In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense)

by Patricia Mason

  “So? I know you’re really doing a sequel to SpyMatrix. I could play Francesca, Stephen Dagger’s partner.”

  “I’m not filming a sequel.” He strode to the window and glanced at the skyline before turning back to her. "Why won't you believe me?"

  “There are people—a lot of people—who think I would be perfect for the part of Francesca." She straightened and thrust her perfect breasts forward. "I could play the hell out of Francesca. Buddies With Benefits’ success made me America’s sweetheart.”

  “It’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not?” Her bottom lip turned pouty. “I think you’re being cruel. I bet the rumors are true and you’re doing that sequel. You just don’t want to tell me because you don’t want me to be a movie star.”

  “I’m certain you’ll be cast in any number of films without being in mine.”

  “Yes, but they all want me to play a dumb blonde. I want to play an action heroine like Francesca.” She gave a little stomp.

  If he hadn't been so tired, and tired of arguing, Ross would have laughed at the ridiculousness of her petulant tantrum.

  “I don’t know how much clearer I can be. I am not doing a sequel to SpyMatrix. Period. That’s the end of the discussion.” Ross rolled his shoulders to try to ease the tightness. “I don’t have the energy for this tonight.”

  “Aw, sweetie pie.” With a sensual smile, Heather sauntered to his side and then reached out to brush the hair off his forehead. “You need your rest. Come to bed and let your Heather take care of you.”

  Tempting. He didn’t need to love or even like her to have sex. But if he gave in, would he be able to off-load her in the morning? He stepped away from her stroking fingers.

  “No. I’ll sleep on the sofa. You have the bed.” He pointed to the bedroom that adjoined the suite’s sitting room. “But we will not be talking about this in the morning.”

  “Okay, sweetie. I’m glad you finally agree there isn’t anything to talk about.” Heather glided into the bedroom. She stopped and posed in the doorway, allowing her gown to be backlit once again.

  “Oh, Ross. I almost forgot. A reporter from that really sleazy tabloid ambushed me in the lobby earlier. He says he’s planning to break a big story about us this week.”

  “What’s in this tabloid story?” Just bloody marvelous. Already a potential morals clause issue before the contracts were even signed for his comeback film. Scuttling this tabloid joker’s story was a priority since he didn’t want Nicodemus spooked. Maybe Mo Tuttle’s client was this reporter.

  “The reporter didn’t say.” Heather blew him a kiss and shut the door.

  Fab. He would have to deal with this tomorrow. There would be no long hot shower tonight or even a cold one. And he’d have to sleep on the sofa. The modular piece of furniture looked comfortably plush, but short. Ross knew he would be stiff after a night curled up on this torture device.

  “Bloody hell.” He blamed Imogene Tuttle. His evening had been going fine until she’d intruded. Imogene “Mo” Tuttle required a serious lesson. Maybe, I should be her teacher, he thought.

  * * * * *

  “This place better not be a sty,” Mo grumbled as she trudged up the steps to the porch of her two-story, shotgun-style, Victorian house. Since it was well past midnight, and the adrenaline generated by the evening’s events had worn off, she was way too tired to deal with a disaster area.

  Mo turned the handle and slowly pushed the door open. She stuck her head through and then glanced around. Hmmmm. So far so good. No smelly male clothing draped over the lamp on the hallway table. Mo stepped over the threshold and walked through to the parlor. No half-filled coffee cups on the claw footed mahogany side table or food wrappers on the cream brocade covered settee.

  As she progressed through the dining room and into the kitchen, Mo observed a similar state of cleanness. And the sink that had been full of dirty dishes sparkled with empty spotlessness. Impressive. Her brother and roommate, Leo, had done a great job. Of course, he’d probably had one of his many girlfriends clean for him. Her handsome, volleyball playing brother, with his tanned hard body looks had no shortage of women falling over themselves, and each other, to cater to him.

  “Hey Mo,” her brother called from the back of the house. "I'm watching SpyMatrix."

