Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) (9 page)

"That's hardly appropriate conversation," my mother huffed like a bird whose feathers had been ruffled.

I decided to take that as a maybe. "You were all hot and bothered a minute ago when you heard about Rose's affair."

"I was not," my mother said waspishly.

I gave her my best
get real
look.

She sighed. "Maybe I was a little bit glad to hear that Rose Fox's life wasn't as picture perfect as she made it seem. To tell you the truth I always envied her a bit. Her home, her clothes. Every door in Boston was open to her. She has such deep roots, a sense of permanence. She's truly embedded in the community and is liked and respected." Her tone was wistful.

I stared at the Fox house. It looked as though it had stood there for a hundred years and would be there for another century. It was a far cry from the paper-thin carpet and beige walls of the various base housings I'd grown up in. It didn't matter where in the world we were, every place had a vibe of sameness, continuity. A total lack of personality. "You never said you wanted something like that."

The illumination from the streetlight highlighted her face, and she offered me a wan smile. "What was the point? It's not like it was going to change. Even after your father retired our house always felt sort of…temporary."

For me it had been, but I didn't say so. "Does The Captain know how you feel?"

She shook her head. "I never told him. He provided so much, and complaining seemed almost ungrateful."

The more she talked, the more I realized I'd never truly understand her. "And leaving him high and dry after three decades of marriage isn't? Don't you love him anymore?"

She opened her mouth to respond then shut it and shook her head. "You don't understand."

I was ready with a comeback, but movement in the kitchen window snagged my attention—two silhouettes, one large and male, the other smaller and most likely female. I squinted, then on a flash of brilliance, pulled out my cell phone, hit the photo app, and zoomed in.

"What's going on?" My mother squinted as though that would somehow improve her eyesight.

"Judging from the overt hand waving and squared-off posture, they're arguing." About her dead lover perhaps? I took a photo, unsure how it would come out.

Agnes craned her neck so she could see my phone screen too. "Oh my, they're having quite a row, aren't they?"

That was an understatement. Hands flailed, and even from the distance the wild gesticulation indicated severe upset. Still, we were both shocked when the man drew back his arm and smacked the woman.

Agnes's hands flew to her face. I shut down the camera app and dialed 9-1-1. "Hello? I'd like to report a domestic disturbance."

My mother tugged on my sleeve, shaking her head, her eyes round.

"What's the nature of the disturbance?" The operator had a thick Southie accent.

"A man and woman arguing." I waved my mother off, trying to focus on the conversation. "There's been physical violence."

"Address?" the operator said.

I rattled it off, then hung up and reached for the key. "We need to get the hell out of here. I don't feel like spending the rest of the night playing 20 questions with the police." Not to mention I didn't want to tip the Foxes off to the fact that they were being investigated.

"Mackenzie," my mother spoke in a shaking voice. "There's a man outside my window."

I whipped my head around, just in time to see a dark shape move away from the window and disappear into a row of hedges.

"He was right outside the car?" I asked.

She nodded. "I thought he was going to break in."

Pepper spray in one hand, I threw open my door and followed. If I'd been thinking, I wouldn't have done it, left my mother alone on a dark night in a strange, albeit nice neighborhood. But there was that creeping sensation I'd had since we got here. As though someone had been spying on us.

Because someone had. And I wanted to know why.

I broke through the hedgerow and sprinted across a backyard. A dog barked, and floodlights came on at my undignified crashing—nothing stealthy about me as I blundered on, over a low stone wall and back out to the street behind. The one where I'd abandoned my mother. Where the heck did he go?

I scanned the road and caught sight of him halfway up the next hill. He wore dark clothes, jeans, and sneakers, and he was in damn good shape because he was leaving me in the dust. There was no way I was going to run him down on my own. But I recalled that the street had no outlet, so unless he ducked into one of the houses, he would have no place to go.

I cut back through another yard so the people with the dog didn't set him loose on me. Helga's door was still wide open and my mother still sitting there with her mouth hanging open. I dove inside and roared off, leaving what I was sure was decent tread on the street behind me.

The guy was a runner, but I had a Hellcat, and I cut him off before he reached the rise where a black Escalade sat waiting. I spun the wheel, and my mother let out a shriek as the car performed one hell of a burnout before coming to rest directly in his path. A split second later he rebounded off the hood and went sprawling flat onto his back in the street.

