by Meg Benjamin
She rested her head on his shoulder. “You think you had an awful four days. Believe me, you don’t know the half of it. So who’s doing this? The Beav?”
He shrugged. “He’s one possibility. Only I don’t think he set up the thing with the balsamic vinegar. The thief probably had that stowed away where he could get it later. You just stumbled across it when you were in the pantry, and he was lucky. You got suspected instead of him.”
She pulled back to look at him. “Fishhead’s in the pantry a lot. Could it be him?”
“Yeah, it could.” He shifted to bring her closer. “It could be Fairley or Fishhead. Unfortunately, it could also be Leo or Jorge or somebody on the cleaning staff. Even Placido. I don’t want to think it’s any of those guys, but realistically, it could be.”
“So what happens now?”
“Now we catch him, whoever he is,” he said with a lot more confidence than he felt. “Darcy and I are both keeping an eye on the kitchen. Sooner or later, somebody will slip up.” Of course, a lot of people had keys to the kitchen, including Fairley, which made the whole thing a lot more dicey than he was letting on.
“But you can’t watch things all the time.” MG could apparently read his mind.
“No.” He shrugged. “I’m banking on the thief being more greedy than smart, which may or may not be realistic.”
She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “This could take a while.”
Right. “Look,” he said cautiously, “is this going to cause you money problems? I could get you an advance on your salary or something. And we’ll still buy your eggs.”
She sighed. “I should be okay for a little while, thanks to the money I get for playing at Oltdorf twice a week now. And I just picked up another gig tonight. If I have to go too long without another job, I may have problems making the mortgage payments, but I’m all right for now. Thanks for offering, though.”
“Another gig where?”
She shrugged, turning to look at him. “Some other little town around here. Bleeker, I think it’s called.”
Joe sat up straighter. “Jesus, not the Bleeker Roadhouse.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” She shrugged again. “They’re paying me a percentage of the gate, which is better than passing the bucket like Dewey does. Why?”
“It’s one of the roughest roadhouses in the state. Hell, bikers stay out of there. What night are you playing?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Maybe I can drive you. What time do you go on?”
She shook her head, leaning back against him again. “I go on at seven thirty. There’s no way you could cook and take care of me. Plus I wouldn’t let you anyway.”
He moved a golden curl away from his eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because I’m a big girl. I’ve been playing at dives, alone and in groups, for a while. One thing I’ve found—places like the Bleeker usually have more-than-adequate bouncers. If I feel nervous, I’ll have one of them walk me to my car.”
“That assumes the bouncers aren’t the ones you need to be worried about,” Joe muttered.
“Usually they aren’t. Look.” She pushed back a little so that she could look up at him again. “I appreciate the thought. And I appreciate the concern. And I appreciate like hell that you finally hiked down here tonight and stood outside my window. But if this is going to work, we need to trust each other’s judgment. Okay?”
After a moment, he nodded. “Okay.”
She relaxed again in his arms, cuddling close. “Are you staying?”
He sighed. “Sure. Somebody’s got to get the eggs back to the Rose tomorrow.”
Chapter Eighteen
By the following week, MG was back to feeling exhausted again. Joe spent almost every night at her place, leaving early in the morning with a load of eggs. Theoretically, she could have gone back to sleep, but in reality she didn’t. She worked on songs and practiced in the morning, then did chores in the afternoon. Joe had helped her extend the fence so that the chickens could wander around the grass in the yard, but she still let them out to roam farther afield every now and then. Egg production had dropped off as they molted. Some of them looked so seedy she wondered if they needed sweaters for the cool nights.
Right. Put sweaters on your chickens. That should convince everybody you’ve gone round the bend.
Joe assured her they’d be fine, but he also assured her, regretfully, that her egg production was going to drop to almost nothing while they got their new feathers. Now she watched the disconsolate hens, feathers half gone and half grown back, as they wandered silently around the lawn. Apparently, losing their feathers made them too depressed to cluck.
The drop in egg production worried her, though. The eggs weren’t bringing in much—maybe forty bucks a week or so. But it was still forty bucks she needed. Particularly when she didn’t have the money from the Rose anymore. Sometimes she wished she’d taken Joe up on his offer of a salary advance. Most times she knew better. Better not to be financially dependent on anybody right now, especially not the hot chef up the road, no matter how much she liked him.
On Thursday she headed for Bleeker, trying not to think about Joe’s warning. She’d sung in rough places before. Of course, she’d usually been part of a group of singers when she did. The manager at the Bleeker Roadhouse hadn’t mentioned anything about other acts, but she figured there had to be some. Surely they wouldn’t expect her to carry the whole evening on her own. Not when she was an virtual unknown.
She arrived at seven and found a place to park at the back. The roadhouse was a rectangular cinder-block building with a set of narrow windows at the front and a flickering neon sign above the door. The color had once been something like burgundy, but now it looked like dried blood.
She shivered. Don’t be stupid. You’re just here to sing and get out.
