Mary glanced at Jordan’s hands and frowned. “You need a manicure, dear. Your polish is chipped.”
Jordan bit her tongue to keep from making a statement she’d surely regret later. “If you can’t say something nice, Mother …”
As Kate shoved her hands in her pockets, Mary bestowed a regal smile on them. “Thank you for the invite to Sunday dinner, Jordie, although one can hardly call four in the afternoon dinner.”
Jordan sighed.
“Still, you’re accommodating your father’s schedule. Very nice of you, since we have a flight to Chicago early Monday morning. I hate these quick trips to and fro. The early dinner hour isn’t important anyway. What is important is the invitation. Almost makes up for your forgetfulness in returning my call on Wednesday. What will that gem of a woman Hannah be preparing?”
“No, Mother. Remember? Hannah has Sunday off. I’ll figure out something besides Hannah’s cooking.” Jordan turned her back to her mother and addressed Kate. “Katie, why don’t you and Dave come too?” Her voice sounded thin and forced. Her lips formed a silent please.
Kate lowered her winged brows and pressed her lips together a moment before nodding in surrender. “How about it, Dave? Can you come? It’ll be,” she looked at Jordan, “fun?”
He smiled at Kate in delight. His brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sounds great.”
Mary studied Jordan’s paintings. “These are good.”
Wow, praise from Mary Mary Quite Contrary. Somebody declare a national holiday.
“But really, Jordie,” Mary glanced around at the other booths, “hawking your wares?”
“It’s not vulgar if it’s a fundraiser, Mother. You know, raising money for charity? Just like you.”
“Hardly, darling. You’re standing out here like a carnival barker. You know I never bark.” Mary rubbed her hands together, not bothering to suppress her glee, “but I do raise money for charity.” She looped arms with Kate. “This is marvelous. Come along, Katie. Show me everything you’ve done here.” She turned to grace Dave with yet another smile. “Do you care to join us, young man?”
“Mother, stop flirting with Kate’s boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” Dave beamed.
Mary laughed.
Kate covered her face with her hands.
CHAPTER 22
At seven, Father Morgan’s Fall Festival was winding down. The evening air was cool and still and sweet.
Jordan was tired after the long day.
The couple considering her last painting couldn’t make up their minds.
“Two fifty?” Her potential customer asked for the third time. “You don’t think you could come down?”
Jordan tried very hard to be pleasant, but the couple wasn’t making it easy. “Sir, I’ve come down a hundred dollars already. It is for charity.”
“Yes,” the wife whined, “we know, but it’s not like you’re famous or—”
“Or what?” Eddie Marino’s familiar voice was louder than usual. Heads turned. “Who cares if she’s famous? I love this painting. In fact, I love this painting so much I think I’m going to buy it.”
He reached into the pocket of his leather bomber jacket, took out a handful of bills and gave them to Jordan.
“Two thousand be enough?”
Eddie managed to coax the World Famous Brat Man out of one last sausage sandwich to share with Jordan before he shut down for the night. They strolled the festival grounds munching, while more and more lights went dark around them.
“I can’t believe you paid two thousand dollars for one of my paintings.” Jordan took a bite out of the sandwich.
“It’s for charity.”
“I know, but it’s still amazing.”
“It was also for you.”
Jordan didn’t trust herself with a response, so she took another bite of the bratwurst and passed it back to him. “You know, I’ve been thinking—”
“Stop the presses and alert the media.” He smiled when he looked at her. “You have mustard on your nose. I could lick it off.”
She swiped at the tip of her nose. “I’ve been thinking about Anthony Vercelli.”
He was instantly serious, maybe even grim. “What about him?”
She eased her way through uncharted waters. Eddie Marino was nothing if not private. Certain parts of his past had been off limits since day one.
But was he hiding something that might jeopardize the good standing of the agency’s license? When he came into the firm, he swore the license would never be at risk because of him, and even though it made her nervous, she trusted that he’d told her the truth.
