"So, I think maybe tonight we should rent diving equipment."
"You don't know the first thing about diving!" The thought of Agnes's and Nona's bloated corpses washing up on one of the barrier islands made the hastily consumed pot of java turn over in my stomach.
"No risk, no reward, right?" Agnes pulled one arm across her body in an effort to stretch tough joint muscles. "Honestly, Mackenzie, where is your spirit of adventure?"
I opened my mouth to retort when a familiar man wearing billowy athletic pants and a wife-beater screeched a bullhorn.
He stood on what looked like a defunct pitcher's mound in front of two rows of mats fanned out in semicircles about five feet apart. At the sound of the horn, people ran for the mats in the front.
The bullhorn squealed, and he barked into it. "All right, maggots, fall in!"
His voice was all drill-sergeant rough, almost grating through the horn.
But was he really talking to us like that?
The bullhorn turned our way. "Yeah, you with the red hair and vacant expression. Get your ass in line, now!"
Cliff Rogers appeared much different than he had the night at The Shipping Lane. He hadn't been screaming at me with eyes promising pain for one thing. Like Daniel, Cliff had been on stage when Lois had been murdered, but he might have inside information as to who might have wanted her dead.
Agnes gripped me by the arm and towed me toward the hastily forming second row. I dropped my bag beside my mat and then crouched down to retrieve the bug out of it.
It was a Mac-original prototype that she'd been begging me to field-test for months. I didn't have the right subject to test until today.
I studied the bug carefully. Roughly the size and thickness of my thumbnail and made of all clear materials. No flashing lights or visible circuits, it was part tracker, part transmitter. There was no battery. Instead it would piggyback power off any Bluetooth compatible device, like a phone or a tablet, and transmit an audio recording directly to my phone as long as I was within one hundred yards. That was the biggest drawback, she'd said. The strength of transmission. Still more than enough for me to listen from my parked car down the street.
The burr-like edges poked into the edges of my palm. I could easily snag it on his shirt or pants—Mac had assured me it was semi-waterproof. But it wouldn't do me much good if ol' Cliffy decided to strip off his workout gear and leave the bug in the hamper when he went out to have cocktails with a killer.
It was then I could read the shirt he wore. Cliff's CrossFit Bootcamp. Toughen up, Buttercup.
"Java preserve me." And I'd barely made it through yoga.
"Fifteen burpees. Go!" Cliff strode past the front row, the one obviously populated by experienced students because they decoded whatever his command had been. I watched in horror as they squatted down, fell to the ground, and did a push up, then somehow launched up, clapping and grunting "Hooah!" at the top of the jump.
I raised my hand, the one not holding the bug.
Cliff narrowed his gaze on me.
"What are you doing?" Agnes hissed.
"Do you know what a burpee is?"
"Just do what everyone else is doing." Agnes took her own advice and started on the squat the front-row apple polishers were executing with apparent ease. She joined them with an enthusiastic "Hooah!"
No way. No freaking way was I actually going to do this. For one thing I'd slept a sum total of two hours out of the last forty-eight. I was mentally and emotionally wrecked, and just one burpee would probably see me in traction. Not to mention that falling to my hands and knees would smash my daughter's genius invention to smithereens.
"Is that the best you got?" Cliff barked at a middle-aged brunette on the end of the second row, three spots down from me. Her pale skin was flushed beet red, and her arms wobbled on her push-up. "You're weak! Pathetic. A loser!"
"Hooah!" Agnes and company chorused.
"Takes one to know one," I muttered.
"Who said that?" Rogers barked. "Are we gonna have a problem, girly?"
"Oh, you betcha." I flashed him a dazzling smile. Being the troublemaker came naturally to me.
He stormed over to me and got in my face. "That hair of yours is like a rash, so that's what I'm gone call you. Trainee Rash, down and give me twenty."
"Hooah!" The more they said that, the more it sounded like a bunch of Scottish men saying whore in a thick brogue.
