Love Under Two Private Dicks [The Lusty, Texas Collection] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Cara Covington

  The brothers Jessop traded looks that let Emily Anne know she’d confused them. But they each gave her their trademark distracted grins.

  “We’re not sure we understand that completely,” Warren said.

  “But when we get to the florist in Waco we’ll see if we can make it work for us,” Edward said.

  “Good luck. Now, please get to eating those tacos before they go cold.” There was just something about these two men that brought out the maternal in her. That was kind of funny in a way because she knew for a fact they were older than she was.

  Both men thanked her and then dug into their food.

  Emily Anne hid her grin. And another world-impacting problem has been solved. Waitresses, like bartenders, sometimes became unplanned confidantes in the dilemmas of life. Emily Anne never minded helping someone out. She figured that was what life was all about, at its very core.

  She let her gaze find Kate Benedict, and headed toward the nonagenarian.

  “Good morning, Grandma Kate.”

  Kate turned her gaze from the street to Emily Anne. Her smile blossomed, warm and familiar, and Emily Anne felt the small bit of worry that had gripped her in the kitchen earlier ease up.

  Kate Benedict might be sad from time to time, but that smile was pure Grandma Kate.

  “It is a good morning, isn’t it?” Kate said.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m glad you’re back home with us—and I’m very sorry for the loss in your family.”

  Kate’s smile beamed brighter. “Thank you, Emily Anne. And I’m so glad you think of Lusty as home.” Kate leaned forward just slightly. “How are those two private investigators doing, dear?”

  “They’re just fine, Grandma Kate. Busy, today. Off to Divine to have a meeting with a couple of other investigators who’ve been helping them look for that man who stole Chloe and Carrie’s inheritance.”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Webster and Mr. Whittier.” Kate’s eyes fairly sparkled. “I’ve heard their wife has a very nice boutique, over there in Morehead.”

  Emily Anne no longer wondered at the extent of Kate Benedict’s knowledge of everyone and everything. “I’ve been there, but only once so far. Summer has some amazing things.” And then, because she thought of the butt plugs and the lube, Emily Anne blushed.

  Kate chuckled and patted her hand. “That was a little wicked of me, wasn’t it? Turning your mind to private matters when you’re here at work.”

  Emily Anne laughed. “Don’t you go feeling bad about that, Grandma Kate. Truth to tell, my thoughts have been going to those two private dicks far too often all on their own as it is. It seems I can’t help it.” And then she blushed again because she’d called them dicks and not detectives.

  “I remember very well what it’s like, when two far-too-handsome-for-their-own-good men put their sights on you.” Kate’s grin softened. “Do you know, Emily Anne, I was your age exactly when those two flyboys named Benedict schemed to bring me here to Lusty. They were older than I, too, just as your two private detectives are older by almost the same number of years. That fact might have given me pause if I hadn’t been a woman who knew her own mind—and her own heart.” She nodded once. “You’re a woman who knows her own mind and her own heart, too, Emily Anne. My money’s on you to show those two hotshots what’s what.”

  Emily Anne wondered how her ego could still fit inside her body. To hear Kate Benedict speak of her in those terms made her feel prouder than proud, and gave her self-confidence the boost it needed.

  And, damn it, Kate’s right. I do know my own mind and my own heart. And she knew those two private dicks, too. Something might be bothering them, but she wouldn’t let herself think it was her. In fact, she didn’t think they understood that whatever was bothering them even showed. Hell, they might not, each of them, understand they were both “a little out of sorts.”

  She’d give them a bit of time, let them have the freedom to work out whatever it was they were having issues with.

  And just like that, Emily Anne thought she might have figured out what the problem they were having might be.

  No, it wasn’t a problem about her, not exactly. But the issue they were grappling with did involve her, if she was right, and could bring them all to a world of hurt if they didn’t figure it out and soon.

  “Thank you, Grandma Kate. Just talking to you like this has made me feel much better.”

