Sleuthing for the Weekend

by Jennifer L. Hart

  His kiss was hot and hungry, demanding. Possessive. Unrelenting and familiar.

  "Hunter?" I gasped when he finally pulled back.

  His forehead pressed against mine. "Missed you, Red."

  My heart was pounding, adrenaline flowing faster than the maple sap out in the grove. "What the hell were you thinking, grabbing me like that?"

  "Didn't want anyone to see us." His hands ran along my body, calming me at the same time he made me shiver. "Sorry I scared you."

  It was dark behind the tapestry, and I couldn't see even the outline of his face. "I thought you were undercover?"

  "I am."

  His words sent chills through me. "Here?"

  He nodded against me.

  "Is something going to happen? Mac's here—"

  He covered my lips with his fingertips. "No, not tonight. Who was that I saw you come in with?"

  Guilt bubbled up. "Congressmen Alan Whitaker. He's the victim's brother."

  Hunter was silent. It was eerie, being unable to read his expression. When he said nothing, he became just a looming presence. The small space took on the vibe of a confessional.

  "I sort of…played him so I could search her house."

  "Played him," he repeated.

  "I told him I was a friend of his deceased sister. That I came by to take care of her cat." It sounded even worse when I said it out loud.

  "Did you find anything?" he asked.

  "No, and I'm already doing penance because the cat is lurking around my apartment. And speaking of uninvited guests, your ex-wife has been sleeping naked in your bed."

  He stilled. "Crystal's in my apartment?"

  "She claimed someone was after her and she needed a place to hide out." I swallowed.

  Hunter's thumb traced my collarbone. "How do you know she was sleeping naked in my bed?"

  Heat suffused my cheeks. "Never mind that. What do you want me to do about her?"

  He inhaled audibly. "I don't know. Do you mind that she's there?"

  "As long as you're not in bed with her, no."

  "Jealous, Red?" His question rumbled, making all the small hairs on my arm stand on end.

  No sense denying it. "Crazy jealous. Even if I have no right to be."

  His index finger wrapped around my chin. "You have every right. In case I haven't made this clear, I'm not interested in anyone but you."

  And there went my heart, all pitty pat pat. "That's…good to know."

  "I am concerned about Crystal's stalker though, especially if she's right across the hall from you and Mac."

  "Mac's staying with Brett for the weekend."

  I sensed his hesitation. "All the same. Maybe you should camp out with my parents. Or with Kate? She's got a pullout sofa."

  "That's sweet, Hunter, but I can't leave Agnes and Nona to deal with any potential fallout. She broke in, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who knows she's there."

  "Give me a few days to finish up this case, and I'll get her installed in a safe house. If you hear or see anything unusual, I want you to call the cops."

  When I nodded, he pulled me in tight for another kiss. "I need to get back before I'm missed. Wait a minute before you follow. If you see me out there, pretend you don't know me. I'm dealing with ruthless people, and I don't want them to target you if things go to hell."

  My fingers dug into his arm. "Hunter? Be careful."

  "You too, especially with the congressmen."

  I bristled. "What do you mean? He seems pretty decent, especially for a politician."

  "Bad things happen around him. His sister isn't the first person in his life who died violently." He stepped away, leaving me alone in the darkness.

  "Wait," I hissed, but Hunter had evaporated like smoke.

  I counted to sixty before feeling my way out from behind the heavy fabric.

  Someone had cleaned up the broken plate. More people had lined up around the buffet table. I blended in with them easily, though my appetite was diminished.

  The string quartet had taken a break, and the murmuring of conversations filled the cavernous room. I spied Brett's father climbing the stage. Seventeen years later and he was still fit, though he was built more like a dockworker than a businessman. His hair had turned completely white, a nice compliment to his shrewd blue eyes. His irises were the exact same color as Brett's and Mac's. He moved to the microphone and picked it up.

  "Thank you all for coming tonight."

  A pause and the murmur of voices died down.

  "It's tradition in the Archer family to celebrate the maple harvest, regardless of production. And special thanks to Congressman Whitmore for taking time out of his hectic schedule to honor us all."

