You Don't Know Jack Read online

  "Okay." That warm feeling flushed through me again. Stone never asked about my books. "See you tonight around seven."

  Duke hurried off. I spun around in search of my senior gang. Peppermint Patty stepped into my path. I froze, eyes widening, heart tripping. How long had she been lurking behind the stack of books? Eavesdropping? How much had she overheard? Heat and cold tangled through me producing an icy sweat on my brow.

  I took a step to go around her. She countered the move, cutting me off again, drilling me with that insane killer stare. The same creepy sensation — like standing too close to evil — that I'd felt in the nightclub the night Lars was murdered skittered across my skin.

  Had she thrust the knife through his heart?

  Put the black carnation in my bathtub?

  If so, how was I going to prove it? She took a step toward me. I backed up, unable to stifle a shiver.

  Golden Oldies to the rescue. Sophie caught my elbow, whispering. "Geeze, Jack B, did you forget we're on a mission?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The bell over the flower shop door greeted Madam Zee's bracelets like long lost relatives newly reunited. Clashing floral fragrances assaulted my nose, reminding me again of Lars' funeral, and the black carnation floating in my tub. Who'd put it there? Who had been in my bathroom and why — if it was the killer — hadn't he, or she, drowned me?

  The thought started my stomach churning. I wouldn't feel better until I was back on the ferry, headed home.

  The Golden Oldies seemed to have again forgotten our objective in appreciation of their new surroundings.

  "Eve's Apple Garden," Sophie gushed. "Cute name."

  "Cute shop." Madam Zee agreed.

  "Cute schmute!" Ida thumped her cane. "Check out the stock!"

  "Lovely," Sophie said.

  "These hydrangea," Madam Zee said.

  "These bonsai," Sophie said.

  "The spathiphyllum and Dieffenbachia!" Ida brayed.

  My ears glazed over at the names of the displayed plants and flowers. The only thing I recognized was ivy. Make-up, I know. Flora, no clue. When it comes to plants I have a black thumb.

  I spotted Eve at the counter and signaled Sophie to go talk to her. I turned my back, pretending to consider a basket overflowing with greenery and red blooms. I didn't want Eve hustling over to help me. My disguise was back in place, but up-close would fool no one. If I had to come here again, I was wearing a camouflage suit with branches pinned to it.

  I should have stayed on the sidewalk. Or in the car with the guns. Yeah, like guns locked in a glove box would make me bullet proof. What I needed was a Kevlar bodysuit.

  I shook off the thought. The Golden Oldies were still ogling the displays. Sophie hadn't made a move toward Eve. She was listening to Ida reel off biological plant names. Had she just said, "lipstick plant"? There was a plant named Lipstick?

  The bell over the entrance sounded. I glanced around to see a familiar face coming through the door. Not Frankie, but the last person I expected. Carter Hawks, Lars' literary agent. My mouth dropped open, delaying a quick, turn-away reaction.

  Hawks, however, barely glanced in my direction. He walked with purpose, long direct strides, straight to Eve Steele, an air of confidence wafting off him like scent from a perfume counter. What the hell? This was not the man of shadows I'd observed at his office. Not the man who could blend with walls.

  That wasn't a clip holding his designer tie in place. It was a billboard: Big Dog in the Yard. This was the powerhouse agent persona, the underappreciated, underestimated guy who'd dragged Lars from the slush pile and strong-armed him onto the best-seller lists.

  This was every writer's dream agent.

  I peered between the leaves of a lofty plant, gaze glued to the counter, ears straining. Eve's eyes lighted as she welcomed Hawks, but the Golden Oldies chatter drowned the exchange between Frankie's sister and Lars' agent, and I couldn't read lips.

  Was there a class to learn that?

  Eve disappeared into the back room, returning a minute later wearing her coat, and followed by a middle aged woman in a green apron. Eve and Carter Hawks left, chatting. I waited a moment and hurried after them without my "Golden" entourage.

  Outside, curiosity kept me from feeling the cold, but did nothing to ease the sudden sense of vulnerability that swept over me like a foreboding wind. The sidewalk was awash with pedestrians rushing to get indoors and out of the nasty weather. Anyone of them might be the killer. Watching me. Waiting to get me alone. To bump into me, jab a knife between my ribs.

