Licensed for Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  He pushed a wild, blowing hair away from her face. “Remember how after Peter betrayed Jesus, he returned to fishing? He panicked . . . and despite all the change God had done in him, all he’d learned about Jesus, the Messiah, he went back to what he knew—the simple life of a fisherman. He only saw himself as a fisherman.

  “But he wasn’t supposed to be there, and Jesus went after him. He called him back from his past, forgave him, reminded him that He had a new life for him, and then empowered him to go be that person.”

  Jeremy hiked up the collar on her jacket. “You’ve been forgiven and renamed, PJ. Don’t slip into your default mode and start thinking of yourself as only trouble. You’re going to have to start thinking of yourself as someone else.”

  “Okay, who?”

  He grinned at her, his eyes sweet in hers. “How about the Kellogg heiress?”

  “You have too vivid an imagination.”

  “No, I just call it as I see it.”

  She let herself hang on to those words, his touch lingering on her cheek, warm in the parched, windy air as they crossed the street.

  Inside the next two-story, cream-colored town house, a dog began to bark, high yips that suggested a terrier or a Chihuahua.

  The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman, her hair up in a towel, wearing a bathrobe. She carried a Chihuahua under one arm. “I already have my phone book. I don’t need another.” She had the basement tones of a lifelong smoker.

  “We’re friends of Bekka Layton,” Jeremy said. “Did you know her?”

  PJ handed her the picture.

  The woman took it, scrutinizing the faces. “Yeah, I saw her sometimes. We talked a few times. Nice girl. She was living here while her man was overseas, waiting for him to come home. A military man, although I don’t know what branch. I think he was the baby’s daddy.”

  Baby?

  “She had a child?” Jeremy asked, taking the picture back.

  “Yeah. About a year old, maybe more. Cute little boy. Curly brown hair. His name was . . . Tyler, I think. I didn’t see him at the fire. I was just getting home from night shift and saw the fire trucks and the ambulance.”

  “What about the father? This soldier. What was his name?”

  “Don’t know. I think he came home a week or so before she died. I saw someone pull up in a taxi. Could have been a soldier. I remember his duffel bag, although it was dark—I didn’t get a good look. And then, the day she died, they had a huge fight right on the front yard.”

  “Were either of these men him?” PJ handed her the picture again.

  She gave it another once-over. “It’s hard to say. He wore a baseball cap, but I remember thinking how odd it was that he was in the military, because with his long hair, he looked more like a redneck. Oh, I do remember something—he had a tattoo on his arm. A big one. Red.” She handed back the picture. “Like an eagle or something.”

  “A phoenix?”

  “Is that a bird?”

  “You didn’t see him the night of the fire?” Jeremy asked.

  “No—but I left for work in the afternoon.” She seemed to be looking past them, as if peeling back the layers of that night. “I wish I could remember. It was chaos—so many fire trucks and cops. I couldn’t even get into my driveway. I had to park down the street. Then they were cleaning the streets the next day, and I got a ticket from the city of Bloomington. A girl can’t get a break.”

  She gave the yipping dog a one-finger smack on the snout. “Enough, Spike.”

  PJ inadvertently put a hand to her nose. Ouch. But Spike, hmm. PJ would have to try that one on Dog. “What happened to the little boy?”

  “I don’t know. He might have had family, or maybe it was just a day care provider. Every once in a while, I’d see a car parked in the driveway, and one time I saw an older woman carrying the little boy to her car. Might have been Bekka’s mom. She said her mom was moving here from someplace out West.”

  “You don’t have a name or address?”

  “Nope. Listen, I gotta get to work.” She hung on the door for a second. “I do hope you find out who set the fire. She was really nice. I know she was hoping it would work out between her and her man. But then again, who doesn’t?”

  They stood in silence on the steps after the door closed.

  “What if—?”

  “That’s a pretty big leap.” Jeremy led the way back down the sidewalk. What, now the man could read her mind?

