Hunter tilted his head, his dark, unbound hair falling over one shoulder. "I don't know. Promise me you'll be careful and that you'll call me if you get in over your head."
"Only if you promise not to get mad about every move I make."
"Not every move. I've got to get back to work." He headed toward the door, the French door that led to the back courtyard. He opened it and then turned. "Oh, and Red?"
"Yeah?"
"Nice bra."
It was only after he left that I realized I hadn't asked how he'd found me in the parking garage that morning.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The trick to doing something sneaky is to look like you have every right to do what you have no right doing.
From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living by Albert Taylor, PI
"Nona invited us upstairs for dinner and a movie," Mac said when I dragged my weary carcass back through the door at quarter to six. "Wow, Mom you look awful."
"Thanks, kid." I ruffled her auburn hair and dodged a swat. "Is your grandmother going to be there? I have had my fill of passive-aggressive for the day."
"I don't know. Did you find out anything new?"
I'd been to what felt like every men's health clinic in the greater Boston area. "Only that you should have your prostate checked on a regular basis. Good thing we don't have one. The process is downright unpleasant."
"Well, women have the whole mammogram boob smush," Mac pointed out. She set her laptop aside and patted the sofa until Snickers jumped up next to her and rested her furry little chin in my daughter's lap.
I flopped down in the matching armchair. "I'm starting to realize the entire medical process is highly undignified. Good thing I don't have much dignity. Did Nona want us to bring anything?"
"She didn't say." Mac stroked the dog's head, and Snickers let out a contented sigh.
I watched my daughter for a minute. "Is something wrong, hon?"
"We have this biology assignment—" she began.
"And you want Todd of the rippling abs to come over," I guessed. "Don't worry, Mommy will pack up all her S&M gear."
Mac rolled her eyes. "No, it's not about Todd or his abs. Or your kinky sex life, which I would prefer to remain in the dark about."
"I was joking," I said, though without too much conviction. Sure, it had been a joke, but then the image of Hunter and his handcuffs had popped into my brain, giving the idea a whole new dimension. "So what's the assignment?"
"It's genetics. We're supposed to bring in photos of our biological families, as far back as we can, so we can dissect traits and figure out which we've inherited. I have stuff about you, and Grams and the Captain and Gram's family, but that's only one side." She peeked those baby blues up at me.
Baby blues she didn't get from me, since my eyes were green. Damn.
"Is there any way…I really just need pictures." Mac spoke hesitantly, so very un-Mac like.
Damn, damn, damn. "When do you need it by?"
"Monday." Mac looked relieved. Had she been expecting me to say no?
"I can't guarantee anything. Mom might have tossed out all my old stuff. And it'll probably just be him. I doubt I had any pictures of his family."
"Did you ever meet them?" Mac leaned forward, dislodging a put-out puggle. "Because maybe if you describe things about them, I can write those down and do the project that way."
She sounded so hopeful, and I could have cheerfully strangled whatever biology teacher had come up with the project. It was just the excuse Mac needed to go digging in dirt better left unturned.
"I'm starved. Let's head up to Nona's." Though it took more effort than I thought I could muster, I managed to heave myself up out of the chair.
"Okay, let me just go get my phone. It's charging in my room." Mac bounded up.
"And let the dog out," I called after her.
She trotted off, full of youthful exuberance. It was all I could do not to collapse onto the floor. Why did the biology project have to come up now? Didn't I have enough crap to juggle?
I'd always known I'd have to give Mac information about her dad. For health reasons if nothing else, she'd need medical history stuff. But I'd wanted a little longer when she was just mine, and that I didn't have to share her with a father who didn't even know she existed.
This project didn't seem fair on a bunch of levels. What about children who were adopted? That thought, like so many others, brought Hunter to mind. Would he be at Nona's? I was sure the Yenta had tried. I wanted to ask about his family, maybe even ask his advice about how to handle the Mac situation.
