Due for Discard

by Sharon St. George

  I left Hannah’s office and went upstairs to the restaurant. Growing up with Harry had raised my awareness of lefties. They were everywhere. Jack was a lefty. Hannah’s older sister and father were both lefties. It didn’t mean anything, really. Nevertheless, Marco Bueller must be jumping for joy. Harry’s good left hand had wreaked havoc on Marco’s brother. Now Connie Keefer, the DA, had Harry in her sights.

  I waited for Quinn in Casa Loco’s foyer, watching with envy the carefree lunch patrons chatting happily while they walked to their tables.

  “Aimee, I hope I’m not late.” Quinn came through the restaurant’s front door wearing khaki slacks and a short-sleeved shirt in a subtle shade of olive green. On his lean, lithe body, casual looked better than a tux.

  I mumbled something about having just arrived, and we followed the hostess to a table. I arranged my napkin and pretended to study the menu while I waited for Quinn to break the ice.

  “See anything you like?” he asked.

  “The Caesar salad looks good.”

  Quinn gave our orders to a waitress who blushed prettily when he smiled at her. Hoping food might distract me, I bit into a chip loaded with salsa. I couldn’t ponder Harry’s dilemma, and I didn’t want to think lustful thoughts about Jared Quinn, the man who was second on my personal least eligible list, after Nick of course. The heat level of the salsa was intense. I managed to swallow it, but nearly choked in the process, provoking a coughing fit that left my eyes watering.

  By the time our food arrived I had managed to convince Quinn that I didn’t need medical attention. What happened next drove every other thought from my mind.

  Quinn picked up his fork … with his left hand.

  Chapter 12

  The Casa’s special Caesar crab salad languished on my plate while I watched Quinn fork into his enchilada verde. Definitely a lefty.

  “Is your salad okay?” he asked.

  “It’s fine.” I managed to chew a small mouthful and wash it down with a sip of water.

  “So, give me your thoughts on Dr. Beardsley,” Quinn said. “How did he seem this morning?”

  “He was subdued, said the past week had been gruesome.” I squirmed in my chair. Tattletale at work. “He said he isn’t up to doing surgery yet, but he wanted to catch up on committee work to keep his mind off things.”

  “That’s good, I suppose. Although you’d think he’d take more time off. It’s only been a week since he lost his wife.”

  “They say we each grieve in our own way.” I poked at my salad so I wouldn’t have to look Quinn in the eye. My guess was that Beardsley’s grief was mixed with a big dose of gratitude. Whoever killed his wife had saved him from a scheming gold digger with a roving eye.

  “You’re not eating,” Quinn said. “I hope you’re not one of those women who starve themselves for the sake of fashion.”

  “Not me.” I managed another mouthful.

  “Good. I saw too much of that in Paris. Young women walking around like stick figures because that’s what they saw in magazines. What a waste.”

  “A waste?”

  “Of fine French cuisine.”

  “You lived in Paris?”

  “Not exactly, but I spent some time there. My former wife was Parisian. That was several years ago.” He changed the subject abruptly, asking if I’d like coffee and signaling a passing waiter.

  He didn’t elaborate on his marriage, but I filed the disclosure away for further speculation. All along I’d been thinking of Quinn as a confirmed bachelor. Now there was a former wife and a life in Paris. What else would I learn about the man?

  Quinn had an afternoon appointment across town, so he dropped me off at the hospital on his way.

  “Thanks for your help, and keep up the good work.” He gave my shoulder a tentative pat and I tried not to flinch.

  “No problem.” My shoulder burned from that light touch. It was sad, really. Everything I liked about Quinn was tainted now by the way he had picked up his fork.

  If anyone knew about Quinn’s past life, it would be my favorite gossip. Back in the library, I called the auxiliary director’s office to ask for a phone number for Maybelline, but I was told she had no number on file.

