Nothing but Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  “Yes! I mean, what if, right under our noses, Ernie Hoffman was living a double life? By day, history teacher handing out Cs and chasing potheads through the halls . . . by weekend, he’s the Doc, master sleuth, hunting down diabolical international thieves—”

  Uh-oh. By the look on his face, clearly she’d misread his statement as agreement.

  “I think you’re the one living the double, diabolical life.” Jeremy quirked one of his dark eyebrows. “Maybe you’re the Doc.”

  PJ rubbed her hands together and manufactured her sinister look. “Maybe I’m the assassin, heh heh heh.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I think you need a coffee.”

  She bit back a retort. But wow, she suddenly didn’t want to look the fool in front of him. Perhaps she did need coffee. “You buying, Pizza Guy?”

  “Coffee? For you, a grande double-shot macchiato. I’ll even throw in a biscotti on the side.”

  He followed her out of the library to the adjoining coffee shop. She took a seat in one of the leather chairs near the fireplace while he ordered, letting the conspiracy theories run through her mind.

  Yes, in the light of day, maybe she did need a strong dose of caffeine clarity.

  “Miss me?” Jeremy said, returning.

  PJ answered with an exaggerated eye roll.

  “Here’s your coffee.” He repositioned next to her and handed her her order—a latte with a shot of vanilla and hazelnut.

  “Where’s my biscotti?”

  “Sorry, they’re clean out. But I got you a cookie.” He handed over a chocolate chip cookie and she had no words.

  “So, I think it’s time to tell me the truth.”

  She nearly spit out her coffee, coughed, wiped her mouth. “The truth?”

  “Yeah. About your name. Your real name. The one that shortens to P and J.”

  For a long moment she simply stared at him. She hated her full name. Always had, always would. It just didn’t seem to grasp her . . . essence, for lack of a better term, an argument she’d been making with her parents since around the age of three. Since then, her father had indulged her, calling her PJ. She’d had it officially changed on her eighteenth birthday, two months before her infamous escape, and wild, starving goats couldn’t chase it out of her.

  “Peanut Butter and Jelly,” she offered.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Not telling?”

  “Not in this lifetime. Especially to a pizza guy without pizza.”

  “I bought you coffee. And a cookie.”

  “It’ll take a lot more than a grande latte to coax that secret out of me.”

  “What if I guess? Will you tell me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Patty Jane.”

  “Nope.”

  “Patricia James.”

  “That’s the same as Patty.”

  “I just got chased by a goat. I’m not thinking clearly. How about Petunia Joyce?”

  “Please.”

  “Penelope.”

  She shook her head.

  “Portia, Paula, Polly, Pearl.”

  “Nada, nil, nyet.” She couldn’t stop her grin, and he matched it.

  “Princess . . . Jacqueline.”

  “I like the Princess part.”

  He pursed his lips, shaking his head. “I’ll get it, you know.”

  That’s what she was starting to fear.

  He’d ordered a cookie too and now broke it into pieces before eating them slowly. Up close and in good light, PJ saw that he had a small scar above his left eye. On his right arm, as his sleeve stretched up his shoulder, she made out a tattoo of what looked like some kind of Celtic symbol.

  Jeremy chased his cookie with a sip of coffee. “Were you a PI in a former life or something?”

  If only. “No. I’m just . . . well, I have a few hidden talents.”

  He wore a question on his face.

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions. I just have rather a long and varied résumé.”

  “Oh. Is lawn care on that list?”

  Heat pressed her face. “No.”

  “How about librarian?”

  “Used-book store clerk count?”

  He nodded slowly, as if digesting that tidbit. “How long is that résumé?”

  “Let’s see. I worked for the San Diego Zoo feeding the animals.”

  “Seriously?”

  “And I worked as a wrangler for a dude ranch.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I was a hot dog vendor, a pool lifeguard, a house painter, a locksmith’s apprentice, a UPS girl. I made cotton candy and I worked as a clown, making balloon animals—mainly wiener dogs, but I was also really great at pirate hats. I’ve worked as a makeup assistant, learned how to do nails, and for two very exciting years, I worked as a stunt girl.”

