Sleuthing for the Weekend

by Jennifer L. Hart

  Half expecting a treasure map, I unfolded the fibrous piece of paper. The bottom was frayed. What remained contained a brief message, not an X marking the spot. Ink blotted several words in odd ways. That along with the spidery script made for slow reading. I read it over once to myself and then again out loud.

  Treasure sought can be found in time of greatest need

  The family tree O'Flannigan is a hearty one indeed

  Look to your roots for a golden glow and wealth preserved for true

  Only the head of the family can excavate his due.

  "That bit of parchment has been passed down through our family line for seven generations. A secret only the oldest male in the family inherits along with this bar. My father left both to me in his will. Unfortunately, my brother, Daniel, knows about the treasure. And he plans to find it and keep it all to himself."

  "We need you to help find it before Daniel O'Flannigan does." That from the Captain.

  "And how can you be sure no one else has cashed in on this treasure? Seven generations is a very long time to let a fortune sit." I extracted my cell phone from my pocket and snapped a picture of the parchment before handing it back to Michael.

  "Because not one of my relatives has lived or died with any kind of wealth. This pub has been in our family for a century. The O'Flannigans are industrious workers, but though we get by, we've never had the kind of wealth promised here. I think my many-times great-grandfather felt guilty. But Irish being thrifty, he didn't want to just give the money back either. Instead he wrote that to help future generations so something good could come from the misfortune. Besides, if someone had spent it generations ago, why would the message keep getting passed down through the generations?"

  I eyed the Captain. "What's your stake in all this?"

  O'Flannigan blinked. "Didn't you tell her?"

  "Tell me what?"

  Reg Taylor lifted his chin and looked me square in the eye. "I own half of this bar."

  "You do?" Mac uttered in disbelief.

  He nodded. "I bought into it almost a year ago."

  Before he and Agnes had split. I wondered if she'd known about this or if he'd done it on his own. Another family secret?

  "It's an established business in a highly profitable area," the Captain justified. "It seemed like a sure thing. I needed something to do in my retirement. I've always been active."

  "You have," I agreed, still not sure where bar investor played into it.

  "Though your da has been generous, helping to get her plumbing and electrical work brought up to code, we're still not where we need to be," Michael O'Flannigan said.

  "What do you mean?" Sure the pub needed a little spiffying, maybe a nicer sign, but it was adequate inside.

  Michael and the Captain exchanged a glance, and Reg Taylor squared his shoulders with military precision. "We're three months from closing."

  I blinked at him.

  "One hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars in debt," he continued.

  "You saw the bit about the time of greatest need?" O'Flannigan pointed to the line. "That time has come. The bar is in the red. We've both mortgaged our houses to keep it running, but we're a few months away from having to close."

  I stared in shock at the Captain. "You might lose the farmhouse? Why didn't you tell me?"

  He stared at me, unblinking, never giving an inch. "I'm telling you now."

  "Well you have me there." I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say next, though odds were that it would be cutting, but Mac interrupted.

  "Is your brother in financial distress too?"

  Michael shook his head. "Not at all. Daniel owns and operates his own pub in Southie. We've been business rivals for years, but he's like a shark, smelling my blood in the water. Circling."

  "Give me his address." I fished a small pen and notepad out of my pocket and handed it over to him.

  "Does this mean you'll take the case?" The Captain raised one salt-and-pepper eyebrow.

  "It means I'll look into it." Officially, I couldn't bill Michael O'Flannigan for PI services, but if my grandmother's farmhouse was on the line, I couldn't turn my back either.

  "We'll sweeten the pot, too," Michael added with a lift of his thick eyebrows. "You can keep ten percent of whatever you uncover."

  Since ten percent of zero was still zero, it wasn't exactly an enticement.

  O'Flannigan scribbled down an address and phone number on my pad. I handed him my card. "Call me if you can think of anything else."

  "I'll see you out." The Captain offered an elbow to Mac and snagged an umbrella from the brass umbrella stand beside the door. During the brief time we'd been inside, the rain had turned from a constant drizzle to a soaking downpour. I scurried forward, past a shiny new black hatchback, to duck under the open umbrella as the Captain ushered us across the street to where Helga awaited.

