by Rita Herron
"Mr. Henderson?"
Thinking the caller had the wrong number, he almost hung up, then remembered his cover.
"Hey, this is Chelsea Jensen," the cheerful voice chirped. "Listen, my sister just called and we need your help again."
He grinned. She'd saved him from inventing a reason to visit the woman. "Really?"
"Yes, Abby's publicist has arranged several TV interviews, and they've requested that her husband come along, so it looks like you have a temporary job if you want it."
Did he? Hell, yeah. "You're talking a week or two?"
"Maybe longer. What do you say?"
"I say thank you, Chelsea. You've just made me a happy man." More than she knew.
Chelsea laughed. "Oh, and remember, mum's the word. We have to keep this under our hats."
"Right." He struggled not to laugh. "Don't worry, Chelsea. Your secret is safe with me." Until it hits the newsstand.
Chapter 9
Keeping It Up
Abby's doorbell rang again before she could shuffle her uncle Wilbur out the door. Unfortunately she hadn't been able to convince Rainey that she couldn't continue this pretense of marriage. Her uncle had helped himself to the liquor cabinet while she'd phoned Chelsea. Chelsea had been ecstatic about hiring Harry Henderson on a more permanent basis.
How the hell had things spiraled so far out of control so quickly?
Her head was spinning as if someone had punched her number into the speed-dial modem to insanity.
The doorbell dinged again. Abby prayed the cabdriver she'd phoned for her uncle was on the other side, but when she looked through the peephole, her stomach shot to her throat. Her beloved Granny Pearl stood on the doorstep in a pair of Levi's and a handmade T-shirt that read Red Hot Mama, her tiny mouth pursed, gray hair escaping her hair clip, eyes flashing like cat eyes.
If Abby guessed correctly, Granny was as spittin' mad as a rattlesnake.
Suddenly a commotion sprang out, and Abby silently groaned. Her grandmother had obviously brought reinforcements. A dozen blue-haired ladies hobbled up the front walk, all tittering and chattering, waving old-fashioned hankies and hand-painted canes, shaking bony fingers, and whispering in hushed voices.
"Jesus Christ," Uncle Wilbur muttered. "Is there a back door?"
"You don't want to see Gran?" Abby asked.
Uncle Wilbur coughed into his hand. "Nah. I owe her a little money."
"Go out through the kitchen." Abby pointed over her shoulder. "But you're not driving. I called a cab."
Uncle Wilbur waved, tugging at his pants, which had slipped below his bulging belly, and strode to her kitchen. "I'll wait on the curb."
Seconds later, Abby flung open the door and Granny Pearl pushed her way inside, her cohorts leaning on canes, rolling in wheelchairs, and clacking teeth as they filled her den.
"I have a bone to pick with you, child," Granny Pearl said in a no-nonsense voice.
Abby braced herself for a good old-fashioned dressing down, hating the fact that she had disappointed her grandmother. After all, Granny Pearl had been the one stabilizing factor in her young life.
* * *
Hunter checked his messages when he returned home, hoping Lizzie might have called, but the answering machine light stared back like a neon sign, not blinking, signaling he had no messages. Shaking off his disappointment, he considered trading his motorcycle for his SUV, but decided the bike would be the perfect cover for an actor. He didn't plan to waste time; he'd visit Abby Jensen at her house and confirm their schedule. And maybe get a sneak peek into her home, her life, and her secrets.
Several minutes later, he parked on the curb down from Abby's small house, once again baffled by the traditional nature of the Williamsburg-style ranch. Leaving his Harley in the shadows of a cluster of maple trees, he crossed the sidewalk, curious at the church van parked in her drive. A quick glance in her front window explained the vehicle. A group of little old ladies were gathered in the front room. Abby Jensen really needed to be more safety conscious and get some damn curtains. Didn't she realize any fool could see everything that was going on in her house through the naked window?
He chewed the inside of his cheek and watched as she adjusted oval wire-rimmed glasses, then peered down at her rapt audience of blue-haired ladies. Each one had a copy of Abby's book in hand or sticking out of her suitcase-sized purse. What was going on? Surely Abby wasn't given sex lessons to these sweet little old ladies.
