Borrowing Trouble

by Stacy Finz

  Nate watched him closely, clearly not buying it. “And come to a Podunk town like Nugget, where you could flip pancakes at a bed and breakfast?” He shook his head. “I’d like you to play a bigger role in Breyer Hotels, Brady. I really would. But not until you’re straight with me.”

  With that, Nate moseyed out of the kitchen, leaving Brady to wonder what a bigger role meant. And how welcome would he be after Nate learned that a deranged woman wanted to hunt Brady down and do God-knew-what with him.

  Sloane thought she was being watched. Maybe she was just creeping herself out, but twice she’d heard footsteps on the porch and twice she’d looked outside her living room window to find no one there. Still, she had the bizarre sense, a gut instinct so to speak, that there were eyes on her. Like she was the focus of one of those Hollywood point-of-view shots that lets the viewer know something scary is about to happen.

  She’d first felt it as she carried groceries in from her truck. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, signaling that she wasn’t alone. In the police academy, recruits were taught to be hyper-aware of their surroundings, and suddenly her body had gone taut, on alert. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she’d searched the trees, only to spy a pair of squirrels chasing each other from branch to branch. She’d sniffed the air and for a second thought she detected cigarette smoke. And then, just like that, it was gone. Lord, how the mind played tricks.

  Just the same, she checked the lock again, absently touched the handle of the Glock at her waist, and went back to the kitchen. Tonight she planned to finally deliver on that dinner she owed Brady. She’d gotten a recipe from her mother’s beloved Silver Palate Cookbook for a French chicken dish made with olives, prunes, capers, and herbs. Just exotic enough to surprise the pants off Brady.

  Getting Brady’s pants off hadn’t been all that difficult. But this evening she’d like to do it with a home-cooked meal. One she’d made, instead of him. While the chicken baked in the oven she prepared the vegetables for roasting, drizzling them with olive oil and sprinkling them with salt. She read the directions for the couscous a second time and filled a pot with water. That’s when she heard the noise, a kind of thump thump, coming from the back of the duplex. Sloane peered out the window.

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered to herself, and unlocked the back door with the key she kept in the drawer. Stepping out onto the deck, she called, “Anyone out there?”

  Her answer came in a loud shriek from a crow. Three deer dashed down the ravine and leapt across the railroad tracks. For crying out loud, she chided herself. What was wrong with her? Sloane went back in the house and relocked the door.

  With her prep work done, she began setting the table, thinking how she’d spend tomorrow. Two days off in a row. For an officer in a small, country police department, Sloane worked a lot of hours. Especially with the John Doe case hanging over her head. Now she had three kids to look after in her so-called pilot program. Rudy Mendoza had turned out to be a shy boy with a pronounced limp. He’d been born with one leg significantly shorter than the other. His parents had tried to compensate by putting a lift in one of his shoes, but he really needed custom-made orthotics, which were pricey.

  Sloane planned to talk to Tawny, who’d designed plenty of boots for customers with special needs. They’d of course have to get guidance from a doctor, and Sloane didn’t know whether the Mendozas had insurance—Rudy’s father supported the family by getting seasonal work on local cattle ranches and farms.

  Unlike her other kids, Rudy spoke fluent Spanish, which would come in handy for the new project she had in mind. Sloane wanted to organize a children’s-ID-kit fair in which they’d help parents assemble fingerprints, updated photos, and medical information about their kids in case of an emergency. She’d gotten the idea when Aidan had mentioned CFD’s Kids’ Weekend. A big part of Nugget’s population was Hispanic, and Rudy could act as an interpreter. She also wanted to bring Emily on board. Sloane thought it would fit in nicely with the volunteer work Emily did for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

  At the sink, she washed dishes, trying to get the kitchen presentable. That’s when she heard a noise again. This time it was closer and sharper, like someone banging. Sloane immediately shut off the faucet to listen and realized someone was at her back door. No one ever used that door. Not even Brady, whose apartment shared the same deck. Whoever visited always came to the front.

