A Fool and His Monet

by Sandra Orchard

“Good, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  The agent who’d been passing backed up to the opening in my cubicle wall. “Guy troubles?”

  “Not you too?” Ever since Nolan in accounting got engaged to the friend I’d introduced him to, half the single guys on the floor had asked me if I had any more single friends. The other half joked they were holding out for me. As if.

  He shrugged, grinning shamelessly.

  I finished up at my computer and headed out to the parking lot. It was already dark, and the shifting shadows raised the specter of Tanner’s warning about Baldy and Sidekick. I squashed the thought, thankful I had Zoe’s list of names to keep me occupied this evening. The temperature had plummeted along with the sun, leaving a thin sheen of ice on my windshield. I tossed my bag onto the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition.

  Nothing happened.

  Great. This had to be punishment for giving Zoe a hard time about her car. I checked the lights and radio, but it didn’t look as if I’d left anything on that would’ve drained the battery. The parking lot was practically empty too. Not good. If I couldn’t find someone to give me a boost, getting roadside assistance into the secured lot would be a feat. I popped the hood and jumped out.

  A rumbly SUV crept toward me.

  I shielded my eyes against the glare of its headlights but couldn’t make out the driver. Ignoring the sudden pounding in my chest, I waved anyway. The driver had to be staff. No one else could access the lot.

  The window rolled down. “Trouble?”

  “Tanner! Am I ever glad to see you. I need a jump. You mind?”

  “No problem.” In addition to being on the major crimes squad, Tanner was SWAT, which meant he got to drive a cooler vehicle to accommodate the extra equipment he might need at a moment’s notice. I had no interest in being SWAT, but with a light snow starting and my own car crippled, I was seriously coveting his SUV.

  He jumped out of his vehicle, cables in hand. Then his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “It’s your parents’ number.”

  “Dinner! I totally forgot.” Mom must still have had Tanner’s cell phone number on speed dial from the months he’d been my field training agent. “She’s still afraid to call me when I’m working.”

  “So what does that rank me, fish bait?”

  I laughed. “No, you’re SWAT. She probably thinks you can get yourself out of whatever disaster her call might cause.”

  Smirking, he clicked on his phone. “Yes, Mrs. Jones, she’s right here. Hold on a sec.” He handed it over.

  “Hey, Mum. I’m sorry I’m late. My car won’t start. Tanner’s seeing if he can get it going now.”

  She let out a relieved-sounding sigh. “Oh, is that all? Thank goodness.”

  I didn’t remember Mom ever being such a worrywart. Maybe she was hitting the change of life. Zoe told me that her neighbor had gotten so emotionally whacked out with it that sometimes she’d give her kids a hug good-bye and not be able to let them go until her husband pried them out of her arms.

  “It’s dead,” Tanner announced, unhooking his battery cables as solemnly as a doctor taking a patient off life support.

  “I’m sorry, Mum. It doesn’t look like I’m going to make it for dinner. I’m not sure who I need to talk to about getting a loaner. Most of the staff have already gone home. By the time I get squared away with another vehicle, the beef will be cold and your Yorkshire pudding collapsed.” Yorkshire pudding is a mixture of flour, milk, and eggs cooked in fat and served with gobs of gravy. And there was nothing Mom hated worse than our being too late to see it fresh from the oven in all its poofed-up glory.

  “Where are you? I’ll send your father to get you.”

  “That’s okay, Mum. You know how he hates to go out again after he gets home.”

  “I can drop you at your folks,” Tanner volunteered. He’d been there before, during my rookie days, and knew it wasn’t far from his own place.

  I covered the phone with my palm. “I appreciate the offer, but I have a long list of background checks to run through tonight anyway, and I’ll want a car to drive home because I’m heading straight to the art museum first thing in the morning.”

  “The background checks can wait, and I’ll make sure we get a working car to you.”

  I shook my head in disbelief at how insistent he was being. But last night’s stint in the airport was starting to catch up to me, and a home-cooked meal did sound good. “Are you sure you don’t mind driving me?”

