Her tone must have stopped him. He jerked back, frowning. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s a lot more than that that’s changed.” She curled her hand around his wrist, drawing his hand from behind her neck. “It’s . . . I’m . . . Okay, Boone, listen. Just so we’re straight. I’m not going to sleep with you. Or anyone else.”
“Good grief, PJ, what kind of guy do you think I am?”
“Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but the last time we were out on a date . . .” She ended with a shrug that left room for memory.
He nodded slowly, looking away. “Okay, I might have that someplace in the back of my mind. But . . . I never forgot you. And seeing you brings it all back.”
He caught her eyes with his, everything right there for her to see. She couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes. Lord, I need You to give me words.
“We can’t be what we were, Boone.” She opened her eyes, saw him still watching her, that same intensity in his blue eyes.
“Could we be something different? start over?”
“I . . . don’t know. A lot has changed. I’m a Christian now.”
“I go to church too, Sugar.” He turned his hand so it meshed with hers.
“I’m not talking about going to church. I’m talking about being a different person—thinking differently and wanting different things than I did before. I’m not the girl I was when I left.”
“So maybe we can start over.”
She turned his hand over, traced the lines on his palm. “About three years ago in California, I decided I was tired of running and needed . . .” She’d needed so much. Forgiveness. A new beginning. Hope. “I needed someone to believe in me.”
He pulled his hand away and rubbed it over his knee as if wiping something off. “And you found it in Jesus?”
“Well . . . yes.”
He blew out a long breath. “If you’re a Christian, how come you haven’t forgiven me?”
She searched for the right words. Becoming a Christian didn’t take away the desire to be wanted or the feelings of loneliness that might make a girl do things she shouldn’t. It did, however, show her that she wouldn’t find that answer in Boone’s arms. “I’m working on that; I really am.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “What does that mean exactly?”
“I guess what I’m saying is that whatever happens between us, you need to behave. We need to behave. I made that pledge when I became a Christian.”
“Just tell me the rules, PJ. I can live by them.”
The rules. “I’ll let you know when I figure them out.”
The afternoon had sunk toward the embrace of twilight, the sun low on the horizon.
“I’d better get you home before your mother comes looking for us.”
She laughed. “Very funny. I think the last time you said that, we were sitting right here.”
“Or something.”
Boone stood and held out his hand. She took it, and they drove back to Connie’s in silence.
The night was edging in, turning the air cool as they drove up to the house.
“Really, I can’t come in?” He spoke into the windshield, as if trying out the words, the boy she’d known who’d been afraid to go home still reflected in his voice.
“Boone—”
Then the boy vanished, and instead, Boone the man turned and braced his hand on her seat, his bronze hair streaked with the fading sun, his glasses low on his nose. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
She got out, closing the door, but he’d already stepped out and was coming around the car. “Boone, really—”
“Just let me walk you to the door.” He took her hand. “Unless that’s against the rules.”
“Not yet.”
The shadows gathered on the porch prickled PJ’s bare skin. She turned as she reached the door, looked up at Boone.
He hesitated, then leaned down.
A wail lifted from inside the house, sharp, tenebrous.
Boone jerked away from her, eyes wide. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
Again, the keening. It sounded more animal than human.
Animal.
“Oh no, it’s the goat!”
Boone peered into the house. “Goat? I thought I heard David mention that.”
“Boris brought home a goat. He’s probably eaten the rest of the hostas and has gas. I gotta check on it. I’m sorry.”
Boone took a step back, then lifted his hands in surrender. “Babe, I have a shift in an hour. This is where I check out.”
“What? Boone, I need you.”
His mouth lifted in a half grin. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”
“I’m serious. What if the goat is dying or something?”
“Okay, uh . . .” He held up a finger as if giving her a prognosis. “You’re not allowed to bury an animal larger than a cat in your backyard. You’ll have to take it to the vet.” Then he pecked her on the cheek and shot off the porch.
The goat groaned, this time long and baneful.
“Have fun with that.” Boone waved as he hopped in his car.
“You’re such a hero!” PJ yelled to his retreating taillights.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The first time PJ had a pet, it had died in her cupped hands.
The last week of its sorry life, the white hamster spent most of its time racing around her room, PJ on its cute little pink heels while her mother hollered at her to put it back into its cage. So maybe she’d forgotten to feed it. Or water it. Or maybe it was that thirty-story fall from her dresser to the floor. Anyway, she returned home from church one Sunday to discover Fluffy a still ball of fur in the middle of his tube.
She’d tried mini CPR.
Since then, she’d had perish under her care a parrot, two guinea pigs, a turtle, a number of goldfish, and one sick puppy that she’d found shivering and wet on the beach. That one probably wasn’t her fault.
She’d discovered a pattern. The larger they were, the better the chance for survival. Only, looking at the goat under the fading summer light, PJ wasn’t so sure. Roped to a stake and surrounded by a bed of grass clippings (or maybe that was supper), Dora lay on her side, breathing hard. Her glassy eyes stared lifelessly at PJ, and every once in a while she emitted a maa howl that PJ thought just might make her cry.
