Her Lucky Catch

by Amie Denman

  “Friendly?”

  “Marlena mentioned that you got his attention earlier.”

  “Marlena has also absorbed lots of chemicals in her efforts to match up her hair and fingernails.”

  “You could get yourself invited onto the boat, try to get an insider’s view. Maybe he’ll confide in you or let something slip.”

  That’s what I was afraid of. I’d only met the guy once, but the thought of Cerberus slipping anything to me was about as appealing as watching whales humping on the Discovery Channel. The chief’s plan was starting to sound like fishing, with me as the bait.

  “One more thing,” Balcheski whispered as he began to retreat toward the edge of the stage. “FBI is in on this too. It’s too big for us. I might have mentioned you to them and they might be contacting you. A guy named John Johnson.”

  “The FBI?” I shivered. This was bigger than I thought.

  “They came to us. Seems Ballard has a bank account in another state. When people start moving large sums of money around, it triggers an investigation.”

  “And we’re talking…”

  “Very large.”

  So my name might have been mentioned to the FBI, who might be expecting me to help them track down some missing money. A lot of money.

  I would have to think about all of this tomorrow. Right now, I had to see what was happening on stage. My head was spinning with embezzlers and espionage, and all I wanted was one sweet glimpse of a half-naked fireman.

  I put my face to the peephole just in time to watch Kurt finish tucking his shirt back in as Sisters Mary Alice and Mary Doris dug through the bottom of their capacious purses for cash. They beamed with the excitement of their purchase as the auctioneer announced the staggering winning bid of three hundred bucks. I wondered how on earth they planned to share Kurt.

  But the Lord works in mysterious ways…and I probably didn’t want to know.

  Chapter Seven

  I awoke late on Sunday morning to sun streaking between clouds and pouring in lines through my bedroom windows. I sunk into my cushy bed for a while and watched the rays show off all the dust in the air. Maybe I should have bought one of those filter things from the Sharper Image catalog, but I thought the dancing dust gave the room character. Besides, only the cat and I were there to care.

  In the big divorce last year, I had gotten custody of Peanut. A respectable indoor cat, he shared none of my ex-husband’s tomcat ways. Peanut was not out fucking all the other cats in the neighborhood. Ron should have been neutered. Despite being the principal of my former elementary, he couldn’t keep his pants zipped at school, making me a pitiful laughingstock in the staff lunchroom.

  Of course I didn’t find out until one fateful night when, since Ron was working late, I decided to run over to school to do some work myself. The kindergarteners were learning to recognize simple words by matching them to laminated shapes: items of dress, parts of the body and features of homes such as doors and windows. I’d wanted to get a head start on cutting the shapes out of the long piece of laminating film, and even had the scissors laid out and ready.

  All so instructive and innocent…until I found Ron and Judy, the night custodian, on top of all the shit I had come in after dinner to laminate. I only had to stab Ron in the ass one time before he was off Judy and clutching his flabby white butt as he ran down the hall buck naked and howling like a stuck pig.

  The school’s police officer was a friend of mine and, occasionally, when I needed a laugh, I replayed the tape he made for me from the security camera footage before he erased it from the school record.

  Was it any wonder, then, that I’d run away and hunkered down at St. Pete’s? Looking back, the thing that pissed me off most was that I’d been a fool not to see what was going on right in front of my face. And I’d had to do all that damn laminating all over again—the school librarian who guarded the laminating machine like a dragon in charge of a treasure had been ticked off. Of course, she’d probably been shagging Ron too.

  I’d divorced his ass, quit my job, packed up and moved to Bluegill. No chance anyone here had ever heard of me. School districts in a different county might as well be on a different continent. Especially Catholic school districts. They were in a different universe. Plus, because he didn’t exactly come across as administrator of the year, Ron had hushed it all up. So, I started fresh. At half the salary. Triumphant exits came with a price.

