Mary Grace gingerly held the bag to the back of her head. Then she sighed. “I guess I need to head back to my world and see if I can figure out this thing before someone comes back to finish the job.”
“Let’s get you some coffee for the drive,” Bill said and went back into the kitchen. A moment later he returned and his face was devoid of color. He certainly didn’t have any coffee.
Marv stood up abruptly. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Bill pointed frantically. “Two cars with police lights are coming down the drive. You think Enrique rolled over on us?”
Mary Grace sighed again. “No, it wasn’t your supplier.”
Both men stared at her. “What, you called the police when you were in the bathroom?” Marv asked urgently. “I swear, the wine press falling on your head really was an accident. And as for the pot, well, we believe in recreational usage.”
“Firmly believe,” Bill echoed. “Legalize cannabis, our motto. All hail the herb!”
Mary Grace waved her hand. “I didn’t call anyone. But I did leave my list on the computer countertop and your website was on one of the open tabs. There’s only one person who could have come into my house and with brutal efficiency ferreted out the possible target of my mission. Not to mention read the bulleted note on where the cop’s hands had been touching my body.”
Bill and Marv both breathed, “No?”
“Yes,” she said, gravely. “My mother. Ghita Castilla. This could be a bad one, boys. My mother probably came looking for me to guilt me into going to mass today, couldn’t find me, and then gave me a few hours to reappear. Then she brought the police to make sure I haven’t been decapitated and exsanguinated by a troupe of traveling serial killers.”
“Police!” someone yelled. “EVERYONE IN THE HOUSE COME OUT WITH THEIR HANDS IN THE AIR!”
“Don’t worry,” Mary Grace said tiredly. “I won’t tell them about the pot and I know that the wine press was an accident.” She stopped to glare suspiciously at Marv, “I don’t know about my shoe, however. But what the hell?”
“Oh, dear God,” someone yelled over the loud speaker. “Mary Grace! Mary Grace! It’s your mother! I had to know if you were okay! And I brought you a baloney sandwich!”
There was a high pitched whine as the speaker was snatched out of matronly hands. “Mrs. Castilla,” the first voice hissed. “That’s only for police to use!”
Bill said, “Holy crap, Mary Grace was telling the truth.”
“Duh,” Mary Grace said unkindly. “Who would make up stuff like that?”
Chapter Ten – Monday, June 20th – Tuesday, June 21st
For a natural highlighter, use 1/3 cups chopped, fresh rhubarb to two cups boiling hot water. Cool, strain the rhubarb, and use on your hair as a fabulous rinse. Add fresh mint and bourbon for a deliciously wicked, Mint Julep smell. Do try not to consume too much bourbon whilst rinsing your hair. – Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Tips
Frederick Brogan, AKA Brogan, knew that he’d had a rough day. Hell, he’d had a rough week. He was feeling guilty over a great many things. His crimes were numerous and included not listening to a woman he’d immediately thought was a kook, but who actually wasn’t, and who he’d likely put in harm’s way. Another misdeed was kissing the very same woman into a scorchingly passionate conflagration that would have gotten them arrested if the hospital’s security had meandered by while the woman was sitting, no squirming languidly, on his lap. Getting caught would have caused him to have to take the night shift at DPD for the next year to avoid the flak he would have caught from brother officers. Not only for getting caught in flagrante delicto but for getting caught playing smoochies and feelsies with a victim of an active crime investigation of which he was in charge. Bad, bad, bad detective.
Then he’d taken her back to her friend’s car because Brogan couldn’t charge this woman with breaking and entering into her boss’s house, although he was perfectly aware that she had been doing just that. Getting a hard on for a woman who had admitted to committing a class c misdemeanor was like dipping his dick into hot wax. Either way his pecker was not going to be happy. Besides which he had tried to reason out the whole, ‘She’s not really a criminal,’ thing because she really hadn’t taken anything from the house and someone really was trying to do her bodily damage.
So he’d settled for ordering drive-bys by patrolmen of her street, every half-hour of the night. No explosions, muggings, or other various felonies had been committed. In the mean time, Brogan had gotten much needed rest and time to think about his penis’s problem. Mr. Happy would have wait until the case was put to bed, and then Brogan could take Mary Grace to bed. No crime would be committed there. They could work out their mutually fiery connection via the oldest form of recreation known to man and have a damn fine time, too.