She stepped inside and then paused to let her eyes adjust. The windows looked like they hadn’t been washed in a few decades and any light that managed to leak inside was only decorative. Another dim light illuminated a stage at the far end of the long room. The bar at the near end was the brightest thing in the building. Once her eyes were more accustomed to the darkness, she could see tables scattered around the floor with a few groups of drinkers. In front of the stage, there was an open area that might have been a dance floor. Of course, it might also have been a safety zone to keep the musicians from being hit by low-flying projectiles.
MG tightened her grip on her guitar case and started toward the stage. The few customers drinking at the bar glanced her way and then seemed to lose interest.
The manager stepped from the side of the stage to meet her. She struggled for a moment to remember his name. Cronin? Crown? Cowen, that was it. Unlike Dewey, he didn’t dress the part—no cowboy hat or western suit. His jeans and T-shirt looked grimy in the dim light, but she couldn’t tell if it was fashionable grime or not. Given the general ambience, she was betting on not.
“Evening.” Cowen smiled, giving a quick glimpse of brownish teeth. Fashionable was becoming less likely by the moment.
“Hi.” MG gave him her professional smile, clutching her case in both hands so that she wouldn’t have to shake his hand. “Is there a place I can get set up?”
He glanced around the room, frowning slightly. “Maybe. What do you need?”
“A stool and a microphone, mainly. Is your sound man here yet?” The sound man looked to have his work cut out for him, given the concrete walls and floor. Her voice would be bouncing around like crazy unless he could work with it.
Cowen shrugged. “I do sound. You start singing and I’ll make it work.”
MG managed not to grimace. This wasn’t exactly a high end engagement, after all. “Okay. When do you want me to start?”
“Soon as I get the stool out for you. Just take a sec.” Cowen turned back toward the stage, which suddenly looked a lot smaller.
“How long do you want me to play,” she said a little desperately.
&
nbsp; He shrugged again. “Until you get tired, I guess. We don’t get many people on Thursday. You might want to stick around for a couple hours, see if you can get some donations. I’ll pass the hat a couple times and leave it out where people can see it.”
“Donations?” Her hands tightened on the case again. “I thought you said this was a percentage deal.”
His lips moved into another grimy smile. “No cover tonight. If you want a percentage of nothing, that’s okay with me. But you’re liable to pick up more if I pass the hat.”
She blew out a breath. “Right. Well, let’s get started.” The sooner she got going, the sooner she could take her money and go home. She glanced back at the few dim shapes sitting at the tables and felt like sighing. She had a feeling she’d be lucky to clear the cost of gas to Bleeker.
Oh yeah, this was going to be a really great night.
Joe was not in the best of moods to begin with. He’d inventoried the kitchen equipment that morning, on the excuse that he was checking to see if anything needed to be replaced. None of the big stuff was missing, although there were the usual problems with small stuff like whisks that disappeared regularly. He was almost disappointed since he’d come up with a theory about the thief selling immersion blenders and stock pots on line.
Fairley had located an extern, Ezra, from some small culinary school in San Antonio. In most ways the kid was more clueless than MG had been, but his knife skills were superlative. The chances of him being able to see how the Rose was being ripped off were, however, slim, and since Fairley had hired him, Joe doubted Ezra would feel like keeping an eye on him anyway.
Joe worked breakfast and dinner, as usual, and made a couple of surprise visits during lunch prep on the very remote possibility that he’d see Dietz doing something suspicious. He didn’t, but the surprise visits had basically screwed his chances of getting any work done on the event planning. He had a stack of files with him now, but he doubted he’d take the time to even look at them. Once he walked through MG’s door, he planned on doing nothing much beyond nibbling strawberry mousse from her navel. He’d even brought the mousse with him.
Visions of slurping strawberry mousse from her willing body disappeared as soon as he turned in the drive however. Her house sat dark and silent, only the yard light illuminating the back yard and the chicken house.
He pulled his car to the side, frowning. She’d told him she had a gig that night, but she was usually done before he was when he did dinner. He’d never thought to ask her for a key. Well, shit.
He weighed the possibilities—he could sit and wait in the dark or he could go home and call her later. He sighed. The first option made him feel a little like a stalker. The second option might not work since he had no idea whether she’d finally paid her phone bill and gotten her cell turned back on.
He was reaching for the ignition key when he saw headlights on the road. He settled back, watching MG’s car turn down the drive and roll to a stop in front of the house.
She stepped out of the car, and then stood waiting for him, leaning against the side of the Kia, her guitar case hanging loosely from her hand. From a distance she looked relaxed. As he moved closer he changed relaxed to exhausted.
He stepped beside her, brushing his fingers through the curls that drooped across her forehead. “Are you just getting back from your gig?”
She nodded, closing her eyes, then leaned against his shoulder. “Three straight hours of singing,” she mumbled. “I was almost ready to do theme songs from eighties kiddie shows.”
“Three hours?” He narrowed his eyes. “Wasn’t there a main act?”
She shook her head against his shoulder. “Just me. And around thirty drunks.” She leaned back to look at him. “That’s not entirely fair. Some of them were just drinking. Only a few of them actually made it all the way to drunk.”
“Let’s go inside.” He put his arm around her shoulders, nudging her gently toward her front door. “I brought you some dessert.”