  Clapping all around, even as I thought Brett's dad was up to something. Was he after something specific, or did he just like rubbing elbows with those in power?

  Across the room, I spied Alan's hand in the air as he acknowledged his host. I scanned the crowd, but so no sign of Hunter or whomever he'd come here with.

  Mr. Archer wasn't done. "Also, I want to take this moment to publicly welcome our granddaughter, Mac, into the fold. May this mark the first of many family functions for her." He raised his champagne glass and turned to the left, where Mac stood between Brett and his mother. "To Mac!"

  "To Mac," the room chorused back.

  My eyes misted, and I raised an imaginary glass. Brett's dad isn't my favorite guy, yet he'd just done me the biggest solid by accepting my kid publicly. Maybe I could actually keep my promise to her after all.

  "Mackenzie Taylor?" A man wearing a blue necktie approached me from the side. His nose was crooked, as though he'd taken one too many hits in the boxing ring. Or maybe a street brawl. Not the normal sort of guest the Archers entertained.

  "Do I know you?"

  "I was asked to deliver this." He handed me a folded piece of paper then turned to walk away.

  My eyebrows drew together as I unfolded the note and read.

  Leave now, or I tell him the truth.

  Huh? I glanced up, but the bruiser with the blue necktie had been swallowed by the crowd.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "There are two ways to handle a blackmailer. Give in to his demands or don't. Either way, prepare for the worst-case fallout." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI

  Note in hand, I scurried down the treacherous steps and back toward Helga. Who had written it? Which him did the note's author mean? Which truth was about to be revealed? I had so many secrets it was impossible to tell.

  The one thing I did know? A blackmailer was never satisfied with one win. Mac had her moment of triumph being accepted into the Archer clan. I didn't need to remain at the ball any longer, and if I refused, I risked ruining her night. If there was someone in the room who wished me harm, the best thing I could do was put some distance between myself and Mac. I'd shot her a quick text and told her to keep close to her dad. Brett would do everything in his power to keep her safe.

  I used the remote start to fire Helga's engine up and then slid behind the wheel, locking the doors, just in case. My phone started playing Dean Martin's "Ain't That A Kick in the Head," Len's number. I ignored it, concentrating on putting some distance between myself and the blackmailer.

  The most likely him would be Congressman Whitmore. I'd kept a big daddy whopper of a secret. And sure, he'd hate me when the truth came out. The thought of Alan's ire gave me a pang, but as far as secrets went, it wasn't a particularly dangerous one. If that had been the only undisclosed info on the line, I might have rolled the dice on the off chance the note writer exposed himself.

  But I was also hiding the truth of my parentage from Hunter, from Mac, and Brett. My profession from Cliff Rogers and Elijah Hawthorn, the rumored affair between Lois and Daniel O'Flannigan, Mac's snagging police files for me, Hunter's ex-wife's lying low in my apartment building from someone she feared, and better not forget whoever had offed Lois. If the blac
kmailer was a killer, I couldn't take the chance someone would get hurt.

  Once I was back on the highway, I used my Bluetooth to return Len's call. "How's the treasure hunt going?"

  "We haven't found anything so far." Len sounded more amused than put out.

  "Where are you? And is my mom with you?" I held my breath, hoping they weren't all camped out at the apartment building.

  "We're at the office doing research."

  "That doesn't sound too bad. Research on what exactly?"

  "Nona and Agnes homed in on the word 'excavate,' so we're looking for burial plots for the O'Flannigan family."

  A mental image of my mother and Nona creeping around a cemetery with flashlights and shovels, hunting for dead O'Flannigans, rose to the fore. "I know it's a tall order, Len, but try to keep them out of trouble."

  My boss lowered his voice. "They aren't overly focused, so I don't think I'll end up explaining to an officer why we're grave robbing, if that's what you're worried about."

  One of the many things weighing on my mind. Still, skulking around a bunch of deceased O'Flannigans might be safer than going home to our apartment building.

  "Keep them out as long as you can tonight. I'm afraid it's not safe at our building."

