What readers are saying about the PJ Sugar series
“PJ’s adventures . . . are hilarious and the resolution of the fast-paced mystery is thoroughly satisfying as well. Think of this series as a more wholesome version of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum series.”
—Booklist
“Warren does it again with an excellent blend of humor, romance, [and] mystery. . . .”
—Romantic Times, Top Pick
“With an enchanting heroine, witty dialogue, and a puzzling mystery, Nothing but Trouble is a satisfying start to the PJ Sugar series.”
—Rel Mollet at Titletrakk.com
“[Double Trouble] is filled with all the things I loved about the first book. . . . Romance, mystery, and lots of laugh-out-loud humor make this yet another of my favorite Susan May Warren books.”
—Melody at Kids, Cakes, Dishes, and Laundry
“I had the pleasure of reading this gem, and PJ is a kick. I think a lot of us out there could relate to her more than we want to admit.”
—Julie at The Surrendered Scribe
“If you like fiction that is fun, stories that are full of mystery, and characters that remind you of yourself, you’ll LOVE this book.”
—Heather at Mumblings of a Mommy Monk
“The characters were fantastic, fully developed, and authentic. . . . I’m already looking forward to the next book in this series.”
—Tanya at In the Dailies
“Susan May Warren quickly became my favorite author last year. Her books are fun, uplifting, and just fantastic reading. Nothing but Trouble definitely fits that description!”
—Kate at A Simple Walk
“Susan will have you in stitches one minute and tears the next. Make sure you free up a day or two if you open this book. You will NOT want to put it down.”
—Lynetta at Open Book
“Mystery, romance, humor, and a fun, spunky character combine for a great start to a promising new series.”
—CeeCee at Book Splurge
Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com.
Visit Susan May Warren’s Web site at www.susanmaywarren.com.
TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Licensed for Trouble
Copyright © 2010 by Susan May Warren. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jacqueline L. Nuñez
Edited by Sarah Mason
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Warren, Susan May, date.
Licensed for trouble / Susan May Warren.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4143-1314-6 (pbk.)
1. Women private investigators—Fiction. 2. Minnesota—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.A865L53 2010
813’.6—dc22 2010005975
For Your glory, Lord
Acknowledgments
The more I write, the more I’m aware of how the input of others is key to writing a great book. And I’ve been blessed with a team who partners with me on every level—from idea to polish—to craft books that I pray touch lives. Thank you for your gift of encouragement and wisdom to me:
Rachel Hauck, who works through every single scene, asking me the right questions, giving her opinion, and always being on the other end of the phone when I need her. Hey—I think you need to fix up that spare room because I’m moving in.
Ellen Tarver, who continues to amaze me with her ability to find holes in my stories and reads manuscripts two and three times into the wee hours of the night to help me get it right. You’re such a gift to me.
Karen Watson, who understands PJ and partners with me in vision and concept, who is on my team in every way to help me get the story right. Your wisdom and friendship bless me beyond words.
Sarah Mason, who is such an amazing editor—I’m so grateful she gets her hands on these stories! You take what I think is pretty good and make it amazing. (Who knew it needed so much polish!) Thank you for your talents and the way you encourage me even as you cut huge sections of “brilliant” prose from my manuscripts. In the end, you’re right.
The Tyndale art, editorial, marketing, and sales teams—I’m so grateful for all your hard work in selling SMW books and especially PJ. Thank you.
My friend Cindy Kalinin and her family for saying “YES!” when I suggested going skydiving. I know you don’t really mean it when you say “come back to California,” but thanks for saying it anyway.
Lee and Renaud at Adventure Center Skydiving in Hollister, California, who made flying amazing and not in the least scary! Cool!
Steve Laube, because you keep me calm. Thanks for always answering the phone and acting like I’m the only person in the world.
Curt and MaryAnn Lund, who brought me into their home and their hearts. I am blessed to have been a Lund.
Andrew Warren, my Jeremy, who makes me believe I am more than I am. I love you, baby.
David, Sarah, Peter, and Noah, who remind me that now there are others like me.
And to my Father in heaven, who adopted me and gave me an amazing name: Beloved.
Chapter One
PJ Sugar knew how to spot a criminal. Even when that criminal might be dressed as a two-hundred-pound raccoon, complete with bandit eyes and a ringed tail, toting a ten-pound pumpkin toward the apple dunking and hot cider station near the cherry red Kellogg Farms barn.
PJ simply possessed those kinds of gumshoe instincts, the sort that could spot a murderer or a car thief or even a cheating husband at first glance. Maybe she’d been born with them. Maybe they were simply honed after years of toting around the nickname “NBT”—Nothing but Trouble.
Whatever the case, it didn’t take more than one look to recognize Meredith “Bix” Bixby—despite the fifty or so pounds she’d put on since senior year of high school or the fact that she’d cut her long blonde hair to within two inches of her head, dyed it black, and crowned it with a pair of knobby black ears.
Gotcha, you little bail jumper.
