The Grass Is Greener [McQueen Was My Valley 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  The medics were eager to close the doors. Rowan grinned. “But what if you remember something urgent about Tony Danza? That could be crucial to the investigation.”

  A warm, almost loving look flooded Sasha’s face. She must be in worse shock than I realized.

  “I’ll see what I can uncover about Tony Danza,” Sasha promised, and the doors were shut.

  Chapter Three

  “Aren’t you afraid that mad bomber is coming to get you next?”

  “Don’t you think he was after your friend Jane?”

  Sasha’s sisters were fascinated and frightened by the Winterhawk bombing story. They simply couldn’t get enough of the story about the nerdy “mad bomber” calling himself El Zeub, and of course, the mysterious bodyguard Rowan O’Shea. Rowan’s identity obviously ran much deeper than security guard for the Maliano campaign. In fact, Xandra McQueen had called the administrative assistant at Maliano headquarters—Sasha was too distraught about Jane’s death to talk to the gal she knew fairly well—and the assistant didn’t know any Rowan O’Shea. Or any Irishman who looked like an IRA assassin, and there were quite a few thugs on the Maliano security detail.

  It was evident Rowan worked for someone else who had been tracking El Zeub, The Dickhead. The sisters had googled that phrase and had only come up with one mention of it, in an ancient Arabian sex manual, The Perfumed Garden. The name was given to a man’s member when it crept toward a woman’s vulva.

  “So in a way, I suppose he is a creepy dickhead,” said Brooke, the wild child of the family. Leave it to her to focus on creepy dickheads. She had certainly known enough of them in her time before meeting the absolutely delectable Adrian Kinsey. A former lingerie model, Brooke had been entangled with the party crowd that revolved around Xandra’s ex until coming to Utah.

  Sasha saw great changes in both sisters. The air or the sandstone pinnacles and spires of the Utah high desert seemed to be doing them a world of good. “No,” said Sasha, “he was obviously after Jane’s husband, the congressman. Jane was just collateral damage. I told you that it seemed like Jane knew something beforehand, was warning me away from the ballroom.”

  “That’s what gets my curiosity up,” said Xandra, setting her orange juice glass onto the table. They were on the deck of Sasha’s suite at the Triple Play Lodge. In October it overlooked a sun-drenched vista of warm cinnamon mesas and spires. Sasha’s Charleston house was in the historic French Quarter district, and she didn’t see many mesas on her two-mile drive to work. She was beginning to notice how refreshing the sun felt, soaking into her skin. “She shoves this money at you to get you to leave the ballroom and buy her coffee.”

  “Which she doesn’t even drink,” Brooke reminded the group.

  Xandra continued, “Yet she allows herself to get blown up?”

  Brooke pointed at her sisters with her own juice glass. “But she was coming down the hallway toward Sasha when the bomb went off. As though she went ‘crap, it’s about to go off,’ and tried to haul ass out of there.”

  Sasha spread a hand out on the table. “We can conjecture all we want. If Jane knew something beforehand, don’t you think she would’ve warned her husband?”

  “Maybe her husband was in on it,” opined Brooke.

  Xandra added, “Or maybe that hot bodyguard you can’t find. He obviously knew something was up with that Dickhead.”

  “I don’t need to find him,” said Sasha. “What information would I gain?”

  “Uh,” said Brooke, “lots? He knew to suspect The Dickhead guy. You said he stood up like he had a sixth sense when that bomber came around, like he had a tracking device on him.”

  Xandra added, “Besides, it’s about time you found a hot bodyguard, Sasha. Or anyone. You need to move on. Your divorce from Colin was finalized like two years ago.”

  “A year and a half,” Sasha corrected her sister, “and I don’t have any time to find any damned bodyguard. I’ve got to get to DC to that underwater CSI symposium. It’s the day after your wedding, so I’ll have to fly out that night.”

  Brooke gaped. “Underwater crime scenes? Listen, isn’t it more important to figure out who murdered your best friend? Purposefully or accidentally, it doesn’t really matter his goal.”

  Sasha said, “I’m not presenting, but it’s a plenary session. I have to attend.”

  Xandra rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah. Otherwise you’ll miss all your nerdy friends and their molecular techniques.”

