by Sofie Ryan
“Alfred has an excellent memory,” Rose added.
Nick pulled a hand across his mouth. “It’s not possible,” he said. “You don’t have any experience in law enforcement.”
“Chapter eighty-nine of the Maine Revised Statutes, section 8105, 7-A, experience, paragraph D,” Mr. P. recited. “A person is qualified to be a licensed private investigator who possesses a minimum of six years of preparation consisting of a combination of: work experience, including at least two years in a non-clerical occupation related to law or the criminal justice system; and educational experience, including at least: an associate degree acquired at an accredited junior college, college, university or technical college in police administration, security management, investigation, law, criminal justice or computer forensics or other similar course of study.”
“I told you he has an excellent memory,” Rose said.
I wondered how long it had taken Mr. P. to commit that legalese to memory.
A flush was creeping up Nick’s face from his neck.
I’d been annoyed that he’d shown up planning to ambush Rose, but now I felt bad that he’d been the one ambushed instead. On the other hand, it wouldn’t have been happening if Nick would just stop trying to make Rose and the others do what he wanted.
“I have a four-year bachelor’s degree in computer science with a specialty in computer forensics,” Mr. P. continued. He gave a sly smile. “I’m not just a pretty face.”
I could see Liz smirking at me out of the corner of my eye, but I refused to look in her direction because I knew if I did I was toast.
“And I’ve been working with the Legal Aid free clinic for the last three years, doing research and computer work,” he finished.
Nick’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.
“And I’m Alfred’s investigative assistant,” Rose said. “In another sixteen weeks I’ll have all my training hours completed.” Her gray eyes met Nick’s and there was a clear challenge in them.
Behind her Liz waved a hand. “I’m their executive assistant. Think of me as Della Street.”
I figured it wasn’t a good time to point out that Della Street had been secretary to Perry Mason, a lawyer, not a private investigator.
“So it’s lovely of you to be concerned about us,” Rose said. “But we’re just fine.”
Her hand had been on Nick’s arm the entire time. Now she gave it a squeeze and let go. “Is there anything else you need, dear?” she asked.
“No. There isn’t,” he said, his words as tight as the muscles in his jaw.
Rose leaned around him and looked at me. “I’ll be right out, Sarah.”
“Take your time,” I said. “Avery’s here. There was some kind of water main break and the school flooded. They sent them home early.”
“Please tell me that my granddaughter had nothing to do with that water main break,” Liz said dryly.
“She didn’t.” I was pretty sure she hadn’t.
I caught the back of Nick’s jacket and gave it a tug. He turned and shot me a dark look.
“Rose, would you start on those parcels when you’re ready?” I asked.
“Absolutely, dear,” she said. She was being very gracious in her victory.
Nick followed me out. He didn’t say a word as we walked through the workroom. It was as if there were a black storm cloud over his head. As we stepped into the shop, I bumped him with my hip. “As Jess would say, pony up, little buckaroo.”
He glared at me. “Did you know?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Alfred Peterson is a licensed investigator. How the hell did that happen? You know he’s worse than some teenage hacker.”
“No, he’s not,” I said. “Mr. P.’s not stealing people’s identities or unleashing a virus that shuts down everyone’s computers.”
He made a face at me.
And I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “They beat you,” I said. “Liz, Rose and Alfred. And your mother. Three old ladies and a little old man who wears his pants up under his armpits beat you fair and square.”
“Crap!” he muttered.
I gave him a push. “Go to work. Go to Sam’s and have lunch.”
“This is going to complicate your life just as much as it does mine,” he warned, fishing his keys out of his jacket. The hint of a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
“Thank you for your concern,” I said. “Go.”
He went.
Mac had been on the phone. He hung up and walked over to me. “I’m guessing Rose looks better than Nick does,” he said.
“She set him up,” I said. “Short version?”
“Please.”
“Nick tried to shut them down because they’re not licensed by the state. However, it turns out Mr. P. has in fact become a licensed private investigator and is acting as Rose’s supervisor, so everything is legal and aboveboard.”
Mac grinned. “They planned this, didn’t they?”
“For months, probably. Mr. P. even had the relevant section of the law memorized and he quoted it to Nick.” I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh, remembering the look on Nick’s face as the older man had rattled off sections and paragraphs.
A customer checking out a sideboard along one end wall of the shop looked around for assistance.
Mac caught the woman’s eye and nodded. Then he leaned in toward me. “Keep that positive attitude, Sarah,” he said. “Because we’re now sharing space with an honest-to-goodness detective agency.”
Chapter 4
Mr. P. drove home with Rose and me at the end of the day. They were planning on working on the case for a while after supper.
“Did you make Alfred a cake?” I asked as I fastened my seat belt in the parking lot.
Beside me Rose looked a little confused. “No,” she said. “But I have some oatmeal raisin cookies.”
“They’re my favorite,” Mr. P. chimed in from the backseat. Elvis meowed his agreement.
“I meant, did you make a cake to celebrate him getting his investigator’s license?”
