When the way was clear of old ladies pushing shopping carts across the asphalt, Sam jammed the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space, rolling his last remaining piece of luxury out onto East Bay Street.
With so little information to go on, he figured there was only one place to turn. If anyone knew anything in this town, it would be his snitch.
Sam drove past the busy intersection of Calhoun and East Bay and burned rubber up the street, his gaze scanning the landscape. After making several turns, he slowed to a crawl past a corner drug store with an ad in the window for twenty cent malts.
Just behind the store on Acorn Street was a row of brick houses with neatly mowed lawns. Only one house had blue shutters which made it stick out like a sore thumb, but that was exactly how Iggy liked it.
He parked his car in the driveway and locked it before heading to the front door.
With a tidy yard and rows of flowers lining the walkway, the small house looked like it should belong to a nice family instead of a never-do-well who was always looking for his next paycheck.
But Iggy prided himself on taking care of his property, inside as well as out. Sam’s informant for the past five years, Iggy had never failed him. He had the instincts of bloodhound and the face of a basset.
Sam banged on the wooden door then crammed his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He shifted from foot to foot and willed Iggy to hurry up. He hadn’t considered the possibility the little guy might not be home. Before Sam could work himself up into a full fledged irritation, the door opened and banged against the far wall.
Iggy, his dark hair standing on end, glowered at him with red eyes. “What do you want?”
“Nice to see you, too, man.”
Iggy propped a scrawny foot against the door. “You ain’t answered my question.”
“I came to see your pretty face. Why do you think I’m here? I need information.”
The snitch scratched his jaw which was in need of a good shave. “Then I guess you’d better come in.” He stepped away from the door and lumbered into the living room, his shoulders hunched, his baggy jeans draped low on his hips.
Lawdy, Miss Clawdy blared from a radio in the corner of the room, a song Sam had already grown to hate considering its permanent residence on the local radio station.
A serviceable sofa sagged against the far wall, and Iggy pointed toward it. “Have a seat. I can get you a soda pop, if you want.”
What Sam wanted were answers, without having to wait for Iggy to sober up to get it. “Did you tie one on last night?”
Iggy scratched his head. “What’s it to you?”
“I need some answers, Ig. Are you going to be able to give them to me or is your head too full of cotton to talk?”
Shuffling toward the kitchen, Iggy mumbled something unintelligible. “So who you looking for this time?”
“Her name is Helen Masters.”
Iggy looked over his shoulder. “Last name sounds familiar.”
Sam walked toward him. “You know her?”
“Did I say I know her?” Iggy spat. He continued across the yellow tiled floor. “I said the last name sounds familiar, that’s all.” He scratched his stomach. “She got any kin?”
“Yeah, a husband who’s looking for her.”
“I’ll ask around, but have you checked on Villereal Avenue? Just heard someone bought one of those houses that’s been up for sale for over a year or so.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Old man Evanstan couldn’t give that albatross away, and suddenly, this woman shows up and offers him a pocketful of dough for the house. Evanstan thought he’d gotten himself a cheeseburger and fries that day.” Iggy laughed heartily and tugged open the refrigerator door. “Sure I can’t get you something to drink?”
Sam was already on his way to the door. “No, thanks. You’ve given me what I needed. Thanks again, Ig.” He leaped off the steps, his tension easing somewhat. If nothing else, he was thinking more positively.
If Helen Masters was in downtown Charleston, he’d find her. His livelihood depended on it.
****
Kate plunked a glass of milk down on the kitchen table and edged a chair away with her toes. “You know, you could join me, Mom.” She indicated the opposite chair with a jerk of her head.
“No, thanks, hon. I think I’m going to go catch the rest of I Love Lucy.”
Sighing, Kate tucked one foot up onto the edge of the chair. Leaving their father behind in Florida had been traumatic for Kate, but Helen had suffered the most. Hiding out, pretending she was dead while knowing deep down inside her husband was, Kate couldn’t even imagine what her mother was going through inside.
They hadn’t been talking much in the past weeks. Kate tried to strike up a conversation, but after walls of silence greeted her, she finally gave up the effort. She sensed that her mother anticipated something, but she wasn’t quite sure what.
Helen Masters had never been good at hiding her feelings. Kate’s father had always teased his wife about being a poor poker player if she played the game. Her face always gave her away, and right this moment, anxiety tightened her mother’s expression.
Kate drained the rest of the milk and carried the glass to the porcelain sink. She wished her father was here. He was the only one who could really talk to her mother, but he was the reason they were in hiding. And it was useless to hope for what couldn’t be. Deep in her heart where the pain resided, she knew she’d never see him again.
Tears filled Kate’s eyes, and she raised her head to look out the small window over the sink. Though the sky had darkened, she could still make out the shadows of the landscape. The neatly manicured lawns and the street lined with cars parked for the evening all indicated a quiet, peaceful neighborhood. The images helped to restore some calm to her mind.
