Calamity Jena (Invertary Book 4) (8 page)

“Can get a man to cover here on Saturday,” he said by way of hello.

Matt nodded, but was mainly interested in the flask of coffee Lake still held. He reached for the food and coffee. “You coming in?”

“Too busy.” Lake pointed in the direction of Matt’s feet. “You going to take those inside?”

Matt looked down and his heart stilled. There was a large bunch of red roses in a crystal vase. He frowned, wondering which one of Jena’s many admirers was dropping off flowers now.

“My hands are full.” He nodded to the vase. “Can you read the card?”

Lake picked it up, opened the tiny envelope and pursed his lips. “Jena, baby, all is forgiven. Love you, Frank.”

Matt glared at the card, hoping it would burst into flames.

“Who’s at the door?” Jena’s sleepy voice broke through the rage that clenched Matt’s stomach.

“Just Lake delivering breakfast.”

He was hoping she’d go through to the kitchen, but she had to be polite. She pushed up beside him. Her face breaking out into a wide smile.

“Hi, Lake. Thanks for bringing food. Matt doesn’t want to eat my Pop-Tarts and I don’t want to waste them on him.”

“Pop-Tarts?” Lake cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Think flavoured cardboard with a sugary syrup filling that’s hot enough to burn the taste buds off your tongue.”

Lake’s lips twitched. One of these days the guy would have to give in and join the rest of humanity by actually smiling when the feeling hit.

“Oh, flowers!” Jena pushed past Matt to scoop up the vase. She inhaled deeply. Her eyes sparkled and she grinned at him. “Where’s the card?”

Matt nodded at Lake, who solemnly handed it over. Then he watched as the joy melted from Jena’s face when she read it.

“He forgives me?” She looked up at him. “He forgives me?”

She thrust the vase at Matt. Making him drop the bag of food in order to catch the flowers. Jena fisted her hands on her hips. Her eyes were blazing. She tossed her wild, uncombed hair.

“He forgives me. How freaking gracious of him. I wasn’t the one who slept with every stripper in Atlantic City. I wasn’t the one who threw away a four-year relationship by being a man-whore. I wasn’t the one who was caught balls deep in a stripper called Candy.” She pointed at Matt. “A woman with a bad boob job and bleached hair.” She looked like she wanted to punch someone. Lake must have seen it too, because both men stepped back at the same time. “I’m going to kill him.”

She stormed into the house, her cute behind swaying in her purple cotton shorts, her matching tank slipping off her shoulder. At the bottom of the stairs, she spun back towards them.

“Forget I said that about killing him. If anything should happen to him, I’m sure it would have nothing to do with me and would in no way be premeditated.” With that, she stomped up the stairs. “Give the flowers to your mother, Matt,” she shouted. “I don’t want them wasted, but I don’t want them in this house.” Then her door slammed shut.

The men waited in silence for a minute to see if she had anything to add.

“Want me to drop those off at your mum’s house? I’m passing.” Lake reached for the flowers, and Matt didn’t hesitate to hand them over.

“Best she doesn’t see them again.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Lake took the flowers. His jaw hardened. “I’ll check in with Harry, see if he’s come up with anything yet. You want me to have a word with Frank’s boys?”

“Not yet. Let’s talk to Harry first.”

He cast a glance into the house when he heard banging coming from upstairs. “I need to deal with this.”

Lake gave him a rare grin. “Yeah, have fun with that.”

With a grunt, Matt grabbed the food, kicked the door closed and headed for the rickety kitchen table.

“Come eat, Jena,” he shouted as he passed the stairs. “You need energy to kill a man.”

With a grin of his own, he poured a mug of coffee and sighed. This was not a day he could face without being fortified by caffeine.

It took almost an hour of listening to Jena rant before she wound down. When she did, Matt gently explained that he had everything under control, and until they were better informed the best course of action would be to ignore the flowers.

