On the Hook

by Cindy Davis

  As the car sped through workday traffic, KJ sank against the seat cushion. She put the encounter with Cliff and memories of high school out of her mind. That problem could be dealt with at a later time. Now she had to meet with Westen Hughes. Surely she’d have to listen quietly while the woman nagged her over their shared pasts. She’d been Westen Thomas at the time. Thin, pretty, athletic, with a full scholarship to someplace—KJ couldn’t remember where. By the age of seventeen, Westen had the world at her feet.

  On second thought, maybe it would’ve been better to stay and deal with Limp Cliffy.

  At 9:52, KJ Valentine fell into the booth farthest across the diner, and ordered a double-size hot chocolate with whipped cream and a bagel smeared with cream cheese—things that definitely weren’t in her diet. Right now she didn’t give a fig.

  She distracted herself with thoughts of Theo. Naturally, after the debacle at the museum, they hadn’t gone for dinner. Probably he’d returned to Chicago as soon as police released him. If she were him she’d get out of Dodge as fast as her steed would gallop too. Especially if the woman you’d spent the past two days with, talking about everything under the sun, and just asked on a date, had been accused of a very costly crime. KJ used a napkin to dab some tears. More tears. Seemed she’d cried an ocean of them in the past twelve hours.

  Would she have gone out with Theo? Probably. Which led to another question: Didn’t she place enough value her relationship with Brett Hartshorn? The honest answer was, KJ didn’t know. They’d been together a year. Most of the time, things were great. The sex was awesome, but sex wasn’t everything, as she’d learned in her first marriage. It was only a buffer that softened the pain from the rest of the relationship.

  Chapter Two

  Westen Hughes dumped a scoop of parrot droppings into the trash bin. It landed with a thump and shot up a dusty cloud that made her sneeze. Man, she hated animals.

  No, not right. She only disliked the ones with claws or teeth. As if reading her mind, the yellow crowned Amazon on the perch flapped its wings and screeched. Westen managed not to clamp her hands to her ears. The metal edge of the glass enclosure dug into her ribs as she stretched for another scoopful.

  The bell over the pet shop door jangled and she straightened up, a hand massaging the small of her back. Had to be Grady, the shop’s sole employee. Why on earth was he late this time? She should fire him. The thought brought a laugh and she flung the scoop into the bin. Another puff of dust flew up. Sure, fire Grady. Then you’ll have to do all the work yourself.

  Westen didn’t mind the scrubbing and scooping; she liked things clean and so did the Board of Health. It was the perpetual threat of being chewed up and spit out that sent goose bumps bursting through her skin. Westen brushed her hands on her slacks and peered around the shop to see that a woman had come in. Not Grady. No such luck. Drat. She should fire him anyway.

  Great idea. Cut off her nose to spite her face just to make a point. Westen straightened her blouse, raked a hand through hair that was in desperate need of a cut, and stepped from the bird room, wincing at the squeaky glass door and the blast of cool air.

  The customer, who carried a little extra weight, probably worked at a desk job, emitted a mass of conflicting images. The serious expression reminded Westen of her elementary school librarian, a squish-faced woman who never had a good word to say.

  The brightly colored clothes should’ve been on a circus clown—the baggy t-shirt was mottled with red, yellow, and neon blue tie-dyed swirls. The jeans were electric blue, baggy like rap kids wore. The woman lifted thick-framed glasses and peered through deep brown eyes rimmed in red. Clearly she’d been crying. Westen prayed she wouldn’t cry now. Westen didn’t deal well with tears. The slightest drip from even one eye would have her balling like a colicky baby.

  A person who comes in a pet shop crying has one of two things going on: a dying or a dead pet. Whichever it was, the tears usually came with a detailed story about the pet’s illness and subsequent demise. Not that she minded listening, it had to be hard losing a pet, though all the pets she’d known during her childhood had either bitten or otherwise tried to maul her. Leaving them behind when she moved from her childhood home had not been a problem.