  If Chief Balcheski and the FBI had any clue that I could be so clueless when it came to men, they wouldn’t be quite so anxious to have me ferret out criminals like Mayor Ballard and Damien Cerberus. Maybe my mystery-solving skills had their limits. I didn’t even want to get out of bed because then I might have to think about what I’d sort of agreed to help Balcheski do.

  I snuggled up with Peanut, who purred like crazy, until I remembered I had twenty minutes to make the last mass or risk eternal damnation—and the wrath of Father John or Old Lady Clark. It was usually the principal who put the fear of God in me far more than the priest. Father John tended to wander through the school looking as if he wondered what all those kids were doing there. Clark patrolled the halls looking for a wayward soul to squash under the heel of her clunky lace-up shoes.

  Harry was in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the paper when I came barreling down the stairs. He looked serenely at me as I ran around the kitchen grabbing food and trying to tuck my shirt in at the same time. That’s the thing about Harry, he’s always serene. Handsome, fun and the most faithful friend I’d ever had. He’d been to the doughnut shop, and I started to think I could believe in God again after yesterday’s disaster in the marina.

  “Got some cinnamon rolls for you, Jazzy.”

  “I love you, Harry.”

  “Tease.” He crossed his legs and I noticed he was wearing his hot pink bedroom slippers with his jeans and undershirt.

  “Almos’ forgot church,” I explained as I jammed a cinnamon roll into my mouth and shoved my feet into some slip-ons I’d left by the back door.

  “So? That’s no reason to choke down cinnamon rolls. Those should be savored. If you’re going to wolf them down, I’m getting you the cheapo ones at the gas station next time.”

  “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you by savoring the leftovers later. I have to hustle.”

  “For what?” Harry laughed. “You don’t even have a hot priest. Whips and chains wouldn’t get me in the doors at St. Pete’s.” He stopped to consider a moment as he took a sip of coffee. “Although I do like whips and chains.”

  “Maybe there’ll be a sexy visiting priest.”

  “Like hell. I’ll stick to bars and the internet to bring home the booty.” He looked me over. “You need lipstick, and for chrissake unbutton your blouse a little. Show some of the goods. They’ve had you trussed up like a nun for almost a year now. Let the girls out. They haven’t committed any crimes.”

  “Wrong audience for that.”

  “Whatever. Maybe hottie fireman will be there with the Virgin Mary.”

  “Just my luck.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want the Virgin Mary. Maybe he wants a little hot Jazz.”

  I found my customary pew and tried to set my expression into church face as people crowded in around me. Last mass meant last call for tardy Catholics. Being short had its advantages, and I would be completely walled in and hidden during the lengthy standing and kneeling. Blessed oblivion.

  Someone slid into the pew behind me just before the priest paraded down the aisle to start. Since it was customary to shake hands with everyone around you at the beginning of the service, I turned around, my hand extended, expecting to see the usual old lady or a family with long-faced teens I’d become accustomed to.

  Nope. Hottie fireman, six o’clock. So much for blessed oblivion.

  Kurt wore slim-fitting jeans with a dark green polo shirt. His navy windbreaker was wadded up on the seat behind him. When he smiled at me, I almost dropped onto the padded kneeler. It was the kind of s
mile that said, I know you, Jazz, I’ve seen what you have to offer, and if we weren’t in church, I’d be buying. Okay, maybe that’s what I hoped the smile said.

  Maybe he just had a hell of a handsome face and I needed a man so bad that I was intoxicated by the man scent coming off him. He smelled warm and nice, looked strong and sexy, and seemed so caring and funny—even if he had made a joke at my expense. At least my shirt wasn’t chocolate-dripped or wet, and I had both shoes on. Maybe he didn’t think I was a total buffoon. Maybe he thought I was funny and quirky. I’d take quirky.

  Sitting behind me, he’d have to stare at my ass every time I stood. I had pulled out my favorite khakis and, with my luck, they probably had a stain on the backside. He could also look down right at the top of my head and see what an unholy mess my hair was. I had brushed it into a ponytail in a hell of a hurry and I doubtless had one of those weird hair lumps you get when you’re not careful. At least my shirt passed my mental inspection. A flattering navy and pink striped button-down that actually fit and was tucked in relatively neatly. Thank God for something.

