by Rita Herron
Collecting the miniature teapots might seem frivolous and impractical, but they represented happy childhood days of tea parties with her sisters and Gran. A time before her father had begun his criminal career and she and her sisters' faces had been plastered all over the local papers. A time when she had been naive, not scarred by derogatory tabloid headlines and the realization that people could be cruel.
She'd wanted to share tea parties with her own child someday. Had dreamed of doing so right here in this cozy little kitchen.
Except her marriage had been a hoax.
Her hand went to her flat belly and she remembered the one false scare she'd had right after she'd married Lenny. She supposed it was a blessing she hadn't been pregnant. How would she have explained to a baby that his father was a liar and a crook?
And how would she ever trust a man again? Or give one her heart?
Tears threatened and she blinked them away, adjusting her glasses and grimacing at the sound of the doorbell.
Praying it was one of her sisters and not a nosy reporter, she checked the front-door peephole before she opened it. Shock bolted through her when she found her uncle Wilbur bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, his chunky face sweating profusely in the heat.
He raised his fist to knock again and Abby opened the door.
"Uncle Wilbur, this is a surprise."
"I need a favor."
Abby tightened her fingers around the doorknob as he thrust his burly frame through the door and swiped a hand across his freckled bald head. He seemed agitated. "What is it? Is something wrong with Dad?"
"No, he's holding his own." In the pokey.
Abby nodded. "So what is it?"
His breath wheezed out, the sound of an overweight smoker. "The damn cops think the Barely There Club is a front for some kind of mob activity. I need to borrow some money."
Abby frowned. "Money? For what?"
"They canceled my liquor license temporarily." Another loud wheeze. "Without liquor, the business can't make it. I need cash to keep it afloat until I can get the police off my back. At least a few grand."
Abby chewed her bottom lip. Rumors that Uncle Wilbur's business might not be legitimate had circulated through the family for years. All she needed to top off her mounting disaster of a life was to get involved in something illegal. Hunter Stone and the other reporters would love yet another angle to add to their burgeoning gossip vine....
* * *
Hunter had been listening to the owner of the Velvet Cloak Inn wail for an hour.
"They've shut us down; I don't know what we're going to do." Edna, a chubby woman in her forties who reminded Hunter of Ethel on the old sitcom I Love Lucy, gestured toward the deserted parking lot. More specifically to the police tape on the ground that had once marked the area as a crime scene. "They think we were in cahoots with that preacher."
"You didn't receive any revenue from the weddings or the time-share investments?"
Edna dabbed a tissue at her puffy raccoon eyes. "No, I told"—her words cracked as she broke for breath—"the police... all this."
"But you did advertise the place as a honeymoon hot-spot?"
She nodded, looking even more miserable. "That Mr. Milano, he was so nice... and he was a... man of the... cloth." She paused and blew her nose so loud it sounded as if a freight train had careened through the room. "And I thought he just wanted to make couples happy." She lapsed into another long-winded wail that pierced Hunter's ears.
"Do you have a list of the people he married?"
Edna nodded miserably. "I gave it to the police along with a list of all the guests."
"Would you mind giving me copies of both lists?"
Edna frowned, sobs racking her beefy body. "I can't do that. It's against the law to release the guests' names."
As if that were the worst of her problems. "Ma'am, I want to write a human-interest piece on the people who were swindled. You know, do something to help them out."
"I don't know."
"Listen, Ethel—I mean Edna—if the tabloids get ahold of this, they'll destroy these folks." He patted her back to calm her. "And you know they'll get their hands on it. Isn't it better if a legitimate reporter gets the information first?"
She seemed to stew over the idea. "You'll stir up enough interest that the people swindled might get their money back?"
Hunter nodded. "I'll do my best."
"And you'll make me look good so I don't have to go to jail?"
He nodded again. This woman was an emotional wreck, but he doubted she'd been involved in anything illegal.
Edna twirled a curly strand of hair around one finger, her fake diamonds glittering. "Well, I suppose it would be okay. It's not like we're still open. And the police are gonna talk to the people anyway."