But first, Brogan had to find out who was trying to murder Mary Grace and put that individual into a deep, dark, dank prison where they would rot ad nauseam.
Brogan had come to that richly satisfying conclusion when his cellular had rung. The caller ID said it was Mary Grace’s number so he’d answered promptly. Then he’d regretted it promptly. Instead of Mary Grace, it had been Mary Grace’s mother, Ghita Castilla. It seemed that Mary Grace wasn’t at home. It had been late Sunday evening. Callie’s Miata hadn’t been there. Mary Grace wasn’t at the hospital with her friend, and in fact, hadn’t been there all day. And worst of all, Mary Grace hadn’t gone to Sunday Mass. But the black cherry that sat on top of the evil whipped crème was the to-do list on Mary Grace’s computer that said she was going to investigate a suspicious winery. Additionally, the winery’s website page was still displayed on a second tab in Windows to include directions to said winery.
Brogan had groaned audibly. Hadn’t he told Mary Grace to stop her asinine investigation? Hadn’t he warned her about what happens to Nancy Drews in the real world? Like getting hit with the bad guy’s car? He actually had to stop listening to Mrs. Castilla’s anxious implorations to find her poor, helpless, sought-upon missing baby and think about whether he had, in fact, told Mary Grace any of that? Nope, he’d thought. Too busy kissing her. Feeling her breasts. Those lovely, ample, soft….
So instead of twisting uncomfortably to mitigate the abrupt tightness of his pants, Brogan had listened to Mrs. Castilla. Then he’d made phone calls. The police department of Tinker, Texas, close to Goose Winery was his first call. Then he’d called friends at the state police department. Goose Winery had a good reputation. It was run by two men who were probably partners in every sense of the word. The statie in that neck of the woods, or that neck of the sagebrush as the case was, said he often bought wine there. His wife loved their merlot. Brogan should try some. Brogan, not being a drinker of wine, was not enticed.
An hour later, the statie had called Brogan back to tell him that Mary Grace Castilla was not at Goose Winery. The winery was closed. The buildings were apparently empty. There were no cars in their parking lot. No one was answering the business line. It wasn’t abnormal, the statie did explain, because it was after normal business hours. Not to mention that vintners did a lot of work in the earliest hours of the day when it wasn’t so hot outside. So their days tended to not be nine to five, but six to two, or even earlier. Also, the statie said, no one was answering their personal residence phone.
When Brogan called Ghita Castilla back, he had made the mistake of telling her that he would be driving to Tinker and to the winery to see if Mary Grace had broken down on the side of the road. He had also told her that he had a BOLO for the red Mazda Miata that was registered to Caledonia C. Branch, but nothing had come back yet and probably wouldn’t for hours. Furthermore, the vehicle had not been reported in any kind of accident in the state of Texas for the previous six hours.
Mrs. Castilla had insisted on going with Brogan. Brogan hadn’t been able to dissuade her and since he felt that he couldn’t legally arrest her and tie her to a chair, he’d agreed. He had picked her up at Mary Grace’s house on Bayou
Moon Avenue and driven to the winery, taking approximately two hours to do so. It had been two hours of unadulterated hell. Mrs. Castilla was frantic with worry. She was castrated with anxiety. She was frenzied with agony. And she hadn’t been happy about something Mary Grace had written about Brogan in the list that she had mentioned, although she wouldn’t exactly mention what.
Brogan had frowned because he was wondering if Mary Grace had gotten specific about his wandering hands on this list of hers, but since Mrs. Castilla hadn’t produced a gun, so she figured he was mostly safe. However, by the time they had gotten to the winery, he wished heartily that Mary Grace was an orphan. They had ascertained that the statie had been correct. Mrs. Castilla had beaten on every door with both fists until they were stinging and red. No one had been about.
Finally, Brogan had called the statie back and asked where the owners of the winery lived. Perhaps they had seen Mary Grace and could tell Brogan where she had gotten herself to. Perhaps they were serial killers of cannibalistic nature who could take Mrs. Castilla off his hands. But only if they hadn’t eaten Mary Grace yet.