Then something caught her eye. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, a slight movement indicating something was outside the window. Keeping her steps light so as not to alert her mother, she made her way to the pantry and took down the locked box she kept on the top shelf. The key turned easily, and her father’s stub-nosed pistol lay nestled atop a folded piece of cotton.
Goosebumps rose on Kate’s arms, and she wondered why a simple shadow would send her reaching for the gun, but she didn’t have time to question.
The shadow had neared her back door.
****
Sam eased up the stone steps, one hand resting on the butt of his pistol. His internal alarms had been screaming like mad since he’d found this house. He didn’t know why, but Joe had always called Sam a natural at this job. His ability to find anyone, anywhere, even without Iggy’s help, made him a valuable investigator. He just wished more people knew it.
He brushed the cobwebs off his shoulders and grimaced. Finding old man Evanston’s former house had been easy enough, but getting past the neighborhood busybodies hadn’t been so easy. The old ladies had eyes everywhere, and the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to his visit.
So at just after eight in the evening, all he wanted was to see the inside of his clapboard house. What he needed was a shower, a hot meal, and a shot of bourbon, not necessarily in that order.
Just as he raised his hand to knock on the back door of the three-story house, he found himself staring down at a small pistol that took steady aim at the center of his chest.
Sam’s hands shot up in the air and he rocked back, almost losing his balance. “Hey, hey, hey! Wait a second!” He looked up into startlingly blue eyes. Though the woman had the face of an angel, framed by a cloud of honey-colored hair, he saw no other celestial qualities, especially not with her weapon of choice directed at his heart.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” The voice reminded Sam of a warm, summer night with the crickets singing and stars winking in the sky.
He blinked and shook his head. What was the matter with him? A woman was pointing a gun at him, and he was thinking about summer nights. He made sure to k
eep his hands high to reassure the homeowner he meant no harm. “Excuse me, Ma’am, but if you’ll just lower your gun, I’ll be happy to introduce myself.” No way this was Helen Masters, unless Mr. Masters liked his women a heck of lot younger than he was.
The barrel inched upwards. “You’ll tell me who you are now, and I’ll think about not shooting you.”
Sweat beaded on Sam’s forehead, but otherwise, he wouldn’t let the vixen know she had him cornered. He dropped his hands slowly. The gun didn’t waiver, not even a fraction of an inch, which could only mean one thing. The woman was a crack shot. He cleared his throat.
“My name’s Sam.” His voice squeaked. He stopped talking at once. His voice hadn’t squeaked since he was an adolescent, but he couldn’t remember the last time someone had pointed a gun at him, either.
He tried to draw in a deep breath, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate. The woman shifted from one foot to the other, a sure sign of her growing impatience. “Like I said, my name’s Sam, and I’m looking for someone.”
Those vivid blue eyes narrowed. “Let me guess. You’re looking for a woman for the evening. You’re in the wrong town.” She raised the gun, its barrel now pointed at a spot between his eyes.
Sam’s temper climbed. He was getting tired of that gun waving in his face. He took another step, and the woman’s stance shifted to accommodate the movement. It had been a long day, and having his morals questioned and a gun pointed at his face wasn’t improving his mood at all. He gritted his teeth and glared at her.
“Don’t come any closer. Why don’t you tell me who you’re really looking for, because I don’t really believe you’re looking for a date?”
Sam didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. “Will you let me remove my identification?” He jerked his head toward the front side of his coat. “It’s in the pocket here.”
“Do it slowly.”
He grinned. “Always.”
Her eyes frosted. “If you’re looking to charm your way out of the situation, you’ve picked the wrong target. I’m immune to men like you.”
He didn’t know what she meant by the statement since he figured he didn’t really fit into any given category. He liked to think of himself as one of a kind. He slipped his hand inside his suit coat and withdrew his wallet.
Immediately, the woman held out her hand. “Give it to me.”
He raised one eyebrow. Demanding little thing. She might be the one holding the gun, but she wasn’t necessarily calling all the shots. He doubted she’d want to alert all of her neighbors by firing that gun she held so steadily. And she’d probably like having to explain the presence of a dead body on her porch even less.
His blood pressure returning to normal, he called her bluff. “No.”
She blinked at him, a small crease appearing in her forehead. “No?”
“Yeah. It’s the opposite of yes.”
She took a backwards step. “I’m aware of what it means, but I am the one holding the weapon here.”
Sam folded his arms, no longer intimidated by the pistol she held even though it was probably less than six inches away from his chest. “And if you were going to shoot me, you would have done it by now.”
“You’ve not given me any reason to shoot you.”
“Ah. So.” He took another step up and became eye level with her, allowing the muzzle of the gun to press into his chest. “If I were to say, walk closer to you, would that give you a reason to shoot me?” He heard the swift intake of her breath and beneath the light overhead, he caught a glimpse of gold in the depths of those beautiful blue eyes.
