But it had taken him months to get the dinner service going at the restaurant. He’d had to fight his way through the previous manager of the inn who wanted to use the Rose as her scapegoat, and then he’d had to prove to the new manager that the operation would be profitable. They still only served five nights a week, when they should be doing six, and they still weren’t pulling in as many customers as he thought they should.
So he dropped in on the evening service and greeted customers and bugged Darcy, who could undoubtedly have run the meal by herself with no trouble.
He should just do the smart thing and let her alone. Or he should switch things around and let her run breakfast so that he could do lunch and dinner. Only he loved the omelet station.
Get a grip. You are a frigging basket case
.
The remedy for being a frigging basket case was clear. He needed to see MG, and he needed to see her now.
He turned his truck onto the highway that led to Bleeker, or the highway that led to the Bleeker Roadhouse, anyway. The town of Bleeker, what was left of it, was somewhere off in the brush.
He surveyed the building as he pulled into the parking lot. It looked like one of those places that showed up in blurry black-and-white photos of crime scenes. Some of the bulbs in the sign had burned out, so that it read “Bleker Roahouse,” which didn’t exactly help the ambience.
He took a deep breath and unwrapped his hands from the steering wheel. MG was a functioning adult. She didn’t need or want him to tell her how to run her life. On the other hand, he wished to hell she’d confine her singing to places that didn’t look like they probably had more roaches than customers.
He checked his watch. Nine o’clock. Surely she could knock off now. Hell, he’d throw a twenty into the donation jar just to get her to stop.
As he started across the parking lot, he heard voices from the side of the building. He paused. Parking lots at dives like the Bleeker Roadhouse weren’t the safest places he could think of. If there was going to be trouble it would help to know about it in advance.
A dim circle of reflected light shone at the far side of the building, probably above the back door. He could see shadows, maybe two people, maybe more.
As he got closer, the voices were more distinct—a man and a woman. And then, of course, he recognized the woman.
“Look,” MG was saying, “I just want the take. Nothing else. I’m not hungry, I’m not thirsty, and I need to get home.”
“Ah, come on, sugar,” the man said. “Just a burger and a beer. Nothing big. We can talk about some future gigs. Maybe even set up something with another act—get you some real cash.”
Joe moved more slowly. He didn’t particularly want to walk in on this conversation until MG had a chance to work it out. He had a feeling once he rounded the corner of the building, the discussion part would be over. He wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but talking probably wouldn’t be a big part of it.
“No,” MG said. Her voice sounded tired. But maybe also something else. Joe’s hand’s flexed into fists.
“Hey, sugar…”
The hell with it.
Joe stepped around the corner.
MG stood at the far side of the circle of light cast by a bare bulb above the door. The man standing across from her turned as he heard Joe’s step. Long greasy hair, bad teeth, a real winner.
“Who are you?” Bad Teeth snarled.
“The lady’s escort.” Joe flexed his hands. Grabbing the guy by the throat probably wasn’t called for. Yet.
Bad Teeth glanced back toward MG. “You know him?”
She nodded. “He’s my ride home. I need the take. Now.”
Bad Teeth gave her a long look, then pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. He peeled a couple off the top. “House percentage,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on MG.
Her lips tightened. Joe began rethink the whole
grabbing the throat
thing.
Finally, MG extended her hand. Bad Teeth gave her the bills and a smattering of change. She wadded it into her jeans pocket. “Thanks.”
Bad Teeth nodded curtly, then pushed the back door open again without a word. It slammed shut behind him.
Joe figured it was a toss-up whether MG would be pissed at him for barging in or relieved that he’d made the guy pay up. Whichever it was, he really wanted to get moving before somebody else came out of the club. “Do you actually need a ride?”
She shook her head. “I drove. I just wanted to say something that would get him to leave.” She blew out a breath. “Thanks.”
Okay, relief. Relief was good. “No problem. Who was that guy?”
“The manager.” She turned back toward the parking lot.
Joe fell into step beside her. “He wouldn’t pay you?”
“He said he was going to pay me. He just wanted to do it over dinner.”
Joe’s hands formed fists again. Going back into the club and reducing the manager to a bloody heap had a certain appeal. On the other hand, that would mean leaving MG alone in the parking lot. “Are you going to play here again?”
She shook her head. “Nope.” She leaned down to unlock her car. “Sorry you missed the performance. Not that it was all that memorable.” Her eyes seemed suddenly huge in the dim light, her shoulders rounded slightly in defeat.
He reached for her, pulling her tight into his arms. “I’m sorry I missed it too, babe. I won’t miss the next one. I promise.”
She leaned against him for a moment, then stepped back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m not upset,” she mumbled.
“Okay.” He managed to keep the incredulous tone out of his voice.
“I’m mad. I’m not upset.”
“Okay.” Now at least he felt a little more on balance. “Good girl.”
“I think I want to go home now. You going to follow me?”
He nodded. “Count on it.”
Once they were back at the house, Joe set about making her a sandwich with some smoked chicken he’d brought with him. He was the only boyfriend she’d ever had who cooked for her. On the other hand, most of her previous boyfriends could have registered saucepans as weapons of mass destruction.
Joe cooked for people he liked. And that included her, fortunately.
“Is this from the Rose?” she asked, savoring her first bite.
He nodded. “Had some leftover from breakfast. Figured it shouldn’t go to waste.”
She frowned. “Does that count as a loss for the restaurant—taking food, I mean?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “It’s a loss either way, though. We couldn’t use this anymore. Better that somebody eats it than that it goes into the garbage.”
