Fearless Love

by Meg Benjamin

  And when would the right moment be? He hadn’t a clue. He cupped her face in his hands, bringing her lips gently to his until all the blood in his body seemed to have moved below his waist.

  “C’mon, lady,” he murmured finally, “let’s go to bed.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fortunately, Joe could cook omelets more or less in his sleep because that was pretty much what he was doing. He and MG had made love a couple of times during the night, maybe because they were both a little on edge. If that was the effect of all the drama surrounding them, he wasn’t entirely sorry about it. On the other hand, his sleep deprivation was definitely getting out of hand.

  Kit Maldonado walked into his office shortly after breakfast, closing the door behind her after checking the hall outside. Seeing Kit was always a pleasure, and today she wore a dress the color of raspberry sherbet that set off her dark hair and made her skin glow golden. Nice way to start the day. Maybe.

  Joe raised an eyebrow. “What’s up, darlin’?”

  She handed him a printout, then dropped into the chair beside his desk. “You asked me to keep track of anything unusual in the kitchen operation, and I just noticed something on the spreadsheet for this month. Did you change the trash collection service?”

  Joe frowned, shaking his head. “No. We didn’t have any problems with Allied so far as I know. We got somebody new coming in?”

  She nodded. “Fairley signed a contract with some company called Mallory Waste Management. I checked their Website. They’re based in Austin. I assumed you’d approved it since it didn’t come through me.”

  “Nope.” He tapped his fingers on the printout, glancing through the names. “Has he changed anything else?”

  “He made some recommendations for a linen supplier and a printer for the menus, but I didn’t take him up on either of them.” She shrugged. “Their prices weren’t that much better than what we’re getting now, and I don’t like switching suppliers unless something’s wrong with the ones we have.”

  Joe’s mouth twisted. “Hell, he could be getting kickbacks or offers of kickbacks.”

  Kit nodded. “Possibly, but you’d never be able to prove something like that. Unless he was really stupid, which he doesn’t seem to be.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Joe rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I’ll have to check into the garbage collectors, though. That has an interesting ring to it.”

  “You think he’s getting kickbacks there?”

  He shrugged. “Or something.”

  Kit leaned forward. “Joe, maybe we should tell Nando about all of this. Or even Erik Toleffson. The losses are up to a few hundred above and beyond the losses we normally have. It’s getting into felony range.”

  Erik Toleffson was the chief of police. He and Nando were both formidable, and bringing either of them into this would wave a significant red flag under the thief’s nose.

  Joe sighed. “Not yet. We might tip him off if we move too soon. This stuff is always hell to prove, and I want to see if I can catch the SOB actually doing something.”

  “But if you do, then you’ll tell Nando?”

  “Possibly. If the evidence is solid. And if we nail him taking enough to make it worthwhile.” Taking somebody to court over the theft of a stick blender wouldn’t be a winning proposition. He managed to give her a faint smile. “Let me poke around with this trash collection thing and see what I can find.”

  Kit pushed herself to her feet. “Okay. As long as you don’t beat the guy to a pulp, I guess you can handle it your way. See you at lunch.”

  He nodded at her retreating back. But he had to admit—beating the thief to a pulp was beginning to look better and better.

  Nedda hadn’t expected much from Lloyd Kurtz, and he’d managed to live down to her expectations. His reports had been sketchy at best, although he’d nailed down the identity of her grand-niece’s lover. Correction: her niece’s lover. “Grand” was simply an unnecessary complication.

  A cook no less. Nedda didn’t know whether to find that funny or a relief. A cook wouldn’t be likely to bankroll the mortgage, making it far more likely that her niece would default on the loan.

  Which was all that really mattered.

  Nedda wasn’t particularly shocked about the girl entertaining men at the farm. Nedda had entertained a few herself at her place after Mort had taken off. Not while Caroline was still living at home. But once her daughter had left just like her daddy, Nedda had enjoyed the occasional male caller.

