. He didn’t seem to notice when the stream began missing the pots all together and splashing onto the deck. I kept walking, holding my head up high and avoiding eye contact with a young jogging couple across the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the lady smack the man’s stomach with the back of her hand, and he reluctantly set his sights back on the manicured lawns and luxury cards. The woman scowled at me until she’d passed.
August’s house was large and upscale, but it did not come close to matching the glamour of Leo’s house. I had only seen the glimpses from the security tapes, of course, but I'd been able to tell that the modern architecture and Californian opulence could scarcely be beat.
August’s home loomed tall before me. Set back and up on small hill was a Spanish Colonial revival-type house, with immaculate landscaping all around it. An elaborate brick pathway led to an oversized front door.
My heart started beating so forcefully I could see the cheap lace tremble with every beat. This is your chance, Kacey, show them what you’re made of. I approached the door and found the doorbell. I crossed my fingers behind my back and hoped I would be greeted by a housekeeper or personal assistant. Perhaps August would be out for the day and I wouldn’t see him at all. My luck was off to a bad start, it turned out.
The giant door swung open, and there stood August. He wore paisley pajama pants with a dark blue housecoat wrapped tightly around his thin torso. His hair was neatly combed, with some kind of pomade or wax to hold it in place. It was just as it had been each time I’d seen him. His mouth hung open for a moment while he took in the sight of me, and then he abruptly cleared his throat.
“You—you’re here to clean, for me?” August stammered.
“Oui. Yes, Monsieur Ripley,” I said with a something along the lines of a French accent. I intentionally made the end of his last name rhyme with "hay" instead of "tea." The small creases of a frown were evident between his brows. Would he recognize me?
“It’s Ripley,” August corrected me.
“Oh, excuse me. Je suis désolé, Monsieur,” I replied. I batted my false eyelashes at him, and did my best to look sincere. For a moment I worried he would become too skeptical of the whole thing and send me away. But then his face relaxed and I could see him fight the urge to let his gaze wander from my face. He quickly gazed past me, out onto the driveway and the boulevard beyond it, and ushered me inside. Once he’d closed the door he started ogling again. I shifted my weight from heel to heel, and tried to keep a pleasant smile on my face. I swiftly became aware of how often the customers of the cleaning company must assume that their scantily clad housekeepers aren’t actually there to attend to the house. The job paid well, but certainly not that well. Besides, there were loads of other numbers to call if that was what you were looking for in LA.
“I start now?” I asked, bringing August back from whatever daydream he’d been in.
“Yes, yes. Of course. This way. I’m going to put on some—some clothes, I’ll be right back. You can start with the kitchen,” he said and pointed me down a long hall.
The entryway to the house led right into a large living room with vaulted ceilings. There was a fireplace built into the white brick wall that was as tall as me, and above the mantel was exactly what I had been looking for. The Hannah Otto painting! There it was, proudly displayed in August’s very own house. I suppressed a grin and the butterflies flapped around in my stomach. I’d solved the crime. Could this mean I might get my investigative career back? I forced my mind to focus and not get too ahead of myself. This would all be for nothing if I couldn’t get proof for the Bookers.
I quickly placed my carrier tray with cleaning supplies onto the ground instead of following August’s directions to the kitchen, and bent over to pretend I was rummaging around. When I finally heard the door click shut, to what I presumed to be August’s bedroom, I pulled my phone out from between the bottles of cleaner and rags. I snapped a few photos of the living room and the wall where the painting hung before I took a few steps into the living room to get a closer shot of the painting itself. The wall where the painting was, was across from floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led out to a long, rectangular pool. The sun bouncing on the water gave the painting an eerie, wavy effect.
Suddenly I heard a man yell, and there was August running across the patio toward the living room. The house wrapped around in such a way that August had been able to see me through the glass doors from his bedroom at the other side of the pool. I turned to run for the front door but my heel caught on the uneven slate tiles, and I had to grab onto the back of a couch to not fall over. That, I wish I could have said to Lucky, is why wearing heels to work is a bad idea.
