by Julie Kenner
“None of the above,” David said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the light to change. “Calling Jacey’s on my list, but first I promised Millie I’d fix a leaky toilet.” He turned to face Finn. “Unless ‘plumber’ is on your list of careers?”
Finn shook his head. “Not even close. Right now, I’m thinking pilot.”
“Commercial or fighter?”
“Fighter, of course,” Finn said. “Like the opening scene in Golden Eye.”
David nodded, remembering the way Pierce Brosnan—Bond, James Bond—had stolen the jet, then maneuvered it through the fiery explosion. “Good choice,” he said. “But I think there’s a certain amount of training involved. And a law degree probably won’t be too useful.”
“Probably not,” Finn agreed, his voice even.
David turned. “You’re not really…” He trailed off. Surely not.
Finn shook his head. “No, just thinking.”
With Finn, that probably meant that in a week or two, he’d have designed a computer game complete with awesome graphics and really funky sound effects.
“I do know a guy who’ll trade me flying lessons for a session or two on how to design a database,” Finn added. “So I might do that. But right now I’m down for the count with the law thing. This internship with the judge, then one more semester of school. After that, it might be fun to apply for the FBI.”
With anyone else, David might be surprised. But this was Finn, and David just nodded and continued driving. David might spend his days crafting fictitious characters, but Finn crafted his own life—both real and imaginary. Hacker, programmer, convenience store clerk, law student, taxi driver, short order cook—Finn had done it all. And done it well.
And if he couldn’t actually get a job—like, say, when he’d considered neurosurgery—he still fantasized about it. Walter Mitty had nothing on Phineus Teague.
In truth, Finn probably would make a hell of an FBI agent. But David had to wonder if he’d keep the job long enough to make it worth his while. Or if the FBI would accept a man who’d had more careers than Bill Clinton had blow jobs. Not to mention a man who’d probably already hacked his way into the Justice Department computers on more than one occasion.
He was about to point that out when Millie’s house came into view. David blinked, not sure his eyes were working right. Because if they were, his aunt’s furniture was sprinkled across the entire front yard. Her living room had been set up under the lemon tree—complete with a television perched on the coffee table next to the rose bushes. The oriental rug his aunt loved so much covered most of the lawn, and the neighbor’s cat was curled up on it, napping and sunning herself as if lawn rugs were par for the course.
And right there, sitting on the sofa beside Millie was Jacey, a plate of cookies in front of her and a china teacup in her hand.
“Jacey?” Finn asked.
“Jacey,” David confirmed. He took a deep breath, his body reacting quite happily to the surprise of finding this woman on the lawn. The still-rational part of him reacted with something akin to horror at the thought of Jacey and Millie conducting girl-talk sessions on the sofa.
“She’s already eating cookies and drinking tea,” Finn said, apparently reading his mind. “So by my guesstimate, she and Millie have already done the preliminary introductions, gone over your vital statistics, and moved on to planning the wedding.” He shifted in his seat. “Do you want a separate groom’s cake, or just a multitiered white one?”
“Very funny.”
“Just a little gallows humor.”
Trepidation building, David pulled into the driveway and parked behind a lime green Volkswagen, presumably Jacey’s. He took one more look at the little lawn picnic Millie had going and wondered if maybe that antiseptic, senior citizen apartment complex wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
As he pushed open the car door, he shot Finn a glance. “You’re sure you want to live here for two weeks?”
“Are you kidding? Where else is the entertainment thrown in for free?”
The man had a point. He slammed the door, then straightened up and walked toward the couch, as if every day of the week he came home to find his family’s furniture scattered over the front lawn. Considering his family, he was probably lucky that he didn’t.
“What are you two—”
Millie raised a hand, shushing him. “Just one more minute, dear.” She hit a button on the remote control, and Mel Gibson’s voice blared out, “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!”
Millie and Jacey sighed in unison, and Millie patted Jacey’s knee. “Shall we watch it again?”
