by Nora Roberts
“I wish I did. You can credit Darby McCray and her crew from High Country Landscaping. We left you another marketing list, it’s on the board with your receipt from today. You just let us know if you need anything.”
“I’ll do that. If I get my quota in, I may try some kayaking this evening.”
“If you do, don’t forget your coupon for the rental. It’s in your welcome folder. Happy writing.”
Brody waited until they were in the truck, until his mother started the engine. “Writing, my butt.”
“Brody Michael Keller!”
“I’m serious, Mom. He was playing Candy Crush on his laptop.”
“Well, God, Brody, so he was taking a break, or distracting himself while we were cleaning.”
But Brody dug in. “If he’s a writer, how come he thinks Virgil Flowers is a TV series?”
“I … not everybody reads popular fiction, even writers.”
Brody just shook his head as Emily drove to the next bungalow on their list. “No way, Mom. Just no. He’s supposed to be an English teacher, right? Like in college. But when I said something about Cannery Row and East of Eden—he had The Grapes of Wrath on the table—he didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Of course he did.”
“Uh-uh.” When Emily pulled up at the next bungalow, Brody swiveled in his seat, his face set, even mutinous. “He didn’t. And if he’s an English teacher and a writer, how come he’s only got one book in the whole cabin?”
“He probably uses a reader. He’s probably got a Kindle.”
“I didn’t see one. And he—he looked at your butt when you walked away to start the bedroom.”
“Oh my God! We’d better call your dad and have him arrested.”
“I didn’t like how he looked at it,” Brody mumbled, unamused. “I didn’t like him.”
“Brody, we don’t have to like every guest. We just have to give them good service. And that’s what we’re going to do for the Campbells right now. Four people, including two kids under ten, in this one. So expect more work.”
He had more to say, but since his mother didn’t get it, like at all, maybe his dad would.
He cleaned three bungalows with his mother—the Campbells’ was definitely the worst—then rode his bike into town. He went by the station house, then hesitated.
His dad would listen, he knew that. And most likely his dad would tell his mom. Then he’d get a lecture.
Maybe not his dad then—at least not yet—but it ought to be family, and somebody who understood about bad guys and liars.
Family, an adult, a lawyer. And one who’d put bad guys away.
He turned his bike around, rode to Zane’s office.
The building looked good, he thought. He hadn’t seen the stuff Clint Draper had put on it in person, but one of his friends had taken a picture, and he’d seen that.
He figured Clint Draper was one of the bad guys his dad and Silas and Zane dealt with. But now he was dead so they didn’t have to.
He left his bike out front, walked right in. Mrs. Carter looked up from her computer—he bet she wasn’t playing lame old Candy Crush.
“Well, hey, Brody.”
“Hey, Mrs. Carter.”
“You got legal trouble?”
He smiled because she’d expect it. “I don’t think so, but maybe I could talk to Zane about some stuff.”
“You’re in luck. He’s got a half hour before his next appointment. You go right on back.”
Gretchen, who he thought was really pretty—though he wouldn’t look at her butt the way that Bingley lowlife had looked at his mom’s—came in from the back with a thick file.
“Hi, Brody.”
“Hi. I’m going back to see Zane.”
“Great. How about you tell him I made those copies like he wanted?”
“Okay.”
He kept going, pausing at the door to Zane’s office, where Zane sat at his desk sort of frowning at his computer screen. Wouldn’t be a game up there either, Brody thought.
He rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb. “Hey, Zane?”
“Hey, Brody.”
No hesitation, Brody noted when Zane swiveled away from the screen. Some adults pretended to pay attention but they were still thinking about their other stuff.
His parents even did it sometimes unless you made them see it was important.
“I want to talk to you about something.”
“Sure, have a seat. Something you need?”
“No. I don’t know. Not exactly. Mom’s not listening. So … Janey’s mom broke her ankle.”
“I heard. Or Maureen heard so I heard.”
