by Brynne Asher
At KU, she caught the eye of her husband, Trevor Harper, who to this day creeps me way the hell out. He comes from money and apparently, lots of it. He majored in partying and loose girls, but Megan was in-love the minute she met him and caught his eye.
He’s not bad looking, taller than average but not tall, ashy blond hair that’s borderline over-styled and his body is nothing to sneeze at, either. He and Megan work out with a trainer three times a week. He stays fit and she stays boney thin which she says he likes and she tells me how much he likes it way more than I like. He never graduated from KU, or anywhere else for the matter, but apparently does well enough at whatever he does to set his wife and three little kids up in what you can only call for the size of my hometown of Omaha, a “McMansion.”
They reside in an over 7,000 square foot home just outside of town, sitting on 15 acres with a tennis court and pool. Although it’s almost thirty years old, it was mostly renovated when they purchased it 3 years ago. The Tudor style home, faced with light stone and dark heavy trim is sprawling and inset in a mass of trees so far off the road, you would never know it’s there. It’s late August, the English Ivy is still in full bloom creeping up one side of the house where the long winding lane leads you to a side load four car garage, with an additional two detached from the house. I have no idea what Trevor does to support such a lifestyle. All Megan ever says is, “Investments, side businesses, ya know, stuff like that.”
Megan is a couple inches shorter than me, I’m five-seven but my four-inch snake skin print heels boost me close to five eleven. They’re no Manolo’s, but I still think they kick sexy-shoe ass. She’s also way skinnier than me. I’m not blind to the fact I’ve lots of great curves, but with those curves comes a body that doesn’t like carbs and needs exercised routinely to keep my curves in the right places. Megan has very blonde hair with perpetually perfect roots. I, on the other hand, have embraced my natural dark blonde thick locks for what they are and seem to make it work in a Jennifer Aniston kind of way. Well, when she has dark blonde hair, that is. It seems to work with my olive skin tone that I get from the Italian side of my family, so I go with it.
Megan looks up at me with a face full of mock-shock. “You rock Gabrielle Carpino. You’re going to be listed in the ‘Laundry Rooms Hall of Fame,’ known as the ‘The Laundry Room Goddess,’ and when people Google laundry rooms, nothing will come up besides ‘Gabrielle Carpino, Laundry Room Legend.’” At this point, her hands were on her hips with full-on Laundry Room Attitude.
Trying not to be snarky while laughing at the absurdity of it all, I try to throw a genuine smile her way. “Meg, girlie, it means a lot to me you’re this happy.”
The room does rock, if I do say so myself. The lightly distressed cream cabinets that cover the perimeter of two walls are custom made, with the above counter cabinets going clear to the twelve-foot ceiling, all dressed with heavy iron knobs and pulls. The top rows of square cabinets have inlayed iron and seeded glass for display. I know, I know, display in a laundry room is a little OTT, but these cabinets are sweet and deserve to be shown off.
Because of the vast space, I added a four by eight-foot island in the middle of the room with matching cabinetry, but instead of cream they are stained a brown so dark they’re ebony. Over the island hangs a huge, oblong chandelier. It. Is. Awesome. It’s crafted of dark heavy iron with scrolls and swirls, tons of little lights woven in with just enough crystals hanging to soften the edges to balance out the heaviness of the iron for an almost feminine feel.
The counter tops are polished travertine, as Megan simply couldn’t find a granite she could live with. They’re light with veining of browns, greys, and blacks, housing a deep farm house porcelain sink on the long wall.
It might be weird, but I have a thing for sinks and this one is seriously the bomb. Single basin—so deep and wide you could bathe a medium size dog in there easily. Not that Megan would ever do this, of course. It’s finished off with a tall, arched faucet with a pull-down spray nozzle.