She reached inside the desk, pulled out a file, and handed it to him. "I'm not sure it's complete," Edna said. "But so far, it's all I've found."
He glanced at the list. Only about thirty names—had there been more? "I appreciate this."
"Oh, and Mr. Stone."
"Yes?"
"When you find him, get my money back for me."
"You invested in the time-shares?"
"Yes." Her chin quivered. "And I'd been saving that money for a boob job."
Hunter glanced down at her already generous chest and hightailed it out the door.
* * *
Abby couldn't help her uncle. One Jensen in the clinker was enough. "I don't have that kind of money, Uncle Wilbur."
He coughed, his cheeks billowing out. "I've seen how well your book's doing, sugar. You know this family always helps each other when we need it."
She certainly helped them. Abby explained that she hadn't started to receive her royalties yet. "So you see, I won't receive most of my money until the royalty checks arrive." Even then, she wouldn't loan it to him unless she knew his business was legitimate.
He dropped into a chair and folded his hands on his knees, wheezing. Fearing he might have a heart attack, she retrieved a glass of water for him, then quickly shoved it into his hand. The telephone trilled behind her, and Abby glanced at the caller ID box. Her publicist.
Good heavens, what now? "Hello?"
"Abby, this is Rainey. Turn on the news. CNN."
Abby's stomach clenched as she surfed the channels. Rainey's voice had sounded odd. Either something was very good or very, very bad.
She paused on CNN, where the picture showed a reporter standing in front of a downtown church. "Today, members of the community have stood up to voice their opinions about Preacher Don McLure's decision to use Dr. Abby Jensen's book Under the Covers in his marriage counseling."
Abby gasped as the camera focused on a group of members who shouted and picketed, thrusting homemade signs into the air.
"It's the best thing for our marriage," a woman boomed.
"It's blasphemy," another shouted.
"It showed me how to love my woman," a fortyish man said with a grin.
"Pornography," a heavyset woman yelled.
"As you can see, this book has raised quite a stir," the CNN reporter continued. "Members here are divided, some insisting the book was a godsend, others calling it Satan's work."
"Oh, my God." Abby sank onto the sofa, her stomach in her throat.
"No, this is great," Rainey chirped. "Even bad publicity is good." Her light laughter tinkled over the line. "You'd better get ready, Abby. As of tomorrow, you're going to be more famous than ever. I've had a million calls at home today and I have you booked for a celebrity tour. You're going to hit the New York Times list by the end of the week."
"No, Rainey, I can't—"
"Shh, now, don't argue. And bring that charming husband along, too—"
"But Rainey, you know he wasn't"—she lowered her voice at her uncle's watchful eyes—"really Lenny."
"It doesn't matter. You said Lenny's out of the country, and this guy you hired was fabulous. Everyone saw the tape you two did and j
ust loved him."
* * *
Hunter barely heard his cell phone jangling over the roar of his motorcycle engine. On the slim chance it might be Lizzie calling to chat or ask to see him, even though it wasn't his weekend to have her, he pulled over to the shoulder of the road and flipped it open.
"Mr. Henderson?"
Thinking the caller had the wrong number, he almost hung up, then remembered his cover.
"Hey, this is Chelsea Jensen," the cheerful voice chirped. "Listen, my sister just called and we need your help again."
He grinned. She'd saved him from inventing a reason to visit the woman. "Really?"
"Yes, Abby's publicist has arranged several TV interviews, and they've requested that her husband come along, so it looks like you have a temporary job if you want it."
Did he? Hell, yeah. "You're talking a week or two?"
"Maybe longer. What do you say?"
"I say thank you, Chelsea. You've just made me a happy man." More than she knew.
Chelsea laughed. "Oh, and remember, mum's the word. We have to keep this under our hats."
"Right." He struggled not to laugh. "Don't worry, Chelsea. Your secret is safe with me." Until it hits the newsstand.