The statie, a tall man named Brian Nottier, had waited for them at the entrance to the road at the opposite side of the winery. It was on the secluded side and as private as possible. Brian escorted them down the long drive, turning on his police lights near the end. When he’d gotten out of his vehicle, Brogan gave him a what-the-fuck look, and Brian shrugged with a smile. “They’re good guys, if a little fruity,” Nottier said, chortling. “They’ll think this is hilarious. They didn’t kidnap your girl.”
Then he’d taken a megaphone out of his trunk and yelled, “Police! EVERYONE IN THE HOUSE COME OUT WITH THEIR HANDS IN THE AIR!” and chuckled into his hand.
However, Nottier hadn’t thought it was too funny when Mrs. Castilla had wrestled the megaphone away from him and delivered her own message. Brogan nearly snorted out a lung through one of his nostrils. If Nottier said it was unlikely that Mary Grace had been kidnapped by the two winery owners, then it was doubtful that she was there.
Brogan thought that right up until the moment when he had seen the front end of the Mazda Miata parked behind the little cottage. Then, Mary Grace had stepped out of the front door with one hand holding what looked like a package of frozen vegetables to the back of her head, and said, “Jeez, Ma, did you have to bring the police?”
•
And it was the following day that Brogan got most of the details out of Mary Grace. She showed him the letter with the goose logo. Brogan grudgingly agreed that it was similar to the website’s logo, but not exactly the same. Then he’d read the message and said, “What the fuck?”
Mary Grace was sitting in her living room dressed in a t-shirt that clung to every last one of her blessed curves and jeans that could have been molded onto her figure. She’d politely offered him coffee and he’d politely accepted while he was goggling at her mind-numbingly hot shape. Then when they both had mugs in their hands, he’d said with no little amount of self-control, “Please tell me why you did what you did yesterday.”
Mary Grace did. She finished with a story about a wine press falling on the back of her head and the two winery owners, William Preston and Marvin Stein, helping her out until she had felt better. They had confirmed with her that the logo was not theirs, had never been theirs, and they had never had anything to do with attempting to kill her. In fact, they didn’t even have stationary.
Brogan stared at Mary Grace. It smacked of dookie drop-drops. The entire story, barring the part where she went to check them out, sounded like she was glossing over the facts. “What, you took their word for it? Did they swear on the bible?”
Mary Grace smoldered. He could almost see smoke coming out of her ears. “It was a little more involved than that,” she said between her teeth.
“A little more, hmm?” Brogan considered his coffee. “How?”
“They had alibis,” Mary Grace said quickly.
“Okay,” Brogan said pleasantly. “They showed you a movie ticket stub?”
Mary Grace squirmed uncomfortably. She looked like she was wearing a thong that was a little too tight and suddenly Brogan wasn’t thinking about two gay men’s alibis, but what kind of underwear Mary Grace was wearing, and how best and quickly he could divest her of them. He didn’t have a personal record for underwear removal, but Mary Grace seemed the kind of girl with which Brogan could start all new, naughty habits.
“Oh, heck,” she said, and he snapped back into the moment, trying hard to resist from covering his lap with a pillow. “They didn’t do it. They don’t know who did. It wasn’t their logo. I made a mistake. What more do you want? A notarized affidavit?”
Brogan perked up. The week was looking up. Mary Grace Castilla admitted that she made a mistake. He would have bet a hundred bucks that didn’t happen very often. “So you got beaned with a loose wine press, which fell from a shelf above your head, but magically hit you in the back of your head.”
“I must have had my head down,” Mary Grace muttered ungraciously. “I don’t exactly remember.”
Then the unthinkable happened. Brogan softened. It was like his heart melted. It was tender and gooey all at the same time. Later on he was going to have to say, “Ick,” to himself, but at the moment it didn’t feel icky or girly, it felt right. He felt all possessive and manly and ready to move heaven and earth for the girl. He said gently, “Did you see a doctor last night? For your head? And I don’t mean in a psychiatric way.”
