Risky Baby Business

by Debra Salonen

  Kate nodded. “I’ll vouch for that. But Tea for Me is such a catchy name. And I love your T4Me hashtag. It’s like Romantique--a crazy, terrifying leap of faith. But do you have choice but to go with your gut when your normal avenues of revenue close up?”

  “You sure as heck can’t go back to WorldRx,” Alexa said with finality.

  Liz looked at her curiously. Had she somehow guessed what happened during Liz’s last tour of duty with the Doctors-Without-Borders kind of group? Midway through her second six-month stay in Iraq Liz had been brutally attacked and left for dead. When a patrol found her, they’d rushed her to the E.R. where she usually worked. The doctors sewed up her cuts, applied ice to her bruises and gave her drugs to protect against pregnancy and disease. But nothing had eased the sense of violation so traumatizing she’d spent three weeks hiding in a village a mile from her station, refusing to return to her post until the men who attacked her were caught. An impossible task in a place devastated by war. As a friend later told her, “War doesn’t bring out the hero in everybody. In most, it brings out the beast.”

  “Liz?”

  Liz startled. She felt her face heat up. She did her best to keep the past from creeping into her thoughts. When you come from a long line of mystics and fortune-tellers, the last thing you want is for one of your sisters to pick up on what had happened to her. She hadn’t shared this particularly unpleasant experience for a reason. Because I’m over it. Period. “What?”

  Kate made a face. “Well, don’t bite my head off. I just asked if you could make a new tea for Jo. She’s doing great since she got back from Stanford—she hasn’t smoked in weeks, but the new medicine the doctor has her on is making her nauseous.”

  Jo Brighten was Kate’s new partner in the restaurant and mother of Kate’s fiancé, Rob Brighten. Liz liked the frank, spunky woman a lot. She’d been battling what her doctors first thought was lung cancer, but after a trip to a specialist in California, Jo was told she had emphysema. The diagnosis had come as a huge relief to everyone, but she wasn’t out of the woods, yet.

  “I’ll try to come up with something this afternoon. After I drop off my loan application at the bank.” She took a drink of tea. “Boy, am I sick of those nosy jerks.”

  “So, why are you doing the refinancing?” Alexa asked. “You’ve only been in your house a year or so. Do you have enough equity to make it worth the effort?”

  Liz hoped so. The money, added to what she’d saved, would cover the initial application fee associated with a foreign adoption.

  After their father’s death, Liz had traveled to India to stay with a friend who worked in an orphanage. Liz had planned to volunteer her physical therapy skills at a nearby hospital, but she became so wrapped up in helping the children, she completely forgot about her original plan. The children, from infant to young adult, had seemed so grateful for every bit of attention she gave them. She’d seen enough death. She wanted to experience life. And then, one of the caregivers had handed her Prisha, and Liz’s life was changed forever.

  “I’m hoping all the landscaping our homeowners association voted for will increase my home’s curb appeal.” If I ever see that snarly gardener again, I’ll thank him.

  “It’s true the price of real estate in Vegas has gone nuts,” Alexa added. “I couldn’t believe what Rob paid for your new house, Kate. Not that it’s not gorgeous. You’re going to love living there, but…ouch. Glad I’m not in the market for a new place. I’m going to be stuck here in the Compound forever.”

  The Compound was what family and friends called the cul-de-sac where their mother’s home sat. Uncle Claude’s house was on one side, and his youngest son and daughter-in-law lived one door down from there. Alexa’s four-bedroom, ranch-style home on the opposite corner had been converted to the Dancing Hippo. Some days it seemed as if you couldn’t turn around without bumping into a family member.

  Liz had looked in this neighborhood before she bought her home, but there hadn’t been anything available. So, contrary to her family’s wishes, she’d purchased a place in Henderson, twenty or so miles to the south—and was still catching flack for it.

  “So, Liz, are you going to bring a date to the wedding?” Alexa asked. “One of my student’s fathers—he’s also a member of Rob’s Dad’s Group—asked me to go with him. I was so shocked I nearly dropped his kid.”

