Finally, I had both feet dangling over the dumpster. With one last furtive look to the mouth of the alley—half hoping the cops would come arrest me and save me from myself—I pushed from my perch atop the recycling container and into the monstrous waste bin. It was about two thirds full, so should be plenty of padding.
I landed on my ass with a squish. Beneath me, one of the ridiculously thin trash bags had burst open, and something was oozing into the seat of my jeans. Didn't matter what color it was, it was sure to be a sexy look. I shuddered and scrambled to my feet.
A decent amount of light filtered down into the bin from someone's porch light in the building catty-corner to the alley. It wasn't enough to make out colors in the dark but better than fumbling in the pitch blackness. I groped around for purchase and something squeaked. A rat? Was there more than one?
I squeaked louder and flung myself to the opposite side of the bin. Bags were torn open in my haste. When my back was to the corner, I drew in a breath then instantly regretted it as the smell grew overpowering.
"I'll make you a deal," I said to whatever had made the noise. "I'll toss any food bags your way, and you leave any evidence on top of the heap for me. Got it?"
There was no reply, so I was taking it as the critter's agreement.
I started where I stood, moving bags that were obviously filled with kitchen refuse aside looking for anything out of place. I slipped and slid around in the old garbage, but at least my nose was steadily acclimating to the stink. Either that or my olfactory senses had shut down out of self-preservation.
I'd sifted through garbage before—this wasn't my first refuse rodeo—but it had all been household garbage. Lean Cuisines and nail salon receipts and vacuum debris all jumbled up together. In a way, this was more straightforward, since the kitchen trash was distinctly separated from bar trash, most of which was in the recycling and office trash. Translation: the heaps of paperwork it takes to run a legit business.
When I came across a bag filled with paperwork, I tossed it out to the alley. Easier to take it with me to sort through at my leisure with proper lighting than try to sift through documents in the bin. About one out of every twelve bags was of that nature. That is, not reeking of rotting food. I only dug about halfway down, figuring anything worth finding wouldn't have had time to settle.
Was it possible my evidence had been hidden among the carrot peelings and gravy-stained napkins? Yes, but a girl needed to draw the line somewhere. I wasn't going to sift through every mound of potato peelings looking for a murder weapon. By my rough estimate, I'd trundled through fifty bags of refuse without finding diddly freaking squat.
My phone jangled "Building A Mystery." Uh-oh. I ignored it and the clenching in my gut, intent on getting through this job as quickly as possible. I dodged the next call as well, but the third made me pause. It was the middle of the night. Why was he so insistent? What if something was wrong with Mac or Agnes? My heart rate picked up, and I fumbled for my phone.
My hands were slick, and I nearly dropped it into a congealed puddle of gravy before turning it to face me. Hunter's face lit up the screen.
It took three tries for me to get enough traction on my thumb to swipe to answer. "This isn't a good time," I hissed, not wanting to bring the phone or my garbage-covered hands any closer to my face. "My phone is almost out of juice."
"I'm looking at your car, Red. Where the hell are you?"
I peeked up over the lip of the dumpster and, sure enough, spotted Hunter's colossal shoulders beside Helga. He stood beneath a streetlight, rain misting down on his slick black hair, creating a sort of halo around his head and shoulders.
"Ummm, I can explain," I stalled, scrounging for an explanation that didn't make me sound like a nut.
"Tell me you didn't break into the bar."
Happily, I could without lying. "I didn't break into the bar."
"Mackenzie…" His voice was a low warning growl.
"I'm in the dumpster," I said with a sigh.
His head jerked up, and we stared at each other. I gave him a little wave.
He hung up the phone without another word and stalked my way.
My teeth sank into my lower lip. Busted.
* * *
"Paper, rock, scissors, you for who gets to hose her down," Mac said to Hunter when she opened the apartment door.
Her short red hair was rumpled as though she had been running her hands through it, and she wore green plaid pajama pants with a faded AC/DC T-shirt she must have stolen from my closet at some point.
