by L. E. Rico
I do dare, because I know better. Bryan Truitt may have an outstanding poker face, but he has absolutely no idea who he’s playing against.
“So…you don’t think I need to have an attorney look this over?” I ask innocently. “I mean, there’s a lot of jargon here…” My brows furrow in concern as I scan the page in my hand.
His lips tip up into a placating smile that I might find offensive—if I didn’t find it to be so…sad. He has no idea he’s about to hang himself, so I just keep handing him the rope. I catch a glance of Father Romance out of the corner of my eye. He has a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.
“You know, I can just give you the gist of it. No reason to pay some bloodsucking ambulance chaser,” Bryan says, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disgust. “They’ll just eat away at your father’s estate until there’s nothing left.”
I set the papers down on the bar and look him straight in the eyes. Maybe I’d have gone easier on him if he hadn’t just dropped my father into this. I take a long, deep breath and plaster a “sweet as pie” smile on my face.
“Well, you’re just so…so very kind to be so concerned for me and my family.”
“Ah, well, anything I can do to help you out at a difficult time like this,” he replies, placing a reassuring hand over mine. It’s warm and strong. “Hey, what do you say we find a notary, sign the paperwork, and I’ll take you out for a nice dinner to celebrate.”
Father Romance coughs now, trying to disguise a laugh. I slide my untouched glass of seltzer his way and return my concentration to Mr. Bryan Truitt, who still has his hand on mine.
“Oh, that’s so tempting!” I exclaim. “But I’m afraid I have some work to do for my job. My real job. You see, I’m just in town long enough to get things settled here. Then it’s back to Minneapolis for me.”
“Oh ho! That’s the big city around here, isn’t it? And what does a lovely lady such as yourself do in a hustling, bustling metropolis such as Minneapolis? You aren’t, by chance, a brain surgeon, are you?” he teases.
I throw back my head in an amused laugh.
“You’re so funny,” I gush. “No, actually, I have to review some case notes for my boss. I’m first chair on a big trial coming up.”
I watch as his face goes ashen. Suddenly he’s not looking so confident anymore.
“You’re…you’re a lawyer?” he asks, unable to disguise the gulp in his voice.
I smile brightly and nod.
“Yes, actually. I’m a Hennepin County public defender. So, no need to spend money on a bloodsucking ambulance chaser…because I am a bloodsucking ambulance chaser.”
“I—I…I didn’t know…” he stammers.
“Clearly,” I say, my voice turning icy in a heartbeat. “Not having a very good time of it, are you, Mr. Truitt? You’ve come all this way only to find that my father is dead and his daughter is an attorney who actually understands everything in your proposed contract. I mean, what are the odds?”
“Henny…” Father Romance says softly. It’s a warning—a caution that I shouldn’t get carried away with my evisceration of the strong-jawed, weak-minded Bryan Truitt.
I extricate my hand from where it’s still lodged under Truitt’s and struggle to appear somewhat calm and professional in the face of his assumptions.
“Mr. Truitt, we both know that without my father’s signature, this contract is invalid. And it’ll remain that way unless and until the executor of his estate signs it. That would be me.”
There. I’ve called his bluff, and I’ve won. I stare at his dumbfounded face, waiting for him to pack up his toys and go home. But that’s not what he does. Bryan Truitt closes his gaping mouth, adjusts his tie, and takes a deep breath.
“Well then, Hennessy O’Halloran, what can I do to get you to sign on the dotted line?”
I give him a cross between a scoff and a snort.
“Nothing.”
“I find that hard to believe. Everyone has a price. What will it take? Another ten percent on the purchase price? Twenty? How about twenty-five percent over market value?”
I stare at him incredulously. Something is very wrong here. This pub is priceless to my sisters and me, but the kind of money he’s talking about is ridiculous considering the market right now.
“Why do you want this property so badly, Mr. Truitt?” I ask suspiciously.
He shrugs and smiles, much more confident than he was just a moment ago.