Chapter 9
Keeping It Up
Abby's doorbell rang again before she could shuffle her uncle Wilbur out the door. Unfortunately she hadn't been able to convince Rainey that she couldn't continue this pretense of marriage. Her uncle had helped himself to the liquor cabinet while she'd phoned Chelsea. Chelsea had been ecstatic about hiring Harry Henderson on a more permanent basis.
How the hell had things spiraled so far out of control so quickly?
Her head was spinning as if someone had punched her number into the speed-dial modem to insanity.
The doorbell dinged again. Abby prayed the cabdriver she'd phoned for her uncle was on the other side, but when she looked through the peephole, her stomach shot to her throat. Her beloved Granny Pearl stood on the doorstep in a pair of Levi's and a handmade T-shirt that read Red Hot Mama, her tiny mouth pursed, gray hair escaping her hair clip, eyes flashing like cat eyes.
If Abby guessed correctly, Granny was as spittin' mad as a rattlesnake.
Suddenly a commotion sprang out, and Abby silently groaned. Her grandmother had obviously brought reinforcements. A dozen blue-haired ladies hobbled up the front walk, all tittering and chattering, waving old-fashioned hankies and hand-painted canes, shaking bony fingers, and whispering in hushed voices.
"Jesus Christ," Uncle Wilbur muttered. "Is there a back door?"
"You don't want to see Gran?" Abby asked.
Uncle Wilbur coughed into his hand. "Nah. I owe her a little money."
"Go out through the kitchen." Abby pointed over her shoulder. "But you're not driving. I called a cab."
Uncle Wilbur waved, tugging at his pants, which had slipped below his bulging belly, and strode to her kitchen. "I'll wait on the curb."
Seconds later, Abby flung open the door and Granny Pearl pushed her way inside, her cohorts leaning on canes, rolling in wheelchairs, and clacking teeth as they filled her den.
"I have a bone to pick with you, child," Granny Pearl said in a no-nonsense voice.
Abby braced herself for a good old-fashioned dressing down, hating the fact that she had disappointed her grandmother. After all, Granny Pearl had been the one stabilizing factor in her young life.
* * *
Hunter checked his messages when he returned home, hoping Lizzie might have called, but the answering machine light stared back like a neon sign, not blinking, signaling he had no messages. Shaking off his disappointment, he considered trading his motorcycle for his SUV, but decided the bike would be the perfect cover for an actor. He didn't plan to waste time; he'd visit Abby Jensen at her house and confirm their schedule. And maybe get a sneak peek into her home, her life, and her secrets.
Several minutes later, he parked on the curb down from Abby's small house, once again baffled by the traditional nature of the Williamsburg-style ranch. Leaving his Harley in the shadows of a cluster of maple trees, he crossed the sidewalk, curious at the church van parked in her drive. A quick glance in her front window explained the vehicle. A group of little old ladies were gathered in the front room. Abby Jensen really needed to be more safety conscious and get some damn curtains. Didn't she realize any fool could see everything that was going on in her house through the naked window?
He chewed the inside of his cheek and watched as she adjusted oval wire-rimmed glasses, then peered down at her rapt audience of blue-haired ladies. Each one had a copy of Abby's book in hand or sticking out of her suitcase-sized purse. What was going on? Surely Abby wasn't given sex lessons to these sweet little old ladies.
* * *
"I'm sorry, Granny—"
"You should be sorry, Abigail Eunice Jensen."
Abby winced at the use of her middle name. Eunice belonged to her great-grandmother and she should be proud of it, but...
Abby's grandmother whipped out a copy of Under the Covers, bringing Abby's thoughts to an abrupt halt. "There's not enough in here about seniors and sex. I mean, it's a wonderful book, dear, but women our age need real advice on how to help our men keep it up!"
"That's right," a spirited lady her grandmother had introduced as Doris Day—named after the famous star—seconded the sentiment.
"I tried those scented oils but they don't help," another woman admitted as she leaned on her walker. "Wally gets too danged relaxed and falls asleep on me every time."