She lowered her hand but only long enough to press the barrel of the gun into his stomach. Under ordinary circumstances, that might have concerned him, but instincts told him this woman wasn’t as interested in shooting him as she was in protecting whatever secret she had hidden behind those beautiful eyes of hers.
He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “My name is Sam Bentley, and I’m a private investigator.”
As he straightened, something flickered in her gaze. Could it have been panic? “So who is it that you’re looking for, Mr. Bentley?” She didn’t look him directly in the eye, and, in Sam’s line of work, that was a classic tell-tale sign of nerves.
He reached down between their bodies and clasped his hand around the gun’s muzzle. “Why don’t you put this away so we can talk in a friendlier manner? I can assure you biting is not my style.”
She swept a long, studying look up and down his body before relenting enough to lower the pistol. “Fine. You can come in, but I still don’t know if I can trust you so don’t get too comfortable.”
He liked her southern drawl. In fact, he thought he liked just about everything about the woman. He inclined his head and pointed toward the kitchen. “Do you think we could sit down?”
“Why? I can’t help you find who you’re looking for.”
Well, he definitely didn’t miss the note of fear he heard in her voice. “How do you know that? I haven’t even told you her name.”
She turned her back to him which might be cause for concern. She was either beginning to trust him or making sure the gun was loaded. He didn’t follow her inside the house, choosing instead to keep his distance at the door.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Now something was really off. The woman had gone from being antagonistic to cooperative. That always set him on edge. “We could start with your name,” he said in a soft, non-confrontational tone. He sensed the woman knew something she didn’t want anyone to know, and it was probably something he needed to know.
She pivoted, and Sam caught the slight scent of flowers. Did any woman actually smell like flowers? He always thought that was myth…or the result of too much wine with those roses. But he definitely smelled something, like honeysuckle. His brows drew down into a frown.
“My name is Kate.” Her soft voiced matched the flowers perfectly.
“Does Kate have a last name?”
“I do, but I don’t think that’s information you need.”
Oh, yeah. The alarm is buzzing now. “I see.” His gaze scanned the kitchen while he formulated a more eloquent response to her decision. Though the linoleum was worn, it was as clean as the spotless countertops, neither of which could disguise the age of the appliances or the wear in the wallpaper.
He tried to catch a glimpse of the room beyond the kitchen, but Kate quickly moved into his path. Not that he would complain about the change of view. His gaze captured hers, and though he saw the determination on her face, he also saw hesitancy, even fear. He’d been right. Kate did know something. He decided to lay the cards out on the table.
“I’m looking for a lady named Helen Masters.” The swift intake of breath gave him all the information he needed, and much more than Kate’s even swifter response.
“I don’t know her.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall next to the chipped, white stove. “Really? Why don’t I believe that?”
Kate raised the gun a notch. “I don’t care what you believe, Mr. Bentley. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I have a lot of work to do.” The dismissal in her voice accompanied the sweep of her hand toward the door behind him. “And next time you want to visit this neighborhood, you should call first. Not all of my neighbors are as trusting as I am.”
Sam snorted and then apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be offensive.” As he spoke, his gaze did another quick tour of the kitchen and beyond. He saw movement in the other room, just past the doorframe. “I hope I didn’t disturb the rest of your family.”
He hadn’t even thought to ask if Kate was married, not that she would have told him. He didn’t see a wedding ring. Of course, she could be one of those defiant women who refused to wear one. Being a gun-toting woman, she could definitely be classified as defiant.
His thoughts irritated him. He was here for business not a date. The last concern of his should be whether or not she was married.
Still, he couldn’t be blamed for appreciating the view of a lovely woman.
Kate’s brow wrinkled. “There’s no one…” She quickly broke off. “You didn’t.”
Sam folded his arms and raised his chin. He had his own fair amount of determination. “I have to tell you, I received information from a reliable source that Helen Masters’ daughter lived here.” A little white lie, true, but Kate didn’t know that. He bent his knees to see her face. “You wouldn’t happen to be that daughter, would you?”
Her face went from pale to chalky, and she took a stumbling step toward the table. Sam reached out and snagged hold of her arm with lightning reflexes honed from years of dodging wayward left hooks. “Are you okay?” He settled Kate in a padded chair and knelt down in front of her. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
Her hands twisted in the hem of her blouse, a white, frothy number with buttons up the back. “He sent you, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know who he is.”
Her lips thinned, and she tried to push him away, but Sam held fast. He wasn’t going anywhere now that they were getting closer to the truth. Besides, he didn’t mind holding her at all. “You know exactly who he is, but he’s asked you not to reveal his identity.” She muttered a curse word that stunned Sam. Such language from an angelic beauty seemed out of place.
Sam got to his feet. “I don’t take on anonymous clients.”
Kate stood as well, shoving the chair back under the table. “Fine. Then tell me who sent you.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Oh, let me guess, you have a confidentiality issue.”
Sam didn’t like the way her lips curled when she said that. “My clients have to know they can trust me, yes. And since you’re asking so many questions, I’ll take it that you are Helen Masters’ daughter.”
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