by CeeCee James
“Oh, any time,” I said. And I meant it.
“She’s kind of been having a rough time ever since Dad died. It’s why I work from home. Just to keep an eye on things. She’s doing good but I like to be around in case she needs me.”
“Aww, that’s very sweet. I’m sure you are a great help to her.”
“I try.” He shrugged and then smoothed his dark hair off his forehead. His hand washing skills hadn’t finished the job and he left a mark of grease on his skin.
“What is it you do?” I asked.
“I’m a mechanic. I have my own shop in town, but now I work out back by the barn. It’s kind of crazy, and definitely not as convenient as the shop in town, but, like I said, I moved things.”
We chatted some more and then I realized with a blush that I’d eaten more than enough of his time. I said goodbye and headed home.
After I left, I realized I still didn’t know his mom’s name. Slowly, I jogged down the road. My ankles were fine, but I didn’t want to push it.
I was thinking about that when I noticed tire tracks outside my driveway. I’d completely forgotten about the black truck. Who had been watching me?
12
I walked up the creaking stairs of my porch and into my house, mentally yelling at myself for not locking the door. I didn’t want to be alone while I searched the house, so I called Uncle Chris.
“Yellow?” answered my uncle, answering in his usually goofy way.
“Hey, Uncle Chris.” I racked my brain for an excuse to call. “Uh, just wanted to check in.” I rolled my eyes and opened the closet door. Nothing there.
“Well, you have good timing. I just got word that they identified the poison that killed Ian. It’s called Trogia Venenata. Little White. A fungus. It’s extremely rare and in fact, not around here at all. The coroner isn’t sure how Ian got into contact with it.” Uncle Chris paused, and I could almost picture him rubbing his neck the way that he did when he was perplexed.
I wonder if Officer Carlson knew that, and that’s why he was being so cagey. “How did you find out?” I asked, heaving a little as I climbed down to peer under the bed.
“I have my ways.”
“So they don’t think he ate it?” I asked to clarify, dusting myself off.
“No. It came in contact with his skin. The coroner noticed petechiae on his neck and swabbed it. It turned up positive for the poison. The coroner is really puzzled because it’s not something that a normal person would get into.”
I tip-toed into the bathroom and eyed the tub. “Uncle Chris, how well do you know Ian and his brother?” I jerked the shower curtain back, heart pounding.
“Mm, I was wondering when you were going to ask me about him.”
“You were?” I opened the linen closet.
“That brain of yours, always spinning just like your dad.”
I resisted rolling my eyes. He needed some encouragement to get into his storytelling mode. I gave him a little verbal nudge. “So you knew them when they were young?”
“Yeah,” he said. I could hear him chewing. “We all started racing at the same time. I lived to beat them.”
“What the heck are you eating?” I asked, giving my house the all clear. I walked back into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee.
“Pretzels,” he crunched. I could practically imagine the crumbs spraying.
I continued. “Were his brother and Ian close back then?”
“They had a complicated relationship. His brother, Jordan, had a hot temper. He was even-keeled for the most part, but if you set him off, watch out. I remember one time when he stabbed a screwdriver through the driver’s side window because the pit crew was too slow.”
“Oh, my. Did Ian have that same temperament?”
“To be honest, I trusted Ian less. With Jordan, pretty much what you saw was what you got. But Ian was a salesman. He could sell you anything. Usually, stuff he didn’t believe in himself.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and the thing he sold the most of was himself. He was everyone’s friend. Or so they thought. No one suspected behind those wide eyes and big grin was someone who was ruthless.”
“Did you ever see him be ruthless?”
“The way he came about buying his first race car was a little suspicious. He had a girlfriend, and she died. Weirdly enough, there was a life insurance policy on her and Ian was the benefactor. Cops never got him though.”
“Wow. That’s a little freaky.” I thought of the thin man. He’d seemed nervous, with thin fingers plucking at his clothes and phone, and wine glass. Was he someone who had killed a person? Had that person’s family gotten revenge? This suddenly seemed much more complicated. “Have you seen him do anything crazy recently? Is it possible that he made someone so angry that they decided to murder him?”
“Sure. I believe that in a heartbeat. But the only ones at that party were us. And I can’t fathom that any of us did it.”
“So, what do you think happened?”
His voice lowered. “To Ian? Honestly, this is one of the worst situations I’ve found myself in. A good friend killed, and only good friends there to witness it.”
“Could it be someone who’s not a friend? What about the neighbor?”
Uncle Chris hummed. “That guy seemed to be getting along with him when he showed up. Ian didn’t seem upset to see him at all.”
“Maybe someone was hired to do it. Like some weird delivery guy or someone we didn’t see?”
“Maybe so, but that still means one of us did the hiring.”
“Well, maybe not. What if it was one of the companies Ian used to work for. Or maybe someone at his new job didn’t want him to transfer.”
“I guess any one of those is a possibility. But how to go about proving it, that’s the problem.”