However, nabbing said bail jumper might be a different bushel of apples, thanks to Jeremy Kane’s brilliant costume idea. Really, sometimes she wondered if her boss actually wanted her to succeed at her job. Especially when Jeremy pulled the foamed construction of a six-foot hot dog, once used to advertise Tony’s Footlongs in Dinkytown, Minneapolis, out of his tiny office closet.
A hot dog. Yes, she had arms, and her face protruded through an oval opening in the front, but she could only manage a lurching wobble, and forget about seeing anything in her peripheral vision. She had to turn her entire . . . uh, bun . . . to follow Bix’s movements as she plopped her pumpkin near the Kellogg Farms sign and moved toward the hot cider station.
And of course, Jeremy had vanished. At least he wouldn’t be easy to miss, not with his foot-high nozzle hat and bright red foam tube marked Ketchup.
“C’mon, Auntie PJ.” Davy gripped her hand with his two grubby ones and turned his full attention to yanking her through the coarse grass toward a hay maze. As if she could resist the charms of a four-foot policeman,
complete with blue uniform, utility belt, and what looked like a shiny pair of working handcuffs.
Local Detective Boone Buckam’s influence, no doubt. His way of reminding PJ that she may have broken up with him, but she’d never quite be free of the imprint he’d made on her life. Like his name tattooed on her shoulder.
“Just a second, Davy.” PJ shot another glance at the cider table, where Bix stood now next to a Tinker Bell dressed in green with wide, glittery wings. Perfect. Bix had brought her daughter.
“Davy, why don’t you go get Sergei—maybe he’ll do the maze with you.” She even shot a look toward Connie, Davy’s mother, where she stood with her husband. Sergei seemed to be trying to explain to his parents, in broken English and begrudgingly translated Russian, just why people might dunk their heads into a corrugated metal bucket full of chilly water in an attempt to snag an apple with their teeth.
Admittedly, it didn’t make sense to PJ, either.
Along with things that didn’t make sense—why would Meredith show up here, at a community event? even dressed as a raccoon? Surely Bix knew that her fourth shoplifting charge, along with her three prior misdemeanors and one ancient domestic assault against a former boyfriend, would net her a stint in the community jail. Right?
Probably. Which was why she’d failed to show up for her court date a week ago and had been playing hide-and-seek with PJ ever since. PJ had missed her by seconds at her house, the country club, her favorite salon, and even at Fellows Academy, where her daughter attended class with Davy, PJ’s nephew. In fact, PJ had started to believe that Meredith might be onto her and her assignment to bring the bail jumper back into the system.
Hey, PJ wanted to tell her, she was better than the kneecap breakers that Liberty Bondsmen usually sent out. Bix should be counting her blessings that Kane Investigations had landed her bounty-hunting contract.
Around them, little hobbits and superheroes searched for the perfect pumpkin to go with the perfect Sunday afternoon, fragranced by the rich redolence of decaying loam, the crisp musk of hay. Laughter spilled into the afternoon, and near the front of the farm, a bluegrass band warmed up with a whine of fiddle.
Yes, PJ could understand the pull to attend the annual Kellogg Harvest Days event, even for a wanted criminal. And the raccoon costume might have stymied a PI and bail-recovery agent of lesser caliber.
Now it seemed that Davy might be in league with Bix as he yanked PJ’s arm. “Noooo, I want you, Auntie PJ. Come into the maze whif me.”
Davy’s little bottom lip quivered, and her heart gave a painful lurch. She missed waking up to him bouncing on her stomach and the flying leaps he did into her open arms. Connie’s words this morning at church, in passing—“PJ, I hope to see you at the festival this afternoon. . . . I need to talk to you”—had stirred all the ache she’d steeled herself against since her sister threw her out, one armful of clothes at a time into the purpling night. She didn’t really blame her sister for the deep freeze out of her life over the past month. Her sleuthing skills had inadvertently threatened Davy’s life—twice. But deep inside she was hoping Connie’s casual invitation was about a second chance. She couldn’t camp out on Jeremy’s office sofa much longer.
And if she captured Bix, the bounty might be enough for a tidy rent deposit.
“Okay, little man. Hang on—let me find Jeremy.” PJ slid out of Davy’s grip and did a wobbly three-sixty. No sign of the deserter. And Bix had finished her cider and was edging toward the dessert table. Shoot.
“I’ll meet you in there!” Davy had given up on trying to manhandle her inside the maze. PJ turned just in time to spot the little law enforcer running around the first corner, his dark, curly hair bouncing as his cop gear jingled.
“Davy!” One more scan for Jeremy, a pleading look in Connie’s direction, a glimpse of Bix . . . “Wait for me!”
She took off after Davy, her legs straining against the foam in a sort of half-drunken lurch as she wobbled into the maze. “Davy!” She slowed to a speed-walk, rounded a corner—
“Boo!” Davy jumped out at her, holding his toy .45. “Hands up!”
PJ put up her hands. “Don’t shoot; I’m an unarmed frankfurter!”
“Don’t believe her, partner.” The voice came from behind her—low and laughing—and accompanied the dangerous swagger of Boone Buckam, six feet two inches of lean trouble, with lethal blue eyes and a too-familiar I-caught-you-now expression on his face that made PJ tremble just a bit. More than once she’d wondered at her decision to cut him loose and declare herself a free agent.
