Everybody Loves Evie

by Beth Ciotta

  I was insanely glad that he assumed and didn’t ask. It meant I didn’t have to lie—or, rather, admit to the truth. Yes, my feelings for Arch ran deep. Bad news for me. He doesn’t do relationships. No matter what he says, don’t believe him. That’s Baron Archibald Robert Duvall talking, not Arch Duvall.

  Right.

  I gulped more wine.

  “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to give up a manor in Scotland for a ranch in Greenville,” Dad said, focusing back on Arch.

  “Actually, it’s a stone cottage, but—”

  “Cottage.” He winked. “Sure. Well,” he said on a long sigh, “at least my little girl won’t have to kill herself trying to make a living in the casinos. I imagine you can open a whole lot of doors for a talented girl like Evelyn.” He glanced toward the stage. “Doors beyond my reach.”

  A big fat lump clogged my throat. “Dad, I know what you had in mind, but—”

  “Bah.” He waved off another emotional scene. “Like I said, life’s full of surprises. Just know that if this—” he indicated Arch and I “—fizzles, this—” he indicated the stage “—is here.”

  I wanted to throw my arms around him, to hug him for his supreme gesture, but I knew it would only embarrass him. Instead I blinked back tears and drank more wine.

  Thirty minutes and another round later, Arch and I exited the tavern after striking a bargain with Dad. I’d sit in with the house band tomorrow night, just for fun, if he joined us at home for dinner beforehand. Inviting him without asking Mom was going to earn me an ear blistering, but I didn’t care. Especially not after two glasses of wine.

  My head spun, and not just because of the alcohol. Arch had hit it off with my dad as Michael never had. Actually, in all the years we were married, Michael only came home with me once. For him, once was enough. He hadn’t said directly, but I knew he considered Greenville the boonies and its populace yahoos. Which, of course, made me a transplanted yahoo. Maybe that’s why he’d lost interest in me…well, aside from the fact that I was no longer twenty. Maybe he thought I was unworldly. I knew for sure he considered me predictable and conventional.

  I smirked. If he could see me now. A member of a specialized branch of a government agency. Evie Parish: Crime Buster. Heh.

  We were two feet from the car, both lost in our thoughts, when I heard my name.

  “Your mother told me you were in Greenville. Imagine my surprise.”

  Monica Rhodes.

  From the shopping bag looped over her arm, I could see she’d come from the one store in town that carried lingerie similar to that of Victoria’s Secret. The thought crossed my mind that that’s where she’d run into Mom, although I couldn’t and didn’t want to imagine the woman who’d given me birth in anything but flannel.

  “Thought you had a booking,” she added in a condescending tone.

  “That particular engagement has been postponed.” Since it seemed Mom hadn’t spilled the beans, I did. I looped my arm through Arch’s and poured on the calculated charm. “I came home to introduce my boyfriend to my family.”

  “Boyfriend? Oh, that’s right,” she said with a smug smile, “your husband divorced you.”

  “It was mutual, actually.”

  “Really,” she said, devouring Arch with her eyes.

  “Archibald Duvall,” he said, offering his hand in greeting. “And you are?”

  “Monica Rhodes.” She squeezed his hand, wet her lips. “You’re not from around here.”

  Well, duh.

  “Very astute,” he said with a killer smile. “From Scotland, actually.”

  “What are you doing here in Indiana?”

  “Meeting Evie’s parents.”

  I smiled. “Like I said.”

  “Stunning suit,” she said, ignoring me. “What business are you in, Mr. Duvall?”

  Obviously she thought he was out of my league. “He specializes in charity work,” I answered. “He tries to keep it quiet—so modest—but he doesn’t actually have to do anything.” I leaned forward and whispered. “Old money.” Just in case the black dye she’d been using since she was a teen had seeped through her scalp to her brain, I clarified, “Lots of money.”

  Arch squeezed my arm gently, signaling not to overplay it. No problem. Monica was already hooked.

  “Really?” she said, hand pressed over her heart.

  “My parents’ fault. Inheritance and what have you,” he said with a wink. “Comes with the bloody title.” He motioned to the car then. “We should go, love. Your mum—”

  “Right. About that donation…” I said to Monica as Arch opened the passenger door. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to make a monetary one. I’ll call you tomorrow. Toodles.”

