Regan Harris Box Set

by Kelly Wood

  “Where’d you come from, stud?” My voice was raspy.

  “I heard there was a damsel in distress.” He joked back at me, but I saw the worry in his eyes. I kept talking to him. My body was begging for me to sleep, to rest, but I fought it off.

  “Is my chariot here, yet?” Gray looked toward the front door before nodding yes. I heard the creaking of the stretcher. Two men tried to clear the area, but Gray refused to leave. He stood near my head after I was loaded on the stretcher. His hand touched my shoulder the whole time they moved me.

  A blood pressure cuff was fixed to my arm. The two paramedics went through their routine. Peter answered their questions. I was given another shot of epinephrine and one of Benadryl. Gray argued with them until he was allowed to ride with me to the hospital.

  “Wait!” I yelled. “My purse. Gray grab my purse.” He heard the urgency in my voice, but a look of confusion crossed his face. He disappeared from my sight but quickly returned. Once I saw he had my bag in his hand, I let the paramedics continue to move me. Customers and staff moved back to form an opening for us. I waved like I was riding a float in a parade. The crowd was large. Strangers and friends waved back as I was wheeled past. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  Once again, I was struck with the irony that I should've listened to my gut. Reading at home alone had to be better than this.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "You have to be over the moon," I said to Jax. We walked along Michigan Avenue, the Magnificent Mile, shopping for new outfits. After last night's drama with the arrest and allergic reaction, a calm shopping day with Jax was needed. Plus, this was shopping with a mission. Since she said yes to the gallery show, new outfits were a must.

  "I have so many things in my head that need to be done. I just don't know where to start."

  "Shopping. We're starting with shopping. Once we cross off what to wear that night everything else will fall into place." I was ever the optimist. No matter how the show went, at least we would look good.

  "Agreed. There's the drug store, go refill your EpiPen." Jax pointed across the street.

  “We can do it later. Right now is about you.”

  “No. Now.” Jax linked her arm through mine, and we headed off. “Did the doctor really say you are okay?” She’d asked me this four times already this morning.

  “I promise. I’m fine now.”

  Gray and I spent three hours in the emergency room at Northwestern. I feared the bill, but the overall experience was fine. Since I arrived in an ambulance, I got to go to the front of the ER waiting line. After a reaction, I had to be monitored for three hours until it was deemed safe to be released back into the wild. Patients with anaphylactic allergies could stop breathing even after the attack had passed. I spent the whole time sleeping. Between the meds they doped me with and the physical exertion of the body overreacting, it was an exhausting experience.

  “There is no need for you to wait with me. Go. I'll meet you in Macy's at the Water Tower."

  "Where? Macy's is huge."

  "The shoe department. Duh." I turned and headed for the corner. Our morning had been a whirlwind of shopping. The Magnificent Mile claimed to have over a thousand stores. I bet we had been in half of them. I hadn’t found the perfect dress yet, but I had found other things that I just needed. My feet were aching, and my arms were tired from carrying the bags. I was going to need food soon to keep up this pace.

  We’d been blessed with another clear, warm day. The sun was warm, the breeze cool and the children were still in school, so the sidewalks were clear. Yippee, it was a good day.

  I crossed to the pharmacy to fill my prescription. I’d woken up today without any lingering side effects of the drug, but the whole experience had been scary. With every exposure to ingesting peanuts, my throat seemed to close up faster and faster. I freaked out each time. I must’ve been strangled or hanged in a previous life. I hated the feeling of anything on my neck. Even the thought of a turtleneck made me gag and choke. Thank God choker necklaces were not in style.

  I browsed the aisles, waiting for my name to be called. I hoped it didn't take long. Otherwise, I would buy one of everything in here. Drug stores had that effect on me. I could spend hours in one, lost in thought and buying nonsense. Inevitably, I always ended up getting home to discover that the awesome I-must-have-it new shade of fingernail polish, had an identical bottle already sitting in my collection. To distract myself from too many unnecessary purchases I scanned the headlines of the newspapers by the front register. I flipped through the Sun Times, but couldn’t find an article mentioning Ben’s arrest. I leafed through the other papers, but they were empty, too.