“Oh, no,” David said, almost tripping over the heavy-duty extension cord as he reached over to snatch the remote. His aunt could watch the battle at Stirling ten times a day without blinking. He wasn’t about to subject Jacey to that.
Jacey.
He frowned and faced her head-on. “What are you doing here, anyway?” The question came out harsher than he’d intended, but her presence had thrown him for a loop.
“Watching Braveheart,” she said, her eyes dancing. “Believe me, it’s been the high point of my day.”
“Jacey’s radio got stolen,” Millie said.
David took an involuntary step forward. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I was furious, but it’s been a couple of hours and I’ve calmed down. Besides, it’s not the first time.” She shrugged. “I’ll have to get my window fixed, but I’ve been wanting to replace my radio with a CD player anyway.” She cocked her head slightly. “I, um, was kind of hoping you could follow me to the glass place and then give me a lift home. They’ll probably have to keep it overnight.”
“Sure,” he said, more than a little pleased that she’d thought of him to chauffeur her around. And definitely looking forward to spending some extra time with her. Hell, maybe he’d even take her to dinner.
Her eyes met his and held for the briefest of moments. When she looked away, her cheeks were stained pink. David fought a grin. Dinner…and then maybe some after-dinner entertainment. Like Finn said, it wasn’t as if he had to marry the girl. No matter what Millie might think.
“We vacuumed out all the broken glass,” Millie chimed in, interrupting his thoughts. “And we would have washed the car, too, but with the window missing we were afraid we’d get the upholstery wet.”
“That, and the fact that there’s no water,” Jacey said.
“Yes, that’s true,” Millie added. “Good thing we decided not to wash it. We would have been out of luck.”
David opened his mouth to speak, decided better of it, and pinched the bridge of his nose instead.
Finn slapped him on the shoulder, then leaned in, his voice low. “Glad to see you’ve got this all under control, buddy.”
Control was the last thing David had and everyone on that lawn knew it, including Bonkers the cat.
“Let’s start over.” He turned to Millie. “Why is the furniture on the lawn?”
“Well, Jacey thought the water would harm the wood.”
“She’s right,” Finn said. “The legs are solid wood. You’d have to refinish them, but they’d never be the same.”
“Thank you, Norm Abrams, for that insight.”
Finn shrugged. “No problem.” He stepped around David to sit next to Jacey. “Phineus Teague,” he said, offering his hand. “But you can call me Finn.”
“Jacey Wilder,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Are we in the Twilight Zone?” David asked no one in particular.
“No, dear, the front lawn,” Millie said. “We considered putting the furniture in the driveway, but that would block the route to your apartment. So Bernie suggested moving everything out here.”
“Of course he did. Good for Bernie.” David had no clue who Bernie was, but at the moment that didn’t seem important. “Why was there water in the first place?”
“I told you I had a little plumbi
ng problem.”
“A little problem?” he repeated. “You told me the toilet had a tiny leak and kept overflowing.”
“Oh, it overflowed. And the kitchen flooded, and there’s really no point in going into the utility room.”
“And there’s about a half inch of water in Millie’s living room,” Jacey added. “Too bad, too. This is a great house. I hate to think of all that beautiful wood getting ruined.”
She was right. Built at the turn of the century, the house had a charming quality that Millie’s flower gardens and whitewashed fence enhanced. And even if it had been a piece of junk, it still was the repository of David’s childhood memories, and he didn’t want to see it mucked up, either.
He rubbed his temples, turning to face Finn. “Would you—”
“I’ll go take a look,” Finn said. “I hate to miss how this all turns out, but for you, I’ll make the sacrifice.”
David just rolled his eyes and turned back to Jacey as Finn headed for the house. “So who’s Bernie? A friend of yours?”
She blinked. “He’s the high school kid who lives two doors down. He mows your lawn,” she added, apparently in response to David’s utterly blank look.
