“Who are you?” she whispered, hating the shake in her voice.
“I’m just trying to help,” the voice hissed.
“By attacking me?”
“I didn’t attack you. I saved your skin.”
“Saved my . . . You’re confusing me.”
“I’m not surprised. You confuse me too.”
She blinked, trying to make him out. He resembled, in a way, Trudi’s husband, Jack, except broader. More dangerous. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
She scooted back on the gritty floor, her hand curling around a cool, smooth stick behind her. Maybe a bat.
“Same thing you are.”
“I’m working on the lawn.”
Even from here, she recognized a smirk. She brandished the stick. To her utter delight, she discovered it was a flashlight. “Hah!” She flicked it on.
He put up an arm, blinked, and recoiled.
“You’re the pizza guy!” Even as she said it, her mouth dropped open and her breath slurped out of her. The pizza guy, here in Ernie’s garage?
“Sorta.” He smirked again, and she sensed a lie inside it. She didn’t know what to think—she had to admit, it seemed like a friendly grin surrounded by a couple days of dark whiskers and brown eyes. He was crouching, and the muscles in his thick arms tightened his T-shirt. More than that, she made out confidence. Or perhaps arrogance.
“Who are you?”
He shook his head, put his finger to his lips.
She schooled her voice lower. “You owe me after that mini grope.”
“I did not grope you. I saved your hide.” His voice was solemn. “I’d never grope a lawn girl.”
She glared at him.
Footsteps echoed outside on the pavement of the driveway. PJ flicked off the light. Pizza Guy held up his hand, some sort of sharp military move that should freeze her on the spot.
It was a weird kind of bonding moment as she crouched next to a Weed Eater with a could-be murderer while Boone sniffed around outside, possibly her last hope to save her from being brutalized and dumped under a bridge.
She became aware of her breath echoing like a buzz saw through the garage.
The footsteps moved away.
“He’ll be back, and next time, he’ll check out the garage,” Pizza Guy whispered. “We gotta get outta here.”
“We?”
He curled his hand around her arm lightly. “It’s either me or the brig. And I’ll buy your lunch.”
“Let me guess. Pizza.”
And boy, right now she needed a deep dish with extra cheese. But not with a guy she’d just met, who had danger radiating off him like a scent.
Besides, as much as she liked pizza, she couldn’t be bought for a slice of cheese and pepperoni. Not even if he offered to add mushrooms. “Not today, pal. I gotta get home.” And somehow return the truck.
They sneaked around to the back utility door. He eased it open, peeked out, then motioned for her to follow him as he leaped onto the open lawn of the backyard.
PJ flew after him, running like the wind toward freedom and the chain-link fence that separated Hoffman’s yard from his neighbors. Pizza Guy took it with a vault. PJ tried to finagle the laptop, but it fell from her grip as she wrapped her hands around the bar.
“Leave it!” Pizza Guy said, and without a pause she threw a leg over. But her jumpsuit snagged, the crotch ever so inconveniently hanging around her knees.
“For crying out loud,” Pizza Guy growled as he wrestled her off the top. PJ heard ripping as they dropped over to the other side in a tangle.
“Get off me.” PJ pushed herself free.
He shook his head and took off.
She pounced to her feet, one step after Pizza Guy, feeling like she might be in familiar territory. At least in familiar company, because she passed a goat that looked at her with a mouthful of feed. It finished chewing, then let out a greeting.
“Try the hostas,” she hollered as she ran by.
Oh, lucky her, it followed.
“Help!”
Laughter in her wake made her turn long enough to glimpse Pizza Guy doubled over, having lost his step.
Good grief. So much for their escape. Hopefully Mrs. Murphy wasn’t watching her beloved Billie chase the servicepeople through the yard.
PJ reached the second fence and didn’t care in the least that she ripped out the backside of the jumpsuit. She landed with another whump while the goat shoved his nose between the chain links, mawing. Good thing Billie filled up on Ernie’s tulips or tomatoes or whatever, or she’d be goat fodder by now.