  Jeremy had leaned back, his arms folded across his chest, his face stuck in a permanently openmouthed expression. PJ held up her hands, as if saying, What’s a gal to do?

  “You were not a stunt girl.”

  “Was. I started out answering the phone, and then they sent me to stunt school—”

  “There’s a stunt school?”

  “Yes—it’s a two-week intensive course. By the end of the year I was jumping off tall buildings, doing some fight scenes and even some high-speed driving.”

  “Like Supergirl.”

  PJ wrinkled her nose at him. “Yep, just like. That’s me. Super. Girl.”

  He nodded, a terrible grin on his face. “I think you’d look really great in tights and a cape.”

  “Wow, thanks. I do have Superman pants.”

  “I should have guessed. Better than Lawn Girl, although that was an okay look.”

  “Please stop.”

  “Okay.” He leaned forward, dark eyes on her. “So why so many jobs?”

  PJ rubbed her arms, wondering if she could start the fireplace. “I was . . . well, I left home the night of graduation and never really found my groove.”

  Jeremy said nothing, his smile slowly dimming.

  “What?”

  “That’s the shortest backstory for the longest résumé I’ve ever heard.” He considered her for a moment. “I would love to spend about two weeks figuring out exactly what makes a pretty lady want to feed animals at the San Diego Zoo.”

  Pretty lady. Yes, she heard that. “I like gorillas. And new experiences. And I adapt well to . . . challenging situations.”

  He said nothing.

  “Maybe I just wanted to see what else there was out there. I didn’t want to forever be defined as a . . . stunt girl. Or a house painter. There was just so much more—”

  “Of you.”

  She looked up. “I was going to say of life, but . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I didn’t want that to be all I was.”

  “I don’t think you’ll ever have that problem, Princess.”

  She looked away. “I take it back—I don’t think you should call me that. Believe me, I’m not a princess.”

  He said nothing for a long time. Finally, “Okay, for now I’ll buy your explanation. But no promises on the Princess.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “What about you, Pizza Guy, Jeremy Kane. Why aren’t there any pizzas in the back of your car?”

  “I delivered them all.”

  “Right. Have you always been a pizza guy?”

  “I’ve done a few other things. Never found—how did you put it?—my groove.”

  “So pizza delivery is—”

  “A short-term gig.” He finished off his coffee. “Until I find what I’m looking for.”

  “Which is?”

  He crumpled up the napkin, put it inside the cup, and peered at her with dark, even eyes. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

  Oh.

  “I should get home. I left my nephew with his Russian babushka, and you never know when she might start cooking pancakes.”

  “I don’t follow,” Jeremy said as he stood.

  “Never mind. Thanks for the coffee.”r />
  He stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’s been enlightening . . . Princess.”

  She glowered at him, not sure how she felt about the smile she hid as she left the shop.

  PJ drove back to Connie’s and was taking it as a good sign that the house still stood when she spotted the mailman pulling up. She hiked across the grass to the mailbox. “Thanks, Colin.”

  “You in some sort of trouble?”

  He motioned with a nod of his head up the street.

  Boone. Sitting in an unmarked car. Even from here, she could see his arms folded across his chest, lying in wait like a cheetah. The guy couldn’t change his spots.

  “Yeah.” She nodded at Colin as he pulled away.

  Boone got out and slammed the door. It echoed down the street. “PJ Sugar, you get back here.”

  She didn’t stop her beeline for the house. “Go away, Boone. Don’t you have a job to do?”

  “I’m on the job.”

  Of course he was. Still, she didn’t slow, and he caught up to her at the door just before she slammed it in his face.

  “Davy?”

  Boone grabbed her arm, turning her.

  “Ow, Boone, knock it off.” She twisted out of his grip and took a step back.

  His blue eyes flashed. His shirt looked rumpled and sweaty, as if he’d been parked out front, staking out her house, for hours . . . perhaps all afternoon. His voice grated out between nearly clenched teeth. “PJ, did you steal a lawn truck?”