That thought was accompanied by the scent of burning break pads and the sound of tires screeching to a stop. Since when did I ask anyone's advice about how to deal with my daughter? Hunter and I barely knew each other, so why was I leaning on him more and more?
Maybe because he offered the freedom of unburdening myself, a freedom I hadn't known in my entire adult life. Who was I supposed to talk to about worries I kept from Mac, my mother? The Captain?
Not likely.
"Ready?" Mac asked.
She'd pulled on a black V-neck sweater and wore the gold heart shaped locket my mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday. I'd been smug when I'd seen the gift, knowing that Mac would much prefer the new cell phone I'd gotten over such a girly trinket.
"Yes. You look beautiful."
"Get real," she said, though without venom.
We headed up the stairs, and Mac knocked on Nona's door. There was music coming from inside, Sinatra if I didn't miss my guess, and something that smelled like spaghetti sauce.
Nona opened the door. "Hello there, dollies. I hope you're hungry. I made manicotti. My first husband was an Italian stallion, and he taught me how to make fresh pasta. Ruined me for any other pasta. And any other man, if you catch my drift." Nona wiggled her spidery eyebrows.
"Ew," Mac said. "I think I'm too young for this conversation."
"Sounds like a lot of work." I set my bag by the door. "The pasta, not the husband."
"Oh, they both were. What can I get you ladies to drink?"
"I'm easy." I said and then cut a glare at Mac. She made a choking noise but refrained from commenting. "Whatever you have is fine."
"I'll help." Mac followed Nona into the kitchen. It wasn't big enough for the three of us, so I wandered into the living room.
Mac came back and handed me a plastic tumbler filled with what looked and smelled like iced tea. The apartment smelled like herbs and sauce. My stomach rumbled loudly.
"Didn't you eat?" Mac, always the mother hen of our dynamic duo, frowned.
"Well, I ate half a sandwich." Snickers had snagged the other half out of my bag while I was dealing with Hunter.
"Since when do you eat half of anything? You're not dieting are you?" Mac looked horrified by the prospect.
"Chocolate forbid. Going on a diet would be too much like admitting Grandma's right and that I need to slim down and find myself a man. Besides, my pants fit, so I don't see the point."
Mac shook her head, her expression torn between vague dismay and awe. "Mackenzie Taylor, the only woman over thirty who still eats carbs."
Setting the tea on Nona's glass-top table, I made a show of putting my hands on my ample, carb loaded hips. "And I look good doing it, too."
"Attagirl." Nona shuffled in. "You know in my day people didn't get all worked up about what sorts of food they were eating. They were just grateful to have food. Now my second husband, he was an investment banker, and oy vey, what a glutton. If he was awake, he was putting something in his mouth. Most of it wasn't kosher, either."
I'd been taking a sip from my glass, and ice tea spurted out my nose. I coughed a few times.
"Are you all right, doll?" Nona asked. "Want some water?"
I nodded, still sputtering. Mac patted me helpfully on the back, her whole body shaking with silent laughter.
"Criminy," I wheezed. "She keeps on like that, and I'm sure to rupture s
omething. Do you think she realizes how it sounds?"
"Not everyone's mind camps out in the gutter," Mac observed.
"More's the pity." I intercepted Nona and took the water from her just as the doorbell rang.
"Are you expecting someone else?" I asked even as I thought, please don't be Hunter, please, please, oh pretty please do not be Hunter.
"That will be Agnes." Nona said.
"Damn," I hissed low so only Mac could hear me. "Well, that'll teach me to be careful what I wish for."
Always the skeptic, my daughter raised an eyebrow. "Will it? Will it really?"
"Probably not," I admitted just as my mother entered Nona's apartment carrying a giant bowl.
"Sorry I'm late. I got caught up unpacking." My mother kissed Nona on the cheek like they were lifelong friends instead of brand spanking new neighbors.
The thought of neighbors and spanking in the same sentence made me cringe.