  “Toodles?” Arch said after he buckled in, and steered away from the tavern.

  “I can’t stand her,” I said, shoving on my sunglasses.

  “I gathered. Care to fill me in?”

  “Later. So what did you think of my dad?”

  “What’s not to like? He’s a good man, Evie.”

  “I know. So why did Mom kick him out? Presumably it’s because he bought the tavern against her wishes. But he bought it for me. He knew my divorce shook me emotionally and financially. He knew I was struggling to find work in AC. My insecurities and worries slipped out at my brother’s wedding reception when Dad asked, ‘So how’s it going?’ Normally I would have answered, ‘Fine,’ but I’d had a few glasses of champagne.”

  Arch smiled knowingly. Liquor, even in small doses, unleashed my restrained thoughts and emotions.

  “The point is, he bought the Corner Tavern and refurbished it so I’d have a place to do what I thought I was born to do. Was Mom angry because he was encouraging a profession she despised? Or because he was encouraging me to move home?”

  “You’re making this aboot you, Sunshine. I think it has more to do with them.”

  I flushed. It’s not as though I think the world revolves around me. Jeez. Although artistic types do tend to be self-involved. Hmm…. “Did he say something to you when I went to the ladies’ room?”

  “A comment was made aboot conflicting interests, as well as an argument over relocating. Apparently your ma had visions of flying south. Something aboot a snowbird.”

  I blinked at that. “She wanted to retire to Florida?”

  “She did. He didnae. Then he bought the tavern. I think she resents the result rather than the intent, yeah?”

  I smirked. “You got all of that personal info out of my painfully private dad in the four minutes I was away?”

  He grinned. “It’s a gift.”

  I snorted. “Maybe I should turn you loose on my mom.”

  “Or you could give it a go yourself.” He pulled into my parents’ driveway and cut the engine.

  “Maybe.” I eyed my native abode—home of the repressed, land of the realist. “We’ll be alone tonight, Mom and me, all night.” My stomach knotted at the thought. “Meanwhile you get to plan and connive with Chameleon. I wish I could be in on that.”

  “You’re needed more here,” he said gently.

  Okay, that was sweet. Perceptive and kind. It was also another one of Arch’s gifts. Recognizing a person’s hunger and feeding it. He knew I craved acceptance and a more intimate relationship with Mom. He offered hope and a shot at a dream. The grand manipulator. Only in this instance I didn’t feel manipulated. I felt…

  Oh, no.

  “I should go.” Skin burning, heart racing, I pushed out of the car before he had a chance to unbuckle his seat belt.

  He caught up to me on the cracked sidewalk. “I’ll walk you to the door.” He sounded concerned, which only heightened my anxiety. When he reached for my elbow, I dodged his grasp. Just now I couldn’t withstand a physical zap. I was operating on emotional overload. I blamed the scene with my dad, the confrontation with Monica. The wine.

  This time I walked in without knocking. I almost tripped over Big Red. “What the heck?” Earlier, Beckett had carried my
suitcase upstairs to my bedroom. “Mom?” I called out.

  She came from the direction of the kitchen, fluffing her new do.

  I heard the back door creak shut and my imagination soared.

  “I just knew you’d see her inside,” she said to Arch, cheeks flushed. “A true gentleman. How did you find Greenville, Baron?”

  “No need for formalities,” he said with an easy smile. “Arch suits fine. As for your town, in a way it reminds me of the village of Broxley. Charming.”

  “How nice. And I suppose Evelyn introduced you to Mr. Parish.”

  He nodded. “Also charming.”

  “Most people think so.”

  “Mom,” I broke in, trying not to obsess on who’d just made a hasty retreat. Must’ve been someone strong. No way had she muscled Big Red down a flight of stairs. “What’s my suitcase doing here?”

  “It’s my way of showing you I’m not a prude, Evelyn.”

  The knot in my stomach gnarled tighter.

  “I think you should stay with your boyfriend.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TABASCO AND GINA were sitting at the dining-room table, playing cards when Arch escorted me into the Appleseed Bed-and-Breakfast.

