Further Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman (2 page)

Chapter Two

I
PULLED UP
to the bed-and-breakfast that my three aunts called home and felt even more nervous than I had when sitting down with Tony/Anthony Delveccio.

Not that my aunts are criminals, or even what you’d call “bad” people, they’re just . . . challenging.

I hadn’t even closed my car door when I heard my name being called.

“Maggie? Maggie is that you?”

“No, Aunt Loretta, it’s Dolly-freakin’-Parton!”

She leaned forward, squinting at me from the wicker rocking chair on the porch. She’d recently started to “forget” to wear her eyeglasses, reminding everyone that “men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.” I blamed this current bout of full-blown vanity on the aforementioned Templeton the Rat, her fiancé.

Even a blind woman could tell that my thirty-two-year-old, brown-haired, flat-chested self was not the Backwoods Barbie. Hell, even if I wanted to dress up as her for Halloween, there was no way I’d ever successfully pull off the look.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m selling encyclopedias door-to-door. Can I interest you in a set?” I’d always thought Aunt Leslie was the dumb twin, but lately Aunt Loretta was winning the category hands down.

“Play nice, Margaret.” Aunt Susan, Loretta’s older sister, also known as She Who Can Scare the Living Crap Out of Me, emerged from around the corner with a fistful of weeds in her hands and a frown on her face. No doubt she’d been cleaning the flower beds and overheard my entire exchange with my aunt.

“I brought pie.” I held up the box, both as a shield from her disapproval and as a peace offering.

“What kind of pie?” Aunt Loretta, while half blind, was not deaf.

“Maple pecan.”

“But Templeton can’t eat that. He’s allergic to nuts.”

“Oh. I forgot.” I’d actually practiced my expressionless delivery of that particular lie while driving over.

The corners of Aunt Susan’s mouth twitched as she fought back a smile. I wasn’t sure if she was more amused by my deadpan delivery or my choice of dessert. “Go put it in the kitchen and then meet me in the barn. I need your help with something.”

I headed inside, stopping just long enough to swap air kisses with Aunt Loretta on my way. The table was already set for dinner. I did a quick count of the chairs. Eight. I wondered who was joining us.

Putting the pie on the kitchen counter, I slipped out the back door and headed toward the back of the property. The structure wasn’t really a barn, it was just an oversized shed, but because it was painted red, we kids had nicknamed it the barn long ago.

Aunt Susan was already there waiting for me. “Pecan pie?”

I shrugged.

Shaking her head, she chuckled. While the rest of the world might not know it, I was privy to the fact that Aunt Susan disliked her sister’s latest betrothed almost as much as me. She was just a hell of a lot better at hiding it.

“What can I help you with?”

“We need a heavier chair for Lamont. Every time he sits down for dinner, I expect to hear wood splintering.”

My friend Alice and Lamont, her fiancé and baby daddy, are staying in the “Lovers’ Suite” for an extended period until they find their own place. I actually thought it nothing short of miraculous that the giant of a man hadn’t yet broken any of the dainty furniture that populates the B&B.

“There’s a good-sized oak ladderback chair in the rear corner. Would you mind . . . ?” Susan asked.

“Sure, no problem.”

Of course it was a problem.

I waded in gamely, but there was about thirty years of collected crap between me and the chair Aunt Susan wanted. It took me almost five minutes just to reach the furniture, shoving cobweb-covered odds and ends out of my path, stubbing toes on both feet, and getting poked by assorted items. Finally I reached my destination, grabbed the seat of the chair, and heaved it overhead.

And I almost fell over.

The damn thing weighed a ton. An elephant could sit down for afternoon tea on the sucker.

I couldn’t put it back down because the moment I lifted it, the contents of the barn shifted and filled the void. Breaking into a sweat, I stumbled back toward the door, my muscles shaking in protest.