  Steal was such a strong word. She’d . . . moved it . . . with permission, no less. “Did someone say it was stolen?”

  “We found it. The guy said he’d forgotten where he parked it.”

  Good old Anders. Tips galore in his future.

  Boone narrowed his eyes and leaned down, an inch from her face. She narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin.

  “I’ve been at the library all afternoon,” she said, smiling sweetly. She hollered again over her shoulder. “Davy!”

  Footsteps pounded through the house. “Auntie PJ!”

  She caught him as he flung himself into her arms; emotion exploded in her chest. He wrapped his legs around her waist and she squeezed tight, ignoring Boone. “Did you have a good day with Baba Vera?”

  “We had fun! We planted flowers and played in the sandbox. And I petted the goat.”

  Oh no, they still had the goat.

  “Goat?” Boone echoed, as if he might be an extension of her thoughts.

  She put Davy down. “I’ll be right out, pal. We’ll run through the sprinkler.”

  He charged off to his magnificent backyard while PJ turned back to Boone. “Unless you have something to accuse me of, you’d better leave. Never know when my mother might show up.” She let the bad girl inside have her smile.

  His face twitched, but apparently he had no intention of letting her mother—or the threat of her mother—drive him off the scent. “I know you took the truck, PJ. And I know you were at Hoffman’s house. And if I have to, I’ll prove it. But for now, please, please, listen to me.” His expression softened, and for a moment, guilt nudged away her smirk. “Stay away from this investigation.”

  “You still believe Jack killed Hoffman?”

  He went silent, and in those blue eyes, she thought she saw exasperation.

  “Why? Just last night you said that you believed me.”

  “I said that I would look into things.”

  “Why are you trying so hard to make Jack the killer?”

  Boone shook his head. “Oh, PJ, I’m not trying to make him the killer.” He sighed, turning away from her.

  PJ studied his broad back, the way his shoulders had squared off, filled out.

  “You remember when I beat up Gavin Barrett in tenth grade?”

  “I remember you were really angry. You were covered in blood and it scared me.”

  “Do you know why we fought?”

  She shook her head.

  “Because he said that my mother slept around. That I was just the son of the town tramp.” His voice hit gravel as he spoke, and he didn’t look at her.

  “Boone—”

  “No, PJ. You’re not stupid. You know who my mother was, what she did every day.”

  PJ wanted to erase it all—the tirades that suddenly filled her ears, the smell of his mother, a martini in her hand, sloppy, her voice too bright as PJ asked for Boone at the door. “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know the truth.” He turned and met her eyes, and she saw the pain in his. “She married my dad because she was pregnant, and my dad was just stupid enough to love her, even if he didn’t know if . . . the baby was his. He saw her money and her status, and Grandpa got him a job at the country club. But everyone knew. Ask your mom; she knew. She knew that Gavin was right. I don’t belong with you . . . and I knew that from the very beginning.”

  “That’s not—”

  He raised a hand to silence her. “I have a lot more to prove in this town than you do, PJ. You might have been labeled a troublemaker, but I was labeled trash.”

  He let his breath run out of his lungs and stepped toward her, his hand touching her cheek, running down to her chin, lifting it. She recognized suddenly the boy she’d known—part football hero, part bad boy, desperate to find acceptance.

  No wonder he hadn’t stood up for her on prom night in front of the burning country club. He couldn’t even stand up for himself.

  “Boone, I never, ever thought you were trash.”

  He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No. You didn’t, did you?” His hand slid down, ran a lazy finger around her tattoo. “I need to prove that I can protect this town. That I can do this job.”

  “Then find the real killer,” PJ said softly, cupping her hand over his on her shoulder. “Be that guy who doesn’t believe the worst in people.”

  He studied her. Finally his grim look morphed into that slow, one-sided smile. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. I have the night shift on Friday. You go out with me Friday for an early supper and maybe I’ll listen to your list of suspects and motives.”

  PJ wrinkled her nose at him. “Oh, you’re smooth, aren’t you?”