Rose had the good grace to blush. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
I glanced over at her and then put the SUV in gear and started across the lot.
“That was my suggestion, Sarah,” Mr. P. said from the backseat. “It’s been a while since I was a student. If I hadn’t passed the certification exam and we’d had to work under the radar, I wanted you to have plausible deniability.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “Thank you.” This wasn’t the first time I’d hoped I’d have plausible deniability when it came to something the Angels were up to.
I looked both ways for traffic and then pulled out onto the street. When I stopped at the corner I held up my right hand, palm facing Rose. It only took a moment for her to get the significance. She high-fived me. I turned my arm and got a high five from Mr. P. as well.
“It’s not that I don’t love Nicolas,” Rose said, hands folded primly in her lap again. “It’s just that he seems to think because we’re old we’ve taken leave of our senses. I suppose it was wrong of me to spring the whole license thing on him.”
I shot her a quick glance. “Maybe just a little.” I took my hand off the steering wheel long enough to hold up my thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. “He loves you, too,” I said. “That being said, I know that he can sometimes be a gigantic pain in the—”
Behind me Mr. P. cleared his throat.
“Neck,” I finished. I glanced in the rearview mirror and Mr. P. smiled approvingly at me.
“Would you like to join us for dinner, dear?” Rose asked.
A loud meow came from the backseat. The meat loaf from Charlotte was in a canvas bag on the seat next to Elvis.
“Thank you,” I said. “But as Elvis just pointed out, we have Charlotte
’s meat loaf.”
“What are you having with it?” Rose asked.
“Ummm . . . ketchup probably.” I did a mental run-through of the contents of my refrigerator. “Or mustard.” I was pretty sure there was a half-empty bottle in the door.
Rose sighed softly. That was the wrong answer.
“And salad,” I added. There was at least one limp carrot and a couple of wrinkled grape tomatoes in the fridge, too. The two of them could be salad if I sprinkled a little of the fancy balsamic vinegar Liz had bought for me on top.
I pulled in to the driveway at home and Mr. P. climbed out and handed me the bag with Charlotte’s casserole dish of meat loaf. Elvis jumped out, his green eyes never leaving the bag. I unlocked the front door and gestured for Rose and Mr. P. to go ahead of me into the hall, but Alfred moved behind me and put a hand on the painted wood.
“Go ahead, my dear,” he said.
I smiled. “Thank you.” Mr. P. was what most people would consider an old-fashioned gentleman, and while I was perfectly capable of opening my own doors, jars and shrink-wrapped packages, I was charmed by his thoughtfulness.
I set the tote bag and my briefcase by my front door. “Have a good night, you two,” I said.
Rose reached up and patted my cheek. “You, too, dear.”
They headed down the short hallway to Rose’s apartment and I let myself and Elvis into my—our—place.
I’d owned the house for several years now. It was an eighteen sixties Victorian that had been divided into three apartments by a previous owner. The house had been an incredibly good deal, run-down but structurally sound and an easy walk to the harbor front. I’d been able to buy it before it went on the market, because the owner was interested in the tiny one-room cabin that I’d owned and that Jess and I had lived in and fixed up during our last year of college.
At first I’d told myself and everyone else that I’d bought the house as an investment. But the truth was, even though I hadn’t grown up here, North Harbor felt like home to me and deep down inside I guessed I’d always known it was where I’d end up.
My dad and my brother, Liam, had done almost all the work on my apartment and the one on the second floor where my grandmother had lived until she remarried and went off on an extended honeymoon cum road trip around the country. Mom, Jess and I had foraged through every thrift store and flea market within about sixty miles of North Harbor to furnish and decorate the place.
I’d been working slowly on the third small apartment at the back of the house for close to a year. It had been livable—it was where my parents or Liam stayed when they came to visit. When Rose had been asked to leave her apartment at Legacy Place, the seniors’ residence in the refurbished Gardener Chocolate Factory, I’d offered the little apartment to her and Mac had helped me get it ready.
I liked having Rose around. Once the snow had cleared, she and Alfred started working in the backyard. Mac had built a couple of planter boxes for them and I was looking forward to tomatoes and zucchini in late summer. I hadn’t realized just how much I missed my grandmother until Rose moved in. I liked knowing there was someone else in the big house, other than Elvis, who at the moment was at my feet looking impatiently up at me.
I set the bag with the meat loaf on the counter and held up one hand. “Five minutes,” I said to the cat. “And then we’ll eat.”
Elvis jumped up onto one of the stools, made a sound a lot like a sigh and sat, staring at the bag. I reached over and scratched the top of his head. “You’ll live,” I said.
I changed into leggings and a T-shirt and was retrieving the two tomatoes and the sad carrot from my fridge under the watchful gaze of the cat when there was a knock on the door. He looked at me and lifted one paw.
“No, no, you’re all comfortable. Let me get it,” I said.
He tipped his furry head to one side and almost seemed to smile at me. Sometimes I had the feeling that he did get sarcasm.