“I’m sorry and all, but I had to help Mom clean some of the bungalows so Janey could help her mom. I don’t mind so much, but when I’m running things, I figure on having more standbys for housekeeping. Anyway, we cleaned the one that guy who’s supposed to be a college English teacher who’s writing a book’s in.”
“Supposed to be?”
Yeah, Zane listened. “Yeah, supposed to. If you had The Grapes of Wrath sitting on the table, and I said how I liked Cannery Row better, what would you say?”
“I’d have to say, even though The Grapes of Wrath is considered his masterpiece, I agree on that. Though I’m really fond of Tortilla Flat.”
“I haven’t read that—but see? You’d, you know, say something about the books. You wouldn’t just go, like, blank. And if you were really an English teacher, you oughta have a bunch of shit to say.”
“I’m going to agree with you again, but it could be he didn’t want to talk. He may have been surprised a teenager could have opinions on Steinbeck. Not everybody’s friendly.”
“But he was trying to be, right? ‘How’s it going, big guy?’” Brody rolled his eyes. “I hate that. I’m not big so it’s, like … patronizing.”
“Okay.” The kid liked puzzles, Zane thought. And since it intrigued him that Brody thought he’d found one, Zane leaned back, swiveled side to side. “Clearly, he hit you wrong big-time. What else?”
“Okay, first, before the book thing, he looked at Mom’s butt.”
“I gotta play devil’s advocate here, pal. I’ve been known to look at a female butt in my time. I expect I’ll do so again.”
“Not like that. It was…” It made him uncomfortable still, had heat rising up the back of his neck. “It wasn’t nice. It was like … it made me think I was glad I was there, that Mom wasn’t alone with him.”
The initial humor on Zane’s face faded away. “All right. If you got a bad feeling from him on that, we’ll make sure your mom doesn’t go there alone.”
The embarrassed heat washed away in relief. “You believe me.”
“I believe you got a bad feeling, and that’s enough.”
“Okay, okay, good. A couple other things. So I got this wondering when he acted like he never heard of Cannery Row like that? I said how my cousin—you—got me going on Virgil Flowers, how I was going to finish Sandford’s whole series this summer.”
“That fuckin’ Flowers. Great stuff.”
“Yeah, it is. And he says to that? He doesn’t watch much TV—even though the stupid TV’s on right then anyway.”
“Huh. Well, I pity his lack of taste in fiction, but—”
“He’s got no books, Zane!” Rolling with it, Brody tossed his hands up. “No books except for that one paperback. I looked when we were cleaning. Not one book. And don’t say e-reader, because he doesn’t have one. I looked. You can’t tell Mom or Dad—not any of this—but I looked in the drawers.”
“I’ll consider this attorney-client privilege, but you know better, Brody.”
Because he did, and maybe he’d deserve the lecture—later—he rushed on. “He wasn’t writing anything either. He was playing Candy Crush on his laptop. I think he’s lying about being an English teacher, and lying about writing a book. How come he’d lie about that?”
“We can’t say for certain he is, but people lie for all kinds
of reasons. How long’s he here?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t check because Mom went back to the office. He’s got a real expensive bottle of Scotch in the cupboard. The kind Pop gave Dad last Christmas. I saw that when I was putting his grocery order away. And his hiking boots hardly have any wear on them. He didn’t recycle, and the bin’s right there! How come somebody driving a Prius doesn’t recycle?
“He’s lying, Zane,” Brody insisted. “People who’re hiding out lie. Criminals lie. Criminals hiding out especially lie, right? Maybe he’s the one killed Clint Draper and tossed him in the lake.”
“Whoa, let’s slow down. You’re making some solid, salient points here. Don’t overstate your case. What’s his name?”
“Bingley. I don’t know his first name, damn it. If Mom leaves the office, I can get into the office computer and find stuff out.”
Jesus, Zane thought, the kid was a pistol already firing.
“Hold off on that, now. There’s no point in you getting into trouble over this.” Considering, Zane picked up his baseball, turned it in his hand. “You came to me, and I’m going to respect that. I’m going to respect you’ve got reasons for feeling what you feel. So I’ll do a little poking around. If everything about him checks out, no harm, no foul. If it doesn’t, I’ll take it to your dad.”
