by Maisie Dean
“Good morning,” Tippy said.
“Morning,” Lucky and I replied in unison.
“There’s still half a pot, Tippy,” Lucky told her. He and his twin brother Harrison always called their grandmother by her name, at her insistence.
“I’ll make fresh coffee,” Tippy said. “I’m not in any rush.” She disappeared, walking down the short hallway to the break room.
Lucky rolled his eyes and gave me an amused look. Tippy Booker didn’t drink stale coffee. How dare he even suggest it!
I pushed myself up from my desk. “You want a refill?” I asked Lucky. “I’m going to rescue that dirty old half-pot of ancient coffee before your grandmother tosses it down the drain.”
He nodded, so I picked up the empty mug as I passed his desk and walked to the break room.
When I walked in, Tippy was pouring the last of the beverage down the sink. I hated wasting anything, but it wasn’t worth starting an argument with Tippy Booker, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Just a minute or two,” Tippy said. “We’ll be enjoying nice, fresh coffee in no time.” She went about preparing the next pot with careful precision and ease.
I grabbed myself a mug from the cupboard, one with a Star Wars pun that no doubt was brought in by Owen. I sat down at the small Formica table that took up a sizable portion of the room.
Tippy joined me. She studied me silently for a moment. She must have been taking in my awful suit.
“Laundry day?” Tippy asked. Her tone was gentle but I couldn’t tell whether she said it with a hint of sympathy or pity. The thought of Tippy, a woman five decades my senior, pitying my fashion situation made my whole body want to fold in on itself. I hadn’t yet experienced a day at the office where I had been better dressed than Tippy, and I was willing to put money on the fact that I never would.
I could have lied, but letting Tippy think I chose to wear this outfit from a plethora of other clean options was far worse than telling her the truth about my laziness.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I should have done some loads over the weekend, but I didn’t. I guess I have my evening planned out.”
“Indeed.”
I adjusted the tan collar, which felt hot and sticky around my neck. Then I busied myself tracing my finger along the mug in front of me. It took me a moment to realize I’d been touching Lucky’s burgundy mug rather than the one I had selected for myself.
For some reason, my rusty mime powers suddenly kicked in. I pulled my hand back from Lucky’s mug and mimed clasping my fingers around an imaginary mug at the edge of the table. While Tippy checked on the coffee, I lifted an imaginary mug to my lips, took a drink, and set it back down. I adjusted the way I weighed my arm, giving it a slight pop as I set the pretend object back on the table.
“You’re very good at that,” Tippy told me. There was a rare note of genuine admiration in her voice.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s just an old improv exercise. A miming thing. They’re like reflexes. Sometimes they sneak up on me. I don’t even realize I’m doing them.”
“The classes were for your acting?” Tippy asked, raising a neatly penciled eyebrow.
“Yes. They helped a lot, but I’m really done with all the acting stuff now,” I reminded her.
Tippy stared back at me for a moment without blinking.
“You’re probably very good at fibbing on the spot,” she said. “That’s Lucky’s special skill. He’d better watch his back.”
I let out a small laugh, but it sounded uneasy to my ears. There was something about Tippy’s voice that wasn’t entirely transparent. I didn’t have to wait long to know what her angle was.
“He should watch his front too,” Tippy said. She raised her eyebrows so high they momentarily distracted me from what she was saying.
“Oh?” I had a bad feeling about what I knew was coming next.
“I feel like I should remind you about the no dating rule. Any naughty business is grounds for immediate dismissal. For both parties.” She paused, pursing her lips. “The rule is for you as much as for them. If the boys do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, Kacey, you should report it to me immediately. Harassment isn’t tolerated here. It’s a very different time from when the agency first opened.”
My cheeks were beginning to burn and they were likely turning a very non-complimentary color to my tan suit. Tippy might not have noticed, however, because she had a far off look in her eye. Maybe she was thinking about something. The past, I imagined. It was strange to think of what the office would have been like when Tippy was my age. She looked scarcely over fifty, if that, but Harrison had informed me I was off by a couple decades. A small smile played around the edges of her mouth. The silence was broken when there was an audible click. The light on the coffee machine glowed orange.
I filled my cup and Lucky’s and quickly dumped in some cream and brown sugar. I was so eager to escape any further conversation of what “naughty business” might entail that I didn’t even stir the mugs.
“Thanks, Tippy. Got it,” I mumbled. I left the break room quickly and nearly ran into Harrison when I emerged from the hallway. He must have just arrived.
“Woah there,” Harrison said. He steadied both of us and minimized the coffee spillage to a drop or two on the carpet. “Morning to you too,” he said.
“Sorry,” I replied. I placed Lucky’s mug on his desk and walked back to my own. After my little lecture from Tippy on sexual workplace boundaries I was finding it difficult to look any of the Bookers in the eye. Harrison walked past me toward his desk.
“That’s a great suit, Chance. Very professional,” Harrison said. I glanced up to see if he was being sarcastic but there was no hint of any suppressed laughter. His features were even except for the slightest smile and a small raise to his chin. He must have thought his own habit of dressing in bland suits had finally rubbed off on me! I should have worn the dress.