Pizza Guy landed beside her. “You have a fan club.” He held out his hand to pull her up.
She swatted it away. “It’s not funny. She could have eaten me.”
“Oh yeah, goats are known predators. Right up there with mountain lions and wildebeests.”
She turned to head back to the lawn truck. “I don’t think wildebeests are pred—”
Pizza Guy snagged her arm. “He’s already got the truck under surveillance. C’mon, I’m parked over here.”
PJ pulled out of his grip. “I’m not going with you,” she hissed. “For all I know, you murdered poor Mr. Hoffman and I’m your next victim.”
He gave her a look. “If I were going to kill you, wouldn’t I have done it in the garage and left you there to bloat?”
“That’s nice. Way to lodge that image into my brain to terrify me in the middle of the night.”
“I’m just saying, think about it. If I wanted to hurt you, I could have.”
This time, all the tease had vanished from his face. And just like that, PJ believed him.
“Let’s go,” he said, as if the matter was settled.
She still wasn’t going to let him tempt her with pizza like a little girl being offered candy. But she did follow his path, angling toward the front of the house and nearly running over him when he stopped to peer past the edge of Murphy’s brick house and survey the neighborhood. She leaned over his shoulder. Nope, Boone hadn’t left. He stood with his back to them on the front lawn, staring at the lawn truck.
“Still want to stick around? Or maybe introduce yourself to your cop friend over there?”
“No pizza, just a ride home, and for your information, I know tae kwon do.”
“I’m shaking in my boots.”
His white VW Rabbit was parked in the next driveway, still running. Speech left her as she glanced—obviously now fully committed to the furtive look—at Boone, then sprinted toward the hatchback, got in, and scrunched way, way down.
Pizza Guy sauntered over and adjusted his hat. PJ watched, her mouth unattractively gaping, as he stopped and lifted his hand in greeting. To Boone, of course.
Then he got in, backed up, and they passed the lawn truck as they pulled out of Hoffman’s neighborhood.
PJ sat up, adjusting her cap. “This car doesn’t smell in the least like pizza. Someone’s living a lie here, and it’s not me.”
Well, not only her.
Pizza Guy looked at her with eyes that seemed too full of mischief.
What was her problem that she just couldn’t escape trouble?
* * *
“Are you sure you don’t want pizza?”
“Just drive.” PJ sat in Pizza Guy’s car, trying not to get hit by the green fuzzy dice dangling from his rearview mirror, wondering what kind of guy had a Hawaiian girl deodorizer glued to his dash.
They wove through old neighborhoods with overgrown evergreens, stately oaks, old Colonials, and newer split-levels. She silently named houses, remembered parties, cataloged changes. “Are you sure you’re not going to kill me and ditch my body somewhere?”
“Pretty sure.”
Funny. She wrestled out of the ripped jumpsuit while Pizza Guy hummed and tapped his steering wheel as if they hadn’t just raced a carnivorous goat and escaped incarceration. He touched the brakes just slightly as they passed Hal’s. “Last chance.”
“I have
a fish at home I have to take care of.” She smiled at him. Two could play the cryptic game.
They curved toward Chapel Hills. “So, I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what you found on Hoffman’s computer.”
“Nope.” She pointed toward her neighborhood when the road veered to the left, but he’d already turned that direction. For the first time, she realized he seemed to know where he was going.
“Who are you?” PJ said very slowly, trying to layer in threat to her voice.
He turned again, another road toward her house. “I’m Jack’s cousin.”
Her cousins would line up for a free peek to watch her burn at the stake. But this cousin cared enough to keep an eye out for possible felonies while delivering—or at least pretending to deliver—Italian pies?
“Do you have a name, Jack’s cousin?”
“Jeremy. Kane. And you are . . . ?”
