"I'm sorry."
He waved the apology off, and we started walking back
toward our houses. He turned to me with a glint in his eye. "I haven't seen the detective in a few days."
So we were back to the fact-finding mission, were we? As I made a beeline toward my backdoor I didn't mention that I hadn't seen him either. "I'll give him your best," I said.
"You do that."
I pulled open the backdoor, wiped my feet on the mat.
"Oh, Miz Quinn?"
I sighed. I should have known I wouldn't escape his questions that easily. "Yeah?"
"Uh . . . thanks. For your help."
The man was actually blushing. I smiled. "You're welcome."
Closing the door, I made sure I flipped the deadbolt. I'd have to have a talk with Riley soon about leaving the doors unlocked. This wasn't the first time.
As I passed the kitchen window, I saw Mr. Cabrera out in the middle of his backyard coloring the area for his gazebo with orange marking paint. As he looked left and right to guide his markings, my mouth dropped open.
An oasis—what a fool I'd been!
It all made sense now. He didn't want a serenity zone. He wanted spy central. A gazebo smack-dab in the middle of his backyard would give him an unfettered view of the backyards of everyone on the block.
I had to laugh. I should've known. I really, really should have known. I shook my head. There was nothing to be done about it now, except maybe keep my blinds closed. Once Mr. Cabrera got an idea in his head, he went at it full steam ahead.
I checked the clock, sucked in a breath. I was running seriously late. The sink was still full of water, but it would have to wait a bit more.
After talking with Tam that morning, I decided I wanted to check on the missing hoes before meeting with Bridget. Kit, my foreman, was heading up a mini makeover today over at Ursula Krauss's new landominium. I'd just pop over and check things out without being too suspicious about it.
Yeah, that was me. Nina Colette Unsuspicious Ceceri Quinn.
On full snake alert, I tiptoed through the living room and rushed up the stairs. I paused at the top as the magazine Riley shoved under his pillow called to me. But there was, quite possibly, a reptile on the loose in his room. My cowardice won out over my inquisitiveness, and I ignored my impulse to snoop.
I debated for about two minutes on what to wear, before realizing I didn't really have a choice. All I owned were Tshirts and jeans—oh, and my all-purpose black dress. Not that it mattered. Not really. It's just that I hadn't seen Bridget, a Stanford-educated lawyer, in a while, and I didn't want her to think I'd gone all schlumpy, with my cracked, almost nonexistant nails, sun-freckled face, dull brown hair cut at the Clip and Curl, and my laid-back wardrobe.
But since I hadn't worn makeup in years, I decided the risk of conjunctivitis from tainted mascara was too great and ditched the idea completely.
My thoughts once again turned to Bridget and her reason for calling. She'd sounded so serious on the phone.
I scrubbed my face and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. Shimmying into my favorite pair of jeans, I topped the outfit off with a white V-necked T-shirt.
Bridget's wanting to get together had to be about her father-in-law's death, and I suspected it had a great deal to do with my relationship with Kevin. Unfortunately Kevin had kept everything about Farmer Joe's murder hush-hush, despite my constant nagging and quizzing.
Kevin's closed-mouth attitude should have been an obvi ous tip-off that our marriage was in trouble, since he had used me as a sounding board for years. Only I'd been oblivious. Nothing like a big neon orange suspicious behavior sign dangling above his tight lips to give a girl a clue.
I admit I'm naturally, uh, curious. But Joe's death stirred up more than the usual amount of interest I had in Kevin's cases. It baffled me that anyone could harm the old man. Tim's dad was one of those people who kept his door open for everyone and an extra spot at the dinner table—a table I'd eaten many meals at during my teen years. Sure, Farmer Joe had been crankier than a newborn baby, yet he'd been just as lovable in his cantankerous kind of way. Truly a man with no enemies.
I guess I simply needed to wait and see, which irritated me to no end since I wasn't a big fan of patience.
Opening the door of my bedroom, I peered into the hall. No signs of snake activity. I tippy-toed downstairs and into the washroom. The hamper beckoned, and I threw in a quick wash while whistling "Puff the Magic Dragon" to keep my mind off Kevin.
From the utility closet, I grabbed, as protection from Xena, Riley's hockey stick and a pair of knee-high rubber boots I used for work. Appropriately armed, I ran back upstairs. The sink still needed plunging, but my curiosity over that magazine Riley had shoved under his pillow couldn't be quenched. Something was up with him, and I was determined to find out what it was. After all, it was my evil stepmotherly duty to snoop, right? However, as I reached the landing at the top of the steps, I heard a car door slam. Running into my bedroom, I peeked out the window, swore under my breath.
The unmarked assigned to Kevin sat in the driveway, parked next to my ancient Corolla. Oh no, not now. I hadn't seen him for two days. Two whole days my anger had had time to fester.
