Five Spot
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015
A Kindle Scout selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
For Teddy. Again.
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
A while ago ...
Sneak Peek: Playing With Poison
About the Author
Acknowledgements
I had a midlife (or maybe two-thirds life) crisis the year I wrote Five Spot. Here are some of the people who kept the book on track and me sane. Okay, almost sane. Thanks to: Kathy Powell, Peter Lacey, Anne Saunders, Polly Iyer, Linda Lovely, Ellis Vidler, Howard Lewis, Traylor Rucker, Teddy Stockwell, Beverly Boudreau, Cindy Boudreau, Kathy Miller, Jane Bishop, Joanna Innes, Bob Spearman, Karen Phillips, and Caroline Miller. I also want to mention my romance-author friends who inspired Jessie and the idea behind the Happily Ever After conference: Nina Bruhns, Dianne Miley, Paula Benson, and Dorothy McFalls. And as always, huge, mega, fantastical thanks to John Blackburn. The Cue Balls would not exist without him!
Chapter 1
“We’ll raffle off a man!” Louise shouted into the phone.
“As in a human being?” I asked from my end of the line. “Are you crazy?”
The answer to that question, by the way, is a resounding yes. My literary agent Louise Urko, aka Geez Louise, is certifiable.
“A man-prize!” she was saying. “Such a fantastical idea! Fantastical, fantastical, fantastica—”
I looked at my cats. “Certifiably cuckoo.”
“I heard that, Jessica. But you know I had to come up with the most fantastical prize ever in the entire history of the Happily Ever After conference!”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes! Adelé Nightingale is about to be inducted into the Hall of Fame. Finally! This year’s Happily Ever After absolutely must be the most memorable ever. You and Adelé deserve nothing less!”
In case you’re confused—Geez Louise has a way of doing that—I am Adelé Nightingale. But I’m also Jessica Hewitt. Adelé is my pen name, I write historical romances for a living, and I was indeed about to take my place in the hallowed ranks of the Romance Writers Hall of Fame.
“A man-prize is so much better than Tori Fister’s idea!” Louise was still speaking in high-definition exclamation points. “She suggested the raffle winner receive a free massage! A massage! Can you imagine anything more ho hum-hum drum?”
Tori, in case you’re still confused, is Geez Louise’s archrival. The two of them are the hottest literary agents in the romance world. I’m a fan of Geez Louise, which of course speaks volumes as to my own grasp on sanity.
“I had to think of something better than a massage!” she continued. “So come Monday, some lucky winner will be swept off her feet for a fun-filled frolicsome date with her Paramour for a Day! Will that be fantastical or what?”
“Or what,” I answered firmly and reminded my agent very few men attend the annual Happily Ever After conference. “Who do you plan to recruit for this stunt?”
Louise skipped a beat. “I don’t suppose Roberto would work,” she said, and I agreed he would not.
Roberto Santiago, my publisher at Perpetual Pleasures Press, is a regular at Happily Ever After. But Roberto is over seventy and a bit past Paramour for a Day standards. Gavin McClure also attends every year, and Gavin is a handsome young guy. But Gavin was bound to be as busy as I over the weekend, since he, too, was about to be inducted into the Hall of Fame for his work in the LGBT category. Which brings up another point.
“Gavin’s cute,” I said. “But I doubt the winner, who’s bound to be a heterosexual female, would consider him the best paramour.”
“That rules out Mykal also,” Louise agreed. Mykal is Gavin’s significant other. “So,” she sang. “There really is only one choice.”
I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. “No.”
“But he’s not gay. And he’s such a hunk! He’s the perfect paramour! Perfect, perfect, perfe—”
“He’s also my husband,” I said, and I could almost hear Louise roll her eyes up in Manhattan from my chair in Clarence, North Carolina. “Husband,” I repeated. “You do remember our wedding a mere three months ago?”
“Oh, Jessica! I’m not suggesting anything sordid. Everyone knows Wilson Rye is madly in love with you. Beautiful, talented, menopausal you!”
I thanked her for reminding me and went in search of an Advil while Louise continued on her merry, insane way.
“It’s just for one teeny tiny-itsy bitsy date,” she said as I swallowed a pill. “And he’ll be perfect! Everyone’s dying to meet him. You two will be the hottest thing at this conference!”
“Oh, please,” I said. “We’re middle-aged fuddy-duddies.”
“Fuddy-duddies do not drive golden chariots.”
“Excuse me?”
“Adelé Nightingale’s brand-new golden chariot!” she said. “Absolutely perfect for Wilson’s Paramour for a Day performance!”
I scowled at the cats. “Are you talking about my Porsche?”
“It is gold, isn’t it? And with your Adelé license plates? It’s like you bought it specifically with our raffle in mind!”
“Louise! My car may be new, but Wilson certainly isn’t. He’s way too old for this nonsense.”
“Nonsense! He’s perfect!”