“PJ Sugar.” She studied him, the way he gripped the wheel, those strong arms, his dark, whisker-stubbled jaw, now tight, and his dark eyes. There was more to this guy than just a by-the-hour deliveryman. “Do you deliver pizzas to this area?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are you stalking me?”
He glanced at her, and although she expected defense, she could only peg his look as . . . concern? “What are you, a PI?”
Maybe. “No. Just seeing how convenient it was that you were outside Hoffman’s house. What were you doing there?”
“Delivering pizzas?”
“Try again.”
“Saving your life?”
She let out a harsh laugh. “Hardly.”
“Listen, the truth is, I saw you sneak into Hoffman’s house and was about to follow when I spied your cop friend pull up and thought I should warn you. So I snuck into the garage.”
There was something in his easy telling of the story she didn’t believe, but she couldn’t seem to touch her finger to it.
He glanced at her. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What was on Hoffman’s computer?”
“Why should I tell you?”
One side of his mouth lifted up. “You know, you might even pull this thing off.”
She eyed him. “What thing?”
“Proving Jack’s innocence. That’s what you’re about, isn’t it?” He gave her a look that said, Don’t bother trying to lie. “Jack and I grew up together after my mom took off, and I know him. He’s not a murderer. So . . . whatcha say? Can we work together? share information?”
She wanted to trust Jeremy. And not because of his smile or the fact that he had a sort of dangerous charisma. But because he too wanted to help Jack. Because although he might be just a pizza guy (and she doubted that greatly), he thought he could make a difference in the world, or at least in Jack and Trudi’s life.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You first. Who would want to kill Ernie?”
“I don’t know, but Jack told me that Ernie had been doing some investing for him.”
Okay, so maybe he was for real. “Have you ever heard of a numismatist? It’s a coin guy. I think Hoffman collected or traded coins online. He had an entire bookshelf of reference books on the topic and recently sold a coin minted in the time of Nero.”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow, as if impressed with her sleuthing. “I didn’t know coins like that were around.”
“And there’s more. According to Denise, Ernie’s daughter-in-law, the guy was broke. But he still hung out at the club and played golf with his cronies. I heard one of them say how he’ll miss Ernie’s art expertise.”
Oops. That was a lot of information to just hand out to the pizza delivery guy. Even if he was Jack’s cousin.
“Just how much digging have you done?”
“Some. This is my house.”
He pulled up slowly, keeping his hands on the wheel. “And look at that. I didn’t try to murder you once.”
“Good thing for you,” she said, but her gaze was on Anders the lawn guy, sitting on her front steps, a cell phone to his ear. He held his gloves in his hand, tapping them on his knee.
“Last chance on the pizza.”
For a second, she gave it a serious debate. But she was done running from trouble. Even when she stirred it up. “No, I gotta handle this.” She opened the door. “Thanks for the ride, Jeremy.”
“See you round, partner.”
Wait—but he was already pulling away.
She advanced up the walk.
Anders regarded her with cool eyes. “Where’s my truck?”
“I can explain.”
“I called the police.”
She made a face. “You did say I could move it. . . .”
He narrowed his eyes at her.
Right. “Okay. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have taken it, and if you did call the police, I wouldn’t blame you. But I didn’t hurt it. I promise. And I’ll take you to it.” She handed over the jumpsuit. “However, I think I lost your hat.”
He stood, took the jumpsuit. “Is this a joke?”
Oh, how she wanted to laugh. But alas, no. She hadn’t meant to commit a felony. Why didn’t she think beyond her so-called great ideas to the disastrous outcome?
“I’m really sorry.”
Anders said nothing as he brushed past her toward her car.
She dearly hoped Boone wasn’t waiting for her at Hoffman’s.
Sadly, not only Boone but a couple of cruisers had joined the ponderings in Hoffman’s front lawn. PJ pulled up at the mouth of the street, surveying the activity. “Maybe I’ll let you off here.”
Anders gave her a dark look.
