I scrubbed the tears out of my eyes and tried to smile back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I finished the story, ending with my getaway from Hunter. Zach’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “That’s showing him. I hope you broke that car good and proper.”
“I don’t know. Hunter’s resourceful. I mean, he worked his way from walking a beat in New Orleans to being one of the most successful and rich businessmen in Chicago. If I didn’t dislike him so much, I’d be impressed.”
Zach crooked his head and peered at me. “You don’t like him, huh?”
“No! And what’s that grin supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “Oh, just somethin’ in your look. And you surely bring him up a lot.”
I wriggled my butt on the steps. “That doesn’t mean anything. I find him competent, that’s all. Sure, he takes care of himself. He’s got presence, and he’s moderately clever. And he does keep me on my toes; not a lot of people can do that.”
Zach laughed.
“What?” My face flushed.
“And you don’t like him?”
“No! Besides, he’s mean to me,” I said, too petulantly for my own comfort.
“Aw, poor thing,” Zach said, but not unkindly.
I elbowed him in the ribs. “Cut it out! I’ve never done anything to him. But he’s determined to make my life miserable. And stop looking so pleased with yourself!” Movement from the corner of the yard caught my eye. I sat up, grimacing at the tug on my wound. “Is that Mrs. Cape’s Chihuahua?” My heart leapt. “Oh, my God! Fido will squish him!
Zach pushed himself off the steps in one fluid motion and headed into the yard with long, easy strides. “Don’t panic, now. I got it.”
So he said. But my heart went into overdrive as Fido, seeing the tiny dog approach, lifted his head and stared intently at it. As Zach neared, Fido snorted, fixated on little Butch. From my optic, that look said: “Lunch!” I jumped to my feet as the bull’s restlessness increased. “Zach!”
He didn’t look back but gave a little wave. “I said I got it. Don’t fuss.”
I bit at my thumb. “But—”
Zach whistled. Fido looked over his shoulder, but then swung his head back toward the dog, massive neck muscles rippling. Zach whistled again. “That’s enough, you. Let that boy be. He ain’t even a mouthful for you.” To my astonishment, Zach walked up to the bull and shoved it—yes, shoved it—to one side. “Don’t make me cross, now.”
I sucked in a deep breath and readied myself to call for help.
The calf turned, all four-hundred-plus pounds, and stared at Zach. Fido lowered his head and squared his stance. I yelped, about to jump out of my skin, when Zach suddenly smacked the side of the bull’s head. “Don’t get uppity with me, boy. You mind your manners.”
He didn’t hit the calf very hard, but it was apparently enough to do the job. Fido huffed once as if to say “fine, I’m a vegetarian anyway,” and then returned to munching on grass.
My shoulders went limp, terror rushing out of me like a balloon deflating. Zach ambled over and picked up the dog, carrying it back in the crook of his arm. I did some deep breaths as Zach walked up to the back door, opened it, and gently let Butch back into his house.
“I’m going to be so glad when you sell that animal,” I blurted. “I know you like him, and he’s very pretty.” Zach grimaced at that. “For a potential killing machine, anyway.”
“Oh, his kind’s only dangerous when you’re bucking ’em.” Zach sat back down on the step. “Outside of the arena even the rankest fellas are usually pretty easygoing.”
I dropped down at his side. “Easygoing? His father was named Evil Forces. He’s cousin to Satan’s Revenge and brother of Scene of the Crash. That’s hardly a cuddly lineage.”
Zach smiled, lifted his hat, and pushed his bangs off his forehead, then settled it back on his head. “We gotta give him a proper name. The boys’ll laugh themselves silly at Fido. Although, I’ll admit it was right clever of you to use that on the pet application.”
I bit at my hangnail. “I can’t help it if the landlord thought a bull-doggie was a new dog breed. Hey, how about Bane of My Existence? That sounds like a bull-riding bull’s name.”
Zach grunted. “That’s a bit high and mighty. And they’re called bucking bulls.”
“Okay, fine. How about Satan’s Snot? Or Lucifer’s Lackey? Or Get the Hell Off My Back Before I Snap Your Spine?”