The counter tops continue over the front load, stainless steel washer and dryer. The heavily tumbled marble travertine tiles on the floors are laid in a Venetian pattern and are three shades darker than the counters. The room is spotted with seeded glass apothecary jars, a gift from me, of all sizes and shapes filled with items such as clothes pins, cleaning powders and cleaners. I am sure Megan will never use any of them, I’m not even sure she even does her own laundry, but they’re cute and cried out to me when I saw them since they matched the seeded glass in the upper cabinets.
Megan, in her hot pink sundress to match her perfect shoes, goes on. “Seriously, you don’t charge enough. It’s amazing.”
This does make me roll my eyes because I charge plenty for my services.
“Please, Megan. You’ve paid your invoice—you know that’s not true. I just stopped by with the final touches, do you like the apothecary jars?” At the end of any project, I always find a little something-something for the space as a gift to my clients, a thank you from me.
“I never would have thought to put them there myself. Looks like a magazine, I can’t wait for Trevor to see it. He’s on his way out of town this morning, had a quick trip come up at the last minute and left right before you got here. My girls are here cleaning so I’ll get them in here to show them around. The kids’ll be back soon from the park with Pam and we’ll get their stuff loaded into the lockers.” As she walks around the island still admiring her new room, she turns to me. “My next project is the playroom in the basement. As soon as Trev gives me the green light, I’ve got to get on your calendar. I don’t know if it’s too much to hope for, but it would be great if we could have that done by Christmas. I’m thinking Pottery Barn-ish, ya know, but Gabby-style. I’m sure you can come up with something even better. Why you ever went into accounting, I’ll never know.”
Just when I was about to pretend to check my calendar, knowing full and well there’s no way I can fit that project in before Christmas with the five others I am currently juggling, we heard the ruckus. The ruckus that led to me being cuffed and tossed upon Megan’s sofa by the tall, dark, big guy with messy-sexy hair.
As I calm down while retracing my crazy-ass morning, I’m finally able to take in the activity around me. There has to be six to eight of these police-like guys prowling around, in and out of the room. I look across the entry way to the dining room to see Megan’s three cleaning ladies seated in dining chairs separated by a good amount of space, all looking pale and freaked. I find myself wondering if I look the same, all the while, pondering where they put Megan.
“Miz Carpino?”
I look up to see an older man in his black macho police uniform. He’s big in a way you can tell he could still take down a bad guy even though he’s carrying some weight that isn’t muscle. His salt and peppered hair is short and the smile lines coming out from his eyes make him seem a little less scary in his black formidable police getup.
“Yes?”
He’s walking toward me holding my purse, what looks like either my driver’s license or Conceal and Carry Permit, and my little Bodyguard Smith and Wesson 380. If you could call a gun cute, mine would be super cute. It’s small, fits my hand well and almost every purse I own. Gun manufacturers have begun making guns in different colors in recent years to attract women buyers. But this was a gift from my uncles and even though there was a little pink handgun I had my eye on, they put all three of their right feet down simultaneously and denied me the pink little gun. They said this is the one I need, it has a safety, a laser, and a long trigger pull that my uncle Gino said, “You’re gonna have to mean to pull that trigger, sweet girl. No accidents with that trigger,” but added, “besides, we’re men and hunters, Gabby. We’re not buying a pink gun.”
So, there you go. I own a black gun. But black matches everything, right?
“Your C and C checks out, but we gotta keep this until we’re done here and if you’re released, you can have it back,” h
e informs me tersely.
“If I’m released? If I’m released? What’s going on? Am I under arrest? And why am I handcuffed?” I shoot off every thought that pops into my head.
“We’ve got a warrant to search the home and land. Agent Ortiz will be around in a sec to ask you some questions. If he clears you, you can go.”
“Can I call someone?” I shoot back.
“Maybe in a minute,” Salt and Pepper says.
“Well, I know my rights.” I decide haughty is the way to go. “I’m not answering any questions until I speak with my attorney. I’d like to make that call now…please…if I may.”
I could be haughty all the live-long day, but in the end my mother’s southern manners that are so deeply ingrained, win out.
