Engagement and Espionage: Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries Series Book #1

by Reid, Penny

  “Elena says something interesting, when they’re pushing Jenn out of the house.”

  My gaze flickered over my younger brother and his earnest expression. Admittedly, I hadn’t heard anything said on the video, the imagery had been more than overwhelming.

  “What does she say?”

  “She says . . .” Beau pulled a face. “That Jenn is heavier than her momma, heavier than Diane.”

  Heavier than Diane.

  I stopped pacing. “What exactly does she say?”

  Beau put the headphones back on, presumably rewinding the video, then hit play. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes staring off at nothing as he listened.

  Abruptly, he hit the space bar, and seemed to be quoting as he said, “‘You’re heavier than your momma, but if I can drag her across that field, I can drag you to that car.’”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I wanted movement and not a calm course of existence. I wanted excitement and danger and the chance to sacrifice myself for my love.”

  ― Leo Tolstoy, Family Happiness

  *Jenn*

  “I love your family.”

  “They love you.” Cletus’s chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, his steady heart drummed a soothing song in my ear.

  Cletus’s brothers and Shelly had left just about a half hour ago with promises to return soon. After Billy finished his phone call with the sheriff, he’d called Roscoe and filled him in on the situation. Roscoe offered to make dinner and bring it over—which, when Billy asked if that was okay, Cletus accepted with a, It’s about time! Roscoe also offered to call Drew and Ashley and bring them into the loop.

  They were all due back within the hour.

  “I’m so glad this is over.” I snuggled closer, closing my eyes as Cletus’s arm gave me the gentlest of squeezes.

  It was obvious he was trying his darndest to be careful no matter how many times I told him I was fine. My face had suffered the worst of my father’s temper. It had stopped throbbing after the ice packs and a few pain relievers. Other than scratches and bruises on my arms from Elena, I was perfectly fine.

  In fact, I felt so fine, I worried that there was something wrong with me. Shouldn’t I be more fragile than this? Shouldn’t I be terrified, crying myself to sleep in my pillow, inconsolable? I’d just been attacked by my father. I didn’t feel at all like I thought a victim should feel.

  Strange.

  “We’re going to have to tell you mother, sooner or later,” Cletus said, interrupting my train of thought.

  “I’m not looking forward to that conversation.” I grimaced.

  “Me neither. She was just starting to like me, and that felt like a miracle.”

  “She’ll get over it.” I hope.

  His finger tapped out a rhythm on my hip where his hand was splayed. “Would it make a difference, do you think, if my friend Alex restores the renovation accounts for the lodge? So she doesn’t even have to involve her lawyers?”

  I hesitated, pausing to think about his words, because if Cletus just said what I think he said, that seemed incredibly illegal. “Alex can do that?”

  “I can’t say that he doesn’t or does have the ability to not do something such as, but not including, however similar to, should the need arise—”

  “Oh brother. A simple yes would suffice.”

  I sensed his lips curve in a smile.

  “But, yes, for the record, if you could get your friend Alex to restore the accounts before we talk to her, I think she’d probably take our deception much better. One thought though, if we just let the money stay where it is, couldn’t my father be arrested for stealing it? If so, I’d like to see his prison sentence be as long as possible.”

  Cletus placed a kiss on my forehead, shaking his head. “No. What your father did by taking that money was not illegal, since your parents are still married. He didn’t steal it. It was just a violation of their prenuptial agreement is all. He can’t go to jail for withdrawing the money.”

  “Well, in that case, absolutely yes. Just have Alex get it back as soon as possible.”

  “By the way, you sure you don’t mind everyone coming back over for dinner?” he asked, sounding worried. “Everyone should start arriving any minute. Roscoe and Billy will likely get here first, but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if we canceled. I can make us something, tell them to stay home.”

  “Not at all. The company will be nice.” I lifted to my elbow so I could see his handsome face. I missed it. “It’s been lonely here, by myself, for the last two weeks.”

