A Steal of a Deal

by Ginny Aiken

  But I don’t ask; I cross my arms and hold myself . . . but not my runaway mouth. “Chasing a fire truck was the perfect end to your evening?” I ask before I can stop myself. “I wouldn’t have thought you were the kind who’d follow sirens for kicks.”

  He glares. “I’m going to do you a favor and chalk your rotten attitude to the trauma of the fire.”

  “Don’t do me any favors—”

  “But he can do one for me,” Aunt Weeby says, her voice again as strong as ever. “He can give us a ride to Mona’s. We can’t stay here tonight.”

  Captain Roberts from the fire department approaches, a black smudge on his chin, helmet in his hand. “That’s right, Miz Weeby. You sure can’t stay here tonight. The PD’s on its way to investigate, seeing as we found some strange marks we want checked out on the back of the house.”

  Despite the low-eighties temps, a chill ices my blood. “Do you mean you don’t think the fire was an accident?”

  The gaunt man shrugs. “I can’t rightly say yet. First things first, and that’s to put out the flames. But then after that . . . that’s why I’m wanting the PD to look into some things. We’ll let you know what we all find.”

  After we give the captain our contact info, Aunt Weeby and I take one last look at our beautiful family home, then turn to follow Max.

  “Don’t forget your precious bling,” he bites off.

  I wince. “It’s not so precious, but I have spent years collecting the stones. I didn’t want to lose them to a fire.”

  “Last I heard,” he says, “rocks don’t burn.”

  “Fire will ruin a lot of my gems, but that’s not the point. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. I just acted on instinct.”

  “Then your instincts aren’t so hot.”

  “Fine. My instincts stink. Are you going to help me pick up the stones?”

  He gives me a woman-you’re-nuts look. Then he shakes his head and runs a hand through his blond hair. “I suppose I won’t be able to get your aunt to Miss Mona’s house until you find every last amethyst, peridot, and citrine.”

  I glance at Aunt Weeby. The fear’s left her face, and a smug smile now curves her lips. On the one hand, she’s not crying anymore. On the other, I’m in a whole heap of another kind of trouble here.

  The great matchmaker returns. Great.

  “Please, Aunt Weeby. Don’t do this. Not now.” I turn to Max. “How about you take her to Miss Mona’s?” I say. “I’ll get Peg to take me over once I’m done picking up my stuff.”

  “Are you out of your mind? I can’t leave you here on your own. For all I know, you’ll decide to rush the flames again for . . . for—oh, sure! That dumb C bag of yours.”

  I don’t have the energy to snap back. “I know what I did was dumb, Max. And I’m really sorry, especially because I scared Aunt Weeby. I won’t do it again, that’s for sure. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Want to make a bet?”

  “Children, children!” Aunt Weeby chirps. “Let’s all of us get along, now. How ’bout we all take the time to find the gemstones, and then we can go to Mona’s together. I’ll bet she has some good ol’ cocoa and milk. Every one of us can use a nice, hot cup once we’re done here.”

  Max meets my gaze. “Hot cocoa?”

  I give him a wobbly smile. “Aunt Weeby’s cure-all. Most of the time it works.”

  He shakes his head. “You two are the looniest females I’ve ever met. But who am I to argue? Let’s pick up the rocks so we can get to the cocoa.”

  While we scrabble around the blades of grass on the hunt for my gems, I can’t dislodge one thought from my head. Who did Max have dinner with?

  I never got my answer because I never got the guts to ask. But I do find the strength to control my sharp tongue. I thank Max once we get to Miss Mona’s large, faboo home. It takes no effort to sound sincere, because I am.

  When Max leaves, we get the chance to steal some sleep, but the sun’s rays stab in through the curtains too soon for my taste. After I take a shower and dress in one of Miss Mona’s—lime green, ouch!—jogging suits, I get on the phone to the fire department. I’m sure my backpack and purse survived the blaze; they were up in my room, and the damage was to the kitchen and below. But unfortunately for me, the house is now wrapped in yellow crime tape.

  “What exactly did you find?” I ask Captain Roberts.