  Mo groaned to herself before calling back, “I’ll be right there.”

  “Mmmrouwwww.” Mo’s longhaired black cat rubbed himself against her leg. When she bent to stroke his fur, Talley plopped down, rolled onto his back, and then gave a long stretch. He obviously wanted his belly rubbed. Mo happily obliged him.

  “My handsome boy. How’s my baby?” He wasn’t a baby of course. Huge as cats go, Talley was shaped like a panther.

  Mo straightened and saw a pile of mail on the kitchen counter. The top item drew her attention…and not in a good way since the words "final notice" appeared in big red letters on the envelope. After tearing it open with shaking fingers, she drew out the single sheet of paper. Scanning the information was quick. If she didn’t pay over a thousand dollars in past due car payments within the next week, she could expect a visit from the repo man. Where was she going to get that money? She had nothing in the bank and the rent was due in less than two weeks.

  Finances had been tough since Leo had broken his leg a few months ago. He’d been out of work for a few weeks and unable to help out with expenses…not to mention the medical costs. She wanted nothing more than to save enough to return to culinary school—her dream was to be a chef—but that wasn't happening. Instead, the bills were piling up.

  Mo had to have the bonus she’d been promised at Incredible Love.

  As she trudged toward the sound of the television, her brother called happily, "Most of the movie is over."

  Leo's obsession with the futuristic super spy film was typical of her brother. At thirty, Mo was the elder by three years, but it felt more like thirty. She should tell Leo she met his idol today, but then she’d have to tell him the circumstances.

  “You missed the gravy scene," Leo continued. "But I can rewind.”

  "Don't bother," she replied.

  * * * * *

  The cries of the baby woke Kubikov the next morning.

  “Betsy,” he bellowed. “Get the baby.”

  No response came from his wife and the infant continued to wail. He checked the time on his cell phone’s digital display. Betsy must have gone out shopping especially early this morning.

  Sitting up on the sofa, he stretched to work the kinks out of his back. Kubikov rose and stumbled toward the nursery. As he passed through the door, he made eye contact with his son and the baby stopped crying.

  “Okay, little man. Your papa is here.” Kubikov swung the child out of the crib and pivoted to the changing table. “I’ll always be here for you.”

  Glancing at the over abundance of the room and the luxuriousness of its furnishings, a burst of pride bloomed in Kubikov. He had made it. He had provided all this for his child. Now if his employees would just do their jobs, there would be no danger he would be unable to provide for his son in the future.

  A tap sounded on the front door.

  Hoping for good news, Kubikov left the baby in his crib and went to the door. When he opened it, he found his best enforcer—his brother—on the front porch. He waved him inside and closed the door.

  “You have news for me, my brother?”

  “A source traced one of the blackmailer’s calls to a business called Incredible Love.”

  Kubikov crossed to the sitting room and paced from one side to the other. “I am familiar with this name. It is a PI firm. An agent from there prowled around the club a few months ago. And a woman agent was there just last week at the drag show. Coincidence is no coincidence. That agent must know something about the blackmail.”

  “We will watch the office of this business,” his brother said.

  “The woman agent has brown hair,” Kubikov said. “She looks like the actress from
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “We will make her talk,” his brother said with a nod.

  * * * * *

  “Oh pickles! I’m late,” Mo groused.

  The morning after the Ross Grant debacle, Mo balanced her cup of coffee in one hand—with doughnut teetering atop the lid—while fumbling the front doorknob to the agency with her other. Better late than raging with caffeine withdrawal.

  Mo hoped that, as a caffeine addict herself, her boss, Harry, would understand her lateness.

  Harriet Hutson was a redheaded fifty-five-year-old with a southern belle exterior and the attitude of a drill sergeant. She’d opened the agency after her husband left her for a high school student. Harry was fond of saying that she’d had her finger on the pulse of the economic principle of supply and demand. There was a big supply of cheaters to be caught and she demanded money.

  The boss often said that Mo was like the daughter that she was obviously not old enough to have. Of course, Harry was old enough, but Mo didn't point that out. As a result Mo usually got a little slack.

