by Julie Kenner
To her credit, she didn’t look too smug. Just nodded and said she’d come up Monday morning. “And don’t worry about my salary. We’ll work something out.” Another sip of tea. “So, boss, tell me about our latest case.”
David just sighed. “She hired me to find her boyfriend. Boyfriend, Millie. You get the picture? Which could put a damper on the whole matrimonial bliss angle.”
“Oh.” She plucked another sandwich and took a dainty bite, then chewed thoughtfully. David could practically see the wheels turning in her head. “Isn’t that a shame?”
“No, Mill, it’s not. I told you—”
“Maybe you should not find her boyfriend,” Millie interrupted. “Then she’d be stuck with you.”
“Stuck with me? Thanks a lot.” He aimed a mock glare toward his aunt, but she just waved it away with a pshaw.
He had to grin. The thing about Millie was…well, there were a lot of things about Millie, actually. Mostly she wanted to see him happy, and he knew that. Which was the one and only reason he put up with her meddling in his life. He could count on one finger the folks he let do what Millie did and Millie was it.
She was also a character. Sharp as a tack despite her years, she had absolutely no qualms about playing confused or senile if it got her what she wanted.
David put up with her eccentricities because he loved her. The rest of the world put up with her because she used to have more money than God and most folks thought she still did. Including Millie.
“More tea?” Millie’s question pulled him from his thoughts.
He took a last gulp of the slightly cold liquid, then stood up. “No thanks. I’m going to head back up and try to get some work done.” The cup clattered as he set it back on the polished serving tray.
“Well, I’m glad you came over, dear,” she said, as if she didn’t see him at least two or three times daily. “I’ll see you bright and early on Monday.” She tilted her head for a kiss and he gladly complied, breathing deep of her lavender scent that always reminded him of his childhood.
“Not too early, okay?” He considered firing her on the spot—he’d already told her what she wanted to know—but she seemed pretty into the whole gal Friday idea and Millie’s company was anything but boring.
“Of course not. Writers need their sleep. Keeps those creative juices flowing.”
He mumbled something noncommittal, then headed over to the little desk on the far side of the room and started rifling through Millie’s mail. Usually David snagged it before Millie made it out to the mailbox, but today he’d missed. Thankfully, Millie hadn’t yet opened her bank statement. He snatched it up. “I’m taking your statement so I can balance your checkbook,” he said.
“Thank you, dear. You’re so sweet to do that for me.”
Sweet wasn’t the word David would use. Desperate was more like it. Before he died, Uncle Edgar had squandered Millie’s fortune, leaving her with the bare bones of a bank account, thousands due in back taxes, and a hefty second mortgage. Since he didn’t see any point in letting an eighty-something woman know she was broke, David had made it his personal mission to cover her debts, and his sneaky way of doing that was by offering to handle her monthly bills. Not easy during the lean months he’d been having lately, but for Millie he was willing to make some pretty hefty dents in his already meager savings account.
“You should bring your new young lady around.”
David squinted, trying to follow the conversation. “What?”
“To visit, dear. You simply must bring your Jacey over. Perhaps for tea? Or a movie? I have Braveheart on DVD.”
He swallowed a groan. Somehow they’d ended up back where they’d started. “She’s not mine, Millie. Remember? Boyfriend. Client. All that jazz.”
“I still say you should just not find the boy. She’ll never know the difference.”
“I swear, Millie, you’re going to drive me to drink.”
“You already drink, dear.” She waggled a finger at him. “I may be old but I’m not blind.”
No, she certainly wasn’t. Hell, he wasn’t even sure she was old. She sure seemed to have more energy than anyone else he knew. Not to mention persistence.
“And as for our little Jacey—”
“Enough,” he said more forcefully. “I’m going to do my job, I’m going to find this Al guy. And Jacey and Al will live happily ever after.” He met Millie’s eyes. “And that’s the way it’s going to be.”
His aunt just sipped her last cup of tea and smiled at him. One of those smiles that always made him intensely nervous. “Whatever you say, David. Whatever you say.”
