Wesley sputtered, but Whitmore's eyes crinkled into laugh lines. Oh, there was that lady-killer smile. Another internal somersault. The urge to make him laugh was strong. I bet the congressman had a great laugh, a real "throw his head back and cut loose" sort of laugh.
Hunter. I kept his image in my mind.
"We'll have to do something about that." Whitmore stowed the extra card and then retrieved his coat from where he'd draped it over the curved banister. "Take care of Hercules for me. It was nice meeting you, Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor."
"You too." Words I never thought I'd say to a politician.
I escorted them both to the back door, surreptitiously slipping the extra key off the ceramic vine key rack. With one final look, they headed out into the night.
"Java have mercy." I leaned back against the door, giving myself a moment to recover, and then began my search in earnest.
* * *
"What is that?" Mac eyed the cat carrier with suspicion.
"Hercules." With a wince, I set the carrier down along with the bag of food, litter, and pan and then covered my bleeding arm. "FYI, he isn't declawed. And doesn't like being picked up. Or touched. Or breathed on."
"Good to know. I'll get the med kit." Mac hopped off the barstool where various wires, circuit boards, and other things I had no name for were spread out before her.
I blew hair out of my eyes. Hercules let out the same low purring sound he had made from under Lois's bed. I'd been lulled into a false sense of security, ducking down to see the white fluff of the fattest cat I'd ever beheld. Hercules, I judged, was one of those ironic sort of names, like calling a big man Tiny.
The low rumbling, like that of a mini motorboat, had lulled me into a sense of complacency, and I'd reached for him. In an instant, Hercules had struck out with his claws, giving me the first in a series of "love stripes" before streaking from under the bed into the open closet door.
Mac returned, Snickers on her heels. The puggle trotted right up to the carrier that had one of those little metal doors that resembled prison bars. Fitting.
Snickers sniffed, all the hackles on her spine rising.
"Don't, girl," I warned.
"RrreowwWWW!" Like lightning, Hercules struck out from the carrier, his deadly claws striping the dog's nose. Snickers yelped and ran for cover, trailing blood droplets along the oak floors.
"For the record, I think I like it better when you come home smelling like garbage," Mac stated.
"Duly noted." I hissed as she dabbed at the scratches on my arm, my hand, and my cheek.
"So, who does demon cat belong to?"
"Lois O'Flannigan. Well, technically her brother now, I suppose. Though he didn't seem eager to take the cat. Shocker."
My daughter paused in her ministrations. "Congressman Whitmore?"
"That's the guy."
"You met a congressman? Does he know you don't vote?" With censure in her tone, she sounded just like my mother.
"Told him."
"Is the cat your punishment or something?" She dabbed at a cut over my eyebrow.
Briefly, I told her about my encounter at Lois's house and how I'd volunteered to capture Hercules in exchange for a little snooping time.
"I see. Was it worth your while? Did you find any possible suspects who may have killed her?"
"No smoking gun or death threats." Lois's house had been orderly and restful. No sign that a man had even stayed overnight. No extra toothbrush in the bathroom or ragged flannel shirt in the hamper. No love letters, sexy lingerie, or stash of hidden treasure. No medication for mental illness or STDs. Not a drop of alcohol. She didn't even have cough syrup. "The oddest thing was her giant jar of clothespins, even though she didn't have a laundry line anywhere."
"Maybe they have sentimental value. Or she could have been planning a project with them. There's all sorts of upcycling stuff on Pinterest."
"Personally, I would rather walk naked through rush hour traffic than do crafts," I told her.
Mac's focus returned to the cat carrier. "And why did you bring her cat here instead of to the congressman's house?"
"Because I didn't want him to know how long I was there going over the place." Not because when I did see Alan Whitmore again, I wanted to look my best instead of like the victim of cat scratch fever.
"You can't leave him in the carrier all night."
"Watch me."
"Mo-om."
"What?"
Mac studied the carrier. "Well, if you aren't going to drop him off, we need to let him out. Maybe he's just unsettled being in a new place."