  She moved away from the windows, flattened her back against the wall, and withdrew her Glock. “Who’s there?” Sloane called.

  No answer. Just the sound of footsteps coming around the side of the house. Whoever it was continued to the front. Sloane confirmed that theory when she heard boots on the porch steps, then a tapping on her door. Possibly a ruse. Home-invasion robbers worked in teams. One person knocked on the front door while the others pushed their way in through the back. No home-invasion robberies in Nugget, but she hadn’t ruled out Roger Buck and his merry band of assholes. Or maybe she was just being paranoid.

  Pressing against the wall, she carefully peeked out the window over the sink. No one out there, unless they were hiding behind the trees. The knock came again and Sloane crept her way to the living room, avoiding windows. She plastered herself against the door, stuck her head out just enough to peer through the peephole, sighed, and unlatched the lock.

  Opening the door a crack, she said, “How’d you find my house?”

  “I asked around.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Why? You come to my house . . . walk right in like you own the place.”

  “What do you have behind your back, Skeeter?”

  He pulled out a bouquet of grocery-store flowers. She tucked the gun in the back of her waistband and walked out onto the porch.

  “What’s that for?” she asked, nudging her head at the flowers.

  “A thank-you . . . for what you did for my sister. The haircut and letting her help you with the dead guy. She seems . . . I don’t know, less depressed.”

  She let out a breath and looked for Skeeter’s car. “How did you get here?”

  “I walked over from the railroad yard.”

  “Did you come to my back door first?”

  “Yeah.” He looked at her like she was a kook. “I wasn’t sure if anyone was home, so I planned on leaving the flowers on the front porch where I thought you’d see ’em better. What’s the big deal?”

  “Did you ask Andy where I live?”

  “Andy who?”

  “The reservationist at the Lumber Baron.”

  “I might’ve. Rosie didn’t know, so I put some feelers out. What the hell you so spooked about?”

  “Cops don’t like house calls,” she said, and immediately felt bad. He was just trying to show his appreciation. “Before coming here I worked in Los Angeles. It was different there . . . lots of scary people. The flowers are very thoughtful. I’m glad that working at the police department has been a positive experience for Rose. She’s a smart girl.”

  “Yeah, she is.” He shoved the bouquet at her. “If she could get a scholarship, she could go to college, do something better with her life than working on the railroad.”

  “I think that’s a possibility,” Sloane agreed. “But she’ll have to behave at school.”

  “Nothing wrong with her protecting herself from those little bitches.”

  “She can’t take matters into her own hands, Skeeter. Her best course of action is going to an adult.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, right. That did her a lot of good. Will she be able to work at the police department when her suspension is up?”

  “Yep. As long as she keeps on top of her homework. We can sure use her assistance.”

  “That’ll help her with a scholarship, right?”

  Sloane hadn’t thought of it. “I suppose it might. It certainly can’t hurt.” Maybe when the time came, Rhys would write her a letter of recommendation. “In the meantime, she has to
keep her grades and attendance up. I know you and your mom have a lot on your plates, but she needs encouragement at home.”

  “I try to do that.”

  Sloane’s mouth slid up. Perhaps she’d misjudged the guy. He really did seem to have Rose’s best interests at heart. “Good.”

  “I’ve gotta get back to the yard.” He turned to go, but stopped. “You’re not like other cops, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You actually give a shit.” He jogged down the steps and Sloane watched him go down the ravine behind the duplex and follow the train tracks back to town.

  She started to go inside but Brady pulled up in his van. Uh-oh, her chicken. Sloane ran to the kitchen and opened the oven. Some of the juices had dripped to the bottom and had begun smoking. She pulled the pan out, wiped out the mess as best she could, and cranked up the heat to roast the vegetables.

  “Smells good in here.” Brady came in still wearing his chef’s pants and jacket.