Mac frowned up at me. "You're all twitchy tonight. What's your damage?"
"I love it when you use my nineties catch phrases." I said.
"Mom, I'm serious. Is something going on that I should know about?"
Maybe, but this was neither the time, nor the place. "I'll talk to you when we get home."
"Girls, there you are." My mother set her bowl, which sadly contained just salad greens, on the table, then turned to us. "I was just telling Nona that after dinner you should all come see the apartment now that I'm all moved in."
I flinched again, and Mac shot me a dirty look before replying, "Sure Grams. We'd love to."
My mother smiled at her and then frowned up at me. "Your hair is a mess, Mackenzie. Don't you own a comb?"
"Yes, I do. It's the using it part I can't get my head around. Someone should make a YouTube video to demonstrate."
Agnes rolled her eyes. "Always with the jokes. Mac, why don't you see if you can give Nona a hand? I'd like to speak to your mother a moment."
I gripped my daughter's arm. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, wait longer."
She shook her head, but when she moved toward the kitchen, her grin was in place. Mission accomplished.
Agnes pulled me over to the front of the living room. "Did she tell you about her project?"
"Yes."
"Well, what are we going to do about it?"
I stared down at her. "Mom, we aren't going to do anything. I will track down a copy of my high school year book and give her the descriptions she needs to complete the project."
"But you still haven't told her about her father?"
"No, it hasn't come up before." That was only partly true. Mac had brought it up a time or two, more in the last few months, but there'd never been a pressing need before.
"This is precisely why I've been telling you to find a husband. A girl needs a father, and if you had a suitable substitute in place this wouldn't be an issue."
"Mom, it's a genetics project. A stepfather wouldn't be any help with that. And she would still have questions about her birth father. All kids do." I didn't even address the idiocy of her suggesting I chain myself to some man for life to give Mac an edge up on her homework.
Another shiver went through me. No, self, chains are not sexy, so just stop thinking about Hunter for two freaking seconds.
"Dinner's on the table, dollies." Nona called.
"Praise java," I muttered and took my seat. The meal, as delicious as it was, couldn't end fast enough.
* * *
"Well, what do you think?" Agnes asked, standing in the middle of her new apartment, arms held out grandly to make sure we were taking it all in.
"It's pretty, Grams," Mac said in a faint voice.
"Very colorful," Nona added. "And trendy."
"Mackenzie?" my mother prompted.
"Still taking it all in," I murmured.
The same way you would a particularly brutal car accident. Modern art hung on the white walls, large splashy canvases that looked more like crime scene photos than paintings. The new piano stood in the middle of the room, gleaming under the clip on gooseneck lamps Agnes had somehow managed to fasten to the ceiling to create hideously high-intensity spotlights. A large gilt mirror stood in the corner by the glass-topped dining room table so that anyone who sat there and ate would be forced to look at themselves while doing so.
Only parts of the space had that über-chic look. The rest was tattered and worn, threadbare. And obviously stolen.
"Is that my chair?" I asked, pointing at a chair that was an exact match for the one in our apartment downstairs. "And the rugs?"
"You weren't using them. And anyway, I'd like to get something a little more modern in here. White fur, maybe."
I shivered in revulsion. Not that I could say anything about her stealing furniture. Technically, anything that had been Uncle Al's was half hers to do with any way she liked. I just wished she'd do it somewhere else.
"We should all get together and play cards," my mother exclaimed. "Or start a book club."
"I'm already in a book club." Nona says. "We like those dirty books with all the spankings. Oh, is that my phone? I've been waiting to hear from my daughter." She headed out the door towards her own apartment.
"Sweet java, have mercy," I mumbled.
"So how about it?" Agnes looked hopeful.
"We need to be going," I spoke loudly, so she couldn't misunderstand me. Well, any more than usual. "It's getting late."
Agnes glanced to a hideous chrome clock over her pilfered boxed TV. "It's only eight o'clock."