It was overwhelming to think about chasing down all these loose ends. I decided to change the subject. “You know, I’m still getting a hard time about having a Flamingo as our mascot. Especially in Pennsylvania.”
Uncle Chris cleared his throat. “So, what do you say?”
“I say you lost a bet, of course. But I don’t know if that makes our reality sound very reputable.”
He snorted. “People will believe what they want to believe. As long as I’m selling, that’s all I care about. Speaking of doing the opposite of what people expect, did you ever get a chance to check out that Challenger you wanted?” He laughed. “Your dad's going to have a fit.”
“Nah, it was gone by the time I went back.” It was a huge disappointment, to be honest.
He laughed even harder.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“It’s just that the old saying is true. The apple don’t fall far from the tree.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Didn’t your old man ever tell you about his hot rod days?”
My eyes popped open What? My straight-laced, white-collar dad had hot rod days? “Tell me.”
“Girl, who do you think got me into muscle cars? It was your father.”
My father? The one who scolded me when I’d first brought up my dream as a teenager? The one who wore a tie even around the house?
“You’re kidding me,” I gasped.
“I’m totally serious. He had this sweet little ‘Cuda that he later gifted to me. We used to take that thing over this sharp hill in town and jump over the railroad tracks.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. We’d sneak out at night, all of us. Sadly, it ended the night the cops followed us home.”
“Why would Dad go home if they were following you guys?”
“They were sneaky themselves and met us coming the other way. We got boxed in on our street.” He laughed, and I heard a crunch of another pretzel. “Mom wasn’t too happy with us.”
“Your dad wasn’t there?”
“Sweetie, Dad was never around.”
That statement said a lot. But at the same time, back then, there we
re a lot of absentee parents. It didn’t explain all the hostility he still had pent up towards Oscar.
We finished our conversation. I’d briefly thought about bringing up the black truck, but he hung up before I had the chance. I was also disappointed he didn’t mention our previous planned meeting for Darcy’s Doughnuts. I was starting to think that he’d forgotten that he’d even called me to talk about it. He had been pretty drunk that night.
Sighing, I locked my deadbolt and peeped out the window. Snow was falling again, covering up all signs that I’d been out jogging.
And covering up the tire tracks, as well.
13
I poured myself a mug of fresh steaming coffee and mused over these interesting details of my dad and Uncle Chris running from the police. It made me wonder if my mom was a part of that.
I gasped, realizing at that moment that I didn’t know my mother’s maiden name. I’d just known her as Vani O’Neil. Suddenly, that seemed like the most horrible thing ever, to not know her name. Could I find it on the internet? I opened up my browser, and my finger hovered over the search button.
My hand froze. The enormity of what I was about to do hit me. For the first time, ever, I was going to try to find information about my mom.
What if I found her?
My stomach nervously flopped like it was full of baby frogs. The feeling immediately grew worse, chest tightening, body screaming I needed to escape. I was actually having a panic attack. I couldn’t do it. I was the biggest chicken in the world, but I couldn’t look to see if she was alive.
Feeling small and gross at my cowardice, I set the phone on the counter. It rang just as it touched the surface, making me squeal in surprise. I stared at it for a second as crazy thoughts zoomed through my head. Was it my mother?
Good grief, woman, you don’t even know if she’s still alive. Of course, it’s not. I snatched it up in both rage and bravado.
It was Kari.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Oh, good! You’re there. I was afraid I’d have to leave a message, and you know how I hate to do that.”
I did know. Most of Kari’s messages were rambling nonsense that ended with, ‘call me,’ while conveniently leaving out any true intent for the reason she called in the first place.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I was just thinking about this weekend. What do you think you’ll wear? I think you should go with that cute mini-skirt you had on last summer.”
“I wore it because it was hot. Summer. Short skirts. They kind of go together, you know.” I said dryly. “Unlike how they go with snowstorms and freezing temperatures.”
“Freezing temperatures! Please, it’s been a practically balmy winter for us. Maybe wear a pair of leggings with it. With those cute boots.”
“I don’t own any leggings without holes in them. Give it up, I’m wearing jeans.”
“Listen, I know you’re way out there in Timbuktu, so I don’t think you remember what you should wear when you go out and socialize.”
She was making me sound like a dog. “I am socialized,” I answered, hotly. “And if you keep this up, I’ll be wearing my overalls. Complete with cow crap.”
She laughed. “I just want you to have fun.”
“I’m doing this for you, remember. It’s called being a sport. You actually owe me one.”
“Well, it will be good for you, as well. You need to get out of the house. I half-expect to discover you’re growing hair on your toes, what with your house in the hill and all.”
I knew what she was doing. She knew what she was doing. And any single woman my age who has been set up more times than she could count knows that they never worked out. I was getting kind of sick playing her charade.
“I can do it on my own, thank you. I don’t need a blind date.”
“Date? Who said anything about a date? Just four people having a fun evening together. Come on. Don’t be scared. Wear the skirt.”
“I doubt it,” I answered. “But I’ll wear something nice.”
“Oh, terrific! You’re going to have such a fun time! Joe and I got his parents to watch the kids so it will be wine o’clock all night!”