* * *
"I'm sorry, Granny—"
"You should be sorry, Abigail Eunice Jensen."
Abby winced at the use of her middle name. Eunice belonged to her great-grandmother and she should be proud of it, but...
Abby's grandmother whipped out a copy of Under the Covers, bringing Abby's thoughts to an abrupt halt. "There's not enough in here about seniors and sex. I mean, it's a wonderful book, dear, but women our age need real advice on how to help our men keep it up!"
"That's right," a spirited lady her grandmother had introduced as Doris Day—named after the famous star—seconded the sentiment.
"I tried those scented oils but they don't help," another woman admitted as she leaned on her walker. "Wally gets too danged relaxed and falls asleep on me every time."
Merline, a woman wearing a bright purple housedress, pushed at her thinning white hair. "And Harold likes to do it in the shower, but I'm afraid he'll fall and break a hip. He had one of those bone-density tests, you know, and it wasn't good."
"Do you have tips on how to pick up a man?" a lady named Sylvia asked. "The pew at church is completely filled with widow women." She gestured toward her wheelchair. "Now my arthritis is so bad and I can't dance much, I just can't compete with some of the younger women on the prowl."
Abby took her grandmother's hand. "You mean you came here for advice?"
"Why, mercy, yes, honey; what did you think we came for?" Granny Pearl's eyes twinkled.
"I... I thought you might be upset about the publicity..."
"The only thing I'm upset about," Granny Pearl said with a cheeky grin, "is that I had to wait till the book was on the market to read it." She wagged a gnarled finger at Abby. "Next time I want an advance copy. Family should have some privileges, you know." She turned to her friends. "After all, I taught this girl everything she knows. Well, almost everything."
The other women tittered.
"And if you do another book, we want a special chapter for seniors," Gran said.
The others muttered an amen, gray heads bobbing in unison.
"Gran, does Grandpa know you're here?"
Her granny laughed and flapped a hand over her chest dramatically. "Heavens, no, we told the men it was our bingo night." Granny looped her arm through Abby's. "Now, as much as I love your granddaddy Herbert, after sixty years of being with the same man, things are gettin'... well, I hate it admit it, but they're sort of stale."
This she did not need to hear.
But she loved her grandmother, and the women were dead serious, so Abby quickly prepared a round of tea laced with brandy for all of them and offered the women her best advice.
As they filed out two hours later, giggling about stopping by one of the sex-toy shops in Buckhead, she murmured a silent prayer that the women's partners were up to the wild romps the ladies had planned.
And that none of them had to call the ER before their escapades ended.
Thank God her sisters were behaving themselves now; in fact they were the only stable ones in the family.
* * *
"I cannot believe I let you convince me to come to this gay bar." Victoria glared at Chelsea as they entered Pete's Prism, a trendy club decorated in the color palette of the rainbow. Loud music assaulted her, along with the scent of cigarette smoke, liquor, and exotic fragrances.
"I told you what happened last time," Chelsea said in a hiss. "Do you want me fending off advances from women bodybuilders and wrestlers?"
"I have a feeling you can handle yourself, sis.
"
Chelsea glanced at her as she hopped onto a feathery bar stool, her glitter and sequins catching in the flicker of the strobe light, nearly blinding Victoria. "Thank you, Victoria."
Victoria grabbed a napkin, wiped the bar stool, then pulled herself onto the seat, wincing at the squeal of Chelsea's borrowed pleather pants as they shifted to hug her legs while she sat down. Caged dancers moved obscenely, their buffed bodies revealing more skin than Victoria had seen since she'd been on the swim team her freshman year in high school.
"Ladies, what'll you have?" The bartender, a slender guy in his twenties with a goatee, propped his elbows on the bar and grinned as if he knew they were fakes. At least Victoria hoped he knew they were fakes.
"Bottled water," Victoria said.
Chelsea frowned at her as if she were hopeless. "Two cosmopolitans."
"But, Chelsea—"
"We're traveling by taxi. Relax. You might have fun."
Victoria's gaze scanned the wall-to-wall people plastered against one another, gyrating in various contortions as they danced. "I seriously doubt it."