My heart thundered in my chest as I flung the door open again.

"Is he dead?" my mother whispered.

"I sure hope not." It was unlikely, though I might have to call for an ambulance if he'd cracked his skull open in the middle of the street. Pepper spray in one hand, I approached slowly, hoping he wasn't armed because I was sure he was pissed. I would be if some crazy chick parked a hot car on a dime in my way when I'd been running at full speed.

I rounded the front of the Challenger, scanning for any sign of my stalker. Weird, I hadn't seen him pop back up and he hadn't hit the car that hard. Unless…

I spun on my heel and crouched in front of the car to see if he'd slithered beneath it. I only had time to make out a stubble-covered chin before he dosed me with his own vial of pepper spray. I stumbled back and went down hard on my keister, cussing a blue streak.

"Mom!" I wheezed through the burn. The sound of his running feet got further away. I spat, choked, and called out my last ditch effort. "Get his license plate number!"

But since it was my mother, she ignored my instructions, instead scrambling out of the car to rush to my side. "My God, Mackenzie, are you all right?"

The burn seemed to intensify. "No," I choked.

Sirens sounded. "Oh thank heavens, it's the police."

"Tell them he tried to carjack us," I panted.

I couldn't see, could barely draw breath, but my hearing was sharp as ever so I didn't miss the outraged squawking noise, as though a fat man had sat on a large bird. "What? You can't lie to the police."

I ran my sleeve under my running nose. "Sure I can, and you will too, or I swear I will never speak to you again. They can't know we were watching the Foxes. We were heading out, and he tried to carjack us, and he dosed me with pepper spray."

"Mackenzie."

I wiped enough of the goo off my face to look her in the eye. "This is my job on the line. I can't get a reputation as a nut job who runs around town imagining a perp in an Escalade everywhere I go."

"But I saw him too," her voice warbled, and I could tell her conviction was wavering.

"Please," I begged before rolling over and vomiting right there on the street.

"Oh all right," she groused. "But I want it on the record it was under protest.

"Noted," I wheezed just as the first cop car came to a halt beside us.

"This was sort of exciting." My mother rubbed my back in a soothing manner. "Almost fun, even."

I gagged and managed to sputter, "Yeah, fun. That's exactly the word for it," before upchucking once more.

There's something to be said for having an honest face in private investigation. If you don't have one, fake it.

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

It took almost an hour for the worst effects of the pepper spray to die down. Without the distracting presence of Hunter Black, I experienced my latest dosing in all its scathing glory with the sound of my mother fretting in the background.

She was such a horrible liar.

"And then he came out of nowhere, yanked my daughter's car door open, pulled her out into the street, and sprayed her right in the face! Can you imagine?"

Though my eyes were still running, I could see the cop's face well enough to judge that no, he most decidedly could not imagine her farfetched story even before he muttered, "Wasn't she wearing her seat belt?"

"We were pulled over," I explained.

The scowl grew on his dark face. "In the middle of the street?"

"I thought I hit a cat. I intended to go out and check and see if it was all right."

"So you stopped your car in the middle of the street after hitting a cat and then were suddenly carjacked?" He didn't have eyebrow hair, but I could tell if he did, they'd be raised up under his hat.

"Maybe it's a scam," I offered. "Guy picks up stray cats and sets them loose in front of vehicles he wants to carjack."

"Mmm hmm. What did this cat-hating carjacker look like?"

"It happened so fast." My mother made a fanning motion with her hand as though she were a Victorian matron about to keel over in a crowded ballroom.

"His face was covered by a hoodie, though he was Caucasian and hadn't shaved in a while." There had been stubble, golden stubble, and a full mouth. I remembered because I wanted to knock all the teeth out of that mouth.

"So an unshaven guy wearing a hoodie set a stray cat in front of your car on the off chance you'd stop and unbuckle your seatbelt, and he could pull only one of you from the car and dose you with pepper spray? And then he just ran off, on foot?"

There was farfetched, but this was stretching into the outer reaches. Taking a deep breath, I pointed a finger at my mother. "She did it."

"What? That's ridiculous, I would never," Agnes sputtered.

"It was an accident. She meant to scare off the carjacker, but her aim was off." I knew for a fact that could happen.

"And why did you stop?" the officer probed.

"We were arguing. About my lack of a husband. And poor wardrobe choices." All good standbys.