  “Um…I don’t know. Probably not. Who would I ask?”

  The only face that came to mind belonged to her irate gardener. She started to laugh.

  “I told you something is wrong with her. She’s giggling. Liz doesn’t giggle,” Kate said.

  “Maybe it’s the tea,” Alexa said, giving her mug a suspicious look.

  “Liz, tell us what’s going on. Should we be worried?”

  Liz sighed. Maybe talking about the bizarre incident with the neighborhood gardener would help her let go of the nagging guilt she felt. Not from running over the cactus so much as from the impetuous call she’d made after he left the scene.

  “Yesterday, I had a guy accuse me of murder.”

  “Murder?” Kate squawked.

  Liz nodded. “The man who’s installing some landscaping on the curbs up and down my block said I killed one of his cacti. Echinocereus somethingorotherus.” She shrugged. “Come to think of it, he seemed surprisingly well educated for a gardener—knew the genus or class or whatever of the plant I ran over, but, I mean, come on. It was a cactus. They’re a dime a dozen. And vehicular cactus-slaughter is not murder.”

  Alexa shook her head. “He obviously doesn’t know you—the Florence Nightingale and Mother Teresa of the physical therapy world.”

  She ignored the sisterly dig. Something about the guy had stayed with her long after the encounter. Maybe it was his compelling blue eyes. Like icy fire or fiery ice. She couldn’t decide which.

  “It’s not like I did it on purpose.” She shook her head to stay focused. “I was reaching for my stack of papers. You know what the suspension is like in my car. Even mini-SUVs are a little top heavy, and I’d hit the curb while trying to avoid his truck. I really do feel awful, though.”

  “So buy him another one,” Kate suggested.

  “I would, but I don’t know his name. Or phone number. Or address.”

  “Did you try searching online for Vegas Mystery Gardener?” Alexa asked, laughing at her own joke.

  “No,” Liz admitted, “but I did call Zeke and asked him to track down the guy’s license plate number.”

  Alexa sobered. “You what?”

  Kate sat forward. “That sounds a bit extreme. Why didn’t you contact that pain-in-the-rear neighbor of yours? Miss Bossy hired the guy. She must have his number.”

  Liz turned away so they wouldn’t see her blush. She poured the last of the tea in her mug before answering. “Crissy would have made a big deal out of it, like I was trying to undermine her authority or something.”

  When she looked over her shoulder, she saw her sisters communicating in silence. She knew what they weren’t saying and hated the fact that they were right. Liz wasn’t a coward, but for some reason she’d let Crissy—with her doggone Martha Stewart perfection—intimidate the heck out of her.

  “What did Zeke say?” Alexa asked.

  “He gave me a hard time about not being on call for the Parlier family, but he’s hooked on my three-mint tea, so he said he’d do it.”

  Zeke Martini was their mother’s undeclared beau. All of the sisters found this a bit surprising considering he’d headed the investigation that arrested Charles Harmon and brought the dogs of hell yapping at the heels of every Romani in town. No one—aunts, uncles and cousins, included—could seem to understand what Yetta, the acknowledged matriarch of the Romani clan, saw in the silver-haired gadjo—non-Romani—cop.

  “Well, I’m sorry you had a run-in with the guy, but if you’re that curious about him, I still say you should talk to that Crissy woman,” Kate said. “I know how much you hate contentious situations, sis. But my weddi
ng is in two weeks, and I need your complete focus.”

  Liz smiled. Kate was a self-disciplined go-getter who could multitask with the best of them. This blatant plea for help meant her sister was truly in over her head, which Liz probably shouldn’t have found surprising given Grace’s involvement.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Everything. Finish picking out the new furniture for the house. Find a hair stylist who can whip this mop into some kind of shape. Teach my daughter our old Sisters of the Silver Dollar dance routines. Make sure my future mother-in-law is taking her medicine. And anything else that crops up. Between the two of you, I’m sure you’ll handle it. I’m going to my room and have a nervous breakdown. Bye.”

