by Livia Quinn
“Tempest Pomeroy. I’m Mr. Jackson’s mail carrier. He was by the road waiting for me.”
“Explain.”
“As usual, Mr. Jackson wanted to complain about some mis-delivered mail. He was out of control, I mean, worse than usual—slapping his letter against my antenna, pounding his cane on my hood. I realized it was over the top behavior even for him when he started screaming, then he threw a letter at me. Before I could get out of my truck, he went face first into the grass.”
While the sheriff took notes, I asked Rafe about Mr. Jackson’s condition.
“Looks like an MI—cardiac arrest—but he’s stabilized. Good job, you two.” Closing the back doors on the gurney with Montana and Jackson inside, he stepped up into the vehicle and took off, sirens blaring, lights pulsing once again.
“Okay, Ms. Pomeroy, I have your statement. Give me your address and phone number and you can get back to work.” He handed me the notebook.
The bill of his hat shaded his eyes, but I felt him studying me. Suddenly I wished I was wearing something sexier than jeans and a sweatshirt; my hair brushed out, instead of in a ponytail out of necessity; and maybe a bit of makeup?
I sighed. I am what I am. If a guy’s looking for a fashion plate, he won’t be interested in a woman whose priorities include a delivery job and remodeling a hundred-fifty-year-old house.
He reached for his pen and for the second time that day, I felt a little zing, and that weird weightless feeling. Maybe my luck was changing. I really should talk to Aurora about the visions and hormonal blips.
Before things could get awkward, I said, “I’d better go. I’m running behind. Ever since my first delivery this morning, things have gone steadily down hill.” I started toward my truck.
“See ya’ around, Tempest Pomeroy,” the sheriff said under his breath.
“Back ‘atcha, Sheriff.” I felt his gaze on me all the way to my truck. You gotta love those little pheromones.
I backed out of the driveway, the oscillating light on top of my cab reflecting off his spotless vehicle. As he got behind the wheel I watched the play of strong thigh muscles against khaki and tried to get my mind back on my progress. I had four hours to deliver five hours’ worth of mail—without further interruptions.
I pushed the pedal down, my tires slinging gravel. From the look I got in my rear view mirror, a rock had struck the sheriff’s brand new SUV.
“Shootfire.”
Chapter 5
Hey, Princess, you’re a little uptight.
* * *
Tempe
I turned onto Hawthorn Street, and tried River’s cell again. On the sixth ring I heard my brother’s voice, “You’ve reached Pomeroy Construction, leave your name, state your—” I bypassed it, threatening him with his life if he didn’t call me UDWITM, which he knew as “you don’t wanna ignore this message”.
So far, it wasn’t working. For the first time since I left Harmony, I wondered if I should call the authorities. Now that was an overreaction! I could just hear him, “Back off, ‘Mommy’.”
I called Montana and asked her how Mr. Jackson was doing. “He’s still stable. I see you finally met the new sheriff,” Montana said. “Hunky, huh?”
“Yeppers,” I said noncommittally. “I met another guy this morning on my route, new customer—a doctor, I think.” I described the man in the green house to Montana, who subsequently dubbed him “Six packs and Shaving Cream.”
I laughed. “He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but you know what they say—when something seems too good to be true… It looked like he was more interested in women half his age.”
“At least your radar is tuned in.”
“Um…that’s not why I called.”
“What’s up?”
“It’s River. He didn’t come home last night.”
“So?”
I sighed, my hands gripping the mail bundle.
“You are the meddling sister whose brother told her just two weeks ago to back off, are you not?”
“Yes...”
“Tempe, you’re having empty-nest-while-still-in-the-nest syndrome. I get that, but River is a man. And hey—Djinni, remember? He can take care of himself.”
Grudgingly, I agreed. “Ok, you’re right. I guess.”
“I’m right, and you should be concentrating on some of what River’s concentrating on. How long since you’ve been on a date?”
An image of Hunky Doctor in sweat shorts intruded and I considered maybe I’d been wrong about the situation. “I think I’m losing you. Yes, you’re breaking up, krchh, krrccchh.”
“You’re not fooling me, Tempe. See if you can’t hook up with that sexy doctor. A roll in the hay wouldn’t hurt you a damn bit. See you tomorrow.”
I knew she had a point. I hadn’t so much as looked at another man since Dylan, though after two years we’d settled into an imperfect kind of friendship.
A couple minutes later I heard, “Call from Freddie. Decline or accept?”
“Accept?” I said tentatively into my headset, and crossed my fingers.
Freddie Taylor was a local handyman—think bull, china shop. When he fixed things without supervision, he usually cost me more than I paid him. Today, he was supposed to be cleaning up the mess we’d made last weekend preparing to install a new tin roof.
An excited Freddie said, “Uh, Tempe...uh—”
Oh, no! Tension settled across my shoulders, and I gripped the steering wheel, as if that could make the news any better. Rubbing my temples where the earlier pounding was turning into a thunder bumper, I asked, “What is it, Fred?”
“Well, you said to wait on the window—”
I squeezed the phone, crossed every appendage I could while driving from my awkward position, and prayed. “I remember. What happened?” I pulled onto the shoulder.