Reggie drummed his fingers on the polished wood of the tiny cocktail table. He’d managed to cram himself onto the little chair, but he wasn’t exactly comfortable. He’d been on the road for over a week now and all he wanted to do was get home, screw his girlfriend, and watch a little WWF action. Instead, he was sitting in a frou-frou hotel bar with a cell phone plastered to his ear as he listened to some candy-ass hold music.
“Did you get the registration?” Joey Malone was back on the line, his voice crisp and to the point.
Reggie snapped to attention, even though there was no way Malone could see him. He patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Got it right here.”
“Well?”
“Oh. Right.” He fished out the list. Apparently Joey had made a few calls after Reggie had reported in with the name of Al’s girl. All he’d had to do was go to the front desk at the Monteleone and pick up the envelope that was waiting for him. He scanned down the printed list of names. “No Jude Wilde,” he said.
“Motherfuckin’—” Joey bit off the curse and Reggie heard him take a deep breath. When he came back on the line, his voice was calm. Too calm, Reggie thought. “Read me the names,” he said.
Reggie scowled. The list was four pages long. “Her name’s not he—”
“Just read,” Joey said.
Reggie read. By the time he got to the last page, his voice was starting to crack. “Natalie Wampole, Martin Weir, Jacey Wilder, Amy Wolfe, Leslie—”
“Jacey Wilder?”
Reggie double-checked the list. “That’s what it says.”
“And Al said his girlfriend’s name was Jude Wilde?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Interesting.”
Reggie didn’t see what the big deal was and said so.
On the other end of the line, Joey sucked in air. “Jude Wilde. Jacey Wilder. That’s too much of a coincidence to ignore.”
“You think Al lied about her name?” Reggie asked.
“Possibly. Or perhaps she lied to him. The girl may have double-crossed us both. And Joey Malone doesn’t take kindly to being double-crossed. You know that, right, Reggie?”
Fear pulled Reggie out of the chair. He stood up straight. “Yes sir. I’d never—”
“Good.” A pause, then, “I think maybe you should have a little chat with Ms. Wilder,” Joey said. “A very persuasive kind of chat.”
“Yes sir,” Reggie said.
“And Reggie,” Joey added. “Don’t screw up.”
“I shouldn’t have gone.” Jacey paced back and forth in front of the kitchen table while Tasha watched, her usually animated face now intense with concentration. “Al probably doesn’t want to see me again, anyway.”
Tasha pushed a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes, then dipped her brush into a dab of purple paint. “I thought finding Al was part of your plan,” she said. Then, with a concentration Jacey rarely witnessed in her friend, Tasha started to freckle the white surface of an eggshell.
“It is.” Jacey sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Tracking down Al was step one of Jacey’s get-your-life-back-on-track plan. Find him, and then find out if he was Mr. Right. Not exactly the typical way of hooking up with an old boyfriend, but Jacey’s life had never really been typical.
It would be soon, though. At twenty-nine years, eleven months, and two days, she was finally taking seri
ous steps toward getting her life on track. She’d landed a job with a small but prestigious accounting firm, she’d bought a mutual fund, and she’d subscribed to the daily paper. Last night she’d even thrown out her oils and watercolors.
Jacey frowned, her gaze drifting to the egg-covered tabletop. “Where’d you get that paint?”
Tasha glanced up, wide-eyed and innocent. “It’s perfectly good paint and I figured you’d want it again.”
Jacey shook her head. “No, no. I threw it out because I wanted to throw it out. And you’re making those dots too big. You should use a smaller brush.”
Tasha raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.
“Right. Sorry. Forget the paint.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “The paint’s not my problem. Al’s my problem. It was stupid to hire a PI. I mean, I’m the one who ran out. He probably hates me.”
“Hates you?” Tasha repeated. “You said he adored you. That he’d spent the weekend talking about how much you two meshed and how he felt this magical bond, this special connection. Hell, after one long weekend, your sexy Algernon was professing to be madly in love with you.”
