by Carol Devine
The first person to come into Mariah's little storefront who wasn't the landlord or delivery person was Shane. Wearing what was apparently his everyday uniform of jeans, plaid shirt, and black cowboy hat, he strolled past the plate glass window fronting her rental space, examining the exterior.
It was the first day of June, Thursday morning, an hour after her open sign turned on. Mariah was sitting at her desk, wearing what passed as her everyday uniform at the FBI: black skirt, conservative heels and a formal silk blouse. She was using her phone to surf the web, trying to look busy. As the glass door swung open, the bells she'd tied to the door handle jingled, and he stepped inside.
"Hey, Mariah."
"Hey, Shane," she said, smiling and rising to greet him. "Come on in."
"Got your message. You're open for business, huh?"
"Yes. Thanks for stopping by."
He jiggled the door, making the bells jingle again. "Guess no one's sneaking in with this thing hanging on your door."
"Better than a watchdog."
He did a quick scan around the room, looking impressed, which meant he was pretending to be impressed because her storefront-slash-office was a 225 square foot hole-in-the-wall worth of Encyclopedia Brown.
"So this is the place," he said.
She picked up a packet of promo materials she'd prepared. "I'm hoping you can help me get the word out I'm open. I have some brochures in here, along with some pens and refrigerator magnets for advertising purposes. "Would you feel comfortable taking some and putting them out where people can see them?"
"Sure." He examined the packet and held one of the magnets up to the light. "The word's definitely out, though. Never seen a better publicity campaign. Heard the Presbyterian minister wants to hire you to search for church members who've been ducking services."
"Well, I'm dying to hear about what's going on with Kelly and his mother."
"Not much to tell. I talked her into staying an extra week so he and I could spend some time together. But she absolutely refuses to okay a paternity test."
"Hmmm. That makes her claim suspect in my book."
"Mine, too. But I need some time to learn about Kelly and get to know him better."
"For a small fee, I'd be happy to check out her story for you."
"I may take you up on it. But let me do this my way first. Jessie's touchy enough as it is."
He hung his hat on the set of coat hooks by the entrance. It was the first time she'd seen him hatless and without it, he was even more attractive, with thick, sun-burnished hair. It brushed his collar. His skin looked darker, impossibly tanned, making the white of his smile and the ocean hue of his eyes all the more appealing.
She kept trying to sum him up with a succinct description. Colorado cowboy didn't cut it. Maybe charismatic male model or A-list movie star. He had that rippling confidence that said he knew what he was doing, whether handling himself in public or private when it came to the ladies. And despite her show of resistance, she was hardly immune.
The idea that he might stay awhile worried her some. Her small space already seemed crowded by his restless, larger-than-life presence.
He cruised around, inspecting things, starting with the center of the room where she had been sitting. "I see you found the right desk."
"The right desk?"
He used his knuckles, knocking the dull gray surface. "You know, old school, solid metal through and through. Much better than wood. I want to see how it looks when you sit down."
She wrinkled her brow in confusion. He had a tendency to make unusual observations, like using 'nonsensical' when they first met. "You want me to sit at a secondhand desk because it's metal?"
"Pretend I'm a client." He settled into one of the two chairs she'd set up for consultation purposes. "What's the first thing you'd say if I came in, wanting to hire you?"
"It would depend on what you wanted to hire me for," she said, taking her chair. "But I'm still wondering about the whole desk thing. Why does it matter if it's metal or wood?"
"It's better if it's metal."
"Why?"
"Stops the bullets."
"What bullets?"
"In case someone gets mad and shoots you. You can hide behind the steel walls of your desk and return fire."
He said it with a straight face, making her wonder if he was kidding or not. Since he very well could turn into a future client, she took the safe route and shrugged. "I think you've been watching too many detective shows."
"I'm too busy for TV. Got my own business to run." He abruptly rose to wander again, examining a couple of gun safety posters she'd tacked on the wall, low shelves stuffed with psychology books, enforcement codes, weapon guides and other assorted reference books, and a private corner behind a half wall where there was a bathroom and a massive storage cabinet. He tested the two metal handles on the doors but they were locked.
"What's in here?"
"Stuff."
"If it's a gun safe, it's the biggest one I've ever seen. Must have an arsenal."
"A girl's gotta have her guns."
Thankfully, her clothes, air mattress and sleeping bag were safe. He moved on to the counter space and cabinet near the back door.
"I like your little kitchen, too."
"It's not a kitchen. It's a small refrigerator and a microwave."
"And a coffee-maker. It's enough to live on. Handy, too, having stuff to eat and drink where you work. That's why I set up a nice little kitchen at the end of the stable block where I have my office. My employees like using it and I keep it well stocked. If I miss a meal, my energy level dives like you wouldn't believe."
"I can see how that might be a problem for you."
He swiveled, offended. "Are you calling me fat?"
It was such an outrageous question, she suspected he was pulling her leg again. Unfortunately, he had the capacity to act as innocent as a baby for an extraordinary length of time. "No, of course not. The opposite, in fact. Besides, I would never deliberately offend a possible client such as yourself."