"You saw what he just did to the dog, right?"
"We'll keep them apart. One can sleep in your room, the other in mine."
I eyed the crate dubiously. "Mac, if one of us goes to sleep with that cat on the prowl, we might not wake up. Maybe Hunter will take him. He's armed at least."
"Hunter's working." Mac set the litter pan down in the far corner of the room and filled it with the fresh bag of kitty litter I'd discovered in Lois's hall closet.
"Agnes, then. Their personalities would suit. They can spend the night tearing strips off each other instead of me."
"Grams is out with Nona, hunting for the O'Flannigan treasure."
Big sigh. "You sure we can't leave him in the carrier? He seems less…homicidal in there."
My daughter rolled her eyes. "I'll keep Snickers in my room, and we'll leave demon feline out here. Better?"
I shot her a winning smile. "Paper, rock, scissors, you for who has to let him out."
"No way. You brought him home, you let him out."
"Do you really want to be orphaned at sixteen?"
"Good night, drama mama."
"I have so much life ahead of me, so many men I haven't kissed, so many pizzas I haven't eaten."
With a final wave, Mac left to tend to Snickers, leaving me alone with Hercules the Horrible. I crouched down until I could see through the bars. Yellow eyes stared back unblinking.
I rose and went to the kitchen. There was no booze in the house, or I would have taken a shot to steady my nerves. I sucked in some air, retrieved the never-been-used oven mitts that my mother had given me for Christmas. Short of a suit of armor, it was the best I could manage.
"Okay, cat, I'll let you out, but if you scratch me, my daughter, or the dog again, I'll stuff your ornery hide back in there and drop you off the nearest bridge. We clear?"
Hercules didn't look impressed. I exhaled and reached for the cage door. It swung open with an ominous creak, and I leapt away.
Just to make me feel like an idiot, Hercules sauntered out as if he owned the place. His belly was so distended it almost dragged on the ground. Tail in the air, he trotted over to Snicker's water bowl and crouched down to help himself.
I blew out a breath. "Fine, then. Just no wild parties, 'kay?"
Hercules moved toward his litter pan, and I assumed that meant I'd been dismissed. Unwilling to turn my back on him, I crept backwards down the hall to the bathroom, shutting the door between us.
I peeled back the medical tape on my cheek to get a look at the damage in the mirror. Yikes. It looked worse than it had in the car's rearview mirror, but at least they weren't deep enough for stiches. Stupid cat. I re-covered the wound and glanced down. By tomorrow morning the scratches would have scabbed over. Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor, bringing sexy back to scabby.
It dawned on me while I brushed my teeth that my sheets were still down in the basement, my bed woefully naked. Was I a domestic goddess or what?
So, three choices. Option A, sleep on the bare mattress. Or I could try to sneak past demon cat, down to the basement, snag the sheets, sneak past him again, and remake the bed. That sounded like way too much opportunity for Hercules to slice me to bloody ribbons.
The third possibility was to see if maybe Hunter had left the sliding-glass door to his bedroom unlocked. He'd come out that way when he'd met me earlier but had returned to his apartment through the front. M
aybe he'd forgotten to lock it?
This choice appealed to me for several reasons. Not only could I avoid demon cat, but if Mr. Safety had gone out and left his own place unsecured, I could rib him about it mercilessly. And after my reaction to the congressman earlier, part of me wanted to bury my face in Hunter's pillow and derive comfort from his unique masculine fragrance. It was a little harmless flirtation. It hadn't meant anything.
So why did acid churn in my stomach, the sensation way too reminiscent of guilt?
The light was off under Mac's door, so I crept over to the slider and opened it quietly. The moon hung like a bloated orb in the sky, lighting my way. I had nothing to feel guilty about. I'd kissed Brett a few months ago and hadn't felt remorseful over that. Hunter had been jealous over my relationship with Mac's dad, but my feelings for him were buried deeply in the past. What was different about Alan Whitmore, a man I'd been trying to hoodwink?