  I waited until Mac was safely out of hearing range, in the car with the doors closed, to round on him. "Does Mom know?"

  He shook his head. "It's none of her business. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell her."

  "Are you freaking kidding me?" The two of them had been married for more than three decades. They had a daughter and a granddaughter between them. One would think they would be able to bypass the "using the kid as leverage" phase. I stared at him, the man who'd commanded respect from me for my whole life. For the first time, I saw him for what he was—a human being rife with flaws.

  He picked up on my scrutiny and obviously didn't appreciate it. "Don't look at me like that."

  Even though the rain was coming down in sheets, I didn't want to risk Mac overhearing. I leaned forward, as though to kiss him on the cheek, and whispered, "I know about Uncle Al."

  He jerked as though I'd dropped a live wire under his feet. "How?"

  "Mom."

  Water poured off the umbrella like a miniature waterfall as he stared at me. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "What exactly did she tell you?"

  The absurdity of the moment wasn't lost on me. I stood in a growing puddle, wetness seeping into my boots, with my father wild-eyed, looking like he was five seconds from a total meltdown. And Mac sitting in the car, watching it all. "Look, I don't want to get into it right now. I just thought you should know that I am aware of why things went so badly between you and Mom. And if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here."

  Without waiting for his reply, I dashed to the driver's side and ducked into the car. Rain was running from my damp hair down the back of my neck.

  "What was that about?" Mac studied me, her curiosity evident.

  I inserted the key and cranked the heat up to full blast. "Nothing. Just razzing him about his crappy investment."

  "Mom." Her tone was full of censure.

  "What?" I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the Captain still standing there, looking shocked. No wonder. He'd spent thirty-three years with Agnes, knew she was as tight-lipped as they came. His dumbfounded expression must be because he couldn't believe she'd actually confessed to me.

  I turned my attention to Mac and the road. "I'm not judging or anything. The Captain always considered me a dreamer, so I'm simply basking in the irony that Mr. Gotta Put Your Back Into It is now coming to me to find long-lost treasure to help save him from financial ruin."

  "We're going to do it though, right?" Mac anxiously worried a hangnail.

  "We?" I slid her a sideways look. "What's this we business?"

  She made an exasperated noise as though I was denser than her failed experiment at soda bread. "Well, I'm going to help you obviously. Let me see your phone."

  "No." The last time Mac had attempted to directly help me with a case, she'd been maneuvered into using her talents for the benefit of local law enforcement to avoid charges as a cybercriminal. "It's bad parenting. I only need to see you dragged out of the house in handcuffs once to learn my lesson."

  "Mom, come on. It's a treasure hunt."

  "Aka a wild goose chase. Do you really think there'
s some long-lost O'Flannigan treasure just waiting to be recovered and just in time to save the failing family business?" I shook my head. "That's a made-for-television movie, babe. Real life doesn't work that way."

  She crossed her thin arms over her seat-belted chest. "But if Grandpa is going to lose the farmhouse…"

  I opened my mouth to say that's his problem but refrained. Just because the Captain wasn't really my father didn't mean I got to leave him to his fate. What if buying into O'Flannigans was some sort of knee-jerk reaction to Mom's dropping the bomb about me not being his daughter? Then, in a roundabout way, it was kinda my fault. Indirectly but still.

  I knew Reg Taylor, even if he hadn't directly contributed to my DNA. The fact that he'd reached out to me for help told me that the man was in serious financial trouble. True, he was too proud to ask for an assist for himself, but that didn't mean I could go blithely on my way or ignore his cry for help.

  Plus, there was Mac to think about. I had to set an example for the young woman sitting alongside me. Did I really want to send the message that you could ignore someone in need just because you had a rocky past?

  More accurately, rocky, full of minefields in a nuclear fallout zone.

  "Okay." I exhaled wearily, already sure I would regret this.

  "Okay?" She grinned at me.