  I hoped I didn’t have cinnamon roll stuck in my teeth as I forced a sane smile and shook his hand. At that moment I felt a flash of radiance to his left and saw her standing there. The Virgin Mary. Christ, she was even wearing light blue and white like the damned statue. Her softly curling blond hair—no roots even—fell over her shoulders and she had that glowing skin every woman on earth except me knows how to get. I was sure it was some kind of scrub and not divine intervention, but it shone me into insignificance. Her proportions were perfect, and together she and Kurt looked like Catholic Barbie and Ken. I was like her cousin Skipper. Short, brunette, top-heavy, with a lame shoe collection.

  Her parents were next to her, and I barely managed a casual half smile and handshake. Imagining that creepy mayor stealing money from the city’s coffers made me twitchy. How would I endure an hour of church with a criminal right behind me? That jerk. He drove a fancy car while his employees at the police and fire departments held yard sales and sold their bodies for charity just to get by. It wasn’t right.

  Although I had enjoyed the auction.

  Sisters Mary Doris and Mary Alice were in the church somewhere too. Just what the heck were they planning to do with the hunk of hot male they’d ponied up three hundred bucks for? Maybe I should think of interesting ideas for them. It would help me pass the next hour with some relative sanity.

  I turned around as fast as I could and spent the whole mass thinking, He’s looking at my ass, he’s looking at my ass. I only changed the pattern when I thought the Virgin Mary might be looking at my slept-on brown hair—or my ass. It didn’t feel good, that’s for sure, but it did take my mind off the usual litany of the evil things I’d like to happen to my rotten ex-husband.

  A massive thunderstorm rolling outside added to the electricity in the church and I could sense the tension in the air. Of course, everyone followed along with the priest in rapt attention and acted as if nothing was happening, but I knew damn well people were thinking about whether they’d rolled their windows up and wishing they’d brought an umbrella. I didn’t have to wonder about my little gem in the parking lot. It had certainly betrayed me like Judas at the Last Supper, and the box of tissue on the passenger side floor would now be a soggy testament to absorbency.

  A crack of thunder and a flash of lightning through the stained glass windows punctuated the final prayers and, as always, I thanked God that the weekly hour of introspection was over. I could not maintain good posture and keep my butt from twitching any longer. I thought about a chocolate sundae at the Dairy Slide—I was about as conditioned as Pavlov’s dogs—but the rain made it more appealing to plan a hasty retreat to the parking lot and dash home in hopes that Harry had left me something sweet in the waxed paper doughnut bag.

  God as my witness, after the stress of trying to look cool, competent and maybe a tad sexy in front of Catholic Ken and Barbie for an entire hour, I would lick whatever was left over at the bottom of the bag.

  People filed out and muttered greetings to each other as they headed for the doors as fast as they could. I tried to stall by straightening the hymnals and digging my car keys out of the bottom of my purse. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Catholic Barbie talking to her parents as they left the pew behind me. They paid me no attention at all—why should they? I was just a kindergarten teacher who barely contributed to the town coffers with my pittance of income tax.

  Taxes the mayor was probably stealing and…doing what with? What was his connection to Damien Cerberus? A shiver ran down my spine just thinking about being anywhere near Ballard. I continued to fuss with the songbooks and hoped he would leave. Soon.

  Stalling did not help me fly under the Kurt radar. He had respectfully stepped aside to allow the Virgin Mary and her parents to leave. He laid his hand on the back of my pew as he waited, and when I leaned forward to examine the depths of my purse, I realized he’d caught a piece of my ponytail. I yelped and Kurt jumped back, clueing in to what he’d done and looking as if he didn’t know if he should apologize or laugh.

  “Sorry about that.” He leaned in closer than was necessary, but I liked it. He smelled even better up close.