She licked her lips, taking a sip of her beer. “I’ve seen…other people take things from the kitchen too. Food, I mean.”
“Sure. Everybody does it. But we’re talking about a few slices of ham here or some leftover salad there. And people are taking it home to eat or serve to somebody else.” He gave her a quick smile. “What Dietz was doing was major theft. And he wasn’t going to cook it for anybody.”
“And Fairley?”
His smile darkened. “God only knows what all the Beav was up to. Probably selling whatever Dietz managed to steal. He was smart enough to cover his tracks, anyway.” He sat down across from her, pushing his plate away from him. “Now I’ve got some questions for you about this place.”
“Ask away.” She leaned back in her chair, her shoulders suddenly tense again.
“How much is your mortgage payment?”
She took a breath. “Around a thousand a month, give or take.”
He glanced around the farmhouse, his brow furrowing, and she could almost read his mind.
For this dump?
“What’s the acreage?” he asked.
“Not much. About four or five acres. Grandpa sold off a lot of his land to pay for my grandmother’s cancer treatment.”
Joe was still frowning. “Why the mortgage?”
“Same thing.” She shrugged. “He had to pay the bills. Nobody would give him a loan, so he went to Great-Aunt Nedda. She holds the note on the place.”
“Sounds like she didn’t give him much of a break.”
She shrugged again. “She wouldn’t. I don’t think she thought of him as her brother. He was just another…client. You don’t know Aunt Nedda.”
“I’m not sure I want to.” He leaned forward. “Are you behind in your payments?”
She shook her head. “So far, I’ve kept up. Grandpa missed a payment while he was in the hospital, but left me a little money and I’m using that to pay her. Plus whatever I earn singing and working at the Rose.” She paused, feeling the usual ache around her heart that happened whenever she thought about her grandfather. “It’s what he wanted.”
“That you pay it off?”
She sighed. “That I have the farm. I don’t know what was up between him and Aunt Nedda exactly, but he didn’t want her to have it. And I wanted him to rest easy. I promised him I’d keep the farm going.”
Joe frowned. “So this is your family farm? The Carmody family farm?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I think it was my great-great-grandfather who settled it, but it’s been in the family for a while.” Of course, if Great-Aunt Nedda took the farm it would still sort of be in the family. But it wasn’t what Grandpa had in mind.
The silence stretched between them for a moment, then he shook his head. “Look, about the idea of my paying rent…”
Her lips quirked up. “I’m not there yet. I may be soon, but right now I want to do it on my own. I owe it to him.”
And a lot more.
After all, he’d been the one who’d taken her in when her confidence was in tatters. Even if she’d been the one who was supposed to take care of him.
“Let me know when you get there, okay?” His own smile turned dry. “I’d hate to have this place sold out from under me. I’m sort of used to old Robespierre by now.”
“Believe me,” she said slowly, “you’ll be among the first to know.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was the noise that woke MG. By now she’d gotten used to Robespierre crowing at some ungodly hour and then repeating it regularly for a while thereafter. She could sleep through that. But this was the chickens, clucking frantically, almost screaming.
She pushed herself up, grabbing the clock to stare at the time. Three in the morning. Why the hell would her chickens start complaining at three in the morning? Joe muttered something, but she wasn’t sure he was awake.
After a moment, she found her T-shirt and flip-flops and stumbled toward the kitchen, flipping the switch for the yard lights as she came in. Outside, the noise from the hens increased, moving to something that sounded like squawks of panic. She pulled the curtain back on the windows facing the chicken yard and peered out.
Something flashed by the light, gray and tan, moving fast. She had an impression of a pointed snout holding something white. It was a moment before she identified the white as one of the hens.
“Goddamn it!” She searched frantically around the back porch for something—anything—that she could use as a weapon. Her grandpa’s aged shotgun was, of course, no longer in its case, sold like everything else to pay the bills. Finally she grabbed a rusty garden hoe and ran out into the yard.
The animal, whatever it had been, was long gone. In its wake, it left carnage. A few hens ran frantically around the yard, squawking loudly. From the back steps, she could see a couple of lumps of white in the chicken yard, hens that weren’t running around probably because they’d never run anywhere again.
There was a step behind her. “What’s happening?”
She turned to see Joe in his jeans and nothing else. “Something attacked the chickens—I don’t know what exactly. It ran away when I came outside.”
She started down the steps only to feel his restraining hand on her shoulder. “Hang on a minute. Don’t rush out there until we know what we’re up against. What did it look like?”
“Gray and tan, long nose, sort of like a dog.”
“Could have been a dog, more likely a coyote though. Where did it go?”
“That way.” She pointed toward the trees along the drive. “It’s gone, Joe. I need to see what happened to my hens.” She sprinted across the yard toward the fence.
“How did it get in?” he called after her.
MG screeched to a halt, staring. The gate stood wide open. “There,” she croaked. “He got in there. Oh god, I must have left it open.”
Joe stepped to her side. “Why would you leave it open like that? I mean, the gate’s pulled all the way back. That’s not the way you open it usually.”
“I don’t know.” She turned to stare at him. “But nobody else comes in here. Except you.”
“And I can pretty much guarantee I didn’t leave it like that. Come on, let’s see what’s happening.”
He stepped inside the fence, stooping down beside the first white lump of feathers. “This one’s dead. Throat’s gone.”
MG forced herself to look down at the raw mess that had been the chicken’s neck. She turned quickly toward the other chicken. “I think this one’s the same.”
“Yeah.” Joe nodded, turning toward the chicken house. “Let’s see if he got any others.”
She paused for a moment before following him. The yard looked empty.