Chelsea handed her the drink and she sipped, begrudgingly admitting it was tasty. Strong but tasty. Chelsea angled her stool to imply that she and Victoria were a couple and Victoria nearly choked. "My boss would die if he saw me here."
Chelsea winked. "You could tell him you're working a case."
"This is not how I work."
"But technically you could be, since you're looking for a criminal."
Victoria sighed. "True."
A handsome black man wearing a purple silk jacket and a sharp black hat inched his way onto the stool beside Chelsea and gave her the eye. "Hey, haven't seen you ladies in here before."
Victoria panicked. "We—"
"We're new," Chelsea said, kicking Victoria on the heel.
"You are some fine specimen, girl." He raked his gaze over Chelsea from head to toe, then slid a card from his jacket pocket. "You ever do any strippin'?"
Victoria coughed into her drink, and her sister glared at her.
"No, but I'm an actress."
The man winked. "Well, well. I should have known." He flagged the bartender and indicated Chelsea's drink. "Make the next round on me."
"That's not necessary," Chelsea said. "But thank you."
He nodded. "You decide you want to dance, check out the Blackhorse Club on Tenth. Tell the manager Horace sent you." He winked. "Pays good, sweetheart. Especially for someone with your talents."
Victoria nudged her, daring the man to challenge her. "We really should go."
The man laughed and wove through the crowd. Chelsea narrowed her eyes at Victoria. "What in the hell is wrong with you?"
"He wanted you to work as a stripper," Victoria said in a hiss. "Or worse. I bet he was a pimp."
"You're overreacting," Chelsea said, blowing it off. "Now, let's remember the reason we came." She tossed a killer smile at the bartender. "Have you seen a man named Lenny Gulliver hanging out in here?"
"Sure." The bartender poured two glasses of Chardonnay while he talked. "Used to come in here all the time. Word is, he and this guy Johnny used to spend a lot of time in the apartment out back. Johnny does the books for the club, so he gets his apartment rent-free."
"Really?" Chelsea sipped her drink. "Does that guy Johnny still live there?"
"Sure. Might be home now, but I doubt it."
Chelsea thanked the man, finished her drink, then leaned over and whispered, "Let's go check it out."
Victoria pushed her drink away. A beefy woman in all black had been eyeing her. "Sure, anything to escape this place."
They paid the bartender and slipped out, then circled around to the rear of the building and found the apartment. The wooden structure looked dark, the curtains shielding the inside. Chelsea reached up and knocked. No one answered, so she knocked again, to no avail. She pointed to the open window. The inside was dark, a musty odor floating out.
Chelsea grinned. "Let's go in and see if we find something that might lead to Lenny."
"Are you crazy? Last I looked, breaking and entering was illegal."
"Where is your sense of adventure?" Chelsea pointed to the opening. "Besides, we're not breaking anything."
"Except the law," Victoria muttered as Chelsea crawled headfirst through the window, her bare legs dangling out, her spiked shoes clinking onto the ground. She scooted on her belly, kicking to move forward. "Damn, I'm stuck."
"What?" A siren wailed in the distance.
"I'm stuck. Shove the window open some more."
Victoria whispered, "Just get out and let's go. I hear a siren."
Chelsea squirmed and kicked but couldn't budge herself. "I can't. Push the window up some more."
The sirens wailed louder, coming closer. A bad premonition engulfed Victoria. "God, Chelsea, I think the police are coming here. We have to go."
Chelsea kicked wildly. "Then hurry!"
Victoria reached up to the window and shoved, but just as she did, police cars screeched into the parking lot and several policemen unloaded, a few slipping to the front entrance, a couple inching around back.
"Oh, God." She must have been insane to have listened to Chelsea. "They're raiding the place."
Chelsea dragged herself forward, her butt sticking up in the air as she tried to lunge inside.
"Don't move, ladies. You're under arrest."
Victoria and Chelsea froze as two police officers in uniform strode toward them, their flashlights shining in Victoria's face and highlighting the only visible part of Chelsea, her backside. Victoria closed her eyes, mortified.
Her entire career had just gone down the drain.
* * *
A clattering noise in the tiny plot serving as Abby's backyard jerked Hunter's attention to the rear of her house. Was an intruder behind her house?