  Westen slapped a smile on her face. “Good morning, may I help you?”

  The woman dropped the glasses back onto the bridge of her nose, adjusted them with a tweak of a finger and nodded. “My snake died.”

  God, did it have to be a reptile? Sure, they didn’t have claws and pet shop specimens didn’t have much in the way of teeth, but still…

  “Got up this morning and found him deader ’n a doornail.” The woman’s nose wrinkled and she broke into a grin. “Not sure what a doornail is though.”

  “It was a large-headed nail used in the 14th century.”

  “That right.”

  “Yes. They hammered it in then bent over the end to secure it in place.”

  “Really.”

  “Which might be why they called it dead because the nail was unusable afterwards.”

  “My, aren’t you a bundle of useless trivia.”

  Westen couldn’t help grinning at the forthright comment. When she went on a tangent, most people smiled politely and nodded a lot. Her husband had always said “is that right” too. “I assume you didn’t come here to report the demise of your snake.”

  The woman gave a vigorous head shake. “I want to replace him…with a juvenile. The other was given to me as an adult. I want one I can train.”

  “Why not just get married and train a man? As I recall, they have a lot more qualities, useful appendages and abilities. On second thought, men’re probably harder to train.”

  The comment brought a snort that turned quickly into a guffaw. The woman threw back her head and let it go. Westen, rather than laugh too, felt a little sad. She’d never had the confidence to let loose like that. To not care how things appeared to onlookers.

  “What do you train a snake to do?” Westen asked once the woman sobered. “Can it fetch your slippers? I’d like someone to fetch slippers for me. When I get home after a long day here, my feet hurt like—”

  The woman focused a scowl on Westen that suggested she needed something above the neck examined. Westen inhaled long and let it out slow. “Let’s step to the reptile room.” Where the heck was Grady?

  Fire him, shouted a bold voice in her head.

  Westen pulled open the door to the well-heated room. It hadn’t been cleaned yet. Thankfully, no foul odors erupted out. She waved a hand at the wall of aquarium-type cages. “The snakes are in those four on the left.”

  “May I pick them up?”

  “Sure. We just need to stay in this room so we don’t have any accidental escapes.”

  The woman laughed. “Wouldn’t pay for you to have to chase one around the store.”

  “You got that right.”

  “But it’d be worse if you actually had to touch it.”

  “You really got that right!” They shared a laugh. “Where are you from?” Westen asked.

  “Originally Delaware. Now I live a few blocks from here. You?”

  “I’m a southern girl. Atlanta.”

  “Thought I could hear it in your voice.”

  “And I thought I’d lost it.”

  While they talked, the mousy-haired woman was reading the tags on the reptile tanks. She pushed aside a vented top and reached for a young ball python. Westen couldn’t stop the shiver that shot into her nerve endings.

  The snake curled a route around the woman’s hand. In a way, the movement was sensual, almost as if the creature was hugging, but that wasn’t possible. Snakes didn’t have feelings, did they?

  “Wh-what do you do for work?” Westen asked.

  “You sure ask a lot of questions. Do I have to give my life history if I buy one of these?”

  “Of course not, I was just making conversation.” Westen heaved a sigh that cleared her lungs. “My husband always said I needed
help in that department. Guess he was right.”

  The woman tilted her head and gave Westen a critical gaze. Westen felt glad when, for once, she didn’t voice an opinion.

  The door opened, nudging Westen in the backside. She stepped aside then realized the long-lost Grady had finally put in an appearance. “Boss-lady,” said the tall twenty-something with the blond mustache, “phone call for you.”

  From his tone, Westen inferred it wasn’t a call she’d want to hear. Normally she’d tell him to take a message, but if it meant escaping this room… “Thanks. Excuse me, won’t you? Grady will help you from here.”

  She hurried to her office, the sound of the snake lady’s laughter following all the way. What an odd woman. Not because of her penchant for snakes. Well, yes, because of that, in part. But you didn’t meet many people these days who came out and spoke their mind. Most people had a filter that kept the words locked behind their teeth. As Westen switched on the cordless phone, she smiled. She’d bet that outspoken manner got the woman in trouble from time to time.