Another glare descended upon him. If it had been a missile he would have been a crispy critter in a big black hole. “Okay,” he quickly amended. “I just mean, you could have something really wrong with your skull or brain. I imagine a wine press isn’t exactly light.”
“Ma made me go to the emergency room,” Mary Grace grudgingly admitted. “We were there three hours and I think that was because it wasn’t busy. My skull isn’t fractured and I might have a mild concussion. I have instructions to take it easy, follow up with my doctor in three days, or sooner if I start showing any particular symptoms.”
Brogan put his mug down and before he knew it he was standing close to Mary Grace, crowding into her space and not minding in the least. His big hand was brushing locks of black hair away from her face and he murmured, “What kind of symptoms?”
She stared up into his eyes and said, “Dizziness, fainting, severe headaches, and seizures. That kind of thing.”
“Oh,” he said right back. “And how do you feel?”
“I’ve got a little headache,” she murmured. “Just a little, itty-bitty headache.”
Brogan leaned his head in, and his lips brushed hers. It was a gentle touch that smoothed across her full, luscious lips, leaving a trail of electrical sparks that would have lit a small city. “And should I kiss it better? That’s what always worked for me?”
Mary Grace didn’t break away from his gaze. “I think you’re supposed to kiss the boo-boo better, not my lips.”
All thoughts of waiting promptly disappeared from Brogan’s thoughts. He dipped his head and kissed Mary Grace soundly. Her mouth parted on a pleased sigh and his tongue took immediate advantage, surging into to her mouth. He tasted her. Mary Grace was silky cinnamon and coffee and all woman. His arms closed around her and pulled her close to him. Her arms snaked up around his neck as if she would never let go. Their bodies melted together like chocolate in a microwave oven. He couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, and truthfully he didn’t care. It was a long time later when he reluctantly pulled back and said, “I guess I was never that good at anatomy.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Mary Grace said, panting. “I think you know exactly where everything’s supposed to go and what it’s supposed to do.”
Brogan grinned. The week was definitely looking up. Now if he could just get Mary Grace to lay off her ‘investigation’ and let him do his job. And if he could just take an ice cold shower in the next five minutes, he might not have to t
hrow her over his shoulder and drag her into her bedroom.
•
My life is trouble, Mary Grace thought thirty seconds later, trying to back gracefully away. Her knees were shaking and she wasn’t sure if she could make it to her sofa without falling down first. A complete mess of turbulent, traumatic trouble. I can’t do anything right. I go to the wrong place to find the wrong goose. It was a wild goose chase, she thought and nearly giggled insanely. I find two gay drug smugglers who happen to make a good bottle of merlot. I don’t find anyone with even a remote reason to murder me. A strong, handsome, virile…She stopped to check the bulge in Brogan’s trousers which he was adamantly trying to ignore. Oh, yes. Very virile. A strong, handsome, virile man kisses me, but then when my thighs explode, he stops. I need ice. Lots of ice. Maybe a glacier ought to cool me off. However, all she had was a half-empty mug of coffee.
“Don’t you want to know if my headache’s still there?” she asked hopefully. On the inside, Mary Grace winced. Why don’t you beg him, too?
Brogan turned his head toward her. His eyes dropped to her chest and something that looked like a smile danced around his lips. “It’s probably gone, right?”
Mary Grace looked down and saw that under her t-shirt her nipples were like two little, very sharp tipped rockets, and ready to launch into outer space at any moment. They followed Brogan’s movements like ballistic missiles locked on their targets. “Omigod,” she muttered hoarsely and covered up her chest.
Brogan grinned again. “When I get this thing cleared up,” he said frankly, “then it’s you and me, babe. In a bed. For hours. I’ll buy an extra large box of condoms because we’re going to use every one. Then I might need a crate. But first, I have to figure this out. And you, you have to keep your cute little nose out of it.”
Well, that’s one way of putting out a fire, Mary Grace thought mutinously, instantly resenting his know-it-all tone and his condescending words. “You stubborn asshole,” she said. It wasn’t the part about the condoms or being in bed with him for hours. It was the keeping her nose out of it part. “If I had told you about the note you would have said it was nothing.”
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