Between a Book and a Hard Place (11 page)

He knew his uncle had a point and that he would drive home that point until he was satisfied Jake was on the right track again. Not out of meddlesomeness, but out of concern.

Tony had been more of a father to Jake than his own dad had ever been, and he had earned the right to have his opinion respected. Jake's parents had shipped him off to military school when he'd turned eight, and since that time, they had rarely spent more than a day or so with him. He saw them only on those rare occasions when their demanding social life left them with a few free hours and nothing better to do than to visit their only son.

Tony was the one who had taught Jake how to clean a fish, hunt a deer, and to be a real man. He was the one who was there to listen when Jake shared his hopes, dreams, and troubles. The ranch was Jake's true home. His parents' opulent houses, condos, and villas felt more like hotels than places to kick off his boots and relax.

“Don't mind if I do.” Tony held out his mug. “Caffeine
is
the elixir of life, and when you're so far over the hill that you've started up the next one, coffee is the only thing that gets you going in the morning.”

“What are you talking about?” Jake grabbed a cup for himself, filled it, then emptied the rest of the pot into his uncle's white crockery mug. “You're the youngest octogenarian I know.”

“Thanks.” Tony leaned back and took a long sip.
“But I'm so old I remember when porn cost money and water was free.”

Jake chuckled.

Tony grinned, then returned to the subject of his nephew's love life. “So was Dev pissed at not seeing you lately?”

“She wasn't happy,” Jake admitted. “But she understands.”

“I bet.” Tony wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If she's anything like her grandma, she'll ‘understand' for only so long. Then she'll take a real hard look at Underwood and decide he's the better option. Is that what you want?”

“Hell no!” Jake settled into the wooden slat-back chair, and Ulysses silently slid a full plate in front of him. “It's just that I've been so dang busy I'm not sure if I found a rope or lost a cow. But the aide's first shift starts at three today, and I plan to be at the dime store by three fifteen.”

“Good.” Tony quirked his mouth. “All it took was another murder to get you back on track.”

Jake grunted.

“And that reminds me.” Tony tapped the tabletop with his fingers. “I was at the bakery the other day, and I heard Nadine Underwood and one of her CDM friends talking about Jett Benedict.”

“Oh?” Jake wasn't sure where Tony was going with this, but knew his uncle wasn't prone to idle chitchat. “What did the cream of the Confederate Daughters of Missouri have to say about Devereaux's stepfather?”

“I didn't get much of the conversation.” Tony pursed his lips. “But it had something to do with Benedict poking his nose in places it didn't belong and making him sorry if he didn't stop doing it.”

W
hen my radio blared on Wednesday morning, I woke up with a start, batting at the snooze button repeatedly until the damn thing stopped blasting “Love the Way You Lie”—one of my least favorite tunes. I mean seriously, who wants to hear lyrics about a couple's refusal to break up despite their abusive relationship? Considering my parents' present situation, the words hit way too close to home.

The annoying song distracted me, so it took me a few seconds to remember what I had been dreaming about. When I did, the warm, tingly sensation that had greeted me when my eyes opened was explained. Jake and I were back in the cab of his truck, but in my dream version we hadn't been interrupted by either onlookers or his phone.

Hell!
My fixation on a man so wrapped up in his ex-wife's life wasn't healthy. I wiped the smile off my lips and trudged into the bathroom. Meg and the barflies had actually done me a favor. Having sex with Jake before I chose between him and Noah was a bad idea on so many levels.

The chemistry between us was too strong for a fling. I needed to make such an important decision with my head and my heart, not just because my girl parts wanted to enjoy themselves.

It was time to buckle down and concentrate on my father and/or mother's impending arrest. Just because I hadn't been with anyone but my battery-operated boyfriend for the past several years didn't mean it was okay to forget about the very real possibility that my dad could end up back in prison. And this time, dear old Mom might be occupying the cell right next to him.

Gran was washing the window over the sink when I entered the kitchen. She was sitting on the counter with her feet in the basin, swearing at the mechanism that refused to latch the pane back into place.

I quickly hopped up next to her and held the glass so she could return the window to its full upright and locked position. Her obsession with Windex never failed to mystify me, but there was no talking her out of using her trusty blue bottle and her old flour-sack dishcloths to make every glass surface in the house gleam. Even if the sparkle lasted only until the next rainstorm or fingerprint.

As I returned to terra firma, I glanced around for Banshee. He was in his preferred spot, perched on top of the fridge. It was one of his favorite places from which to launch himself onto the top of my head as I walked by him.

Giving him a superior smirk, I avoided his likely trajectory and peeked into the warming oven. Gran had waffles with a side of crispy bacon waiting for me. I grabbed the plate, poured a cup of heaven from the Mr. Coffee, and settled into my seat at the table.