The huge window had been a special order for the wall in the dining room that overlooked the Forge, named for the ancient power cooking beneath it—the locals only knew it as Lightning Bayou.
“Well,” his country accent made it sound like wowl, “I k-kinda had an accident.”
I felt like I’d been sucker punched. A groan escaped before I could stop it.
“I didn’t try to put the window in, Miss Tempe. I was breaking up some of that concrete mix we spilled near the back porch and a chunk flew over and hit the window.” There was a long pause on the line and what I thought might have been a sniffle. “I’m sorry, Tempe. Do you w-want me to go?” Freddie’s voice was soft.
I wanted to wring his damn neck. I should try to find someone else. To say this wasn’t the first time Freddie’d screwed up was like saying Katrina caused a bit of flooding in New Orleans. This window cost me a month’s salary. The first one had met its end when Freddie accidentally hit it with a long piece of roofing tin he was carrying a month ago. He knew as well as I did that I couldn’t keep absorbing these losses. But when I thought about letting him go, I imagined his hangdog expression, and remembered he used his handyman funds to provide for his elderly aunt and sister. I’d just have to suck it up… and make sure River was on hand to supervise next time.
You’d think putting a little fear into Freddie about consequences would make him more careful but it only makes it worse. I’d have to dig into River’s contracting account this time because we had to have that window. There was a black plastic-covered hole in our dining room wall and I was tired of looking at it.
My headset beeped. I shook my head. It was turning into Grand Central. I searched the street for postal monitors. “Freddie, I have another call. Just clean up around there, and I’ll see you this evening. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said dejectedly.
I pressed the button on my earpiece. “Hello?”
“Is this Tempest Pomeroy?” an angry man on the other end asked.
My first thought was that my check to the Window Store might have bounced. The guy on the other end was on the rude side of professional. “Who’s this?”
Fear slithered through me. 11:50 and River hadn’t made it to the site. “Have you tried his cell phone?”
He made an irritated huff. “Since seven-oh-five this morning; all I get is voicemail.”
“And you left a message?” River would never ignore a call from one of his contractors.
“What do you take me for—”
What was it with the men in my world today?
“Mr. Rutledge, please…I’ve been trying to get a hold of him myself. You have to admit, it isn’t like River not to show up. I’m truly sorry for the inconvenience; he wouldn’t expect you to hang around indefinitely.”
Max Rutledge sighed through the phone. His next words were lower, “Well, I just assumed.” He cleared his throat. “One of the framers said, hmm, well, he saw him leavin’ the Wasted Turtle with a woman last night, and they looked pretty... chummy, if you get my drift.”
So he had been with a woman. “Do you think I could talk to that worker?”
If River had been at the Turtle last night, it would explain why he hadn’t come home, but not why Mr. Responsible hadn’t shown up for work and wasn’t answering his cell phone. Easy, Tempe. Maybe he’d overslept. It was unusual for River to sleep in on a workday, but it happens to the best of us, especially after a night...uhn, not going there…
“I sent the crew to another job.” Rutledge’s tone sounded almost apologetic, “but here’s his cell.”
I wrote the number down and acknowledged the contractor’s apology. “I completely understand, Max. I’ll let you know when I hear from him.”
As soon as I hung up, my phone rang again. If I hadn’t been afraid it might be my brother, I would have ignored it. I pressed the button. “River?”
“Penelope. What’s up?”
“Dylan.” More mini-pheromones. Unwanted ones. What did he want?
Dylan is an independent investigator and my ex-lover. It had been over between us for two years. I was somewhat embarrassed that since we’d become friends again, I enjoyed a warm feeling whenever he called me one of those “P” names. I’m pathetic.
Before you ask, the “P” names are a mystery to me as well, but they remind me of the happy times between us. And also, the annoying ones. Honestly, it was hard to remember a time when he’d actually called me by my name. Huh.
“Where are you? Did you see me pull over to use my cell phone?”
“Hey, Princess, you’re a little uptight. Evil week getting you down?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” I said. Add to that multiple strange encounters with alphas this morning—count ‘em—two postal employees, a sexy doctor, a mad contractor, a hunky lawman, a wayward Imp, and the one on the other end of my phone, my ex-lover.
“What do you want, Dylan? I’m behind.”
“Uh-huh, in a hurry. And yet you’re sitting on the side of the road...”
I looked around.
“Your words,” he reminded me.
“Dylan, can we do this later? I need to deliver a package.” I drove the short distance to Inez Messer’s driveway and blew my horn to announce my arrival, and so Dylan would get to the point.
“Sorry, babe. I need to ask you about the delivery for Mrs. Karrakas.” My teeth ground together. “She’s insisting there’s a witness you didn’t leave the package like you said.”
That— “Dylan, we’re talking about the Karrakases. It’s common knowledge they paid for that villa on the golf course with lawsuits.”
“Hey, Petunia, I’m on your side, remember? I just have to get to the bottom of it. Now, run it by me one more time.”