  Huh?

  He was arrested in the early evening. The article had plenty of time to make the papers. I sat down and did an internet search on my phone. Nothing. What did that mean? Was he released? Could you get released that quickly? Did he really have an alibi?

  "Regan Hrrisss," came over the intercom speaker.

  I went to the back to pick up my refill. I had gotten off easy this trip since the store was not crowded. My bag only contained one nail polish and two lip gloss. I mentally patted myself on the back for showing restraint.

  The pharmacist lectured me on having used an out-of-date injector and the importance of refilling them every year. He droned on as he explained my prescription now came in a two pack. I paid attention now, but I knew myself. As time passed without having another episode, I would slowly stop feeling the importance of the lecture.

  I found Jax in the shoe department like we planned. She had on a pair of red heels, eyeing them in the mirror. I started scanning the shoes but without any plans for purchase, my mind still on Ben.

  He wasn’t the person I had expected back when we were together. I think part of that was my naivety. Looking back, I could see the signs where his weaknesses showed, like being a puppet for his father, always jumping when beckoned. I just chose to ignore it then. His biggest fault was his weakness in standing up for what he wanted, which was why I questioned his killing Anya. Or, maybe that helped prove he did it? Did it take a mentally-weak person to kill or a strong-minded individual? I posed the question to Jax.

  “Either. Both.”

  “What does that mean?” I scanned the displays, but nothing jumped out at me yet.

  “I think it takes someone of strong mind to plan a murder and then execute it. I don’t have firsthand knowledge, but I think it’s one thing to plan a murder and another to actually do it. It takes some cajones. Know what I mean?”

  “I guess I could follow that thinking. And a weak-minded person?”

  “Crime of passion. There is no thinking involved.”

  “Like a man walking in on a cheating wife and killing her and her lover?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily.” She turned this way and that in the mirror, checking out the shoes from every angle. “More like the over-powering mother who always berates her son. Like in movies. She belittles him repeatedly until one day he snaps and stabs her with a steak knife.”

  “No planning, no thought, just reaction?” I asked.

  “Exactly. He’s a weak person who hits a breaking point. Other than being pushed too far to murder, he couldn’t actually plan one and then execute it.” She tilted her head thinking. “In that example, he’s probably planned his mother’s murder a lot.”

  “Proving your theory. Too weak to commit the act and follow through.”

  “You get it,” Jax said before turning to the sales associate hovering near her. I wondered what he thought of our discussion. “I’ll take these, please.”

  “Yes, miss. Right away.”

  I sat in one of the chairs bored husbands usually occupied. I had to make myself sit down so I wouldn’t buy a pair of shoes. A pair of turquoise and silver heels was calling my name. I pulled my thoughts back from them, but I could still feel their presence behind me on the shelf. Shoes were my weakness, but with my recent hospital visit and replacing my auto
-injectors, I was trying to be responsible. The salesman boxed up Jax’s shoes while she put her sandals back on.

  “What about Ben and Anya?” I asked.

  “I don’t think he did it.” I started at this. I assumed she would have more information on what prompted his arrest since she was dating Liam.

  “You don’t?” Jax leaned over, buckling her shoes. She turned her head to the side to look up at me while she spoke.

  “No. From what Liam has said, the scene was ‘messy.’ If the murder had been planned, why do it in the office at the pub? It’s small and cramped. If you did plan the murder and wanted to do it there, why wouldn’t you steal the deposit to make it look like a robbery? Liam said it was just sitting on the desk. Thousands of dollars. There.” She finished with her shoes and stood up. “Plus, Ben is anything but messy. Peter said you could eat off the floor when you both lived together.”

  True. Ben had always been very particular about his home, office, and clothing. Even if he could kill someone, I didn’t think he would do it in such a close, passionate way. He was too controlled.