  “It’s not such a big leap. Max has brown hair—and she said, specifically, curly brown hair. What if Max was in the military and the little boy is Max’s son?” PJ said. “It would account for why he was never around.”

  “Which means he came home and murdered them.” Jeremy turned and gave her a that’s-the-only-logical-answer look.

  “Why would he do that? That’s a crazy accusation.”

  “Not so crazy—you heard Spike’s mama back there. He and Bekka were seen fighting.”

  “It might not have been Max. Jinx said there was another soldier he’d given the same tat to—what if it was this other guy in the picture?”

  “Can you hear yourself? You’re so desperate to believe Max is innocent, you’re creating a soap opera in your head. It’s simply a case of a jilted soldier—he probably came home and found his woman had stepped out on him.”

  “Now you listen to yourself! The woman said that Bekka was pining after her man—”

  “She didn’t say pining.”

  “Okay, waiting for him to come back to her.”

  “It didn’t mean that she didn’t go looking for someone else.”

  “Wow, are you Mr. Doom. I don’t know why you’re reading so far into this.”

  He stood before her, jaw tight, nearly vibrating, his hands hard balls buried deep in his pockets. His chest rose and fell as he stared at her.

  And then she got it. The fact that when he’d come home, there hadn’t been anyone waiting for him. That, possibly like Max, he’d returned to heartache.

  Yeah, suddenly this mystery had punched Jeremy right in the chest.

  “Listen,” she said quietly, her heart in her throat, “not everything is black-and-white. Some things are complicated. And Max certainly didn’t throw himself into the lake—”

  “Unless he was trying to get away and Lyle Fisher tracked him down. Maybe him ending up in the bay was a little vigilante justice.” Jeremy’s eyes darkened. “Think about it, PJ. He has a tattoo. His hands are burned. Bekka was fighting with a tattooed soldier just hours before her death in a fire. Max goes missing that night. Why is it so hard for you to believe that Max could be a killer?”

  “Because I feel it right here!” She palmed her chest, over her heart.

  “The PJ Sugar method of investigation—follow your heart?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Sometimes that’s the only thing you can do.”

  “I swear, PJ, you could drive a man . . .” He held up his hands as if in surrender. “Do you have a thing for him, too?”

  PJ’s mouth opened, and Jeremy winced. “Wait—forget I said that.”

  Oh, sure. She stared at him, watched his face tighten, saw him look away. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re jealous of Max.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m sorry, but did you not stand in my kitchen just last night, or rather this morning, and claim that you didn’t know where you fit into my life? whether you should fight for me or let me go?”

  His mouth tightened to an unforgiving line. “That has more to do with you than me, PJ. And probably Boone, doesn’t it?”

  PJ stared at him a moment, just to make sure her indignation came from the right place. Yes. “This is not about Boone. Boone and I are over. And there isn’t anything between Max and me either, so don’t go there.”

  A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I’m sorry. I just hate that you’re defending Max. I can read the evidence, PJ. The guy shouldn’t be trusted!”

  “Because he’s trouble!”

/>   “Yes!”

  “You’re wrong. And frankly, I’m not sure why you’re getting worked up. You can’t be jealous of what’s not there. And it’s not like you’ve even made one move in my dir—”

  And just like that, he caught her around the waist and kissed her. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, either, like his last one. Not at first. His lips moved against hers as if wanting to silence her, as if he had something to prove. Strong. Demanding. The desperation in it shook her until, suddenly, his touch softened. He slowed his kiss, gentled it, and she felt him relax even as he wound his fingers into her hair.

  By then, she’d forgotten the fury that coiled inside her, the way he could drive her to her last nerve, and even the look of hurt that had flashed across his face and let herself kiss him back. He tasted of coffee, smelled of aftershave, and in his touch remained just a hint of hunger.

  Jeremy. Yes, he confused her, annoyed her, forced her to see herself differently. But he also sorta fought for her or perhaps for the woman she wanted to be.