"Hey," I griped. "I can hose myself down, thank you very much."
At her heels, Snickers leapt forward to greet Hunter. The puggle loved our neighbor almost as much as she disliked me. The feeling was mutual on both counts.
He bent to pet her, his long black ponytail falling over his left shoulder and almost brushing the floor. I wondered if he'd ever cut it but didn't ask.
Hunter picked the squirming dog up and answered Mac. "I'll leave cleanup to you. I need to take the evidence she collected to the station."
I huffed out a breath. All that foraging and I was getting skunked. And not just because I smelled like one. "Can I at least have the documents back if there's nothing about the murder?"
I'd told him about the hunt for the O'Flannigan treasure on the car ride home. I'd had to say something, and it was the only thing I could cough up without going into the whole Uncle Al/Agnes/Reg love triangle from hell.
"So, you thought there was treasure in the dumpster?" he'd asked, tone incredulous as he drove Helga through the rainy Boston streets back to our building.
"No, I thought there might be a clue about the treasure in the dumpster." The good news had been that my olfactory response wasn't irrevocably broken. I'd picked up the clean sage scent that was uniquely him. The bad news? I had been able to smell my own putrid stench again.
He'd slid me a narrow-eyed look as though I'd clambered into the bin just to irritate him. "You're getting a reputation around the station. This wasn't my case, but as soon as your name came in on a witness report, I caught half a dozen phone calls that you were at The Shipping Lane and had found a body."
"It wasn't my fault. How was I supposed to know a woman would get killed while I was there?"
He hadn't spoken another word to me on the ride home.
"No." Hunter shook his head in answer to my request for a peek at my rightful purloined documents. He rose to his full six-foot-four-inch height, looming over me. Hunter Black loomed better than anyone I'd ever met. "You are on house arrest. This isn't a case for you, not with Len out of town to spring you if you cross a line. You're lucky I found you before one of the other officers tossed you into the holding tank. If I find you anywhere near that bar again, I will do it myself. Don't push me, Mackenzie."
Mackenzie, not Red. He meant business.
My daughter stepped forward. "I'll keep an eye on her."
"I'm not a child," I whined…like a child.
They both stared at me.
I blew a repugnant strand of hair out of my eyes. "Okay, maybe I'm childish, but it's in an impish way, not a you-need-to-ground-me kinda way."
"I'll see you both later." Hunter nodded to Mac, shook his head at me, and then left.
"Mom." Mac heaved a put-upon sigh. "What happened?"
Instead of answering her, I toed off my boots, careful to stay on the welcome mat so none of my grime spattered. "Grab me a laundry basket."
"You sure you don't mean a trash bag?"
"Nona will have some sort of Yenta wisdom on how to clean these clothes. I'll ask her tomorrow."
She snagged the empty basket from her room—she always folded her laundry instead of leaving it balled up on the floor the way I did. After setting it down on the hardwood floors and sliding it over to me so she didn't have to get too close, she murmured, "I thought you were going to stay at Hunter's."
"I was," I grunted and peeled off my shirt. "There was a last-minute change of pl
ans."
"That involved a murder?" She stood there, arms crossed, tapping her toe indignantly. "And apparently the landfill? I really don't want to know what kind of kink you two are into."
"It's not like that." The shirt landed in the laundry basket with a sodden plop. My grimy pants followed and then my socks. "Did you find out anything about the other band members of Under Irish Skirts?"
She frowned at my change of subject. "Yeah, but—"
"Look, kid, it's been a day. I'm exhausted, and you have school tomorrow. I don't play the Mom card often, but I'm going to have to throw it down here. I need a scalding hot shower and a decent night's sleep. Send whatever you found to my email. Let's hash it all out later, okay?"
Her delicate eyebrows drew together, but she nodded then retreated to her bedroom, Snickers hot on her heels.
"Good night," I called to her tightly drawn shoulders.
