Sleuthing for the Weekend

by Jennifer L. Hart

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  SLEUTHING FOR THE WEEKEND

  A Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mystery

  by

  JENNIFER L. HART

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  Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer L. Hart

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This one is for my son, A.J.

  Because he loves all things Celtic, music, and has the best sense of humor.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  "There's a line with every person you will encounter, and you won't even know it's there until it's been crossed." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI

  "And down," the chipper blonde yoga instructor commanded her victims.

  "Bite me," I grumbled under my breath.

  "What was that?" Agnes Taylor—aka Mom, aka woman with ears like a bat—glanced over at me from her elegant forward bend. Her palms rested flat on the floor, her middle flush against her thighs like a folding ladder. Sheesh, if I tried to look another direction while in that position, I'd face-plant onto my brand spanking new purple yoga mat.

  "Yippee," I covered and pasted a smile on my face, trying to ignore the twinging back muscles as I reached for my toes. My fingers dangled hopelessly several inches above the sparkly polished little piggies, making me feel both much older and much more ridiculous than the crowd in the Stretching for Seniors class—aka SfS—most of whom collected a monthly social security check.

  That's not really what the yoga class was called, but since the instructor and I were probably the only people under sixty-five in the room, it's what I'd mentally dubbed the forty-five-minute torture session.

  "Now breathe in," Chippy McBendy instructed.

  That was so not gonna happen, what with my diaphragm folded up like an accordion and all. Instead, I focused on not passing out.

  It seemed like a good moment to take stock of my life. They call me Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor the First. My red hair, my sly wit, and a really hot Challenger Hellcat were my only real claims to fame. Although at the moment my boobs were defying the laws of physics to remain tucked into my sports bra. On a normal Wednesday morning, I would be hard at work tailing unfaithful spouses or insurance scammers in an effort to get the money shot for my pseudo employer, Lennard Copeland, Attorney at Law. Since we'd wrapped our latest case the night before, Len was heading out of town to visit family. That left me free to take some much-needed time off to enjoy St. Patrick's Day.

  In my adopted hometown of Boston, St. Patrick's Day is a Big Fat Deal. Considered the most Irish of any city in America, Beantown adds its own unique flavor to the traditional celebration. It seems every inhabitant in the city claims some Irish heritage, and even the ones who don't come out to enjoy the revelries along with people from all over the world.

  Mardi Gras, eat your heart out.

  My initial plans included pub crawling with my boyfriend, Hunter Black, on Friday night, indulging in fatty snacks, Celtic music, and an Irish Film Festival with my daughter on Saturday, and then meeting up with the Black family at the traditional parade through Southie on Sunday, followed by Sunday gathering back at their house. The Blacks were fifth-generation Bostonians, and Hunter was the latest generation in law enforcement. With so much scheduled for the weekend, catching a little beauty sleep and some serious veg time had been my top priority.

  But no one had told Agnes about my master plan. My mother had let herself into my apartment at the butt crack of dawn, presented me with the yoga mat I'd spent the last thirty-seven minutes and fifty-two seconds becoming intimately familiar with and had dubbed Yani, and informed me she'd paid for us to take this class together for the next six weeks. She'd then dragged me to SfS sans coffee, where I was currently suffering from both back spasms and lack of oxygen.

  No way was this good for me.

  "And back to mountain pose." Our instructor in her skintight white pants and matching sports bra flowed into an upright position and pressed her palms together over her sternum, face serene and peaceful. How did she not get pit stains wearing that thing all day long while she did this? My hair was stuck to my flushed face, and my heart sped in relief. Or maybe it was the thought of the coffee shop across the street, where I would be headed in a few short minutes.

  Too bad I had to drive, or I'd make it an Irish coffee.

  "Don't you feel so much more relaxed?" Agnes asked while rolling up her yoga mat into a neat pastel sausage. "So much more alive?"

  "Whatever you say, Mom." I flipped the end of Yani up and began flopping the mat over, much less neatly.

  "No, no, no. You're going to get a crease." Mom's relaxation was nowhere in sight, the perpetual lines of disapproval appearing between her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

  "Oh heavens, not a crease! How could I live with the shame of it?" My tone was dry. "Somehow I think Yani will survive."

  Her eyebrows drew together. "Who's Yani?"

  I pointed. "Yani the yoga mat."

  "Must you name everything? People will think you're deranged."

  Then they'd have the right idea. "Well, not everything. Some things already have a name."

  I should have known better. Agnes doesn't always pick up on sarcasm, especially when her OCD was getting the best of her. "You need to line it up, like this." After snatching poor Yani out of my hands, she set to rolling him like a pro.

  Considering Yani's future would be riding around in the trunk of Helga, my Hellcat until I dumped him at some random charity, I wasn't too worried about what shape he was in.