  “Why, what a lovely thing to say. I’m glad. And if you ever really need someone to talk to, Emily Anne, I want you to feel free to seek me out.”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you, I will.” And she’d give those two private dicks of hers a little while to figure it all out before she stepped in and showed them the way of things.

  Whew, I do feel much better. Anyone who thought all she did was sling burgers and fries and pour sweet tea didn’t know squat. Being a waitress wasn’t just a job, it was a slice of life. Yes, it was, and her place in it was just as important and vital as anyone else’s.

  God, I love this town.

  Emily Anne turned her attention back to Kate Benedict. “What can I get you this morning for breakfast, Grandma Kate?”

  “I heard a rumor that Tracy brought some of her cream puffs in this morning,” Kate said.

  Emily Anne fought her grin. “Yes, ma’am. I heard that same rumor, myself. Would you like tea, or coffee, with those?”

  Kate inhaled deeply and smiled. “I’ll have the coffee, please.” She took the paper napkin up from under her knife and spread it on her lap. “Cream puffs and coffee will make a perfect breakfast on such a beautiful day.”

  Emily Anne not only agreed, she decided to set one of those tasty little pastries aside for herself, for later.

  * * * *

  “Well?” Ace Webster had pulled his SUV around a corner, allowing Connor to get a look, and a picture, of their subject.

  Connor didn’t answer right away. He had his entire attention focused, through his camera’s telephoto lens, on the man who was ambling down the street. He and Mel had just arrived for their meeting at The Dancing Pony when Ace and Kemp had rushed in with the news that Smith was in town right then. They’d seen him go into the grocery store. He’d left with Ace and his Nikon, hoping for a clear shot.

  “Look this way, asshole,” Connor said aloud, but mostly to himself.

  As if the bastard had heard him he turned his head and gazed right in the direction of the camera.

  “Gotcha.” He clicked three pictures in quick succession, then eased the camera down and looked over at Ace.

  “I’ve got what I need. He sure as hell looks different from the way he did in his heyday,” Connor said.

  “That’s what I thought, too, when we compared the man to those pictures you sent. I guess living life under the radar can do that to you.” Ace started the car and drove off, taking a circuitous route back to the nightclub. Mel, Kemp, and Ethan Grant were sitting around one of the tables, drinking coffee and chatting when he and Ace joined them.

  Since everyone was looking at him he nodded. “I say it’s him. But my saying so isn’t good enough, and it isn’t what we need.”

  “Mel was telling us about that facial recognition program you have,” Ethan said. “That should tell you for certain if Bruce Smith is Ralph Baxter.”

  Connor nodded. “Yes, we’ll know for certain. But we can’t use that to get our warrant. It’s still a classified program.”

  “Fingerprints are our best hope for proving who he is,” Mel said. “But let’s take this one step at a time. We’d like to get a look at the man’s place up close and personal. See if there’s any way we can get eyes and ears on him.”

  “Now that we know where he is and who he is, we’ll begin digging into his past,” Connor said. “His past here, as Bruce Smith.”

  “Because even if we can prove who he is, that still isn’t enough to get a warrant to search his premises.” Mel sat back. “And we don’t really know him, now. We want to know him inside out before we make a move on h
im.”

  “I would think that the very fact he’s still pretending to be Bruce Smith and not coming out as Ralph Baxter is suspicious,” Ethan said. “With the statute of limitations passed for both criminal and civil charges and suits, why stay in obscurity? It seems to me, logically, at any rate, that his continuing to live a lie would be considered as sufficient grounds for that warrant.”

  “I know—if the law worked logically it might be. But he could simply say that he was still in fear for his life—having double-crossed Brody Carp, well-known loan shark and general shithead.” Mel grabbed his cup and took a long drink. “Carp is still active in the state, and his business has certainly prospered in recent years. It’s reasonable to assume that if someone found out who he was and made a call, Carp or one of his goons would show up. No, what we need is something that we can take to the authorities, something that will point to the possibility that Bruce Smith, aka Ralph Baxter, killed Neil Jackson.”

