Licensed for Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  Jeremy glanced at her. “I wanted to see if she was alive, so I . . . found her father. Clayton Barton. And I went over there.”

  PJ went very still.

  “He had a picture of you, PJ.”

  She stepped back from him, a tremor snaking through her. “Uh . . .”

  “Right next to a picture of his daughter, Sunny.”

  Connie suddenly decided to abdicate her place at the table. As she stood, she folded her hands over her chest.

  “I don’t understand,” PJ said softly. “What are you saying?”

  Connie walked over to PJ. Kissed her on the cheek. “I think he’s saying you’re a Kellogg, honey.”

  PJ didn’t move. Couldn’t move. “Are you saying that Sunny Barton is my mother?”

  “We can petition the court for records, but . . . you look just like her, Princess. She has your incredible green eyes. And your blonde hair—don’t think I don’t know the truth. Although I think you’re amazing as a redhead.”

  “So Sunny gave birth to me and then, what, handed me over to the Sugars?”

  “Basically. Yes.”

  “What about this Clayton Barton? my . . . grandfather? or stepgrandfather? How does he know about me?”

  “Your mother told him.”

  “My mother . . . Sunny?”

  “No, your mother Elizabeth Sugar. She sent him letters and pictures. She told him that you were an amazing person.”

  And he’d told Agatha Kellogg.

  Who had attended PJ’s play because she wanted to see her great-granddaughter.

  “Why did Sunny give me up for adoption? And where is she today?”

  “According to Clayton, she got pregnant in college. He said she couldn’t raise you. She wasn’t married, and after the grief she’d had losing her mother, she wanted you to have a family. So she chose her friend Carl Sugar and his new wife, Elizabeth.” He touched her hair. “I’m sorry; I did ask where she was. Clayton hasn’t spoken to her in over twenty years.”

  “She’s lost?”

  “Or maybe she doesn’t want to be found. Maybe she discovered her own fresh start. After she gave you yours.”

  “I am a Kellogg.”

  “And a Sugar,” Connie said. “You’re both.”

  Jeremy ran his fingers into her hair. “See? You’re not locked into trouble. When Sunny gave you up for adoption, you got a chance to start over. To reset the Kellogg line.”

  “Don’t forget that when God gave you to our family, He changed our line, too.” Connie touched her sister’s arm. “Made us better. Definitely more curious.”

  “Aka trouble?”

  “Nah—let’s call it . . . adding spice to the Sugar line.”

  “So why did Aggie give me the house?”

  “Maybe because you would know what to do with it,” Jeremy said.

  PJ sagged into her chair. “Yeah, blow it up.”

  “You couldn’t help that Windchill shot the propane tank on the grill.”

  “It’s such a shame. I loved that house. It was the fairy tale, the dream come true.”

  Jeremy hooked a finger under her chin and drew her gaze to his. “And it’s because you know that, Princess, that Aggie Kellogg gave it to you.”

  Or better yet, God had given it to her. Her legacy, her fairy tale, her hopes of a happy ending. “. . . you can show others the goodness of God, for he called you out of the darkness into his wonderful light.”

  “Aggie Kellogg wrote in her note to me, ‘Know that the blessings of your inheritance are also your destiny.’ I think I figured it out.” She pressed her hands to Jeremy’s face, gave him a quick kiss. “I know what I’m going to do.”

  “Oh, good, everyone is here!” Elizabeth Sugar swept into the foyer and gestured to the man behind her—probably her taxi driver, carrying in her bags. She dropped a quilted bag onto the floor, clapped her hands, and held her arms open for Davy.

  He dropped off his stool. “Grandma!”

  Connie followed behind him. “Mother, where have you been? We’ve been so worried!”

  We? Hello, how many messages had Connie left?

  “Oh, Constance, I’m fine.” Her mother kissed Connie’s cheek. Indeed, she looked radiant—tan, wearing a pair of linen pants and a loose silk top, a coral necklace at her throat. World traveler Elizabeth Sugar. “I had a wonderful vacation.” She glanced behind her at the driver.