It was Mr. P. at the door holding a small bowl. “Rosie sent this,” he said. The dish was full of steaming rice with onions, mushrooms and some kind of leafy green.
“Let me guess,” I said, smiling at him. “She made too much food.”
“That is her story,” he said.
I took the bowl from him. “Tell her thank you and give her a kiss from me,” I said.
He smiled at me. “It would be my pleasure.” He headed back to Rose’s apartment and I realized that he was wearing her fuzzy slippers.
I warmed up a couple of slices of the meat loaf in the microwave and settled at the counter with my plate and the bowl of rice. Elvis hopped back up on the other stool and I fed him a couple of bites of the meat.
“So, did you know that Mr. P. was getting his investigator’s license?” I asked.
The cat stared at me for a moment and then licked his whiskers. I decided that could be a yes. Or a no. Or “more meat loaf.” I gave him another bite just in case it was the latter.
The Angels spent the next day doing what Rose called “background work.” That seemed to involve Mr. P. spending a lot of time on his computer using my Wi-Fi. I fervently hoped everything he was doing was legal.
“Would you like a ride home?” I asked Rose at the end of the day.
“Alfred and I were thinking about walking,” she said.
I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Think about driving. It’s going to rain later. The walk might be a bit much for Mr. P.’s knees.” I’d noticed Rose rubbing her left hip earlier in the afternoon when she thought no one was looking. She’d never admit the damp weather was probably making it ache, but I knew she’d agree to driving with me if I couched it in terms of being good for Alfred.
“You’re right, dear,” she said with a smile. “His knees have been sounding a lot like someone deboning a turkey lately.”
Elvis sat in the back with Mr. P. and I could hear them having a murmured conversation all the way home. The cat didn’t have a lot to say, but he made a few agreeable murps from time to time.
Elvis jumped down from the backseat of the SUV as soon as Mr. P. opened the car door. He followed me inside, but instead of stopping at our apartment door he headed down the hall behind Rose and Alfred.
“Where are you going?” I said.
Mr. P. stopped and looked back at me. “I’m going to Rosie’s apartment,” he said. “Is that a problem?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I was talking to Elvis, not you.”
At the sound of his name the black cat looked toward the door to Rose’s small apartment, then turned to look back at me—almost as though he was saying that he was going to Rose’s apartment as well.
Rose was already at her door, fishing for her keys in her voluminous tote bag. “Elvis is having dinner with us,” she said. “I invited him.”
“You invited my cat to dinner?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s Thursday,” as though that explained everything, which it didn’t.
“Is Thursday Invite a Cat to Dinner Day?” I asked.
Rose crinkled her nose at me. “Don’t get saucy with me, young lady. Aren’t you going to Sam’s for Thursday Night Jam?”
By Sam’s she meant The Black Bear Pub owned by Sam Newman. Sam was like a second father to me. On Thursday nights his band, The Hairy Bananas, played, and anyone and everyone was welcome to sit in. Most Thursdays Jess and I were in the audience.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, Elvis was going to be all by himself.” Rose looked at me as though the rest was self-explanatory.
I could have pointed out that we were talking about a cat, but half the time the cat in question seemed to think he was a person anyway, and I knew if I tried to argue the point with Rose I’d be late meeting Jess.
“Okay,” I said.
“I’ll just let him in to your apartment when he’s ready to come home, if th
at’s all right,” she said.
I nodded. “That’s fine.”
Liz had told me that I was out of my mind for giving Rose a spare key to my apartment, but Rose hadn’t abused the privilege so far. Then again, I had her key and I was careful not to abuse that privilege, either. Seeing Mr. P. in her fuzzy slippers was all the information that I needed to have about Rose’s private life.
Jess was at a table to the left of the stage when I got to the pub. She was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt with her long hair loose on her shoulders. Instead of bringing our usual basket of nachos, a waiter slid a bowl of Sam’s chili in front of me as soon as I sat down. Jess was working on a plate of fries and an egg over easy.
“How did you know I didn’t have supper?” I asked, snagging a french fry and dipping it in my chili before eating it.
Jess pressed two fingers to her right temple and squinted at me. “I’m getting an image of a dark, empty place. It’s very cold . . . it looks like . . . the inside of your refrigerator!” She grinned at me, blue eyes sparkling.
I made a face at her. “What do I owe you?”
“You can get us some nachos at intermission.” She looked around. “Is Nick coming?”
My mouth was full, so I shook my head.
“Still got his knickers in a knot over being bested by Rose and her crew of supersleuths?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
Jess raised an eyebrow.
I set my spoon down and gave her my full attention. “C’mon, Jess. Charlotte’s his mother and Rose and Liz are like family. He doesn’t want anything to happen to them, so no, he doesn’t like the idea of them playing detective.”
“From what I’ve seen they’re not playing detective. They’re actually pretty good at it.” She speared a forkful of egg and two french fries and dipped the whole thing in ketchup. “So are you, for that matter.”
“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head. “I am not getting involved in another one of their cases. Not going to happen.”
“Famous last words,” Jess said, blue eyes sparkling.