  “Wouldn’t have offered if I did.”

  “Okay then.” I gathered my belongings from my car and told Mom I’d be there in twenty minutes.

  As I settled into Tanner’s passenger seat, he finished tapping a text on his phone, then cranked up the heat.

  “What were you working on so late?” I asked as he pulled onto the road.

  “A case.”

  Of course. It was pointless trying to get more answers out of Tanner when he started talking in one- and two-word sentences. For someone who was always asking me about my cases, he took secrecy to the extreme on his own. I’d asked him once why he hadn’t joined the CIA instead of the FBI. He’d said he couldn’t stand foreign food and he liked to sleep in his own bed at night.

  As we neared the corner, headlights blindsided me from the parking lot of the rundown building across the street from our headquarters. “What’s he doing?” I blurted.

  “Who?” Tanner made the turn.

  “That pickup.” I pointed, able to make it out better from the side until its headlights flicked off and it melted into the shadows once more.

  “Going to the bar, I imagine.”

  Yeah. It had to be a coincidence that I’d noticed a black pickup circle the parking lot behind my apartment building as I stepped out of the shower this afternoon. Baldy couldn’t have tracked me down this fast. If he was even looking.

  Tanner took the direct route, straight down Forest Park Avenue to the parkway into University City. Passing a bakery, I made a mental note to pick up something for Nate to thank him for taking care of Harold.

  My parents still lived in the same modest 1940s two-story I grew up in, made a tad more elegant-sounding by the prestigious university names of the streets. Not prestigious enough for Nana Jones, of course, who’d wanted Dad hobnobbing with the upper class. But Dad had never been the type to care about appearances or making connections. He’d just wanted to live in a nice neighborhood with a good school, within walking distance of his job.

  Thankfully, my friends growing up didn’t watch old black-and-white TV shows, so I was spared from being teased that my parents shared not only the same characteristics but also the same names—June and Ward—as the archetypal suburban parents immortalized by the TV series Leave It to Beaver.

  Tanner pulled up in front of my parents’ house. Only instead of stopping at the curb, he parked in the driveway, then jumped out and opened my door.

  “Whoa, what’s gotten into you?”

  “What would your mother think of me if I threw you out at the curb?” He glanced at a car coasting past and slipped to my other side like a Secret Service agent guarding the president’s exposed flank.

  “Is there something you neglected to tell me about that call from Buffalo?” I asked, praying his sudden protectiveness was only my imagination.

  “Watch the steps, they’re icy.”

  The front door flew open. “She’s here!” Mom beamed down at me as if I were the prodigal daughter come home at last. And from the delicious aroma wafting out of the house, the fatted calf had been cooked to perfection. She captured me in an uncharacteristic bear hug before I was in the door, and my first thought was, Who are you and what have you done with my mother?

  True to the British stereotype, my parents were raised not to wear their emotions on their sleeves and definitely not to be touchy-feely. Although I supposed that considering how petrified Mom had been about my flying out of town, my safe return would seem like a big dea
l.

  “Mmm, something smells good,” Tanner said from where he’d paused at the bottom of the porch steps.

  “Join us,” Dad said, easing Mom and me inside.

  I caught my jaw before it dropped. My dad was a pretty sociable kind of guy, but as a university professor, by Friday nights, he was typically worn out from teaching all week. We’d loved the fact as kids, because it meant Friday was the one night he’d agree to forgo sitting at the table for our meal and let us eat on TV trays in front of a movie.

  I glimpsed the dining room table, decked out in Mom’s finest china. Clearly, she had no intention of allowing a TV-tray meal tonight. The roast beef should’ve tipped me off.

  An odd sensation rippled through my stomach. As long as I could remember, roast beef had been reserved for Sunday dinner. Had Mom really been so worried I wouldn’t come home?

  Dad took a turn giving me a hug, then led Tanner to the table, delving immediately into a discussion about the stock market. Much to Nana’s chagrin, my dad had used his business degree to teach rather than go into business for himself. Tanner had been a student in one of his economics classes in bygone years, a fact they’d discovered in my first week as an agent under his supervision. For my dad, everything about the world and human nature could be compared to the stock market, so having someone at dinner versed in the lingo would make his day.