Salt and Pepper looks down at me and his lips barely tip. “Sure. You can call your attorney.”
The way he says it I’m surprised he didn’t hold up both hands making little air quotes. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he found me amusing.
“Thank you, my phone is in my purse,” I inform and he starts rummaging for my phone.
“Ortiz,” Salt and Pepper yells while digging through my things. “This one wants to make a call, can I uncuff her? Says she won’t talk to any one until she calls her,” he looks up at me before finishing, “attorney.”
Yep, he’s clearly making fun of me. I give him a glare and small frown.
“Yeah,” I hear coming from around the corner. I look up to see Hot Helmet Hair, who also must be known as Agent Ortiz. Hmm, maybe I was right about the Latin in him. “Just don’t let her move, we’ve gotta find out why she’s here.”
Salt and Pepper comes over with a ring of keys, I turn as ladylike as I can in my pencil skirt with my hands cuffed behind my back and he bends over to unlock me. Since I’ve never been cuffed before, I never would have thought that removing cuffs would feel so damn good.
He hands me my phone, I slide the lock on the screen, go to my favorites, find who I need and hit call. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I pull myself up to full posture and cross my legs hoping to muster a bit of decorum after being squished up against a wall, searched for weapons and cuffed. Looking up, I see Agent Ortiz and Salt and Pepper towering over me. Agent Ortiz is observing me with a cocked eyebrow with an incredulous look.
Dropping my head to find some make believe privacy, I say the only thing I can say when Tony answers. “Hey…um…I’m in a tiny bit of a situation.”
Chapter Two
You’re An Accountant?
I hear the front door open, look up, and find Tony stalking into Megan’s entry way wearing an infuriated expression. Always the picture of perfection at work, he’s now lost the suit jacket, his tie is loose with the top button undone with the sleeves rolled. His ultra-dark brown wavy hair is rustled and I can tell he’s been running his hands through it.
Even though we are on the heels of August and it’s still freaking hot outside, I doubt his state of appearance has much to do with the weather. I wonder if he’s pissed for being pulled out of a meeting with a new client? Or maybe he’s pissed because his favorite cousin—and although he won’t admit it—one of his favorite people ever, has been caught in the middle of some big raid, being detained and questioned by two federal agencies. I’m praying it’s the latter. I’ve never been a fan of a pissed off Anthony Carpino, Jr.
The last forty-five minutes have been interesting to say the least. As I’ve sat here on Megan’s super comfortable sofa, there’s been a flurry of activity around the house.
In addition to the original group of big guys dressed in black, a second wave of plain clothed officials with badges and guns on their belts have breezed through. Everyone’s wearing plastic gloves and searching through everything. And I mean everything. Seeing as the FBI and ATF are present, I can only assume this is something big on the scales of bad, which freaks me way the hell out. Although Megan and I aren’t super close, we are friends and I would never in all my life guess her to be involved in something illegal. That shit happens to people on the news, not my people.
I hear Megan throwing a fit from the other room and I’ve offered up many prayers of thanks in the last forty-five minutes that the big guys decided to separate us. Listening to her go on about calling Trevor, trying to find Pam the babysitter to tell her to keep the kids away, trying to figure out who her attorney is so she can call him—yadda, yadda, yadda—was wearing on my last nerve. Needless to say, I’m grateful we’ve been separated.
The housecleaners have been questioned and after foregoing attorneys, have been released. They hightailed it out of here as fast as they could, looking relieved to say the least. I heard them whispering to one other while waiting and it’s safe to say Megan’s not going to get the chance to fire them because I’m pretty sure they’re never coming back. They seemed pretty resolute on this, can’t say I blame them.
From what I gather, Salt and Pepper, Agent Ortiz and one person in plain clothes are running this party. They’re hanging out here in the living room, answering questions, directing everyone else, and watching over me. They talk low and look over from time to time. I hope they don’t think I’m going to bolt. I am in heels, a tight pencil skirt, plus they have my purse, keys, phone, and I’d really like to have my gun back.