August slid one of the glass doors open and leapt through to the living room. He had to dodge an overstuffed leather armchair and a bookshelf to get to me. I noticed that there was a large framed painting, of what I couldn’t tell, leaning against the shelf. It must have hung where the Hannah Otto did now. I had managed to stand up, using the couch for support, and started heading for the door again, but he caught up to me and grabbed onto my black and white, silky shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he shouted.
“It’s just a nice painting, I wanted—” I stopped short, realizing I’d forgotten to put on an accent. August didn’t seem to notice, but he did seem to get suddenly suspicious of my short blonde hair. He reached forward and tugged. The wig came off and so did the glasses. My brown hair tumbled free, and he stepped back in surprise.
“Kacey?” he said.
It took me a minute to realize he’d said my name right. There’s a first time for everything.
CHAPTER 21
Recognition washed over August’s face as he staggered backwards a couple steps.
“How did you—” August began, but he quickly transformed his confusion into dark amusement. “Those Booker boys have you doing house calls now? And in costume too. It’s only fitting that they’d have cheap taste.”
August took in the details of my costume from top to bottom again. This time, instead of surprise or curiosity, the way his eyes settled on each fold of satin and stitched section of white lace made my blood boil.
“Why did you steal the painting, August?” I asked sharply, and ignored his comments. If I was going to get what I’d come for, I needed to take control of the situation.
August set his jaw and jutted his chin out.
“Leo deserved everything he got,” he growled. August sat down in an armchair but kept his posture tall. He had perfect view of the painting and he locked his eyes on it, taking in all in. “After all that he’s taken from me, this is nothing. Nothing!”
I glanced down at the ground where my phone had been knocked out of my hand. It was upside down beside my tray of cleaning supplies.
“Taken from you,” I repeated, pressing him to say more.
“Yes, taken. Stolen from me. You see, this isn’t the first time the lovely Hannah has changed hands between us. She loved me first,” he said. His voice cracked slightly but then his eyes became steely. “Leo was the original thief, he stole her heart away from me.”
Hannah, the woman! Of course. I’d seen enough movies and TV shows to know that a lover scorned was more than enough motive for just about any crime. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
“You were in a relationship with Hannah Otto before Leo was?” I asked.
August stared up at the painting. The rigidness of his jaw had lessened, and his brows were no longer angled downwards so severely.
“We were soul mates,” he said simply. “I dated her first, yes. And I loved her. She loved me too, but Leo can charm the skin off a snake.” August stared blankly at the ground while his shoulders drooped.
“The affair didn’t last long before Leo cast her aside. I would h
ave taken her back in a heartbeat, but she didn’t want to have anything to do with either of us for many years. By the time we reconnected, it was too late to be anything more than friends.
“Why are you still friends, er, or pretending to be, with Leo?” I asked.
August sighed and didn’t make eye contact with me. He smiled weakly, absentmindedly rubbing his palm over his chest.
“Like I said, he’s a snake charmer. But the memories came flooding back the night of the party. I was overcome with a need to make him feel even a fraction of what he had put me through.”
“So you impersonated one of the cater-waiters to get it out of the house. What were you doing in the two-minutes gap between the two cameras?” I asked. In truth, I already had my suspicions but I wanted to hear him say it.
“Once I’d gotten it out of the house I stashed it in some shrubbery outside where I knew the cameras didn’t overlap. I went back for it later that night,” August said. He gave a dry laugh, as if remembering the night’s events. “I had to get rid of those shrimp puffs. I ate a bunch and let the dog have the rest. The fact that Leo got so upset over Fiona being sick all night was an unintended consequence. The cherry on top.” August continued to chuckle and had to remove his thick glasses to wipe a tear that appeared at the corner of his eye. When he’d put them back on, he must have seen the dismay on my face. I had a weak stomach and short temper for anyone who was okay with harming pets. August stood suddenly, the hardness returning to his face and posture as he began taking slow steps toward me.