"Mackenzie," my mother hissed.

The cop looked between the two of us. "And the carjacker just came upon you while you were arguing?"

I stumbled over to the car and withdrew the vile of pepper spay. "One dose down. I don't know if you have a way to measure that or not. The carjacker probably collapsed from laughter not far from here." I doubted they could actually measure such a thing, but if he tried, it'd back up my claim.

He looked from my bloodshot eyes and runny nose to Agnes, who wrung her hands fretfully. "You're lucky he wasn't armed."

"My mother, the hero." I smiled. "So can we go?"

He nodded, returning to his patrol car.

"That's it?" Agnes asked.

"Are you disappointed?" I headed back to the car. "Come on, I think we've disturbed the peace enough for one night."

We were barely a block over when she lit into me. "I can't believe you made me lie to the police. And what possessed you to tell him that I sprayed you?"

"He wasn't buying the cat thing. I could tell from his browbeaten look he has either a harridan wife or mother, and I decided to roll the dice with mother. Damn, I'm out of tissues. Do you have any?"

She whipped some out of her purse. Her purse tissues were the organized little packs that one could pick up in line at the grocery store. What passed for tissues in my bag were a hodgepodge of donut napkins and woodchip-riddled toilet paper snagged from public restrooms. It was the difference between blowing my nose with a cloud instead of attacking it with a sander.

"So that was a waste of time," she sighed as I headed back to Uncle Al's.

I gaped at her. "You're kidding, right? We know the Foxes are having severe marital difficulties, and whoever killed Paul Granger was lurking in their neighborhood. That's totally suspicious behavior."

My mother folded her arms over her chest. "I don't like this job of yours."

"Good thing you don't have to do it then. Still want to hit the market?"

"Too bad the liquor stores are all closed," she grumbled.

I must have looked like either a strung-out meth fiend or an extra from the
Walking Dead
because I received a lot of odd looks as we entered the all-night supermarket. If I'd been with Mac she would have teased me about my new head-turning look, and I would have played it up. With my mother I just put my head down and concentrated on filling my shopping cart.

Of course, since it was my mother, she had a commentary on that, too. "You really shouldn't buy so many processed foods. It's not good for Mac. Or your waistline."

I bared my teeth in what I hoped passed for a smile and snagged a bunch of bananas just to shut her up.

"Oh, look, kumquats." She scurried over to a display.

"Sounds dirty," I muttered and headed off to the bread aisle. Only carbs could save me now.

I was just putting the last frozen dinner in the cart when my cell phone rang. "Mom?"

"Mac? What are you still doing up?"

"I dug up that info you wanted about Rose and Robert Fox. It took longer than I expected. They must be the only two people on the planet not on Facebook."

I eyeballed Agnes scurrying toward me, kumquats brandished in victory. "I can think of at least one more. So what's the verdict?"

"Rose filed for divorce about a week ago. Quietly. It was in the county records, but didn't pop up on any radars."

"After what I witnessed tonight I'm wondering if that was what set her husband off." Briefly I summed up the domestic abuse as well as the guy in the Escalade that had spritzed me.

"So what are you thinking? That he works for Mr. Fox, like, does his dirty work?" There was the slam of a cabinet door on Mac's end of the line. "Did you get any peanut butter crackers by the way?"

"I'm on it." I veered down the snack aisle. "And about the guy in the Escalade, I don't know what to think. If he worked for either Rose or Robert, why was he parked a few streets over? For that matter, how come he used something non-lethal on me if he shot Paul Granger?"

"I still can't believe you went after him like that." My daughter sounded impressed.

"I'm setting a bad example for you, aren't I?"

"No more than usual. Besides, you're all badass as a PI. It'll be even better if we get paid. Oh and get me Pizza Rolls."

"Sausage or extra cheese?"

"Both," Mac answered and hung up.

I stowed my phone in my purse and maneuvered the cart back toward the frozen food.

"Did you get milk?" Now that I wasn't on the phone Agnes was back on my case at full volume.

"No."

"It's important to get calcium."

I picked up two gallons of Friendly's ice cream. "I got it covered."

"Honestly, Mackenzie." She threw up her hands in exasperation.

I'd had enough. "Mom, look. You're welcome to stay with us, but as long as you do, you don't get a say in what we eat, how I dress, how I parent, who I date, or anything else I choose to do. If you want to boss someone around go home to The Captain,
capiche
?"