“I’m sorry about this, Margaret. Usually I have Dirk do the heavy . . .” She trailed off, unable to finish. Her nephew-in-law, like her beloved niece, Theresa, was no longer with us.

My own sense of grief at the unfair loss of my sister hit me hard, and my eyes filled with tears.

I hadn’t been able to cry after the accident. It hadn’t been until Katie had responded to my singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” a couple of weeks ago, that I’d shed a single tear.

Since then I’d had a hell of a time keeping the waterworks turned off. The slightest thing could make me blubber.

So now I was staggering beneath the weight of the heaviest piece of furniture known to man, tripping over assorted crap, getting poked as though I was at the doctor’s examination from hell, and on top of it all, my vision was blurred by unwanted tears.

I made it all the way to the doorway before my natural lack of grace got the better of me. I tripped over something, for all I know it could have been a crack in the pavement not even visible to the naked eye, and went sprawling. The chair went one way with a sickening thud, while I scraped off the top layer of skin on my knees and elbows with an undignified grunt.

It wasn’t until I’d rolled over onto my back, bloodied, drenched in sweat, gasping for air after performing the Herculean task, that I realized someone was standing beside Aunt Susan.

Oh crap.

Now I knew who was joining us for dinner.

E
VERYONE WAS ALREADY
seated at the dinner table by the time I got myself washed up and my wounds bandaged. That left me the seat between Lamont, who was indeed sitting in the elephant’s chair, and the night’s dinner guest, Paul Kowalski.

Talk about awkward.

I first met Paul last month when he pulled me over for using my cell phone while driving. While he didn’t write me up a ticket, he did invite me for a drink, a date that ended in my apartment with us practically tearing each other’s clothes off. That is until I remembered that I had the gun I was going to use to kill Alfonso stuck under my mattress and I, in a panic, unceremoniously kicked Paul out of my place before he stumbled on my murder weapon of choice.

We didn’t fare much better on our other two dates, and since he hadn’t called in a couple of weeks, I’d kinda figured I wouldn’t be seeing him again. That is until I looked up after my chair wrestling debacle to find him looking down at me with an expression that could only be described as a mixture of horror and amusement.

Despite my pain and embarrassment, I’d felt the familiar zing of physical attraction as he’d helped me to my feet. My body definitely wanted the well-built cop. I just wasn’t so sure about the rest of me.

Now here I was faced with the prospect of sitting beside him for the next hour.

“We’ve waited for you, Maggie.” Aunt Leslie sounded irritated.

I hurried to my seat.

The woman had been a stoner for as long as I could remember, always mellow. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her newly clean, newly bitchy persona that had taken over in the past couple of weeks. It was my own fault she’d decided to stop smoking marijuana so I knew I shouldn’t complain. If I hadn’t requested that she surrender her key to my apartment, she’d still be happily lighting up.

Squeezing into my place at the table, I immediately felt suffocated by the bulging biceps on either side of me. Both Paul’s and Lamont’s developed physiques intruded into my personal space.

“Let’s say grace,” Leslie demanded.

“Huh?” I asked eloquently.

“Grace. Let’s say grace.” She acted as though it was an everyday request.

I was fairly certain I’d never said grace in my entire life and I was pretty sure it had never been uttered around this table. I slid my gaze in Aunt Susan’s direction. She was glaring at the salad bowl as though expecting hellfire to come bubbling out of it.

“Everyone join hands,” Leslie ordered.

Lamont snatched up my left hand and bowed his head reverently. I guess he comes from a religious family and is well trained. The rest of us just sort of looked around the table, bewildered.

“Join hands! Join hands!” Leslie grabbed the limp appendages of her two sisters, who had the misfortune of flanking her.

I fumbled for Paul’s hand, not wanting to be told a third time. He squeezed my fingers tightly, which I’m sure he thought was supportive, but actually sent a bolt of pain straight from my palm to my shoulder.

Closing her eyes, Aunt Leslie cleared her throat.