"Okay." I leaned down to my bag, fished out my wallet, extracted a twenty-dollar bill and attached the bug, folded the money in half and then again so the bug was secured inside, and then held it out to him. "Here you go."
"Hooah!" All around us the class completed their burpees and turned to stare on with horrified eyes.
He glanced down at the bill, up into my eyes, and scowled. "A joker, are you, Rash? Make that fifty."
"Sorry, that's the last of my petty cash." Again, I extended the twenty, mentally willing him to take it.
Money was a gamble. Rogers could head to the nearest juice bar and spend it directly after class. But the risk might pay off since, if it stayed in his wallet, it would be close to him at all times.
And all I had to do was pick his pocket to get it back.
He snatched the folded-up bill from me. "Serves you right, you ignorant ginger. I'll keep this, and you owe me 100 push-ups."
I hated being called a ginger. Better that he stick with Rash, becoming as that nickname was. I'd make him pay for it. "I hope you cleared your afternoon."
Taking my sweet time, I lowered myself to my hands and knees and did a wimpy half push-up. As I'd suspected, Rogers stood over me shouting and cussing a blue streak, calling me weak, a quitter, a mama's girl, and some other BS that I mostly ignored. After years of Agnes's jibes, Cliff Rogers wouldn't make a dent.
"You like to play games, Rash?"
"Only strip poker," I huffed midway through my third baby push-up.
"Your attitude just bought your classmates a five-mile run. And if you haven't finished your set by the time they're done, it'll be another two."
Groans sounded out.
"And here I was hoping my attitude would buy them jelly doughnuts." The problem with the military-style workout program—they really only worked when you were actually in the military. I didn't give a rat's ass that a bunch of strangers who had the misfortune of attending this class with me had to run a bit. That's what they were paying for, after all. What were they going to do? Call Jack Nicholson to order a code red on me?
Cliff Rogers screamed some more, and I shut my trap. The rest of the class abandoned their mats and hit the nearby trail.
"Thanks for that," Rogers said in a much different tone as the class disappeared around the bend. His demeanor had changed completely, less Full Metal Jacket, more The Birdcage. "It's easier to play the hard-ass when someone is being the reluctant recruit. You look familiar. Have we met?"
"Oh, you know us gingers all look alike."
He winced. "Yeah, sorry about the nasty remarks. I tried actually being decent to people for the first few classes, and the results were dismal. People who take this class generally want to be broken down verbally."
He tried to hand me my twenty back, but I waved it off. "Keep it. You earned it. Those are some serious acting chops. You ever consider community theater?"
He flashed me a dazzling grin. "No time, but I do have some stage time since I play in a band."
"Really? How did you get started in that?"
"My partner, actually. He worked at this rundown little pub and saw the flyer for auditions after the former drummer left. At least something good came out of that fiasco."
"Sounds like there's a story there," I probed.
He rolled his eyes. "Only if you like serial dramas, and not the clever British kind."
One of my suspects was a chatty Cathy—chatty Cliffy—and my mother was slogging her way through a five-mile run. The day was looking up. "In fact, I do, and since I have time to kill…" I did a pal
ms-up gesture.
"Well, the owner was a real piece of work. One of those who goes to church every Sunday and goes out drinking until the wee hours every other day. Treated everyone like human trash—his vendors, customers, and his employees. Would show up to work the worse for wear and then pick a fight, usually with his wife or brother. The employee turnover at that place was atrocious."
"So, it was a family business?" I asked.
Cliff lowered himself to the mat across from mine and crossed his legs. "Been in the family for years. Hal, that's my significant other, was the cook. The only reason he stayed on so long was because he genuinely liked the wife and brother. The wife worked like a dog at her day job and then helped out with the bar every night. The brother was the glue that kept the place standing. Something broke, he fixed it. Employee needed time off, he filled their spot. And he took the brunt of the owner's grief just to spare the rest of the staff. Hal didn't want to leave the two of them in the lurch."