  That’s okay. Grab me by the hair, throw me down, rip off my clothes and have your way with me on this hard church pew. I can take it, I thought. Luckily, I had some self-control and simply said, “No problem. Happens to me all the time. You can keep that chunk of hair if you like.”

  He grinned and lingered for a second as if wanting to say something, but then he rolled his eyes in a comic way and followed the holy family down the aisle toward the door. Maybe Marlena was wrong about him being practically engaged to the Virgin Mary. They weren’t holding hands or anything, and I didn’t feel any steam rolling off them during mass. I didn’t know what to make of the eye rolling from Kurt either. Maybe he thought I was crazy and it was a secret communication of some kind.

  It sure seemed like he didn’t really want to follow the lovely virgin and her parents, but that could have been wishful thinking on my part. Or maybe he was more available than I’d thought. And not named after a saint. Maybe Harry was right and Kurt would rather have hot Jazz than cool Virgin Mary?

  Thinking of Harry and doughnuts motivated me out the door to my car. I dashed through the rain since, of course, I hadn’t grabbed a jacket in my earlier rush. I turned the ignition and nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing. Then I did the smart thing. I popped the latch, got out and opened the hood. I had no idea what the hell to look for, but an open hood is a universal distress signal. Like putting your hands to your throat when choking. Surely, somebody would help me.

  As I pretended to check under the hood in the pouring rain, I learned a valuable lesson about my fellow man. In this weather, no one was stopping. People averted their eyes as they drove past me out of the church parking lot. I got a few sympathetic looks from kids in the backseats, but other than that I was on my own. Disgusted, I considered removing the tire iron fastened to the inside of the hood and doing some damage. Smashing the hell out of my car was the only thing I could think of doing. I was soaking wet, had scarcely survived another hour of church, and I wanted a cinnamon roll.

  I got the tire iron loose and was ready to start demolition when I heard a car door behind me and whipped around. The mayor sat behind the wheel of his black Lincoln Town Car, and I could just barely make out his wife through the rain-soaked window. I imagined the back seat contained the blessed virgin and—until a second ago when he’d stepped out into the rain—Kurt. He waved his future father-in-law to go on. A soggy mix of disbelief and relief washed over me, and I set down the tire iron as gently and sanely as I could.

  Chapter Eight

  “Car won’t start?”

  “Nah, I was just curious to see how this thing works,” I said, “I’m thinking of taking one of those auto maintenance classes at the community college and I figured I’d get a head start.”


  Kurt laughed. “Any clue why it won’t start?”

  “It has a long history of letting me down, but I’ve never gotten to the root of the problem. I think it’s just old and crappy.”

  “Here, take my jacket. You’re soaked and probably freezing.”

  I was soaked and starting to freeze, but I would have taken the jacket under any circumstances. I wriggled into it, delighted by the intimacy of being inside something he owned. I was willing to pursue that avenue of adventure and maybe try out his car, his bed, his…

  Kurt looked at the engine. He peered closely at the battery and pulled on some wires and cables. He tapped on something with his finger, and it started to dawn on me that he had no idea what he was doing. He fumbled for a few minutes, pretending to check stuff, but he wasn’t fooling anyone.

  It was raining too hard for this, and after another minute I said, “You don’t have any idea what the hell you’re doing, do you?”

  Kurt got a little pink under the river rushing down his face then started laughing. “Got me. I don’t know a damned thing about engines. I mean, I can run the pump on the fire truck and do some basic maintenance, but that’s about it. I’m good with boats, not cars.”

  He stuck his head under the hood to keep at least his face from getting pelted by the rain, and I did the same. It was a little car with a little hood and we had our heads under there together. I started to get warm inside his borrowed jacket.

  “I do have one tool I know how to use,” he said, his voice husky. He reached for his waistband and I swore I heard church bells ringing. Of course, it was only the twelve o’clock bells that rang every day.

  Kurt pulled his cell phone from a clip on his belt. “I’ll call a tow truck for you.”