  “Sounds to me like you two need to look for someone weak and needy.” Jax and I both turned to the sales associate.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.” We both continued to stare at him which made him nervous. He waved his hands in front of him. “Please don’t tell my manager I said that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "It’s Taco Tuesday!" I yelled as I came through the front door.

  Every Tuesday night my mom made . . . tacos, you guessed it, for family night. When Gray and I were traveling, we attended family night through Skype, but it was nice to be here in person sometimes, too. I was the last to arrive since I had to fight Chicago traffic to get out of the city.

  "Stay out of the kitchen," Mom said to me before giving me a hug. "The food's already done."

  "A little overdressed for Taco Tuesday, aren't you?" Peyton asked as she pointed to my feet.

  "Oh, just breaking them in. They're new." I looked down at my white tank top and cuffed jeans. I thought the shoes made a nice statement. The turquoise added a little bling to the boring clothes. I didn’t quite escape the shoe department without a purchase.

  The attendance for tonight's event was down from normal. My sister, Peyton, was here with her two girls, but then again, her kids would never let her miss a night. Her husband was working. My stepdad and dad ditched out to go have a beer somewhere. Somewhere, preferably without screaming kids, I guessed. I had two more brothers and two more sisters who were all absent for one reason or another. I was okay with that. Sometimes, when we were all together, we turned into children again, screaming and throwing toys for the slightest perceived insult.

  Some families were just like that. Fight hard, play hard, love hard. We did everything to extremes. With only the five of us, the house was relatively quiet since everyone had settled after eating. Chris and Lizzie were playing in the family room, my mom was in the kitchen, and Peyton and I were sitting at the dining room table.

  "I brought copies of the taxes I did for some of the girls at the pub," Peyton said.

  Laid out on the table were five folders, labeled one through five, containing receipts, W-2's and other various pieces of information. Peyton had made copies of everything.

  I ate a taco while Peyton laid out the contents of folder one. As she explained each piece of information, she picked up the correlating piece of paper and handed it to me.

  "The time they work in the restaurant is the same as when you worked there. They make the Illinois minimum tip wage, plus tips. Their payroll check stubs show the hours worked, the wage and the claimed tips. From this total, taxes are then estimated and withheld; the remaining balance going to the server." Peyton handed me a W2 form from earlier this year and continued. I held the paper in one hand and my taco in the other. I eyed the paper. Most states had a lower minimum wage for tipped employees with the idea that the server’s tips added to the lower wage would actually bring them above the federal standard. The lower wage helped restaurants stay in business.

  "Any servers or bartenders that work the outside events are paid as individual contractors. Taxes are not withheld for them by the bar. They are issued a W9 at the end of the year." Peyton put her hand on her stomach, her face grimacing for a moment.

  "Are you okay?" I asked.

  "Yes. The baby just shoved her foot under my ribs. I'm fine." She took a deep breath before continuing with her lesson.

  "Since the girls have to pay all of their own taxes at the end of the year for the side jobs, I advised them all to put some money away from each check. They make quarterly payments from the savings. I, also, told them to save any receipts from clothing used for the sole purpose of the work events. I could deduct them from their taxes as a work expense, and that's where it gets hokey." She started rifling through the folder.

  "I'm used to seeing receipts for jeans and tennis shoes, standard for their attire in the pub, but not for Jimmy Choos and Manolos. I deducted over twenty thousand dollars in high-end clothing receipts for this one,” Peyton said, passing me a folder. “She swore that they were a work necessity. She also gave me receipts for hair appointments, nail salon visits, and facials, saying it was a business expense because her appearance is the primary factor in her getting the extra work. She is, by far, the busiest of the girls I do taxes for. She’s raking in some serious money." Peyton sat back, finished with her speech.

  I flipped through the shopping receipts: Niemen Marcus for twenty-five hundred dollars, Stuart Weitzman for twelve hundred dollars, Bloomingdale’s for twenty-nine hundred dollars and so on.