It took another ten minutes to get her to promise to do as she was told. He then dropped her off at work and had a chat with Gordon. The old man was grim, but promised to take good care of his charge. Lake’s security business was two doors down from the hardware store, and Matt knew without asking that Lake would be on the lookout. With Jena as secure as he could make her for the morning, Matt decided to visit his dad.

The drive to Fort William took him through the ominous scenery of Glencoe, with its barren hills and narrow valley road. It wasn’t hard to imagine it as the scene of a massacre. There would be nowhere for people to hide. Nowhere to run. The place always made him feel melancholy. Especially when the piper was at the top of one of the hills blasting out bagpipe music for the tourists. Matt hated the bagpipes. It sounded like someone was abusing a bag of cats.

His mood hadn’t improved any when he pulled into the car park of the nursing home—his father’s residence for the past two years. He spotted his mother’s car. He wasn’t surprised she was already there. She visited every single day, ill or well, no matter the weather, and she never complained when he didn’t recognise her or called her someone else’s name.

He swept through the corridors, nodding hello to the nurses until he made it to his dad’s olive-green door. It was open and his mother was sitting beside the hospital bed telling his father all about her day.

“You should have seen Morag’s face when the big tourist complained about her pies. He said that there was too much fat in his. I thought Morag was going to burst a blood vessel. I swear I saw her head swell, and she pursed her lips so hard they disappeared into a tight wee line. You know how proud she is of her pies. They won one award twenty-two years ago and she’s never stopped telling people since.” She mimicked the local bakery owner: “My award-winning pies are the best pies in Scotland.” She grinned before her voice returned to normal. “The man said, ‘I don’t care if they’ve won awards, I want my money back. I’m not eating fat-filled pastry.’ It was brilliant. Best thing I’ve seen in ages. It’s about time someone took Morag down a peg or two.”

She leaned over and brushed his father’s hair off his forehead with her fingers. “You used to love those pies,” she said softly. “I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”

His father stared into space, oblivious to her words. Matt felt his chest tighten. He cleared his throat as he strode into the room.

“Hey, Mum.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “How’s it going? How is he today?”

She gave Matt a tight hug. “He’s doing great.” She looked back at her husband of thirty-five years. “Aren’t you, Bruce?” The room may as well have been empty. She turned back to Matt. “He’s thinking hard today.” She smiled sadly.

“Good to hear.” He settled into the chair beside the bed, noticing the dark circles under his mum’s eyes. She wasn’t sleeping. Instead she was grieving the husband who slipped through her fingers a little more each day, and there was nothing her son could do to make it better for her. “Why don’t you go get a cup of tea and a bite to eat while I sit with him? He needs a little man talk, don’t you, Dad?”

Matt’s chest hurt looking at the man who’d once taken up so much space in his life. The man who’d taught him how to be a man. He owed everything he was to his dad.

“Thanks, love,” his mum said. “I am a bit hungry. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time,” Matt said. “But bring me back a coffee. I can’t shake that dozy feeling today.”

“No problem.” She winked at him, smoothed her hand over her short blonde hair and glanced at her husband with such brutal longing it made Matt hold his breath. “I’ll be back soon,” she said as she left the room.

Matt rubbed his chest as he turned back to his dad. “I’ve got to tell you about this crazy woman I’m looking out for,” he said. “You’d get a kick out her.”

His dad’s eyes fought to focus on Matt’s face. “Donald?” His voice was a raw croak, brittle from lack of use.

Matt swallowed hard. His dad never called him Donald. That was the name of the uncle he’d been named after. Matt didn’t mind; he was used to playing the part of his long-dead uncle. “That’s right,” Matt told him as he reached for his hand. “It’s Donald. How’s the family doing, Bruce?”

“Good, good.” He looked confused. “I thought you were at sea.”

“I was. Came back to see you, you old codger.”

The smile his father gave him was worth every moment of the pain Matt felt. “Who you calling an old codger? I’m two years younger than you.”