Hunter paused and listened, but the sound faded. Still, concerned about a prowler, he slowly crept around the hedges flanking the yard and peered over the bushes. A short, bony man wearing a cheap suit was stooped over, plundering through Abby Jensen's garbage. Hunter frowned and studied the man, surprised when his rubber-gloved hands extracted pair after pair of brightly colored thong underwear from a garbage bag. What the hell was Abby doing throwing away all that lingerie?
A black cat hissed at Hunter's feet, suddenly lunging sharp claws into the skin at his ankle. Hunter yelped. The intruder dropped the bag and pivoted, but Hunter lowered his head below the top of the bushes. He clenched his jaw, and with one hand plucked the cat from his jeans leg.
He'd recognize the shifty man anywhere! Mo Jo Brown, a low-rent PI. Last he'd heard, Brown worked for the mob—more specifically for a guy named Eddy Vinelli.
What the hell was he doing pawing through Abby's garbage?
* * *
Abby was just waving good-bye to Granny Pearl and the other ladies as they climbed into the church van when a loud clatter rang out from her backyard. Good grief, was that alley cat prowling in her garbage again?
Not wanting the cat to tear open the bag and strew her garbage everywhere, as it had done last week, she hurried to the back door, flipped on the light, and ran outside.
Her heart thudded as she halted on the porch. A beady-eyed little man with a thick, bulbous nose and bushy eyebrows was on his knees pawing through her garbage, several pairs of the thongs Lenny had given her dangling around his arm like charm bracelets.
What kind of pervert was this guy? Some kind of psycho panty thief?
She backed up slowly, hoping to call 911 before the prowler spotted her, but the porch light flickered and he jerked up like a wild animal caught in a pair of headlights. His dark, eerie gaze met hers.
Abby shivered.
A menacing leer curved his mouth, the light from a cigarette glowing like a pinpoint in the dark. She pressed a fist to her mouth to stifle a scream, gasping when Harry Henderson suddenly stepped from the shadows of the live oak tree, yanked the man by his collar, and dragge
d him out of the yard.
Abby ran inside, grabbed her cell phone, then sprinted to the window to see what was happening.
* * *
Hunter towered over Brown as he dragged him through the bushes. "What are you doing snooping around Abby Jensen's garbage?"
Brown's beady eyes narrowed. Hunter recognized the scent of fear and the act of bravado; the man was scared witless. His thin, reedy body shook like a young sapling in the wind.
"None of your business," Brown said in a hiss.
"I'm making it my business—"
"What are you doing here, Stone?" Brown cut his eyes toward Abby's house. "On a story?"
Figuring he had the intimidation factor on his side, Hunter ignored the PI's question. "I asked you why you were pawing through the lady's garbage. Looking for something in particular?"
"Harry?"
Hunter froze, his hand tightening to a choke hold on Brown's collar. Brown's eyebrows rose as if he'd discovered something important.
Abby suddenly appeared around the corner, her cell phone raised like a weapon. "What's going on?" Her gaze shot from Hunter to Brown.
"I found this creep plundering your trash," Hunter said. "I thought he might be trying to break in."
Abby gestured toward Brown to answer. "I'm a private investigator, ma'am. I'd like to ask you some questions."
"I..." Abby's voice cracked. "Then you should have used the door. Now leave before I call the police."
"But—"
"You heard the lady," Hunter said harshly.
Abby frowned, her eyebrows pinching together. "What are you doing here, Harry?"
Brown's eyes flared, and Hunter knew the PI had noticed Abby didn't use his real name. The sleezy PI opened his mouth, ready to give Hunter away, but Hunter shot him a warning look and loosened his grip. He hated to let the damn man go before squeezing some answers from him, but he had to keep his identity a secret.
Brown seized advantage of the moment, yanked his hand free, and ran down the street like a rooster after a hen. Abby backed toward the porch, still wary.
"What are you doing here, Harry?"
He brushed his hands down his shirt to rid himself of the stench of Brown's hands. "Your sister called me about another interview. I dropped by so we could firm up our schedule, but I heard this creep prowling around back. I didn't want him to bother you."