It would do no good to argue with Dylan once he got the doggy bone in his teeth. I let out a long noisy, frustrated sigh and recited for the gazillionth time, “Wednesday, 1:05, I pulled up to the house, rang the bell, scanned the package with the permission to leave label and left it just inside the open garage. I even sat there rearranging bundles while I waited for her maid to answer.”
“Did you see anyone on the street? Kids, services, anybody that might have seen you?”
“No.” My interest was piqued. “Why is this such a big deal?”
“The club was worth almost a thousand.”
I frowned and pictured that scene in my head again, searching for anything I’d missed, while I tapped my fingertips on the steering wheel. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone send something that valuable through the mail and not register it, or at the very least require a signature? Sounds fishy to me.”
“Well, don’t worry those rainbow tresses. I’m on a job, but I’ll be in touch.”
I’d heard that one before.
Chapter 6
He was cruisin’ for a bruisin’. . .
* * *
Tempe
I’d lost thirty minutes on the phone calls from Freddie, Max and Dylan. If things kept up like this I wouldn’t get back to the mail center before midnight.
As soon as I got caught up I’d call Phoebe. I dreaded conversations with my mother. Besides, if River had spent the night at her place he’d have shown up for work. And taken his bottle. Then again, he might have called her; they had a better relationship than Phoebe and I did.
I risked using my cell one last time to contact the worker who’d seen River. His service said he was unavailable. I resolved to call River every hour, whether it was against the rules or not.
Like many of my elderly customers, Inez Messer spent the time between ten and one anticipating the arrival of her mail. Today her anticipation had paid off. I grabbed the registered package and walked up her driveway.
She stood hunched over near the edge of her porch, her eyes bright with child-like energy. Even in her eighties her hair was still mostly blonde. I had seen the photos of Inez on top of her TV. She’d been a Grace Kelly lookalike, with thick blonde hair and gorgeous skin. Her soft pink angora sweater matched the high color in her cheeks.
“Hi, Ms. Inez. How are you?”
“I’m so excited, Tempest. That package is from a girlfriend I went to nursing school with… sixty-seven years ago.” Her eyes lit up, making her seem younger than her eighty-six years. She reached for the box and whispered, “We dated the same boy in college—the two-timing slug—both of us ending up old maids.”
I hadn’t heard that term in a while. “Men are such jerks.”
It seemed like that, today at least, not to mention that I’d never had a relationship with a man that they didn’t die or walk away. It was enough to give a girl a complex, not that I have one. I kept trying to tell myself that I’d been the one to end it with Dylan...
I stepped onto the porch. “Would you like to see what’s inside, Tempest?” Inez asked nearly bouncing up and down on the lounge cushion.
What was another five minutes? “I sure would, Ms. Inez.” I knelt down while she ripped into the box with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old birthday girl. Oops.
“Is it your birthday?”
“Oh, no, dear. Nancy and I celebrate our friendship each year with an anniversary gift. You see, our fiancée skipped out on both of us. I found out about Nancy when the jeweler had a mix up and we both showed up for the ring sizing. Apparently, that shuckster had paid for the ring already. So, Nancy and I decided to get him back. She broke up with him, then told him she’d lost the ring.”
“Good for her. What did he say?”
“What could he say? I think he knew he was cruisin’ for a bruisin’ if he messed with us. I confronted that cad about the jeweler and bid him good riddance.”
I smiled. Her words gave me a hint of what she’d been like back in the fifties. Or maybe the years following her broken engagement had given her that spunk along with the independent streak.
Inez placed the little box on her lap, turned it toward me, and flipped the lid open to
reveal a stunning diamond and emerald ring. “It’s our reminder that we didn’t need a man to have a full life; it’s my year to wear it.”
She slid the ring onto her left thumb where it dangled like a bracelet. Her smile faltered, the bravado slipping.
I stood, placing my hand on her frail shoulder. “Well, I have to run. Maybe we could dress up one night and go show that stunner off.”
“I’d like that.”
I made a mental note to do just that. Soon.
Inez hugged me briefly. My throat tightened as I hugged her back.
“Tempe, honey,” she paused, measuring her words. “Don’t use me as confirmation of why your relationships with men haven’t worked out. After all, it wasn’t your fault your father died, nor his, and not all men cheat.” She patted my hand. “Sometimes, shit just happens.”
I nearly choked as she rose. “I’m going to go call Nancy and let her know I got the ring.” She turned back suddenly. “Oh, Tempest, I almost forgot. Have you met that new Sheriff Lang? He is such a hottie.”
I coughed. “The sheriff?” I could feel the flush rising on my neck, which belied my next words, “Uh, I hadn’t noticed.”
As I returned to my truck, I heard, “You will, honey. You will.”
Traffic was bumpered up like rush hour in Baton Rouge when I pulled up to Flowers by Dick and snatched my ePad off the dash. Cars, police cruisers, telephone company service trucks, and a bus were packed into the parking lot for Gator’s Grub, Destiny’s hottest lunch spot.
The package I had for the flower shop was really too big for me to manage, though I’d never admit it to Dick Randall.
“What in the world could a florist need that is this heavy?” I grunted, setting my hip against the side of the truck and struggling to get my arms around the box so I could maneuver it.
“If you asked real nice, I’d help you with that.”