  "I watched a tube tutorial on how this should be done so you aren't rolling dirt and grit into the clean surface." Oblivious to everything around her, Agnes unrolled the mat, flattening it out to its full length.

  "YouTube, Mom. Tube is the television."

  She ignored me. "The woman said that if you fold it in half first, it keeps the end from having that little toboggan like flip and it rolls up in half the time."

  I slapped my hands against my cheeks in mock astonishment. "Whatever will I do with all that saved time? Get my MBA or learn how to yodel?"

  Though she was used to my shenanigans, my mother didn't appreciate them. "Scoff all you like, but it is quicker," she insisted.

  If she'd left well enough alone, the mat would have been folded five minutes ago. And that was time that could have been spent on much needed coffee. I loved my mother, but at times like this, it was a struggle for me not to wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze until her eyes bulged and judgmental sounds stopped coming out from between her thin lips.

  I sta
red longingly out the plate-glass window at the neon red hot coffee sign across the street. It seemed the coffee shop was a hangout for the after-yoga crowd, and many of the patrons dashed across the cobbled street in the light March drizzle for a steaming mug of hot java. I may not be a fitness guru, but coffee motivated me like nothing else. Also, I wasn't above tripping people when my caffeine levels got too low. I would have been first in line if Mom's perfectionism hadn't reared its overly critical head.

  But Agnes was Agnes, and though she is small, she can be just as stubborn as me when it comes to How Things Should Be Done.

  "Mom, while I appreciate your Joan Crawford impersonation, could we please go get some coffee?"

  "It only takes a second to do it right," she barked.

  "No. Wire. Hangers!" I responded in a shrill voice.

  Agnes shot me a poisonous look. The few remaining patrons glanced over at us. I gave them a cheery smile.

  "There." After what felt like an eternity, my mother handed me Yani, freshly rolled courtesy of YouTube, with a smug smile. "Isn't that better?"

  "It's great, Mom. A triumph. Now can we go get some—?"

  "Wow." The instructor bounced over to inspect Mom's handiwork. "I've never seen it done that way. Would you show me how?"

  "Judas Priest," I grumbled as Mom made a grab for the pale green yoga mat, practically tore it from yoga Barbie's hands, and started the "quick and easy" process all over again. At this rate Agnes Taylor would be teaching Yoga Mat Rolling 101 to the next class.

  I debated leaving her to it, but I'd already put up with yoga, and now I felt entitled to some answers. Mom had been dodging me for weeks, ever since that fateful night when she'd confessed that Reg Taylor, the man who'd raised me, wasn't really my father.

  According to her, his brother, Albert Taylor, the PI who'd left us his apartment building and an instruction manual on becoming a private investigator, was.

  To say her confession hadn't been well received was an understatement of epic proportions. I'd been twitchy after a near-death experience and not in the mood for family drama. I'd gone down into the basement to dig through some more of Uncle Al's personal effects when Agnes had dropped her bomb.

  At first, I'd thought she'd been kidding. Not that my mom was known for being a practical joker, but her story was so outlandish, I couldn't get my head around it.

  "If the Captain isn't my father, who is?"

  Her face had been paler than even winter in Boston accounted for, her eyes bright. "Albert, the PI you admire so much. That's why he left this house to us. You're Albert Taylor's daughter."

  She'd kept talking, but there'd been a buzzing sound in my ears that drowned out all of her explanations. I couldn't think, couldn't watch her hands flutter like nervous birds as she tried to explain why she'd slept with one brother and then married another, passing the child off as her husband's for over three decades.

  I'd cut her off mid-sentence, needing out of that basement, away from Agnes and her explanations that were setting my world on fire. I'd run away, not so much from my mother as from the truth she'd revealed and what it meant.

  I'd never known my real father. My memories of Uncle Al were vague and hazy at best. He'd come to a birthday party when I was seven or eight, and there had been Christmas cards, but that was it. Ours hadn't been a tight-knit family. Reg Taylor had been an officer in the Navy, and I'd spent my formative years dragged from base to base. After acting out a few times too many, Agnes and the Captain had left me with his mother to attend high school. My grandmother's home was in a small town west of Boston, and she'd done her best to set me on the right path while Agnes and the Captain traveled for his military career. Uncle Al had stopped by every now and then to check on her, but I'd been self-absorbed and hadn't spent any time really getting to know a man who had been all but a stranger.

  And after I'd gotten knocked up in my junior year of high school, I'd had more important concerns, like learning how to be a grown-up.

  I leaned against the wall, perfectly rolled mat propped up beside me, and watched Agnes. She seemed free and easy, not the stressed-out hot mess who'd confessed her darkest secret to me. Still, I was having trouble looking at her the same way. Was it because I saw her as something other than the perfectionist she pretended to be for the world? She'd made a very human mistake.