“Let’s just say it’s the perfect fit for one of my clients…and I’ve already invested a good deal of time and effort into this deal during my negotiations with your father. And, here’s the thing—I’m a matchmaker, you see. I pair investors looking to expand into new territory with the ideal venue for their project. It’s a win-win for the company and the community.”
“And you,” I point out.
“And me,” he agrees. “So, what do you say, Miss O’Halloran? Want to make a match with me?”
I hold his gaze for a long beat before I speak again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Truitt, but O’Halloran’s is not for sale.”
He seems to consider this for a second then rummages around in his briefcase for another paper. He pulls it out and studies it before talking again.
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Miss O’Halloran—but if it’s not for sale now, it will be very soon, according to the information I have. I believe the bank has called this loan, and you have less than six weeks left to make good. Otherwise, it goes to auction. The property will be sold to the highest bidder—which will be me—then the loan will be satisfied, and any remaining funds returned to you…after the trustee’s cut and after all applicable fees have been deducted, of course. Trust me when I tell you there won’t be enough cash left to use for the down payment on a new car, let alone a new building.”
I feel the intense heat of my face flaming scarlet. Father Romance isn’t chuckling anymore. In fact, he’s looking very concerned as he puts a hand on Bryan’s arm.
“Son, I think this might be a good time for you to have a walk around Mayhem—”
“No,” I cut him off. “This would be a good time for him to get back in his car, drive to the airport, and go home to the land of sand and sunshine because there’s nothing for him here.”
Truitt hops off his barstool, grabs his briefcase, and flashes me a bright white, perfectly aligned smile. I’d like to slap it right off his face.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Miss O’Halloran. I’ve already spotted a couple of things I’d like to see right here in the quaint town of Mayhem. I think I’ll hang around for a night or two. Maybe longer.”
With that, he turns on his heel and walks out the front door, careful to go the long way around the snow bank this time.
Chapter Six
Bryan
Truttism Number 5: If you MUST put all your eggs in one basket then, for God’s sake, don’t count them till they’re hatched!
I know I’m in trouble the minute I park the Lexus in front of the big Victorian on Chester Street. It’s a plummy color with pink shutters and lots of the ornate spindles and window frames and decorative touches that I believe they call “gingerbread.” At least the front walk is cleared down to the concrete so I don’t have to worry about getting waylaid by a mound of grimy snow. I follow it up to the huge wrap-around porch, and I’m about to use the cat-shaped brass knocker when it’s snatched out of my reach by the opening door.
“Oh! Hello, hello!” says a middle-aged woman with short white hair. She reminds me a little of Helen, actually, but much more pleasant.
“Uh… Hi, I’m Bryan Truitt. I think my assistant called ahead for me?” I say, half hoping she tells me there’s been a mistake and the place is all booked up. No such luck, though.
“Oh, you betcha!” She nods enthusiastically and waves me inside. “My name is Lucille van der Hoovenwald. But everyone just calls me Miss Lucy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Lucy,” I respond
to the back of her sweater vest as I follow her into what I can only describe as an old-fashioned parlor. It’s got one of those big, velvet settees, and lamps with giant pink globes and long glass chimneys. Every surface is littered with figurines and teacups and tchotchkes galore.
“Wow, this is…some place you’ve got here,” I say once we reach a giant cherry sideboard.
“Well, thank you, young man!” she replies with a smile, opening a drawer and then pressing a large brass-colored key into my hand.
“You’re in the King Gustav room. It’s right at the top of the stairs. You’re the only guest, so please make yourself at home. There are snacks in the kitchen, and I’ll have breakfast for you in the morning. Are you hungry now? I’ve got a chili corn-chip hotdish just coming out of the oven.”
“Hot…dish?”
“Hotdish. All one word. Like a casserole, dear. I love a piping hotdish on a cold winter’s night.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of you, but I think I might go out for a bite. Of course, I don’t want to disturb you if I need to be out late for some reason.”