  “I’m sorry to say, Miss Andie, the basement window was broken in. We also found traces of accelerant—gasoline—in the basement, right under the kitchen. I’m afraid that part of the house is a total loss.”

  My knees give way, and I plop onto a delicate gilded French antique chair. “Are you sure?”

  A pause lets me know he doesn’t much care for my question. “Yes, ma’am. Quite sure.”

  I bite down hard to keep my teeth from chattering. “How soon can I pick up my backpack? I need my wallet for ID and cash. I can’t get into the house, and I couldn’t wear the smoked-out clothes even if I did make it inside. Since I’m scheduled to work, I’m going to need my credit cards to get clothes that don’t stink.”

  He sighs. “I suppose the PD will have to handle that. Why don’t you call Chief Clark? I’m sure he’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

  Oh, goody. Chief Clark. The man who tried real hard to pin a murder on me last year. “Uh . . . thanks, Captain Roberts. I’ll follow up with the PD.”

  It takes me awhile to quit shaking. Who would ever want to torch Aunt Weeby’s house? With us inside? And why?

  My burned ear hurts where I held the phone against it. Was it worse than just arson, as bad as that is? Was it an attempted double homicide?

  If so, then why? Who’d want us dead?

  Will Chief Clark tell me?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  At least I know the chief’s not stupid enough to try to tell me I tried to kill Aunt Weeby. No one’s that dumb. Especially since I was still in the house. Even he’s not likely to accuse me of having a death wish.

  With a sigh and another shudder, I pick up the phone again and dial the PD. I need to know. And more, much more than just when I’ll be able to pick up my stuff.

  “Chief Clark?” I ask once I get through the layers of voice mail. “It’s Andie Adams. I have a few questions for you.”

  1300

  “Whaddaya mean, my backpack wasn’t there?” I yell at Chief Clark. Then I realize who I’m talking to.

  Get a grip, woman!

  “Ahem.” I tug at the borrowed and very large lime green warm-up suit jacket, then square my shoulders. “I took that backpack upstairs. I put it on my bed, took off my travel clothes, showered, dressed, and the backpack was still there. I went to church, came home, and the backpack was still there. I put on my PJs, dropped the backpack on the sage-green chaise, crawled into bed, and didn’t move it anywhere else. Of course that backpack was there.”

  “Livvy,” the chief says—yeah, I brought my aunt for moral support. “I know your niece and I have had us our differences before, but would you please tell the girl here I ain’t lost my mind yet?”

  Aunt Weeby arches a brow and smiles.

  I glare. “Don’t you go dragging my poor aunt into this argument. Where’d your guys put my backpack?”

  He sighs. “Miss Andie, you’re the one who brought Livvy to the station. I’m just hoping for some common sense here. My officers haven’t touched your missing backpack.”

  “Okay. Fine. I did bring Aunt Weeby. But . . . how about the firefighters? The backpack didn’t go missing until the firefighters and your officers went into the house.”

  “Now listen here, you two,” Aunt Weeby says. “How come it’s not hit neither one a’ you that we have us some kinda problem here?” She makes a funny face, pats a finger to her temple, and then nods. “Oh, now, that’s right. You’re both a’ you too busy blaming each other for this brand-new kerfuffle to see what’s hanging right off the tips a’ your snouts.”

  I gape.

 
; The chief gulps.

  Aunt Weeby smiles. “Now isn’t this silence so much better? We can all of us hear ourselves think. Why, maybe we’ll make some sense a’ what’s really going on, don’tcha think?”

  Ideas bing-bing-bing-ba-bing in my head—and they have nothing to do with Aunt Weeby and snouts. “Maybe—”

  “So now we’ve gotten all that other hoo-hah outta the way,” my dearest relative and best friend in the whole world goes on, “don’t you go making me wrassle a real answer outta you, Donald, dear.” She wags the back of four fingers at the chief. “Go on. Talk to her. It’ll go much better for us all.”

  Sputters and coughs are the chief’s response.

  My smile might just remind you of a smirk.

  “My, my, my, sugarplum! That look doesn’t do a thing for you,” Aunt Weeby says. “And you know what I always say, Andie. A girl’s gotta look her best at all times. You never know when you’re gonna meet the right man. And you only get yourself one chance to make a good first impression.”