"Just checking." He nodded at the wall behind her. "I see you have your credentials up. Pretty impressive. Columbia University, John Jay College of Criminal Justice, Doctorate in Psychology. I checked out your dissertation online, by the way."
"You checked out my dissertation? Why in the world would you do that?"
"It's a subject that interests me, Dr. McBride. Something about 'Alcohol Addiction and its Effect on Creating Criminality in Families.'"
"It's pretty dry reading."
"Like I said when we met, I come from a long line of drunks. It's one thing we have in common. Although, aside from Bird, the McBrides who originally settled in these parts have been a pretty upstanding bunch."
"It sounds like you've been investigating me."
"You know how people like to gossip in small towns."
"People like to gossip in big towns, too. I advise taking what you hear about me with a grain of salt."
"Some say you're a tough cookie who got blamed for something you didn't do. In your profession, you gotta be cynical or you'd pass over the quote, unquote 'nice' seeming people you should suspect the most."
Smacked by another one of his non-sequiturs, Mariah was beginning to lose her ability to maintain her calm equanimity. "Would you like some coffee?"
"Sure."
"Cream or sugar?"
"Black as mud. Are you planning on offering your clients coffee?"
"I'm offering it to you, aren't I? It's an easy way to establish rapport."
"Is that what we're doing? Establishing rapport?"
Mariah made sure her manner was strictly professional. "Even if you weren't a client, you might refer me to one. I have to view every person who comes through these doors as a potential source of business, whether they're quote, unquote nice or not."
The coffee machine bubbled and produced the requested dark-bodied cup. She set it on the desk.
"Thanks," he said.
"I
t's the least I can do. For you to stop by... it's very nice of you."
He shot her a humorous look which said he got the inference. Victorious at last, Mariah decided to enjoy herself. Nothing like schmoozing a schmoozer.
"You are a charmer," she said. "You may have the makings of a con man."
"Yeah, my therapist once told me that. I think she was actually trying to convince me to spill my guts, since I was trying hard to show her what a nice guy I am."
"If you have a background similar to those known to produce a criminal mind but you're not actually a criminal, that's a pretty good indicator of a nice character."
"What a nice thing to say. Do you believe me about the therapist?"
"Yes."
"I'm just telling you in case you ever need to talk to someone who's been through the same stuff."
"I go to Al-Anon for that. But it's a very nice thought."
He smiled ruefully. "I think we beat the hell out of that word."
She decided to share his smile. He deserved the award for highly original bullshit. Not that she would confess that. "Sorry for the niceties. I have a bad habit of making light of serious subjects."
"You may have noticed, I battle the same habit, too. How's Bird?"
"The same. He's not going to change."
"I want you to tell me if he's bothering you."
"Most everything he does bothers me. That's how I know I still have my head on straight. But I appreciate the offer."
"I'm having a few people over to my place Saturday night. Would you like to come?"
The happy fluttering in her stomach was alarming. Their companionable dynamic was crossing the line. Getting along with Shane Youngblood was one thing. Hanging out socially quite another. Time wasn't to be squandered on some casual hookup with a superstar cowboy who could, by sheer force of his personality, undercut her drive to succeed.
"What's the occasion?" she asked cautiously.
"Birthday party for one of my staff, Ana Garcia. She says she knows you."
"I remember Ana. She and I were in the same grade."
"She said you were very nice."
Mariah couldn't help chuckling. "God, you're awful."
"You started it."
"About the party… I'd like to bring my promotional materials, hand them out."
"Come on, Mariah. It's not that kind of event."
"Those are the only kind I'm going to at the moment."
"Everyone knows you're open for business. Handing out business cards at a social gathering is going to turn folks off. That's your future clientele, right?"
He had a point. "Tell you what. I'll think about the party and get back to you."
"Seven o'clock. She's arriving at 7:30, so don't be late."
"It's a surprise party?"
"Yep. Mum's the word."
"Ana doesn't like surprise parties."
"How do you know?"
"Does it matter? I wouldn't do it if I were you."
"You're serious?"
"Yes."
"But you won't tell me why."
"No."
He drummed his fingers on his thigh. "I don't know if I believe you, Doc. But I can't think of a reason you would warn me off a surprise party. Can you give me a clue as to why? I've already invited a ton of people. If I change the plan now, they're going to ask."
"Don't change the plan. Just tell Ana ahead of time. She'll put on a good show."
"I don't think if she would go along with that. She's worked for me since before I retired from the rodeo circuit. Fourteen years. She's pretty straightforward. Doesn't put up with liars or cheats, so telling her to blow the surprise..."
"Pretending to be surprised is a far cry from a bald-faced lie. In fact, you're the one who's lying to her by omission. If you already know she hates liars and cheats, then explain to me why you thought this surprise party was a good idea in the first place."
"Actually, it wasn't my idea. It was her boyfriend's."
"She should get rid of him then."
He reared in his seat, palms out. "Whoa, that's harsh. Have you talked to her about this?"
"I haven't seen or talked to her in years."
"Then how do you know?"
"Why won't you take my word for it? It's a dumb party."