None of this was going to help Len defend Michael. According to Cliff, Lois was a decent woman trying to do the right thing, Daniel was all the skills and talent, and Michael was a rage-filled alcoholic. I was beginning to think I'd wasted a bug. "I'm surprised the wife stuck around for that."
"Oh, she didn't. Eventually she got her priorities straight and left him. And the poor thing was murdered two nights ago. Can you believe?"
I made a faux shocked noise and asked, "And you think the husband did it?"
Cliff opened his mouth to respond, but the first jogger emerged from over the hill to our right. He leapt up and started shouting at me, like someone had flipped a switch. "Who told you you could take a break? Pull up your big-girl panties and give me five more!"
Instead of falling back into push-ups I scrambled to my own feet and went toe to toe with him. "That's it, I'm done."
For a moment Cliff appeared a little surprised but then nodded. "No room for quitters on my team. Go on. Slink away with your tail tucked between your legs."
I bounded up, snagged my bag, and waved to a sweaty Agnes as I passed her. "I'll be waiting in the car."
"Five more miles!" Cliff thundered. "One word, and I'll make it ten!"
"Hooah!"
I smiled all the way back to the car.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"There's a fine line between right and wrong, a finer one between not enough and too much. Hold on to your information as carefully as a terminal patient would hold on to the days he has left to live." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI
To pass the time while Agnes finished her workout, I tested the range on Mac's bug. The sensitivity wasn't great, probably because the twenty and the fabric on Cliff's pants pockets muted the receiver, but I could make out the distinct words as he shouted at the class. I'd turned on the tracker and watched as he ran the second course with them, waved to Agnes from the picture window of the climate-controlled vehicle as they slogged past, rain pouring down on their heads.
The only snag I discovered—when the program was running, I couldn't access the phone at all. Maybe it had something to do with the age of my smartphone, but there was no listening while tracking his movement on maps. Call waiting didn't override the screen like when using a standard app, something I hadn't realized until I'd closed it down and saw I'd missed a call from Hunter.
Though I'd tried calling him back, my call had gone straight to voice mail.
My mood had soured since I'd missed Hunter, and for a few I'd considered ditching Agnes to hunt him down. Over the course of my sleepless night, I'd remembered we had never committed to an exclusive relationship. I had no reason to feel guilty over my minor flirtation with Alan Whitmore or jealous over the nameless blonde.
Except I felt both emotions. They writhed in my gut like greased eels battling over which one would make me sick first.
Hell, for all I knew, Hunter regularly hooked up with the blonde piece of fluff. True, he'd expressed jealousy over Brett, but that was different. I shared a child with the man. And men thought about sex differently than women. To them, it was a physical thing, like scratching an itch. Reflex.
My hands clenched on to my coffee cup. Maybe I'd put one of Mac's little trackers on him next. Find out exactly what he was up to.
"Well, I hope you're happy." Agnes, still sweating buckets, kvetched the second she plopped into the car. I bit my lip to keep from grinning at her drowned rat appearance. I couldn't remember ever seeing her so disheveled. "Really, Mackenzie, what on earth were you thinking when you signed us up for this class? And in this weather?"
The weather had taken a turn for the worse, a notorious March storm blowing in off the Atlantic about a half an hour before. "I didn't have time to check the forecast."
"And then you acted up? Abandoned me there with everyone whispering about you?" Her lower lip trembled.
"Mom, calm down. No one was whispering. And you could have left, too."
"And waste both of our fees? That was an expensive class. Money doesn't grow on trees, Mackenzie."
"No, Mom, it doesn't. I'm sorry you didn't have a good time, but I thought you would have fun."
Discreetly I sipped from the extra-large light and sweet coffee I'd picked up at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru. Combined with an apple fritter, the light and sweet, and sitting comfy in the car, my back had been warmed by the heated seats, my soul warmed by the liquid ambrosia while Agnes sweated in the rain.