  Of course, she’d had to send them packing if it turned out they were more interested in her money than in anything else. But she figured that came with the territory. If you took up with a man, you had to expect him to try to get whatever he could. It had been her job to make sure they only got what she was willing to give.

  Now she’d moved beyond all that. She couldn’t remember the last man who’d crossed her doorstep, and she didn’t particularly care that she couldn’t. Men came and went. Land stayed.

  And the land that made up the Carmody family farm was hers, no matter what the deed said. And no matter what her fool brother had decided. That girl had no right to something that belonged to Nedda. Harmon should have known better than to try changing that principle.

  She timed her visit to the feed store so that she didn’t have to compete for the clerk’s attention with a lot of other customers. The clerk in this case was Young Chris Farnsworth, the owner of the store. Nedda had timed her visit for that too. She might as well talk to someone who knew the answers to her questions and would know why it was in his best interests to give them.

  Farnsworth wasn’t as imposing as his father, Old Chris, had been twenty years ago. He needed another fifty pounds to approach that. But he already had the old man’s glacial blue eyes and thin-lipped scowl. Nedda figured it was a start.

  Young Chris nodded at her a little warily. “Morning, Ms. Carmody. What can I do for you?”

  Nedda surveyed the store carefully, studying the content of the shelves. “You got chicken feed here, Farnsworth?”

  He nodded even more warily this time. “Yes, ma’am. Cracked corn and pellets. Got oyster shells too, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “I understand my niece buys her feed here. That right?”

  He raised a silvery brow. “Yes, ma’am, she does. Just like her grandpa used to do. Good customer.”

  “She pay her bills?” Nedda raised her chin imperiously. When she did that, most people told her what she wanted to know since they figured, correctly, that arguments would be futile.

  Farnsworth wasn’t like most people, oddly enough. “That’s private. Can’t talk about people’s bills. Nobody’s business but theirs and mine.”

  “It’ll be my business if she doesn’t pay, though, won’t it?” Nedda leaned forward, resting a fist on the counter top. “Seeing as I’ll be paying them myself.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You responsible for her debts?”

  “Let’s just say I’ll be the one holding the bag if she don’t pay.” It was true in a way—since she’d be the one owning the farm.

  His jaw tightened again. “Well, if that should happen, I guess we can talk about it then.”

  “I guess we can,” Nedda snapped. She turned and stalked out of the store.

  Farnsworth was proving annoyingly ethical. She’d have to figure a way around him so that she got the information she needed. But that shouldn’t be impossible—she had fingers in enough pies that she should be able to find something somewhere. She needed to know just how deeply in debt her niece was right now. Bonnie Sue at the grocery store had said she didn’t owe anything there, so far as she knew—she wasn’t on the bad check list anyway. Nedda was still looking for ways in at the power company and the city water and garbage offices. Somebody there would tell her if the bills were being paid. Whatever money Harmon had left must be close to running out by now. He couldn’t have had much insurance. Not with the medical bills he’d had to pay.

 
You’re a mean woman, Nedda.

  She stopped abruptly, her head swiveling. Nobody talked to her like that. Not if they wanted to keep what they had. A boy and girl walked arm in arm further up the street, their dark heads leaning together. A solitary man stood outside the insurance agency on the corner, checking his cell phone. None of them even glanced at her.

  She took a deep breath. Nobody. There was nobody here.

  You’re a mean woman, Nedda. And meanness comes back to bite you in the end.

  Her shoulders felt suddenly stiff, her hands contracting into fists at her side. “Harmon,” she whispered. It was what he’d said to her the last time they’d spoken, almost two years ago now.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, rubbing her fingers across a faint pain in her chest. At least the voice was in her head. That should be some comfort—nobody had dared to say such a thing to her after all.

  Only her brother. Three months dead.

  She flexed her shoulders and marched back the way she’d come.

  An hour after the kitchen had been broken down and the instructions for tomorrow’s prep copied and posted, Joe was still wondering if he was wasting his time. He had a theory, and it seemed credible, based on what he’d found that afternoon. On the other hand, his current position squatting on a stool in the darkened kitchen wasn’t exactly comfortable.