  “You have to go,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because timing all the food is crucial and I can’t concentrate with you here. Go change, get comfortable, and come back at”—she looked at the clock—“six-oh-five.”

  He chuckled. “You sure you don’t want my help?”

  “No. But I want it to be perfect and got distracted. So go.” She shooed him out, slid the baking sheet with the vegetables into the oven, put her pot for the couscous on to boil, and opened a bottle of wine to breathe.

  With a slotted spoon, she arranged the chicken on a platter, found another serving dish for the vegetables and a bowl for the couscous. By the time Brady came back, everything was on the table, including a baguette she’d gotten at the Nugget Market. So it wasn’t homemade. Baking bread was above her pay grade.

  “Sit.” She swooshed her arm over the table.

  “It looks amazing, Sloane.” He spied Skeeter’s bouquet on the counter. “You want me to put those in water?”

  “The food will get cold. I’ll do it while you start eating.”

  “Relax, sweetness.” He kissed her neck. “It’s gonna be perfect.”

  She found a vase, filled it, and stuck in the flowers. “Don’t judge. This is my first real meal.”

  He sat, placed the cloth napkin in his lap, and poured them each a glass of wine. Shoot, she should’ve done that.

  “Chicken Marbella, huh?” he said with appreciation.

  “You know it?”

  “Silver Palate Cookbook. It’s a classic.” He looked up from serving himself and must’ve seen her face drop. “Come on, it’s one of my favorites. You want a breast?”

  “Sure.” He put chicken, a scoop of couscous, and a helping of vegetables on her plate and lifted his fork to take a bite of his own.

  She watched him swallow and take a few more bites. “Well?”

  “You nailed it. Seriously, Sloane, it’s fantastic.”

  She leaned back in her chair and let out a breath. “Thank God.”

  He looked highly amused. “It stressed you out that much?”

  “Easy for you to be nonchalant, Chef Boyardee.” She leaned over the table. “How’s the couscous?”

  “Nice,” he said with his mouth full. “Not mushy, bright flavor, and the pine nuts were a smart touch—gives a little crunch.”

  “My mom told me to add them.”

  “You did good, baby.” He was dishing out a lot of endearments that he usually only used during sex. God, she liked him. Maybe more than liked him. “You do anything else on your day off besides cooking up a feast?”

  “Skeeter Jones came over.” She nudged her head at the vase. “Brought me the flowers.”

  “This is Rose’s delinquent brother you told me about?” Brady continued to eat with gusto, which did Sloane’s heart good.

  “Yeah. Except now I’m starting to think he might be a good guy. Just rough around the edges. He wanted to thank me for helping his sister.”

  The corner of his lips tugged up, his mouth full. “I bet he did.”

  “It’s not like that,” she said, nibbling on chicken, which she had to admit turned out good. “But it did freak me out that he’d called the Lumber Baron looking for me. When Andy told me about it, I assumed it was Roger Buck.”

  Brady stopped eating. “When did this happen?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded angry.

  “You were busy with the rehearsal dinner . . . the wedding.”

  “Walk me through it.”

  “Not much to walk you through. Someone called the inn, said they’d heard I’d been staying there and wanted to get in touch with me. They didn’t give Andy a name and he told the person he could reach me at the police department.”

  “And Skeeter said it was him?”

  She shrugged. “Skeeter said it may have been. That he’d been asking around to find out where I live. But he didn’t remember specifically asking Andy.”

  “I don’t like this.” Brady pulled his cell out of his pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling Andy.”

  She pushed her plate out of the way, reached across the table, and put her hand on his arm. “You think you have better interrogation skills than I do? I was a homicide detective, for goodness’ sake. That’s all Andy knows. It had to have been Skeeter.”

  “Andy said it was a man’s voice?”

  “Absolutely.” She knew exactly where his mind had headed. “Look, there isn’t a boogeyman hiding around every corner. Sandra has been quiet for a while, and I haven’t gotten any more threatening texts. Maybe it’s over.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not letting my guard down on either front. You tell Rhys?”