Merline, a woman wearing a bright purple housedress, pushed at her thinning white hair. "And Harold likes to do it in the shower, but I'm afraid he'll fall and break a hip. He had one of those bone-density tests, you know, and it wasn't good."
"Do you have tips on how to pick up a man?" a lady named Sylvia asked. "The pew at church is completely filled with widow women." She gestured toward her wheelchair. "Now my arthritis is so bad and I can't dance much, I just can't compete with some of the younger women on the prowl."
Abby took her grandmother's hand. "You mean you came here for advice?"
"Why, mercy, yes, honey; what did you think we came for?" Granny Pearl's eyes twinkled.
"I... I thought you might be upset about the publicity..."
"The only thing I'm upset about," Granny Pearl said with a cheeky grin, "is that I had to wait till the book was on the market to read it." She wagged a gnarled finger at Abby. "Next time I want an advance copy. Family should have some privileges, you know." She turned to her friends. "After all, I taught this girl everything she knows. Well, almost everything."
The other women tittered.
"And if you do another book, we want a special chapter for seniors," Gran said.
The others muttered an amen, gray heads bobbing in unison.
"Gran, does Grandpa know you're here?"
Her granny laughed and flapped a hand over her chest dramatically. "Heavens, no, we told the men it was our bingo night." Granny looped her arm through Abby's. "Now, as much as I love your granddaddy Herbert, after sixty years of being with the same man, things are gettin'... well, I hate it admit it, but they're sort of stale."
This she did not need to hear.
But she loved her grandmother, and the women were dead serious, so Abby quickly prepared a round of tea laced with brandy for all of them and offered the women her best advice.
As they filed out two hours later, giggling about stopping by one of the sex-toy shops in Buckhead, she murmured a silent prayer that the women's partners were up to the wild romps the ladies had planned.
And that none of them had to call the ER before their escapades ended.
Thank God her sisters were behaving themselves now; in fact they were the only stable ones in the family.
* * *
"I cannot believe I let you convince me to come to this gay bar." Victoria glared at Chelsea as they entered Pete's Prism, a trendy club decorated in the color palette of the rain
bow. Loud music assaulted her, along with the scent of cigarette smoke, liquor, and exotic fragrances.
"I told you what happened last time," Chelsea said in a hiss. "Do you want me fending off advances from women bodybuilders and wrestlers?"
"I have a feeling you can handle yourself, sis."
Chelsea glanced at her as she hopped onto a feathery bar stool, her glitter and sequins catching in the flicker of the strobe light, nearly blinding Victoria. "Thank you, Victoria."
Victoria grabbed a napkin, wiped the bar stool, then pulled herself onto the seat, wincing at the squeal of Chelsea's borrowed pleather pants as they shifted to hug her legs while she sat down. Caged dancers moved obscenely, their buffed bodies revealing more skin than Victoria had seen since she'd been on the swim team her freshman year in high school.
"Ladies, what'll you have?" The bartender, a slender guy in his twenties with a goatee, propped his elbows on the bar and grinned as if he knew they were fakes. At least Victoria hoped he knew they were fakes.
"Bottled water," Victoria said.
Chelsea frowned at her as if she were hopeless. "Two cosmopolitans."
"But, Chelsea—"
"We're traveling by taxi. Relax. You might have fun."
Victoria's gaze scanned the wall-to-wall people plastered against one another, gyrating in various contortions as they danced. "I seriously doubt it."
Chelsea handed her the drink and she sipped, begrudgingly admitting it was tasty. Strong but tasty. Chelsea angled her stool to imply that she and Victoria were a couple and Victoria nearly choked. "My boss would die if he saw me here."
Chelsea winked. "You could tell him you're working a case."
"This is not how I work."
"But technically you could be, since you're looking for a criminal."
Victoria sighed. "True."
A handsome black man wearing a purple silk jacket and a sharp black hat inched his way onto the stool beside Chelsea and gave her the eye. "Hey, haven't seen you ladies in here before."
