Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) (15 page)

I had to tell him. I had to tell them both.

But not yet. No, I needed to find out whatever Brett knew about the Granger case because I was laying odds on the fact that when I fessed up about Mac, he'd never speak to me willingly again.

Brett returned with a large black knapsack, which he unzipped. I watched as he extracted hydrogen peroxide and gauze, but stepped away when he reached for my arm.

"I can do it."

"Let's call it even since I spritzed you the other night. Who was with you by the way?"

"Agnes. Ouch, that stings."

"Sorry." Blue eyes flicked up to me, the expression there telegraphing his surprise. "The battle-ax is a PI too?"

I laughed. "I forgot we used to call her that. And no, she was more of an unwanted ride-along. I tried to shake her, but she's relentless."

He was quiet as he finished bandaging my arm. "So what happened to you?"

I stared at the carpet. It was a hideous mauve shade that was so not Brett's style. "The Captain got reassigned, and I went with them." It was the simplest version of the truth, and I'd promised myself I wouldn't lie to him.

He looked hurt. "You couldn't call? Or write? Hell, look me up on Facebook?"

"You aren't on Facebook."

He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "So you
did
look."

"Sneak." I batted the finger away. "Just recently. So, who hired you to follow Paul Granger?"

Brett studied me a moment and then leaned back against the doorframe. "His employer. Or more accurately, his employer's insurance. It was a workers' comp claim."

I blinked. "Seriously? But he was visiting all those doctor's offices, pushing his ED drug."

"No, he wasn't. He hadn't made a sale in months. He filed for workers' comp on a supposed back injury, and that's when Right Touch hired me because they suspected he was faking the injury."

"And was he?" And was scamming a small pharmaceutical employer motive for murder?

Brett shook his head. "I don't know one way or the other. He was a shifty bastard and never let me see him doing anything that could have disabused the claim—never picked up his kids, or anything heavier than a briefcase. My gut tells me he was lying though. No man with severe back pain could be having the kind of sex that guy was."

"You saw him at it? With his wife?"

"And the mistress, Mrs. Fox. I have enough trouble keeping one woman happy without a back injury, you might remember."

I ignored that last bit, as he was obviously fishing for a compliment. "Who do you think killed him? Mr. Fox?"

"I really couldn't say. Guy wasn't a peaceful sort. He made enemies wherever he went. Tends to shorten a man's lifespan."

"So you're done with the case now?" I asked.

He folded his arms over his chest. "That one, yes. It ended when he died."

"So why were you checking up on Mr. and Mrs. Fox?"

His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Since I got a snoot-full of pepper spray, I think I at least need to know the reason you were lurking in their bushes."

"I wasn't lurking. I was doing surveillance, and a better job of it than you, might I add. You need to be more careful if you don't want to get made."

I lifted my chin, unwilling to back down.

He blew out a sigh. "Okay, if you must know, I wanted to make sure Rose Fox was all right. I'd been following Paul long enough to know Robert has a temper and uses his fists on his wife. I couldn't call the cops in without risking my case, but after Paul was killed, I had a feeling the Foxes were going to have it out. And I was right. But you beat me to the punch, so to speak."

Brett's words were tinged with regret. Because he hadn't called the authorities before? Or was there something else at play?

Before I could ask, my cell phone buzzed. Dollars to doughnuts that was Mac again.

Squaring my shoulders, I looked my unwitting baby daddy in the eye. "I should go."

He blinked. "Just like high school all over again. You're going to run away again?"
The buzzing phone sounded angry. "No, I'm not, but there's somewhere I need to be tonight, someone waiting for me."

"Husband?" Brett asked.

I was halfway out the door when I looked back at him. "Never married, but you already knew that, didn't you?"

He grinned and reached into his back pocket, extracting a clean, white business card. "You're learning quick there, hot stuff. Don't be a stranger."

I took the card and then sprinted for Helga. The buzzing quit as I turned the engine over and I sent a quick text to Mac.
On my way home.

A message came through while I was backing out, but I ignored it, heart pounding like crazy.

Brett or Mac? Which one should I fess up to first?

Conflict of Interest—When a private investigator has a duty to more than one individual or group, but both parties' varying interests make it impossible to act impartially for either entity.

From the
Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living
by Albert Taylor, PI

I'd forgotten about movie night until entering my own apartment to see my mother in my kitchen, trying to work a blender filled with what looked like daiquiri mix.

"Did you have a nice day at work, dear?" My mother asked the same exact question she'd asked my father every single night throughout my childhood.

"What are you doing?" I eyeballed the blender with deep mistrust. The last thing my secret-keeping self needed was a healthy swig of alcohol to loosen the old tongue.

"Don't worry, it's virgin. That way Mac can participate too," she said as she wrestled with the gadget.

I moved past her into the living room where Mac was typing away in a fervor. "Hey, kid."

"Grams," Mac said without looking up. "Would you please tell my mother that I'm not speaking to her at the moment?"