  Brooke giggled. “Having nerdgasms.”

  “Well, yes,” Sasha said honestly. “It’s the only chance I get to see them. Besides, I have to oversee Dad’s moving into Shady Pines.” She knew she was steering the conversation back to Dad. Her sisters were obviously uncomfortable discussing Dad’s downhill slide. True, it wasn’t like they could do anything to assist, other than volunteer the monetary help, as Xandra had done, and offer to visit, as they both had done, even if Dad didn’t recognize them any longer. But really, Sasha wanted to stop talking about the diabolically handsome IRA thug. Of course she had googled his name and come up empty-handed. She was glad. She wanted to forget him. Work was her life, and it was certainly fulfilling enough for her. Men were lowdown, base dogs.

  Brooke pointed out, “Overseeing Dad’s move doesn’t mean you don’t have five minutes to call that smoking bodyguard. And you do know that both of our husbands are career private military contractors. I’m sure either Nathan or Adrian could easily find out who this Rowan O’Shea is.”

  Xandra wiggled her eyebrows. “If indeed that’s his real name.”

  Waving her hand at her sisters, Sasha pooh-poohed them. “You’re being ridiculous. Just because your lives are filled with intrigue doesn’t mean mine has to be. Believe it or not, I like my boring bachelorette existence. Yes, your men are unbelievably steamy, I’ve got to hand you that. I’m just enjoying taking a break from men.” Why were her sisters sharing a conspiratorial look? “What, what? What’s this look for?”

  Brooke blurted out, “Sasha. You’re sort of flattering yourself that this hunky merc wanted your body. Maybe he’s married. Whatever. But aren’t you intrigued that you could learn something about Jane’s murderer?”

  Sasha went numb at her sister’s bluntness. Yes, that was true. Rowan was probably just bored. Bodyguarding must be the most mind-numbing job in the world. Sitting surveillance for days on people who sometimes wound up dead must be dull. He probably was interested more in Jane’s coffee than Sasha’s shapely figure. She was sitting down, after all. How much of her could he see? “Yes. You’re right. I shouldn’t ignore a possible lead just because I’m afraid some guy is hitting on me.”

  “That’s part of your job in Charleston, isn’t it?” asked Xandra. “To give the detectives clues about the way someone died, to form opinions, to come to conclusions?”

  They were right. Sasha had been burying her head in the sand out of fear of intimacy. Fear of intimacy with a complete and utter stranger—how absurd! Mr. O’Shea must have really affected her in the short time they spent together to have her on such a defense. Sasha slapped the table. “You’re right! I’ll give that number a call. After all, what could happen? He can’t reach out through the phone and grab my breast, after all.”

  Brooke giggled. “His penis can’t reach here from Salt Lake and insert itself in your pussy.”

  Sasha gasped. “My. You’ve become so crass since hooking up with your own private mercenary.”

  Xandra waved a limp hand at her sister. “She was always crass, Sasha. But it would probably shock you to hear me inform you that his tongue doesn’t stretch three hundred miles, so he can’t make you come with it. A phone call won’t harm anything.”

  Sasha was truly shocked now. “Xandra! You’ve really become this…well, this…”

  “Slut?” Xandra suggested.

  “Well, yes!” Sasha was relieved that Xandra had said it, not her. She had been wondering about Xandra’s living arrangements. At her wedding last December, there had b
een this best man sort of fellow, a much-beloved game warden named Julian, who seemed inordinately close to the newlyweds. Sasha had witnessed Julian patting Xandra’s ass—while she was clothed in her wedding gown! Even more mortifying, yet oddly arousing, Sasha had later seen Nathan bend Julian over a deck railing, practically dry humping him while fully clothed. Their tongues intertwining as they lapped at each other, Sasha had been rooted to the spot.

  Of course, she ran across bisexuality often in her ongoing biology studies. She ran with a sophisticated and eclectic crowd, so she’d run across it often in real life, too. She had just never witnessed it firsthand, between two men who were close to her sister. Sasha had analyzed her response. She concluded she was aroused by the men’s alpha behavior, intrigued because neither one of them seemed to be the passive, submissive beta dog in the equation. How did that work? Where did Xandra fit in? Perhaps they had a polyamorous relationship. Sasha was highly intrigued.