  “If there’s evidence out at his place that he committed murder fifteen years ago, then that would make him one stupid son of a bitch,” Kemp said. “But then, criminals and con men are more often stupid than not.”

  “We figure he wasn’t so much stupid, as he was in over his head,” Connor said. “Everything we were able to learn about him prior to 1998 gives us the picture of a man who was glib and charming, but generally lacking depth. I’ve spoken to old friends of his, and classmates, who recall a guy they would party with, but not one that they’d call on when they needed a hand with anything.”

  “He cut and run once, and it likely cost him more than he imagined it would,” Mel said. “He took care of business within days of killing Jackson, and then settled in at his place outside of Divine and waited for the dust to settle. But as time went by, the fear of what might be waiting for him if he stuck his head up out of his little hidey-hole likely worked to keep him in one place.”

  “So he’ll stay where he is unless he perceives he’s in danger,” Ace said. “But if he thinks he’s threatened, he could do damn near anything. There’s something really off about the guy. I’d bet the man is working with diminished capacity.”

  “That’s what we think, too,” Connor said. “If Smith, or Baxter, thinks he’s in danger, then all bets are off. That’s why we want to go slow, take our time, and build a case. Find out who this man is now, his habits, what he does with his time. If, however, at the end of the day, we can’t find evidence of what he did, then we will need him to panic—but according to our script, and not his ‘diminished capacity.’”

  “That makes sense.” Ethan Grant sat back and looked from him to Mel. “I never met Carrie Rhodes, but I did meet Chloe on a couple of occasions. She lived here in Divine, as you know, for a time. She worked at Madeleine’s, where Gracie likes to go.”

  Connor guessed that Ethan had something on his mind. Since the man was Mel’s friend, he sat back, and waited.

  “She did,” Mel said. “She came to live in Lusty when her sister settled there, and after a relationship she was involved in here didn’t work out.” Mel sat forward. “One of the things we do for the Lusty Town Trust is have a look into the backgrounds of people who decide to make Lusty their home. Normally that information is extremely confidential. I would never have mentioned it, but you seem to have a reason for bringing her and that past relationship up.”

  Ethan seemed to relax at that. “I do. The man she lived with—Beck O’Malley—took her leaving hard, and has only recently been coming to grips with the fact that things didn’t work out between them. He’s in a new relationship now, and finally getting his shit together. I’d like to bring him and his best friend into this. I think it would be good if he could have a hand in finding justice for Chloe. I think it would be good for him, and good for Chloe, too.”

  Mel looked over at Connor. Perhaps a few months ago he would never even have considered Ethan’s request. But as a man dealing with a woman who’d been wounded by a past relationship, he could totally understand the need to heal. Not for that asshat that hurt their Emily Anne, of course. But he knew enough of the situation to understand that in the case of Chloe Rhodes and Beck O’Malley, no one really mistreated anyone. Neither one had done anything bad. It had just been a case of their not really being meant for each other.

  Chloe had been wise to understand that and turn down O’Malley’s proposal. From his perspective of having one broken marriage under his belt, he could attest to the simple truth of things. Sometimes it was better not to marry than to marry and then have to walk away.

  Connor hoped O’Malley had finally found the woman meant to be his. So he nodded.

  “That’s fine with us,” Mel said. “Bring them up to speed on the situation. In the meantime, Connor and I will get to work and gather as much as we can on Smith. When we get to the point where it’s time to figure out our game plan, another couple sets of eyes and ears—especially ones rooted here in Divine—could prove useful.”

  Chapter 16

  Maybe I’m going crazy.

  There were days when Bruce Smith looked into the mirror and didn’t know who he was anymore. Sometimes, he’d look into his own eyes and feel a sense of disconnection, as if what he was looking at was a painting, the representation of a fictional character. It was almost as if there was a gap opening up between himself and the image that stared back at him—a gap that kept getting wider and wider with each passing day.