He laughed brightly. “That last one’s a might long, but you may be on to something.”
I rolled my eyes. “Let the new owner name him. Is he still picking him up on Thursday?”
Zach lowered his head and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Might be a bit longer.” He leaned back and looked me in the eye. “So, tell me about that file you say got lost.”
Zach’s hesitation was unusual for this normally straightforward man. Narrowing my eyes, I said, “Has something gone wrong with the sale?”
“Maybe those boys were right, and you just misplaced it. The file, that is.”
Brought back to my frustration, I said, “Don’t you start in on me. That file was on the desk. I put it right in the middle. I had just walked by George’s cage and—Oh my gosh. George! He’s still at the office!”
“Jake’s parrot?”
“Strictly speaking, George is a budgerigar, which is a subset of the parrot species—”
Zach raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, the parrot. Anyway, Jake takes George home every night, so I should go get him in case—” I stopped, biting my lip. I didn’t even want to say it: in case Jake dies.
Zach pushed himself off the stoop. “You mean you should take care of him until Jake gets better. And so you should, Darlin’. I’ll put Fido in the van. Then we’ll take my truck.”
First- and third-floor lights brightened the old Victorian-manor-now-office building. That meant that our elderly office neighbors, Mrs. Naidenheim, the “doll doctor,” and Mr. Keeper, the watchmaker, were still there. That wasn’t particularly unusual. Mr. Keeper often worked until dawn coaxing some scarred antique timepiece back to life. Mr. Keeper needed to get a life. And her genteel manner notwithstanding, Mrs. Naidenheim would have been happy to help. A fact that was obvious to everyone except Mr. Keeper.
I unlocked the front door, and Zach and I climbed to Jake’s office on the second floor. As we stood at the entrance, my heart fluttered. What if Jake never came back? I’d counted on him like I’d counted on my dad. What if I ended up lost and purposeless again? What if—?
Zach put his hand on my back. “You okay, Darlin’?”
I nodded, took a deep breath, and went in. As we entered, George, Jake’s parakeet, rose from the bottom of his huge six-foot-high cage, beating his wings and flying about until he landed on his perch. He dipped his snow-white head over his teal body and beat his wings in agitation. I crossed to the cage, picked up a seed-encrusted treat stick from a nearby bowl, and slipped it between the bars. “Easy, sweetie,” I said.
“ ‘Pretty little cajun queen,’ ” he squawked.
“What’d he say?” Zach asked.
“It’s what he calls me. I wish I knew why.” George pecked away at the bribe, as I’d seen him do for Jake so many times. The familiar scene—and the fear that I might never see it again—brought a resurgence of dread. Placing the treat in his dish, I clapped my hands together. “Okay, let’s find that folder. Look under everything, over everything, on everything.” I opened the filing cabinet to my left. “I’ll go through these. You take Jake’s desk, okay?”
“Will do,” Zach said as he rummaged through papers in Jake’s inbox. I saw him wipe the back of his hand on his jeans. “Not the neatest of fellas, was he?”
“What’s wrong?” I said, looking over my shoulder as I rifled through files.
“There’s black stuff everywhere. Dirt, maybe soot.”
“Humph,” I said as I closed the top drawer and opened the next down. “He’s a slob. And God forbi
d I straighten things up. Why do you think I’m letting you search his desk? When he gets back, someone is going to have to take the blame for messing with his personal things.”
“So you’re going to throw me under that bus?”
“Under a two-ton bus, under a two-ton bull. I thought you could survive anything.”
He went back to searching the desk. “Yeah, but getting run over by a two-ton bull versus Jake Thibodaux? I’d take the bull, thank you.”
I laughed. “Me too.”
Twenty minutes later, we’d gone through everything and found no file. Zach, however, found something in a former linen closet where Jake kept personal items, including a pile of magazines with a hand towel draped over them that I, to date, had pointedly avoided peeking under. Given the big grin on Zach’s face when he lifted the cloth, I knew my instincts had been correct. A moment later, he motioned to me.
“Come take a look at this.”
“No, thanks. Pornography doesn’t do anything for me.” He raised an eyebrow as if he wasn’t buying the prudery. “Well, not that kind anyway.”
