Licensed for Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  “I tracked down Bruno Dirkman. Now turn the light on.”

  “Alone? He could have killed you.”

  She heard him sigh, then felt his hand on her wrist, moving up to the flashlight. He pushed the button to turn it on. His expression, however, remained dark. “Give me some credit, will you.”

  There it went again, that dark tone, the hooded expression that reminded her how little she really knew about Jeremy Kane, former SEAL, current boss, and undercover electrician.

  “No, I won’t.” The words slipped out of her mouth, and she backed them fast with her own steely expression. “Beyond the fact you were a SEAL, well, I barely know you.”

  “You barely know me? Don’t you think that’s a bit overstated?”

  “Fine. I know you have a thing for old movies and popcorn, too.” She expected a smile, but she only got the smoldering, intense gaze that brought her back to this morning, in his arms. Yes, okay, she knew a bit more.

  “What else do you want to know?”

  She swallowed. “Uh . . . well, uh . . .” What did she want to know? What were the important parts? His childhood? His favorite color? Oh, wait, one look at his black leather jacket, dark T-shirt—she could probably answer that one. How about . . . what did he want out of life?

  Maybe that was too big a question, too soon, and especially in a caught-in-time electrical closet. “I don’t know.”

  To her surprise, his hand moved to her face, brushing it with his fingertips, a tickle of a caress. His eyes gentled, something that took her breath away, especially from a guy who looked like he’d run face-first into a barroom brawl. “In time, Princess. In time. You’ll have everything you need.”

  For what? she wanted to yell but just stood there, stilled by his touch, her heart tattooing in her chest.

  He turned and gathered up the fuses. “I think you’re right—your electrical problems may be more than a few blown fuses.” He dumped them into their container and placed them on top of the fuse box. “I’ll see if I can track down the problem.”

  “So now you’re an electrician?”

  He gave her a cryptic smile. Another question to add to her list . . . in time, of course.

  Moving past her, he caught her hand. “Are you hungry? I’m starved. I think it’s time for a pizza.”

  See, even if she didn’t know his favorite baseball team, his favorite band, or anything significant about his life before the day she met him, they had a deeper bond.

  “Pepperoni and mushrooms?”

  He gave her hand a warm squeeze in the dark.

  An hour later, she emerged from the bathroom of Hal’s Pizzeria, not necessarily clean, but smelling like the strawberry-scented liquid soap from the dispenser. They’d hit the fringes of dinner hour, the place still populated by families, a small assembly of grade-schoolers jockeying for space on the stoop outside the kitchen. The victors had their noses pressed up to the glass, watching dough being tossed into the air.

  Located in the middle of Kellogg’s Main Street, with a dormant volleyball sandpit out back, Hal’s appeared to be transitioning from beachside playground to Halloween haunted house with spider netting hanging from the door, a papier-mâché witch dangling from the ceiling, and crepe paper pumpkins taped to the walls. PJ dearly hoped Hal’s still hosted their annual Halloween all-you-can-eat pizza buffet.

  Jeremy lounged in an orange vinyl booth, perusing the menu, a tall red glass of soda in front of him.

  “I thought we were going to get a pizza?”

  “We are. But I thought we’d order an appetizer, too. Maybe mozzarella sticks?”

  PJ unwrapped her straw. “What’s the occasion? Don’t tell me you already collected the cash from your FTA collar.”

  “Nope. Buffalo wings or sticks?”

  “Uh . . . wings.”

  “Attagirl.” Jeremy closed the menu, lifted a finger to signal for the waitress. PJ had a mind to ask her if Hal’s was hiring. Jeremy might be able to bring in his man, but PJ hadn’t the faintest clue where to track down Bix.

  “So why the big spender?”

  Jeremy placed the order, then shot her a smile. “Oh, you’re buyin’.”

  PJ nearly lunged for the waitress. “What? I barely have enough money for a Happy Meal. I can’t buy dinner.”

  He pulled a folded paper from his inner coat pocket and opened it on the table. “Sure you can. You’re an heiress.” He said it without blinking.

