Ninja Soccer Moms

by Jennifer Apodaca

She hesitated. Her fingers twitched in my hand. Finally, Janie said, “We split it. Sometimes he paid, sometimes I did.”

  “Sounds reasonable. Can you get me a copy of the policy today?”

  “Uh,” Janie looked around, as if she just woke up and wasn’t sure where she was. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Vance stood up. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Tuggle. I appreciate it. And I’m sorry about your ex-husband.”

  Janie and I got up and followed Vance to the door.

  Vance turned to look at me. “I need to talk to you, Shaw.”

  “Janie, I’ll be right back,” I slipped outside with Vance and pulled the door closed behind me. We stood on the porch covered in green indoor/outdoor carpet. The metal overhang protected us from the rain. Turning to Vance, I said, “What was that little show all about? You can’t think Janie killed Chad!”

  “You’re not asking the questions here, Shaw. What exactly did you and Chad talk about yesterday?”

  Vance was like a bulldog. “Just what I told you. We talked about bookkeeping programs, he told me Mark made the JV soccer team at school—stuff like that.”

  His gaze flicked over me. “I don’t think so. First, you told me that Janie thought Chad was embezzling from the soccer club, and now you are talking about bookkeeping programs. Using logic,” he paused, one side of his mouth kicking up just enough to flash a dimple, “which I know is completely foreign to you, I think the two are connected. I saw all the soccer trophies and other stuff related to soccer in Chad’s office, Shaw. How accurate would I be if I hypothesized that the soccer books for the soccer club were on Chad’s work computer?”

  Damned accurate. Since I had a firm policy against incriminating myself—and I’m pretty sure that copying the soccer disks might be slightly less than legal—I tried a little straight denial. “I don’t know anything about Chad’s murder, Vance. Except that I didn’t do it. And Janie didn’t do it.”

  Vance regarded me for a long minute. Then he nodded once and said, “Stay out of my investigation, Shaw. I’m going to solve this case by the book, and I don’t want to be tripping over you and your disasters. I’ll be in touch.” At the bottom of the steps, he turned back, “Oh, don’t leave town, Shaw.”

  That did it. “Hey, Vance, wasn’t that a line from one of your books? Your romance books?”

  His shoulders stiffened and he whirled around, marching back up the steps.

  Suddenly, I had a picture of myself stuffed into the back of a police cruiser.

  Vance leaned in so that his face hovered an inch from mine. “If I hear one word, one letter, of a rumor that I’m a romance writer, I’ll haul your ass in so fast you won’t have time to say lawyer.” He took a breath. “And then I’ll lose you in the system. It’ll be at least a week before you’re found, and by then, I’ll have some serious charges to file against you.”

  He smelled of faint coconut mixed with rain and powerful anger. But I knew better than to back down in front of Vance. I’d reviewed a lot of cop-hero romance books. Those books were well researched—I knew cops. They had a thing about authority and control. Backing down was a mistake that would make me look weak in Vance’s cop eyes.

  I forced my gaze to stay steady on his. “Don’t give me a reason to mention your secret life, Vance. I have a client to protect, to say nothing of myself.”

  His jaw twitched. His too-tight voice made me think of a guitar string ready to snap. “The more time I spend with you, the more I think Chad Tuggle picked up a rock and bashed himself in the head just to get away from you.” He turned and stomped off toward his antenna-growing car.

  “Sam?”

  Whirling around, I prayed Janie hadn’t heard that. But the door was still opening as she called my name. I don’t think she heard. “What?”

  “Uh, your cell phone was ringing in your purse, so I answered it.” She held the small black unit out to me.

  “Thanks.” I reached for the phone, wondering what disaster this would be. “Hello?”

  “Sam,” Blaine said, “we have a new client. He’s here right now and waiting for you.”

  “Uh, I’m kind of busy. Can’t you do the interview?” Normally I liked to do the client interview so I could get a feel for the client. But I was in extraordinary circumstances right now.

  “He’s really counting on you doing it, boss. Oh, and Roxy Gabor’s been trying to get a hold of you this morning. I couldn’t make out what she was saying.”

  “Was she crying?”

  “More like wailing.”