“I really shouldn’t have told you those things. You’re going to run back to those Booker fools, aren’t you?” August said. “We can’t have that, no. We certainly can’t have that.”
I didn’t know how to answer him. On the one hand, if I lied about still having my job with the office he might get angrier about the lying and spying on him, but if I told him I was working alone to get the answers for myself, he would know there would be no one coming to look for me if I didn’t return. In the same moment both August and I turned our attention to my phone still lying on the ground.
Quicker than I thought he was capable of, August lunged for it. Painfully, I dropped to my knees on the slate tiles to intercept him and managed to wrap my hand around the phone first.
“You stupid girl, did you record me?” he barked. The meekness that usually clung to August had disappeared, leaving an angry, rough man behind.
August shoved my shoulder backwards and yanked at the device in my hands. He was strong, despite his thin frame, and he managed to jostle me around until my shoulder blades dug into the cold, hard grooves of the floor. Pain pierced up through my back, and a gasp escaped my lips. The way he had me pinned to the ground hurt, but what scared me most was the gleam in August’s eyes as he desperately wrestled the phone from my grasp. It was that look of glee at being in control, at causing pain and discomfort to someone else, that had tipped me off about the whole thing.
I tried to kick at him with the base of my heel. One had fallen off when I fell but I managed to angle my foot so that I struck his crotch. It wasn’t enough to get him to let go completely but he doubled over for a moment. The blow only make him more mad and he brutally twisted my arm around until I had to decide whether to let it snap or to let go of the phone. The pain and pressure started to make me feel nauseous. Just as my face began to flood with hot blood from the pain as August pushed and pushed, the front door swung wide open.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. Owen stood a few feet away holding the gigantic stun gun.
“Let her go, August!” Owen shouted. He had the weapon aimed just above me, at August's chest.
August’s mouth hung open and his eyes blazed, unblinking. He didn’t let go of my arm, he just twisted it harder, forcing my back further and further into the rough groves of the floor below.
“You’re not going to shoot me with that toy, boy, get out of here!” August snarled in Owen’s direction. The black, rubberized gun with bright yellow accents did, in fact, look about as threatening as a child’s toy. August gave my arm one last twist and I couldn’t take it anymore. I let go of my my phone and he seized it triumphantly.
“A-ha!” he exclaimed.
As soon as August had let go of me and stood up, I heard a loud popping sound and then a buzzing. A second later, an unconscious August slumped heavily onto floor beside me, quickly accompanied by a mechanical smashing sound.
In spite of myself, I let out a frightened yelp when August thumped down next to me. I quickly scrambled away from him, feeling scratched and sore.
“It’s okay, you’re safe,” Owen said. He’d dropped the stun gun by the door and ran toward me. Owen was the smallest Booker brother in terms of both height and weight, but he slipped his arms under mine and lifted me onto my feet surprisingly easily. I was small, but with my penchant for snacks I was certainly not anywhere near the cliché of being light as a feather.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I said. I was surprised that my voice sounded a little shaky.
“What do you mean, of course I was coming,” Owen said, gently holding onto my uninjured arm to support my shaky legs.
“You took your time a little, there at the end,” I said, gingerly lifting my sore arm and giving him a playful nudge with the other. He muttered something about getting his foot stuck in the hedge, and peered down with a deeply furrowed brow at August’s still form. Owen’s hand that supported me was open and gentle, but his free one was clenched tightly into a fist.
Our culprit wouldn’t be out for long, but long enough for us to get any remaining photo evidence we might need, and to grab the painting.
“I’ll definitely work on my entrance for next time,” he said seriously. I laughed.
“There’ll be a next time, will there?” I joked, although I felt a sudden lightness in my chest at the thought of returning to the office and rejoining the team. “Maybe I could handle the stun-gun and you could wear the maid uniform in that scenario,” I said.