My knuckles turned white as I gripped the hockey stick with undue force. The front door slammed.
I checked the drawer of Kevin's nightstand. Locked. It was a good thing. I had the feeling that if Kevin gave me any crap, I'd be tempted to grab the off-duty gun he kept in there and shoot him. The mental picture made me smile. Oh, I wouldn't shoot to kill. I'd aim for more . . . strategic points. Points south.
"Nina!" he yelled up the stairs. "I'm here. Is everything ready?"
This was just like Kevin. He didn't even know I was home. He just assumed I'd be waiting for him. I hated that about him. For all he knew I could be next door having a cup of lemonade with Mr. Cabrera. Not that I'd ever done so at nine in the morning before, but that was beside the point.
I straightened my shoulders and walked calmly downstairs.
"What the hell? Why on earth are you wearing goulashes and carrying a hockey stick?"
Better to hit you over the head with, my pretty.
"Xena's loose."
He roared with laughter.
"It's not funny!"
"That snake wouldn't hurt anything."
Unlike myself. I itched to erase his cocky smile. I flexed my fingers, loosening them, so I wouldn't be tempted to take a swing. "What are you doing here?"
"Didn't Riley tell you I was coming? I told him I had to go out of town on a case and asked him to have you pack up some clothes for me."
I rolled my eyes. Imbecile. "Well, he didn't believe you. He knows."
"You sure?"
I glared.
Kevin dragged a hand over his face. "I'll deal with it."
Sure he would. Sighing, I said, "This isn't a good time for me, Kevin. I have things to do." I could only imagine what he'd say if I actually admitted I was about to snoop in his son's room.
"Like what? It's your day off." He walked into the kitchen. "Sink's full up."
My throat tightened. It was the same thing Riley had said.
Kevin took off his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. "Did you try plunging it?"
"No."
His shoulder holster crisscrossed his muscled back. His gun nestled under his left arm. Shaking his head at my apparent lack of attempting the obvious, he picked up the plunger I had set out. "Weird things are happening in this town. Take the call I responded to this morning . . ."
I snatched the plunger out of his hand. "What do you think you're doing?"
"What?"
"You can't come in here and start plunging sinks." I jabbed him with the plunger, leaving a big wet ring on his shirt. "You can't come in without knocking. You can't come in and start telling me about your calls. You can't."
"Why not?"
"You. Don't. Live. Here. Anymore." I was becoming crankier by the
second, especially after I felt moisture stinging my eyes.
Something swept across his features. Some emotion I couldn't identify. He backed away from the sink.
His voice was tight as he spoke. "I thought you might be interested in the call, is all. Especially since it involves a family you've been bugging me about for over a week."
I shouldn't ask. I knew I shouldn't. Not after my little speech, but my curiosity begged for conclusion. Coquettishly, I tipped my head. "Who?"
"The Sandowskis . . ."
"Oh no! What happened?"
He leaned against the counter. "Seems someone heard shots fired at the old farmhouse. Went there, but Mrs. Sandowski said she hadn't heard anything, but something was off. I'm sure she was lying. I just don't know why."
I backed up, using the counter for support. Lena Sandowski. Bridget's mother-in-law. I didn't think Bridget's out-of-the-blue call was coincidental. What was going on? Had Kevin said gunshots? Why hadn't I paid better attention?
"You don't think she had anything to do with . . ."
"I can't tell you that."
Oh yes, his newfound confidentiality rule.
"Nina?"
I looked up, caught an unexpected concerned look on Kevin's face. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You don't look fine."
I dropped my gaze to look at myself. I had a plunger in one hand, a hockey stick in the other, and I was wearing muck-covered rubber boots in the kitchen. My stepson hated me, there was a snake loose in the house, and I was on the verge of divorce. I was definitely not fine.
"I'm fine."
"Fine."
Didn't I already have this conversation this morning?
"Look, Nina, about what happened, with the boxers . . ."
Shaking my head, I held up the plunger, stopping him. I didn't want to hear it. It was too much for me to handle right now. "I think you should go. Come back when no one's home to get your things."
"This is still my house too, Nina. You can't tell me what to do."
"Oh no?" I said softly. Too softly. When my voice dropped that low, it was a sign of danger, and he knew it.
Kevin snapped his mouth closed. "I'll be back later, then."
He started for the door. I followed him to make sure he really went.
On the front porch, he turned to face me. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He seemed to be struggling to find something to say.
Peering around him, I saw his partner in the car. Ginger Barlow. His lover. I held onto the hockey stick so tightly my knuckles turned white.
"Go," I said hoarsely.
He took a step out. Stopped. Again he faced me. "Nina . . ."
Taking a deep breath, I said, "Come for dinner on Thursday. Riley has the night off from work and we can talk to him then. I don't want to do it by myself."
"You won't need to."