  I pictured Blaine’s grimace when he said that. “Any idea what happened with Roxy?”

  His voice softened a bit. “No, she wouldn’t talk to me.” Then his tone went back to brisk. “Nor will Mr. Davis who is waiting for you.”

  Heart Mates was my business and my baby. I needed to get to work. But Janie . . . I looked over at her. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Blaine. Give Mr. Davis some coffee and have him fill out the interview sheets while he waits.”

  “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” Blaine hung up.

  I sighed and went back into the mobile home to get my purse. Janie stood looking at the pictures on top of the TV. Kelly, the older of her two kids, was in her cheerleader outfit, and Mark was in his soccer uniform. “Janie, I’m so sorry.”

  Lifting her gaze to me, she said, “I can’t believe he’s dead. Chad has always been bigger than life and everything always just slid off of him. Nothing ever stuck.”

  I thought of Chad taking up with Dara Reed and dumping Janie, and the whole town ignoring Janie. Yeah, she was right. But we had a bigger problem. “Janie, you paid the life insurance, didn’t you? Just like you did the health insurance.”

  She sort of caved in on herself. “Yes. And until Chad’s murder is solved, the insurance won’t pay.” Taking a breath, she said, “Sam, you have to find who killed Chad. I’ll pay your fee, whatever it takes. The kids and I, we need this solved. For more than just the insurance.” She shifted her gaze to the photos of the kids. “We have to know what happened.”

  She wanted to know if the woman who took her husband killed him. Dara Reed. I got that. Janie needed to know who her ex-husband, the man she’d had two kids with, really was.

  Why did so many of us women wait until it was too late to find that out?

  I assured Janie that I’d help her and left. With my raincoat on and the car keys in my hand, I put my head down and headed into the rain toward my car, across the narrow street from Janie’s mobile home. Not only had I promised to help Janie find who killed Chad, but it also sounded like I had a couple of problems waiting for me at work. At least the money I’d get from Janie for this case would help me improve and promote Heart Mates.

  I looked up just before I ran into Gabe.

  He leaned against the driver’s side of my car, rain pouring over him. His arms were crossed over his worn denim jacket. The water ran down his granite face, plastering his dark hair to his head. “Gabe? What are you doing?” I looked around. His black truck was parked behind my car. Why was he standing in the rain?

  He uncrossed his arms and pushed off the car. “We need to talk.”

  A dozen questions buzzed in my head. How’d he know where I was? Why was he standing in the pouring rain? If he tracked me to Janie’s, why didn’t he come to the door? Did he know about Chad Tuggle? Where was his mother? “What’s wrong?”

  “Unless I miss my guess, I’d bet my house you just told Janie that you’d look into Chad’s murder.”

  That answered a couple of questions. “Well, I was going to talk to you about that.”

  His dark troubled gaze fixed on me. “No.”

  “What? You can’t just say no.” Well, he could since he owned Pulizzi’s Security and Investigative Services, and since he had the license. “Gabe, Janie needs me.”

  “Here’s the deal. I signed a client last night connected with Chad. I can’t have you out investigating under my license unless we agree to do this together
so there’s no conflict of interest.”

  More questions answered. That was why he hadn’t come to Janie’s door, since he obviously didn’t want to discuss this in front of her. The need to get to work pressed down on me. I had a client waiting, and another one who was upset. “Who’s the client you signed on?”

  Gabe pinned me with his gaze. “Dara Reed.”

  It felt like a gut punch. “The soccer mom slut? Have you lost your mind? She probably killed Chad!” Okay, I might be leaping to conclusions, but Gabe had to have checked Dara out. He was a damn good PI. He had to know that she broke up Chad and Janie’s marriage. And she had walked in on Chad and me right after I’d whipped creamed him. She wouldn’t be the first jealous girlfriend to kill a man.

  Gabe sighed. He pushed his straight, wet hair back with his right hand. “Then you’re out of it.”

  “Just like that?” All kinds of feelings collided inside, twisting around like life-squeezing pythons. I trusted Gabe. I did.

  He turned and headed toward his truck. Yanking open the cab door, he looked at me. “Just like that.”