Owen, blushed. He must have not even noticed my outfit yet, which was something I was pretty sure Owen was the only man capable of doing, but now that I’d draw attention to it, he found it hard to ignore my cleavage and all the exposed skin. He cleared his throat and directed his attention far away from my body up at the Hannah Otto painting.
Owen had been hiding outside the whole time, listening through a device placed in the cleaning supplies, but in the midst of the action I’d almost forgotten the plan. A cool rush of relief washed over me and I leaned in to plop a kiss on Owen’s cheek. Owen, whose eyes became wide, trying to discern why my face would be approaching his face with such velocity, turned his head to find out at the last moment, and my sweet, thank-you kiss landed squarely on his lips. They were soft and warm, and even though I was startled, I lingered there for an extra millisecond. When I pulled back, he let go of my arm and stepped backwards while his cheeks filled with color He swayed back and forth a little, looking woozy as he kept moving away from me.
“That—you—was,” Owen fumbled. He opened his mouth as if he was about to try again at the whole words thing, when the back of his shoe caught August’s sprawled-out thigh and Owen toppled backwards against the couch, where I had fallen just minutes earlier.
Owen had fallen back onto the soft part and wasn’t hurt, so I allowed myself to let out a giggle. I moved to walk unevenly toward him wearing only one shoe, when something crunched under my heel. On the floor near August there was a little pile of glass shards and aluminum bits.
“Owen,” I said, approaching the couch and peering over the back edge to see him sprawled out. He was as unmoving as a statue and his big hazel eyes were still wide open and blinking rapidly. His reaction to my accidental kiss was so endearing that I couldn’t resist reaching over and ruffling his hair.
“I think you owe me a phone.”
CHAPTER 22
The next morning I took my time walking up the old carpeted stairs to the
office. Doyle’s was hopping in a way that was uncharacteristic of what I’d seen over the last week. He was busy attending to the patrons at the bar stools, and didn’t hurry over to bring me a coffee, but I was glad for that. It was no time for caffeine. I didn’t know this was truly the last time I’d ascend these steps or the first of many more, and my stomach was in an uproar about the uncertainty. The butterflies flapped against my insides and threatened to knock me off balance. Before I reached the office, I let the sweet smell of pastries and crispy bacon bolster me up for what was to come. The familiar and comforting mix of salty and sweet raised my energy levels, so I straightened out my white collar and pushed into the Booker Brothers Detective Agency once more.
All of the Booker boys were there, even at such an early hour. They sat around in the middle of the office on their desk chairs, except for Owen who was perched on a foldable plastic one. His regular chair was overturned behind his desk and the orientation of the seat was crooked and all wonky. It must have been broken during Leo and Fitzy’s tirade the other morning.
Tippy was there too, holding a fresh cup of coffee in her "gramma" mug and sipping it against a filing cabinet. She eyed me as I walked in and sat down in another plastic chair near my desk.
Lucky’s eyes were bright and he flashed me the largest grin I’d seen of his yet.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the infamous crime-solver herself,” Lucky announced, as I walked toward them. “You know, you and I could be an unstoppable duo.” He waggled his eyebrows in an impressive little wave motion. My heart leapt at the suggestion that there was some version of reality where I may get to keep my job, but I fought down my rising hopes. The disappointment from being let go the other day hadn’t subsided, and I didn’t think I’d be able to take much more. Just because I’d gone out on a limb and solved the case wouldn’t mean I’d be allowed to stay, would it?
Harrison would likely be the real test. Harrison’s lips remained flat, and there was a little indent between his brows. The butterflies continued to thwack around wildly. Owen caught my eye briefly and then quickly distracted himself by picking at the battered corner of his desk. It may have been my imagination, but I was fairly sure I could see him trying to hide that he was blushing all the way up his neck and into his cheeks. If his brothers noticed, they didn’t say anything. Which made me pretty confident they hadn’t noticed, and that Owen hadn’t passed on any information about the kiss.