  My pulse roared in my ears. I forced myself to a normal, unhurried pace, knowing I'd had no choice exiting the florist shop without my sisters in crime. I couldn't risk the bray of a ninety-year-old, or the clamorous jewelry of a senior fortuneteller drawing unwanted attention in my direction as I stalked Hawks and Eve. The situation called for covert action, for a one-woman surveillance.

  I had to figure out what was going on between these two. I was too far away to overhear their conversation, but if I closed the gap too swiftly, I might be caught out. I swallowed my frustration, settling for longer strides.

  Eve and Carter turned into a restaurant half a block ahead. I hustled forward, then waited a beat of ten. Customer chatter, taped piano music, and fragrant seafood aromas hit me as I stepped inside. Beyond the reception desk, the interior was wide open spaces with lofty exposed beams, antique tables sporting mismatched chairs on scuffed wood flooring. Tall green plants and a fireplace added warmth.

  From across the room I spied a tall red headed man stand and wave to Eve and Carter. Frankie. I froze, ducked back, my brain trying to connect dots that seemed ever more disconnected. It was all I could do not to grab a tray and bring water to their table, anything that would get me near enough to catch some of the conversation.

  No. I couldn't risk it, but I had to do something.

  "Table for one?" the hostess asked. I glanced at her, then back at the room. None of the tables near my suspects was available. "Ma'am?"

  Moment of truth. "No, that's okay. I-I forgot something. In my car." I pointed toward the door, shuffled back a step, grimacing, my face contorted and hot. Outside, a blast of cold air greeted me, kicking salt into the wounds of my disappointment and frustration. Damn. I had no idea how to find out what was going on between my suspects. Nor any idea what common ground a florist, a bartender, and a literary agent shared.

  All I could do was retrieve my elderly bodyguards and head to the second leg of today's mission.

  "Jack B!" the shout came as though cued. The Golden Oldies tottered toward me.

  "We've been looking all over for you, dear." It was difficult to feel reprimanded by Sophie, whose face twinkled when she spoke. "Like my Hermie always said, 'look in the most obvious place.' We did and here you are."

  Bless Hermie, I thought. They arrived breathless. I apologized for scaring them. Privately, I hoped they hadn't returned to the car for their weapons when they'd discovered me gone.

  "We have much to tell you," Madam Zee said, grabbing my arm with a clatter of jewelry and steering me into the very restaurant that I'd just sneaked out of. "Over drinks."

  "Table for four!" Ida brayed before I hustle them back outside.

  "The waitress parked us across the room from my trio of suspects whose heads were bent close like crooks studying the blueprint of a bank they were about to rob.

  As much as I wanted to walk past that table, to eye the document they were perusing, I sat instead with my back to the trio, Ida beside me, Sophie across from her and Madam Zee across from me. I cautioned, "Ladies, we need to keep our voices low."

  Madam Zee ordered tea for all of us. I hate tea. I changed my order to venti breve caramel macchiato. I needed bracing. Something tall and strong. Like my men.

  As soon as we were alone, Madam Zee leaned toward me like she might over a crystal ball, eyes wide, her voice spooky. "You know the clerk at the florist shop?"

  "Middle aged woman in the green ap
ron?" I asked, afraid to hope they might actually have found out something useful.

  "She didn't know anything about, um, which team Frankie plays for," Sophie said, back to the baseball metaphors. "In fact, she blushed something awful when I said the word 'sex'."

  Madam Zee nodded sagely. "Like it was a filthy word."

  "Like she was still a virgin!" Ida said in a resounding stage whisper that I was pretty sure everyone within two blocks had heard. Then all three of them laughed. I felt the tips of my ears heat, again. I wished we were in the car. Windows up. Doors locked. On a desert island.

  If not that, the floor might cooperate and swallow me whole, but that wasn't happening either. Instead, my whole body was blushing.

  "Jack B," Madam Zee leaned toward me again, her eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. "Who are those two men, the florist is plotting with?"

  Plotting? Then I wasn't alone in thinking the behavior of my three suspects looked covert. I told them and watched three sets of eyes widen.

  "The big redhead is Frankie?" Sophie said, over her half glasses, her gaze drinking him in. She frowned and leaned in again. "That man is definitely not gay."