I blinked and looked over my shoulder at the amateur bartender, who shrugged.

"Why?" I asked Mac. "What did I do?"

She didn't respond, though the clacking of her keys grew in intensity.

I plopped onto the couch beside her. "Okay, stupid question. I didn't pick up when you called a few times, didn't tell you where I was, what I was doing, or when I'd be home. You were worried. I'm sorry for that."

Her gaze flicked to me briefly before she refocused on the screen.

I glanced into the kitchen. Agnes had been staring, but she hastily returned to her blender mishap.

"Mac, come on."

"Where were you?" Her question was smooth, level.

"It had to do with the case," I hedged.

She stood up and walked past me into her bedroom, slamming the door as only a pissed-off teenage girl could.

I leaned back into the couch and closed my eyes.

There was some rattling and then the whir of the blender.
Way to go, Agnes
.

A cabinet door opened and shut and then something cold and smooth was pressed into my outstretched hand.

"Thanks," I said taking the straw between my lips and sipping. After a minute I frowned down at the glass then back up at my mother. "I thought you said these were virgin?"

"I had one of those little liquor bottles of rum in my purse. You look like you needed it."

I raised the glass in a mock toasting gesture. "All she had to shout was a 'You're ruining my life,' and she'd be my clone."

"Why do you think I carry little liquor bottles in my purse? Déjà vu."

I laughed in surprise. "Was that a joke? I don't think I've ever heard you make a joke before."

Agnes puffed up like a wet chickadee. "I'll have you know in my day I was quite the kidder."

That made me snort daiquiri through my left nostril. "Oh, that stings!"

She scurried back into the kitchen and handed me a paper towel, which I used to wipe off the blotch on my shirt.

"Honestly, between the drink and all the pepper spray I don't know how much more my sinuses can take."

Agnes sat down in the spot my daughter had vacated. "So, where were you?"

"Mom!"

"What? I was on a case with you last night."

"Not on a case. We were doing surveillance. Poorly."

Her eyes narrowed. "Says who?"

"Another PI. He's someone I used to know, actually."

"Oh really. Who's that?"

My gaze slid to the closed bedroom door and back.

It took her a minute and then her mouth fell open. She snapped it closed with an audible click. "No, it can't be. Are you sure?"

"Positive. I spoke with him."

"Did you tell him about Mac?"

I shook my head and sipped from my drink.

I could see her struggling with the information the same way I had. "And he's an investigator too?"

"Small world."

"A little too small." Agnes hesitated. "Are you going to tell her?"

I sighed and leaned back against the couch, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I think it's time. I don't want it to be time but I don't want to keep lying to her, either. I'm not sure if I should tell her first or if I should talk to Brett and prepare him."

Agnes didn't say anything, and I straightened so I could see her more clearly. She'd set her drink down and was wringing her hands.

"What? What is it?"

"Have you ever regretted something, a choice you made that you thought was right at the time but later on changed your mind?"

I snorted. "Story of my life, Mom."

She shook her head. "You don't have regrets though. I see you. You did what you thought was right, keeping the baby and raising her into an intelligent young woman with a bright future. You make plenty of mistakes, Mackenzie, but when it comes to the things that matter, you always choose the right way."

I blinked at her, unable to say anything. Was my mother actually
complimenting
me?

"Anyhow, I have a long list of regrets, most of them to do with you."

"Tell me something I don't know," I spoke in an acerbic tone.

"I mean our relationship. You were my baby, my only child. I'm not sure when this…bone of contention got in the way, but it did."

"How many tiny rum bottles went into your drink?" I asked skeptically.

"I only had the one." Her tone was dry. "I'm not drunk, just seeing things in a different light."

"Things?" I asked.
"My life. The world around me. Your father couldn't accept that."

"And that's why you left him?" The question was low, quiet. "Why you're divorcing him?"

"Partly. Your father and I were a great team, but we never had what you would call a happy marriage. All couples have their issues."

"But all that history," I countered. "You and Dad together. How can you just give up on it?"

"I'm not giving up. I'm moving on. Besides, we're getting off the subject."

I'd forgotten there was one. "So, what's the regret you were talking about?"

"When you turned up pregnant, you said you didn't want to ruin your boyfriend's life."

I nodded. "The one decision we agreed on."

"No, it wasn't. I wanted you to tell him about Mac. He had a right to know."

I stared at her for a full minute before saying, "Are you freaking
kidding
me with this?"

She blinked. "No, I—"

"Don't even." I stood up so abruptly that the entire coffee table rattled. "Don't you think I have enough to deal with without hearing that you think one of the fundamental decisions of my life, one you'd agreed with me about to my face, was a mistake?"

"I'm not trying to upset you," she said.

"No, you aren't trying. You're succeeding in upsetting me." I was too tired and emotionally tattered to deal with her right now. "Movie night isn't happening. You should go."

"Mackenzie."