  PJ gave him a quick once-over. He was royal-boned and dashing even in his late sixties, judging by his powder-white hair, and he also glowed with the look of the sun-soaked—especially against his pressed pink oxford and a pair of white pants, matching patent shoes. A gold chain at his neck, a matching stud in his ear solved the mystery—her mother had brought home the cruise ship lounge singer.

  Or maybe not, because he smiled at her mother as if he knew her.

  The kind of smile Jeremy might give PJ. An indulgent, knowing, affectionate smile.

  “Hello,” he said, holding out his hand to Connie. He had an accent—British, PJ would guess. “Cornelius Bacon.”

  Connie, bound by Sugar courtesy, shook his hand, her curious expression glancing off her mother, then PJ, and landing on him with a smile.

  Elizabeth sidled up to PJ, hooked her by the arm, then caught Connie. “Girls, I’m so excited to introduce you to . . . my new husband.”

  Epilogue

  “I’ve always thought you were a big turkey.” Jeremy straightened the multicolored felt collar, then her feathered hat.

  “Don’t talk to me. Can’t you see I’m working?”

  He pressed a cold-lipped kiss to her mouth. “Go get ’em, gobbler.”

  PJ pushed him away, slapping her mittened wings together and stamping her feet. Her breath outlined her impatience in the brisk air.

  Jeremy rebounded, kissing her on the nose. “Can we keep the costume?”

  “You know, being the parade Turkey is considered an honor.”

  “Oh, I know. Not everyone can pull off being a turkey like you can. You have a special talent.”

  “Funny.”

  “Listen, I don’t want all this gobbling going to your head. Just because you donated your old house—”

  “We call it the mushroom house, thank you.”

  “—to the city doesn’t make you the mayor or anything.”

  PJ moved to avoid a row of Girl Scouts–turned–elves chasing each other through the jammed grocery store parking lot. “I know. But I could be. Did you see the picture of me in the paper this week? I got to officiate at the ceremony for the start of work on the new historical library.”

  All those donated books, plus the city’s historical documents from the basement of the county library would have a home. Thankfully, Agatha’s insurance hadn’t lapsed—which meant the historical society had plenty of funds to renovate. She wished the Kellogg women—Aggie, Joy, and Sunny—could have seen the plans for the Kellogg family memorial room. Aggie would love seeing all the beautiful things she’d hoarded finally displayed.

  Although PJ did pick out just a few for herself.

  “Yes. At this rate, maybe I will have to start calling you Ms. Mayor,” Jeremy said.

  She liked Princess the best, thanks.

  And these days, she did feel a bit like royalty, living in the gardener’s house across the road from the big house. Her little one-bedroom house had the quaint aura of Snow White’s cottage, with a tiny orchard of shiny crab-apple trees to match. And this morning, a stencil of lacy frost on the windows.

  “It’s better than prisoner 13789 down at the poorhouse. The property taxes on the final appraisal alone would have put me on the street. Now at least both Hugh and I have homes.”

  “He still making campfires on your beach?”

  “Not as much. Most of the time, I see smoke trickling from his chimney in the carriage house. And he lets me invite him over for dinner sometimes, although I’m not sure he likes Chinese food.”

  “One of these days, you might have to learn to cook.�
��

  “Did you know that Clayton is a cook? He’s bringing sweet potatoes to Thanksgiving dinner. I still can’t believe my mother invited him. Someday perhaps he and Hugh can be together in the same room.”

  “Maybe. It’s not easy to be around a guy your girl once loved. But it can be done.” He winked at her. “I’m going to go find a place next to the theater, with Max and Tyler.”

  “It’s his weekend?”

  “For now. The courts still have to decide. You have to cut Flora some slack for holding on tightly to the little guy—she doesn’t even know Max.”

  Nor did Max, who still hadn’t regained his memory. But maybe that was a piece of grace. A new beginning for the former Max Smith, aka Owen McMann, now going by Max McMann. The contractor slated to repair and restore the mushroom house.

  “Connie said that my testimony and Boone’s report cleared up any question the Army had about his disappearance and involvement in the diamond smuggling. Especially when they recovered the diamonds in Tyler’s bear. Apparently the Army was investigating the diamond-smuggling operation, but of course, they won’t confirm any record of Owen McMann in special forces.”

  “Of course not. I could have told you that.” Jeremy took her hand. “Still—instincts, baby. You got ’em.”

