Sour Grapes

by Jeff Shelby

  And I’d had new lovers.

  All of these things had led me right to where I was at that moment.

  I glanced one more time at the two men on either side of me, my head swiveling back and forth.

  I sighed once more, a soft happy sigh.

  The two men I loved most in the world were right by my side.

  And I had never been happier.

  THE END

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  Would you like a sneak peek at the first chapter of Jeff's new Capitol Crimes series, featuring a character from the Rainy Day books? Keep reading!

  If you've read any of the Rainy Day books, the name Mack Mercy should sound familiar. He was Rainy's old boss in D.C. before she retired down to Latney. He's a bit of a cranky old private investigator. And now he's got his own series. Here's the first chapter of the first book in that series, NATIONAL MAUL.

  ONE

  More than anything, I wanted a drink. A very cold, very stiff drink.

  It had been that kind of day.

  I pulled into the driveway of my brick rambler and killed the engine. The heat and humidity that seemed to appear out of nowhere on a late April day seeped into my car, instantly causing sweat to bead on my forehead. This was Virginia in the middle of the summer, not at the beginning of spring.

  Just another nail in the coffin as far as I was concerned.

  I grabbed my briefcase, a scuffed brown leather bag I’d had for decades, and shoved the driver’s side door open. Thick, suffocating air immediately engulfed me and I stalked to the house’s side door, the one closest to the driveway, and yanked it open, desperate to escape the stifling heat.

  I wasn’t sure how, but the kitchen was hotter than it was outside.

  “Lupe?” I called as I walked through the tiny kitchen and into the dining room adjacent to it. I tossed my briefcase on the oak dining table and it slid across the surface, finally coming to a stop when it bumped into a stack of newspapers. There was at least two weeks’ worth of newsprint piled up on the table.

  Lupe Gonzalez appeared at the top of the stairs, a basket piled high with laundry in her arms. “What?” she practically snapped.

  Lupe was my housekeeper, my cook, and the person who kept my home life in order. Well, as much as anyone could. She’d worked for me for almost twenty years, and she’d become like a mother to me. She took care of me, she made me good food—tamales were her specialty, and something she didn’t make often enough, as far as I was concerned—and she complained and offered unsolicited advice all the time. Definitely a maternal figure.

  “Why is the house so hot?”

  Her dark eyes flashed. “You see the temperature outside?” Even after three decades in the United States her accent was as thick as the Mexican hot chocolate she whipped up for me every winter.

  I loosened the tie around my neck. “No, I didn’t see,” I said pointedly. “I felt.”

  Her glare intensified. “I cook for you today. The kitchen get hot. What you want me to do?”

  “Don’t cook.” I was only half-serious.

  She rolled her eyes. “And then you starve to death.”

  “I’ll eat ice cream,” I told her.

  This warranted an even bigger eye roll. “You need good food. You get fat.”

  I glanced down at my stomach with a frown. Sure, I wasn’t sporting a six-pack but I wasn’t hauling around a beer belly, either. I was comfortably soft.

  I sucked my gut in anyway, feeling the belt looped through my khakis loosen as I did so. “What did you make that turned this house into an oversized oven?”

  She’d disappeared into my bedroom upstairs, presumably to drop off the laundry basket. The house was a brick split-level, with three bedrooms upstairs and a family room and laundry down. The main floor housed the kitchen, dining room, and living room. The floor plan was remarkably open, with half the upstairs visible from the living room. There was no wall, just a low wrought-iron railing that served in place of one. The house wasn’t huge by any means but it was much too big for a lifelong bachelor.

  Lupe reappeared empty-handed, the laundry basket safely delivered, and I asked her again.

  She eased her way down the steps with heavy feet, holding on to the railing as she descended. I didn’t know exactly how old she was—I’d put her close to 60 if I had to make a guess—but I knew that she’d spent a lifetime on her feet, cooking and cleaning and taking care of other people as well as her own family. A sliver of guilt poked at me; I’d been one of those people for years.

  “What you say?” she asked.

  I unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on my dress shirt. I was ready to strip naked and stand in front of the air conditioner, but I knew that wouldn’t go over well with Lupe. “I asked what you made.”

  “Bread.” She motioned to a wrapped loaf on the counter. Then she pointed at a covered pan sitting on top of the stove. “And chicken enchiladas.”

  My stomach growled of its own accord. Suddenly, I was starving.