  “You’ve lived here on your own for just about two months, but only the last two weeks were lonely?”

  “I was so busy between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, I think I was lonely for a different reason. But”—I tilted my head back and forth in a considering motion—“since you bring it up . . .”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, moving between mine. “What is it?”

  “Would you consider moving in?”

  I waited, watching him expectantly. His lips parted, forehead wrinkled, but he said nothing, and I got the sense I’d surprised him.

  I sat up in bed, prepared to list all my very good reasons using my fingers. “First, we’re engaged already. Second, I miss you when I don’t see you, and I want to see you more than on holidays or stolen moments during daylight hours. Third, I want to sleep with you, every night. Fourth, I want to see your stuff here, I want us to make a home together.”

  “These are all great reasons.” He also sat up, resting his back against the headboard. “But Jenn, as you said last November, you’ve never lived by yourself before. You said you wanted to give that a try, and now I tend to agree.”

  “I know what I said last November, but I’ve changed my mind. You’ve never lived by yourself either.”

  “That’s true. Except, with Billy and me at the homestead, and Roscoe there on the weekends, it’s like living with roommates.”

  “Why can’t you be my roommate?”

  His gaze grew cagey. “Roommates don’t typically engage in sexual congress.”

  I threw my hands up, honestly a little frustrated he was fighting me on this. “Well, neither do we!”

  Now he squinted, his mouth a flat line. “Not for lack of trying.”

  “Really?” I countered, crossing my arms. “Because it seems like you’ve been holding yourself back. In fact, it seems like you have a history of keeping yourself separate from me. Often.”

  “What nonsense are you speaking?”

  “You haven’t slept over here since Thanksgiving. Why is that?”

  “You said you wanted to live alone, and I don’t want to hover or inadvertently overstep,” he said peevishly, giving me his grumpy face and tone.

  “If you overstep, I’ll tell you.”

  “I’d prefer to not overstep in the first place.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “What? Jenn—”

  “No, really. It’s not. Avoiding me because you’re trying to avoid overstepping isn’t fair. You’ve left dinners in the fridge, you’ve done my grocery shopping, you’ve been over here plenty when I’m not here. Why not stay and be with me when I get home? Unless you don’t want to?”

  He was gritting his teeth, no longer squinting but glaring at me through droopy lids. “Really? You want me pawing you after an eighteen-hour shift at the bakery?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That seems counterintuitive.” Cletus shook his head, obviously stressed, tossed his legs over the side of the bed, and stood. “I’m not going to do that.”

  I lifted to my knees and followed him as far as the end of the mattress. “You seem to be suffering from a case of grandiose nobility, Cletus Winston. What? Do you think you’ll scare me away?”

  “Maybe.” He paced away, his strong shoulders a distraction in the thin fabric of the white T-shirt he wore. My mouth watered as I followed the line of his back to where his sides tapered just before the waist of his jeans, knowing
every inch of him was solid, hard muscle and hot skin. Then there’s that delectable bottom of his.

  He turned, and my gaze shot upward to his face. My cheeks heated.

  “I don’t want to scare you away,” he said on a rush, like the words were a confession.

  “You’re not going to scare me away.”

  “I don’t know about that. It’s difficult for me to admit, I don’t know what I’m doing with you. I can’t seem to read your mind.”

  That made me smile. I knew he meant the words in earnest, but he was so silly sometimes. “No one is a mind reader. And I don’t want you to read my mind. I want you to be yourself.”

  “Selfishness now isn’t going to get me what I want in the long run.”

  “And you only know how to be selfish?”

  “So far, prior to you, yes.”

  I huffed at his ridiculous assessment of himself. “Then what do you want in the long run?”

  “You.” He said simply.

  “Cletus, don’t you realize? You already have me. Stop being so careful.”

  “And if I make a mistake?”

  “Trust me to forgive you.”