  "How can you tell?" Madam Zee stirred fake sugar into her tea. "He looks like a magazine model and you know..."

  Sophie puffed up like a proud hen. "My Hermie always said I could spot, er, the 'same team players', at ninety paces."

  "Yep, she's got the gay-dar!" Ida said.

  I choked on a mouthful of venti breve caramel macchiato that I'd almost spewed across the table.

  Sophie sipped her tea with her little finger out. "Besides, if he preferred gents, he wouldn't be ogling the waitress with the big gazoombas."

  I resisted the urge to follow where Madam Zee's gaze went, even though her brows forked skyward. "Oh, yes, I see what you mean."

  Ida craned around trying to get a look, and I felt the caramel macchiato rolling around in my stomach like a pinball missing the high scores and heading straight into loser zone. None of my theories were panning out. I might not be able to find the proof I needed against Peppermint Patty. And maybe Frankie didn't even belong on the suspect list. But damn it, I had heard him and Eve plotting my demise. I had. I sighed my disappointment at another dead end. "Well, I guess, then it's safe to say Frankie didn't have a romantic reason for killing Lars."

  "No," Madam Zee said, as though she'd read it in her tea leaves just now. "But he might have had a professional one."

  I frowned. "Are you talking about his encouraging Bruce not to sign the new contract with Dinah if she didn't enhance his salary and benefits?"

  "I wouldn't know about that," Madam Zee said.

  "Me, either." Sophie peered at me over the half glasses. "You didn't tell us to ask that, dear. Did you?"

  "Nope!" Ida chimed in. "I would've remembered! My hearing ain't so good, but my memory's Cracker Jack!"

  I squelched my impatience. "Then what did you mean about Frankie having a possible professional reason to kill Lars?"

  "Rivalry... maybe?" Madam Zee said.

  I was scowling so hard my head felt ready to explode. "Please. Someone. Explain."

  "It's what the clerk told us." Madam Zee glanced toward the trio of suspects, then wrote on a piece of paper and pushed it across the table toward me. I read: Frankie and Eve are writing a book.

  I blinked, certain I was misreading the looping script. Nope. That's what it said. I swear I heard Lars in my head scream, "Jesus. Everyone thinks they can write a book!"

  Was their book the reason Frankie and Eve were huddled with Hawks? Had he agreed to be their agent? I was oddly jealous and totally bemused.

  "It's a romance!" Ida brayed. "Murder and sex!"

  I felt eyes from all across the room burrowing into us.

  "Our favorite genre." Sophie's snowy head bobbed in confirmation. "Even my Hermie loved romantic suspense."

  I straightened my spine, a wayward connection clicking inside my fried brain. They were writing a romantic suspense? Murder and sex. Why did those words ring a chord? I smiled to myself as recall came. This was the genre favored by my elusive suspect, Ruth Lester.

  An interesting possibility began taking shape. Were Frankie and Eve actually Ruth Lester? I'd been unable to find a photo of Ruth Lester. Or anyone who'd seen her. Even Teri Steele, who'd edited her book, had neither spoken to nor met her. Or was she lying about that?

  I needed to find out. Right now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On the theory four minds are better than one, I shared my suspicion with the Golden Oldies that Frankie and Eve were writing under the pseudonym of Ruth Lester.

  "Or maybe Teri Steele is Ruth Lester!" Ida said, from the back seat of Sophie's Volvo. Sharp cookies come in all sorts of packages, even deaf with wrinkled, transparent skin and bullhorn brays.

  "We'll know soon enough, Ida," Madam Zee said in her eeriest voice, sending a shiver through me.

  Teri was expecting me, though I hadn't warned her I wouldn't be alone, or that she might be forced to have a Tarot reading.

  "Listen, ladies," I said. "We need to be even more subtle with Teri Steele than with her sister."

  "We didn't even talk to her sister, dear," Sophie said, as though I'd forgotten.

  "Can't get more subtle than that!" Ida shouted from the back seat.

  "Yes, I know." How did I tell my well-meaning bodyguards that I didn't want to piss off the woman who was editing my book without pissing them off? Maybe I could say: Let me do the talking, okay? Yeah, like that was going to happen. I really should add duct tape to my PI kit. I didn't suppose Sophie had some in her knitting bag.