“That you are, that you are.” Matt squeezed his father’s brittle hand. Holding on to more than his skin, trying to hold on to the man who was fading away. He fought to get words past his tight throat. “Tell me about that lovely wife of yours.”

He watched as his dad’s whole face lit up so much it was blinding. “Heather,” he said on a sigh. “She takes my breath away. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Aye,” Matt said. “Aye, I do.”

And an image of a crazy American woman flashed into his mind.

He watched as the effort of talking proved too much for his dad and his eyes became heavy with sleep. Matt didn’t move, he just sat there, holding his hand.

The way his father had always done for him when he was a boy.

Jena was close to the end of her first shift at the hardware store and she couldn’t have been more ready to go home. Gordon and Brenda had hovered over her all day, like a couple of grey-haired bodyguards. She was fine with the hovering—the hovering was kind of sweet. What she didn’t enjoy was Gordon’s constant laughter. The man, along with his sick sense of humour, was beginning to get on her nerves. It was time to deal with him—after she’d dealt with her latest customer. She gave the man a beaming smile.

“Welcome to Stewart hardware, how can I help you?”

“Do you have any size-six washers?” the timid little man asked.

Jena frowned. “I think you have the wrong shop. We only sell DIY stuff. If you want a washer you need to go along the road to the furniture place. They’ve got a selection of washing machines and dishwashers. I don’t know if they have size six, but I’m sure they’ll order one if they don’t have it in stock.”

The guy stared at her, open-mouthed. Gordon’s laughter told her she’d screwed up again. That was it. She’d had enough. She held a finger up to the guy in front of her, giving him a strained smile. “Give me one minute.”

She stomped over to stand in front of Gordon. She put her hands on her hips. “That’s it. I’ve had enough. This isn’t funny. Nothing about this is funny. How am I supposed to know this stuff? It isn’t like it’s genetically programmed into you at birth.” She pointed a finger at him. “Somebody taught you, Gordon Stewart. Now stop laughing, get up off your lazy backside and teach me what I need to know.”

She stomped back to the customer, who looked like he was going to hyperventilate and pass out. She gave him her winning smile. It had no impact. She felt Gordon come up beside her.

“All you had to do was ask,” he grumbled. “There was no need for the histrionics.”

Oh, she could feel her blood boil now. It must have come across in her face, because Gordon paled slightly. “Is that even a word?”

He swallowed hard. “Let’s get back to dealing with the customer. We do sell washers.”

Jena looked around. “Where? I haven’t seen any, and I think I would have noticed something that size.”

Gordon pulled a drawer open in the wall of drawers behind the counter. “Size six, you said?”

The customer nodded, his relief clear.

“Here you go.” Gordon passed a small, flat metal disc with a hole in the middle to the guy.

“That’s a washer?” Jena pointed at it. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you pulling my leg?” She turned to the customer. “Did he put you up to this?” She jerked her thumb at her boss.

“No.” The guy went wide-eyed. “That really is a washer and I really do need one.”

“Mm.” She folded her arms and tapped the toe of her Mexican wedge sandal on the tile-covered floor. “Pay the man,” she ordered the customer.

The guy rushed to do as he was told, grabbed the tiny metal disc and ran from the shop.

“There’s no need to be rude to the customers,” Gordon said gruffly.

Jena growled, the noise startling even her. “I’ll get something to take notes with. You”—she poked a finger into his burly chest—“are going to open each of those drawers and tell me what’s in them. I want to know what it is and what it’s used for. Got it?”

“Got it.” Gordon looked suitably cowed. Good.

“Here you go, love.” Brenda passed her a notebook and pen. “I wondered how long it would take you to snap. You’re far too nice. Most people wouldn’t have lasted an hour, and you made it through the whole morning.” She turned to her husband. “I hope you had your fun this morning, because it’s the only fun you’re getting all month.” Her raised eyebrow and Gordon’s suddenly red cheeks made Brenda’s meaning clear.

It was Jena’s turn to laugh.