  No message from Harry, so I went to work on a list of forensic journals I wanted to discuss with Dr. Beardsley. Their subscription prices ranged all over the place from a few hundred dollars to more than two thousand dollars a year. The average online article could cost between thirty-five and forty-five dollars, so requests for multiple articles for a particular case could quickly become prohibitively expensive. I suspected this project was going to involve more work and more expense that Beardsley had anticipated.

  With that done, the rest of the afternoon lay ahead of me in a jumble of routine busywork. None of it could distract me from worrying about Harry. I went to the library’s tiny break room and made a fresh pot of strong coffee. Most of an hour and three cups of coffee later, Harry finally called.

  “Sis, what’s going on?”

  “Where have you been? I called hours ago.”

  “Marathon meeting with the Planning Commission. I didn’t check messages until just now.”

  “Have you read today’s paper?”

  “Haven’t had time.”

  “It’s about search warrants. Have you been served?”

  “Let’s not talk about this on the phone.”

  “Can you come out to the ranch after work?”

  “It’s going to be late. We’re working overtime tonight.”

  “How late?”

  He said he could make it by ten o’clock, and ended the call with a hasty, “Gotta go, Sis.”

  I toyed with the idea of leaving work early. With the amount of caffeine I had on board, nothing I did in the next half hour was going to make much sense anyway. I checked emails one last time. Only one message required immediate action. It was from Nick.

  Have dinner with me. I’ll pick you up at work at five.

  I looked at the clock: four forty. I deleted Nick’s message, shut down the computers and hit the door at ten minutes to five. When I got to the employees’ lot, Nick’s hybrid SUV was parked next to the old Buick I had inherited from Amah. He was leaning against his front fender, looking better than my best memory of him. I could have ignored the fair hair and powerful shoulders, but the look in his blue-gray eyes stopped me short.

  “Dammit, Nick. Are you stalking me? I could have you arrested.”

  “Go ahead.” He laughed. “But Harry would bail me out, so why bother?”

  “Who told you where I work? I’ve only been here for a week, and Harry wasn’t supposed—”

  “Not Harry. I ran into your writer friend, Vanza.”

  “I should have known. If I agree to have dinner with you, will you leave me alone?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Let’s not talk here.” He opened his passenger door. “Come on, get in.”

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “Harry.”

  My heart knocked. “What about him?”

  “I’ll explain over dinner.”

  “Okay,” I said. “For my brother.”

  Nick saw me wipe at a tear and took me in his arms. I should have pulled away, but the tender way he held me said this wasn’t about sex, it was about comfort.

  “Don’t turn me away now, Aimee. Reject me if you want, but let me be here for you and Harry.” The faint lime scent of his aftershave triggered a flood of erotic memories. Another minute and I’d have melted in his arms, devouring him with kisses.

  “Excuse me, folks.” Jared Quinn’s voice snapped me out of my trance. “Oh, hello, Aimee.”

  Phenomenal bad timing. While I’d been wrapped in Nick’s arms, I hadn’t noticed Quinn walking toward us.

  “Mr. Quinn. Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing major. Security has been hounding me about unauthorized parking, so I thought I’d take a walk through the employee lots. When I
saw a car in the employee lot without a permit, I thought I’d have a look. Now that I know he’s a friend of yours ….”

  “Nick Alexander.” Nick put out his hand.

  “Jared Quinn.” Quinn shook the offered hand.

  Nick took a step toward his car. “I apologize for the parking violation, Mr. Quinn. I had urgent business with Aimee and didn’t want to miss her. It won’t happen again.”

  Quinn’s grin stopped just short of malicious. “Just don’t let our security crew catch you. They’re not as understanding as I am.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

  “Aimee, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Quinn said. “Mr. Alexander, nice meeting you.” He walked on, whistling softly. His story about checking on parking violations seemed lame, but I let it go for the moment.

  “Nice guy,” Nick said. “He your boss?”

  “Sort of. He’s the administrator.”

  “Ah, the big boss. Seems to like you.”

  I ignored that. “Let’s get this dinner over with. You said it had something to do with Harry.”