  “You used to like that.”

  Maybe she still did. “What if my mother finds out?”

  He tugged on one red lock of hair. “I promise to behave myself.”

  For Jack and Trudi’s sake, she’d already buttered a woman’s legs, humiliated herself on a golf course, and nearly been butted by a goat. She could probably sacrifice and spend a few hours with Boone. In the daylight. Only.

  “All right. Friday, around three. But I have to be back by Davy’s bedtime, okay?”

  Boone grinned and her knees turned the appropriate texture of blubber. “See you Friday, Peej. And, please, try and stay out of trouble this week.”

  * * *

  “I think that’s the last of it.” Elizabeth handed PJ the roll of packing tape.

  PJ took it and unrolled it over the last of the boxes, this one full of clothes, from her prom dress to her graduation gown.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to keep more of your old clothes?” her mother said, pulling out the vacuum cleaner from the hallway. “It seems that you’re giving so many of them away.”

  “Where am I going to keep them?” PJ hauled the box into the hall, stacked it on three others. Besides, all this rummaging through and purging the past over the last two-plus days helped take her mind off crazy scenarios, like Tucker Hoffman breaking his father’s neck in a fit of rage and ransacking his house or Ben Murphy appearing on Ernie’s doorstep, as if to borrow sugar, and leaving his neighbor lying among the scattered mail. Did he toss the house in a desperate search for a measuring cup? Doubtful.

  She was bright enough to see the holes in both those theories.

  A good look at the facts pointed straight at Jack.

  She was starting to hope that her crazy coin-conspiracy plot might be on target. Was it so far-fetched to think that Ernie lived a double life? He did know
his history—and what was with those pictures of him in ancient locations? More than that, he’d been killed up close, his neck broken, as if by a professional. But did she really want to believe an assassin was running loose around Kellogg? Like Boone had suggested, if Jack didn’t kill Ernie, then it could be that a killer still lurked somewhere in the city limits.

  Much easier to reminisce about her old homecoming dress or the day she won the drama trophy.

  Probably she could still win said trophy today.

  “How’s Davy doing?” her mother asked, now spritzing the window with ammonia, wiping it off with a paper towel.

  PJ didn’t look at her—couldn’t. Not with the words I got him kicked out of Fellows sitting against her windpipe. She’d left him—happily, it seemed—with Baba Vera and the goat.

  She still had time to plead her case with the director. Connie wasn’t due back for a few more days.

  “I’m no longer bruised, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Elizabeth scrubbed the window until it squeaked. “Poor child. Never understood that it wasn’t his fault his daddy died. He keeps walking around expecting people to abandon him.”

  PJ turned, just to confirm it was her mother speaking. Yep, she stood there in a pool of sunlight on the pink carpet, in her cleaning clothes—a pair of designer jeans, an embroidered shirt, pearls at her neck, and her hair up in a scarf.

  “You can handle it, PJ. He’s little. Just love him the way he is, and he’ll come around.”

  “Love him the way he . . .” What about being a Sugar? toeing the line?

  PJ wandered down the hall looking at the assembled pictures, a montage of their family before and after her father passed away. She peered at one of all four of them in front of a brown station wagon. She had wild, curly blonde hair—her perm days—and wore her shirt with the collar up, sitting on the hood of the car, “peacing” the camera. Connie, more sober-minded with her glasses and dark hair, her long shorts and button shirt, stood with her arms folded.

  PJ ran a finger over her father’s face. She could easily conjure up his hearty laugh when a joke found the right spot. “I miss Dad.”

  “Yes, well, he was a good man.” Elizabeth set the window spray on the boxes and came over to stand beside her. “I remember how you were right after he died. So angry at the whole world. No one could talk to you. Sixteen is such a terrible age to lose a father. You were just trying to figure out how to sort out the voices around you, and you needed his. You wouldn’t listen to mine, so I would creep into your room at night after you’d fallen asleep and tell you how much he loved you, how he missed you too. I don’t know if you ever heard it, but I liked to think it helped.”