She’d killed the goat. The gladiolas were gone, as were most of the hostas and Connie’s roses. Perhaps, however, the source of Dora’s demise could be CSI’ed to the grass—and the chemicals the lawn guy had sprayed on it to keep it green a few days ago. (Which said what for Davy’s health as he romped barefoot on it?)
She crept forward, her voice low and soothing, “Nice goat.”
Dora blinked. Moaned. PJ assumed a crawl position, aware that she was still wearing her dress, and reached out to pet it. “Good . . . Dora.”
Dora’s fur was spiny and not at all the softness PJ had anticipated. And her skull was hard, angular. Why would anyone want a goat?
There were probably plenty of goat lovers in the world. She just didn’t happen to fit into that category. But she could be called a goat pitier.
The goat groaned again.
“You need help, don’t you, honey?” PJ backed away, stood, dusted the grass clippings from her knees, and went inside, fishing out the yellow pages and searching for a twenty-four-hour goat service.
“Kellogg Vets,” a cheery voice answered.
“I have a sick goat.” Silence on the other end didn’t bode well for their future. Kellogg Vets sent her to Large Animal Vets in Monticello. Nope, goats weren’t their specialty. How about Animals Inc., specializing in rare and exotic pets?
She landed the answering machine and left a detailed message, pretty sure that if Dora died on her watch, it wouldn’t bode well for the newlyweds.
She leaned over and touched her head to the counter, burying it under her arms, stretching out the screaming muscles in her neck.
“Is that some kind of yoga position?”
She looked up at the voice, and her pulse gave a crazy, unreasonable jig. “Jeremy!”
“The door was open—and I heard a funny noise. You okay, partner?”
Besides the fact that he’d nearly spooked her heart clear into North Dakota? Still, he was carrying a pizza in her time of need.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk mystery. And I promised you a pizza.” The goat emitted a cry that made Jeremy jump. “Seriously—what is that?”
“A Russian goat.”
“You have a Russian goat in your backyard?
“Don’t ask me why. My mother thinks it’s some sort of religious blessing for newlyweds.” She lowered her voice. “I have to admit, I suspected something out of The Godfather.”
Jeremy’s voice dropped an octave, added a Sicilian accent. “Never side against the family.”
“We shouldn’t joke. This is serious, Jeremy. She’s sick.”
“I’d say so. She sounds like she’s dying.”
“I was trying to find a vet in town. I don’t know what to do.”
Jeremy, quick guy that he was, glanced at the yellow pages open to the veterinarian section, grabbed the book, and started running a finger down the page methodically, as if trying to solve her problems. Not that she particularly needed a guy to solve her problems, but the fact that he was trying to help found fertile soil.
Especially after Boone’s fifty-yard dash off the porch.
“Did you try the Kellogg clinic?”
“Yes, and the large animal clinic in Monticello. I had just left a message at the exotic and rare animals clinic when you came in.”
“Let’s go.” He tore the page out of the book, folded it, and crammed it into his pocket.
“Where?”
But he’d already cleared the back door, heading toward Dora. PJ grabbed a piece of pizza—okay, two!—and headed out behind him.
He already held the goat in his arms. “We can put her in my car.”
PJ followed Jeremy to the car, eating fast.
Popping the hatch, he settled Dora inside. She barely moved. “Shh, old girl, we’ll take care of you.” He gave her the smallest of pats before closing the hatch and digging out the address. “The exotic animal clinic is in Farmington. That’s over an hour away.”
PJ’s gaze went to Dora. “I’m not sure she’ll last that long.” More importantly, how long would the Russians be gone, and what would they do when they discovered the goat absent from her leash?
Would it be bad to hope they would go hunting for her . . . back to the old country?
Oh, PJ, be nice! Baba Vera did watch the fish.
She got into the passenger side. “Step on it.”
They cruised through Kellogg and soon hit the highway into Minneapolis. Jeremy seemed to know where he was going.
“Where do you live, anyway?”
“Calhoun area.” He tapped his fingers on the wheel to a country station, humming to Keith Urban. Who didn’t hum to Keith Urban? But it stirred up a smile. Something about Jeremy just felt easy. Like they were already partners.
They passed an SUV, and she noticed a kid with his face pressed against the window, eyes wide. What? Did she have pizza on her dress?
Oh, wait, they had a goat in the back end. Which had been very quiet for the last ten minutes.
“Drive faster.”
Jeremy turned south on Crosstown. “You know, I have some ideas.”
“Do you think it’s something she ate?”
“Oh, for sure, but I’m talking about Hoffman and the Nero coins. It turns out there’s a reward for the coins. About a hundred thousand pounds. Put out by the insurer.”
“That’s about . . . how much?”
“About two hundred thousand dollars. I got to thinking about Ernie—”
“Do you know who killed him? I’ve been thinking more and more about his son, Tucker, and the fact that he needed money. Oh! Maybe he knew his father had the coins and wanted to find them—two hundred thousand dollars could sure get someone out of debt fast. So he had motive and opportunity—he was at his father’s earlier that morning, and they had a fight. And—” she made a face—“I think he spent time in juvie as a kid.”