  Sasha said, “It must be those two incredibly hot men you’re always with out at your Bait and Switch chalet. I’m no prude, but what exactly is going on over there?”

  Xandra’s look became sly. “Only people who really are prudes have to proclaim how they’re not prudes.”

  Sasha sniffed. “Now, if you don’t mind. I’ll go call that bodyguard or whoever he is.”

  “You might want this,” said Brooke. She slid a white business card across the table.

  Sasha gasped again. Her sisters had become all sorts of spitfires in the past year! Sasha snatched up Rowan’s card. “Stealing, now, is it?”

  Brooke stuck out her lower lip petulantly. “We were thinking of calling him ourselves, if you didn’t.”

  Sasha sniffed. “Maybe the two of you could put your heads together and figure out why Jane would be talking about Tony Danza as she died. Did he do anything interesting that you know of when he stayed here?”

  Xandra said, “If you mean, was he placing incendiary devices behind the speaker’s podium at the animal psychic convention, no.”

  Sasha mused, “Could it be that she mentioned Tony as a sheer coincidence to his staying here? My theory is that the shock wave from the blast gave her a cerebral concussion that addled her memories. She must’ve just mixed up us talking about Tony the night before while we were having dinner.”

  “Those are really sad last words,” said Brooke thoughtfully as Sasha stepped back inside her suite. “She’s a famous congressman’s wife, and her last words were of a seventies television actor.”

  Sasha had to agree that it was highly pathetic that her best friend’s last words were of an actor whose most well-known role was as a dense taxi driver. She had been wondering if Jane had said anything else to Rowan O’Shea that he hadn’t told her. She stepped around the corner by the fireplace for a bit of quiet in which to call Mr. O’Shea. Surprisingly, a live gal picked up the other end, but all she said was “Switchboard.” Not terribly revealing.

  Sasha left a message for the mysterious Mr. O’Shea to call her. “Do you happen to know where he is? How long will it take him to get back to me?”

  “Oh, I’ll give him the message immediately,” said the operator, “but he’s out in the field. Depending on what he’s doing, it might be awhile before he can call you back.”

  That was incredibly unhelpful. Sasha left her phone on the computer desk and went back onto the deck to remind her sisters that the chef Leif was concocting them a special lunch of sea scallops in green tea broth over in the restaurant.

  Her sisters were standing at the deck rail, leaning over it to see around another suite that blocked their view. They giggled then broke out into large guffaws. Brooke even slapped her knee.

  Sasha eagerly went forward to see what was so damned funny. She had to blink several times and shake her head to be sure she was seeing correctly.

  A ranger stood between two—ah, people?—dressed fully in furry animal costumes. One was a leopard, the other was what seemed to be a blue fox with a yellow and orange mohawk. The Newfoundland dog Myshkin who belonged to the Triple Play Lodge sat obediently at the warden’s feet, woofing every once in awhile. It looked as though the lodge’s lawyer, Sol Greenspan, didn’t want the ranger bringing the costumed people inside. Sol waved his hands and even grabbed ahold of what looked like a leash attached to the leopard’s collar.

  “This is too rich,” said Brooke excitedly. “Let’s go see what’s up.”

  She opened the gate in the deck fencing and sprinted down the two steps onto the red soil. Xandra and Sasha followed.

  “Do you know that game warden?” Sasha asked Xandra.

  “I’d have thought you would’ve asked me why those people were dressed as cartoon animals.”

  “Oh, I just assumed they were sports mascots of some kind. Now, who is that sweet, adorable warden?”

  Julian Longtree, the warden Sasha had seen grappling with Xandra’s husband so ardently, had been promoted to Assistant Director of the wildlife department for Utah. Xandra explained, “When Julian became AD, they allowed Adrian’s buddy Gabriel Verona to become sergeant and hire a new partner. You’ve seen Gabriel. He’ll be best man at Brooke’s wedding.”

  “I assumed. So this adorable guy is Gabriel’s new partner?”

  “Exactly. Perry Donovan. I don’t know him well. He just arrived this week, so he’s staying in our old cabin.”