  “Hello.”

  “Good morning Mrs. Westen, this is Henry from the collection agency.”

  She managed to keep herself from asking which agency. “I thought I told you not to call me here anymore.”

  “Well, Mrs. Hughes, you stopped answering your home phone.”

  “That’s your doing. You keep threatening me.”

  “You know what comes next, don’t you?”

  She didn’t bother replying; he was going to tell her anyway—probably something to do with broken legs after a personal visit by wide-shouldered thugs bearing tire irons. “Look, I’m doing the best I can. I will get you the money!” Westen flung the phone across the room. It struck a picture of her husband and son hanging on the wall. The glass shattered. The picture tilted and, in slow motion, thunked to the floor. She went to pick it up, sank to the carpet, clutched the photo to her chest and lowered her forehead onto the warped frame. “How could you do this to me?”

  A hand touched her shoulder. Westen erupted to her feet, bumping into whoever had come in. She expected Grady. It was the snake-lady.

  “There are laws against them doing stuff like that,” the woman said.

  “What?”

  Snake-lady pointed at the phone, whose dial tone had begun screeching. She picked up the phone and set it back on the charging base, then went to work plucking the broken bits of glass from the carpet. When the woman was satisfied all the pieces had been cleared, she dumped them in the trashcan beside the desk.

  Westen realized she was still holding the picture. She laid it on the desk. “Sorry for the outburst. I’m not usually a crying kind of person.”

  “Couldn’t prove it by me.” She grinned. “I mean it. There are laws against them harassing and threatening like that. You need to report it.”

  “I can handle them.”

  “Then why the tears?”

  “It’s nothing.” Westen shook off the emotion to bypass the embarrassment of being caught moping. “What can I do for you?”

  “Wanted to let you know I’m buying the corn snake.”

  “That’s nice. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

  At the same moment, they realized her choice of wording and broke into laughter.

  “I understand corn snakes make good pets,” Westen said. “You know what escape artists they are though, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mention it because it makes them a lot more work.”

  “Believe me, he’ll be a lot easier to care for than a man.”

  “I don’t doubt that a bit. Just an FYI, the snake is a female.”

  “Smashing. Just smashing. Oh, almost forgot, the real reason I barged in. Your clerk needs help with the credit card machine.”

  The two women strode to the front of the store where Westen cleared up Grady’s internet troubles. She typed in the information. The woman’s name was Phoebe Smith. She did indeed live a few blocks away. Westen wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood. She herself lived on the other side of town.

  The snake reposed in a travel cage on the counter. Westen picked up the handle and passed it to the woman. “Here you go, Mrs. Smith. Er, Phoebe.”

  “Not Phoebe. Not Miss. Not Mrs. It’s Smith. Never call me Phoebe. Ever. Just Smith.”

  “Gotcha.” Funny being so emphatic. It wasn’t like they’d ever see each other again.

  Smith reached for the carrier. “Remember what I said.”

  Westen nodded. “I still want to know what you do to train them.”

  “I think, one of these days you’re going to find out.” With that Smith was out the door.

  For several moments Westen stood there. Cars log-jammed on Hazen Drive out front. She and Grady often joked that someone could come in and buy a houseful of new pets and still get back to their car before traffic moved along. People passed on the sidewalk. A tall man wearing a black overcoat stopped to peer in the window at the hodgepodge of puppies in the pen. He looked up. Their eyes met. He smiled. Westen spun away, sure the grinning face belonged to the man from a collection agency.

  “Grady, we have to discuss your frequent tardiness.”

  He shuffled from behind the cash register and picked up a sweeper. “I know. The baby was up all night. I overslept. I could say it won’t happen again...”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Did you forget about that meeting?” Grady asked.