  He also felt vaguely like an idiot. He was wearing black jeans and T-shirt, with his black chef’s beanie on his head to keep it from catching any reflected light. He suspected that he looked like an incredibly inept burglar, but he was really hoping not too many people would see him anyway. Only one person in fact.

  From his position at the corner of the room, he could see out one of the kitchen windows, the one closest to the sink. Placido and his cousin, Albert, who’d just been hired last week, had finished the last pots and pans and loaded the dishwasher for its final run a half hour ago. He could hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner in the dining room as the busboy, Gabriel, took care of the last clean-up in the main room.

  Placido wanted to move into food prep. He’d already talked to Joe about it. Fairley was against it since he was trying to line up another extern. Externs worked for free. On the other hand, constantly cycling inexperienced people through the kitchen who only stayed for a few weeks caused a certain amount of unavoidable chaos.

  All in all, Joe leaned toward promoting Placido. Particularly now that they had Albert to replace him in the cleaning department. It was true that Plac was on the list of possible thieves, but Joe didn’t believe it. Plac was solid. And he deserved to move up.

  He dragged his wandering mind back to the matter at hand. Kitchen staffing could wait until they solved the current crisis. Particularly since they’d have MG back if everything went as planned.

  Outside, Albert pushed a garbage can on a dolly toward the rack where the other cans were waiting. He positioned it next to the other two cans at the edge of the building near the driveway where the garbage truck could pick it up tomorrow morning. It was the recyclables bin that contained the kitchen’s waste paper and cans and bottles, the stuff that they sold to a company in Marble Falls. One of these days he really needed to start checking into the whole herb garden with composter deal. An herb garden would let him try some experiments fresh herbs, provided they could find somebody to tend it.

  Joe sighed. His mind kept wandering. This was quite possibly the most boring job he’d had since his potato peeling days, and already this stake-out seemed to be lasting longer than his time as a prep cook. He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall behind him.

  After a few more minutes, Albert and Placido walked back along the edge of the parking lot. Plac paused long enough to lock the outer door to the kitchen, then the two headed off toward the lot, carrying on a complicated discussion in Spanish that was way beyond Joe’s rudimentary knowledge.

  He blew out a breath. Showtime. Maybe. Probably. Of course, he still had no idea how much longer he’d have to wait.

  Around a half hour, as it turned out. In fact, he was just beginning to wonder if he’d outsmarted himself and picked the wrong night when he saw Dietz walk around the corner of the building. If Joe had been careful to conceal himself in black, Fishhead seemed to have no similar concerns. He wore a white T-shirt, which made him stand out starkly in the dim light.

  Joe moved carefully through the door, keeping his focus on Dietz’s white shirt.

  Fishhead seemed momentarily uncertain. He opened two of the garbage cans, shining a flashlight inside. Then he closed them and moved on to the container of recycled paper Albert had wheeled out just before leaving.

  Joe leaned closer, careful not to make any noise.

  But right then Fishhead wasn’t interested in anything other than the garbage. He reached into the recycling bin and pulled out something around two feet long, wrapped in foil. Then he reached in again. When he had three large, foil-wrapped objects at his feet, he closed the can and stooped down to load them in his arms.

  Joe moved into the shadows behind him, waiting. Come on, asshole, do it.

  Dietz turned and looked carefully around the back of the building. For the first time, he seemed somewhat concerned about being seen.

  Joe kept still, watching, suddenly very glad he’d bothered with the black clothes.

  Finally, Dietz turned and headed toward the employee parking lot. His beat-up compact was parked at the far end, under a pecan tree that provided him with ample shadows.

  Joe slipped out from behind the building and followed him, moving as quietly as he could in the parking lot gravel.

  Dietz paused next to his car, placing the foil-wrapped objects on the ground while he unlocked the trunk. He pushed up the trunk lid, then picked up the objects, placing them carefully inside. When he reached up to pull the trunk closed, Joe stepped out of the shadows.