“Promise?”
Zane swiped a finger over his heart. “It might take me a couple days, but I’ll look into it. You do me a favor back, and stay away from that cabin.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
The hesitation told Zane the “okay” had been cover, but the promise would stick. Brody swiped a finger over his heart in turn.
To make it official, Zane took out a legal pad. “All right, let’s get down what you know. Bingley, college professor—you know where?”
“Up north, but the Prius is a rental. He’s maybe like your age, I guess. Not as tall as you. Maybe around six feet and like … one-fifty maybe. He’s got blond hair, sort of long, one of those little beard-type things, blue eyes, and he wears glasses.”
The kid paid attention, Zane thought as he noted it down. He tossed out a few basic questions, dug out what he could.
“I can work with this.” Satisfied, Zane pushed up. “Let’s grab a cold one before my next client comes in.”
He walked to Brody, held out his hand knowing the shake would seal the deal on both sides.
Once he sent the boy off, Zane sat back down at his desk, made more careful notes from their conversation.
He knew Brody was a smart kid, and not just academically. And also a naturally friendly one. Something about Bingley had set him off. And while he hardly saw some guy renting a bungalow on Reflection Lake bashing in Clint Draper’s skull, he’d follow through on his promise.
So he needed a full name, where he supposedly taught, maybe the address on record.
A simple matter—if he could ask Emily, or talk to Lee. But he’d made the promise, had to keep it.
He put the mission aside for his next client, and couldn’t get back to it until the end of the workday.
But he had a plan.
He strolled out as Maureen and Gretchen shut down for the day.
“I should be in by eleven tomorrow,” he said as if both of them wouldn’t know. “I don’t expect I’ll be more than an hour in court.”
“Regardless, your first appointment’s at one-thirty.” Maureen pulled her purse out of her bottom drawer. “You should grab lunch first.”
“How about if I bring lunch back and we have ourselves a picnic on the back patio?”
“I’m in. Not pizza.”
“You’re a hard woman, Maureen. Say, I bet I know something you don’t.”
She gave him a smug, sidelong look. “Prepare to lose.”
“We’ve got a budding Hemingway penning his literary classic in one of the Walker bungalows.”
Maureen flicked her fingers in the air. “As if that’s news to me. College professor from up north, spending a chunk of his summer here for the quiet and inspiration. About your age, I expect. Single since he’s here alone and doesn’t wear a ring.”
“Oh, I met him.” Gretchen shut down her computer, pulled out her own purse. “Mr. Bingley—or I guess it’s Professor Bingley.”
“John Bingley?”
“Ah.” Gretchen paused, brow furrowed as she thought. “No, it was … Blake, Drake, Deke? Something like that. Not John. Why?”
“Not somebody I know then,” Zane said easily. “How’d you meet him?”
“Oh, it was just in passing on the street a few days ago, really. He was looking at the building—like everybody before we had it painted again. I said something, he said something. He wanted to know where he could find a good steak and wine. I told him Grandy’s.”
“Good choice.”
He locked up behind them, considered going down to Grandy’s and poking there. But decided to start with the Blake, Drake, or Deke.
He texted Darby as he walked to his car.
Salt mines are closed. Heading home.
Me, too! I’m right now in line to order pulled pork sans, coleslaw, sweet potato fries. We will feast.
I’ll have a cold beer waiting for you.
Twenty minutes.
Good deal, he thought. Damn good deal.
He drove toward home, top down, looking forward to sharing Brody’s story with Darby—as Brody hadn’t included her in the no-tell. Plus, he wanted her take on it.
Because what was it with a guy driving a Prius who doesn’t use a clearly marked recycle bin? Or an English prof who wouldn’t enjoy talking Steinbeck with a teenage boy?
A puzzle, he thought, a mystery—and one he realized he wanted to get his teeth into. Takes me back, he realized, to working with investigators, to, yeah, puzzling out how to nail down the bad guys.
He turned up his road, wound around a curve. Hit the brakes hard.