  And that’s why she loved—

  Wait. No. Not yet. Boone’s outline in her life had barely faded. She couldn’t . . . love Jeremy. Right?

  He moved away, meeting her eyes. “That was in your direction.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She licked her lips. “So are you fighting for me now?” She managed the barest of smiles.

  Emotion rose to his eyes, something she couldn’t place. Desire, maybe. Or challenge. “I’m not sure. I’m hoping you’ll help me figure that out.”

  She smiled. “Oh, then I think I’m going to need another clue.”

  * * *

  “What is this called again?” PJ bent over, feet flat to the floor, hands palmed on the mat, stretching like the pregnant woman on the video explained it, slowly walking her feet forward. “Oh, that hurts.”

  “Downward dog, and you’ll get used to it.” Connie, of course, moved like a ballet dancer up the mat, rising to a standing position, her arms over her head.

  “I was born for contact sports.” PJ finally just stood up, shooting her arms in the air. “This really makes you feel better?”

  “For those of us who don’t have the attention span of a three-year-old, yes, it’s very relaxing.” Connie finished her stretch, put her arms down, and breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. A regular yoga master.

  “Enough of this. Do you have ice cream?”

  Connie opened one eye. Made a face that looked a lot like guilt.

  “You cleaned yourself out of all the junk food?”

  “I’m thinking I need to pace myself. I have seven months to go.”

  PJ grabbed her bag, walked over to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and found the milk. Boris was in the screened porch with long strips of plastic, laying them out on the floor, measuring them with a retractable tape measure. “What on earth?”

  Connie continued to breathe in deep, lung-filling breaths, although the pretty, flexible woman on the screen had stopped and was now promoting her line of yoga videos for expectant mothers. “He is covering the porch with plastic.” She said it in a tone that sounded relatively normal.

  PJ poured herself a cup of milk. “With plastic.”

  Connie gave a final, long exhale. Then opened her eyes. “Yes, for winter. It’s how they do it in the old country.” She rolled her r on the last word.

  “They know you designed the porch that way, right? With the holes to let the air in, yet too small for the mosquitoes?”

  Connie shrugged. “I’ve abdicated my role of housekeeper to Vera and Boris. First it was the potato field in the backyard, and then the homemade vodka—no, don’t worry, we’re not actually making moonshine. They’ve simply decided to add to their store-bought vodka the neighbor’s unused plums from the formerly ornamental tree next door.” She nodded, a wide smile on her face. “That was fun to explain when they came home to find Boris entangled in their tree with a bucket. Good thing I’m a lawyer.”

  “Please tell me he was wearing clothing.”

  “It was after 10 a.m. He was mostly clothed. But brace yourself—he’s thinking of starting a polar bear club here. Says we’re not healthy enough.”

  “I swear to you I will never jump naked into the lake at the height of winter.”

  “Turning over a new leaf?”

  “I have limits, you know.” PJ dug into her bag, laying her hand on the diary she’d found in the floral box.

  Connie rolled up her yoga mat. “I’m just glad I felt well enough to do a little work at home today. But I’m not sure I’m going to survive my pregnancy with Vera in the house. I can’t voice possible baby names—because, you know, that’s bad luck—and I shouldn’t cut my hair for nine months, because it could do dangerous things to the baby.”

  “At least she cares.”

  “Between Boris and Vera, I think there is a significant amount of overcaring happening in this house.” She deposited the mat in a basket near the door, next to her running shoes. “What are you reading?”

  “The journal of Prudence Joy Kellogg Barton.”

  Connie’s mouth opened just enough for PJ’s satisfaction. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I found it today mixed in with her daughter Sunny’s possessions . . . in a box marked with a P and a J.”

  Connie slid onto a stool. “No, seriously? PJ?”

  “I never kid about mysteries. And this is a good one. The box is rich with paraphernalia from the past—mostly the 1970s. But there are pictures that go back further, and one in particular is labeled with the names Sunny and Prudence Joy.”