“You know Bernie, dear,” Millie said. “He’s over every other Saturday.”
“Right,” David said, managing to conjure a vague picture of a pale, skinny kid. “So where is he?”
“He shut the water off for Millie at the street, and then he and I moved the furniture—”
“—you moved all of this?” David asked.
“Not all,” Jacey said. “A couple of Bernie’s friends came by and helped.”
“And I carried the DVD player,” Millie said.
“And after the furniture was all out, Bernie’s mom called him home for Sunday dinner. Lasagna. His favorite.”
“Of course,” David said, rubbing his temples. “I should have known.” The day had started out so promising, but at this rate of disintegration, he expected total meltdown by dinner.
“They’re right,” Finn said, heading back toward them. “It’s pretty soggy in there. If you don’t have a wet-dry vac, we should probably buy one.”
“There’s one in the garage.” David exhaled, shaking his head. “What a mess.”
“Jacey’s an artist,” Millie announced.
David squinted, trying to follow his aunt’s train of thought. He opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and stayed quiet.
“Did you know that?” Millie added.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” David said.
“I’m not anymore,” Jacey put in.
“Nonsense,” Millie said. “It’s like being a redhead. You either are or you aren’t.”
“Or you use Clairol,” David said.
Millie managed an I’m-older-and-know-better frown. “It’s not something you turn on or off.”
“Like the water,” Finn said. He turned to David. “We should probably get that vacuum going.”
“Finn, you can start sucking up the water,” Millie said. “David, you and Jacey talk. Jacey, be a dear and put Mel back in the DVD case. You can’t be too careful, you know.” Millie sat back, her hands clasped in her lap, confident her troops would go about their assigned tasks without argument.
In truth, it was a little scary. Millie asked, and they all jumped. Normally, that didn’t bother him at all. Today he felt like he was stuck in a bad remake of The Godfather, only in this flick, the Don was his little blue-haired aunt. David scowled, wondering if he was going to find a horse head in his bed once he went upstairs to his apartment.
Actually, though, that might make a good scene. Monroe heads off to find out who killed Big Sal, and the mob boss is sitting on his front lawn surrounded by all his furniture. And maybe a dead body or two.
Then again, David hadn’t been planning on tying the mob into this book. And who would believe anyone would be nuts enough to schlep all their furniture onto the lawn?
“David?” Jacey’s voice. “You in there?”
“Just thinking,” he said. He turned slightly, facing away from Millie and Jacey as he pulled his cassette recorder out of his back pocket. He clicked it on and mumbled, “Mob boss. Lawn furniture. Can it work?”
“He keeps doing that,” Jacey said to Millie. She waggled her eyebrows and snagged a cookie. “Very mysterious.”
He grimaced. The scene probably wasn’t workable anyway. He’d have been better off keeping his mouth shut.
“Oh, my dear,” Millie said, “there’s nothing mysterious about it. David’s just making notes for his novel.”
David glared at his aunt. “Why don’t you just take out an ad in the Times?”
“Do you want me to?” she asked, all innocence.
The back of his neck started aching, a sure sign that a new, improved headache was ramping up.
“My David’s going to be more important than F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Millie said.
He wanted to tell her to be quiet, really he did. But Millie looked so damn proud of him that in the end he could only sigh. He dropped down, perching on the edge of the coffee table, and shot them both a resigned look. “Somehow I don’t think excerpts of my novels are going to end up in a Norton’s Anthology.”
“David writes about stoolies and dames,” Millie said, clasping her hands in her lap.
“Oh.” Jacey nodded, her expression polite but confused. “I thought you said you weren’t writing anymore. A PI, you said. That’s what you do.”
David grimaced, feeling both trapped and oddly flattered that she remembered his words so specifically. “I’m not writing true crime anymore.”
“He’s concentrating on fiction now,” Millie said. “And he can cook, too.”
“Desserts, anyway,” Finn added. “He has yet to do a decent chicken Parmesan.”