Noting my father's absence, I asked, “Did Dad already eat?” Even on the days he worked an afternoon shift at the store, he generally had breakfast with me, or at least sat with me while I ate mine.

“Nope.” Birdie shook her head. “I haven't seen him yet this morning. Maybe he slept in.”

“I hope so.” I wrinkled my brow, wishing I could make sure without violating our unspoken agreement to respect each other's privacy.

I really wanted to run up to his apartment right now and see if he was there. But since I didn't want him checking on whether I spent the night in my own bed—should I ever choose to fulfill my Jake fantasy—I'd have to curb the impulse to check up on him.

Worried that Dad had gone back on his word and spent the night with my mother, I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the headache I could feel approaching. My father wasn't a stupid man. He had to recognize that pursuing any relationship with Yvette would make him look even guiltier in Chief Kincaid's eyes.

Maybe I should telephone Mom and see if he was there. Luckily, the condo she and Jett had rented came with a landline, since Dad had disposed of her cell. No. I shook my head. The problem with that plan was that I couldn't count on Yvette telling me the truth. And considering our less-than-loving relationship, calling her might nudge her into doing something just to provoke me.

The best plan was to wait and telephone her later. She was always a late riser and wouldn't appreciate being woken up to see how she was doing. When I phoned her, I'd subtly remind her that when the police talked to her again, as I was sure they would,
she needed to keep quiet about Dad's part in yesterday's scenario.

I'd make sure she understood that I'd help her only as long as she protected my father. After deserting me when I was a teenager, she didn't deserve and couldn't expect anything more from me.

Gran interrupted my thoughts by handing me the bottle of Aunt Jemima. As I poured the syrup over my waffles, she demanded, “Did Jake show up at Gossip Central last night?” When I nodded, my mouth too full of deliciousness to answer, she asked, “Was that hussy with him?”

I nodded again, but before I could fork another bite into my mouth, Gran scooted my dish out of reach and said, “Tell me what happened.”

Eyeing the rest of my breakfast, I quickly summarized my evening, leaving out the part where Jake and I almost provided a peep show for the patrons of Gossip Central, and ended with, “So our talk was interrupted when Meg freaked out. Jake said he'd contact me today about our next step in investigating Jett's murder.”

“Like I said before, Tony thinks Meg's faking.” Gran returned my plate to its rightful place in front of me. “He says he's going to catch her acting . . . uh . . .”

“Sane.”

Gran nodded, then continued. “Tony's going to prove to Jake that his ex is just trying to worm her way into his life and make him send Miss Meg packing. Tony told me he'd drive her to St. Louis himself if he thought he could get her into his pickup.”

“Good for him,” I mumbled around a gulp of ambrosia. Gran made the best coffee.

“Tony says Meg has the manners of a two-year-old,” Gran continued.

“Evidently she never experienced the joys of attending Miss Ophelia's etiquette classes on excruciatingly correct behavior.” I crunched a perfectly crisp piece of bacon between my teeth.

“Which goes to show you how fortunate you were to have had that experience,” Gran deadpanned.

“Does it?” I had hated those lessons.

“When is Jake going to call you?” Gran snatched my now empty dish off the table, along with my fork, and put them in the sink.

“I'm not sure.”

“He didn't say?” Gran's blasé expression didn't fool me one bit. While she was truly worried about her son's situation as Chief Kincaid's prime suspect, she wasn't about to miss the opportunity to get Jake to spend more time with me.

“The store's open until nine tonight, so there's no rush.” I glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was nearly eight a.m., which gave me less than an hour to shower, dress, and drive to work. “If Jake doesn't get in touch with me by then, I'll text him.”

“You should wait for him to call.” Gran crossed her arms. “In my day, a lady didn't pursue a gentleman.”

“But this is the twenty-first century,” I teased.

“I like living in the past.” Gran smiled. “It's cheaper back there.”

Chuckling, I escaped from the kitchen and went into my bedroom to get dressed. Since there was a good chance I'd be seeing both Jake and Noah today, I put on my best, most slimming jeans and an aquamarine Devereaux's Dime Store polo, which brought
out the color of my eyes. Feeling a little foolish, I brushed on some bronzer and a few swipes of mascara, but I drew the line at curling or flat ironing my hair, so I gathered it into its usual ponytail.

As I headed into town, I noticed that the wind was really strong and there were no birds in any of the trees. The air seemed to crackle with electricity, and I wondered if we were in for a thunderstorm.

A few minutes later, I crossed into the city limits and cruised the four blocks to my store. On my way, I passed the Greek Revival building that housed the bank, the unadorned cinder-block newspaper office, Little's Tea Room in its Queen Anne–style house, and the movie theater with its limestone facade and Art Deco entrance.