  "What happened?" my boss asked in that way of his that was seemingly mild but still insisted on an answer.

  Briefly I told him about the note.

  Len made a soft humming sound and then asked. "And you don't know who sent it?"

  "No. I'm almost tempted to hand it over to the police, see what they make of it. But I don't feel like I have enough time to bring them up to speed on what I've been doing. And by the time I do, it might be too late for Michael."

  "I dug into Daniel's divorce," the lawyer offered. "The wife might be a good source. She's been squeezing him hard since she found out about the affair. Their separation was loud and public. Police were called on more than one domestic disturbance when she got loud and threw things at Daniel."

  "Any possibility that she killed Lois?"

  "Unlikely. If she was going to frame someone, it would have been her ex. And there is no indication of her confronting Lois, so the rumor is exactly that."

  "If Lois was having a long-term affair with her brother-in-law, it could explain why I didn't find any evidence of a relationship in her home. And why Daniel offered her a job when he left O'Flannigan's, taking her, her money, and Under Irish Skirts with him."

  "The motives are stacking up against Michael." Len's tone was matter-of-fact. "His brother might have stolen his livelihood and his woman."

  "Maybe the same can be said for Daniel's ex. Hell hath no fury as a woman thrown over."

  "You could always ask her."

  "Now why didn't I think of that?" I grumbled.

  In the background I could hear Nona's voice, "Len, bubbie, come help me with this dang gismo."

  "Gismo?" In Nona speak, a gismo was anything with a plug, from a vacuum to a cell phone.

  "She means the computer." Len made that throat-clearing noise again.

  If I didn't know better, I'd think my boss was embarrassed by Nona's open affection. "I'll let you go." Even with all my anxiety, the thought of the two of them together warmed my heart. They were a good fit—Len dependable, solid, and clever, Nona a giving caretaker with a zest for life. "Look out for them for me."

  "I'll check in with you later. Stay alert, Mackenzie."

  I disconnected and pulled up to a red light. I had a few options. One, head home and confront Hunter's ex. Two, squeeze Daniel O'Flannigan's ex-wife in the hope she'd blurt out a full confession. Or three, confront Daniel directly.

  Hunter knew about Crystal, and the rest of us had vacated the building. She was as secure as she could be, at least as safe as I could make her. Knowing Hunter, he'd have uniforms watching our building until he finished his undercover case. Finding Crystal's stalker—if he actually existed—wasn't going to help Len keep Michael O'Flannigan out of police custody.

  The clock on Helga's dash told me it was almost midnight. Late for a social call to ask a woman about her cheating ex. But if The Shipping Lane was open, I could probably corner Daniel at work, get his side of the story.

  The Friday night traffic was just as bad driving back into the heart of Boston. I crept along, half expecting The Shipping Lane to still be closed, even if it was the Friday prior to St. Patrick's Day weekend.

  It wasn't though. If anything, the place looked busier than it had two nights ago. I wondered if the press attention had been beneficial for business instead of detrimental. Maybe some patrons got a thrill from the notion of having a drink in a bar where a woman had been killed. The notion was macabre as hell. Then again, people were weird.

  I circled the block three times, hunting for a parking space, before finally giving up and parking in a church parking lot two streets behind the pub. A shiver went down my spine as I exited the car. Was someone watching me, or had the note and my overactive imagination gotten the best of me? Better safe than sorry. I transferred my newly purchased stun gun from the glove box to my left-hand pocket and the car keys complete with pepper spray key chain into my right. After turning the collar of my trench coat up against the wind, I moved hurriedly in the direction of the bar.

  No hostess came over to greet me or indicate where I should sit. The packed place was standing room only. The Irish music that spilled forth through The Shipping Lane's sound system was prerecorded and barely audible over the sound of laughing patrons, chatter, and clinking glasses. I spied the bartender who'd flirted with me the other night and made my way closer until I could catch his eye. His face lit up when he saw me.

  "Nice to see you again. Shirley Temple, three cherries, right?"

  "Better make it four—it's been a long day."

  He grinned. "Tell me about it."