  She barely had time to squeeze out the word “meeting?” when she realized she was supposed to see her insurance agent at ten. She whirled and raced to the office for a jacket—a nice, timeless, camel-colored wool blend—that wouldn’t turn heads in public. Not like the one worn by the snake-lady.

  Chapter Three

  Westen turned left out the door and speed-walked—not easy to do in two-inch heels—to the coffee shop where she was to meet Kendra Jean Valentine. KJ—she despised the name Kendra Jean—was an agent for NH Property and Casualty Insurance, the underwriters not only for Hughes Pets but Westen’s home and car. As far as Westen was concerned, the job was a big come-down for KJ. Back in school, KJ always boasted she’d make the big screen. Often compared herself to up and coming actress Cameron Diaz. At the time, Westen had no doubt she’d make it. She achieved everything she set out to do—football star’s girlfriend, lead cheerleader, valedictorian and homecoming queen—all things she stole from Westen.

  That was the past though, right?

  Everyone always said to bury the hatchet, but they never said where.

  KJ was seated in the red plaid booth, emerald suit jacket heaved over the back of the cushion. Her long, fire engine red hair literally glimmered in the late May sunlight. Perfect. Always perfect. From the looks of the half-empty mug in front of her, Westen was late. She hated being late. She hated people who were late. When they were late too often, she considered firing them.

  Westen slid into the booth. Immediately the waitress arrived, as if trying to move them along asap. Didn’t seem like it could matter, there was only one other customer in the place. “I’ll have a coffee, please.” The waitress scurried away.

  That’s when she realized that KJ’s normally perfect demeanor was anything but. Her hair was mussed; like she’d slept in it. Her makeup was a disaster: mascara raccoonish. The woman looked like she’d been on a bender. A wad of napkin was clutched in her left hand.

  “Good morning. How’re you?” KJ asked.

  Though the greeting was merely a platitude, Westen said, “Clearly, better than you are. Have you been crying?” She waved off her words. “Sorry, that’s the mother in me. It’s none of my business.”

  With a red lacquered fingernail, KJ flicked the edge of the manila folder, the name Benjamin Richard Hughes/Hughes Pets on the tab in blue magic marker. Flick flick flick.

  Westen wanted to squeeze the fingers quiet. What on earth was wrong with Kendra Jean? What did she have to be nervous about? Westen was the one whose life was on the ch
opping block. Best to get this over with. “You have some papers for me to sign?”

  KJ stopped flicking long enough to spin the folder on the table and open the cover. Topmost were insurance papers for the pet shop. Westen was pretty sure they were all in order; she had paid the policy last week. KJ moved them aside.

  Next was her homeowners’ policy. All in order. Next came minor policies for jewelry, the car, and the boat that both Bens loved so much—talk about bundling!

  Westen waited with her breath caught someplace between esophagus and throat, for the papers that had drawn both of them to this time and place. Ben’s life insurance.

  “I hate having to do this,” KJ said.

  “It’s okay.” Westen hid clenched, trembling hands under the table. “It’s been two months since Ben and Ben junior died. I’ve come to terms with it.” Sort of.

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  KJ hesitated as if she wanted to say more, then closed her mouth, separated the sheaf of papers from the others, held it by the stapled corner and flipped to the last page where huge red capital letters nearly made Westen throw up on the table. CANCELLED.

  There was a period of dead silence where not even the passing cars made a sound. A million or so emotions shot through her, from abandonment to outright hatred. Westen leaped from the seat and sprinted for the washroom, thankful she’d left her heels under the table. She didn’t breathe till she was facing herself in the fingerprinted mirror over the sink where the water pinged relentlessly into the bowl.

  No life insurance. Zero, nada, zilch, naught—big f-ing goose egg.

  She’d been counting on the money to bail out the shop she’d inherited when Ben died. To pay the house’s mortgage. To make the car payment. What on earth happened? Why had Ben cancelled the policy? He’d always been the frugal one. Always thought twice before buying something not completely necessary. Always been careful. Her knees buckled. To keep from falling on her ass, Westen leaned her head against the mirror and gripped the edges of the sink.