Harrison sat down and pulled out another red file from his briefcase. It was similar to the one on Lucky’s desk.
“So what have we got? An insurance audit for a vehicle accident?” I asked Harrison. I was eager to get off both the topic of my outfit and of workplace dating.
“No, not vehicle,” Harrison said. “We don’t have all the info yet. Better to get it straight from the horse’s mouth. Or, in this case, the claimant. Her name is Annie Berry.” He flipped through a couple of pages and waved for me to come over to see the information we had so far. Lucky had turned his attention to his phone and wasn’t paying attention to our gathering at the other end of the office.
“Lucky!” Harrison barked and then did a 180 to a sweet and pleasant tone of voice. “Would you be kind enough to join us?”
Lucky hopped up from his seat and meandered over to Harrison’s desk without the slightest trace of urgency. Harrison’s nostrils flared and wobbled at the edges, but he turned his attention to the documents on the desk and sounded calm when he spoke.
“Annie Berry,” Harrison said. He pushed a small image toward Lucky and me, flipping it around so we could see. “This is our claimant,” Harrison continued.
Annie Berry looked to be around twenty-eight with a small face and rounded chin. Her grey-blue eyes were set close together but it may have been an effect from the thin tortoise shell frames that encircled her eyes. Annie had dirty blond hair, lighter at the bottom than the top, and it fell messily down along her face on both sides. She was pretty but also average-looking. I imagined I’d have a hard time picking her out of a crowd.
“Who’s that?” Lucky said. He’d spotted another photo in Harrison’s file and dragged it over to himself to take a look. Harrison’s jaw tightened. He drew the rest of the folder’s contents toward himself so that it wouldn’t be as easy to grab.
“That is Annie’s roommate,” Harrison said gruffly.
The woman in the second photo had darkly made up eyes and jet black hair that ran over her shoulders and down across a black shirt, farther than the pi
cture had captured. She had full lips and strong cheekbones. Both appeared to be embellished with lipstick and highlighter. The false lashes and intensity of her makeup had a drag-like quality to it, but I was nearly certain she was a woman. Her look was fierce and captivating. I found myself having to struggle to look away from the photo. Harrison helped by whisking it away and reorganizing everything back into the red folder.
“Her name is Busty Honey,” Harrison said evenly. The name certainly fit the woman’s bold and unapologetic look.
Lucky scratched his head and took a step back. “Wow, that is a great name,” Lucky said.
Harrison gave Lucky a warning look. “Someone needs to go to their residence and fill in the blanks about what we need to do for this case. Thanks to the insurance company, there’s barely anything to go on yet—”
“I’ll go. No problem,” Lucky said. He bounced up and down slightly in his shoes, clasping his hands together behind his back.
Harrison narrowed his eyes at Lucky and cocked his head to the side.
“You seem eager to get to work. It had better not have anything to do with that roommate. I shouldn’t have to remind you, although I know I absolutely need to, that it would be a violation of our rules and ethics if you—”
“Harrison, relax. That didn’t even cross my mind. That much eyeliner scares me, anyway. It reminds me of ghosts, and you know how I feel about them. Besides, I’ll take Kacey with me. She’ll make sure I have the ol’ Harrison Booker stamp of approval, right, Kacey?” Lucky said.
“Because that’s worked out so well in the past,” I mumbled under my breath. Lucky gave me a gentle jab with his elbow.
Harrison kept his eyes on Lucky’s face for a moment, but whether it was his knowledge of his brother’s fear of ghosts or his faith in my control of Lucky, Harrison softened.
“You two can go now,” Harrison said. “Lucky, you’re in charge of yourself. Kacey’s job description does not include looking after impulsive fools such as yourself.”
Lucky put his hand over his heart and pretended to wipe away a tear. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, brother.”
“Enough already,” I said with sigh. “Let’s get this show on the road.” I knew all too well how long we could stand there while they went back and forth.
Harrison passed me his copy of the file that had the address inside, and then Lucky and I collected our things to go.
Lucky and I descended the stairs from the office that led past the entrance to Doyle’s. The old 1940s-style diner had been the longtime downstairs neighbor of the Booker Brothers Detective Agency and it was a frequent lunch and dinner spot to all of us at the office. The delicious smells that wafted over to us were mouthwatering.
I asked Lucky, “Do you have some kind of ulterior motive going on with Busty Honey?” I was caught off guard when I felt my throat constrict slightly when I asked Lucky about his motivations. Strange. Maybe I was coming down with a cold. Lucky scoffed.
“No! No way. I was serious about the ghost thing. Bad haunted-house experience as a kid,” Lucky replied.
“Then why are you so jittery and excited?”
Lucky got a twinkle in his eye as we pushed through the double doors to the parking lot that we shared with the diner.
“Are you hungry?” Lucky asked.
“Always. Why?”
Lucky pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up to me. The screen was open to a maps page.