  I thought about all the questions that had been keeping me awake into the wee small hours of the night. Had she loved Uncle Al? Why had she married Reg Taylor instead of her baby daddy? Was this secret what had ended her thirty-three-year marriage?

  Uncle Al was an unsolved puzzle, my own personal mystery. His unpublished manuscript had inspired me to become a private investigator, a hard-working sleuth like he'd been. And now that I knew he wasn't really my uncle, I burned to know more about the man who was responsible for my life.

  Needing a distraction, I scrolled through my phone, unmuting it in the process. Two texts had come in while all the blood had been rushing to my head. One from my daughter, Mac. Also known as Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor the Second—the new and improved edition. Mac was smarter, more patient, and easier to take in large doses than the original.

  Going over to Pete's after school. Unless we had plans?

  Pete has been Mac's friend since they were in kindergarten. He had the worst crush on her, but Mac, great kid that she is, didn't let it get in the way of their friendship. Out of the two of us, my daughter was the mature one.

  NP, I texted back. I'll be at Hunter's. We'd had tentative plans to do takeout and watch Game of Thrones. My boyfriend was probably the only person in America who didn't understand why Jon Snow knew nothing.

  She didn't respond, probably had her phone off while in class.

  The other message was less welcome. Mackenzie, call me when you get this.

  It was from the Captain, aka the man formerly known as Dad.

  "On your phone again?" Mom scowled at me as though I was the holdup in our dynamic duo.

  I flipped it around and showed her the message from her estranged husband. "Any idea what this is about?"

  "I haven't talked to Reg in weeks." She shook her head, and I felt like a bully for rubbing her nose in their divorce.

  To assuage the guilt, I donned my trench coat over my yoga gear and stowed the phone in the left pocket. "Come on. Let's get some breakfast. My treat."

  Finally seated in the diner booth with my hands wrapped around a steaming mug of truly excellent coffee, I studied the menu in an attempt to put Agnes at ease. People found me easy to talk to.

  Well, most people.

  "What can I get you?" Our server, whose nametag read Marge, pulled a Bic pen from behind her ear and flipped her order pad to a fresh page.

  "Short stack with a side of bacon, extra crispy. And keep the coffee coming."

  Mom scowled at my order and then said, "Half a grapefruit and rye toast, hold the butter."

  Typical Mom-fare. Dry, tasteless, and borderline painful. The woman may be thin as a rail, but that diet wasn't doing her attitude a lick of good.

  Marge popped the pen back into her mass of dark curls and scurried to the next table.

  "So, Mom," I began, but she beat me to the punch.

  "Have you told anyone?" Her gaze was direct even as she reached for the assortment of sugar packets. She dumped them on the table and then began sorting them into groups of three of each color: white, sugar; pink, Sweet'N Low; yellow, Stevia.

  "About you and Al? No."

  She frowned. "Not even Mac? You girls tell each other everything."

  Criticism laced her voice along with censure and jealousy. Mom didn't approve with the open and honest communication that Mac and I shared. Yet for some reason I doubted her attitude was just about my relationship with my daughter. Maybe it was my imagination, but sometimes I got the feeling that Mom wished she and I were as close as Mac and I.

  What she didn't understand was that sort of closeness can't be manufactured or forced. It came from shared
experiences, similar interests, and total acceptance. Three things Agnes and I sorely lacked.

  "No, I didn't tell Mac. It's your secret to tell." That was a cop-out. In reality I wasn't sure how to tell my daughter the truth. Should I just come home carrying pizza and wings, drop them on the counter, put a hand on her shoulder, and say, Hey Mac, you'll never guess, but your grams shtupped her future brother-in-law and then passed me off as your grandfather's for my entire life. Pizza?

  "What about Hunter?" Agnes probed like an alien seeking the prostate of an abductee.

  It was an effort not to roll my eyes. "Mom, when I said no one, I meant no one. Not Hunter or Mac, not even the freaking puggle, all right?"

  She nodded as though taking it all in while continuing to sort the sweeteners. There were four more sugar packets than the rest. She frowned at the outcome and then separated them by color before stowing them back in the plastic container, making sure all the labels faced the same direction.

  We sat in silence until Marge returned with our food. The plates were hotter than the pancakes, but I dug in anyway. "So, how did you two crazy kids meet?"

  She shot me a startled look. "Albert and I? We took a photography class together."

  "I didn't know you were interested in photography." Just one of the many things I hadn't known about the woman who'd given me life. Agnes hid her true self behind a mess of tasks. She could never sit still, always needed to be doing something, accomplishing something. It was an admirable trait, but it hadn't made her happy.

  She reached for her mug filled with green tea. "I wasn't very good. Didn't have what they call the eye. Albert was amazing though. He helped me get through that class."

  "So that's what the kids are calling it these days." I waggled my eyebrows at her.