  Great-Aunt Martha, on the other hand, who’d been living with my parents ever since the hip surgery that had prompted her to convince me to sublet her apartment, emerged from the kitchen carrying water glasses and frowned at Tanner. She set one on the table in front of him with scarcely a nod, then scurried after Mom and me back into the kitchen, her newly set blue-gray curls bobbing erratically. “What’s he doing here? He’s too old for you.”

  I chuckled. “He’s not my date, Aunt Martha. He gave me a ride because my car wouldn’t start.”

  She glanced back into the dining room, looking deeply disturbed. “Does your father know that?”

  “Shush,” Mom said. “She can bring home whichever young man she likes.”

  “He’s not a young man,” Aunt Martha hissed, but I scarcely registered the protest because I was still gaping at Mom. It was no secret, thanks to the recent announcement that my younger cousin was engaged, that Mom thought it was time I got myself a husband too. But not someone in law enforcement. She couldn’t be that desperate to see me married. Or was she?

  I studied her carefully, wondering if her paranoia over my trip had caused some kind of mental breakdown.

  “Look what waiting for the right young man got you,” Mom went on to Aunt Martha.

  Uh-oh. I may be an FBI agent, but defusing this kind of confrontation was beyond my skills. I quickly shed my coat on the nearest kitchen chair and hurried out to the dining room with the bowl of mashed potatoes.

  “You became the iconic spinster cat lady.” Mom’s rising voice followed me into the dining room. “And now you’ve gone and foisted your feline on Serena!”

  Bristling, I looked at Tanner, who grinned at me. I offered a wan smile in return. I knew he knew exactly what I was thinking. I’d once made the mistake of waxing philosophical on this very topic during a stakeout.

  “Why are single women called ‘spinsters’ after a certain age, as if no one will have them, when men are dubbed ‘bachelors’ and admired, as if they’d chosen to avoid matrimony?” I’d ranted.

  Tanner had merely plucked a cat hair off my coat sleeve and raised one eyebrow in that annoying way he had.

  My dad, oblivious to the undercurrents and adept at tuning out Mom and Aunt Martha’s chattering, was saying something about the financial market.

  Tanner and I both turned to give him our attention. Tanner cleared his throat and, amazingly, took up the conversation as if he’d been hanging on Dad’s every word.

  “Yes, sir. I agree completely with your analysis.” He sipped his water and then looked me straight in the eye. “Astute investors find value where others don’t.”

  He held my gaze for a long instant until, mortifyingly, I blushed—blushed!—and then stammered something about salad dressing and retreated to the kitchen.

  What was that all about?

  “Astute investors find value where others don’t,” I mimicked under my breath as I took the gravy boat from Mom. What did he want me to do—put it on a plaque?

  Thankfully, Mom and Aunt Martha joined us at the table with no more mention of my singleness or my cat. Although Aunt Martha made a point of scooping the place beside Tanner, forcing me to sit across from him, presumably for fear our hands might graze each other when I passed the gravy boat.

  Naturally, Tanner noticed and winked at me.

  I ignored him.

  Dad called for quiet, and we joined hands to say grace.

  My grip reflexively tightened at his mention of my safe return, and Mom pulled back her hand with a yelp.

  I focused on filling my plate, certain Dad had opened Pandora’s box, or that my reaction had.

  Only the questions didn’t come. Everyone broke into mindless chatter as they too piled food on their plates. Mom didn’t even bring up the job opening at the Tums factory again. Dad talked to Tanner about new market analysis software his department had gotten, while Mom babbled on about plans for another cousin’s upcoming baby shower.

  Why weren’t they asking me about the trip? Forty-eight hours ago, it had been all I could do to get them to stop badgering me with questions over my imagined mission.

  Aunt Martha flagged me with her fork from across the table, and my pulse spiked. Here it comes.

  “I found these fabulous new support hose at the mall,” she said instead.