"Is it something to do with your background? Is there some deep psychological reason why surprise parties should be off-limits to a friend you haven't talked to in years?"
"Is there some deep psychological reason to dismiss me out of hand? Seriously, I want to know. I can't be a private investigator if people ignore my advice."
He sipped his coffee, considering her over the rim of his cup. The fluttering exponentially grew. But she was pleased by her ability to crush it down, keep him in the business acquaintance box. Maybe she should consider the party; use the opportunity to get people's reactions to her in a more relaxed setting. Test the waters, so to speak.
"You're a mystery to me, Doc. But I do think I should listen to your advice. Does that answer your question?"
"You don't trust people easily. I get it."
"Now I feel like I being dissected."
"No, I'm not good at dissecting people. It's why I gravitated toward law enforcement. I'm terrible at one-on-ones which is being demonstrated as we speak. You're trying to do a generous and thoughtful thing and I'm screwing it up for you. Probably what I should say is, one, I'll come to the party. Two, thank you for inviting me. And three, I'll be there after 7:30."
Her apology seemed to bring out his mischievous streak. "I'm kinda tempted to keep the surprise part intact. I want to see what happens if Ana does get upset. You're right about her boyfriend. He's a scumbag who thinks he's God's gift. I could tell her he planned the whole thing because he did. The only reason he wanted to have it at my place is because he's a cheapskate and my house is bigger."
She shrugged. "Maybe that's the way to go. Karma does have a way of circling back and hitting the occasional, well-deserving scumbag in the face."
"Amen to that." He rose from his chair. Mariah had never met anyone who moved as quickly and often as he did. "Daylight's burning and I have a sweet filly I'm training for a show competition next week."
"Thanks again for stopping by. Let me know if you hear of anyone who might need my services. If I don't see you at the party, good luck with the competition."
"After all this jawing, you better come to the party."
"No promises. That's just the way it is."
"The only excuse I'll accept is you eliminating a scumbag or two around town. Lord knows the Sheriff's Department needs a little help."
"I think you're jerking my chain again."
He winked. "We're getting to be good friends, you and I. See you Saturday."
Committed to remaining non-committal, she stayed seated. "Bye, Shane."
He grabbed his hat and slipped out the door. Before it closed, an older man came in.
Turned out to be her first client.
.
CHAPTER four
Jedidiah Wilton was near eighty years old and looked it. White haired, he had a deeply seamed face and untrimmed gray eyebrows. He wore faded jeans, a chamois shirt, well-worn boots and a frayed straw cowboy hat. He kept it on as he halted just inside the door, giving Mariah a good, long once over. She appraised him from her desk.
"Please, come in," she said.
He remained by the door, ready to leave, she was sure, if he got an answer he didn't like. "Do you know how to find people?" he asked.
"It depends. Why don't you sit down and tell me about this person you've lost."
He came and eased down in the chair, showing a slight thawing. Pulling out a cigarette from his front pocket, he took his time lighting the end and blew a cloud of smoke at her. "I know your Pa."
She put an ashtray on the desk. "Most people around here do, Mister…?"
"Wilton. Call me Jed."
"Please call me Mariah. Tell me, who is it you need to find?"
/> "My daughter. It's been more'n thirty years."
Mariah opened her laptop. "Do you mind if I take notes?"
"I don't know much about them search engines. Can they really help you find people?"
"If you know where to look. Tell me about the last time you saw your daughter."
"She came home, looking for money. She lit out for California years before without even graduating from high school. Boy with a motorcycle. What could I do?"
"How old was the boy?"
"Don't know. Older."
Mariah frowned at him, bothered by his blasé attitude. "Name, address, phone number?"
He shrugged. "Don't know."
Mariah stopped typing, watching him closely to see if he didn't care or was afraid of caring too much. "Go on."
"She wanted to make it big, be an actress, be famous. Got into drugs instead. Stayed away for a few years but kept up with her mother, my wife."
"Is she your natural-born daughter?"
"Didn't I say she was my daughter?"
"Yes, you did. Go on."
He scratched his chin as if remembering was a chore. "She came home, lived with us for awhile, made her mother happy for awhile, which is why I let her stay. But then she fell into another bad crowd and when I caught her stealing, pawning her mother's jewelry, I kicked her out. Haven't seen or heard from her since."
"And that was more than thirty years ago?"
"Thirty two years, two hundred and forty days. Her mother, my wife, Bess, died nine months ago. She's the one who kept track, who made me promise to see if Emily was alive. Pretty sure she ain't, but I need to be sure, d'ya see?"
"I do see. I believe I can help you with this, Mr. Wilton, but I'm going to need her birth certificate, social security number, a photograph of her taken around the time she first left home and any full face photos you have of her when you last saw her. What do you think? Can you provide me with that kind of specific information?"
"I thought you'd be able to find all that on your own. Your Pa always said you were a smart one."
"I'm not a bloodhound, Mr. Winston. I can't sniff out clues from the ether. This woman you say is your daughter seems to be no more than a tumbleweed to you. Pardon my French, but I can't follow a fucking trail if you don't have a single piece of pertinent information."