  4

  I walked into Heart Mates and shrugged off my coat. It dripped all over the industrial gray carpet, leaving wet splotches that turned the color to the ever-popular soot shade. Looking around, I wondered where the client was and where I should put my coat. Rain always caught people in Southern California by surprise.

  “Interview room,” Blaine held out the clipboard with the information and security authorization sheets attached. “Nice of you to drop by. Want me to change our name to Heart Mates Private Investigations?”

  I draped my coat over a folding metal chair and turned back to my sarcastic assistant. “Good morning to you, too.” I took the clipboard, determined not to think about Gabe. All the lines were filled in with big thick printing. “Lionel Davis?” I looked up at Blaine.

  “That’s him. Waiting to speak to you, and only you.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What’s the matter with him?” I whispered, running my eye down the information sheet. Worked as some sort of biochemical tech at a big corporation in Temecula. That screamed nerdy scientist to me, but that’s what Heart Mates was for—to help those who might not be adept at romance on their own.

  So why was Blaine smirking at me?

  “I didn’t do the interview, boss. He’s waiting for you—that is if you’re not too busy, you know, nosing around someone’s life until they end up murdered.”

  I slammed the clipboard down on Blaine’s desk. The loud thwack felt good. “You got a problem with me, Blaine?” Okay, I was pissed. First Vance, then Gabe, now Blaine. What was it with all the men in Lake Elsinore today?

  Looking up from the clipboard, Blaine leaned back in his chair. “Roxanne Gabor is a mess. I could barely understand her. She wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong, wouldn’t tell me where she was. She just cried. Then Romeo comes in and insists on talking to you. No, I don’t have a problem with you, but maybe your clients do. Maybe they need you and you’re too busy trying to be Super Sleuth to worry about them.”

  Ouch. “Okay, I get it.” He was right. Blaine liked car engines. He understood them, and if they broke, he knew how to fix them. Crying women weren’t that easy. You couldn’t just feed them oil and tweak a part. Our deal was that Blaine dealt with difficult clients who got physical and I dealt with difficult clients who got weepy.

  Trying to gather some dignity, I picked up the clipboard. “I’ll be in the interview room with—” I looked down at the information sheet—“Mr. Davis.” I walked around Blaine’s desk and paused at the door to the interview room. Just to prove I was doing my job, I said, “Pull the file on Roxy’s date last night. I’ll call her as soon as I’m finished with this client.” I opened the door and slipped inside.

  Oh, boy. An overgrown cowboy, complete with a little string tie, sat at the oval oak table and fiddled with a palm-sized spray bottle of some kind. Pasting on my businesswoman smile, I strode forward and held out my hand. “Hello, Mr. Davis, I am—”

  He jumped up. “Samantha Shaw!” The spray bottle slid across the table and plopped onto the carpet at my feet.

  “Oh! Sorry about that!” He came around the table.

  “No problem.” I bent over to pick up the little bottle and smacked heads with Mr. Davis. “Ouch!”

  “Ooof!”

  Forgetting the spray bottle, I slapped my hand over the right side of my forehead and stood up. Stars flashed over the romantic travel posters on the walls. It took me a few seconds to blink away the weird pops of distorting light.

  Then I noticed blood pouring from big boy cowboy’s nose. “Oh! Mr. Davis!” I looked around for something to staunch the bleeding.

  Oh, crap, was his nose broken? Hysteria pounded at my headache. All the blood made me think of Chad with his head bashed in. I hadn’t actually seen him, but my imagination vividly filled in the blanks. Closing my eyes, I struggled to breathe. The interview room felt hot, the air heavy.

  Get a hold of yourself! I had a bleeding client. I’d seen worse than this with my own kids. Opening my eyes, I saw Mr. Davis just standing there. Quickly, I ran over to Blaine’s cameras at the far end of the long interview room and grabbed a blue sheet he used to drape the stool. Rushing back, I shoved it under Mr. Davis’s nose. “I’m so sorry!”

  He had to be about five eleven or six foot, with the build of a teddy bear. A teddy bear dressed up as a cowboy. White shirt with black ribbing tucked into jeans over his cuddly middle and some shit-kickin’ boots. Probably some kinda snake or crocodile hide. He looked down at me with teddy-bear eyes. “No, it was all my fault. You got a lump on your head.”