“You didn’t mention that.”
“I didn’t tell you about Denise and the butter?”
He glanced at her a second before he switched lanes. “I’m afraid you left that one out.”
“Oh, well, see . . . Jack has an alibi. Only the lady claims she never made the appointment with him, and then I snuck into the spa, and Denise was there, and she told me all about Tucker and his financial problems, and pointing the finger at Tucker made sense at the time. Now I don’t know.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“Let’s review. Ernie was killed on a Monday in his home. His neck was broken—”
“So someone had to get close to him and take him by surprise.”
“Yes, and I went in; the place was destroyed—”
“As if someone might have been searching for something? like Nero coins?”
Aha! “Right.”
“And our current list of suspects is . . .”
“Well, Jack of course, because of the money Ernie took from him, and Boone thinks he had means and opportunity.”
“I’m impressed. Get that from Monk?”
She swatted him. Jeremy grinned.
“Then there’s Ben—”
“Ben?”
“The neighbor with the hobby farm, who had motive and probably opportunity, although maybe not means.”
“Motive?”
“Long goat story.”
“I remember meeting the goat. Enough said.”
“Then Tucker is number three. He had motive and probably means and opportunity. . . .”
“So did Tucker know his father had the coins?”
PJ scrolled back through her conversation with Denise. “Not that his wife knew or was saying. And we don’t even know if Ernie did have the coins—or at least if the ones he bought at auction were the stolen ones.”
“Denise could be protecting her husband.”
“Right.”
“Anyone else?”
“Uh . . .”
“How did you even find out about the coins?”
“Oh, the guys at the club were talking about it. A banker and three of his cronies. It was the foursome that went out before us, me . . . well, another long story.”
“I’m not sure how many of your long stories I can handle before my brain turns into a giant mess of noodles.”
“Try being me.”
“Thank you, I’ll just watch from afar.” He gave her a wink.
She looked away, smoothing her dress.
“Okay, I think we need to know who that foursome was. Maybe one of them can give us a lead. Any ideas who they might be?”
PJ closed her eyes, trying to place them. “Not a clue, sorry.”
“Then we need to get ahold of the golf list.”
“How are we going to do that?”
Jeremy turned onto Cedar and 77, heading past the Mall of America without answering.
“I’m starting to get a bad feeling here.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Just trust me.”
PJ studied him in the dashboard light, the dark eyes, close-cropped curly hair, wide shoulders. Something just didn’t fit about the way he maneuvered through the facts, thought outside the box. “Are you really a pizza guy?”
“I brought you pizza, right?” He flashed her a lopsided grin.
Something inside her rose up, waving flags, warning her off. “It better not be illegal. Boone probably has my house staked out.”
“Boone’s your boyfriend.” Jeremy said it more like a fact than a question, but she did hear inquiry in his tone.
“No. Just an old flame.”
“No new sparks?”
Oh, there were sparks all right. “Th
e thing is, I’m not the same girl I was when I left town. I’ve changed.”
“Time does that to a person.”
Time. Experience. Regret. “Yeah. But I also . . .” Wait. What exactly was she going to say? That she wasn’t so much older but different, because she wasn’t the person Boone had known? That hopefully every day, God was changing her, making her into a different, better person?
Yeah, right. Jeremy had met her while she was impersonating a lawn girl, sneaking into another man’s house. Still, something inside her urged her on.
“I became a Christian three years ago. I guess I don’t want to get sucked into old habits.”
Jeremy fell silent. Then a slow smile broke across his face. “Really.” He said nothing more as they turned off the exit into Farmington.
“I’m going to check on the goat.” Unbuckling, she climbed into the back, leaned over the seat.
Oh no.
“Jeremy, we have a problem.” She touched the goat to make sure, then recoiled fast and shuddered. “Turn around. We have a death in the family.”
* * *
“I don’t know why you’re so upset. You are not without options here.”
“What makes you think I’m upset?”
From across the orange Formica table, Jeremy held up two fingers, shaking his head sadly. “Two pieces of pie? An Oreo and a French silk?”
So she was grieving her way through chocolate. Good thing the pie place stayed open for these emergencies. She kept her voice low, not wanting to alarm the two gray-haired ladies seated across the aisle. “Hey, emotional eating works for me, okay? Why do I have to deny it? So I have hips. I have it on good authority that men like hips. I was just born in the wrong era.”
“I like hips. They work well with legs.”
“See? Anyway, there are medicinal properties in chocolate, and right now, it’s soothing my pain. And confusion.” She finished off the Oreo, pulled over the French silk. “If you haven’t noticed, there’s a dead goat in the back of your car.”
Jeremy nursed a cup of coffee, his brown eyes full of humor. “I have two suggestions for you.”
“Really?” Her tone brightened, buoyed more by Jeremy’s quirky smile than by any real hope of replacing the goat before the Russians discovered their loss and retaliated. “Fine. Option number one.” She quirked an eyebrow.
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