  “There’s nothing to tell him.”

  “Bullshit. He could trace the call.” He filled his mouth with couscous.

  She rolled her eyes. “If it’s Buck or anyone else from LAPD, the call’s untraceable. More than likely they used a burner or a random pay phone.”

  He got to his feet, picked her up, carried her to the living room, and put her down on the couch. “You matter to me, Sloane.” He pinched the bridge of his nose like he wanted to say more but couldn’t get the words out.

  “You matter to me too, Brady.” Sloane knew if she said any more she’d scare him off. He was an easy read, flighty when it came to relationships, especially given his situation.

  With a little time, though, she hoped to change all that.

  Chapter 18

  “Hey, Lina, I think I may have found a car for you . . . it’s actually an SUV. When you get a chance, give me a call or just stop by the Gas and Go.” Griffin finished leaving his message and took the stairs down from his office to the convenience store.

  Owen and a couple of other mafia guys sat in the garage around the space heater. He’d bought a few truck bench seats off eBay and turned it into a seating area for customers. But most days the old dudes camped out there to play pinochle and drink Griff’s coffee.

  “Where’ve you been?” Owen asked him, as if it was Griff ’s sole responsibility to provide entertainment.

  “Work. That’s why they call it a job.”

  “Bah!” Owen called. “Dink says that little jail-bait girlfriend of yours is having a birthday party.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend and I already know about her party. What of it?”

  “You going?”

  “I’ve got a conflict,” he lied, and tried to walk away.

  “We took a vote and we think you should go.”

  “I didn’t realize my social calendar was under democratic rule.”

  “We’re all going,” Owen said.

  “So? What does that have to do with me?”

  “Brady is doing the food,” Dink, Nugget’s illustrious mayor, said. “You don’t want to miss that.”

  “I can’t . . . get out of the other thing. Why don’t one of you guys bring home a doggie bag for me?” He
went into the store, where Rico had been listening to the conversation through the pay window.

  “Why do you lie to them, boss?”

  “It’s easier.” Griffin grabbed a hot dog off the steamer machine and loaded it up with onions, relish, and mustard.

  “Better question: What’s the big deal about going? It’s not like you and Lina are fighting.”

  “All her school friends will be there. I’ll feel . . . I don’t know.”

  “Old?” Rico let out a loud belly laugh, and Griff gave him the finger. “Come on, boss. Half of Nugget will be there. I’m going. Harlee, Colin, Darla, and Wyatt are going. That little bitch Andy will probably be there.”

  It had not gone beyond Griffin’s notice that Andy was always checking out Lina’s rack. Every time he’d been at the inn, the jerk’s eyes had been all over her.

  “We’ll see,” he said, which was the universal code for “not happening.”

  Griff took a bite of his dog and grabbed a soda from the cooler to wash it down. “What’s going on with the Chevy?”

  “It needs a new fan belt. I’m just waiting for Calhoun to give me the go-ahead.”

  “Well, get it out of the bay until you hear from him.” Griffin motioned at three cars parked near the air pumps. “They all need oil changes.”

  “Will do,” Rico said, and fiddled with his phone. “Hey, when is your open house at Sierra Heights? I want to put it on my calendar.”

  “First Saturday in March.” Hopefully he’d sell a few goddamned houses.

  “We’ve got the bowling party that night. You know that, right?”

  “Yep.” Griffin gazed out the plate-glass window at an Outback that had just pulled in, threw the rest of his hot dog in the trash, grabbed a box of mints near the cash register, and poured a dozen in his mouth.

  Lina got out of the car and Griffin headed for the door.

  “Hey.” He waved at her, noting that it felt more like spring than winter. He’d left the house only needing a fleece pullover.

  “You found a car for me?”

  “Maybe.” He led her behind the store, where he parked whatever vehicle he was driving for the day. “What do you think?”