  “That will taste good,” I said with a grin. “Especially with the six-pack of beer I’m gonna drink with it.”

  Lupe gave me a disapproving look. “Too much beer.”

  I kicked off my loafers and trudged up the stairs, undoing more buttons on my shirt as I went. “Trust me, I need them after the day I had.”

  Lupe was standing by the stairs watching me, her arms folded across her ample bosom. “What happen, Max?”

  Max. Twenty years working for me and she still couldn’t call me by my name.

  I didn’t bother to correct her. “My office manager is pregnant.” Her eyes narrowed and I immediately added, “Not by me.”

  “Good,” she said. “You need a wife and bambinos, not a...” She searched for the word. “Not a...play toy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not a five-year-old. Women are not...play toys.”

  She gave me a stern look of approval before her expression turned slightly dreamy. If there was one thing Lupe loved more than Jesus, it was babies. “Bambino,” she murmured, her eyes bright.

  I scowled and nodded.

  “Why you no happy?” she asked. Her tone mirrored the confusion on her face.

  “Because she’s quitting!”

  A look of understanding dawned. “Ah, to stay home with baby?”

  I gave her another quick nod before heading into my room.

  Justine Richards had worked for me for all of nine months. She was annoying and loud, and nowhere near as good as Rainy, the woman she’d replaced.

  But no one would be as good as Rainy. I’d figured that out about a month in with Justine. Rainy, my old office assistant, was like Lupe: hardworking, dependable. Sure, she was a little bit of a pain in the rear, but at least I knew I could count on her. Even with two kids, and even through her divorce, her commitment to her job had been unwavering.

  Justine was another story. In the few months she worked for me, I’d determined there was only one thing she was particularly good at, and that was talking. She’d demonstrated this particular skill again when she filled me in on the pregnancy testing experience. She spent fifteen minutes relaying the ninety seconds it had taken to pee on the testing strip and wait for the results. And when she’d finished sharing that story, she’d launched into reminiscing about the night of conception. I was no prude, but even I had to draw the line somewhere, and hearing about the exact second my office assistant had gotten pregnant crossed boundaries I didn’t know I had. I’d interrupted her story by congratulating her and telling her she was free to start her unpaid maternity leave whenever she determined she needed to. She’d glanced down at her still-flat stomach and announced that she’d like to start now. I locked the door behind her as she flounced out of the office, a mixture of
relief and dread washing over me. I wanted to focus on how good it would feel to have a little silence—and sanity—back in the office, but I wasn’t stupid. It also meant I’d be flying solo, doing everything on my own for Capitol Cases. I was a great private investigator. Everything else? Not so much.

  I wiped the memories from my mind as I shrugged out of my shirt and unbuttoned my pants, letting them both slide to the wood floor. I’d pick them up later. Maybe.

  I debated staying in my boxers for the rest of the day before deciding to pull on a pair of gym shorts and a Nationals t-shirt. If I was going back downstairs, Lupe would want me clothed.

  So unreasonable.

  I headed back into the hallway. From my vantage point, I could see Lupe at the table, collecting the pile of newspapers and shoving them into a paper grocery bag.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  She didn’t look up. “Cleaning.”

  I came down the stairs. “I haven’t read those yet.”

  She shook her head. “They are weeks old, Max. You will not read them.”

  She was right, of course. But I wasn’t going to agree with her. “That’s not true,” I told her. “I...I’m going to read them this weekend.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Fine,” she said as she picked up the full bag. “They will be right out on the deck for you.” She paused. “In the recycling bin.”

  “Lupe,” I said with a groan. But if she heard me, it had no effect on her. She bustled into the kitchen and out the side door. Ten seconds later I heard the unmistakable sound of the bag dropping into the recycling bin.

  I strolled into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge, being careful not to pull on the handle too hard. The appliance had seen better days, which could be said for most of the things in my house. The handle was attached only on the top, which made the bottom swing free if it was pulled too hard. I’d wanted to rip the thing off and be done with it but Lupe had stopped me. And because she spent more time in the kitchen than I did, I reluctantly deferred to her.

  For now.

  Lupe marched back into the house, a sheen of sweat coating her forehead and glistening above her upper lip. The loose tendrils of hair had frizzed up in the twenty seconds she’d spent outside and they looked like tiny corkscrew springs forming a halo around her round face.