“Annie Berry’s home is exactly thirteen yards from my favorite taco truck!”
CHAPTER 3
After a small negotiation about who would drive, one Lucky never had a shot at winning, I climbed into the driver’s seat.
Lucky collapsed into the passenger seat with a theatrical sigh and made a fuss over getting the seat pushed as far back as it would go to accommodate his long legs.
I slid my phone into its holder and initiated the map route to Annie Berry’s and Busty Honey’s home.
“Why is your car in the shop again?” I asked him.
“Well, it is an old junker,” Lucky said airily. “Not unlike this one, I might add…” He flicked his eyes around the beat-up old Prius.
When I had started working at the Detective Agency money had been tight, tighter than it was now. Lucky had to give up the lease on a swanky Mercedes, and he frequently liked to make it known that he held me responsible. He always did so playfully, of course. He’d been more than willing to let it go so that I could stay.
Lucky examined some sticky substance on my dashboard and recoiled. “What are you driving? A petri dish?”
“Don’t talk about Tinker Bell that way,” I said. I turned my face toward Lucky to make sure he could see my serious, frowning face. It didn’t have the impact I had hoped for.
Lucky held his hand up to his face below his nose and looked like he was trying not to sneeze. Instead of a sneeze, however, he let out a loud chortle. “You call your car Tinker Bell?” It was all Lucky managed to get out between snickers.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. When I first got her the ceiling light was all wonky. It would flicker and go dim and brighten up again over and over. I even changed the bulb and it kept happening. It was frustrating at times so I started telling myself that I had the temperamental Tinker Bell up there.”
He looked at me wide-eyed with his mouth open a little.
“You’re crazier than I thought you were. This is excellent news. Do you have Eeyore in the trunk? Or Mickey Mouse in the back seat?” He turned around to check behind him. “Nope, not there.”
“Ha ha, very funny. You never told me why your car is in the shop.”
Lucky’s laughs petered out. He crossed his arms and mumbled, “Just some issues with some wiring.”
“The wiring? What happened?”
“The cat did it,” Lucky said into his window. “When it got in there it chewed through some wires. It wouldn’t have happened if I still had the Mercedes.”
He spoke about his old car like a lover that got away.
“It’s all going to be okay,” I assured him. “I’ll keep the bad cats away from you today. What are partners for?”
He sank down in his seat as we sped down the freeway, and then he sat up suddenly. “Take this exit,” he said.
“But the map says—”
“We’re making a stop on the way,” Lucky announced.
I hadn’t been to this particular area of the city, but it looked like a lot of places I had been. This wasn’t the glamorous beachside avenues, or anywhere near the gated communities. The buildings were run down and bland. It was drier and dustier. The road had buckled in places from the heat, and years ago by the looks of it. The grid neighborhood was a mix of crumbling complexes and small bungalows, and occasionally some businesses like Pete’s Pizza, and a salon that was simply called Joan’s.
Lucky directed me to drive around back of one of these buildings and down a small alley.
A blue garage door up ahead was partially open. In the four-foot gap beneath the door, welding sparks skittered and jumped in the shadows.
I pulled the car over and turned the engine off.
Sidney Morales ducked under the garage door and came to greet us. She wore big, round reflective goggles. She used one hand to shield her face from the sun, though she didn’t need to, thanks to the welding goggles.
Sidney ran a one woman auto and electronics shop that serviced investigators. Everything about Sidney, besides her actual body, was big. She stood five foot two, and that was in thick-soled combat boots. She had large dark brown eyes that sparkled as if they were permanently laughing. Her mouth was wide, but combined with her eyes, and halo of voluminous, curly brown hair, her features were balanced.
Over a bright red shirt with puffs on the sleeves in two places, she wore her basic navy blue overalls. Despite the overalls being her chosen work uniform, I’d never once seen them even slightly dirty. I’d visited her a few times with Lucky. She’d always been hard
at work, messing with some nearly microscopic device using tiny pliers. She listened to rock ’n’ roll to help her think, and she had a potentially problematic penchant for cotton candy. But only the blue stuff.
Lucky told me once that what he liked about her was that she was precise, meticulous even, but ridiculous. I had teased him once about the two of them making an excellent match. To my surprise he agreed but then added that a romance between them could only work if his name were Lucy.
Lucky and Sidney had known each other since they were children, when their fathers had become good friends. They were the same age but at a glance it would be easy to mistake Sidney to be about ten years younger. Sidney would regularly quiz Lucky about how “old Ernie Booker” was holding up, but neither of them ever brought up Sidney’s father.
Sidney had a warm, deep laugh. She was inviting and engaging, but there was something about her that made me want to keep my hands out of my pockets and ready for self-defense. Just in case.
Lucky could have told me we were going to see Sidney, rather than giving me turn by turn instructions. This was so typical of him. He liked nothing better than being the one holding the cards. The elements of surprise and suspense being two of his favorite cards.
We both stepped out of the car and walked up to greet Sidney.
The shop owner had pushed her goggles up over the frizzy curls on top of her head. She looked like a mad scientist.
