Chapter 4

 

I rechecked the figures I’d entered into my tax preparation program. Something wasn’t making sense and it had to be my mistake—after all, these programmers guaranteed the math would be correct. I went through it again but the problem with scrolling up and down the computer screen was that I began to lose track of my place—which line on which form. I took a deep breath.

Babysitting the twin girls hadn't been so awful, I thought, in retrospect. They were cute kids and well behaved, as I remembered. Gram had handled most of the actual work and I mostly watched them play with a plastic toy where they were supposed to press buttons and cause plastic animals to make squawking sounds. The problem-causer in the room had been me.

I flushed with embarrassment at how rude I’d been to Elsa in those years. She’s such a sweetheart and was so kind and self-sacrificing for me, and all I could do was find fault. Over the years, I’ve apologized for my behavior back then, but my conscience still niggles at me whenever a scene from the past comes back. How could I have thrown a fit over a pink bedroom? Elsa and I have laughed over that one.

The stupid tax return still didn’t make sense. I decided I needed to get some distance and look at it later. I printed the forms and jammed them into a folder. Freckles popped up out of a dead sleep the moment I switched off my computer, recognizing the signal for going home. Going home meant having dinner and, to a dog, any meal is cause for celebration.

Downstairs, Sally’s desk sat neat and empty. I’d not heard her leave, nor had I remembered Ron saying goodbye, but by the hollow sound in the office I knew he’d gone for the day. I switched off the few remaining lights and paused in the kitchen to load the coffee maker for tomorrow morning. Those chores done, I opened the back door and raced Freckles for the Jeep. She won. She always wins.

My once-pristine Cherokee was showing her age, victim of a few mishaps during some of my cases—a small dent here, a long scratch there. Although Drake and I are fairly caring about our vehicles, dogs are less cautious and the interior had definitely seen better days, I thought, as I tossed the file of tax papers onto the front passenger seat after letting Freckles into the back. Still, I love the old girl. I slid into my well-worn seat and started the engine.

The afternoon air held a hint of the chill that would descend when the sun went down, but for now it was lovely out—a deep blue sky, abundant sunshine and barely a breeze. I powered all four windows partway down and let the dog stick her nose out to enjoy whatever array of scents she could pick up.

We covered the few miles home in under ten minutes, while I thought ahead to dinner. Drake had taken steaks out of the freezer this morning, which meant baked potatoes and a salad to go along. He’s a master at salads and at the grill, so it left me with only one duty: placing two potatoes in the microwave and pressing the button. I can handle that.

I turned onto our quiet residential street, my Jeep knowing the turns all on its own. Ahead, a flash of red caught my eye, a Corvette in a driveway across the street. One of the Delaney twins was walking toward it and she must have hit her key fob button to unlock the car. She didn’t look up, concentrating on something in her hands—a smartphone, no doubt.

Another blast from the past hit me then, memories of my irritation with Elsa’s having only one telephone in her house. Even in our own home, there were several extensions; none of us had cell phones in those days. The idea of a teenager with a telephone she could carry absolutely anywhere might have intrigued my father but would have scared my mother to pieces.

I chuckled at the thought as I pulled into my driveway and parked beside Drake’s truck. Behind me, the red Corvette roared past. I let Freckles out of the back seat and put a protective hand on her, although the sports car had now turned at the corner. I wondered if I should say something to the girls, warn them about driving so fast on a quiet street where pets and kids could dash out. Sheesh—maybe I was becoming my father.

In the kitchen, Drake was already working his magic with salad ingredients at the cutting board.

“Hey you,” he said, leaning backward to accept the kiss I delivered. “I thought I’d get an early start on this, so we’ll have time to sit out under the gazebo a little while before it turns too chilly.”

A bottle of merlot already sat open at the end of the counter and two filets were seasoned and waiting in the fridge.

“Did I ever tell you, you’re the best?”

“You could say it again if you want.”

Instead, I kissed the back of his neck.

“You brought work home?” he asked, with a nod toward the folder in my hand.

“Ugh, tax stuff. I only have a couple more days to finish this. I’ll take a look at it after I’m filled with a fabulous dinner, although I’ll feel too wiped out to think about details.”

“Makes perfect sense to me,” he said with a laugh.

The mention of work reminded me of Ron’s newest case.

“Have you ever heard of a company called Innocent Times?” I asked as I took two potatoes from the wire basket in the pantry.

“I haven’t, but the name makes it sound like something not quite so innocent.”

“Funny you should pick up on that. Ron says it’s what is known as an alibi company. They’re in business to provide alibis for people who don’t want someone to know where they’ve really been and what they’ve really been doing.”

“Or who they’ve really been doing?” He teased with the lightheartedness of someone with a clear conscience. “I’m only guessing … your brother seems to catch a lot of those cases.”

“That’s what it is, and the current one involves somebody with quite a pile of money.”

“Do we know this horrible cad?”

This time I laughed. “Well, we don’t know he’s a horrible cad, not yet. It’s Bob Lorrento’s wife who hired us.”

“NFL Bobby Lorrento?”

“Yeah, but you cannot say anything, okay? We don’t know for sure.”

“It won’t take long to find out,” Drake said. “He’s got a reputation as a womanizer. I doubt the news would surprise anyone.”

“You do know that I would murder you if you ever did that,” I said with a wink.

“And I would deserve it.”

He put the salad bowl into the fridge, pressed the microwave button for the potatoes, and turned to take me into his arms. Nuzzling my neck, he murmured, “I will never, ever, ever hurt you, Charlie. You are the most important person in the world to me.”

Somehow, we forgot about the wine and the gazebo after that, and it was nearly eight p.m. before the steaks went on the grill and we sat down to a very, very satisfying dinner.