  "But…" I took a right on red and held up a finger. "I have conditions. Number one, you are only to do legal background work. Dig up whatever you can about the O'Flannigan treasure, the many-times great-grandfather who was supposed to marry the heiress, her family, that sort of thing. All the actual boots-on-the-ground sleuthing is up to me. No stakeouts, no late-night trips to crime scenes—"

  "That happened once," she protested.

  "Number two." I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. "This case is secret, so no telling Pete, Nona, your dad, or your grandmother. No one but us."

  "What about Hunter?" She tilted her head.

  "I haven't decided yet. Hunter's…going through some things." Some things that were directly my fault. "I'd prefer not to involve him unless we need police help." I'd also have to get ahold of Len, make sure this treasure hunt wouldn't violate my terms of employment.

  "Ten percent of a family treasure." Mac sighed dreamily. "What do you think it is? Gold coins? Jewels? It could be anything."

  "A lifetime supply of peanut butter cups." I added my own wistful sigh.

  "Mom, be real."

  "Seriously, Mac, don't get your hopes up," I cautioned.

  Mac scowled at me. "This is usually the kind of thing you'd be all over. Why aren't you more excited?"

  I thought about it as I parked Helga on the street in front of our apartment. "Maybe I'm getting jaded in my old age." Or maybe enough unpleasant reality had bitch-slapped the zest for adventure right out of me.

  "You're less fun when you're being careful. You haven't blurted out random song lyrics once this afternoon."

  I made a dramatic grab for the area above my heart. "I guess you better put me out to pasture. Take me out behind the barn and put a bullet between my eyes."

  "Mom."

  But I wasn't done. My hand flew to my forehead, and I squinted my eyes closed. "It's for the best. My prime pizza-eating years are behind me. Somehow, you must find the strength, do what needs to be done, and inherit all my shoes… Carry on and fly free, little sparrow."

  "Are you finished?" Her tone was dry but amused.

  I cracked one eye. "Almost." Then in a different voice: "Be free, feather your own nest, raise your own hatchlings, and tell them of the mother you once had and how she went bravely on… And…scene. Emmy for the best performance in a drama goes to…?" I raised an eyebrow at her.

  "You, Drama Mama." Mac flashed me a smile. "That's more like it."

  I had to make sure she didn't suspect anything. "It's probably the yoga, made me into a Zen master."

  "Mom, you went to one class." Her eye roll was epic.

  "Better run upstairs and tell Grams I can't go to any more."

  "Aren't you coming in?"

  I shook my head. "I'm going to check out the brother's pub and see if I can get his take on it."

  "Is there any food in the house?" Mac asked with a raised eyebrow.

  I pursed my lips. "I'm pretty sure Snickers has some kibble left."

  "Pick up some people food on the way home," she ordered. "Something healthy. With vegetables."

  "Chinese takeout has vegetables."

  Mac glared at me.

  "Yes, Mother," I said meekly.

  She rolled her eyes and then climbed from the car. Good thing one of us was responsible.

  I waited until she'd disappeared inside and then pulled up the GPS app on my phone. After punching in the address Michael O'Flannigan gave me, I set the device on the dashboard and merged back onto the road.

  Foolish or not, I was off on a treasure hunt.

  * * *

  Traffic was heavy, but at least it was moving, and the rain had started to taper off. Half an hour later I was hunting for a space in front of The Shipping Lane, Daniel O'Flannigan's bar.

  For a Wednesday night, the place was hopping. From the street I could see the crush of bodies inside. There were a few with those electronic coaster thingies restaurants gave to people who were waiting for their table. Inviting yellow light reflected off gleaming live oak tables and spilled through sparkling clean windows. There was a welcoming vibe to the place, something that beckoned a body to come in and enjoy. Sadly for the Captain and Michael, it was a much different atmosphere than at O'Flannigans.

  As I circled the block for the third time, my cell phone chorused an instrumental version of Sarah McLachlan's "Building A Mystery." Up ahead, a couple of emaciated yuppies wearing jeans so tight they looked like sausage casings were moving toward a Lexus SUV. I put on my blinker and crept up behind them then reached for my phone.