  “Enough to get my license?”

  He squeezed her hand. “License for trouble, maybe.”

  “Jeremy! You watch who you’re calling trouble.”

  “I’m not calling you trouble, Princess.” He smiled at her, pulling away.

  “Say hi to Sergei and Connie—I’ll be sure and find them after the parade. Oh, and you’d better duck if you see my mother. She’s still on the rampage about your ‘find PJ’s heritage’ mission.”

  The little scene, not long after Elizabeth had announced her nuptials—a declaration eclipsed by PJ’s story—ran through Jeremy’s eyes. He winced. “Yeah. We’ve got some ground to make up.”

  “I think she wanted to be the one to tell me.”

  “You think? I think I know where you learned your turn-a-man-to-ashes look. How are she and Cornelius doing?”

  PJ shook her head, still clearing away the vestiges of shock. Apparently her mother had met Cornelius on an Internet bridge site and dated him for a year without telling her daughters. They’d been planning their cruise wedding for months—Elizabeth even going so far as to have monogrammed bathrobes made for her and her new husband. “I can’t believe they actually eloped.”

  “Hey, I think that’s the Sugar thing to do, don’t you?” He winked again.

  She stilled. “Uh . . .”

  “Auntie PJ!” Davy ran up, dressed as a large orange pumpkin, a green cap perched on his head. He attempted to fling himself into her arms, but both of them had acquired an unfamiliar girth, thanks to their costumes. They bounced off each other, and Davy landed on his bottom on the sidewalk, laughing.

  “I’ll see you two menu items after the parade.” Jeremy kissed her before she could grab him with her wing and wheedle out the meaning of his comment.

  “I think that’s the Sugar thing to do.”

  Elope?

  He wasn’t asking . . . ?

  “C’mon now, David,” Mrs. Nicholson, the director of Fellows Academy, said, coming up behind him. PJ forced her mouth closed. No, no, she would not laugh at giant Mrs. Nicholson in her state-fair-winning-pumpkin costume.

  “Morning, Miss Sugar,” Mrs. Nicholson said, memory sparking in her gulag-guard eyes. Apparently she well remembered PJ as the irresponsible aunt who got Davy kicked out of Fellows over the summer.

  Not anymore. Now, she was the Town Turkey.

  Er, in the best sense of the word.

  “Good morning,” she said, grinning as Davy skipped away.

  She heard a whistle, and then the parade organizer motioned her over. She would follow the Fellows Pumpkins, walking in front of the Kellogg High band.

  Davy turned and waved at her from his flatbed truck. She flapped at him.

  Another car pulled in behind it—a yellow convertible Pontiac GT.

  PJ stared at it, and for a second, in memory, she hung on the bridge, watching a white car of the same make and model push her over.

  Just as the band began playing “Up on the Rooftop” (apparently forgetting they were here to celebrate Thanksgiving) signaling the start of the parade, and the pom-pom girls edged up on her, PJ placed it.

  Babies and Baubles.

  A white Pontiac GT had been parked outside the baby store while she was hunting for Bix.

  The white car that pushed her over would have been damaged and possibly repainted. But it couldn’t be the same car, could it?

  Maybe. Because after all, a person didn’t rush to part with a convertible. Boone still had his vintage ’67 Mustang, despite all the memories he might or might not want to keep.

  PJ stared at the car, trying to identify the occupants. Sure enough, seated at the wheel: Miss Deena Hayes. Best friend of Meredith Bixby through thick and thin and even betrayal. Of course. Boone had taught her that move too. And next to one of the chunky gourds in the backseat of the open car—Bix’s daughter, former Tinker Bell, currently Miss Junior Kellogg.

  If Bix wasn’t here to watch her daughter’s debut as a beauty pageant queen, then PJ was a bigger turkey than she appeared.

  If only she could get Jeremy’s attention . . .

  The Fellows Pumpkins and Deena’s car rolled forward. The parade was only seven blocks long—the length of Main.

  Seven blocks to locate Bix.

  PJ pasted on a smile as she waddled along, waving to the crowds, scanning every face, first one side of the street, then the other. If she could locate Bix and get a message to Jeremy, he’d pick her up without causing a scene.