Jacey raised an eyebrow and glared at her friend. “Albert,” she said.
“I know, but Albert just doesn’t sound like the name of a guy who could sweep you off your feet during a wild weekend at the beach.”
“And Algernon does?” Jacey asked, not bothering to mention that David’s reaction to the name Albert had been pretty much the same.
Tasha slanted a look in Jacey’s direction. “I knew an Algernon once.” The corner of her mouth curved up. “Believe me, Algernon can be very sexy.”
Jacey held up a hand. “I should have known. But please, spare me the details.”
When they’d been assigned to the same dorm room freshman year, Jacey had been a little put off by the brassy blonde who shared Madonna’s sense of fashion and ran through men as if they were a disposable commodity. Forget the perfect guy; so far, Tasha’s life had centered around the quest for the perfect orgasm. It was Jacey’s personal theory that her friend had already found it…and now she was simply trying to bottle it.
But while Tasha and Jacey might not see eye-to-eye where men were concerned, it hadn’t taken Jacey long to realize that underneath the tight skirts and raging hormones was a smart woman who’d do just about anything for a friend. They’d bonded fast over cheap beer, cheese-covered popcorn, and Harrison Ford movies and had been best friends ever since.
Tasha stifled a grin. “My point is that the guy was absolutely mad about you.”
“Was being the operative word.” Jacey nibbled on the edge of her thumb. “But I left and it’s been almost four months now.” She grabbed the extra paintbrush and brushed the dry bristles across her palm, absently tracing designs. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”
“What? Obsessing about getting your life together before you turn thirty?”
“I’m not obsessing.”
“Sure you are.”
Jacey scowled.
“Oh, stop,” Tasha said. She plunked the spotted egg into an open carton next to another eleven equally infectious ones. “I wasn’t being critical. Just honest. You spent three solid weeks doing nothing but trying to land this accounting job, and now you’re focusing all your spare time on finding Al.”
Jacey licked her lips. “And that’s a bad thing?” She gave up on the palm designs and pulled an egg carton closer. She dipped the tip of the brush in Tasha’s paint and started idly drawing patterns on the Styrofoam.
Tasha shrugged. “It’s typical Jacey. Like college graduation and your do-it-or-die plan.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having goals,” Jacey said, her chin rising along with her voice. “And I sure as hell wasn’t going to end up like my mother.” No way was Jacey going to live her life out of a suitcase, schlepping from apartment to apartment and boyfriend to boyfriend as she tried to earn rent money by selling watercolors on the street.
“Speaking of, you got another package.”
“How big?”
Tasha raised her hand to about table height. “And heavy, too. I had the delivery guy leave it in the living room. Cute. Maybe you should keep him and forget about Al.”
Jacey ignored her. “We’ll schlep it to Mr. Finnegan’s garage with the rest of the stuff Mom sent.” In addition to Jacey’s stuff, their down-the-street neighbor’s garage was currently holding seven Turkish rugs, two Swiss wood carvings, assorted Navaho pottery, and a couple of miscellaneous boxes Jacey hadn’t bothered to open. To Jacey’s mom, gifts equaled love. Throw enough presents at the kid, and it made up for anything, even packing her only child up every five minutes to move across the block or across the country.
“If it’s cool, let’s just put it behind the sofa.”
“See, this is why I have a plan,” she said, ignoring Tasha. “If I buy something, I want to have a house where UPS can deliver. And I want to stay there until I’m old and decrepit and when I die, my grandkids can find decades’ worth of stuff in the attic and then sell it and make a fortune on eBay.”
“You have weird aspirations, Jace.”
“I just want a normal life,” she said. “A normal family.” Of course, she also wanted her art reviewed in Art in America. She wanted Manhattan galleries to fly her in for a showing, she wanted a steady, respectable income, and she wanted cheap prints of her work to sell in mall poster shops all across America.
But her mom had wanted all those things, too, and hadn’t achieved even one of those goals. Instead, she’d just schlepped her daughter all over creation. No roots, no ties. No stability. And certainly no listening when Jacey complained.