  His gaze moved over me—even my cut lip and the purple ugliness on my face—as though I were the most beautiful, desirable person he’d ever seen. He shifted back on his foot, spearing his hair with his fingers and sending the chaotic curls in every direction. “You’ve been through a trial today, and now isn’t the time to discuss my ignoble impulses. Maybe we should talk about this later.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but the doorbell rang. We both sighed.

  Standing from the mattress, I walked to him and slipped my arms around his neck, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

  His hands came to my forearms, caressing his palms from my elbows to my shoulders. “Your skin is so soft,” he said on a whisper, making me think he was talking to himself.

  I leaned my forehead against his, inhaling him, wishing for the right words to convince him. I wanted him more reckless with me, less inhibited. “I appreciate you wanting to be noble with me, Cletus Byron Winston. But I love it when you’re selfish.”

  The doorbell rang a second time and he straightened, peering down at me. The want and restraint behind his gaze stole my breath.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to be a little more selfish . . .” he muttered, his hands sliding down my sides, but then halting at my hips. “After you’ve recovered.”

  I twisted my lips to the side, ignoring the slight sting at the movement. “I don’t know if I’ll be better anytime soon. You might as well sleep over every night, like a roommate.”

  “Jenn—”

  I pulled away, strolling out of the room. “Roommates sleep together, right? Naked? I think I read that in a book.”

  “Fine. Lend me that book and we’ll do it,” he said, coming up behind me and, in an unexpected move, he pinched my bottom.

  I jumped, squeaking, stopping, then watched his body as he walked past me to the door, a little flutter in my belly rising up to my chest, making me feel warm all over. He’s mine.

  Cletus Winston was mine, brain and backside and everything in between. Maybe if I took advantage, just a little bit, every once in a while, he’d follow suit? It was worth a try.

  The doorbell rang again. “Coming, coming!” Cletus shouted, and then grumbled under his breath, “Keep on your skinny jeans, Roscoe.”

  Chuckling, I shuffled to the kitchen, yawning but then stopping and wincing when my lip pulled and stung. Cletus opened the door. I figured it must be either Ashley and Drew or Beau and Shelly because I heard a female voice. Bending, I searched the bottom of the pantry for a bottle of red wine, and when I straightened and turned, I got the shock of my life.

  The unopened bottle of red slipped from my grip, falling to the floor, and—by some miracle—hit the ground with a thud but did not break.

  “Hello, Jennifer,” Tricia Wilkinson said, holding a gun to the back of Cletus’s head.

  * * *

  The house had two panic rooms, one in the back near the utility area, and one off the open hallway to the master bedroom. Where Tricia held us—in the living room, sitting on the couch, our hands on our knees where she could see them—the panic room off the hallway was closest.

  Cletus had caught my eye earlier and glanced at the hallway. I knew he was thinking what I was thinking, which meant he was also working on a plan to get us both into that panic room.

  Presently, Tricia stood with the coffee table between us, her gun still on Cletus, but her attention on the screen of her phone. She’d said nothing other than “Hello, Jennifer” and “Go sit on the couch, right now.” We’d been sitting in silence for what felt like hours but was probably closer to five minutes. Finally, just in the last few seconds, I was coming back to myself.

  Folks who’ve ever had a gun on them will tell you that it’s an incredibly surreal experience. All is confusion, your mind checks out, your mouth stops working, and your heart is all you can hear.

  But now my mind had rebooted and worked overtime through potential escape plans. If I could only get the table out of the way, for example, I’d be able to tackle her to the ground. She wouldn’t be expecting that from me, I was certain. If the opportunity presented itself, to shove her and knock her over, I’d take it.

  “This is a small town, Jennifer,” she said abruptly, lifting her eyes from the phone. “You don’t want people to know something, you don’t leave a message with Flo McClure.”

  “I . . .” I frowned, confused. What?

  “That was incredibly stupid. But then, your daddy told me over and over how slow you are.”

  “What are you—” OH!

  Oh shit.

  I closed my eyes, feeling like the idiot she thought I was. “The voicemail with dispatch meant for Boone this morning, that’s what you’re talking about. Florence heard it.”