“Oh, no worries. No worries at all. The front door is never locked. Just walk right in anytime, day or night. Just please be careful not to let the kitties out.” She nods toward a pale pink chair with lace arm covers. I hadn’t noticed the chair before. Or the cat curled up on it. Or the cat’s sweater.
“Uh, Miss Lucy, is that cat wearing a sweater?” I ask, not quite trusting my travel-weary eyes.
She chuckles at me.
“Oh, you’re just a funny one, aren’t ya! You betcha, that there’s my little Queen Elizabeth. She’s usually in pink, don’t ya know, but there was an unfortunate incident involving a hairball this morning, so she’s borrowed that yellow one from her sister, Margaret Thatcher,” she explains, then drops her voice. “She’s sleeping with Winston Churchill in the den.”
“Oh my!” I whisper in an appropriately scandalized tone.
“Indeed!” she agrees.
I’m laughing as I take my bag and climb the stairs in search of the King Gustav.
…
I usually make it a point to avoid any hotel without a five-star rating. That’s not to say I haven’t stayed in more humble accommodations. In those first years I was in business, I’d get in my car and drive across the country, from coast to coast, border to border. I often found myself at small roadside motels. The kind with towels as soft as sandpaper and bedspreads as clean as the men’s room floor at Grand Central Station. But never, in my many pilgrimages, have I bunked at a place quite like the Pink Lady Slipper Inn of Mayhem, Minnesota.
One look at the weather forecast and Helen insisted I needed to stay someplace in town. She didn’t want me navigating the icy back roads after dark…or after a few shots of vodka, for that matter. As I lie on the ruffled bedspread, looking up at the tin-tiled ceiling, I have to wonder if she didn’t put me here just to get back at me for giving her a hard time yesterday morning.
For a second, I’d swear that the wallpaper is moving. The intricate latticework pattern of pink-budded flowers stretches from the ruby-red carpet up to the crown molding, and if I turn my head just so, they appear to wink at me. Yes. Wink. They’ll move in my peripheral vision, but not when I’m staring straight at them.
Creepy.
The bed itself is a cherry wood, queen-size four-poster with sheer panels hanging down around me. I’m sure it’s meant to evoke an ethereal, romantic feel, but all I can think of is a bed somewhere in the Congo, shrouded in mosquito netting so you don’t get dengue fever or malaria or some flesh-eating disease that makes you think the wallpaper is moving.
Also in the room are matching nightstands, a tall dresser, and one of those long oval mirrors in a wooden frame that stands on the floor. Oh, and there’s lace. Lots and lots of lace. In fact, lace seems to be dripping off most surfaces in this house. Lace doilies. Lace curtains. Lace-covered lampshades and small lace pillows on every chair and couch. Even the guest registry is bound in a lace cover. I can practically feel my sperm count dropping as the testosterone is leached out of my body.
I sit up when I feel my phone vibrating from the pocket of my pants. A glance at the screen tells me it’s Helen. A glance at my watch tells me she’s getting ready to leave for the day.
“Hello, Helen.”
“Well, hello, my Arctic explorer. How’s that trench coat holding up? Are you nice and toasty?”
I groan into the receiver. She just laughs at me.
“Seriously, how’s it going out there? I’m getting ready to head home for the night, and I was wondering if you need me to arrange that return ticket for tomorrow?”
“God, I hope so,” I grumble. “But don’t book it yet. Turns out Jack O’Halloran had a really good reason for not answering my calls.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“He died.”
“What? He died?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Holy smokes!” she breathes out in shock. “What does that mean for your deal?”
“I’m not sure yet. Turns out the daughter’s managing the estate. She just found out about the deal a couple of days ago. I showed her the contract, but, of course, it isn’t signed.”
“And what did she say?” I can tell that Helen is hanging on every word. This must sound like one of those daytime soaps she likes so much.
“At first I thought I could convince her it was already a done deal. But, it turns out she’s a lawyer.”
A snort of laughter from Helen. “Serves you right, trying to take advantage of a grieving woman.”