"Fun?" Agnes looked seconds away from a full-blown apocalyptic meltdown. "Is this some sort of punishment because I wouldn't tell you about Al and me?"
"No, Mom. Look, if you want to know, the real reason I signed us up for this class was because the instructor is a person of interest in my case."
"What?" My mother paused in the middle of wringing out her sweatshirt.
"He's a drummer in a band and knew the victim."
"So, this was about work?" Her eyes bulged so hard I wouldn't have been surprised to see them pop out of her head.
"Yes, Mom. Cover for a case."
"You could have told me."
No, I couldn't have. Agnes didn't do deep cover. I barely stifled a grimace at the thought of her too loud whispers and knowing looks. My mother was not a woman who could hide her feelings.
Which made the fact that she'd hid such a crucial secret from both the Captain and me for so many years all the more mind-boggling.
I looked over at her, saw her trembling lip and her eyes filling with tears. Okay, maybe I had been a bit petty to drag her through this with me.
"I felt ridiculous there." She sniffed. "Here I thought I was getting in shape, but I couldn't keep up with that class."
"You did better than I could have," I told her honestly. "Those people are hardcore."
She sniffled.
"Okay, maybe I was being a little petty after the yoga class. But organized physical activity just isn't my poison. This had nothing to do with the Uncle Daddy situation."
She made a face at my terminology. "Look, Mackenzie. I loved Al. I did. As a brother, though."
"Mom, unless you're a character on Game of Thrones, you don't have children with a guy you love like a brother."
She threw up her hands. "There's no talking to you when—"
"I'm like this?" Enough already. Too many things were unresolved, and I was tired of allowing Agnes to shut me down. She'd started this, telling me the Captain wasn't my father. I was done being put off. "News flash Mom, I am always like this, so quit blaming your hang-ups on me. What prompted you to hop into bed with Al? Drugs? A bet? Whatever it is, I can take it."
She shivered. "He was kind to me."
"Kind to you?" I turned the heat up so she wouldn't freeze. "Was that so unusual? You said the two of you were friends."
"We were. After I failed out of school. I was at my lowest, afraid to go home, to tell my father what a mess I'd made of my life."
Failed out of school? Agnes rarely talked abo
ut her own childhood or her life before marriage to the Captain. From the snippets I'd pieced together over the years, I knew she'd grown up in a rural part of Maine. I'd never known that she'd tried for higher education.
"We could barely afford it. My family didn't have much money, but my father was determined that I better myself. All his sacrifices, and I couldn't do it. It was so humiliating. I just…" She swallowed, and I saw tears glistening along her lash line. "I wasn't good enough."
"Oh, Mom." I put a hand on her arm. "College isn't for everyone. Some people learn differently, need different paces and tools."
Agnes stared out the window at the fat raindrops that slapped the windshield, though she didn't appear to see their movements. "None of my other friends had bothered to come by my apartment. They were too busy celebrating their own graduations, making plans for internships or jobs. For what came next. No one cared, except for Al."
She was breathing hard from more than the exercitation. "He stopped in, wanted to take me out for a drink. I'd said something cutting—I don't remember what. He left, and I thought that was it, but he showed up an hour later with take-out Chinese food and a bottle of gin. And he just sat with me, listened while I railed about how unfair it was. At one point I broke down, and he just…he held me." She sighed. "I'd never know it could be like that with a man, just…easy."
I didn't say a word, didn't dare break the spell. If anything, I feared she would stop talking and never begin again.
"At one point I remember looking over at him, and he was smiling at me. I'd asked him why he wasn't celebrating with his family. He said no one cared what he did since his brother had left for basic training. That he'd rather be with me anyway. I knew he'd had something of a crush on me. I could see it there, written all over his face. I knew what it meant, what he wanted. So, I kissed him." She let out a sigh, and then her gaze slid over to me and she frowned. "We got carried away."
So that's what she meant when she'd said Al was kind to her. He'd offered her comfort and compassion. "I see how that could happen."
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