  “Ding, ding, ding. That’s right. And Flo called Nancy, and Nancy called Deb, and Deb called—”

  “You,” Cletus filled in, and I looked at him, combating the urge to apologize. I should’ve known.

  Deb Brightwell.

  What had Elena said earlier while I’d been preparing that tasteless chicken and broccoli dish? Deb works with a few local farmers. Tricia’s good friend was also Nancy Danvish’s good friend. Deb had been the one to tell Nancy about Momma getting hit, that’s how she had known it was a broomstick and not a shovel.

  “Ah, you’re seeing the full picture now.” Tricia shifted the gun from Cletus to me. “And you expect anyone to believe you win blue ribbons on merit? You can’t be dumb and be an excellent baker, those two just don’t mix. You never should’ve been allowed to enter in the first place. You were too young, it was a joke, an embarrassment, to all of us!”

  Cletus suddenly stood and Tricia flinched, the gun moving back to him. “Hey. What are you doing?”

  Cletus stepped around the coffee table, hands up, and strolled to the sideboard. “If I’m going to have a gun pointed at me all night, I think I’ll pour myself a drink.” He twisted at the waist, looking over his shoulder at me. “Want one?”

  “Hey!” She lifted the gun. “Did I say you could move?”

  Cletus pulled two tumblers from the cabinet and a bottle of scotch my momma had left over Christmas. “Where can we go? We’re basically trapped in a hyperbolic chamber.”

  “Another idiot.” She rolled her eyes, her grip on the gun easing. “I think you mean a hyperbaric chamber, Mr. Winston.”

  “No. We are stuck, in this chamber—i.e. this house—with a person—i.e. you—who is in love with their own hyperbole. Hyperbolic chamber.” Cletus glanced at me over his shoulder again, lifting one of the tumblers. I stood slowly, my hands up, and walked over to him. Clearly, he wanted me to drink a glass of scotch.

  Her eyebrows pulled together. She looked confused as she glared at us, her mouth opening as though to argue.

  He didn’t give her time to parse his statement, already mo
ving on. “So what’s the plan here, huh?”

  She lifted the gun again, her arm straight. “Shut up,” she said. “I don’t have to tell you my plan.”

  “Do you have a plan? I mean, other than boring us to death.” Cletus handed me the glass of scotch and clinked mine with his.

  “Oh, your death is definitely part of the plan, believe me.” Her mouth curled in a sneer. “Now tell me where the security system is.”

  “Why? You’re already in the house.” Cletus took a gulp of his drink, watching her over the top of the glass.

  “Yes, but Kip said it records the front porch. I want the recording of me entering the house.”

  “Why?” Cletus turned, backing up a step—another full foot toward the panic room—and motioned that I should drink. I took a sip, watching him the whole time for a sign as to what he was planning.

  Tricia gave the gun a little shake. “Because I’m going to erase it, obviously. Then I’m turning off the whole system so we won’t be recorded when we leave.”

  “Oh? Are we leaving?” Cletus reached over and gripped the floor lamp next to the hallway’s opening, standing casually, tilting his head.

  “Let go of that.” She pointed the gun at the lamp.

  He let go immediately, shuffling a little away from it and closer to the hallway, his palm out. “Sorry. You were saying something about us leaving?”

  “Yes. We’re leaving. We’re all leaving together.”

  Cletus drained his glass, handing it to me. “Could you refill that, hon?” And then to Tricia, he asked, “Then what?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there.”

  “Where?”

  “We’re—” she began, and then snapped her mouth shut. “I’m not telling you that.”

  I refilled Cletus’s glass, then walked over and handed it to him.

  “I don’t think you have a plan,” he said, stepping around me for the sideboard, pushing me further into the hall. “Honey, I said a refill, not a thimble.”

  Tricia’s gaze bounced between us, her frown deepening. “I do have a plan, but I’m not telling you. Where is the security system?”