“Yeah, well, I pretty much got my butt handed to me. But I won’t make the mistake of underestimating Miss Hennessy O’Halloran again.”
“That’s her name? Hennessy? Like the whiskey?” Helen asks incredulously.
“Oh, wow… You know, I hadn’t even thought about that. Makes sense, her father running a pub and all.” I chuckle. “Anyway, with a little luck, I’ll have this wrapped up tomorrow afternoon and be on a flight tomorrow night.”
“Hmmm… Don’t forget about Truittism Number Five. Eggs, basket, chickens, and all that,” she reminds me.
“Score another one for Helen,” I say with mock spirit.
“Yeah, well, I have a feeling your last assistant didn’t memorize your quirky canon of witticism,” she throws at me. “What was her name? Whitney? Courtney? Sidney?”
“Brittany,” I correct her. “Her name was Brittany, and she took great dictation…”
“Uh-huh. I’ll just bet she did.”
I hear the smile in Helen’s voice, and it’s suddenly very irritating. “Helen, did you know that there are like a hundred people applying for every open job in this country right now? Maybe it’s not such a great idea to torment your boss, lest he hires one of the ninety-nine in line behind you,” I remind her, only half teasing.
“Well, that’s just perfect because it’ll take ninety-nine people to do what I do for you,” she slams back at me.
She’s right. I know it, and she knows I know it, so there’s no sense pretending otherwise. I sigh my resignation.
“You know what, Helen, you’re right. When I get back, I’m taking you out for a nice lunch somewhere.”
“Oh, now, wouldn’t that be a treat!” she says with pleased surprise. “Well, okay, then, I’m just going to head home now. You call me if you need me.”
“I will,” I assure her, because I can’t manage without my personal little troll doll.
She knows it, and I know she knows it.
Chapter Seven
Hennessy
“Oh for God’s sake, what are you holding out for? Just sell it already,” Win says through a mouthful of steak.
“Sell it?” Jameson squeaks at her husband. “The pub is older than we are. It was our parents’ dream…”
“Then your father should’ve taken more care with it, don’t you think?” he challenges.
What. A. Jerk.
I think about ho
w satisfying it would be to wrap my hands around his neck. But I don’t think Jameson would let me do it in front of Jackson. Or Win’s father, Big Win, for that matter. Dinner at my sister’s house is, perhaps, not the best place to contemplate murdering my brother-in-law. Instead, I take a deep, slow breath and will my pounding pulse to settle.
“Hennessy,” Win says, sending me into tachycardia again, “if you take the deal this guy…what’s his name?”
“Truitt,” I grit out. “Bryan. Truitt.”
“Right. If you take the deal this Truitt guy is offering, you can pay off the loan and have cash left over. Bailey’s got college next year, too, don’t forget.”
How could I? That’s been one of my biggest concerns since this all blew up. I consider the jerk carefully. He’s not wrong. For once.
“You make some really good points,” I say begrudgingly.
He nods as if to affirm what he’s known all along.
“But Mama and Pops worked their whole lives for that place. There must be another way,” Jameson interjects.
Win turns toward his wife and cocks an eyebrow.
“And who, exactly, is going to run the pub, even if you do manage to find the money? You’ve got the baby, Bailey’s in high school, Walker’s in college…”
“What about me?” I pipe up before I can stop myself. “I could run it.”
“Last time I checked, Hennessy, you don’t live here. So how are you planning on helping out?” Win’s question isn’t so much curiosity as a challenge. “Or were you thinking you’d play barkeep for a little while and then run away back to your real life—your real job—when you get tired of doing inventory and washing glasses?”
I’m about to respond to his snarkiness when his father intervenes in the most unexpected manner.
“Enough!”
We all jump at the uncharacteristically harsh sound of Big Win’s voice…and then we all gawk at him. Even little Jackson has put down his fistful of mashed potatoes to look up at his grandfather with wide, green eyes.
“Dad, you don’t need to get involved in their family business,” Win says, assuming that his father is frustrated by Jameson and me. But my brother-in-law has assumed wrong.