I chuckled. “I’ll see you then.”
We hung up.
All right. So I know I need to get out more. And today kind of showed me maybe there was such a thing as being too isolated. I shivered at the thought of the black truck. I’d definitely keep my eye open for it around town. It had to be local. Who could it be?
The next day started the same way, with me fumbling for my coffee maker that hadn’t turned on with the timer for the millionth time, and trying to find my phone.
The coffee maker obviously had problems but now was happily percolating. Phone was hidden under a pile of junk mail. As I picked it up, the screen warned me it only had twenty percent of the battery left. I groaned. Why did I keep forgetting to charge this thing?
I plugged it in and went back for coffee. It wasn’t quite finished, but I needed a cup now. I grimaced at the strength and eased into my broken-down armchair (still amazingly comfortable) to check my emails.
Nothing. No new inquiries, no new clients. Even Jennifer and Mark hadn’t sent me anything. I typed off a message asking if there was anything I could show them, and then stumbled for the shower.
I’d forgotten to take one the day before. Forgotten, or had been too lazy, take your pick. Anyway, I felt like I’d finished a huge achievement when I climbed out. TaDa world! I took a shower!
I dried my hair when my phone dinged. I ran over, hopeful that it was a new client but it was just Kari. —can’t wait to see you for dinner!
I groaned like I was ready to heave up breakfast. How did I let myself get talked into stuff like this? I knew exactly what it was going to be like… awkward small talk with some strange man while Kari and Joe blinked cartoon heart-eyes at us with satisfied smiles.
Blech.
Still, she had brought up an important fact. Yesterday was a good start, but I needed to continue to shake loose the complacency that made me act like a home hobbit, like she inferred. But, since I really didn’t want a repeat of what happened yesterday, I needed to find a new place to run.
Which meant only one thing.
I needed to join a gym. The introvert in me screamed, but I reasoned that it was the best of both worlds since I could wear headphones and zone out, but I was still around people.
Pulling up the search engine, I hunted for a highly rated local gym. Finally, I found one that seemed like it would work. The tag-line even said, “No pressure, no judgment. Work at your own pace.”
That’s exactly what I needed.
With no clients to help, I decided to head over there. There was no time like the present.
About twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot for Pump gym—coincidentally located in the same lot as a teriyaki place and a cinnamon bun store; whose sweet scents nearly sabotaged my exercise plans. I persisted, marching past the bakery and up to the gym door, my chest swelling with pride that I was such a strong person.
I was met at the door by a very fit man. Very, very fit. Muscles bulged on top of muscles, all tan and shining, and he made sure they were on display in his tight tank top. He glanced at me, taking in my oversized sweats, baggy shirt, old shoes and ponytail, and probably marked me as a wannabe gym loser.
Well, he had that right. I definitely was no gym rat.
“Thanks,” I said as he held the door open. I was surprised when he flashed me a friendly, slightly flirty grin.
“Hey there. New here?” he asked.
I was right that he marked me as a newbie. Still, the smile was amicable. I smiled back and nodded. “Yep. New in town. I need a place to run in this weather and thought I’d try it out here.”
“Of course!” he said. “My name’s Robbie. Come on over to the counter and I’ll get you set up.”
I followed him to the counter, a sterile piece of white Formica brilliantly
lit by overhead fluorescents. Behind him were colorful displays of water bottles and fitness supplements.
“So, you must work here?” I asked as he pulled a keyboard up onto the counter from some place underneath the desk.
He grinned, perfect white teeth on a perfectly tanned face. “This is my place, actually. I’ve owned it for the last three years. I’ll tell you what, it was a mess when I first got it but I’ve been working on it. Updating it. It’s a nice place now. I think you’ll like it. Your name?” he asked.
“Stella O’Neil.”
He frowned for a second as he typed it in, using just his index fingers in a funny pecking motion. I braced myself for what I knew was coming, the infamous Flamingo accusation.
“You’re the one with that flamingo?” he asked, jabbing a finger toward me.
“Yup,” I nodded.
“Huh. That’s funny.” He grinned. “Tell me, what’s a flamingo doing representing a realty company up here in Pennsylvania?”
“An old bet gone wrong.”
“Not too wrong,” he noted with a final tap to the keys. “It brought you out here.” He smiled and turned the keyboard toward me. He also tipped the screen so I could read it. “If you could type how you found us and make sure I have your name right.”
I eyed it and stifled a smile. He’d typed my name in hot pink.
“For the flamingo,” he said, raising a thick eyebrow.
I typed in internet and passed the keyboard back. He read it, typed some more, and then put the keyboard away. Then he came out with a thin card which he stamped 10 times.
“Here, take this. This will give you a good long time to test out our gym. I think you’re going to like it here.”
I accepted the card and tucked it into my wallet. “Thank you.”
He walked from behind the counter, showing a gracefulness that belied his size. Along with him came a scented spicy cloud. Maybe cinnamon. Not too strong and it smelled nice. “All right, follow me. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