  She huffed out a breath. “Madre de Dios, it is hot.”

  I held out my beer. “Which is why I’m drinking this.”

  And also because Justine had quit, leaving me up a creek without a paddle if I didn’t find a replacement soon. I swallowed a huge mouthful of the Stella Artois I was holding.

  Lupe opened the ancient dishwasher and began plucking glasses out from the top rack. “You wait for beer,” she said, clucking her tongue, not shy at all about expressing her disapproval. “You need to mow.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “It’s too hot.”

  The glasses clinked loudly against each other as she stowed them in the cupboard. “Max, your lawn look like jungle. What do the neighbors say?”

  I shrugged. “No idea.”

  She gave me a look of reproach and tsked. “You need to mow. Today.” She put her hand to her hip. “The grass is this high.”

  “It is not,” I said.

  But she wasn’t too far off the mark. I hated mowing. I hated yards, period. If I had my way, I’d pull up all the grass and fill the yard with rocks. There were no rules against this. I lived in an older neighborhood, with most of the houses built in the 40s. There were no HOA rules to speak of, only a neighborhood-driven “beautification committee.” But all they did was hand out awards to people who kept their yards neat and pretty. They pretty much ignored people like me, which was fine with me.

  Lupe slid the top rack back into the dishwasher and pulled out the lower one. She started piling up the plates, stacking them on the Formica countertop.

  “No enchiladas for you,” she announced.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You mow. Then eat. Otherwise, no.” She shook her head for emphasis.

  “What are you, the Soup Nazi?”

  Her eyes clouded with confusion. Idioms didn’t always go over well with her, especially ones that referenced American television. Her TV-watching consisted almost exclusively of Univision and telenovelas.

  “Nazi?” she repeated, pronouncing it carefully, her eyes rounding at the mistaken belief that I was comparing her to Hitler.

  “Never mind,” I muttered. I glanced out the window, at the trees swaying in the hot, humid breeze, their dainty new leaves dancing and fluttering. The grass had greened up early this year thanks to the unusually warm and wet spring, and I’d put off mowing for weeks now. It was the only weekly house chore I was responsible for.

  I still hated it.

  My phone dinged, a soft sound in the distance, and I realized I’d left it in my pants pocket. I hurried out of the kitchen and back upstairs, thankful to have an excuse to get out from under Lupe’s unrelenting stare.

  “Hello?”

  The man on the other end cleared his throat. “Is this Mack Mercy?”

  “The one and only.” I sat down on my bed, beer still in hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “And you’re with...” The man paused and when he spoke again, he did so in a lowered voice. “...Capitol Cases?”

  Capitol Cases was the name of the private investigative firm I ran. I’d been a PI for twenty-five years; it was the only job I’d ever had. Well, I’d delivered pizzas in high school and babysat neighbor kids in middle school. Those jobs had taught me two things: I could tolerate working with people but I didn’t want to work for anyone. I was going to be my own boss, whatever I decided to do. A penchant for mysteries, curiosity on steroids, and a competitive spirit that rivaled an Olympic athlete’s had pretty much sealed my fate when I discovered I could make money solving other people’s problems.

  And I was pretty good at it, too.

  “Yep, that’s me,” I told the man. “What can I help you with?”

  Lupe turned on the vacuum and I leapt off the bed to close the door.

  “You don’t sound like you’re at an office,” the man on the line said, a little nervously.

  “I’m not. My office calls roll to my cell phone when I’m out in the field.” I figured this would be a better thing for him to visualize—me out on some case—than the reality, which was me lounging on my bed, my head leaning against the headboard, sucking on a beer.

  “Oh, well, of course,” the man said. He cleared his throat again. “I, uh, have a bit of a problem.”

  I smiled.

  Problems were my bread and butter. The bigger, the better.

  “What kind of problem?”

  He hesitated. “It’s my wife,” he said finally.

  She was cheating.

  He didn’t have to say it, but I could tell from his hesitation, from his defeated tone. I’d surveilled more cheating spouses than I could count but it didn’t lessen the small pang of sympathy I felt for the man on the phone.

  “Can I ask who I’m talking to?” I said.

  “Oh, sure. Glen. Glen Pulaski.”

  “Okay, Glen.” I settled back and took another swig from the beer bottle. “Talk to me.”

  LIKE WHAT YOU READ? You can find the rest of NATIONAL MAUL right here.