  I followed Nick across town to an eatery called Stone Soup. It wasn’t generally known, but the place had been established to provide re-entry jobs to graduates of local drug rehab programs. Nick’s boss, Buck Sawyer, had donated seed money for the project. The décor was an eclectic combination of booths, tables, and chairs donated by restaurants on their way up or on their way out of business. As a condition of employment, all of the employees were enrolled in a food service program at the local community college.

  We gave our orders to a tattoo-covered waiter with a shaved head whose name, according to the tag on his shirt, was Gore. He looked as if he could bench press a cement truck. On his recommendation, we each ordered one of the specials. I chose the avocado shrimp bisque, and Nick settled on the lobster chowder.

  As soon as our bruiser of a waiter left, I pounced. “Okay, what’s this about Harry?”

  “He asked me for backup.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s worried. He wants to make sure there’s someone to look out for you in case—”

  “Oh, damn. In case he’s arrested? Is that what you mean?” Tears flooded my eyes just as Gore appeared with our soups.

  He placed the bowls in front of us. “Everything all right here?”

  “Fine,” I sniffled.

  Gore gave Nick a threatening look. The coiled snake on his right bicep undulated. “You sure, Miss?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Something’s in my eye. I’ll be fine.”

  With one more glare at Nick, the tattooed man took a couple of steps backward, turned and walked slowly away.

  “Holy crap,” Nick said. He wasn’t easily intimidated, but he clearly didn’t relish the idea of tangling with Gore. If I hadn’t been so scared for Harry, I’d have laughed.

  “Forget about him,” I said. “If I don’t get some straight answers from you, you’ll wish that over-protective waiter was your only problem.” I took a sip of my soup, expecting it to taste like bilge. It was divine.

  “Here’s the deal,” Nick said. “Harry told me that your grandmother and Jack are out of town and you don’t have anyone else … I mean, he asked me to keep an eye on you in case this Beardsley thing gets out of hand.”

  Great, Harry had portrayed me to Nick as Aimee the helpless little wallflower, implying there were no men in my life, as if I hadn’t had a date in the three months Nick and I had been apart. It was true, but that was no excuse for his telling Nick. Once Harry was out of danger, I’d make him pay for that.

  “How do you propose to keep an eye on me if I don’t want you to? And what about your job? How can you be here for me if you’re flying?”

  “I’m on paid leave. Buck’s not doing any trips this month that Rella can’t handle on her own.” Nick hesitated for a moment, probably regretting his mention of Rella, then went on. “Aimee, with any luck, the truth will come out and all of this will go away. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Harry didn’t want me to tell you he’s worried, but I owed you that much.”

  Tears burned my eyes again. I told him what Hannah had said about the bruises on Bonnie’s neck and the theory about rape or rough sex gone wrong. “They think whoever was involved was left-handed.”

  “Damn,” Nick said. “Like Harry.”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid they’re going to arrest him. I can’t bear to think of him in jail.”

  “Then let me help.”

  “I don’t trust you anymore.”

  “But you never let me explain. Why?”

  “Because I’m afraid I won’t believe you.”

  He reached across the table, took my hand, traced his thumb across my knuckles with a light caress. “Before the fiasco in Paris, had I ever done anything to betray your trust?”

  I allowed myself to make eye contact. He held my gaze until I felt faint. “No, never.”

  “Thank you. That’s all the collateral I have to offer. Will it do for now?”

  I pulled my hand away. “It will for as long as Harry’s in trouble and needs your help. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him from going to prison.”

  “That won’t happen. And when this is over, you and I can—”

  “No, I’m afraid we can’t.”

  “We’ll see.” Nick signaled for the check.

  Chapter 13

  Lunch with Quinn and the early dinner with Nick left me feeling bloated and burned out, in no mood for a late-night confrontation with Harry. His rapping on my door startled Fanny. She flew off my lap and leapt at the door, hissing. As I let Harry in, the cat shot out into the night.