Perfect? Hardly. But Wilson is handsome. For a guy pushing fifty, that is. I scowled some more and desperately tried to think of an alternative.
“How about Roger Hollingsworth?” I suggested, and Louise snorted.
“And you claim I’m cuckoo?”
Okay, so she had a point. Roger is married to Faith Hollingsworth, another of my fellow Hall of Fame inductees. Presumably Roger’s heterosexual, and he’s about ten years younger than Wilson. However.
“Roger’s a fuddy-duddy,” I said.
“Roger put the fuddy into duddy! He’s some sort of boring businessman, for Pete’s sake.”
“There’s nothing wrong with businessmen,” I insisted and tried to think fast. “Businessmen are clever and intelligent, and, umm, reliable! Some wome
n like that kind of thing.”
“And some women are cuckoo. Everyone knows business is boring. Boring!” she sang.
“You’re a businesswoman,” I argued, but Louise was too busy repeating her one-word song to hear me.
“Businessmen are completely and totally unsexy,” she said. “Remember your ex-husband?”
I winced at the cats. “Must I?”
“No! Think about your new husband instead, Jessica. Wilson Rye the homicide guy! The sexy cop!” Louise claimed she swooned every time she pictured him. “You know and I know he’ll make a perfectly fantastical paramour!”
“You know and I know he’ll be perfectly appalled by this plan.”
“Hogwash! He’ll be flattered. So, what do you say?”
I know Louise, and thus I knew resistance was futile. I said yes and hung up. Which is when I noticed all three cats glaring at me.
From my own cat Snowflake, I was accustomed to such disapproval. But from Bernice and Wally, who had been Wilson’s before our marriage? Clearly they’d been taking lessons from Snowflake.
“Wilson will be flattered,” I tried, and six feline eyes glared some more.
I sighed dramatically. “He’s going to kill me.”
No one argued. Bernice yawned.
***
“Wilson Rye at a romance conference?” Karen Sembler asked as we crossed the street and headed to the Stone Fountain, our friendly neighborhood bar. “How’d you talk him into that?”
“Wilson’s proud of Jessie,” Candy Poppe answered for me. She held the door open, and Karen and I slipped by. “I bet he wants to go.”
I agreed that Wilson did want to attend the Hall of Fame induction ceremony, but also admitted he wasn’t interested in much else about the Happily Ever After.
“But there’s a nice golf course close by,” I said as we took seats at our three favorite bar stools. “Wilson can spend his time shooting golf.”
Karen jerked a thumb at the pool table behind us. “You shoot pool, girlfriend. You play golf.”
“Okay, play,” I said as my pool-shooting buddy Kirby Cox stepped over and challenged me to a game.
“Not now,” Candy told him. “Right now Jessie’s telling us how she talked Wilson into being Paramour for a Day.”
“Say what?” Kirby asked.
I said I needed a drink and waved to the bartender. And while Karen and Candy explained the basics of the plan to Kirby, Charlie poured our drinks. Korbel for Candy and me, and a Corona for Karen.
You might think I ordered champagne to celebrate my imminent induction into the Romance Writers Hall of Fame, but truth be told, I simply like champagne. My motto? A day without champagne is just plain dumb.
Karen tapped my glass to get my attention. “What’s the story, Jess? How’d you get Wilson to agree to this?”
“Umm.” I shrugged. “I don’t believe I’ve actually mentioned it yet.”
“Oh boy,” she said, but Kirby added something considerably stronger.
I twirled around and pointed him to the pool table. “Play!” I ordered. “Shoot. Whatever.”
He took the hint, but my girlfriends were not so easily distracted.
Candy tapped her flaming red fingernails on the bar. “Newlyweds shouldn’t lie to each other, Jessie.”
“I didn’t lie,” I lied. “It just slipped my mind.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Karen told me. “Wilson’s going to kill you.”
I threw my hands up. “Okay, so what else is new?” I reminded my friends the man has been on the verge of killing me for some reason or another since the day we met. “Apparently I drive him nuts.”
“No kidding,” they said in unison.
They asked where he was that night, and I mentioned the police station. Wilson had some work to catch up on before our weekend away. But I needed the opposite. I needed to sip champagne, shoot some pool, and relax.
“I attend this conference every year,” I explained. “Trust me, it’s always a rather intense three days.”
“It’s gonna get real intense when Wilson hears about the paramour thingy,” Candy said.
“Wilson will be flattered,” I insisted, and my friends offered the same disapproving look the cats had given me.
***
Speaking of which.
“My cats!” I said. I deftly changed the subject and reminded Candy and Karen I’d be gone the entire Labor Day weekend. “You two are okay with cat-care duty?”
Candy was agreeable, but Karen seemed uncharacteristically reluctant.
“Are you busy this weekend?” I asked.
