Linda told the children not to touch anything, then waited while a man with his back to them showed a hairy customer a handgun of some kind. Criminals, probably. Derelicts, for sure.
“Aunt Tavey, come look,” Maggie said, her voice high with excitement. Octavia walked over to a glass case to see what had her niece so enraptured.
Of course—tiaras.
She crouched to examine them. White, pink, gold, and silver, studded with rhinestones and flowers and colored paste gems, glistening under the lights like the Crown Jewels. Most of them were of inferior quality, but there were some standouts, perhaps college-level pageant awards.
“Aren’t they awesome?” Maggie asked, breathless.
“Yes, they are.” Octavia wished she could buy the entire case for the little girl. Two days ago, she could’ve.
Dammit, she hated being poor!
“I see we have a budding Miss America on our hands.”
Octavia looked up to see the mocking grin of a dark haired ponytailed man. His arms were covered with colorful—and lewd—tattoos. A memory chord strummed in her head, then she remembered—the ill-mannered thug who’d insinuated himself next to her in the pew at the funeral.
She straightened. “You!”
“Last time I looked.”
Her mouth tightened. “I should’ve known you would run a place like this.”
“If you mean profitable, then thank you.” He smiled wider. “Linda tells me you’re her sister.”
Octavia looked across the room to where Linda and Jarrod were perusing musical instruments.
She lifted her chin. “Yes.” She gathered Maggie next to her. “And yes, I have no doubt that my niece will someday be Miss America.”
“I was talking about you.”
She glared. “If you must know, I was Miss Kentucky.”
“Were you now? What decade was that?”
Fury rose in her chest. “Of all the insufferable—”
He interrupted her with a laugh. “I’m Grim Hollister. And you are?”
“Leaving,” she chirped. “Come along, Maggie.”
“Too bad,” he said, then nodded to the rear of his shop. “I keep all the good stuff in the back case.”
She scoffed “I seriously doubt that you know what ‘good stuff’ is.”
Before she could react, he picked up her hand and squinted at her rings. “I’d say the emerald would make the grade.”
Okay, so the plebian knew something about gemstones. The man was probably a thief.
He made a dubious noise. “But he got duped on the sapphire. Matches your eyes, though.”
She yanked her hand back. How dare he criticize the jewelry her husband had given her? “Linda,” she called, “Maggie and I are heading to lunch.”
“We’re right behind you,” Linda said, pulling Jarrod away.
“Come back sometime,” Grim said behind her.
Octavia didn’t acknowledge the hoodlum, just kept walking.
Jesus God. How depressing was her life when a waffle was the highlight of her day?
Chapter Twelve
“I NEED SEVEN bags of Doritos and four Clark bars.” Linda held out her hand, but when nothing landed in it, she looked over to find Octavia sitting in a chair of the break room on the fourth floor of an office building in which she was not employed.
With her feet propped up on a table.
Eating a Clark bar.
“What are you doing?” Linda hissed.
“My feet are killing me.”
“That’s why you don’t wear four-inch heels to fill vending machines!”
“Filling vending machines is your job, not mine.”
“I could’ve sworn you said you’d help me—you know, in exchange for the whole room and board thing.” Linda walked over to a cardboard box and removed the items herself. Her feet hurt, too—along with her entire body, from lifting and squatting and twisting. But she had to keep moving so she didn’t have time to stop and think.
About how lousy the weekend had been, sharing space with Octavia and her mountain of clothes.
About how lonely she was now that Sullivan’s absence was starting to sink in.
About how desperately she needed this tedious job.
“What building is this?” Octavia asked, gesturing to the nice wood tables and tiled floor. “It’s a pretty snazzy break room.”
“From all the security we had to go through to get in, I assume it’s a government building of some kind. I saw signs for cold check enforcement.”
“We should stop by—maybe they have a photo of dear old dad on their wall of fame.”
Linda angled her head. “A little help, please? This is our last stop. If we hurry, we can stop by the agency to see what Klo has on that background check.”
Octavia’s expression went tense, but she lowered her feet. “Okay.”
“And stop eating the merchandise.”
“I’ll pay for it!” Octavia stood and brushed off her dress. After tossing the candy wrapper, she walked back to the box of potato chips and candy bars they’d carried in. “What do you need?”
Linda counted the empty slots in the large springs that delivered the items to the front of the machine and dropped them. “Five Baked Lays, five peanut butter crackers, and three giant cookies.”
Octavia rummaged in the box and handed over the items. “This sucks.”
Linda fisted her hands and started counting to ten, but only made it to five. “I know. I’m here, too.”
“I’m just saying you’re too smart and too talented to be doing a job a monkey could do.”
“Yeah, well, lucky for me, monkeys don’t have to work for a living.”
But she knew what Octavia meant. When they were kids struggling together and both dreaming of better days, it hadn’t included this particular little scene, of them as grown women, stocking snacks for the grownups who’d actually made something out of themselves.
“If you ask me, I think we should tackle those open cases of Sullivan’s.”
Linda stared, then gave a little laugh. “That’s insane.”