Although Shadow Bend looked like a postcard of an idyllic Midwest small town, I had learned with the past couple of murder cases that it had a dark underbelly. It didn't show itself on the surface, but I had become adept at sniffing out the community's secrets.

The influx of new residents who had moved to the area to raise their families in a more wholesome atmosphere than most city neighborhoods could offer had brought some of the crime they'd been trying to escape.

Not that the newcomers were the only ones whose pasts created problems. Native Shadow Benders intent on maintaining the way of life in which they had grown up wanted their world to remain a safe and orderly place—even if it meant getting rid of someone who threatened that security. Country folks, even more than urban dwellers, understood the concept of survival of the fittest.

I'd worked in the city for many years, but I'd
always lived in Shadow Bend. I endeavored to see both sides' point of view and to make my store a spot where everyone could feel comfortable. Unlike Brewfully Yours, which catered to the commuters, or the feed store, whose sign out front—
GUNS, COLD BEER, BAIT
—said it all, my goal was to offer a neutral zone where the two groups could find some common ground. I hoped this new murder wouldn't be a setback.

I was proud that Blood, Sweat, and Shears, the sewing club that met on Wednesday evenings at the dime store, had nearly an equal number of townies and move-in members. And I was particularly pleased that the kids who hung around the new teen lounge in my store's second floor had accepted my declaration that if I saw any evidence of cliques, discrimination, or bullying, everyone would be kicked out. It was too hard to determine who was guilty and who was innocent, since often the ones who were caught weren't the ones who'd started the problem.

Maintaining this progress meant that in addition to clearing my parents' names, I needed to find out who'd killed Jett before fingers started pointing and the town split in two once again.

Despite my aversion to being rescued, Jake's offer to help was a godsend. He knew how to manipulate the legal system and get the information we needed to move forward on the investigation. Without him, Poppy, Boone, and I could only gather rumors and pump people for gossip. That might be fine if Jett were a local, but with him being from out of town, pickings would be mighty slim.

Soon after I opened the store for the day, my fears
were confirmed. I overheard a group of women chattering about the murder. It was a stroke of luck that the ladies didn't seem to realize Jett was my stepfather. I sure didn't want to have to field a lot of “you have my sympathy” comments, but it was a shame the rumors were already flying.

“I had an interesting phone call this morning,” a middle-aged woman dressed in Levi's and cowboy boots said, rocking on her heels.

The crowd around her chirped excitedly, offering guesses as to what had been said.

When they finally quieted, she continued. “You know that Irene Johnson cleans for several of the Country Club Cougars, right?”

Boone had coined that nickname for the ladies who hung out at the country club on the prowl for husbands, and it had caught on.

“Of course we do, Emma,” a young mother wearing shorts and flip-flops said. “They brag about it anytime they can. It's always ‘my housekeeper' this and ‘my nanny' that. Sure wish I could afford some help.”

“Anyway,” Emma continued, “Irene and I are in Knittie Gritties together. She called to tell me she'd found some yarn I've been looking for and that she'd bring it to the next meeting. Then, when we were chatting, Irene mentioned that she heard one of the cougars on the phone complaining about the library reopening.”

“Why in God's name would she object to that?” Ms. Flip-flop demanded.

Not wanting to miss a word, I edged closer to the group. To disguise my interest in their conversation,
I pretended to straighten a display of autumn-themed coffee mugs.

“Well, Angie, the cougar claimed that after the initial funding ended, local taxes would need to go up to support the library, and since they had the biggest houses, theirs would increase the most.” Emma crossed her arms. “The woman also claimed that libraries were dinosaurs and people could just download whatever stuff they wanted to read and look up info on the Internet.”

“Sure.” Angie glared. “If you're rich and can afford to buy all the new books.”

“Not to mention that around here our Internet service is limited, and if we go over a certain amount, we have to pay extra,” one of the others chimed in.

“Exactly.” Emma's voice reeked with spite. “Not that any of those country club people have a clue that the rest of us struggle to pay our bills.”

It took all of my self-control not to groan.
Damn!
It hadn't taken long for sides to be drawn. I didn't stamp my foot at the stupidity, but I may have tapped my toe a couple of times.

“I bet one of those rich snobs killed that poor Mr. Benedict,” Angie said. “To stop him from helping us regular folks.”

“Can I find something for you ladies?” I stepped up to the group. It was time to break this up before they formed a lynch mob.

“I need to order a gift basket for my niece's baby shower.” Emma moved over to the register. “I want something special. It's her first.”

After I took the basket order and rang up everyone else's purchases, the women headed for the exit. As they walked out the door, Angie was describing the strange lights she'd seen in the sky last night.

I was still mulling over how quickly the townies and newcomers had become divided when Taryn Wenzel arrived. He worked four mornings a week for me as a part of his high school vocational program. I wouldn't say that my newest clerk was short, but he would have to look up to a Hobbit.