  Because that’s how partners did it.

  And lately, he’d let her into his world, toe by toe, foot by foot, teaching her surveillance, weapons training, even the murky Sudden In-Custody Death Syndrome. And he’d written up recommendations of her successful investigations, including the case of Max and the missing diamonds.

  Bix wasn’t hiding by the bank or by the row of beachwear boutiques or on the streetside veranda of Sunsets Supper Club. Occasionally PJ shot a glance at her daughter, checking out—

  There. Tinker Bell had even climbed up to stand on the seat, waving in a manner unbecoming a beauty queen. “Mommy!”

  PJ followed her gaze.

  Gotcha. Bix hid just behind a man holding a Mylar balloon, her hair hidden by a baseball cap and her eyes by dark glasses.

  Anyone else may not have recognized her, but PJ well remembered those sinister raccoon eyes.

  After all, she knew how to spot a criminal.

  She kept marching. Thinking. Once Tinker Bell had passed, Bix would take off.

  Vanish.

  Not again.

  PJ sprang out of line, straight for Bix.

  For a moment, the sight of the Kellogg Turkey bursting out of line and running toward the onlooking crowd stunned even Bix into silence. Her mouth opened slightly.

  Then she bolted.

  “Bix!” PJ banged through the crowd. “Make a hole!”

  Most seemed so horrified to see a hundred-plus-pound turkey lunging at them that they scattered. A few bumped off her costume, but she wasn’t trying to negotiate the bottom of a hot dog bun this time. No sirree, she had her running legs and Converse on and she lit out after Bix like a gobbler escaping a farmer.

  Bix ran into the parade, checking a few Girl Scouts into a float, bowling over a handful of others. She scooped up a couple aluminum cans from the Recycle for Life bins and chucked them at PJ.

  Oh, please. She’d had real killers after her. With real bullets.

  “Bix, it won’t do you any good!”

  Bix didn’t look back, just rounded the edge of the Meyer Brothers Dairy float and barreled down the other side.

  PJ sprinted down the opposite side of the road, eyes on Bix. She dodged an elf, another, finally fl
attened a third as Santa’s float rumbled toward her.

  “PJ, what are you doing?” Boone’s fake bowlful-of-jelly tummy bounced as he took to his feet.

  “It’s Bix!” PJ pointed at the woman, now running without glasses or hat.

  Boone pulled off his beard, and the crowd gasped as he jumped off the float.

  But PJ was already past it, running flat out for Iwo Jima. The VFW float had won the award for best detail, and yes, it certainly had all the elements of the rocky knoll where the World War II soldiers had staked their victory. She half bounced, half scrabbled up the side, glad they’d reinforced it with some sort of chicken wire, then hit the top.

  Bix looked up, a sort of horror in her eyes.

  And why not? A turkey on top of a mountain, ready to leap upon her, might make any hardened criminal trip, stumble, cry out—

  PJ leaped from the top of Iwo Jima in a perfect all-state tackle that even Boone would have been proud of.

  They rolled, hard, into the gutter. Thank goodness for extra stuffing, because the costume cushioned her fall.

  Bix, however, lay on the street, groaning.

  “You got ’er, PJ!” A gravelly voice hollered from the flatbed behind, where the veterans sat on their folding chairs. PJ didn’t have to look up to recognize Hugh’s voice. Not when he lived right across the street from her in the carriage house. Benefits from the sale of his mother’s estate—supervised by Connie and doled out to him monthly—meant that Hugh could live the rest of his years off the streets.

  Good old Kellogg—despite his dishonorable discharge from the military, the veterans decided to let him aboard their float.

  But Bix wasn’t done. As PJ grabbed her jacket, she rammed her elbow into PJ’s face, and a cry went up from the crowd. PJ scrabbled after her, grabbing Bix’s foot as Bix rolled to her knees.

  She kicked at PJ. “Get away from me!”

  “You pushed me into the lake!”

  Bix kicked at her again, a seesaw effect with PJ at the other end. “I did not—”

  “Give it up, Bix. I bet if I run the plates, I’ll find out it’s your GT Deena is driving. I saw the Kellogg High tassel hanging from your mirror. You need to get over the past and start living in the now. High school is over!”