  The chief’s burst of laughter makes me blush. “Okay, Aunt Weeby. You win. You’ve had your fun.”

  “You always did have you a mean ol’ streak, Livvy.”

  She stands, claps imaginary dust from her hands, and heads for the great outdoors. “My work here’s done. The both a’ you have some talking to do, so do it. And don’t you go wasting any more time trying to win some silly ol’ spitting contest while you’re at it, either.”

  The slam of the door boings from wall to wall.

  After a handful of awkward, silent minutes, the chief says, “Miss Andie. I promise you, no one here saw any backpack at Livvy’s house.”

  “And I promise you, sir, the backpack was there when Aunt Weeby and I crawled out the window onto the roof of her front porch.”

  He sits at his desk. “Then I have me another job to do. I have to figure out who took that there backpack outta that burned-out house, and why.”

  His words make me think a minute . . . two. “You don’t think . . . ?”

  The chief steeples his hands. “Go on.”

  I shake my head. “It’s too dumb.”

  “Give it a whirl. I’ll be right happy to tell you just how dumb it is.”

  I give him an Aunt Weeby–arched brow. “How’s this for dumb? D’you think someone could have torched the house for the sake of a stupid old backpack?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Depends on what you had in that stupid ol’ backpack of yours.”

  “It’s not like I hid a brand-new pair of Manolo’s in it.”

  The chief looks—is—clueless.

  I roll my eyes. “Designer shoes, okay? And I was kidding.” “Let’s get serious here.”

  “You’re right.” I think back to my crazy cramming and shoving version of packing back in Kashmir. “I had a clean change of undies—never know what the gorillas at the airlines’ll do with your luggage. I put my purse inside so I could carry just one thing from flight to flight. Of course, I always have my toothbrush and toothpaste with me, my Bible, and I don’t think I ever threw away the magazine I bought on the way to Kashmir, so it’s probably still in the pack. I can’t imagine who would want any of that.”

  He slaps his desk. “I have to agree—no offense meant. So I’ll get to getting on a backpack theft.”

  “I suppose that’ll have to do. I just hate having to jump through hoops to get all new stuff again. You know. My driver’s license, checkbook and bank accounts, my credit cards . . .”

  “Can’t say I envy you.”

  We shake hands and I head out.

  “Pssst! I’m here, sugarplum.”

  I hurry over to my aunt. “That was not a nice thing you did in there, leaving me with that cop-friend of yours.”

  “Got the two of you to quit honking and bleating and beating around the bush, didn’t I?”

  Honking and bleating. Swell. “But you didn’t have to be so . . . so—” I quit while I’m ahead. Besides, she’s not listening.

  She’s smoothing the skirt of the new dress she bought with Miss Mona while I slept, and starts walking down the hall. “Now that we’ve got that straight, let’s go have us some fun, sugarplum.”

  The woman who thought an interrogation at the hands of Kashmiri police was fun wants to have more fun? Oh, my! “What do you have in mind?”

  She puts her hand to her upswept champagne blond hair, sleeks a loose hair or two, and then says, “You know perfectly well we can’t just go back to that house, sugarplum. We need to go house hunting to solve our little dilemma.” She runs— well, trots—down the PD steps to the sidewalk. “Ooooh! I’m so excited. It’s going to be such fun.”

  Fat chance. “What’s going to be such fun?”

  “Why, I can’t wait to call a realtor and go look at darling little cottages. Kinda like on HGTV, you know. House Hunters? The show where they look at three places, and then they choose the one they wanna buy?”

  I know the show, but she’s lost me. For real.

  I chase after her. “Aunt Weeby! You don’t mean you’re really buying a new house, do you? We just need to get the old one fixed. Insurance will take care of that.”

  She waits by the passenger door to my new car. “Why, sugarplum, nobody said nothing ’bout not fixing the old house. But it’s gonna take a whole bunch of time and work to make that place right again.”

  I’m feeling queasy all of a sudden—Aunt Weeby’s adventures do that to me. “And you’re going to buy a temporary house?”

  “Not a whole house, Andie. Just a bitty l’il ol’ cottage. I told you that already. Lissen up, girl.”