"I'm only trying to help." She sounded both sulky and defensive.

I couldn't imagine a world where her nitpicky little comments could be interpreted as help, but having scored a victory, I didn't want to push my luck. Instead we headed toward the checkout line where a bored-looking teenager who was only slightly older than Mac scanned our items.

"I've got it." My mother practically hip checked me out of the way.

"No," I said firmly and handed over my credit card, holding my breath that there was enough room on it for the kumquats as well as all our normal junk.

"You don't let me do anything," Agnes kvetched. "You're flat broke and yet still too proud to let me pay."

"Next time," I said to pacify her.

"Well some of that was for me," she said, digging in her wallet for cash.

Why did everything have to be a big public scene? "You lent Mac money, so I owed you. Consider this payback."

"But that was for Mac," she protested.

"Who is my financial responsibility." I shot her an exasperated look. "I've got this."

"Stubborn," she grumbled.

"Pot call the kettle much?" I muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Never mind."

The girl raised an eyebrow at us but thankfully didn't comment.

The card cleared, and I bagged our items, barely containing my sigh of relief. I envied those people who had to just move some money around to pay groceries. Or shoes. If the PI gig didn't pay off, I'd end up selling plasma and my unwanted bananas on street corners. Still a better option than accepting money from my mother.

It was late enough that our trip home took half the time it normally would have, and soon Helga was secured in her garage for the night. My mind automatically shied away from the thought of selling the Hellcat. She represented everything I wanted my life to be—free, sexy, and fun. The thought of riding off into the sunset with Fillmore was just too damn depressing.

We humped the groceries across the front walk, and I instinctively checked to see if Hunter's light was still on. It wasn't. Probably a good thing, considering I didn't want to explain my current appearance.

"You like that man," Agnes spoke softly.

I knew what she meant, but did she really think I was going to open up to her after her earlier crack about unplanned pregnancies? Way to humiliate your only child, Mom. Deflecting her was probably my best move. "Of course I do. He's nice, and I feel safer having a cop for a neighbor."

She got that pinched look that I secretly called her constipation face. "Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor, that is not what I mean, and you know it."

"Mom, please. Not tonight."

She looked me over from my rat's nest hair to my scraped knee showing through the new hole in my jeans and finally relented. "Oh, all right. But this conversation isn't over."

"Of course not," I grumbled. "I'm not that lucky."

*   *   *

I fell into bed, exhausted down to my bone marrow.

I'd agreed Mac could drive Fillmore to school, and she was gone when I stumbled toward the coffeepot, bleary eyed and grumpy. A fresh pot stood waiting for me like a long-lost friend. I inhaled gratefully and then turned toward the counter where I'd stashed my
Bruns
mug.

It was gone.

Frowning, I opened the cabinet above where we'd stockpiled our meager few dishes and was surprised to see the pantry goods from the night before arranged there. No dishes.

I turned and gaped at the sight of the living room. Not a single box in sight. The place was completely unpacked, every book lined up on the small bookcase built in next to the bay window seat, every cable for Mac's computer coiled neatly and secured with a zip tie.

Unfortunately, the organized room only showcased all the stuff wrong with the place—cracks in the walls from where the foundation had settled, scuffs on the hardwood floor, dents and dings in all the wood trim, water stains on the ceiling, not to mention the heap of boxes blocked the draft from the failed seals on the windows.

I swallowed hard and whispered, "Java preserve me."

That was just what I could see. Who knew what else might be wrong with the house's innards? The roof, the electricity, the water heater? I'd never been a homeowner before, and loathe as I was to admit it, my mother might have been right. This house could have been too much for me to handle.

"Good morning!" Agnes bustled past me, an armload of neatly stacked towels balanced precariously in front of her.

"Were we robbed by very neat burglars?" I glanced about like a drowning woman seeking a life preserver.

"Of course not." My mother set the towels down on one of the barstools.

I shivered as a gust rattled the windows. "What happened to all of the boxes?"

"I collapsed them and stacked them in the basement." She proceeded to unfold the already folded clean towels, arranging them first by color then from pale to bright.

"And where are my dishes?" I waved desperately at the cabinets. "And my coffee mugs?"

"Over the dishwasher. It's much more efficient that way." She snapped out a towel to its full length.