“Not really. I looked over the files and they’re lame, Nancy Drew-type stuff. You and I can do it.”
Linda frowned. “Those files are supposed to be confidential. By all rights, even I shouldn’t be looking at them.”
“Jesus, Linda, who am I going to tell?”
She dismissed the previous ramblings, but Octavia’s question seemed to be more deeply rooted. She realized all this time Octavia hadn’t been on the phone with friends or neighbors or...anyone. No one seemed particularly concerned about her absence.
Linda forced levity into her voice. “You do have friends, don’t you?”
Octavia was suddenly fascinated by the ingredients in a bag of Fritos. “Of course I have friends. At the club. And...all around Louisville. Richard and I do a lot of entertaining.”
She allowed the present tense verb to slide by...hopefully Richard was simply on a mental health excursion until their accountant sorted things out. He would probably call Octavia any minute now to smooth things over.
A suited businessman buzzed into the break room and made his way to the coffee machine. While the dark liquid dripped out, his gaze strayed to Octavia.
Her sister was a beautiful woman, Linda acknowledged. Her shoulder-length dark hair and vivid blue eyes were an unusual combination, and her features were sculpted into perfect proportions. Her skin was dark-complexioned and smooth and her lips were full, although she didn’t smile nearly enough. Today she was impeccably clad in a red tailored shirtdress and sky-high black heels. With her tasteful and expensive jewelry, her French manicure, and Coach bag, she could easily pass for an executive working in this building.
The ugly Mellon Vending lanyard notwithstanding.
When the man noticed it, his body language changed to dismissive, but it didn’t stop him from stealing a glance at Octavia’s butt when he left.
“What about you?” Octavia
asked.
Linda pushed the final chip-loaded spring back into place, then closed the door to the vending machine and locked it. “What about me?”
“Do you have friends?”
“Sure I do. I have...the neighbors.”
“That fat obnoxious lady is your friend?”
“Nan’s okay. She’s a little nosy, but she means well. Although, I wouldn’t call us friends, exactly.”
“Then who?”
She picked up one end of the inventory box and waited for Octavia to get the other end before answering. “There are the Logans next door—they have a daughter a couple of years older than Maggie. And I know all the other mothers at school and soccer...most of them, anyway.” Linda thought about her tendency to hang back and not get involved in neighborhood activities—the women’s walking group, for instance.
At Octavia’s dubious look, she felt pressed to further demonstrate her friend-worthiness.
“And there’s Klo. She’s been like a surrogate grandmother to the children.”
“Hmphh...she wasn’t very friendly to me.”
“Maybe that’s because you weren’t very friendly to her.” They moved the unwieldy box toward the elevator. In deference to Octavia’s high heels, Linda walked backward and let her sister walk forward.
“What about your two friends from college?”
Linda smiled. “Alisha and Jackie.”
“Whatever happened to them?”
“Alisha is a sports agent in L.A., and Jackie is a photographer for Marie Claire magazine in Manhattan.”
From Octavia’s expression, she was thinking the same thing Linda was thinking: her friends had glamorous careers, while she had lots of capri pants.
“Have you seen them lately?”
Linda shook her head. “We exchange Christmas cards. They’re both still single...we don’t exactly have a lot in common anymore.”
“Do they know about Sullivan?”
She nodded. “They both called last week. Alisha couldn’t attend the funeral because she was in China with a client. Jackie left a nice voice mail message, said she would visit soon.” They had sounded like she felt—worried about her future. And relieved not to be in her shoes. “What about you, are you still friends with anyone from college?”
“I ran into Emmett Kingsley the other day at Sullivan’s service. He and I cheered together.”
The face of a tall fashionably-dressed man with glasses came to her. “That’s who that was! I thought he looked familiar, but there were so many people I didn’t get to speak to.” Fresh pain stabbed at her—how many people would she never get to thank? “It was nice of him to come. Have you two stayed in touch?”
“Not really.” Octavia gave her a wry smile. “I guess growing up, neither one of us got that whole friendship thing down pat, did we?”
“Guess not,” Linda conceded. The whole sisterhood thing was still a work in progress, too. She squinted. “There was another man at the service I can’t put my finger on—tall, good-looking. I thought I saw you talking to him.”
“That was, um, Dunk Duncan.”
“Dunk Duncan, the basketball player? That’s right—you two used to date.”
Octavia’s chin went up. “We never dated. He chased me, but I didn’t want to be caught.”
Linda smiled. That was Octavia, alright—she’d always led men in whatever direction she wanted them to go. Poor girl—this situation with Richard had to be eating at her pride.
They carried the box to the elevator, but a crowd of people were waiting.
“We have to take the stairs,” Linda said.
“We’ll squeeze in.”
“That’s one of the rules. We’re not supposed to intrude on people going about their business.”
“I can’t take the stairs in these shoes!”
Linda sighed. “I’ll take the box and meet you in the lobby.”