  She didn’t leave, of course. And it wouldn’t have done her much good, since her room was right down the hall. Kate and Maya had been living with Yetta since Kate’s divorce. The arrangement had worked out well for everyone during the long, difficult time after Kingston’s death. But, soon, Kate and her daughter would be living in a new house not far from Liz.

  “I’m happy to help. Keeping busy makes waiting to hear from the loan officer that much easier.” Plus, cutting and curling her share of the skeins of decorative ribbon Grace had shipped might take her mind off her mysterious cactus man.

  But Kate was right. The person to ask for the name and whereabouts of the man in the tan jumpsuit lived right next door to Liz. So what if Crissy appeared to be living the American Dream—perfect house, two perfect kids and a perfect marriage? I refuse to be intimidated....much.

  “Come here, you dumb beast. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The cat, which David was tempted to call Ugly, switched his crooked tail and stepped behind the bags of soil additives stacked in the corner.

  “Look. I bought you tuna. Not cat tuna. Real, recently-swimming-in-the-sea-meant-for-human-consumption tuna.” He tapped his fork against the outside of the can. The tinny sound did nothing to lure the animal closer.

  “Fine. Be that way. I have to leave in a few minutes and I was sincerely hoping we might settle the question about whether or not we need to get you fixed.”

  The cat was a strange color combination. Mostly gray with hair that was just a bit too long to make a clear call on the neutering situation. But he had two swatches of white. One under his belly and another from his foot to the top of his left hind quarters. He looked as if he’d slipped into an open can of white paint.

  “Okay. We’ll save that talk for later. But I really would like to get that cut above your eye looked at. Could get infected. Gonna leave a scar, that’s for sure.”

  The cat suddenly sprang to the workbench where David potted his cacti that were sold at retail. “Scar. Maybe that’s what I should call you. We both have them, you know. Yours are just a lot more visible than mine.”

  David dumped the fish into a bowl he’d taken from his cupboard. Nothing fancy. A set he bought at Goodwill right after he moved into his place. “I’m using the good china, so no inviting friends over while I’m at work, okay?”

  He bent down and put the bowl on the floor. As soon as he was three steps away, the cat leaped down and attacked the meal. He acted starved, but David had left dry cat food out every day since the animal first appeared on his doorstep—exhausted, beaten-down and bleeding—David didn’t have the heart to turn him away, even though he made it a point not to get too friendly with any living soul—man or beast.

  It just didn’t pay. Not when he might have to pick up and leave at a moment’s notice. Nope. He didn’t do relationships. Which was why he was stalling. He needed to get back to Canto Lane. Unfortunately, that carried the risk of running into the woman he’d yelled at the day before.

  Granted their exchange hardly constituted a relationship, but she’d been on his mind ever since he’d driven away, and that bothered him. Generally, he was a master at living in the present—during the daylight hours, at least. Except on Ariel’s birthday. Maybe that was why the woman with lush black-brown hair and eyes so dark they made espresso look watered down had stayed in his mind. He’d met her in a moment of weakness.

  “Well, I’m not bringing in any money to buy tuna by standing here,” he muttered, pocketing his keys. He rinsed out the can and put it in the garbage can under the sink, then walked to the door. A quick glance told him everything was in order. No telltale hint that might give away his true identity if someone came looking. The box with the only photo he had of his kids was carefully buried under a foot of potting soil. He was safe. For now.

  Not that he had any reason to think Ray knew where to find him—or even whether he was still alive. For months, David had led a double life—working for Ray by day, helping the government build an airtight case against the man by night. The attorneys had assured David that the new life they’d chosen for him would be safe. But as a scientist, David left little to chance. He’d gone willingly into the federal Witness Protection Program, commonly called WITSEC. He’d watched the deputy U.S. marshals in charge of his relocation. He’d learned from them and done some investigation on his own. And a few months after his first rebirth, he’d disappeared again—without telling anyone.