  The house vibrated with the sounds of classic rock. Doobie Brothers.

  “You’re second dealing,” Gina said over the chorus of “Long Train Runnin’.” “It took a couple of hands, but I see it now.” She leaned forward, intent on the deck of cards in Tabasco’s long-fingered hands. “What I can’t tell is whether you’re striking the second card or pushing off.”

  “Pushing off,” he said with a cocky grin.

  “You’re a damn good card mechanic, Tabasco.”

  “You’re a damn scary poker player.”

  She laughed. I’d never heard Gina laugh. “We need to rub off on each other. Let’s go another hand,” she said. “Five-card draw. Jacks to open.”

  Tabasco looked our way, muttered something to Gina.

  She shifted, noted me, the suitcase and frowned. “What the—”

  “Change of plans,” Arch said.

  Gina polished off a Heineken. “I need another beer.”

  Tabasco boxed the cards. Game over. “The pink bedroom’s unclaimed. Probably called the Rose Room, now that I think of it. Roses all over the place. The wallpaper, the curtains, the bedspread. Real girlie. Not that I have anything against flowers…or girls, but—”

  “You’re babbling,” Gina said, pushing out of her chair to shut off the radio.

  The silence made me itch.

  “I’ll rustle up supper.” Tabasco stood and pulled his shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. “You like steak, Twinkie?”

  “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

  “Gotta eat.”

  “Maybe later.” I clasped my throat, coughed. “Think I’m having a relapse.”

  I glanced at the carpeted stairs, desperate to escape. I was in no mood to socialize with the boys or to make nice with Gina. I wasn’t even compelled to explore the renovated mansion, a property that had seen more owners than a pirated movie.

  My mom had booted me out. The height of rejection, even though she swore her intentions were positive. During the twenty-minute ride to the B and B Arch had asked three times if I was okay. Three times I’d answered, “Fine,” even though it felt like Frankenstein had a monster grip on my heart. I kept telling myself that everything happens for a reason and that somehow I’d spin this disappointing turn to my advantage. Since then, I’d come up with two sound motives for Mom showing me the door.

  One: she wanted to marry me off to an aristocrat—and fast. If I couldn’t have a sound career, a financially stable—and noble—husband would do. Or…

  Two: she didn’t want me pestering her about Dad and poking my nose into her…shenanigans.

  Logically it was probably a little of both, and I was trying very hard to be logical. Trying hard not to make it about me, as Arch had pointed out I tend to do. Still, it hurt. We saw each other for a few days every three years. How could she not want to spend every second with me?

  “The Rose Room?” I asked in a distracted voice.

  Unlike Gina, Tabasco looked concerned. “I’ll show you the way, hon.”

  “I’ve got it,” Arch said.

  Although Big Red weighed a ton, he carried the suitcase up the stairs with ease. I followed him down the second-floor hallway, again obsessing on who’d been in the house with Mom. That someone had left via the back door, implying they didn’t want to be seen. My stomach cramped thinking that someone was a no-good womanizer or a conniving hustler. Maybe both.

  Arch opened a door and waved me ahead of him. Tabasco hadn’t been kidding. Roses everywhere. The curtains, the wallpaper, the quilt on the four-poster bed. He’d called it girlie. I called it Victorian. No denying the dominant color was pink. “Lovely,” I said, because it was. This one room had more personality than my entire apartment. Again my stomach cramped. “So where are the owners?”

  “Florida. Second home.” Arch placed Big Red on the padded window seat. “Woody said they only open the Appleseed for business during the summer, yeah?”

  “Makes sense.” I tossed my purse and Lucy tote on the bed. “Who vacations in Greenville, Indiana, anyway?” Although some might enjoy the county fairs and state parks. “So…what? You rented the entire place? Must be costing Chameleon a fortune.”

  “Chameleon’s not footing the bill.”

  That left the AIA or the senator. Or maybe Tabasco had somehow appropriated the property. I didn’t ask. If it was the latter, I didn’t want to know. “I guess Beckett’s still with the senator and his wife.”

  “Probably on his way back by now.” He slid his hands in his pants pockets and I fidgeted under his intense regard. “Sure you dinnae want to join us for dinner?”