She unlocked the door, then pushed it open, flipping on the light as she did. “That sounds good. I should be able to stay awake long enough for dessert. What is it?”
“Strawberry mousse.” Visions of MG’s body stretched on the bed, strawberry mousse decorating significant areas, faded slowly from his mind.
“Great.” She yawned widely, rubbing her free hand against the back of her neck. “Maybe the sugar will help me re-energize.”
He took the guitar case out of her hand, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table. “Sit. Why did they have you play all night at Oltdorf?”
She shook her head, resting her elbows on the table. “It wasn’t Oltdorf. It was Bleeker. And I guess they don’t have too many acts during the week.”
Joe frowned as he pulled the green glass bowls out of the cupboard. “I forgot you were going over there. Any problems?”
She shrugged. “Depends on how you define problem, I guess. The place is a concrete pit, so my voice bounces around like crazy. The manager runs sound, and I don’t think he really knows what he’s doing. A significant number of the customers looked like they were on the verge of passing out.”
“Who’s the manager?” He spooned strawberry mousse into the bowls, trying not to frown.
“Guy named Cowen. He’s a sleaze, but it’s minor.”
Joe paused, eyes narrowed. “A sleaze how?”
MG yawned, then shook her head. “He asked me to have dinner with him after I was done. But I told him I was busy, and he didn’t push it.”
Joe managed to put the bowls on the table without slamming his fist down. His jaw felt painfully tight. “Son of a bitch,” he grated.
“Yeah, it wasn’t great. But the take looks okay. I haven’t counted it yet.” She unsnapped the guitar case and reached inside, pulling out a handful of bills.
He sighed. “At least it’s folding money instead of quarters.”
She straightened the bills on the table top. “The coins are in my pocket. I didn’t want them rattling around my guitar.” She began to sort the bills carefully. “There’s more here than I thought.”
“How much?” He took a bite of mousse—not bad. He’d have to tell Darcy tomorrow.
“Looks like around fifty bucks. That sort of makes up for all the eggs the chickens aren’t laying right now.” She gave him a tired smile, then picked up her spoon.
He watched her plunge the spoon into the mousse, mentally damning Todd Fairley to the deepest circle of hell. “Look, MG…”
She glanced up at him, and he felt like wincing. Her eyes were deep set with fatigue. “What?”
“I’m almost living here now. I could help with the mortgage. That’s only fair.”
Her lips moved into a faint smile, but she shook her head. “I’ll make it. I’ve never charged my lovers rent before, and I don’t want to start with you.”
The plural on lover left a slightly sour taste in his mouth. “I want to help out. Why not let me?”
She grimaced, then took another bite of mousse. Stalling. “I’ll be okay. You just find out what going on at the Rose. Then I can go back to work.” She glanced up at him again, her brow furrowing slightly. “I mean, I will go back to work, won’t I? You’re not firing me permanently?”
Deepest circle of hell plus three. He reached across the table to grasp the hand that wasn’t holding a spoon. “I’m not firing you at all. So yeah, as soon as I can, I’ll put you back to work.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Great. If you catch the thief soon, maybe I won’t have to go back to Bleeker again.”
“Again.” He straightened in his chair, jaw tight. “You’re going back?”
“Cowen offered me another spot next week. I’m not crazy about the place, but the money turned out to be okay.”
Joe pulled up a mental image of the Bleeker Roadhouse. Dark, dingy and faintly threatening, as he recalled. With a manager who was trying to hit on her. And she was going back there. “Goddamn it, MG…”
She shook
her head. “Leave it. Please. It’s just the way things are right now.”
“I want…” He paused. What did he want anyway? “…you. Safe. Here. With me.”
“We have that right now.” She smiled up at him “This is wonderful mousse, by the way.”
“Diversionary tactic,” he grumbled, but his gaze dropped to her lips, the spoon sliding in, her pink tongue reaching out to lick a bit of mousse off the silver tip.
Instantly, his groin turned to granite. “Want another helping?” he managed to croak.
She shook her head, pushing herself to her feet. “It’s great, but I want to do something else right now.”
“Such as?” He watched her swing her hips around the corner of the table, heading his way.
“Such as this.” She settled into his lap, winding her arms around his neck, then pulling his mouth down to hers.
Traces of strawberry and cream lingered on her lips and tongue. He slid one arm around her waist and the other across her back, pulling her closer, tasting woman along with dessert. Delectable combination. It would be even sweeter licked from her navel, of course.
She pulled back slightly to smile up at him, green eyes flashing in the dim light of the kitchen. “That’s delicious.”
“It is that.” Joe managed a faint grin. “And you did manage to take my mind off the thief and the Bleeker Roadhouse. For which I thank you.”
She moved forward, dipping closer to his lips again. “You’re welcome.” Wisps of red gold curls strayed across her cheeks. The tip of her tongue played across the swell of her lower lip.
I love her. The words darted through his mind unexpectedly, producing a faint jolt of surprise.
You should tell her. You need to tell her. He really should, he knew that. But he didn’t feel like now was exactly the right moment.