“Those aren’t what I’m talking about. It’s something else.” He was pointing at the dusty middle shelf. It was empty except for a clean rectangular patch, about eight by ten inches, too small for a file or even a notebook. Something had been there for a long time. And based on how spotless the patch was now, whatever had been there had been removed very recently.
“Any ideas what was there?” Zach said, as we stood contemplating the empty area.
“Not a clue. I only saw in the closet briefly, when he got the toolbox or tackle out. I never looked inside. It was, um, private.”
Zach chuckled. “Yeah, I saw why.” He leaned slightly closer. A twinkle in his eye, he said, “So what kind of pornography does do it for you?”
I made a “wouldn’t you like to know” face and shut the door, a bit too forcefully apparently, causing a startled George to flutter around his cage. “Settle down, cowboy.”
Zach leaned back, as if affronted. “ ‘You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?’ ” He turned to me as he walked up to George’s cage. “Is this boid talkin’ to me?”
I groaned, trying not to laugh. “That’s pathetic, the worst DeNiro I’ve ever heard.”
He smiled back. “No good, huh?”
“Horrible. I’ll get his transport cage. Do you want to grab the bird for me?”
“Only if you’ll return the favor.”
“Don’t be a smart-aleck,” I said, flushing and warming to the banter’s sexual undertones. He’s got a girlfriend, I reminded myself. And you’re not a poacher, not so far. “Get the bird.”
He shuddered slightly. “Nunh-uh. Seriously. Birds creep me out.”
I gaped at him. “And bitch-slapping quarter-ton bulls doesn’t?”
“It’s not the same. Birds wriggle in your hands.” He lips curled back in distaste. “Yuck.”
I shrugged. “Okay, whatever.” I went to the closet and pulled out the small cage Jake used to transport George. There was a note sticking out underneath it, which fell to the floor, landing face up and revealing my name in Jake’s handwriting. “What’s this?” I handed the cage to Zach and ripped it open. It said, “Madison, if you’re reading this, something has happened to me. Get the key from George, open the box, and follow the instructions.”
Mouth opened, I stared dumbfounded at the paper in my hands.
Zach read it over my shoulder and whistled low. “Well, don’t that just beat all?”
“My God, Zach. Jake must have known he was in danger!” I bit my lip. “But why didn’t he say anything to me directly?”
Zach shook his head.
“We need to find that key.” I turned to George. “Where’s the key?” The bird dipped its head to clean its feathers. “George, where’s the key?”
“Darlin’, it’s a bird,” Zach whispered in my ear. “It can’t carry on conversations.”
I shoved him back lightly and clucked my tongue. “I know that. But Jake said to get the key from him. Maybe he’s been triggered to say something. Come on, pretty bird,” I said, turning to George. “Give mommy the key.”
“ ‘Pretty little cajun queen,’ ” it squawked.
“Okay, then give pretty little cajun queen the key,” Zach said.
I elbowed him in the gut. “That’s not helping. Come on, George. Where is the key?”
Zach and I pleaded for several moments. In the end, the bird only fluttered about a bit and then finally lit on his perch and pooped on the cage floor.
“This isn’t working,” I said, straightening up and clucking my tongue. Okay, I know birds aren’t all that smart. I mean there’s a reason that it was Lassie, not Tweety, who kept rescuing all those klutzy kids from collapsed mines. But I still felt let down. “We’re just going to have to search again. You start in the bathroom and circle counter clockwise.”
But Zach was staring at the cage, his eyes crinkled with amusement.
“Pay attention,” I said. “I’ll start clockwise, in a spiral pattern—”
He cocked his head at the cage.
“Hey, you. Pay attention. We have to find that key.”
Zach gently grabbed my good shoulder and turned me toward the cage.
I looked, saw nothing, and threw my hands in the air. “What?”
He grinned and pointed, gesturing at a toy in George’s cage: a wooden stick tied with a variety of ribbons, brightly colored bells, and … and a key! I groaned. “Now why couldn’t Jake just say get the key from the cage?”
“ ‘Pretty little cajun queen!’ ”
“Yeah, yeah, tell it to the Navy,” I groused.