  “Will you be discussing the senator’s case?”

  “At some point.”

  Okay, that was vague. That was Arch circling around the subject. He knew I’d jump at sitting in on an actual team meeting, actively participating in the plotting, yet he didn’t invite me. Apparently he only intended to feed me tidbits of information as he saw fit. Back to that need-to-know-basis-only bunk. Again I wrestled with the feeling that he wasn’t keen on my being an active Chameleon.

  If I were in better spirits and up to arguing my motivation and qualifications, I’d challenge his skepticism. The new and improved me wanted to talk my way into that meeting. The depressed and exhausted me lacked the gumption. I knew that, even if I did sit in, my opinions and suggestions, should I have any, wouldn’t be welcome. What did I know about coordinating stings? What experience did I have with poker and card mechanics?

  Except I did have experience. Not from working in their world but mine. I knew magicians who excelled at sleight of hand, which sometimes extended to picking pockets as part of the show. I knew about such things firsthand, as I’d worked a short stint as a magician’s assistant.

  Then there was acting. Making people believe you’re someone else. A form of deception. Only the audience, known in grifterspeak as the mark, got something for their money—a night’s entertainment—as opposed to getting taken for a ride. The lingo, the attitude and certain techniques were different. The smoke-and-mirrors objective the same.

  Distancing myself, I understood why Chameleon didn’t enthusiastically welcome me into the fold. It was the same in my entertainment circle. Say an outsider shows up for a gig cast with “regulars.” Even if the newbie was talented, he or she still had to earn our respect.

  I hadn’t proven myself to Gina or Tabasco. Certainly not to Beckett. I didn’t know what to think about Arch. As always, he had my head spinning.

  He raised a brow and I remembered he’d asked about dinner.

  “Thanks, but I’ve lost my appetite.” Mom didn’t want me around. Gina didn’t want me around. And when it came to nitty-gritty sensitive grifter matters, Arch preferred to keep me at arm’s length. I sat on the edge of t
he mattress, bristled at his assessing silence. “Please don’t ask if I’m okay. I just need some downtime. It’s been a long and eventful day.” As action-packed and ludicrous as any episode of 24.

  “If you change your mind—”

  “I won’t. But…thanks.”

  He lingered on the threshold, those light-colored eyes studying me with an intensity that quickened my pulse.

  Even though he’d disappointed me, the pull to move into his arms for a comforting hug was powerful. I sat tight.

  “Good night, Sunshine.”

  “Good night.”

  He left and closed the door behind him.

  I sat on the four-poster bed staring around the absurdly cheery room, thinking I’d felt more miserable. Just not recently.

  MILO WALKED IN AT the end of dinner. From the looks of the remnants, the team had feasted on steak, baked potatoes and mixed vegetables. A hearty Midwestern meal.

  “Saved you a plate,” Tabasco said. “It’s in the oven. I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks.” Exhausted, he smiled a little, thinking that when Pops wasn’t playing caretaker, there was always Jimmy Tabasco.

  Arch studied him, then rose. “I’ll grab a round of beers. Dinnae start the fun withoot us, yeah?”

  His tone was light, but Milo sensed concern. He tossed the car keys on a small table, moved into the dining area and sat next to Gina. “I must look like shit.”

  “You look tired, Jazzman.”

  “Long day.” A day of disappointment and realization.

  Easier to write off Mrs. Clark when she’d merely been a name. Meeting her face-to-face only drove home Gina’s observation that even the privileged suffer shame and remorse. Although he suspected Mrs. Clark’s anxiety stemmed more from the fact that she’d introduced potential scandal into her husband’s life rather than from the squandered money. Milo had assessed her regret and panic as genuine. She’d been scolded, all right, maybe threatened. By her husband, his advisors. She didn’t care about the money, but her husband did. They all wanted to avoid a scandal.

  Milo wanted to avoid pissing off Crowe. A conclusion he’d come to on the long, boring drive. Just because he was considering leaving the AIA, didn’t mean he had the right to make that choice for the entire team. Everyone, including Arch, wanted to tackle this case. Fine. They’d tackle it. Then he’d make his decision.