Like myself, Karen’s self-employed. But while I spend my time in my top-floor condo with my computer, Karen spends hers on the ground floor with her Skilsaw. When she’s not at home building large and ostentatious furniture for every wealthy person this side of the Mississippi, she’s working in the Summit Garden District, fixing whatever ails the various mansions in the wealthiest section of Clarence. Karen Sembler is the handiest person I know. The woman can build or fix anything.
She didn’t answer, so I tried again. “What colossal piece of furniture are you working on?”
At least Candy responded. “Karen’s not making furniture right now,” she said. “She’s working at Pierpont Rigby’s house.”
“House? That place is a mansion, Sweetie. You’ve been on the tours.” I turned to Karen. “You’re actually working for Pierpont Rigby?”
“He’s got a lot of plumbing issues,” she said, and I laughed out loud.
“I imagine so,” I said. “How many bathrooms are there?”
“I lost count after twenty. And it’s not just the plumbing, Jess. The wiring on the first floor needs updating to meet code, all the brick work needs repointing, the roof in the west wing leaks, and the furnace will want a major overhaul before winter sets in.”
“Wow. You’ll be working out there forever.”
She grimaced. “Oh boy.”
“No, really.” I told Karen I was impressed and asked how she’d gotten the job.
“I got it for her,” Candy answered, and Karen mumbled a “with friends like this.”
I scowled at Candy. “You actually know Pierpont Rigby?”
Yes, Candy Poppe and Pierpont Rigby do both live in Clarence, North Carolina. But that’s about all they have in common. Candy works in the foundations department of Tate’s Department Store. She’s the best bra saleswoman on Planet Earth, but that doesn’t exactly qualify her for being friends, or even acquaintances, with Pierpont Rigby—the wealthiest man in Clarence, the wealthiest man in North Carolina, and one of the richest men in the nation.
Candy assured me she didn’t know Mr. Rigby personally. “But Mrs. Marachini does.”
“The polka-dot bra lady?”
“That’s right.” She explained that her richest and most eccentric customer was related to the local millionaire. “He’s her second cousin twice removed or something like that.”
Evidently Candy had learned about Mr. Rigby’s plumbing issues the last time Mrs. Marachini visited Tate’s for her monthly shopping spree. “Mrs. Marachini complained how hard it is to find good help these days, and how poor Pierpont couldn’t get anyone to fix his house.”
I smiled broadly. “So you mentioned Karen?”
“I did.”
“And Mrs. Marachini mentioned her to Pierpont?”
“She did.”
“And Pierpont hired her?”
“He did!”
“Well done, Sweetie!” I said, and we tapped champagne glasses.
Karen muttered a word we seldom hear from her and ordered another beer.
***
I put down my glass. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
“It’s your cats,” Karen said. “I’ll be too busy to look after your cats. I feel awful.”
Candy waved a hand and told her not to worry about it. “I can handle it by myself. I’ll go upstairs to Jessie’s before and after work each day.”
&nbs
p; “But that’s unfair to you, Kiddo,” Karen argued. “The little black guy and Snowflake are no trouble, but you have to watch the fat one like a hawk. She steals everyone’s food.”
Sad but true. Poor Bernice, our fatter than fat calico, was not happy with her new diet and cheated whenever possible.
“How about this.” Karen leaned around me to speak to Candy. “I’ll be at the Rigby place until late tomorrow, and then I’ll need Saturday morning to recover—”
“Recover?” I asked, but she ignored me and kept her eyes on Candy.
“If you take care of the cats until Saturday afternoon, I’ll take over from there.”
Candy was fine with that plan, and Karen waved to Charlie and asked him to please hurry with that beer.
Chapter 2
Slipper Vervette blinked her big brown eyes. Maurice blinked his.
Slipper fluttered her eyelashes. Maurice fluttered his.
Slipper frowned, and Maurice imitated that also.
She twirled around. “He doesn’t like me.”
“Give him a try, Miss.” Conrad Montjoy held onto the reins and pointed to the beast kneeling before her. “Look, he’s bowing for you. He’ll be very gentle.”
Slipper turned and stared once more. She had heard of these beasts. Long ago her dear father, God rest his soul, had drawn her a picture and told her of their many unusual attributes. But dear Papa had never mentioned the size of the creatures—
Maurice snarled and spit, and Slipper leapt back just in time to avoid the—she shuddered to think of the right word for it—before “it” landed on the bosom of her frock.
Conrad Montjoy glimpsed at the spot where Maurice had aimed, but admonished himself that he must be a gentleman. After all, Miss Vervette was so clearly out of her element here in the desert. It was only to be expected that a beast such as Maurice might frighten a delicate young lady from the Cottleshire. Even if the lady was the daughter of the renowned zoologist, and Conrad’s former employer, the late Dr. Wesley Vervette.
“Dr. Vervette loved riding,” Conrad said as he offered his free hand. “He would be proud of you for trying, Miss.”
Slipper’s bosom trembled with trepidation. But she ever so cautiously took Conrad’s hand, and he guided her onto the back of the beast.