  I touched the spot directly over my right eyebrow and winced. That’d be colorful. Sighing, I said, “Mr. Davis—”

  “Lionel.” He put his hand over my hand holding the blue sheet up to his nose.

  “Right.” Taking my hand away, I let him hold the sheet to his nose and stepped back. Something crunched and squished under the heel of my boot. Lifting my foot, I looked down. Instead of leaning over, I did a deep knee bend that tested the seams of my jeans to pick up the item.

  Nose spray. Dear God, we’d practically traded brains for a bottle of nose spray. Looking up at Lionel, I said, “Do you have a cold?”

  “Allergies.”

  I suspected his nasal tone was from his nosebleed. “Why don’t you sit down, Lionel, and let’s see if we can get your nose to stop bleeding. Do you think it’s broken?” Did I have insurance to cover this kind of thing?

  He sank down in the chair, still holding the sheet to his nose. I set the nose spray down on the table. “Here, let me take a look.” TJ and Joel had regular nosebleeds. I pulled back the sheet. The bleeding had stopped. His nose didn’t really look swollen. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

  “You smell good.”

  Huh? I glanced at his soft eyes. Lord, I hoped he didn’t have a concussion. “Uh, Lionel, listen could I get you some coffee? Or maybe some ice for your nose?”

  “Nah, my nose is just sensitive. My doctor says it’s all the nose spray, but I have to use the nose spray. I can’t breathe if I don’t, and I have to breathe to line dance.”

  “Line dance?” Maybe I had the concussion, because I was having a hell of a time following this conversation. I went to the door to the little storage area and tiny bathroom behind the interview room. Pulling open the door, I tossed the bloody sheet in. I’d take it home and wash it tonight or whenever I remembered. “You line dance?”

  He fidgeted with the nose spray. “I have awards. I dance a lot in contests. When I go to bars, women gather around and ask me to teach them to line dance.”

  Blinking, I wondered why the heck I was standing here talking about line dancing with a teddy-bear cowboy. Roxy was desperate and miserable. Janie was desperate and miserable. This guy was . . . well, weird. Nice weird, but still weird. And let’s be realistic—if women gathered around and asked him to teach them to dance, why would he be
at a dating service? I sat down across from Lionel and picked up the clipboard. “Why don’t I tell you a little bit about our dating packages? We have the basic package that—”

  Lionel held up a blood-smeared hand. “I already paid Blaine for the Temecula wine tasting dating package. I thought you’d probably like that. I’ve read all about you in the newspapers, so I guessed you’d like wine tasting.”

  Blaine’s smirk flashed before my eyes. I didn’t know what was going on with Lionel, but Blaine did.

  And he thought it was funny.

  Oh, boy.

  I studied Lionel. He’d gone red around the ears, either from the head banging, embarrassment, or he had romantic feelings about me. Sheesh—he knew about me from the newspapers? Sure, why not fall in love with a woman he only read about in the newspapers? This could only get better, since I’d been in the newspapers from my tendency to stumble onto dead bodies.

  Blaine was so dead.

  Deep breath, I told myself and tried for my most brisk and professional voice. “Lionel, it doesn’t matter what kind of dates I like. You should choose a package that will fit the type of entertainment best suited to you and the date you choose.” Which won’t be me, I added silently.

  “I choose you.” A huge smile slathered across his face.

  I dropped the clipboard onto the table. Whoa, cowboy! “Uh, Lionel, I’m afraid there’s been a mix-up. You see, I own Heart Mates. I can’t date the clients.” But I can fire my assistant.

  His big brown teddy-bear gaze shone with hurt. “I’m only your client so that you can get to know me.” He dropped his gaze to the table where he was twirling the crunched bottle of nose spray. “Ladies don’t always take the time to get to know me. Sure, they’ll dance with me, but . . .” he trailed off, then stood and scooped up his nose spray to tuck it in his shirt pocket. “I just have to prove to you how much you need me.” He walked out the door.

  I grabbed the clipboard and scrambled up after him. “Lionel, I don’t date clients!”

  Lionel stopped by Blaine’s desk. “You sure she likes the wine tasting package the best?”