She took a deep breath. “I’m not going to end up like my mom.”
Tasha nodded. “I know. Really.”
“That’s why I picked D day.” If Jacey hadn’t managed to earn a steady living as an artist by her twenty-eighth birthday, her plan was to suck it up and spend her days entering numbers into a spreadsheet. “And it’s not like I’m obsessed,” Jacey said, aiming her paintbrush at Tasha. “I moved D day, remember? I bumped it back three times.”
When twenty-eight came and no one was beating down gallery doors for one of her originals, Jacey had bumped her deadline by six months. And then another six months. And another.
Of course, now that thirty was looming, she was disgusted with herself and more determined than ever. Especially considering she had an entire box full of letters saying thanks-but-no-thanks in response to her portfolio submissions. She’d had a few gallery showings that garnered rave reviews, but nothing big enough or frequent enough that she could reasonably expect to ever earn a steady living.
And now it was time to get her act together. She might want the art, but she damn sure didn’t want to spend her life barely scraping by as she lived from show to show, never certain if the current gig would be the last.
No, she wanted a normal life and, dammit, Al appeared to be as normal as they came. A Harvard law grad with great taste in clothes and impeccable manners. A man who knew what wine to order with risotto Milanese and who put the toilet seat back down. Heck, Al practically oozed with Mr. Right potential and she said as much to Tasha.
“How do you know Al’s not secretly a nutcase?” Tasha asked in reply. “I mean, now we know he’s not a serial killer, but he might have other faults.”
“I spent almost five full days with him and he was never anything but absolutely charming.” Their mini-vacation had been the most romantic time of her life. She’d talked with Al about everything, her hopes, her dreams. He’d held her and hugged her and made love to her. He’d whispered that she was special and that he was falling in love with her. “It was heaven.”
“Sure,” Tasha said. “It always is. But you don’t exactly have the best track record with men. Al could be just like all the other weirdos you’ve dated.”
“Maybe. But he seems different,” she said. He seemed like the type of man who’d wa
nt a home and a family. “He was charming,” she added, trying to sum Al up in one word.
“Ted Bundy was charming.”
Jacey scowled. “We’ve already established that he’s not a serial killer.”
“I’m just saying that he could still be weird.”
With a sigh, Jacey ran her hand over the egg dots. “I know. Believe me, I’ve thought about all that. But I’m not saying that he is normal, much less that he’s Mr. Right. I’m just saying that he seemed normal and he could be Mr. Right. And the reason I don’t know for certain is because I ran out.”
They’d met in the bar, just like she’d told David. But what she hadn’t mentioned was that after she’d checked Al’s left hand for a ring or a telltale tan line, she’d given him a fake name, Jude Wilde. She’d never been picked up in a bar before and, somehow, it had just seemed prudent. He’d told her his name was Charles Lafontaine, and at first she believed him. A few hours later, though, she knew better.
They’d been sitting there, still drinking and eating that really spicy mix of peanuts and pretzels, when some guy had come up. “Al,” he said. “How’ve you been? It’s me. Robert Kramer.”
Al—or Charles—had just given him a blank stare, but not before Jacey noticed him flinch as his eyes darted in her direction. “You got the wrong guy,” he’d said.
“You’re not Albert Alcott?” Robert asked. “On the Mitchell case? We went toe-to-toe in front of Judge McNally?”
“Sorry, buddy,” Al-Charles said and Robert had apologized and left. But Jacey knew the truth. She’d given a fake name and so had Al. And any lingering guilt she’d felt had vanished with a poof.
Near the end of their weekend, she’d wanted to tell him her real name. Only by that time, news of the San Diego Slayer was all over the television. She hadn’t been paying a whole lot of attention, but considering how she’d ended up reacting, it must have been preying on the back of her mind.
She’d been watching the news while he took a shower. She’d watched the usual traffic report and weather report and gang shooting in Los Angeles report, when the anchor came on, saying they were about to air a witness sketch of the slayer, “Who police have tentatively identified as San Diego resident Al—”