  “Listen, Pizza Man, all I have is a run-down, rather smelly old mansion that may or may not have working electricity and is definitely without adequate plumbing. That hardly qualifies me as an heiress. An heiress is someone with a pet Chihuahua, a butler, and a closet full of designer shoes.” She lifted her grimy pant leg, exhibiting her Converse tennis shoes. “Unless I’m mistaken, these aren’t Jimmy Choos.”

  He smoothed the paper on the table, sighed, and looked up at her, no amusement on his face. “PJ, whether you want to admit it or not, you received a large gift today. Very large.” He turned the paper over and slid it her direction. “I did some homework on you and your house, in between tracking down Bruno, getting punched in the face, and keeping Kane Investigations in the black. The Kellogg home was put up for sale three years ago for—”

  “Four million dollars?” PJ picked up the paper to read the listing.

  Clearly, someone had done some creative writing—which may have been why the place hadn’t sold. Still, four million dollars. Even if it had been overpriced, by, say, half . . . that left her with potentially two million dollars.

  She put the paper down, then looked at Jeremy. “I don’t even know what to do with that kind of money. What does this mean? Am I rich?”

  Jeremy lifted a shoulder. “Depends on your version of rich. Personally, I think you’ve always been rich.”

  “Oh, sure. Which is why I’m homeless, and my earthly belongings total the mass of what fits in my trunk. Frankly, I would be happy with a one-room flat with running water, my own bathroom, and maybe a homely but friendly dog to greet me at the end of the day. I’m not that picky.”

  He barely gave her a smile. “It’s not what you have—or even your rather eccentric tastes—that make you an heiress, PJ. It’s who you are. You are an heir.”

  “I’m not an heiress. An heiress has servants and a closet of Prada.” She stirred her soda. “I’m worth about a cool grand, if you don’t count the Bug and the Vic.”

  When he said nothing, she looked up at him. He was considering her, frustration on his face.

  “What?”

  “I just think I’ve pegged it right all this time, Princess. It’s about time someone figured that out.”

  Before she could answer, he shook his head, then leaned forward, balancing his elbows on the table. “Okay, here’s the bottom line. Are you going to live in the house or not? Because if not, then we need to let the lawyer know. It’s your decision—you either take the gift or give it away.”

  “Some gift. It doesn’t have electricity, and who knows how badly the plumbing is damaged. I don’t have the money to hire a contractor. Most of all, I can’t really see myself rattling around that place.”

  He gave a slight smile. “You don’t see yourself in the house? I’m confused. Is this the same girl who told me, and I quote, ‘I used to imagine what it would be like to be a princess in that amazing house’?”

  PJ took her napkin and folded it into squares.

  “I can’t believe this. You’re afraid.”

  “What?” She patted the napkin flat. “Hardly.”

  Something like a dare edged the corners of his mouth. “You’re a pansy.”

  “A pansy?”

  “Yes. A coward. A lily-livered jellyfish.”

  PJ stared at him. “I think you were hit harder than you thought.”

  He grinned, his eyes warm. “You’re afraid of moving off my sofa.”

  “I think you’re giving yourself way too much credit here. I can—and will—move off your sofa anyt
ime I want to.”

  His smile dimmed. “That might be a good idea.”

  It was the way he said it, slow, his eyes even with hers, churning in her something warm, even dangerous, that made it hard to exhale.

  “I guess I could live in my Vic. I always knew it would come in handy.”

  He sighed, shook his head. “That’s not the point. I have a theory. You won’t even consider moving into the house . . . because you don’t think you belong. You’ve longed for this your entire life, yet when it’s offered to you, you see yourself as homeless, the girl who lives in her car, with only a ragged duffel bag to call her own. You might consider that there’s a reason God gave you this house.”

  “You think this money pit is from God?”

  “I think God could have big plans for you with this house, if you have the courage to say yes. You have always dreamed of living in it—God often gives us our dreams to also show us something we didn’t even know we needed.”