  Indeed, the warden—conservation officers, they called them in Utah—had a disarming, boy-next-door quality. His sandy hair stuck out in soft spikes, and he had a genuine, earnest smile that wouldn’t quit. Briefly, Sasha pictured him naked. As a medical doctor, it was easy for her to conjecture this. He would have a smooth hairless chest, nicely muscled long arms, cutely rounded butt. She quickly put this vision out of her mind. It was more comforting to imagine Perry as gay. What a shame. Looks like he’s got a massive schlong nestled in those shorts.

  “Now listen here, Secret Squirrel,” Sol was saying. “It’s none of my business what you do behind closed doors. But you are not entering the threshold of the Triple Play dressed like refugees from a Hanna-Barbera movie set.”

  “Those cartoons are funny animals!” protested the leopard, a male. “We are anthropomorphic members of furry fandom.”

  “Oh, big difference, I see,” Sol said.

  “The problem is, Mr. Greenspan,” said the boyish, polite officer, “I have cited these two for public indecency, but the nearest police station is in Monticello.”

  “Don’t I know it, Perry.” Brooke commiserated with the officer. “Gabriel hates having to haul people hellaway up there.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Sol. “So the Triple Play is now a home away from home for perverts who should be jailed? Wait a minute—public indecency?” Wrinkling his nose, Sol looked the creatures up and down. “They’re covered in fur. How can they be indecent?”

  “Fursuits,” corrected the blue fox, also a male.

  The Newfoundland dog woofed.

  Perry rolled his eyes. “Oh, it’s possible, all right. Just pretty unbelievable. Wait until you hear my story.”

  Chapter Four

  Perry had emerged from Last Chance Canyon just after sunrise. It had been an exhausting evening chasing spotlighters all over hell. Spotlighters were a particularly abhorrent brand of poacher. These yokels found pleasure in shining bright spotlights from their trucks on deer at night to stun them, then popping the deer off with rifles. They usually just took the racks and left the carcass, if they bothered taking anything at all. Bucks, does, fawns—anything on four legs was fair game for these asshats. It was thrill killing at its worst. The majority of spotlighters were under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

  Perry had spent hours tracking the flashes and the gun reports across chasms and over mesas. Working for the Division of Wildlife Resources was no glamorous, cushy job. Only crazoids obsessed with protecting wildlife and open space would consider such a career. He emerged from the canyon feeling crusty, almost high himself from lack of sleep. H
e had busted no spotlighters, only a guy taking illegal firewood, but he felt good from the attempt.

  Gabriel had given him a trailer in Moab, but Perry found it more convenient to his fifteen hundred square miles of patrol district to sleep in a cabin at the Triple Play. Now he thought about the excellent showerhead in his cabin’s bathroom. The cabin was a luxury, to be sure, for a lowly conservation officer, but he’d been good friends with Gabriel Verona for years, partners over in the Southern Region before Gabriel had transferred here. Gabriel’s new pact with one of the Triple Play daughters, Brooke McQueen, meant that he had leverage to give the cabin to Perry once he’d moved into Brooke’s fancy new chalet up Prism Canyon.

  So all Perry was really thinking about was a shower and sleep, and he might have even been speeding a little. He’d been known to partake of “magical mushrooms” upon occasion, on a few deadly boring nights when he knew there was no one, poacher or otherwise, within a hundred miles of his location. So he was familiar with the burnt-out feeling, now created by not having eaten or slept in a long time, just watching spotlights flashing across mesas all night long. It was a good thing he wasn’t epileptic. Sometimes the high desert night sky was one giant video game when heat lightning flashed across the deep purple dome.

  A tall thread of campfire smoke snaked into the windless October sky. Muttering under his breath, Perry cranked the wheel on his four-wheel-drive truck to go check it out. More than likely it was just illegal campers, maybe not even awake yet. But one never knew. They could be poachers with a truck bed full of racks and night vision equipment, silencers, no hunting permits.

  Perry drove even slower, squinting at the few people who moved around the camp. What? He actually rubbed his eyes like they did in the movies to make sure he was seeing what he thought he saw.

  Yup. Three people meandered about preparing breakfast, dressed to the teeth in bright, furry cartoon outfits.

  As he parked and got out of his truck, he wondered at the potential violations here. Taking pelts out of season? These guys, in their fluorescent costumes with cute, mournful glass eyes and pert plastic noses were hardly attempting to fool anyone.