  "I don't know what I assumed they would be wearing for these events, but not this. What the heck is going on?"

  "Each folder is the same. I have even more requests this year for tax work from their coworkers, all promising to keep every receipt.” Peyton’s hands rested on her stomach as she eyed me. “I could tell you what I think."

  When she looked at me like that, I got nervous. I was leery of asking but did anyway.

  "Okay, what?"

  "I think they are hookers."

  "Peyton Elizabeth! Watch your mouth," my mom said. She threw a dishtowel at Peyton, startling both of us. I hadn't even realized she was there. I was so caught up in the receipts that I had not seen her sit down. Peyton pulled the towel from her face, placing it on the table out of our mother’s reach.

  "Ha. Ha." I looked at Peyton, singing, "You got in trouble."

  She rolled her eyes, and again I was reminded to break my own habit of it. It really was annoying. She’d been getting into trouble for her mouth since birth. By then, one little scolding from Mom rolled off of her back like water off a duck’s butt.

  "I'm serious," Peyton said.

  "You read too many novels. I bet the one you are reading now has a Pretty Woman-wannabe prostitute in it hoping to meet her Richard Gere." I raised an eyebrow at her, and she looked away.

  "I'm right, aren't I? What's her name? Pussy Galore?" I asked. I loved the old James Bond films. My mom started shaking her head but kept her mouth shut.

  Peyton blushed. My mom was watching me throughout our exchange. She never joined in the conversation, but I felt she had something she wanted to say. Something, by the look of her, I didn’t want to hear.

  “Give it up.”

  “Nope.” I wanted to hound her until she told me about her secret smut, but Peyton had a stubborn streak a mile long. It was rare that I’d ever been able to break her. So, I got back to the taxes.

  “What does this all mean?” I asked.

  “I told you what it means. I think the ‘bartenders’ are escorts.”

  “But the restaurant pays them.”

  “Exactly. I think somehow, they are being booked, so to speak, through the restaurant. You’ve been working there. Have you seen anything weird?” I shook my head.

  “I guess I’ve got to do a little more snooping,” I said b
efore popping the rest of my taco in my mouth.

  We left it at that. My mom and sister were addicted to Lifetime movies. I found it a fault of theirs, but somehow ended up getting sucked into them. After dinner, we settled down to watch one. It was always the same old story, girl meets boy, finds boy annoying, but they fall in love. Then, some unforeseen trauma happens leaving everyone on the edge of their seats. Oh, no! Will they make it? But, he loves her sooo much. And just when you are sure they won't reconnect, they do. Surprise! And, then, they live happily ever after.

  Yeah, right.

  I once heard someone say, "Fairy tales end with happily ever after but in reality, the last words should be, 'and they worked really hard at their relationship.'" I agreed with that. Why do some women feel that marriage will solve every problem in a relationship? It usually didn't work out that way. According to the national divorce rate, it didn't work out more than fifty percent of the time.

  The movie was winding up. The love-struck couple was kissing on the back of a boat, the sun setting over the water behind them. Since this movie was set in Manhattan, New York, I found this impossible. The sun rose over the water there, not set. The credits started to roll. I braced myself. I knew what was coming now.

  "Are you going to say yes to Gray? That could be you." Mom sighed.

  Yep. I was right. Here it is.

  “You told her.” I sat up on the love seat to better stare at Peyton with my death eyes. Peyton’s only reaction was to raise a shoulder, neither denying or admitting it.

  "It’s a movie, Mom," I said. I planted my feet firmly on the ground for the conversation. Just in case I needed to run.

  "Regan, you always look to the end. Yes, you may end up divorced but don't look at that. Think about the happy times that would occur. That’s why people marry." I looked to Peyton for help, but she had her head down, looking at her lap.

  "Mom's right," Peyton said.

  That traitor! I needed daggers that would fly from my eyes at a moment’s notice. Starting right then. The girls’ laughter echoed up the stairs from where they were playing. The laughter made a happy contrast to the strain in our room.