  He smiled, something sweet in his eyes she didn’t know how to interpret.

  “Stop seeing yourself as a beggar and realize who you are, PJ. You’re not that woman who showed up six months ago—”

  “Four.”

  “Fine—four months ago, dragging her past behind her. You’re not trouble anymore.”

  She blinked at him as the waitress returned with their platter of wings and two plates.

  Jeremy grabbed the plates, setting one in front of her. “Of course, before you refuse to eat supper, I was just kidding about you picking up the tab.” He reached for a celery stick. “For now, of course.”

  But she was still back on “You’re not trouble anymore.”

  “Even if I do fix up the place, I can hardly afford to keep it.” PJ reached for a wing, her stomach roaring to life. “Taxes and insurance . . . it’s over my head, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “One hurdle at a time, there, Pollyanna.” Jeremy devoured his chicken. “The taxes are paid up until the end of the year, right? Two months. Certainly that would give you time to figure out whether you belong there. And possibly, why God gave it to you.”

  Was two months enough time? Not likely, since it had taken her ten years just to return to Kellogg. And although God had shown her that maybe He liked her exactly the way He’d made her, trouble or not, she wasn’t sure if she would ever figure out where she belonged.

  Or apparently, to whom she belonged. Sugar . . . or Kellogg.

  Boone . . . or Jeremy.

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  We’ll. She was surprised at how much she liked the sound of that pronoun on his lips.

  Still . . . “Maybe Boone’s right. Maybe the place should just be razed. Given a new beginning. Maybe it can’t be transformed.”

  “Anything can be transformed.” Jeremy took another wing. “And Boone’s not right.”

  He said it without rancor, with finality. Boone wasn’t right. About the house. About her. About Jeremy.

  Oh, she hoped so. But the image of Boone parading around the house, reciting its past, almost with a tenor of worry for her future, swiped at her.

  Jeremy discarded the bone and wiped his mouth. “Give the house a chance to become something new and amazing.” He grinned at her, winked.

  PJ picked up another wing. “Did you know that it’s got a mystery surrounding it? A murder. And the crime was never solved.”

  “Who was this murder victim?”

  “One of the Kellogg daughters. Or maybe the only Kellogg daughter. It doesn’t matter. That would be horrible—to be killed without anyone knowing who did it. To be forgotten.”

  Jeremy put down his food. “I can promise you, PJ, you would never be forgotten.”

  * * *

  “You’ve heard the saying, if you keep doing what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got, right?” Jeremy leaned back into the plush cranberry seat of her Crown Vic, his hands laced behind his head, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Light puddled from the streetlamp a half block ahead, although darkness seeped into the car, along with the lick of cool October air. Around them, leaves skittered down the street, the wind a broom.

  “I’m sure you have a point,” PJ said. The doggie-bag pizza carton sagged on the dash, a reminder that they shouldn’t have ordered an appetizer.

  “You may want to consider the fact that staking out Bix’s place isn’t working. Bix isn’t here, and she’s not liable to show up anytime soon.”

  PJ curled her hands over the smooth grip of her steering wheel. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Instead of driving to the mushroom house and retrieving Jeremy’s motorcycle, he’d opted for a ride in her Vic, during which, well, yes, she decided to loop around to Bix’s house. Just in case.

  “C’mon, PJ. You’re smart. Think up an angle to find yourself a fresh lead.”

  Ouch, that hurt, especially the tone. “I’ve searched the databases for all Bix’s past addresses. I even called, pretending to be her daughter’s teacher—which made me feel a little slimy—and left a trap phone–number with the woman watching her daughter.”

  “That’ll help if she calls you back, but even then, if she uses a cell phone, the number you get won’t necessarily pinpoint her location. She could be calling from anywhere. You need to think like Bix—that’s why I handed you this job. You know her. Who would she trust? Who would she go to in a time of need?”

  PJ ran her fingers over the steering wheel. Who had she gone to when she needed help? Connie? her best friend from high school, Trudi?

  Nope. Boone. She’d gone to . . . well, the person who knew her best.