The truck sat crosswise, blocking his way. Jed Draper already stood beside it.
And Zane sincerely hoped he wasn’t about to be shot down a quarter of a damn mile from his own home.
He didn’t see a gun as he got out—but it didn’t mean Jed didn’t have one handy.
Still, he had Jed by a couple of inches in height, and while Jed had that tough Draper look about him, Zane figured he could handle himself if Jed stuck with fists.
“You’re blocking the road, Jed.”
“My brother’s in the ground.”
“I know it. I didn’t put him there.”
Jed stepped closer, fists bunched, wiry body at the ready. “My ma thinks you did.”
“I’m sorry your mother lost her son. I don’t think there’s anything harder than that. I didn’t kill him.”
“If you did, they’d cover for you. The whole fucking town would cover for you over a Draper.” He spat in disgust. “So we’re gonna settle it, right here.”
“What’s this going to change? You punch me, I punch you? Clint’s still going to be dead, I still won’t have killed him.”
“He wouldn’t be dead you hadn’t took his wife from him. Whether you threw him in the lake or not, he’d be alive if not for you.”
The hell with it, Zane thought. They weren’t walking away from this without spilled blood and pain. “He’d be alive if he hadn’t come on my land and shot out my doors.”
“Got what you deserved there, less’n you deserved, for putting your nose in our family business. Think you’re better’n him? Better’n me?”
Zane redistributed his weight, because it was coming. “Yeah. I know I am.”
He blocked the first swing by pivoting into it, letting it bounce off his shoulder. Then, shifting his weight again, sent a roundhouse into Jed’s solar plexus. It knocked Jed back, but didn’t stop him. Zane felt the pain of bare knuckles glancing off his chin, used it to fuel his own blows. The fist he connected to Jed’s face slit his lip.
Jed bared bloody teeth, charged like a bull.
&
nbsp; Mistake, Zane thought, and simply danced away while his left pumped an uppercut on Jed’s jaw.
“There’s no point in this,” Zane began, holding off as Jed shook his head clear.
And that was his mistake, not following through. As Jed steamed at him, he remembered Dave’s words to a young boy who needed to learn to fight.
Outside the ring, there’s no fair in fight.
Tasting his own blood, Zane waded in.
* * *
Singing along with Gaga—Zod wiggling as they took the road toward home—Darby decided she’d had a pretty perfect day, and looked forward to capping it off with a pretty perfect evening.
Then she hit the brakes, had one moment of sheer shock as Zod yipped in protest.
She leaped out of the truck, already grabbing her phone out of her pocket as she ran around Zane’s car toward where a man with a bloody face swung a fist toward Zane’s.
Zane snarled out, “No cops!” and the fingersnap of distraction had that fist landing.
She all but felt it in her own body. Her fingers tightened on the phone as the dog began to howl over the nasty sound of knuckles striking flesh and bone.
She made herself breathe—in and out—resisted punching nine-one-one only because she could see, for now at least, Zane had the advantage.
He had good form, she told herself, and Jesus, he could take a punch. But if he didn’t end it soon, she would.
Winded, one eye already swelling, Jed circled, feinted. “When I finish you, I’m going to give your bitch a taste.”
Zane heard his little sister screaming, saw his father dragging her by the hair. With that image in his head, he moved in with a cold fury. If he took more blows, he ignored them, just focused on that image, driving Jed back, driving him back.
Now Jed’s swings went wild, went loopy as he staggered. And still, he stumbled forward, flailing out until his knees buckled.
When he went down, part of Zane wanted to leap on him, to pummel and pummel until he emptied himself out. But he wasn’t his father.
He’d never be his father.
So he put a foot on Jed’s chest to keep the man from getting up again.
“Stay down. Stay down, for Christ’s sake, and use what brains you’ve got. I’m better at this than you, and I’m betting you know damn well I’m better at it than Clint was. I wouldn’t have needed a rock to stop him.” He crouched down, looked into those blackened, swollen eyes. “And if I was the type to use one, you’d be as dead as your brother. You know it wasn’t me.”