  Harry glanced at his watch. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Helluva day.”

  “Tell me about it.” I poured myself a glass of wine. “Want some?”

  “Will I need it?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You summoned me. I assume you’re going to rant about something.”

  I poured him a glass. “Let’s sit.” I curled up on the daybed.

  He took the old rocker. “Okay, hit me.”

  “Maybe we should watch the eleven o’clock news first. It’ll be on in a minute. Let’s see if your name comes up in the Bonnie Beardsley segment.”

  “Damn reporters. They actually came to the construction site today. I had to call security to get rid of them.” He picked up the remote and clicked on the TV.

  The lead story concerned an air tanker that had missed its target, a small fire in the hills east of town. Its load of retardant had landed on the freeway, causing a commuter’s nightmare. Traffic on I-5 was backed up in both directions for miles. Aerial shots of vehicles shrouded in orange retardant were meant to convey the seriousness of the accident, but the visuals were unintentionally comic. The reporter on the scene seemed to be having trouble keeping a straight face. Back in the studio, the only mention of Bonnie Beardsley’s case was a brief comment from District Attorney Keefer, asking the news media to refrain from publicizing further details about the case.

  The rest of the newscast was the usual depressing fare: petty theft, an attempted rape, and a small-time meth lab bust, complete with toddlers taken to Child Protective Services while their repulsive parents were booked into the county jail. When the meteorologist came on, Harry clicked the TV off. Anyone in the county could predict hot and dry.

  “Okay, Sis, let’s get this over with. What’s important enough for you to summon me at this hour?”

  “Shall I start with a search warrant, or shall we talk about Nick Alexander?”

  “No warrant so far.”

  “Really? I was so afraid you’d be the first on their list.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’d start with her husband, but even then, they have to show a judge probable cause. I don’t know about Beardsley, but they certainly don’t have anything to justify searching my place. And if they did do a search, there’s nothing to find. I didn’t kill Bonnie. Her blood
isn’t smeared on my walls.”

  “They might find something else. Hair or a fingerprint—”

  “They already know she was at my place on Friday night. If they find evidence of that, so what? You’re getting carried away, Aimee. I know you’re putting together a forensic collection for the hospital, but that doesn’t make you a crime scene investigator.”

  “No, but it does give me a pretty good idea what the crime scene people will be looking for, and I know forensic evidence can be manipulated. What we don’t know is what kind of bogus evidence might turn up—or what might be ignored once it gets to Keefer’s investigator. Tell me that doesn’t worry you.”

  “I don’t like it, but that doesn’t scare me nearly as much as you do. If you don’t stop trying to protect me, you’re going to get in over your head.”

  “Is that why you sicced Nick on me? To play bodyguard?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I had dinner with him tonight. The conversation was fascinating.”

  “So, you had dinner. That’s great. Are you two getting back together?”

  “No, dammit. That’s over. He’s never going to be your brother-in-law.”

  Harry stood, took my hand and pulled me out of my chair. “Sis, I have to go. I get that you won’t take Nick back. I think you’re wrong, but I get it. At least let him keep an eye on you.”

  “Why? You’re the one who’s in trouble.”

  He studied me for a moment and heaved a world-weary sigh. “I hate telling you this, but you’re worried about the wrong Bueller. Marco may be after my ass, but his little brother Tango has been paroled, and I’m afraid he’ll come after yours.”

  I felt a distinct clunk somewhere in my abdomen. I think it was my heart dropping all the way to my pelvis. My wannabe rapist Tango Bueller was out of jail? That was tantamount to turning loose a rabid dog.

  “What about the other guy?”

  “Dead. A gang hit in prison.”

  “How long has Tango been out?”

  “A couple of weeks. I heard about it this afternoon.”

  “Is he here? In Timbergate?”

  “I don’t know. But you’d better forget about that little kid you hurt on the school bus. So you twisted his finger … big deal. He was bullying you, and you taught him a lesson.”