Especially since it didn’t exactly seem like Jeremy might be snatching her up anytime soon. Six weeks since the kiss that had seemed more desperation than a romantic move, she’d started to wonder if she’d hallucinated what she considered interest on his part.
“Boone!” Davy bounded toward him, wrapping his arms around one of Boone’s legs. “I love the handcuffs.”
PJ met Boone’s smirk with a withering look. “I thought so. You haven’t learned how dangerous it is to arm a Sugar?”
“I’m hoping he redeems the family. Maybe he leans toward a different side of the law.”
“Hah. I’m on the right side of the law.” Speaking of—she tried to jump, get a glimpse of Bix over the top of the hay mounds, but she couldn’t quite get high enough.
“Oh, sure. By cheating?” He patted Davy on the head. “I think she needs a lesson in what happens to lawbreakers, don’t you, Davy?”
As if on cue, Davy whipped out his handcuffs. “I have to take you in, Auntie PJ,” he said, with such a serious look on his pudgy face that PJ couldn’t help but hold out her hands.
He snapped the cuffs on, put his hands on his hips as if to survey his handiwork, and took off.
Leaving her handcuffed in front of Boone like a criminal, while the real criminal downed apple fritters and pumpkin bread at the Girl Scout fund-raiser booth.
“Davy, come back here!” She held up her hands to Boone. “Please?”
He gave her a lopsided smile. Thankfully, it didn’t hold the same power it once did. “I don’t know. I think it’s safer for mankind to keep you a little handicapped.”
“Oh, whatever.” She turned and waddled around the hay bales. “Davy!”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, PJ.” Boone edged up behind her.
“Get me out of these cuffs, Boone.” She whirled, held out her hands.
“Do I look like I have a key on me? And anyway . . .” He jutted out his chin, shook it a little, then lowered his voice. “I can’t take sides against the family, you know.”
Oh, good grief. “Brando? Seriously?”
“I’m hurt.” He stepped back as if taking a bow. “Don’t I look like the Godfather?”
“You’re wearing a tux. I thought you were a groom or something.”
His smile deflated. “No, I’m not a groom, PJ.”
Then he turned and strode away.
Not a groom. Oh, that’s right. He’d asked her to marry him. Twice.
Why did her mouth run out ahead to ambush her? Wow, she knew how to destroy a Sunday afternoon. “Davy! Get over here with that handcuff key!”
She ran through the maze, into dead zones and out again, finally emerging on the other side.
Davy crouched below a model cow, spraying dyed “milk” into a metal bucket. “Look, Auntie PJ, I’m milking a cow.”
“I’m going to milk you, little man, if you don’t come over here and uncuff me.” She held out her hands.
“Davy, did you handcuff your aunt?” Sergei strode toward them, carrying two cups of steaming cider.
Davy glanced up at his six-foot, muscle-cut Russian stepfather and went white for a moment, long enough for PJ to remember that he and Sergei still treaded on new soil.
“It’s okay. We were just playing.” PJ crouched next to Davy. “Hand me the key, kiddo.”
Davy fished around in his pocket and gave her the key. PJ unlocked herself as Connie swished up i
n her elegant Maid Marian dress—a complement to Sergei’s dashing Robin Hood costume. Sergei handed Connie the other cider cup.
“PJ, do you have a second?” Connie tugged on her elbow. “I have to talk to you about something.”
Connie was grinning, the old warmth in her eyes. Maybe Connie had begun to forgive her. PJ shot a look toward the apple-dunking bin, the band, then spotted Bix near the Girl Scout booth, buying a cookie. That probably meant she would stick around for a moment.
“Sure, Connie.” PJ followed her sister, tucking the handcuffs into a handy, concealed front pocket between bun and dog.
Connie had changed over the past six weeks—maybe the way she left her brown hair down to blow in the slight wind, or the shine in her green eyes. PJ could attribute it to any of the things that suddenly felt acutely absent from her life. Newlyweds. Marriage. A life on track.
“Thanks for coming today. Davy has really missed you,” Connie said, blowing into her cider. “And I have too.”
PJ smiled at her. “I can’t say I miss the fried fish.”
Connie’s gaze tracked over to Sergei. “We’ve gotten the fish eating down to once a week. And his parents’ visas have been extended another year.” She said the words without any malice in her eyes. Yes, perhaps things had smoothed out at the Sukarov household. Without PJ’s troublemaking.
A knot began to tighten in her stomach.
“Great costume, by the way.” Connie wore amusement at the corners of her mouth.
“Please. Jeremy worked as a street advertisement in Dinkytown. He inherited his costumes.”
“You two seeing each other now?” Connie had the good taste not to glance at Boone, currently hauling a pumpkin from the patch.
“Besides work every day?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know. We haven’t exactly progressed past our one impulsive kiss. I’m not sure he even remembers it.”
“But you do.” Connie’s eyes twinkled.
PJ didn’t answer her. But yes, she well remembered being in his arms, the way he kissed her as if suddenly something sweet had unhinged inside him.
Licensed for Trouble Page 1