  Stumbling through the door she’d finally managed to open, Mo saw something different this morning. Clarence wasn’t at the reception desk.

  The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

  Mo placed her coffee and doughnut on the desk, before dropping her purse to the floor. She picked up the receiver. “Good morning. Incredible Love,” she answered.

  “Yes, er…” The voice on the other end broke between the low pitch of adulthood and the high pitch of youth. “We, that is, I um…”

  Mo was afraid she knew where this was going.

  “Errrr. Um. We, I mean I, would like to order some escorts for tonight.”

  Sheesh. She wished for the umpteenth time that Harry would change the agency name. Mo sipped at the coffee before answering. “We aren’t an escort service.”

  “You’re not? That’s okay because we really wanted…” The adolescent voice lowered to a whisper. “Prostitutes.”

  “We don’t deal in prostitutes or escorts. We are private investigators.”

  “But I need, I mean really need, some incredible love.”

  “Why aren’t you in school?” she demanded.

  “That’s none… Hey, I graduated. I graduated in— It was a long time ago. I don’t go to school.”

  “Yeah, sure," Mo drawled. "Listen, kid. This phone has caller ID and if you call here again, I’ll talk to your mother.”

  The call ended abruptly as the phone on the other end clicked off. She hated it when she had to answer these stupid calls.

  The phone rang again.

  Mo grabbed the receiver ready to rip the caller a new one.

  “Hello!” she shouted.

  “Is this Incredible Love?” The voice on the other end had a heavy accent that made the L sound like a W.

  “Yes?” Mo breathed out to calm herself. “Yes, it is. Can I help you?”

  “I would like to speak to Stephen Dagger.” The voice was heavily accented.

  It took a moment for the words to register.

  “Is this a joke?”

  The caller hung up.

  What was that? And why wasn’t Clarence here to take these calls. Before Mo had time to consider further, the door to Harriet’s office opened, and the boss stuck her head out.

  “Ah, Mo. There you are. Would you come in to my office?” Harry said with a stern frown.

  “Yeah sure, boss.” Mo puzzled at Harry’s manner.

  Harry slipped back into her office interior, leaving the door open for Mo to follow her inside.

  “You don’t look like you have a broken arm,” Mo remarked wryly from the doorway.

  Harry stood behind her desk. She ignored Mo’s statement and waved one arm toward the corner of the room that was obscured by the office door.

  “I believe you know Mr. Dagger— I mean Mr. Grant,” Harry said.

  Mo pushed the door closed and saw that her nemesis was in the room. He lounged, one leg propped over the other. Ross had dressed casually. He wore a black polo shirt, jeans, Nike sneakers and a smirk. His hands, with their long tapered fingers, pressed together to form a pyramid. His little pyramid screamed self-satisfied superior creep.

  “Mr. Grant has been telling me all about your run in with him last night," Harry continued. "Frankly, I was shocked. Shocked and upset at how unprofessional and rude you were. I have assured Mr. Grant that this agency does not tolerate such behavior.”

  “But, Harry, I was following orders.”

  “From the receptionist?” Harry frowned, tapping her desk with the fingers of one hand.

  Mo nodded.

  “And did he say who this supposed client was?”

  “No.”

  “No one hired us to break into Mr. Grant’s car.” Harry snorted. “As if I would instruct anyone from this agency to break the law. I really don’t know what you thought you were doing, Mo.”

  “But—”

  “No,” Harriet held up her hand in a halting motion. “Don’t bother trying to defend the indefensible,” she said with a heavily dramatic voice. “Mo. You’re fired.” To punctuate her words, Harriet’s hand snaked toward Mo in a move like that of the guy on the television show.

  The gesture would have been funny, except this wasn’t a reality show. This was real life.

  “But—”

  “Clean out your desk immediately.” Harry turned toward the still smirking Mr. Ross Grant and then offered her hand. “I’m terribly sorry about what you had to suffer because of someone in my employ. I hope we meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”

  He stood to shake Harry’s hand.