I was so lost in thought that I'd entered Hunter's room before I realized. Ha, boy would he hear it from me from now until the end of…
As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I frowned. Why were his covers all rucked up that way? Hunter wasn't the sort of guy to leave his bed unmade. And why did I hear someone else breathing?
I moved closer, my lips parting in disbelief. The bed wasn't unmade—there was someone sleeping in it. Someone much smaller and more delicately built than Hunter Black.
Someone with blonde hair.
She moaned and rolled, and I couldn't catch my breath.
Because the strange blonde woman in Hunter's bed was bare-ass naked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Roll with the punches. It's an old truism for a reason. If someone is hitting you, do whatever you can to get away." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI
"Mackenzie, why are you sleeping under a bathrobe? Where are your sheets?" I woke to the most horrifying sight imaginable. Agnes, scowling down at me, holding demon cat in her arms. "And where did this cat come from?"
"Dryer," I groaned, throwing an arm up over my eyes.
"Did you have an accident? And what's on your face?"
"Mom, why are you here, interrogating me at"—I glanced over at the clock—"seven twenty-three?"
"You texted me yesterday, about an exercise class in the park at eight? Better get a move on."
Damn, I'd forgotten about the class, the one taught by Cliff Rodgers from UIS. "Can we go another time? I didn't sleep too well."
Massive understatement. After discovering the tartlet camping out in my man's bed, I'd scurried back to my room and paced, my mind whirling in a downward spiral until sheer exhaustion pulled me under. Who the hell was she? Had she been waiting on Hunter? Had that baked ziti been his form of a culinary dear-Jane breakup?
The ziti I hadn't even had a piece of since Hercules had the run of the common areas.
"No." Agnes set the cat down and then smacked my thigh. "Getting moving is the hardest part. Besides, I have to tell you all about our treasure hunt."
I didn't care about the treasure hunt, the gawd awful early fitness class, or moving. I was about to politely but firmly decline when she uttered the magic words.
"I made coffee."
"Fine." I tossed the bathrobe aside. "Just give me a few to get ready."
Agnes frowned at the bandage on my cheek but retreated anyway, demon cat hot on her heels. I knew those two would hit it off.
Bile churned in my empty stomach as I reached for my phone. I'd sent Hunter a text sometime after one in the morning.
Call me.
The message had been delivered, but there had been no response.
There was, however, another message from an unknown number.
Everything go all right with H?
H for Hunter? Who would be asking me that? I reached into my back jeans pocket and extracted the card the congressman had handed me. Sure enough, the mystery cell number matched the one he'd given me. H stood for Horrific Hell Kitty, aka Hercules.
Just a few war wounds, but I have him here. Will drop him off later today.
After setting the phone down, I trudged into the bathroom to splash some water on my face and heard the phone buzz. I must have left it on vibrate.
Dropping the towel, I hurried for the phone. Was it Hunter?
No, the number was the same from the message, the one on Alan Whitmore's card.
"Hello?"
"Good morning," the congressman said. "I'm sorry to call so early, but I'm in the car heading to a meeting and figured you were awake since your text just came in."
"I'm going to an exercise class with my mother. It was my idea, so I have no one to blame but myself."
He chuckled. It was a low, raspy sound that had my own lips twitching. "Tell me about these war wounds."
I sat on the edge of my naked mattress. "Hercules and I had a difference of opinion about the crate. I'm bigger, but he's definitely meaner."
"And yet you prevailed. Would you think less of me if I admit that I'm glad you didn't bring him here last night?"
"Not your fault you didn't have the exorcist on standby."
"Oh, not about the cat. I'm glad because I would like to see you again."
"Oh." My normally glib tongue felt stuck. A flush crept up my face. In spite of our unlikely circumstances—more unlikely than he knew—talking to Alan Whitmore was effortless, fun.
So little about my life lately had felt fun. An image popped into my head of the naked blonde in Hunter's bed. Was she some sort of revenge because I hadn't given a press conference to announce we were dating?