“Listen, what if I told you that I’m not a thief? that I am trying to keep an innocent man out of jail, and borrowing your truck was really a good deed?”
His expression didn’t change.
“And that Connie will have a big tip for you next time because of your gracious lending of your vehicle to help humanity?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. But his expression softened. “You’d better get out of here.” Then miraculously he winked. “See you in two weeks.”
As she drove away, she saw Boone in the rearview mirror as he turned to watch her retreating Bug.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PJ had sorely misjudged Baba Vera. Not only did she return to find Vera in the backyard with Davy replanting gladiolas, but she was teaching him Russian and he was laughing.
She watched, feeling a strange curl of affection for Vera as the older woman guided Davy’s hands, helping him grip the gladiola bulb and put it in the ground, then pat the dirt around it.
When Vera glanced up, PJ gave her a smile, a single nod.
Yes, she could watch the fish.
Boris had commandeered Connie’s computer, so PJ grabbed her keys and headed for the library.
Housed next to a coffee shop in a shiny, modern concrete building with sleek lines, square pillars, and a fountain spilling over what looked like building blocks, the library contained a hush of quiet contemplation that made PJ feel like a felon, her mind too easily venturing back to the days behind the reference section, pressing both hands over her mouth to stop laughter from spilling out. Boone had been notorious for landing them both in detention, thanks to his stupid attempts at humor.
She took a chair in the computer section and began to google Nero and his madness.
“They’re excavating an ancient palace in Italy that belonged to crazy Nero,” said a voice in her ear, and she nearly flew out of her skin.
She turned, and there was the guy she couldn’t seem to shake. Her new partner.
“They’re keeping the coins in a museum in Venice.”
“You are stalking me.”
“Hey, I was here first. I’ve been here for an hour, at least.”
“I think I would have noticed you when I came in.” Oops, that was the wrong thing to say.
“Really,” Jeremy said.
“I never agreed to help you.”
&nbs
p; “Yes you did. Our mutual sharing of information constitutes a tacit verbal agreement.”
“Are you a lawyer now? I knew you didn’t deliver pizzas.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” he said, pulling up a chair.
“Hey, I’m working here,” PJ said, clicking on a link.
“Me too.” Jeremy rolled his chair over to the neighboring computer and googled the site. “Did you know that ten years ago, a collection of recently excavated Nero-minted coins was stolen en route to Venice? Their collected value was a cool million.”
“Listen, you do your sleuthing; I’ll do mine.”
He leaned back, his smile fading. “I really am on your side.”
She had to admit he did seem genuine. “Fine. But don’t lean over my shoulder.”
Jeremy apparently shared the same lack of reverence for the posted quiet signs as Boone had, because in between surfing for information on ancient coins, he unearthed imperative information about how to dismantle a nuclear bomb, how to fly a Nighthawk, and how to make the best pizza.
PJ, meanwhile, rabbit-trailed down a conspiracy theory site. “The ancient coin world reads like a 007 novel. Here’s a conspiracy site with bad guys named ‘the Turk’ and ‘Dragonov.’” She pointed to the screen. “Just the look of the site has my skin crawling, let alone the stories. The credits say the designer’s anonymous. Figures. This story should be made into a Robert Ludlum novel. According to this guy, a Bond-type from Scotland Yard went undercover a number of years ago as a black-market dealer and helped put a smuggler by the name of Rembrandt into prison—a French prison, no less.”
Jeremy nodded.
“Rembrandt’s been in prison for about eight years, and recently they convicted him for ten more years for attempted murder on the agent, whom they call the Doc. Apparently, even behind bars, a guy can hire an assassin, and said assassin botched the job.”
“That’s gotta hurt the old résumé.”
“They say the Doc’s in hiding. Hasn’t been seen for years. But rumors are that the hit is still out, with a new assassin on the job. More than that, the Nero coins were never recovered.”
“Aha! Your fast brain is thinking that Ernie is the Doc.” Jeremy angled his head at her.
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