  "Hunter?"

  "Hey," his rumbling bass greeted me. "Sorry I'm late. The way things are going, I doubt I'll make it home at all tonight."

  Shoot, I'd totally forgotten about our GoT marathon. "Not a problem. As it happens, I'm on a new case."

  There was a pause. Hunter used silences the way some men used aftershave, as a way of making an impression. Finally, he said, "I thought Len was out of town?"

  "He is. This one is sort of personal." It was entirely personal, as I was fairly certain there would be no treasure at the end and my father would be forced to sleep on our couch.

  "Be careful, Red. Don't shoot yourself in the foot by doing favors for people."

  "Like you did for me?" The yuppies were taking their sweet time removing themselves from the parking space.

  "That's not what I meant." Hunter's voice was soft. "I'd do it again. You know I would."

  I'd been about to lean on the horn, but his words froze me in my seat. Hunter had killed someone in the line of duty to save my life. The rational part of my brain knew he would have done the same for anyone in trouble. He was a cop. Protecting people who needed it was his job, much as catching people doing things they shouldn't be doing was mine. But there was such intensity in the man. It seethed beneath his skin, carefully leased but there. And when he turned it all on me?

  I made one of those stupid fanning motions with my hand. Hot stuff.

  Or rather, it had been. Up until he'd killed someone for me.

  All of my previous relationships had been light, fluffy, and easily disregarded when they were done. Mac had always been my number-one priority, and most men eventually grew tired of me forgetting dates or changing plans because my focus was always on my daughter. We had fun and went our separate ways, no drama or fuss, and on with life. Hunter Black didn't do things in half measures. He went all-in. His was a depth of feeling that both drew me in and scared me spitless.

  Behind me a horn blared, and a glance in my rearview mirror showed several headlights lined up, waiting for me to move. Yeah, not going to happen. It'd been a bear of a day. What should
have been a day of R&R had gone sideways. My mother, my father, lying to my daughter, and a fictitious treasure. I was feeling particularly uncaring of anyone else's needs. The second I rounded the corner, the damn Lexus would move, and there'd be another vehicle in the space. That space was mine, and I'd happily throat punch anyone who said otherwise.

  "Keep your pants on," I muttered to the driver of the smart car behind me. The guy looked two seconds away from a full-tilt fit. Guess I wasn't the only Bostonian having a garbage day.

  "If you insist…" Hunter's voice held seductive promise.

  "Not you." Though I had a brief hot flash imagining the sight. In an effort to keep things light I said, "Well, anyway, I'm not abusing Len's PI license. Any idiot with too much free time could do this particular job. I just happen to be the idiot nominated."

  In the background, there was a low murmur of voices, and I distinctly heard a man call out Hunter's name.

  "I have to go. Text me when you get home." So that I know you're safe. The words went unspoken, but I heard them anyway.

  "Will do, Kemosabe. Wait, is that racist because you're Native American?"

  Hunter chuckled. "Night, Red." There was a click, and he was gone.

  I huffed out a breath and then leaned on the horn in frustration. The Lexus driver, oblivious to anything but the rendition of "Spanish Flea" that was probably playing on an endless loop in his head, took another two minutes to exit the space. By the time I parked Helga, several of the cars behind me flashed me their driving finger as they whizzed past.

  "Yeah, yeah, take it up with someone who cares." I popped my car door and scuttled across the street to the overhang in front of The Shipping Lane. Inside it was even more charming than it had appeared from the street. The high ceilings were strung with rows of copper lamps between the exposed beams. Edison bulbs cast a cheery glow on the patrons below. Servers wearing blue jeans and kelly green shirts with the bar's name in bold white print dashed back and forth between the booths and tables, carrying fragrant dishes, mugs of beer, and cocktails, looking busy but not stressed.

  "Welcome to The Shipping Lane. Are you waiting for someone?" A petite brunette who looked to be in her midfifties approached. She wore a button-down version of the pub's uniform top and black jeans and greeted me with a warm smile.