  “I appreciate your responsiveness to the situation, Ms. Hutson. It’s been a pleasure.” The custard turned toward Mo. “Good-bye, Ms. Tuttle.” And with that he walked out of the office, through to the reception area. The sound of the agency door closed with a click behind him.

  After a few seconds of silence, Harriet began laughing and plopped down into her desk chair.

  “Harry. What—” Mo’s legs shook under her.

  “You should have seen your face when I did that snaky thing. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Harriet said. “I love that show. It’s not quite as fun as the one where those celebrities try to dance, but still—”

  “I don’t understand,” Mo said, her heart still lodged in her throat.

  “Don’t look so upset, honey. Of course you’re not fired. That was all for Mr. Grant’s benefit.” Harry leaned back and put her feet on the desk. “The handsome devil. Bless his little heart. He is a charmer isn’t he? Like all the rest of them. Worse since he’s so blasted cute. Dammit. I wish I was a lesbian. It would make things so much easier.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “You and me both, honey. Did you have to pick on some spoiled celebrity’s car?”

  “Clarence told me that you broke your arm. He said you had this assignment you wanted me to finish for you.” Mo collapsed into the chair opposite Harry’s desk. Her shaky legs refused to hold her up anymore.

  “I never told him any such thing. And you can see both my arms are fine. What did he claim I wanted you to do?”

  “Get into the car and pay particular attention to the content of any papers inside. I guess looking back, it was odd.”

  “No wonder the dear boy didn’t show up for work this morning. That Clarence is another handsome devil. You’d think I’d learn and stop hiring the little darlings. I’d fire his cute ass if he wasn’t so good at all those computer thingies.”

  “But why would Clarence want me to break into Ross Grant’s car? It doesn’t make sense,” Mo wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know, but I expect you’ll find out when you go over to his house and speak to the boy.”

  Mo rose and turned to exit the office.

  “Don’t forget your meeting with Mrs. Nelson at eleven a.m." Harry’s words interrupted Mo's departure.

  “Is there any way I could get an advance
on my salary?” Mo asked with tentative hesitation. Harry didn’t like to be parted from her money.

  “Don’t push your luck, honey.” Harry slid on reading glasses and then picked up a paper from her desk.

  Mo tried to avoid a desperate edge to her voice when she added, “You said you’d consider a bonus at the end of the month.”

  “And I will.” Harry didn't even glance up from the paper as she said the words in a distracted tone.

  Mo released the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She'd have to be satisfied with that small assurance.

  “By the way,” Harry said, lowering the paper. “Have you stopped swearing?”

  Mo nodded. “I haven’t dropped the F-bomb in thirty-three days, twenty hours, and two minutes.”

  “Good. The clients might swear like rappers trying to make a hit record, but they don’t like it when you do.”

  “I know. I know,” Mo said, trying not to tap her fingers on the doorframe. She’d heard the lecture before.

  “And stay away from Ross Grant,” her boss warned. “I don’t want that hunky boy suing the agency or anything like that. I’m afraid I’d have to fire you for real if that happened.”

  “Yeah, I understand.” Mo walked out of Harry’s office. On her way past the reception desk, she grabbed her purse.

  “Oh, honey?” Harry called through her still open office door.

  Mo stopped with her hand on the doorknob and glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

  “Were you actually stuck in the sunroof?” Harry gave a bark of laughter.

  Striking a pose by sticking her backside toward her boss, Mo slapped one cheek of her bottom and made a smoochy sound.

  Then she ran down the stairs and through the front door of the building.

  Chapter Four

  Outside, Ross waited for Ms. Imogene Tuttle to emerge from the building. He leaned against a tree at the center of the park-like square facing the agency door. His car was parked illegally on the opposite side of the square, a few yards away. A meter maid had just placed the tenth—no wait, the eleventh—parking ticket he’d received since arriving in Savannah on the car’s windshield. This too was Ms. Tuttle’s fault.