No, Hunter wasn't passive-aggressive. He didn't play those kinds of mind games. And anyway, how was he to know I'd sneak into his bedroom when he was out for the night? It just didn't make any sense.
"Mackenzie?" Whitmore's voice held a questioning note.
Guilt flayed me from either side. I'd thought about Hunter after the congressman had confessed he wanted to see me again. And the fact that I wanted to see him again made me feel like I was cheating on Hunter. Who'd had a naked blonde in his bed. "Sorry, I missed that."
"Lois's funeral is tomorrow." Apparently he'd decided to change the subject.
"So soon?" With a murder, the police usually held on to the body until the investigation had been completed.
"I pulled a few strings. It's bad enough they had to cut her up in an autopsy, but I can't stand the thought of her…waiting to rest." His voice grew thick.
My heart clenched a little. According to Len's research, Lois had been Alan's last remaining family. Of course he would want to get her in the ground as soon as possible. To pay his last respects to the woman who had been both sister and mother to him. In his place, I wouldn't have done any less.
"I was wondering"—he hesitated, and I could hear him inhale—"if maybe you would accompany me to the funeral tomorrow."
My lips parted. Damn, my lies were stacking up like cordwood. He expected me to go to Lois's funeral. No wonder, since I'd claimed to be her friend, acted as though I'd been in her house before. But I couldn't go. Too many people would recognize me. Like the Captain, Michael O'Flannigan, and anyone who'd seen me at The Shipping Lane.
Oblivious to my mental distress, he swore. "Sorry. You probably think I'm disturbed, asking for a date to my sister's funeral."
"I don't think you're disturbed. It's just—"
He interrupted. "I don't want to go through it alone. And since you knew her, I thought maybe we could prop each other up."
I swallowed. "Congressman—"
"Call me Alan."
"Alan, I…" How to explain that I wasn't really his sister's friend, that I couldn't be the shoulder he so obviously wanted to cry on? Even if I wanted to be.
"Mackenzie, are you almost ready? I hate being late." My mother stomped into the room and scowled. "Why are you on the phone? And you're not even dressed yet."
Not the time or the place. "I need to go. But I pr
omise, I will call you later."
"Just think it through," he murmured. "Enjoy your exercise class."
I hung up.
"Who were you talking to?"
"A US congressman," I murmured while picturing warm hazel eyes.
Agnes threw her hands up in the air. "Oh honestly, Mackenzie. Would it kill you to tell me the truth?"
* * *
"Brett suggested we check out the O'Flannigan family history. You know, properties owned by them, since it would be the most likely place where someone in the family would bury a fortune. To keep it close at hand."
Also, the least likely place to actually find anything that hadn't been tossed by generations of O'Flannigans.
"But we didn't find anything. So, then we thought that maybe we should search down by the shipping yards. Since the bride was reportedly lost at sea." Agnes regaled me with her treasure hunting adventures from the previous night.
"You and Nona went trundling through the shipping yards at night?" I pulled up to a stoplight and looked over at her, flabbergasted by the thought. "Mother, it isn't safe.
"It wasn't as if we were alone." My mother sniffed haughtily. "There were lots of people there. But no one found anything. That clue doesn't give us very much to go on."
"It's intentionally vague because it's not real." Why was I the only person convinced of this?
"Perhaps, but it's fun to speculate. What would you do if you found a fortune in long-lost gems?"
"Retire," I muttered as I turned into the riverside park where Cliff Rogers held his early morning workout sessions. "All this exercising is going to kill me."
Agnes made a dismissive sound and hopped out of the car. She did a hamstring stretch while I collected my phone, keys, and duffel bag from the trunk. Instead of a water bottle and change of clothes, it held a camera, recording equipment, and a bug, which I planned to plant on Cliff if I got the chance.
Other masochists in spandex were congregating on a grassy knoll on the far end of the park from the playground. The wind whipped off Boston Harbor, making me shiver, but the sun was slowly warming the air.
Sleuthing for the Weekend Page 9