I did take this quiet moment while no one was talking to me to take in Agent Ortiz. He did feel me up—I mean, pat me down—so I figure I should at least get to check him out, right? Apparently bullets flying were no longer a threat, he’s since lost the bullet proof vest. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with big FBI lettering across the front, fitting snug across the chest and biceps. He’s broad and thick across the shoulders, standing tall with long muscular legs.
He glanced over at me twice as I was inventorying all that was him, caught and held my eyes for long moments before looking away. It was a tad bit embarrassing, but really, this is an intense situation and I’m trying to ward off my freak out over a search for who knows what’s going on around me. I’m doing everything I can to distract myself from my thoughts and he’s very distracting, to say the least.
Needless to say, seeing Tony stalk into Megan’s house, whatever he’s pissed about, is a sight for my sore eyes. I immediately relax, not realizing how tense I really am. Tony’s eyes scan the room, find me, moving directly toward my sofa.
Agent Ortiz steps in front of him. “Excuse me, who are you?”
“Anthony Carpino, representing Gabrielle Carpino.” Tony reaches into his pocket withdrawing a business card and handing it to Agent Ortiz. “And you are?”
“Special Agent Jude Ortiz, FBI. I’m the case agent on this operation.”
“And would you like to describe your operation and what my client has to do with it?” Tony bites back.
“No. I don’t have to tell you anything about this operation, but your client was here when we served the warrant and neutralized the premises. She was armed, we disarmed her. She probably could’ve been gone by now but she refused to speak to us without you. So now that you’re here, maybe we can move this along.”
“My client has a Conceal and Carry. She’s been given the right to be armed by the state, hopefully you know that by now,” Tony replies. Agent Ortiz jerks his head once in agreement. Tony looks over at me and scowls. “Gabby, let’s get this done.”
Hmm, maybe he is pissed at me. I get up, walk over to stand next to Tony and find I was right. Tony’s six-two, Jude Ortiz has to be six-three or four.
“Ask away.” I decide to try again for haughty.
Jude’s eyes move between Tony and me, then he slowly takes me in from tip to toe, his eyes finally returning to mine. I look away quickly as he moves to the dining room table. Tony shakes his head, putting his hand on the small of my back and gives me a nudge. We all take a seat, Tony to my side.
“Ms. Carpino, how do you know Trevor Harper?” Jude’s voice is deep and raspy.
Well, this seems easy enough. “Trevor’s married to my friend
Megan. They’ve been married for about five years, give or take. I guess I knew him about a year before. Megan’s my friend, but I try and not have anything to do with Trevor.”
“What do you mean, try?” he asked.
Oh shit.
“Well…” How do I explain this? My eyes widen and they instantly move to Tony.
“Gabby,” Tony grunts with frustration and now I’m almost sure he’s pissed at me.
“What? You know I don’t like him. He’s weird and always trying to set me up with his friends or business associates. I’ve told you before I don’t get a good vibe. I go to Megan’s parties, make an appearance for her sake, but he always looks at me like he shouldn’t even though he’s married to my friend, not to mention all the creepier guys he tries to introduce me to.”
I turn to Jude and keep going. “I’m only here because I renovated the laundry room.” Jude’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, so I carry on. “I’m an interior decorator, the laundry room was one of the only rooms left to be redone in the house. I know, it’s a little over the top, but Megan insisted on spending all that money. What was I supposed to do? I redecorated her powder bath last year, the sink was especially amazing—hammered copper in an oval that sits on top of an antique vanity. It took me forever to find the right piece, not to mention my plumber had one hell of a time getting the faucet plumbed out of the wall, what with the house being some thirty-odd years old.”
Jude has leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, stretching his t-shirt to its limits, with his head cocked to the side staring at me. I look over at Tony and say quietly, “What? That sink is a showstopper.”