She mumbled something back, and I heard her door close with a click.
Blowing out a sigh, I padded barefoot into the bathroom. The pipes rattled as I cranked the water on to full blast then sat down on the edge of the claw-footed tub. Damn it, I hadn't anticipated Hunter coming to look for me. He'd said he was busy with a case. All of that disgusting effort and I had nothing to show for it except an irate boyfriend, a hurt kid, and an outfit that was probably DNR.
Once the water was hot enough to boil a lobster, I scrambled under the spray, lathering, rinsing, and repeating times ten. I made suds and scrubbed, taking off the top layer of skin before finally shutting the water off and toweling myself dry. After wrapping my hair up in a towel, I slid into my terrycloth bathrobe and stumbled for my bed, glad the end was in sight.
Mac sat on my bed, waiting for me. Her chin was raised in the stubborn defiance I'd taught her.
"Come on, kid. I said—"
"I reject your Mom card," she said, cutting me off, "since you lied to me about where you were."
"I'm sorry—"
Again she didn't let me finish. "And what did you do when I lied to you about where I was? Even though I had a good reason to be at the police station, working."
"That was different." I wanted nothing more than to flop facefirst onto the mattress, but she was obstructing.
"Why?"
"Because I'm your mother."
"And Mother knows best? How's that working for you and Grams?"
I sucked in a sharp breath. "Low blow, kid."
She stood up. "Mom, look. You don't have to tell me everything, but please, don't lie, especially if you're involved in a murder."
"Not involved." I shook my head. "I just…helped find the body."
She gave me a level look.
"Hit it with a door, actually." I threw my hands up in the air. "What is it you want from me?"
"I want you to tell me what happened between when you texted me about the band and when Hunter brought you home reeking of garbage. And I don't want to hear that it's a long story and that you'll tell me tomorrow or any of the other stable of excuses you've been trotting out when you don't want to talk."
A lump had formed in my throat. "Mac, look. I know you don't like hearing the whole I'm-the-parent thing, but I am. It's my job to protect you."
"Not from unpleasant realities." She shook her head. "Mom, I've been helping the police solve cybercrimes for months now. I've seen some horrible stuff. Heard the calls that come in over dispatch. I'm not a baby."
"You're my baby." I tucked a strand of her short, dark red hair behind her ear.
She just looked at me patiently, expectantly, willing my resolve to crumble.
But I couldn't fall apart on her. No matter how close we were, I refused to unburden myself at Mac's expense. That's what Agnes had done to me, and my head continued to reel, my center off-kilter. Some burdens needed to be carried solo.
I could tell her about tonight, though. Let her in a little. She was right… She was a few heartbeats away from adulthood, and there were only so many ugly realities I could shield her from.
I sank down onto the mattress beside her. "Okay, if you really want to know."
"I do." Her voice rang with conviction.
Taking a deep breath, I let the events of the night gush from me, a deluge of verbal vomit, cataloging events from the time I'd texted her about the band through Hunter depositing my stanky self at our door.
She let me say it all sans interruptions, though I could see her mind working through all the details, sorting and labeling, striving to make sense from the senseless death.
"The way I see it, there are three options." Mac held up her forefinger, ticking them off as she went. "One, the police are right and Lois's husband killed her. Two, someone else killed her for a reason we know nothing about."
"Or three," I murmured, seeing where she was headed. "She died because she knew something about the O'Flannigan treasure."
"You believe in it now?" Her face lit up.
"Let's put it this way—nothing can convince a girl like a dead body." The treasure may not actually exist, but someone might believe in it enough to commit murder. "But Mac, if it is about the treasure, if someone is deranged enough to kill for it, we need to steer clear."
"Aren't you curious?" she asked.
"I wouldn't have dumpster dived if I wasn't." I sagged in disappointment. "And all for nothing."
"Maybe not." Mac had a speculative gleam in her eye. "Hunter said he was logging everything into evidence, right? Maybe I can—"
"No," I said, cutting her off. "You cannot use your hacking skills to break into police files."