I shook my head. "Mom, I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I have zero patience right now. Go home."

"I'll stop by tomorrow. Maybe we can all have a nice Sunday dinner?"

Crap. I'd forgotten all about Dad coming, but was in no mood to go another round with her over the fact. "Sure."

She rose and headed to the door, but paused. "I didn't tell you that to make you feel badly. I just wanted you to know that I'm supporting your choice now."

The door clicked behind her, and I stared at it for a full minute, not knowing what to make of her words.

Hefting the box of photographs and high school memorabilia I'd left by the door, I headed down the hall. Mac's door was shut, and my hands were too full to knock, so I depressed the long thin old-fashioned handle with my elbow.

Mac lay curled on top of her comforter, Snickers curled up against her back.

"Hey," I said.

She rolled to look at me, and my heart broke when I saw the tear tracks. "Ever heard of knocking?"

I raised a brow. "Ever heard of teenage cliché?"

She made a disgusted noise and sat up. "Thanks for dropping by. Feel free to leave whenever."

I had the oddest sense of history repeating itself and realized that I was having almost exactly the same conversation with my daughter as I had with my mother, only this time I was on the other side. Genetics were freaky like that.

"Look, I'll give you all the space you want, but I promised you I'd get you the stuff you needed for your project."

Her gaze fastened hungrily on the box. "What is all that?"

I set it down on the foot of her bed. "Mostly junk. Notes I passed with my friends, random pictures, my old yearbook and other tidbits. You're welcome to keep whatever you like."

Her hands trembled as she reached for the lid, but she paused. "Don't you want to keep any of it?"

I stepped back. "No, I have all the keepsakes I want." Like her baby blanket, the first book I'd read to her, her first pair of boots, and a monkey butt ton of pictures. The contents of the high school box belonged to a different era, a different Mackenzie.

I turned towards my bedroom, but a small voice called out, "Mom?"

"Yeah, kid?" I glanced at her over my shoulder, hoping for an olive branch.

"This is a lot of stuff. Would you…that is, will you go through it with me?"

"Sure thing," I said and smiled. My long night was far from over.

*   *   *

"And that was Mr. McNutt. Your dad swore up and down that his first name was Buster." I tapped the photograph of the health and PE teacher before passing it over.

Mac raised an eyebrow. "Buster McNutt? His parents must have hated him. Who's that?"

We'd decided to spread the trophies of my misspent youth out in the living room. Instead of parking it on the couches, we sat across from each other on the floor, the box's innards dotting the landscape between us. It was cold, and my backside was asleep, but my daughter was smiling again which was all that mattered.

I craned my neck. "That's Jimmy Hogan. He was in the sailing club with your dad."

Mac studied the image of a large blond teenager who had a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. "He looks like a jackass."

"Not just any jackass. He was the king of the jackass mountain—always had something lousy to say, flushed cherry bombs down the toilets, stupid stuff like that. I never knew what Brett saw in him, friend-wise, but he's a loyal guy."

"Brett." Mac picked up another picture, one I thought was swiftly becoming her favorite. It was of the two of us at the homecoming dance. I had on a green sheath dress with spaghetti straps and had my hair piled on top of my head, fastened in place with one of my grandmother's classic combs. It had been a marvel of modern engineering and a testament to extra hold hairspray. "He's so good looking. You both are."

"Don't sound so shocked." I reached into the bowl of popcorn by my side and plucked out a few kernels.

"I am shocked. You date such plain guys."

"Hey!" I threw the fistful of popcorn at her. "I do not."

She lowered her chin and gave me her
get real
look. "Mom."

"Okay so maybe I do go for more of the average men. They're nice, stable, and worship the ground my designer knock-off heels tread upon."

"And they bore you." My daughter reached across the pile for my sophomore yearbook. She had me there.

"The pretty ones are trouble," I cautioned, thinking of her new lab partner and a certain detective. Although pretty was the wrong word for Hunter Black. He was visually arresting. The pun made me snort.

"I don't really look like either of you." Mac was studying our yearbook photos. "Maybe around the nose a little."

"You have my hair. Same color as your dad's mom, my nana. And you have Brett's eyes. Same exact shade of blue. And Gram's stubborn chin."

"So what happened—" Mac set the yearbook aside "—when you told him you were pregnant? Did he, like, freak out or demand you get an abortion?"

"You've been watching too much television. Something you also get from me. Write that down." I pointed to her notebook.

"I'm serious. How did he react?"

Suddenly all the fun had gone out of the game. "It's getting late."

Mac rose as easily as only a sixteen-year-old could. I rocked a bit, swearing as my back spasmed. It was the same muscle group that had made itself known earlier when I was hanging out of Brett's neighbor's window. Too much abuse in too short a time span.

"You okay?"

"Fine," I grated, though I was anything but. Oh, for the love of java. Eventually I made it to hands and knees. A hand appeared in my peripheral vision.