She knew a bit about his military career as a Special Ops cryptographer. The details were sketchy, partly because of national security, but partly because Eddie just didn’t want to talk about it.
Of his years before they teamed up, she knew that before he’d started his security company, he worked security for someone else. He never mentioned the client—definitely a detail she would have remembered.
“You never told me about the mob or Vercelli. I have to say it has me concerned.”
“What? You don’t trust me?” He took a bite out of the brat and avoided her eyes. In fact, he seemed to be looking anywhere and everywhere but at her.
“I trust you. You know I do. I have trusted you with everything.”
They walked on in silence until he took her hand and began to talk in a low, even tone. “When I came out of the military, I didn’t have anywhere to go. Some guys from the old neighborhood in Cleveland hooked me up.”
She didn’t dare breathe.
“Vercelli took a liking to me. The old man took me under his wing and made me head of security. When he made the move west, he brought me with him. For a while it was all right, but then it got complicated.”
He paused; when he continued, his voice was troubled. “He started asking me to do things—things I didn’t want to do. Things I didn’t sign on for. He made it goddamn attractive for me to say yes and dangerous for me to say no. No is what I said and walked away. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.”
“What things did he ask you to do?”
“Don’t go there. Just know they were bad enough that they scared me half to death.”
Holy shit. What the heck would be so bad that it scared Eddie Marino half to death? He was right. She didn’t want to go there.
“I left. He didn’t like it much. For a while I spent a lot of time looking over my shoulder, thinking maybe he wasn’t done with me. These days I don’t worry so much.” Finally he looked at her. “But that’s the kind of person we’re dealing with.”
She had never pushed him like this. It could end badly, but curiosity prevailed over common sense. This was Eddie—her friend, her partner. Her Eddie. She had to know. “So you were with the mob.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Somebody else might and probably would.
The sly turn of a phrase was an Eddie Marino specialty, not quite a lie yet not quite the truth. He had it down to an art. What was it he said? “A little soft shoe, a little sleight of hand. Presto change-o.” It hurt Jordan to know he used it on her too.
“It’s old-fashioned to call them the mob. Nobody does anymore. It’s not like the Sopranos, at least not in Arizona. They’ve been here since the fifties and have a hand in more legitimate industries than you’d like to think about.”
“How long did you work for Vercelli?”
“Went to work for him when I got out of the Army, was with him for about eight years before I started my own security company.”
“So, in the end, Vercelli just gave you his blessing and patted you on the head? ‘So long, Eddie, see ya around,’ all when you were so valuable to his operation?”
“Yep. Hasta la vista, baby.”
She should drop it, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “He just let you walk away when you knew so much about his operation.”
“Yes. That. Is. Right.” He punctuated eac
h word.
“Mmm-hmm. I just bet he did.”
“Sweet guy, Anthony Vercelli.”
“Eddie.”
“Let it go.” His tone made it clear he was done talking. He shoved the sandwich back at her. “Here. Have some.”
CHAPTER 23
The house was quiet on Sunday. Just Jordan and her girl Sadie. It was usually on Sunday when the brushes, the colors, and the canvas came out. The morning sun shone through the arcadia door and washed over her like a tsunami of light. She leaned against the table in the pool cottage she’d set up as her studio and basked in its warmth.
Painting was Jordan’s passion from that day in kindergarten when they set up the easels and put an apron on her. She spent four years studying it at the Sorbonne and the American University of Paris—four enlightening years when she learned as much about life as she did about art. Thanks to her first lover, Etienne Moreau, who was too hot for his own good, freakishly controlling, and often less than kind. Luckily her brother Alec had been in Paris at the Cordon Bleu to gather the pieces of her shattered soul when she broke off the unhealthy relationship.