“But—”
“Just go.” Linda hefted the box out in front of her and wrangled it into the stairwell, which was ten degrees warmer than the rest of the building. She looked over the side and saw the six flights of stairs extending below. At least she was carrying it down instead of up. She proceeded to half-push, half-drag the box down the narrow stairway, knowing with every bump that chips were shattering in their foil bags.
About halfway down Linda sat down on a step to catch her breath. The tears came out of nowhere. She was sweating, her back ached, and if she’d done everything right and her accounting sheets were approved when she returned to the warehouse, she stood to make about seventy dollars for the day.
From her big discount clearance purse, she pulled a tissue out of a crushed box of Kleenex and blew her nose. Her phone rang and she managed to dig it out of the bottom.
Oakley Hall.
Her finger hovered over the Talk button. She longed to talk to him, if only to speak with someone who missed Sullivan as much as she did.
But she was still too raw.
She hit the Cancel button to send him to her voice mail.
Linda put away the phone and sniffed mightily. She had to figure out how to get through this mess on her own. She reached into the inventory box, pulled out a Snickers bar and peeled it like a banana. As she chewed, she considering her alternatives, which were slim and few.
And fading fast.
Chapter Thirteen
OCTAVIA HELD HERSELF against the elevator wall to keep from touching the smelly bodies around her. “There’s a thing called deodorant, people.”
Glares settled on her, but she didn’t care. What a humiliating day, stocking junk food in vending machines, foraging change and dollar bills out of the money boxes like peasants.
Linda couldn’t live like this...something had to give.
The elevator doors opened and the crowd surged forward, thank God. She waited until the masses exited, ripped off the dreadful lanyard she’d worn all day, and walked out.
Directly into Dunk Duncan.
He reached out his long arms and caught her as she bounced off his big body. His expression changed from surprise to recognition.
“Octavia! What are you doing here?”
She swallowed her dismay and conjured up a smile while she scanned for Linda. Thankfully, her sister hadn’t arrived yet with the telltale box of snacks. “I’m...here with Linda,” she said. “Family matters.” She discreetly slid the lanyard into her bag.
His handsome face rearranged into concern, then he glanced around. “Where is Linda?”
“We, um, were separated.”
“How is she doing?”
Good question. It was clear from her swollen morning eyes that Linda spent the better part of her nights crying, but during the days, she held herself remarkably together. If she were in her sister’s shoes, she wouldn’t be getting out of bed in the mornings. “Under the circumstances, she’s doing okay.”
“No woman should have to lose her husband.”
Octavia squirmed—or misplace him. “What are you doing here?”
“My office is across the street. I’m here to meet with an assistant D.A. to talk about a case. My agency does a lot of work for the county prosecutor’s office.”
“That sounds exciting.” Damn, but the man could wear a black sport coat.
“Guess I’m still an adrenaline junkie,” he said with an easy smile. “This job suits me better than pushing paper.”
A jab at her attorney husband, who pushed enough paper to fill the city dump? “So, tell me, Dunk—what makes a good private investigator?”
He pursed his mouth. “A curious mind, good observation skills, and the ability to read people.”
“Really?”
“I’ve always prided myself on knowing what people want before they know it themselves.” His voice was rich with innuendo.
Octavia arched an eyebrow. “I thought that was called E.S.P.”
He laughed. “Well...some people have accused me of having special powers.”
“I’ll just
bet.” Wanting to break away before Linda appeared, she moved toward the door. “I really have to go. It was nice seeing you.”
“Are you going to be in town for a while?”
“Maybe,” she hedged. “It depends on how long Linda needs me.”
“Let’s have lunch.” He retrieved a business card from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her.
“I’ll have to get back to you.” Her pulse blipped when she saw Linda emerge from the stairwell. “Goodbye, Dunk.”
“Goodbye, Octavia.” He waved and turned toward the elevator, but to her chagrin, he caught sight of Linda and, after doing a double-take, rushed to help her with the box.
She sighed...the man was chivalrous to a fault.
Octavia hurried over to intervene. “Linda, this is Dunk Duncan.”
“We were just introducing ourselves,” Dunk said. “I explained that Sullivan and I were professional colleagues.” He squinted at the cardboard box of potato chips. “Are you...stocking vending machines?” He gave an incredulous little laugh that morphed into the most awkward moment ever.
“Yes, we are,” Linda said pointedly.
Dunk looked at Octavia and she wanted to die.
“Oh.” He blinked, then recovered. “Well, then...where are you parked? I’ll carry this out for you.”
“That’s not necessary—” Octavia began.
“I insist,” he said, then took the box from Linda. “Actually, Mrs. Smith, I wanted to talk to you.”
Linda looked wary—good girl. “What is it you want to talk to me about, Mr. Duncan?”
“Call me Dunk.”
“Dunk,” she relented.
He glanced around at the people zigzagging by them. “Perhaps outside would be more private.”
Linda shot Octavia a puzzling look. Octavia lifted her shoulders in the tiniest of shrugs. She followed Linda and Dunk stiffly, wishing she could hit the rewind button for the last five minutes.
Two Guys Detective Agency (humorous mystery series--book 1) Page 10