  Or in the glove box.

  As I eyed the glove box another worry stirred. Maybe I should re-arm these women. The car poked through traffic toward the back roads that would lead us to our destination. Every passing block increased the sense of uneasiness I'd felt since I'd been in the bookstore. Maybe I shouldn't have had twenty ounces of caramel macchiato.

  But what if it wasn't the venti? Was it fair to drag my elderly companions into a potentially deadly situation without a means of protecting themselves? It's not like they didn't know how to handle the guns. It's not like they didn't have permits to carry concealed. My finger bumped the glove box button. It popped open. No longer locked. My heart skipped. The revolvers were gone.

  Three grinning old dames confirmed it: we were armed to the dentures.

  Please God, I prayed, don't let them shoot the book doctor.

  The jitters in my stomach were worse as we pulled into the lane that led to Teri Steele's house. I couldn't pinpoint the source of my foreboding. Was it that my companions were carrying deadly weapons or was it my nervousness over what the book doctor was going to tell me about my manuscript?

  Though I admit to being both excited and terrified about the evaluation. I had done plenty of revisions. I had had plenty of rejections, but none of those occurred face to face with an actual editor, and though Teri Steele could no longer acquire manuscripts for her publishing house, she had influence. She could potentially recommend this story... or not.

  Did I have what it took to write a sellable manuscript?

  Or was Lars right?

  I reminded myself that Teri already liked the story enough to offer to work with me. That meant I had, at least, a modicum of talent. Did that also mean Lars' reluctance to so much as read my work came from his own insecurities?

  "Did not," Lars said.

  "Liar," I countered, keeping the conversation inside my head. I offered an olive branch, "I suspect most writers are insecure."

  Lars said, "Humph. Your rattled confidence, darlin', is a result of the fear that you mightn't be able to take the book doctor's suggestions and translate them into a sellable work of fiction."

  "Lars Larson, the recently deceased, newly self-certified psychologist." He said nothing. Gone again. Why did he just pop in and out like a jack in the box, scaring me to death, but offering zero help in solving his murder?
/>   Then again, maybe being stuck halfway between Heaven and wherever he was headed didn't give a spirit all-knowing insight.

  I had to give him one thing, though: he'd nailed the root of my fear. I'd always heard pinpointing the source of a phobia would ease the anxiety a bit. It wasn't working. Why?

  The chattering little old ladies clarified the problem. The less than private office in Teri's home meant they would all hear whatever Teri had to say about my manuscript.

  Well, okay, so Ida wouldn't hear. The others would.

  Writing was so personal, I'd rather this possibly embarrassing meeting went down without witnesses. It was one thing to have your work shredded by a professional in private, quite another to have an audience to triple the humiliation.

  Given the circumstances, though, I couldn't and wouldn't ask my Golden entourage to wait in the car. Safety in numbers. But first: some ground rules.

  "Ladies, while I'm working with Teri, you'll all need to occupy yourselves with something else."

  "In other words, no eavesdropping!" Ida brayed. Not much got past the ninety-year-old.

  "I'll just knit, dear," Sophie said, tapping her holster, er knitting bag.

  "I got a book!" Ida shouted.

  "My Tarots." Madam Zee thumbed the edge of cards with a riffing sound like a Las Vegas dealer sensing high rollers at her table.

  Assurances to the contrary, I couldn't trust they wouldn't listen in. Too bad I didn't have three iPods and three sets of head phones.

  We pulled to the curb in front of Teri Steele's sad house. The gloomy gray siding echoed the sky. "It's such an ugly little rambler," Sophie said. "Some fresh paint in a sunnier color would go a long ways. I'll suggest it."

  "It has a bad aura," Madam Zee said. "Someone died here. Recently."

  How recently? I wanted to ask, but wasn't about to be distracted on this most important day with ghost tales. My manuscript took priority.

  "Dreadful flowerbeds! Shameful hedge!" Ida tsked, her wrinkles forming a mask of disgust. "This Teri Steele oughta be arrested for garden abuse!"

  We trouped to the door, my three companions mumbling disapproval of the walkway and something that sounded like a chant to ward off evil spirits. I knocked. We waited. No footsteps came toward us, but then, who could hear anything with the rock music blaring inside?