  WITSEC was entirely voluntary so David was sure the feds wouldn’t bother looking for him. His flight might not have been the smartest thing he’d ever done in his life, but he knew Ray Cross. Ray hadn’t reached the pinnacle of success by accepting anything at face value. Ray would dig into records—hell, he’d dig up a grave—if he thought there was any chance David, or Paul McAffee, as David had been known in his former life, was still alive. Because in Ray’s book, death wasn’t good enough for the person who betrayed him.

  Ray—like the Grim Reaper—was coming. It was only a matter of when and where.

  Chapter 3

  “His name is David. Not Dave. He was quite firm about that.”

  “David what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Liz couldn’t tell if her very blond neighbor was being purposefully evasive or if she honestly didn’t know. She and Liz hadn’t connected on any level from day one. Crissy had ambled next door just moments after Liz’s two large, swarthy cousins backed a rented trailer into the driveway and started carrying boxes inside. Hand-me-downs. A few antiques. A treasure or two brought back from her travels. A far cry from Crissy’s place, which—just glimpsed through the window—looked like a page in some home-interior catalog.

  “How is that possible? You pay him, don’t you?”

  “In cash. It’s a big pain with the association’s two-signature system, let me tell you. I just know someone is going to accuse me of embezzlement because I have to make the check out for cash.”

  Doubtful. We’re not talking six figures here. “How do you contact him?”

  “I leave my number with an answering service that’s listed on a flyer he had up at the market. He usually gets back to me in a day or two.”

  “That seems like an odd way of doing business.”

  Crissy shrugged. “This is Vegas.”

  As if that explained everything. And maybe it did. People came to Vegas to leave their old lives behind, whether for a weekend or for good.

  “May I have that number?”

  Crissy crossed her arms just under her perky bosom. Blond, size zero, always perfectly dressed, the woman was so the opposite of Liz it was no wonder they didn’t get along. “What for?”

  Like it’s any of your business.

  Liz shrugged. “He left a hand trowel here yesterday.”

  “Give it to me. I’ll see that he gets it.”

  Damn. No wonder I never lie. I’m really bad at it. “I also want to talk to him about doing something different with my front planter.” Not.

  Crissy leaned forward to glance at Liz’s house. “It could use a fresh look. Just a minute.”

  “It could use a fresh look,” Liz muttered under her breath. Was Crissy’s world really that small that she only cared about the outward appearance of the houses in her n
eighborhood? Liz recalled the expression on her neighbor’s face at a community meeting when Liz suggested the money the association was spending on speed bumps and beautification might be better served on a skate park for kids like Crissy’s stepson. Crissy had actually blanched at the idea and intently argued that sort of thing was Parks and Rec’s responsibility.

  Later, after the meeting was over, a lady from down the street had pulled Liz aside to whisper that Crissy’s stepson was a thorn in his stepmother’s side. “Eli chooses to live with his mother in Phoenix for a reason—Crissy. Make that two reasons. Apparently his ultracute little sister can do no wrong.”

  That hint had been the first—and only—crack Liz had seen in her neighbor’s picture-perfect facade.

  “Here’s the number.” Crissy handed her a peach-colored note card with a number scribbled in purple ink a moment later. “But you’re probably better off grabbing him when he’s in the neighborhood. That’s how I pay him. Just watch and wait.”

  Like I have nothing better to do than stalk a man. Liz thanked her and left. She had a small window of time to work in her herb room before the heat of the day turned her garage into a sweatbox. After she made the tea she had in mind for David-not-Dave—her way of apologizing for yesterday’s fiasco—she would phone Zeke and call off the hunt for information about the man her sisters were calling the mystery gardener.

  Maybe David wasn’t so mysterious. He was just another Las Vegan doing his best to fly below Uncle Sam’s radar.

  Two hours later, Liz sealed the last of the tea bags containing her newest blend. The steam from the iron, which she used to run along the edges of the preformed bag, added to the ovenlike atmosphere in the garage. She used her sleeve to erase the mustache of sweat below her nose.

  She held up the bag and smiled. She liked this mix, which was specifically designed for a man who spent a great deal of his day outdoors in the sun. He’d had the look of a person who knew more about life than he cared to reveal.