  “Going somewhere?”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing Dietz start violently. He whirled to stare at him. “Jesus. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I live here.” Joe gave him a fierce smile, as he pointed toward his cabin. “Right over there, in fact. Plus, of course, it’s my kitchen. I try to keep an eye on things.”

  Dietz took a deep breath and blew it out, apparently trying to slow down his pulse rate. “I’m just heading home for the night. Didn’t see you around.”

  “Oh?” Joe raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Like I say, I try to keep an eye on things. And I saw you. That white shirt’s really visible.”

  Dietz glanced down at his shirt and then back again. “Yeah, I just finished some work. Guess I better get home now.”

  “What’s in the trunk?” Joe stepped forward, placing his hand on the trunk lid to keep Dietz from slamming it shut.

  “What do you mean?” Dietz was trying for indignation, but he didn’t entirely make it. He sounded a little like a panicked five-year-old.

  “I mean, what’s this?” Joe reached for one of the foil-wrapped cylinders.

  Fishhead grabbed his wrist. “This is my car,” he squeaked. “You can’t…”

  “Oh, don’t even try it,” Joe snapped. “I saw you take it out of the garbage can. And I already know what it is.”

  He picked up one of the three objects, flipping back a corner of the aluminum foil to show the plastic-wrapped meat underneath. “A tenderloin? Is that what the others are too? You lousy son of a bitch, if you hadn’t gotten so greedy, you might have gotten away with it.”

  Dietz’s breath whistled through his teeth. “You think I stole those? Me?”

  Joe waited, letting his lips move into a grin. “Well, let’s see now. You took these out of the garbage can like you knew exactly what was inside—you didn’t even bother to unwrap them to check. And now here they are in your trunk. So yeah, I think you stole them.”

  “Ezra,” Dietz spat out. “It was Ezra. That extern. He wrapped them up in the kitchen and put them in the garbage can. I saw him. And I came out here and got them back
. I was going to tell Fairley about it tomorrow.”

  “Uh huh. And the reason you put them in your trunk instead of taking them back into the kitchen now would be…”

  Dietz stalled, pursing his lips. Then he shrugged. “I don’t have a key. I was going to bring them back tomorrow.”

  “Well, that would be a problem. Seeing as how you waited until after the kitchen closed to get them back. Ezra leaves mid-afternoon.” Joe picked up the other two packages. At least they were still frozen.

  Dietz shrugged. “Didn’t want anybody to see. They might have thought I did it.”

  “They might. Which would have been right. I found them myself this afternoon after I saw you hanging around the cans. So far as I could tell, you didn’t say shit to Fairley about it.”

  Dietz’s face suddenly looked slightly green in the mercury lights.

  Joe’s jaw tightened so much it was almost painful. The strain of not grabbing Dietz by the throat made his muscles ache. “Asshole. How did it work? You hide stuff in the freezer, then wrap it up when nobody’s looking? Then you put the garbage can at the door so you can load stuff into it without being seen?”

  Dietz swallowed visibly, but he said nothing.

  Joe took another deep breath to keep himself from meting out any bodily harm. “I’ve got two questions for you. Just how much meat did you steal before this? And was anybody in the kitchen in on it with you?”

  “I didn’t…” Dietz folded his arms across his chest, raising his head defiantly. “You calling the cops?”

  Joe considered bashing him with a frozen beef tenderloin, but he didn’t want to damage the meat. “That depends. I’ll ask you again—how much did you take and who else was in on this with you?”

  Dietz shook his head slowly. “Right now I figure this is a misdemeanor. Three tenderloins aren’t worth that much. I’m not telling you shit. Go fuck yourself—unless you can get that little piece of ass from the kitchen to do it.”

  Joe dropped the tenderloin to the ground and grabbed the front of Dietz’s shirt in one smooth motion. He yanked him off the ground, his other hand balled into a fist he held in front of his face. “I’m about thirty seconds away from taking out my frustrations on you, Dietz. I got half a mind to do a little damage on my own before the cops get here. Just something to remember me by.”