Her parents supported her as an artist. The pursuit of fine art was, as Mary put it, “an occupation of nobility.” More than one of her professors hinted she could make a better than average living as a professional artist. That was, of course, before Mary’s meddling drove Jordan west from her burgeoning art career in Chicago, also before her blood was all stirred up about investigative work.
Finally, a couple of years back, Jordan admitted she had only herself to blame for spoiling the pleasure she found in painting. She didn’t like the business part of art—the haggling, the patrons looking for investments not art. She wanted to do art for art’s sake, not to make money. Detective work involved skill and cunning, but the result was also gratifying: you helped your clients discover the truth.
Kate’s way of handling their mother was to smile and nod, then do exactly what she wanted to anyway. I wish I were more easygoing like Katie. Mary Welsh is only as irritating as I allow her to be. I do love you, Mother, but thank God we don’t live together any more.
These days, painting was a way to locate her calm center and spend some time there. The photo on the wall beside the easel was of an irresistible family of Gambel’s Quail who’d taken up residence among the sage and barrel cactus in her front yard, the subject of her current canvas.
“What do you think, Miss Sadie?” She scrolled her play lists. “Corinne Bailey Rae or Yo-Yo Ma?”
Sadie yawned, laid her head on her paws, and closed her eyes.
“You’re right.” Jordan nodded. “Muse, it is.”
She worked on the painting straight through until two then showered and dressed for company—the Scottsdale version of dressing for company—dark-wash bootcut jeans, a coffee-colored cowgirl shirt embroidered with yellow roses, and mustard-colored western boots. Gifts from her mother on her last birthday. Guess who’s coming to dinner?
The doorbell rang at three. She opened the front door to Gabe Penner, a family friend and sometimes client, also the owner and head chef at Gabriel’s Bistro in Paradise Valley. He carried two large insulated bags, one in each hand.
“Here I come to save the day … ” he sang in his lilting voice, a fair imitation of Andy Kaufman.
“Gabe.” He always made her smile.
She swung the door open wide and he came in, set down the bags, and bowed. “Your order, Miss Welsh.”
“Get in here, you nut. We’ve only got an hour before everyone arrives and I have a jillion things left to do.”
“No worries.” He picked up the bags and headed straight for the kitchen. “It will only take a few minutes to show you how to reheat like a pro.”
“You’ve saved my bacon on more than one occasion.”
“Har dee har.” He began to unpack the bags on the counter. “Very funny.”
A dozen containers came out of the bags. Gabe assembled them into an elegant meal so quickly you’d have thought he learned to cook at Hogwarts.
“On the menu tonight is Chicken Cordon Bleu with white wine sauce, baby red potatoes sautéed in extra virgin olive oil with garlic and onion, steamed asparagus, and a spinach salad with poppy seed dressing. I brought fresh baked herb bread from the Bistro and honey butter. There’s cheesecake if anyone has room after all the other food.”
Gabe talked while he worked, navigating the kitchen as if every move had been choreographed in advance.
“Zester.” With one word commands, he sent Jordan scurrying around the kitchen to find this pan or that utensil, some of which she didn’t even know she had.
“Zester?” She wrinkled her nose. “What the heck is a zester?” She peered into the pan on the burner. “So tell me what you’re doing there, kind sir.”
“I’m making a roux.”
“You can make those? I thought they came in a can.”
Gabe spoke over his shoulder. “Equal parts clarified butter and flour. Whisk, whisk, whisk until thickened, add a splash or two of white wine.” He splashed first and then drank from the open bottle. “Broth. Seasoning. You’ll spoon this over the Cordon Bleu the last ten minutes.”
Gabe put together a gorgeous salad of spinach, toasted almonds, and orange zest and gave her strict instructions not to toss in the dressing until just before mealtime.
After providing further details as to how she should finish off everything else, he spread his arms. “Voilà. Your gourmet meal. If you do exactly as I’ve told you, I don’t think even you can screw it up, my sweet.”
While she stared through the oven window at the chicken, he walked out the front door and was gone.