  “Weird. Especially since your name is Prude—”

  PJ held up a finger. “You made a promise.”

  “And you’re expecting me to keep it now? Oh, brother. Fine. Do you think there’ll be any clues in the diary as to who killed her?”

  “Or maybe why her mother left me a giant mansion? I hope so.”

  “You do have a knack for finding mysteries.”

  “If people would stop leaving me houses in their wills . . .”

  “So how is the beloved mushroom house?” Connie took the diary and paged through it.

  “The plumbing overflowed in the upstairs bathroom and took out a wall and turned my basement into a sewer.”

  “Oh—”

  “Not to worry, because Max is helping me repair everything.”

  “So he’s working out? He seemed like such a nice guy when I called.”

  “I think he is, but . . . did you know that he has amnesia?”

  “Really? Like he can’t remember anything?”

  “Jeremy and I have been trying to figure out his identity. However, it seems that the more we uncover, the more sinister Max gets, and now Jeremy probably has him under the bright lights, doing some sort of extreme torture therapy for memory recovery.”

  Connie returned the diary, then folded her hands on the counter. “So . . . Jeremy thinks Max is dangerous?”

  Oops. Connie wore her attorney face.

  “He’s not dangerous. Max is a great guy. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Connie raised an eyebrow.

  “Really. And I’m going to prove it.”

  “What does Boone think about all this?”

  “Boone and I broke up.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you then that I saw Boone out with Lindy Halston at Hal’s today at lunchtime. And the way he leaned over the table, the look in his eye . . . Let me tell you, he was not interrogating her. At least not on police business.”

  Oh. PJ knew it would be coming, should have expected the fist inside that snatched her breath. But he’d warned her, and the sharp pain eased after a moment, leaving only a dull throb. She nodded. “He told me he was going to date her.”

  “And you’re okay with it?”

  PJ shrugged. “I don’t know. According to Jeremy, I’m not over Boone. He says that he feels like he’s stealing me from Boone.”

  “Is he?”

  “No. I’m over Boone
—or at least over thinking we should be together. And clearly he is too, if he’s out with someone else.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to rewrite his future, just like you.” Connie finished off PJ’s milk.

  PJ drew her finger through the condensation on the countertop. “And how do I do that?”

  Connie set the glass in the sink. “Do what?”

  “Rewrite my future. The truth is, Boone was my first love. It’s not so easy to let go of those feelings. I know we aren’t right for each other anymore. But I’m having a hard time being me without him.”

  “That’s just silly. You were you without him for ten years.”

  “No, in my head, I was always with Boone. I’m having a hard time getting my footing without him. And Jeremy is reading that as regret. Or even a divided heart. But I’m just trying to get used to a life without him in every sentence.”

  Connie opened her freezer, pulling out a pan of lasagna. She hefted it to the counter. “I know. I remember the day Burke died. I came home from the funeral, and although he’d cheated on me and died with his mistress, I floundered without him. I wrapped myself in his wool coat and went to our study and sat in the dark trying to figure out what to do next. I had my life mapped out with this one person, and I couldn’t see beyond that moment. I refused to call myself a widow. It was awful. So . . . I moved out of the condo and bought a house. Being in a new place meant that I could rewrite my life. I had to tell myself I was going to be okay. . . . until I was.”

  “Is that why you took tae kwon do?”

  “You have to admit, Sergei is unexpected. No one—not even I—would have guessed that Sergei, with his accent and amazing shoulders and gentle smile and dream of owning his own fitness club, would be the perfect man for me. But he is. And it’s because I dared to believe I could be someone different.”

  PJ glanced at Boris, now tacking plastic to the inside of the screened porch. “I’ll bet you didn’t imagine the accoutrements.”

  Connie lifted a shoulder. “Part of the unexpected fun.” She ran her hand over PJ’s arm. “You know what I think? Boone is a habit. He’s part of the old PJ package. The question is, now that you’re without him, who do you want to be?

  Maybe . . . no longer trouble.