“Marines,” Zach said.
I reached into the large cage, grabbing the key from the toy. “What?”
“The Marines. The expression is: Tell it to the Marines.”
“Well, the Marines are a subsidiary of the Navy, aren’t they? So, what’s the difference?”
He barked out a laugh. “Girl, you better never let one of them boys hear you say that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. Look—there’s a note attached to the key. It says: ‘Get the lockbox from the middle shelf of the old linen closet.’ ”
I looked at Zach, and he looked at me. We both looked at the linen closet. I groaned fatalistically. “He meant that missing box, didn’t he?”
“I’d bet my boot heels on it.”
I sighed. “Crap.”
Zach and I had searched every inch of the office, just in case there was another box or the one from the closet had been misplaced. We came up empty, so thirty minutes later we were at the foot of the front porch, him carrying George’s cage and me cradling a package of bird food in my good arm. Though the building stood in what had once been an isolated suburb, the city had, over the years, crept ever closer. I paused to look at the forest of skyscrapers silhouetted against the milky-gray night sky. The air thrummed with the sound of traffic, the swift whoosh of cars, the weighty rumble of trucks, and, underneath it all, the rhythm of the “L” as it clunked its way over the tracks. “I really admire the architecture of Chicago,” I said. “It’s like a forest of delta functions surrounded by a chaotic sea of humanity.”
Zach shook his head. “I really like you. But sometimes you are so weird.”
I puckered my brow. “I thought that was kind of romantic, actually.”
Just then Mrs. Naidenheim came out of the door of her little shop and stepped onto the porch. “Ah, there is someone here. Clarisse is always right,” she said, a smile on her round, wrinkled and meticulously made-up face.
“Who’s Clarisse?” Zach said to me in a sotto voce.
“Um, it’s one of her dolls,” I whispered. “Edwardian era. It’s very pretty, actually—about three feet tall, porcelain, with large blue eyes and curly blond hair. Occasionally, she channels Mrs. Naidenheim’s late sister Annabelle in order to warn her of danger.”
His eyes went wide. “Sorry, what?”
<
br /> “To be honest, most of the time what Clarisse hears turns out to be squirrels on the roof or branches scratching the windows. But she did warn of us of a fire in the bushes by the porch once. Mr. Keeper got a little careless with a cigar. And there were the pipes that burst in the basement. Other little things like that. So, it’s better to pay attention to her than not.”
“Wait. A doll?”
“Yes, I know. Just … go with it. And pray you never get that lonely.” I turned back to the sweet-faced old lady and climbed the stairs to greet her, Zach in tow. “Mrs. Naidenheim, I’d like to introduce my friend Zach Banks.”
Zach took his hat off. “Ma’am. Always a treat to meet a lovely lady under starry skies.”
I rolled my eyes, but Mrs. Naidenheim’s face lit up, her peach blusher turning crimson. “Aren’t you the scoundrel? Madison, you should watch out for this young man.”
“I’ll do that. And how are you tonight, Mrs. Naidenheim?”
“Better now that I know it’s you. It’s been an odd day. Clarisse heard someone upstairs this morning. It turned out to be no one, but then some police and men in suits came earlier this evening. Is everything all right? Why do you have our little one?” She poked a finger through the cage and petted George on his sea-foam-colored back. “Isn’t he going home with Jake?”
I cast an uneasy glance at Zach. “Jake’s, um, not feeling well. I’m taking care of George until he’s better.” I felt bad not saying more, but I couldn’t bring myself to relive the day again.
“Oh, dear. Well, you tell him I’ll make my lasagna special for him, as soon as he’s well.”
I gave her my best smile. “That’ll speed up his recovery. But shouldn’t you be going home? Too much work isn’t good for your social life. That’s what you’re always telling me.”
She actually giggled. “Now, you know I don’t have a social life. Although,” she paused, glancing timidly to the stairs that led to the third floor. “I did notice that our Mr. Keeper is still burning the midnight oil. I have cookies that I’ve just taken out of the microwave. Maybe … that is … I was thinking … I could …” She stammered to a stop.
The Last Best Lie Page 7