Jordan stared after him. “The man’s like Mary Poppins.” On her way out of the kitchen, Jordan hummed “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
When the doorbell rang, Jordan was nervously inspecting the table a final time and tweaking a place setting.
Sadie went nuts barking and making frantic circles in the foyer.
The tall man who greeted Jordan at the door had the exact same ice-blue eyes as her sister.
“Dad!” She leaned into his open arms. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Mary made her way up the walk with a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, the strap of her latest Fendi handbag looped over the other. “What am I?” She lifted her face to receive Jordan’s peck on her cheek. “Chopped liver?”
“I’m glad you’re both here.” She brought her folks into the house by taking hold of one hand of each and pulling them after her.
The three went into the great room where Jordan’s dad insisted on playing bartender, stirring up a mean pitcher of Grey Goose martinis.
At sixty-one, Benjamin Welsh was still straight-backed and striking. He was even-tempered, logical, and down to earth, and Jordan loved him with all her heart. She had always been and always would be Daddy’s little girl.
Only moments behind Ben and Mary, Kate and Dave arrived. Ben and Dave were introduced.
Jordan drafted Kate to help her get dinner on the table, and in no time at all, Ben and Mary Welsh and their daughters, plus one, were seated around Jordan’s dining table.
The men complimented Jordan on the excellent dinner. Kate murmured in agreement.
Mary savored a sip of the excellent chardonnay she brought from her own stash. “Jordan, darling, I’m so impressed with the quality of this meal. This Chicken Cordon Bleu is almost as tasty as you’d expect at Gabriel’s Bistro from our old friend Gabe himself.”
“Oh,” Jordan wiped her mouth with her napkin, “well, he—”
“I saw the dishes in the sink. I know this food came from your stove.”
“But I only—”
“No false modesty.” Mary took another bite and rolled her eyes in pleasure. “It isn’t attractive. Just say, ‘Thank you, Mother.’ ”
Jordan swallowed to avoid choking. “Thank you, Mother.”
Ben seemed to take a liking to Dave. “So, Dave, Mary
tells me you’re president of a midsize bank here in the valley.”
Dave, caught in the middle of chewing, had to gulp down a quick drink. “No, sir.”
“Ben.”
“No, sir, Ben.”
“Just Ben will do fine.”
Dave laid his fork on his plate and cleared his throat, glancing nervously at Kate. She smiled encouragingly at him.
“I’m not the president. I manage the Mesa branch of Saguaro National Bank.”
Mary’s tendency to get excited about bankers evidently didn’t go as low as managers. “Oh. Just a manager?”
Katie wouldn’t have it. “No, Mother. Not just a manager, the manager. And who knows, someday he just might be the president.”
Her stare dared her mother to say another word. She squeezed Dave’s hand while he gazed adoringly at her.
Jordan hid her smile by dabbing her mouth with her napkin. Something very special was going on with those two. She was happy for her sister.
No one spoke for a few minutes while some very serious eating took place.
Mary opened a new vein of conversation that bled all over Jordan’s pleasant dinner party. “I read the most awful thing about the Brenners in Friday’s paper.”
“Really? Nick and Connie Brenner?” Ben asked.
Jordan held her breath.
“Yes. It appears they’ve been stealing from their own charity.”
Jordan laid her fork on her plate. “They are not, Mother. Absolutely not.”
Everyone turned to look at her.
“How is it you’re so certain of this? The paper said—”
“The Brenners are my clients.” Well, were her clients, but that was just a technicality.
Mary also laid down her fork, put her hands in her lap and leaned forward, giving her daughter her full attention. “Your what?” It was positively frosty. “Did you say your clients?”
Cat’s out now. Jordan squared her shoulders. “I’m investigating the theft.”
“The Brenners are paying you to delve into their private business?”
“Not so private any more, is it? I mean, everybody knows about it now, don’t they? Like you said, it was in the paper.”
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