"I better not have to. And don't bring Rosemary with you."
"Ginger," he corrected. "Her name is Ginger."
As if I didn't know. "Whatever."
He turned and walked away.
I closed the door and leaned against it, fighting for composure. Damn him.
Wishing I had time to wallow in my self-pity with a box of Nilla Wafers and some chocolate milk, I ditched the plunger and ran up the stairs, huffing more than a bit. I'd gotten more exercise that morning than I'd had all year.
I paused in the hall outside Riley's room. I knew I shouldn't go in, especially with a snake on the loose, but that magazine, and Riley's odd behavior, ate at me. It was probably some skin magazine, but I needed to be sure.
With a turn of the knob, the door swung open. Peeking
in, I scanned the floor. Chills danced up and down my spine and I shivered. Who knew what lurked beneath all the junk on the floor?
Sure enough, the tank to the right of his bed was empty. A part of me had hoped Riley made up the story of Xena's escape so I'd stay out of his room, knowing I'd be curious about that magazine. Unfortunately, he'd underestimated my nosiness. And my ability to appropriately equip myself.
Using the hockey stick to clear a path, I crept to the bed. I lifted the pillow. Nothing. Maybe he took it with him, I reasoned. Maybe not, my inner voice said. Slipping my hand beneath the mattress, I felt for paper. Chances of Xena being under there were slim, so I felt reasonably confident as I slid my hand back and forth.
Finally, I hit something solid. Grasping it, I slowly pulled the magazine out, fully expecting to see a half-naked woman staring at me. After I glanced at the cover, I wished it were a half-naked woman staring at me. Even a fully naked-woman would be better than this.
My stomach turned. The barrel of a sawed-off shotgun greeted me from the pages of Gun Pride. What the hell was he up to? Gun Pride was a small magazine which mostly sold to militia-type groups. There'd been a big report on the news about magazines just like this not all that long ago, about how these groups liked to recruit teenagers for their cause. Had they gotten to Riley? How else could he have gotten hold of something like this?
What to do? I needed to talk to him about this, didn't I? But that meant he'd know I snooped. Not that our relationship could get much worse, but still.
Blowing out a deep breath, I replaced the magazine under the mattress. I'd talk to Kevin and see what he thought. Maybe it was normal male adolescent fascination. Maybe not, my inner voice warned. I told the voice to shut up and hurried out of Riley's room.
I checked the hallway. All clear. If Xena wasn't found soon, we'd just have to move, no two ways around it.
Checking the clock, I cursed my inability to be punctual.
The phone rang and I hurried to answer it, nearly tripping on the plunger as I rushed down the stairs, thinking it might be Tam reporting more missing hoes.
It wasn't.
"Nina, what's wrong?" my mother asked.
I wasn't in the mood to have her pry so I inserted a light lilt into my voice. "Nothing, Mom."
What was it about mothers and their ability to know when something was wrong—and why were stepmothers excluded from this gift?
"I don't believe you."
How did I argue with her when she was right?
I could hear her breathing, but she remained silent. "I'm fine," I finally said. Hopping on one foot, I tugged off one boot, then the other.
"You're lying to your mother. Tonio," she called out to my father, "your daughter is lying to me!" To me, she said, "This is what carousing with that cousin of yours will do."
"You're not fooling me. You love Ana."
She sniffed. "Nina, the apple and the tree, my darling."
I groaned. My mother had had an ongoing feud with my Aunt Rosetta from the day she'd moved in with us and proved to be a better cook, housekeeper, mother, than Celeste Madeline Chambeau Ceceri.
"Now, tell me no lies," she demanded.
"Nothing to tell at all."
I could hear muted whisperings, then my father came on the line.
"Don't lie to your mother, Nina."
"Yes, Daddy." Static crackled in my ear as the phone was passed back to my mother. I slipped on a pair of Keds, hoping the canvas was snakeproof.
"Now what's wrong?" my mother asked once again.
I could picture my father being hauled out of his favorite chair, dragged to the phone, then dismissed. I had to smile. My mother had been in the military in a former life. I was sure of it.
"Nothing's wrong, Mom. I'm fine." I stressed the word fine. It seemed to be the word of the day.
"Hmmph."
"Gotta run."
"Why?"
I didn't want to tell her about my meeting with Bridget or I'd never get off the phone. I looked around for an excuse, found one in the murky water pooled in the sink. "I have to fix the sink."
"What's wrong with the sink?"
"It's clogged." She didn't need the sordid details. "I have to go."
"Wait!"
"What?"
"Your fitting is next week. Write
it down or you'll forget."
I didn't write it down. I wanted to forget. "I will."
"Do it now. You have Tuesdays off so there's no reason to cancel." She paused for effect. "Again."
I mimicked writing noises using the counter and the pads of my fingertips since my nails were practically nonexistent. "There," I lied.