  She glanced at Jeremy, and he must have pinpointed that same truth in her eyes. He blew out a breath. “I guess I’m going to have to face the fact that he’s a part of who you are. I just don’t have to like it.”

  PJ started the car.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To my house. Or my mother’s house, to be exact. I have a stash of old high school yearbooks in the bedroom. Maybe I can dig up Bix’s friends.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”

  PJ smiled as they motored through the groomed neighborhoods of Chapel Hills, not far from Connie’s Craftsman home, deeper into the stately neighborhoods of old wealth. They passed Tudors, an occasional prairie-style home.

  The two-story colonial owned by Elizabeth Sugar lay in quiet slumber under the shaggy hover of towering evergreens planted along the side of their yard in PJ’s childhood. PJ eased the car up to the curb.

  “Now what?” Jeremy said, his hands folded in his lap as he peered at the house.

  “I don’t know.” PJ picked up her phone and dialed, listening as it rang four, five, eight times. Her mother’s machine didn’t pick up.

  “She doesn’t seem to be home.” She closed her phone and set it in the cup holder between the seats. “In fact, she hasn’t been home all week.”

  Jeremy didn’t seem to buy into her worry. “Maybe she’s out for dinner?”

  PJ said nothing. Just got out of the car and hiked up the lawn. She tried the front door, then rang the bell.

  Jeremy came up behind her, a stealthy shadow. He could probably sneak in and out of a maximum security prison without detection.

  Something she’d like to learn to do.

  In fact . . .

  “The first time I snuck out of the house, I had just turned sixteen,” PJ said, lifting the mat to check for a key. “I remember because I was wearing these chunky-heel boots that caught on the drainpipe running along the edge of the screened porch. It tore away from the roof and clattered down onto the stone patio, waking up the entire neighborhood.”

  “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?” Jeremy ran his hand along the top of the doorframe. “Because you know, too much information about a person’s past could come back to haunt them.”

  “Oh, I think you’re haunted enough by me.” She glanced at him and saw the makings of a gri
n edge up his whiskered face.

  “When I got home, I found my father seated in the kitchen, nursing his third or fourth cup of coffee. Of course, my ears were still ringing from the concert down at the Motor Junction.” She lifted the pot of now-dead geraniums by the door. The sight of them gave her a moment’s pause.

  Huh.

  She put the pot down and stepped off the porch. “I didn’t even attempt to sneak back in—the evidence of my crimes being the mangled drainpipe, hanging like a broken tree limb. I planned a sort of ladder from the porch chairs to the roof of the screened porch, to the unlatched bathroom window. And there used to be a trellis that would’ve helped. But I’ve always wondered . . .”

  “Why don’t you have your own key?”

  “My mother hasn’t quite gotten around to making me one. I’m trying not to take it personally.”

  Jeremy followed her around the house as she peered in all the windows of the ground floor, hiking through the shrubbery, finally cupping a hand over her eyes as she pressed her nose to the glass and stared through the kitchen window.

  Jeremy slipped his arm around her, lifted her slightly, and put her feet on his.

  “Do you see anything?”

  Uh, no, not with his arm around her waist, holding her tight to himself. Feeling his heartbeat in his chest.

  “A drooping bouquet of flowers.” Which hinted at PJ’s dark fears, accompanied by the dirge of dread.

  She sank away from the window. Took a breath. Lowered herself onto a wire porch chair. “I think something terrible has happened to my mother.”

  Jeremy crouched before her.

  “Maybe she hit her head and is lying in a pool of her own blood in her bathroom. Or she was kidnapped while getting the mail.”

  “I’m sure that’s it. A gang of outlaws have tracked her down—”

  “Jeremy! Why else wouldn’t she answer her phone and especially not show up at her garden club meeting at the country club?”

  Jeremy raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay, I called.”

  “Methinks you may be stalking her?”

  “I’m not stalking! My mother has vanished from the planet!”

  Jeremy stood. “Okay, just stay put. I’ll be right back.” He jogged back around the house.