  Those sensations had escalated in the last few weeks. He didn’t quite know what to make of it except to wonder if he finally was just going crazy.

  Bruce had made choices in his life, some that he regretted, certainly, but there were no do-overs, and nothing he could do about all of that now, anyway. In a lot of ways, even though the life he had been living the last fifteen years was all a lie, it was easier, day to day, than what had come before it.

  As Bruce Smith, he didn’t have to present a particular façade to the world. He didn’t have to have the latest styles hanging in his closet. He didn’t have to smile all the time and put on that hat that read “salesman.” He didn’t have to fuss over his appearance, although he thought he’d probably been vain enough that it hadn’t seemed a chore to him before. Not like it did now. Hell, sometimes he found it hard to remember to shower or even comb his hair.

  He didn’t have to meet people every day and pretend to like them. That alone was worth everything he’d been through over the last fifteen or so years. People, by and large, were just no damn good and it felt right to be able to let his true feelings on the matter show.

  Bruce almost never, ever even thought the name “Ralph Baxter” anymore. Ralph Baxter was dead. Bruce Smith had been born from his ashes, and after all this time, Bruce should just accept that he’d survived, and he’d won, and the fear and the hiding were over.

  He’d begun to do that, venturing into the town of Divine more often, thinking of himself as Smith more often. He was home. The past was over. He was happy because life really was good.

  So if life was good, and he was happy, why was he so on edge, lately? He should be feeling on top of the world. He’d actually won the first two rounds of the Grand Texan Tournament, and would log in to play in the final on Saturday night.

  He would log in to that final, and play, and he would win!

  Bruce looked down at the paper bag he’d just set on the kitchen counter. He didn’t even know why he’d decided to go into town, get those few things at the grocery store. He’d made a habit of shopping for what he needed usually on Monday. The original plan had been to be seen just enough that no one would gossip much about him, so that after a year or so he’d be considered a regular, a local, and be left alone. That had worked to a large degree. He’d been a regular of Divine for more than a dozen years.

  That was why he’d thrown out all his power suits and dressed instead in clothing that was notable only for being very bland and nondescript. He was clean, and pressed, but not impressive. He’d stopped going to the stylist, i
nstead opting for an ordinary barber shop. Lately he’d actually been cutting his own hair. He’d made all these adjustments just so that he would blend in, become invisible—so that he could fade away. And for the most part, for more than a decade, Bruce knew he’d been successful.

  Around the town of Divine, folks who knew his name nodded when he went past. Hell, he’d even begun to stop in at the Dancing Pony and had made that a regular part of his routine for the last year. He enjoyed having a cold beer once in a while. The nightclub was decent, and the music, in the late afternoons, not too loud.

  Bruce Smith’s life was predictable, if boring, but after what he’d been through back in the late nineties as Ralph Baxter, predictable and boring were good things. If he went into town on a day that wasn’t his regular shopping day, he usually had a reason, like taking one of his computers in for repair, or fetching something he needed.

  Today hadn’t been like that. He’d been on his way to town before he’d known what he was actually doing. He’d gone, he thought now, as if something deep in his subconscious had warned him to go and look and see. And there, had felt that unease, that uncertainty. He’d felt dread.

  Why can’t I shake the feeling that everything is going to blow up in my face?

  He’d felt “off” for the last couple of months, now that he thought about it. He couldn’t even say what the hell was wrong, but whatever it was, whatever had stirred his insecurities, it was getting worse.

  He focused on the last couple of hours, let everything that he’d done, everything he’d felt, play over in his head. This morning, while he’d been walking from the grocery store back to his car, he could have sworn that someone had been watching him. He’d looked around as casually as he could, but he hadn’t seen anyone or anything out of the ordinary.

  Had Brody Carp finally found him? He ran a hand through his hair. No, if that bastard loan shark knew where he was he wouldn’t follow him, or watch him. He’d break down his fucking door, and then he’d break him.