  She’s still not making sense. “Why are you buying this temporary cottage? Why not just rent an apartment?” See why I know I’ve wandered into a brave new universe?

  “Better yet. Why don’t you just stay with Miss Mona? I’ll . . . I’ll—oh, I don’t know what I’ll do yet, but I’ll figure something out.”

  “Oh, I suppose I could stay with Mona. That’s what she wants.” Aunt Weeby looks like she’s just bit into an overripe egg. “But this is for the best. Besides, the cottage isn’t really gonna be for me.”

  I click my electronic door lock, and we open our doors. “I’m confused,” I say as I slide into the driver’s seat. “Who’s the cottage for, if not for you?”

  She clicks on her seat belt. “Why, Andie, girl. I love you more’n I can say, but it’s long past time you grew up, graduated from crazy girl to grown-up lady. You’re all of thirty years old, and still living at home. The cottage is for you, sugarplum. The down payment’s my graduation gift.”

  “But I graduated college eight years ago!”

  “Pshaw! This is a different kind of graduation. I’m talking about when you graduate from girl to woman, sugarplum. It’s more’n time you get around to doing that, you know. Time to grow up came awhile ago, and you have to get to getting.”

  Knock me over with a feather. Aunt Weeby strikes again.

  Now what do I do?

  No matter how many times I tell her I don’t want to live alone again, Aunt Weeby digs in her heels. “I won’t hear another word, Andrea Autumn Adams. And I even talked to your daddy and mama about this. We all agree. You need your own place.”

  “When I lived in New York,” I say, “I realized I didn’t like living alone. Even a cat didn’t cut it. I came back to my family home. That’s what I really like.”

  She puts on that look of hers. Come to think of it, it looks a whole lot like the one on the mule I rode in the Himalayas. I’m afraid nothing I say or do is going to change her mind. As usual.

  Should I start looking for that sinking ship?

  “Well, sugarplum,” she says. “If you like family living so much, then it’s fine time you quit being chicken and find yourself the man what’ll give you that there family you say you want. And I know you won’t be bothering yourself to do that while you’re bunking down with me. Besides, I like to have my . . . umm . . .” She brings her brows together, thinks.
“That’s it! I like my space.”

  I start the car, but before I put it in drive, her cell phone rings. “Good morning. Olivia Adams Miller here.”

  A woman’s voice crackles over the connection, but I can’t make out the words. Trust me. I try.

  “Oh no!” Aunt Weeby says. “You don’t say.”

  More crackle. Then, “That’s awful, Mona. Did you call Donald yet? A’ course, we’ll be right there. We’re in the car already, Andie’s got the engine cranking, and it won’t take us but a shake of a puppy dog’s tail to get there.”

  She closes her phone and holds it between both her hands, eyes shut as tight as the phone while she prays.

  Curiosity nails me again. When she opens her eyes, I burst out, “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Aunt Weeby! Miss Mona just called. You said something was awful, that she should call the chief, and that we’d be right there. Start at the beginning and go right through to where I’m supposed to drive us.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. It’s just so strange . . .”

  Turns out, there’s been trouble at the S.T.U.D. Someone broke in, tossed the place, and the security company is there. Miss Mona and the rest of the S.T.U.D.’s employees are going through their offices or dressing rooms and desks to see what, if anything, was taken. I need to do the same.

  A fire and a break-in.

  Coincidence? Yeah, right.

  While I don’t normally have what you might call a lead foot, I’m afraid I would’ve wound up with a speeding ticket had a PD cruiser been anywhere in my vicinity. I made it to the studio in what felt like seconds.

  My footsteps echo down the deserted halls. After a quick check, I’m pretty sure nothing’s missing from my dressing room, but the same can’t be said about Glory’s cubbyhole. Every scrap of film she shot in Kashmir is gone.

  “Why?” she asks.

  No one can—or will—say. We don’t know. For sure.

  Yet.

  Then there’s the really weird one. Allison comes marching down the hall, two red spots on her fair cheekbones, anger in her blue eyes. “My makeup bag’s gone! Who’d want to steal that? Even with all the jams, jellies, and potions I keep in there, it’s not worth much.”