"And I have work." Despite my exhaustion, it felt really good to say that.
"You're not going out again tonight, are you?"
"I wasn't planning on it."
"Oh." Maybe it was my imagination, but Agnes seemed almost disappointed that there wouldn't be another round of late night shenanigans. "Well, I'll pop by in the morning."
"Pop by?" I repeated.
"Maybe you can come down for a movie tomorrow," Mac offered. "You and Nona. It's our turn to host, right, Mom?"
"Er, um…" I said, unwilling to commit.
"Oh that sounds terrific. What can I bring?" My mother pounced on that idea like it was a poor, helpless mouse.
"Whatever. We usually have popcorn and candy, things like that, like a real movie experience without concession stand prices. See you."
I waited until the door to our own apartment was completely secured before rounding on my offspring. "What the hell was that?"
"What?" Mac had moved back into the living room and was booting up her laptop.
"You just invited Nona and my mother to movie night. That's our special night."
"Special? What's so special, the part where you slub around in pants with elastic waistbands or the food orgy that makes them necessary?"
"Come," I said with a lilt in my voice. "Let me sing you the song of my bloated people."
"Mom," Mac said. "She's lonely. They both are. What can it hurt?"
I envisioned our normal carb and sugar fest done Agnes Taylor Style. The popcorn would be smart, the candy sugar free, the movie dialogue filled with interruptions to the tune of "What's he doing now? Why's she going in there? I can't believe they're doing that on film."
"Mac, come on. Things have been totally nuts since we moved in here. I've been dosed with pepper spray twice, and now my mother lives upstairs and can 'pop by' whenever she wants." I made air quotes around the horrific phrase.
Mac rose and put both hands on my shoulders. "Mom, relax. I know you have this insane fear of commitment, but it's one night, not every weekend for the rest of our lives."
"It's the gateway night," I complained. "You think you're only in it for one night then bam, it becomes a routine. You heard her. If we don't watch our step, we'll be signed up for bridge and a book club. Do you think she's going through menopause? And where the hell is The Captain? Why isn't he pounding on her door, demanding she come home and make Salisbury steak or chicken pot pies?"
"Have you calle
d him?"
"I've been a little busy, what with the murder investigation and all."
Mac reached into my shoulder bag and plucked my cell free. "No time like the present."
"No wait!" I lunged, though it was too late.
My daughter had reflexes like a cheetah, and the phone was already ringing when she handed it to me.
"Hello?" a gruff male voice answered.
"Um, hi, Dad. It's, um, me."
"Mackenzie," he said as though there was anyone else on the planet who called him Dad. Although most of the time I referred to him as The Captain, since he was more comfortable in that role than he was being a father.
"How are you?" I asked, testing the waters.
"Fine."
"And Mom?" I asked.
"Fine."
I held the phone away from my face so I could gape at it. He wasn't going to tell me? His own daughter?
If that was how he wanted to play it. "May I speak with her, please?"
There was a great deal of throat clearing and then he said, "She's not here at the moment."
"Where is she?"
"I'm not exactly sure." My father's gruff voice didn't sound uncertain, more like irritated at the inconvenience.
As usual, my temper got the best of me. "Well I am. She's here."
"With you?" He sounded incredulous.
"No, Dad. She's upstairs in one of the apartments in Uncle Al's villa. She bought a piano and some hideous art, and she's acting like whatever is going on between the two of you is permanent."
Silence.
"Dad? What happened?"
"It's none of your concern," he said.
"None of my concern?" I realized that at some point in the conversation I'd begun to pace the length of the room but couldn't seem to stop. "Did you not hear the part about Mom living right upstairs from us? And in what universe is my parents being separated none of my concern?"
"We're not separated," he snapped. "We're getting a divorce."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Burden of Proof—the duty to prove or disprove a fact or idea.
From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living by Albert Taylor, PI
Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) Page 12