David stifled a frustrated groan. “I swear, you people are going to drive me—”
“To drink,” Millie said. “Yes, dear. We know.” She turned her attention back to Jacey. “Writing novels isn’t a traditional job. But he’s still a catch. He doesn’t quite have Mel’s buns, but his are still nice.” She leaned forward. “Empirically speaking, of course.”
“Millie!” David fought a cringe, even as Jacey’s lips twitched in obvious amusement.
“What?” his aunt asked, her eyes wide. “It’s just a simple observation.”
“Just go. Show Finn where the vacuum is.” He pointed toward the garage, then turned to look at Finn. “Both of you. Go. Vacuum.”
Millie nodded sagely. “He’s right. We should go. Jacey and David need to talk.” She smiled at Jacey. “Don’t you, dear?”
David looked from Jacey to Millie and back again, a bad feeling brewing in his gut. “What is it we need to talk about?” he asked. Apparently more than just her broken window. He ran his tongue over his teeth, fighting a wave of disappointment. She hadn’t come to see him; she’d come for business. He sucked in air. Well, she was a client, after all.
She licked her lips. “Actually, it’s about Al. I—”
“She thinks he might be alive,” Millie finished, then took Jacey’s hand. “But, dear, he’s simply not good enough for you.”
David couldn’t even respond to that. Alive. How the hell could he be alive?
“I think that’s our cue, Millie,” Finn said, steering her toward the driveway.
“Yes,” David agreed. “Good-bye.” As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned back to Jacey. “What’s she talking about?” he asked. If Al was alive, he’d managed to pull off what Humpty-Dumpty couldn’t, because according to every article David had seen, the human remains could easily have been scooped into a strawberry jam jar.
Jacey gnawed on her thumbnail, then stood up and smoothed her flowered jumper. The gesture was so like Susan that for a second he considered turning around and running for his life. Except with Jacey, he didn’t want to run. And that was a realization he’d just as soon not think about.
She took
a deep breath. “Something’s not right,” she said.
“Other than the furniture on the lawn?”
“Other than that,” she acknowledged with a laugh. The joke loosened her up, though, and he could see the tension ease from her shoulders. Her eyes met his, and she took a step closer, her expression grim. “Does it hurt?”
It took him a second to realize she was talking about his nose. “It’s okay. A little tender, but I’ll live.” He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”
A tremulous smile touched her lips, and she looked down, aiming her speech in the general direction of his shoes. “Thank you again for rescuing me. I—” She cut herself off, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. “Thank you.”
Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it was the light. Hell, maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while. But whatever the reason, he saw something reflected in her eyes. An awareness. A question. An invitation?
No.
As much as he might want to finish what they’d started on the floor of the clothing store, the simple fact was that she’d come because of Al, not because of him. And damned if that didn’t grate on his nerves, not to mention his ego. “So tell me about Al,” he said. “Why the hell would you think he’s alive?”
“Because when I met him, there was green beer.” She dropped to the couch, smoothing her skirt as she looked up at him, clearly expecting him to jump all over that bombshell.
He didn’t have a clue how to respond. “I’m assuming that has some relevance,” he finally said, “but damned if I know what.”
“St. Patrick’s Day,” she said, as if that was supposed to mean something to him.
“Still clueless.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “March seventeenth. I had a beer with Al on March seventeenth.”
“Not following. Sorry.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you go to college?”
“Actually, I did. Magna cum laude. So you want to just tell me what I’m missing?”
“The idea of March? That guy must have meant the Ides of March, and—”
“That’s March fifteenth.” The realization hit him upside the head. She was right. Stemple had said that Al died on March fifteenth. But if Jacey had met him two days later…He tried to remember what the newspaper articles had said about the date of the explosion, but he hadn’t been paying attention to that detail. He’d searched for articles in mid-March and that’s what he’d found. “Stemple must have got the date wrong.”