  My mouth bobbed uselessly for a second or two. I had no idea what to say.

  Oh, man, I was a worse mess than I’d thought. Here they’d gone and taken me at my word that I couldn’t talk about the job, but I really needed to. Every time I thought about Baldy’s glare outside the hotel room, I got the heebie-jeebies. Not that I wanted Tanner to know that. And his news flash about the pair’s release hadn’t helped.

  My family really didn’t need to know that. They’d beg me to quit.

  I finished what was on my plate and pushed away from the table. “That was fabulous, Mum. Thank you. I’ll get started on these dishes, because I’m afraid I need to leave soon. I have a new case I need to work on yet tonight.”

  “No, no, sit.” Mom sprang to her feet and snatched the empty plate from my hand. “I made dessert.”

  “Mmm,” Tanner hummed, laying his knife and fork on his empty plate.

  I shot my dad a questioning look. Mom never made dessert, unless it was Christmas or someone’s birthday or Jell-O was on sale at the supermarket. She’d always said we didn’t need the empty calories but had seemed to think Jell-O was healthy, seeing as they always served it to hospital patients.

  “Ooh,” Aunt Martha squealed. “Does your case have to do with the art museum?”

  I slanted a wary glance toward Tanner, since we weren’t really at liberty to discuss cases. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I’d never heard Zoe so rattled as when she called last night to ask if I could arrange for Nate to take care of Harold.” Aunt Martha squinted at me, then excitedly rubbed her hands together. “Ooh, it does have to do with the art museum!”

  I shook my head. “I never said a word.”

  Dad laughed. “It’s written all over your face. You’ve always been a terrible liar.”

  “For Serena’s own safety,” Tanner interjected, “and the integrity of her investigations, please don’t let anything you think you’ve figured out leave this room.”

  Aunt Martha rubbed her hands together more gleefully than ever. “Was it an inside job, do you think? Are you going undercover?”

  “No, Aunt Martha, I could hardly go undercover in my own neighborhood.”

  “But my friend Mildred phoned this afternoon, said she’d been at the museum with her grandson an
d saw you spying on people from the balcony. Said she didn’t recognize you at first because your hair was gray.” Aunt Martha tilted her head, scrutinizing my hair. “How’d you get the dye out so fast?”

  Tanner chuckled.

  If he hadn’t been across the table, I would’ve swatted him. “Mildred could’ve been mistaken,” I said.

  Tanner shook his head, a full-out grin stretching his lips. “You’re right. She’s a terrible liar. Good thing she lies better when her life is on the line.”

  “What? When?” Mom blurted, almost dropping the stack of dessert plates she was carrying.

  “He’s kidding,” I said, tossing a glare in Tanner’s direction.

  “I could go undercover for you,” Aunt Martha volunteered. “No one pays attention to old ladies. I could wander around the museum and listen in on conversations between the guards, watch where they go on their breaks.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Aunt Martha, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “I’m good at solving mysteries.” She elbowed my father. “Tell her.”

  “It’s true,” Dad grumbled. “She ruins all the TV shows for me, because she guesses who done it before the end.”

  The truth was, my aunt was a whodunit junkie. In addition to watching endless hours of Murder, She Wrote reruns, she owned every Agatha Christie book ever written and pestered me for details on my cases every chance she got.

  “Real-life investigations aren’t like what you see on TV,” Tanner cut in. “They can be long and tedious, and if you do manage to root out the bad guy, he might not think twice about shooting you before the final act.”

  “Icksnay on the angerday,” I muttered in pig Latin as Mom returned with a slab cake ensconced in flaming sparklers.

  She set it in front of me.

  “What’s this for?” The cake itself was covered in white icing with crazy colored squiggles crisscrossing it in a surprisingly aesthetic chaos.

  Tanner rose from his chair and tilted his head for a closer look. “Looks like that painting the FBI just recovered in Buffalo.”

  Mom beamed, then pressed a kiss to my cheek. “As soon as I heard the press conference on the radio this morning, I knew the FBI had you to thank for the recovery. We’re so proud of you, honey.”