"What if I didn't do it?" A twinkle lit up her blue eyes. "What if Carson did? He has access to all the reports."
Carson, aka David Carson, was Mac's supervisor at the Boston PD. A surfer god turned computer geek with a lady-killer smile. In other words, trouble. She had a horrific crush on the guy, which made him not my favorite boy in blue. "You're just an intern. Why would he share that kind of information with you?"
"He wouldn't, not directly anyway. Unless the files on his hard drive were accidentally"—she made air quotes around the word accidentally—"corrupted and he needed me to help him recover them. Like say, if his computer got a virus and he needed me to play clean-up crew. He's done it before."
I stared at the evil genius I'd unleashed on the world. "Are you saying you're going to intentionally hose his laptop so you can get a look at the report on the garbage?"
Her grin turned mischievous. "No, I'm not saying that. Not out loud anyway."
I drew her into a tight hug. "Remind me never to mess with you."
CHAPTER FOUR
"Secrets are a private investigator's bread and butter. Uncovering them is good for business. Keeping them, even better." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI
I'd woken with the scent of garbage still in my nose. By the time I emerged from another hot shower and took my sheets and yesterday's castoffs down to the basement for laundering, Mac had already left for school. I reentered the apartment, greeted by the smell of coffee and the thought of toaster waffles. Unfortunately, I didn't have any in my freezer. Damn, when was the last time I'd hit a grocery store? One look confirmed I had nothing at all in my freezer, not even a tray of ice. Same for the fridge, and Mac had taken the last apple.
Pot of java in hand, I headed upstairs to Nona's apartment. It was early for some, but my upstairs tenant and friend rose with the sun for a morning power walk as part of her daily routine. And she always had something delicious and freshly baked and was happy to feed me in exchange for a little company and gossip.
Nona had her door flung open, her purple-and-pink cool-dry pants lighting up the dim hallway. She was short and rounded with snapping blue eyes hidden by Coke bottle lenses and lipstick that was a bit too orange for her olive skin tone. Her Queens accent was thicker than winter frost. "Good morning, dolly. I was hoping you'd show up for a nosh."
Yenta-dar had probably d
etected a disturbance in the force last night. "Morning, Nona. How do you get bad smells out of clothes?"
"White vinegar and baking soda. You got either of those?"
"Errr…?"
"I'll give you a cup of each. Wash the stuff once in the vinegar then in the baking soda and dry it on the line out back. Works like a charm." Her gaze was avid. "Did you hear about the treasure?"
I frowned. "How did you hear about it?"
"Agnes and I cornered Mac on her way out of the house this morning after we saw it in the paper. She mentioned you were at that pub yesterday." Her excitement lit up her face. "Come in, and I'll show you."
Good gossip made the rounds before I even dragged my sorry carcass out of bed. Poor Mac. She didn't stand a chance when the dynamic duo had cornered her like two cats toying with a mouse. I sat at Nona's battered kitchen table, setting the coffee pot on one of the many cozies there. Nona handed me the folded paper and pointed to the article.
"Brotherly Beef Gone Bad," I read aloud. Under the headline there was a picture of Lois, along with a caption. "Lois Whitmore O'Flannigan, age 58, was found dead at her place of employment, The Shipping Lane. The pub is one of two run by the O'Flannigan brothers. Lois worked for Daniel O'Flannigan and up until recently had been married to his older brother, Michael."
"Judas Priest," I muttered. The Boston Tribune had better insight than I did from the horse's mouth.
"Apparently," Nona said as she placed a basket of still warm scones in front of me, "she was married to the older brother and helped him run his family's pub. But then things went south, and she started working for the younger brother."
No wonder there was bad blood between the O'Flannigan brothers. It wasn't just business. It was personal. And just like the soured relationship between my parents, the Captain hadn't felt the need to tell me this in advance.
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