  "I'm surprised you guys are open." I spoke carefully as he used the soda gun to top off a highball glass. "After what happened the other night."

  He added the cherries one by one. "This is our biggest weekend of the year. Lois would have wanted the bar to succeed, no matter what. Three fifty."

  "It was two fifty the other day."

  He shrugged. "Holiday weekend prices."

  I slid a five from my wallet and across the bar. "She seemed like a nice lady."

  "She was." Handsome bartender's smile seemed a little forced, and he pivoted quickly away to make change.

  I waved, indicating he should keep the difference. "You said you've been working here a few months. Did you know if Lois was particularly close to anyone here?"

  His smile looked a little tight. "Not especially. It's pretty packed." He gestured down the length of the bar, the maneuver almost desperate.

  If I was any good at reading body language, I'd swear his was telling me that my questions were unsettling.

  "Is Daniel in tonight?" I pounced before he could move on to the next customer.

  He shook his head. "No, he had some sort of event to attend. That's why UIS was playing the other night." He waved to the middle-aged man with the beer gut standing behind me.

  I faded back from the bar, taking in the scene. Daniel was at an event. Maybe an event like, oh say, the Sugar Ball, where I'd received the threatening letter, where I'd seen Congressman Whitmore, who told me Lois had been looking forward to attending the event. Had she been planning on bringing Daniel? Unease clawed at my insides. The people close to me had way too many ties with the O'Flannigan/Whitmore extended family to blame coincidence. I remembered how Daniel's eyes had gone cold when I told him his brother sent me. Lois was found in his locked office. The two were rumored to be having an affair. Means and motive. But he, along with the other members of UIS, had been on stage when she'd been killed, so no opportunity.

  What if my supposition about Lois knowing her killer had been wrong? What if one of the band members had paid someone else to kill her while they had an ironclad alibi? Daniel could have easily given a copy of his office key t
o a hitman. I made a mental note to have Mac dig into their financial records, see if maybe any large sums of cash had been withdrawn from his account.

  Even as I considered the possibility, it didn't feel right. Cutting someone's throat was messy. Too much chance for stray drops of blood. A professional killer wouldn't take that risk. So I was back to figuring out how an amateur murderer pulled a Houdini and escaped from a locked room.

  I finished my Shirley Temple and set it down at the end of the bar. While I wanted to talk with The Shipping Lane's staff, they were all up to their eyeballs in work. Instead, I strode down the hall on the pretense of using the restroom.

  Yellow police tape covered the doorframe, and the door to Daniel's office had been shut. I studied it a moment then headed into the ladies' room. As far as bar bathrooms went, this one was middle of the road. Done up in gold and rose hues, it was overtly feminine. The mirrors were oval cut, accented with gilt frames. The sinks and stalls were clean. A small vase of dried flowers stood on a small table under the window. After setting the vase on the counter, I stood on the table so I could see out the window.

  It overlooked the alley and my old friend Mr. Dumpster. The window was old-school with an aluminum frame. It stuck, but with a little effort I could push it outwards and pull myself up and out. Okay, so Daniel's office had been locked. The killer must have had blood on his or her hands. If they had turned left, they would have gone through the kitchen. Right, back into the main part of the bar. This bathroom was the best shot of escaping undetected.

  Except I knew from firsthand experience during Mac's three-year-old I'd rather throw my food than eat it phase that cleaning up in a public restroom is easier said than done. Glancing over my shoulder, I verified that no, the restroom door didn't have a lock. Handwashing fine, face washing, also plausible. But hair or clothing, not gonna happen. There hadn't been any discarded clothes in the dumpster nor a disposable raincoat or anything else smeared with blood. That I would have noticed.

  After scrambling down, I checked all the toilet tanks, just in case. Nothing. Then, my gaze traveled up to the drop ceiling—the kind with panels you could push aside to access the ductwork. Kicking off my shoes, I stood on the toilet in the stall at the end closest to the door. I pushed it aside with ease. A person would have to be a better athlete than I was to pull him or herself up this way, but getting down would be a snap. And there was a desk and chair in the office to use for leverage.