I was expecting to hear something along the lines of “Bless us” or “We give thanks” or even “Good bread, good meat, good gosh, let’s eat!” I was not expecting what came next.

“God grant me the serenity to accept . . .”

The Serenity Prayer? The woman was spending way too much time at her Narcotics Anonymous meetings.

“ . . . the things I cannot change.” Paul joined in.

Which made no sense since I knew he drank alcohol on our dates. Had he too gone to battle with an addiction in the last couple of weeks? Maybe that’s why he hadn’t called. Isn’t abstinence one of the twelve steps?

“Courage to change the things I can.” Now Templeton was chiming in, his long nose twitching as though he smelled cheese.

Three of the eight people at the table were actually participating in this “grace.”

“And the wisdom to know the difference,” the three intoned like some sort of cult straight out of a bad 1970s sci-fi movie.

Aunt Susan was still glaring at the salad bowl, focusing all of her resentment on the ceramic vessel. I was sort of disappointed it didn’t blow up.

“Amen,” Aunt Leslie crowed triumphantly.

“Amen,” echoed everyone except me and Aunt Susan. The cult’s power was spreading.

“I’m starving. Pass the salad, Aunt Susan?”

She practically threw it at me. I smiled sweetly in return, glad of the excuse to let go of Paul and Lamont.

“Isn’t it lovely that Paul could join us, dear?” Aunt Loretta blinked her false eyelashes at the off-duty cop.

“Lovely.” So saying, I passed the bowl of greens to him with a polite smile. “Does make me wonder why you asked me what I was doing here earlier though.”

“You were early.”

“You’re never early. You’re always late,” Aunt Leslie added. “Usually everyone mills around waiting for you. We still sat here waiting for you tonight.”

I definitely liked her better when she just sat there in her drug-induced stupor. It would sound childish to say,
It wasn’t my fault
, so I resisted the urge to tell her that my tardiness was the result of an injury. Barely.

“It was my fault she was late, Leslie.” Aunt Susan coming to my defense was almost enough to knock me off my chair. “She was doing me a favor. Leave the poor girl alone. She worked all day, no doubt visited Katie, and then I put her to work. Let her eat her meal in peace.”

Alice, my blonde, Amazonian, pregnant best friend, tilted back in her chair so that she could whisper behind her fiancé Lamont’s back, “Did Susan dip into Leslie’s stash?”

Grinning, I shook my head. Alice and I have been best friends since we were kids. This was the first time either of us had ever heard Aunt Susan stick up for me.

“It was so lucky that Templeton ran into Paul and extended the dinner invitation,” Aunt Loretta trilled. I wasn’t sure if she hit that particular birdlike pitch because she was trying to play mediator to her two sisters, or if she was desperate to return the conversation to her matchmaking efforts.

“I said to let the poor girl eat in peace.” Susan slopped a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto her plate for emphasis. “How are the wedding plans coming along, Alice?”

Anyone else might have been apprehensive about being chosen to fill the awkward silence that hung in the room like an ill-fitting coat, but not Alice. Full of sunshine and light, she’s always too happy to gush about whatever is currently occupying the bulk of her time. Right now, that’s wedding plans.

Have I mentioned how much I hate weddings? I hate attending them. I hate shopping for them. Most of all, I hate listening to people prattle on about them.

And that’s all anyone did for the next forty-five minutes.

I didn’t partake in the discussions about venues and menus, flowers or dresses. Instead I sat there trying to figure out how, if he offered me the job, I was going to tell Delveccio that I wasn’t going to kill Garcia for him. I also sat there wondering if the myths about human self-combustion were true since I was pretty sure that the heat flooding through my body as Paul pressed his left thigh into my right leg didn’t occur in nature very often.

Whether or not to sleep with Paul—gotta love that euphemism, dontchya?—is yet another dilemma I find myself facing. On the one hand, there’s no denying our sexual compatibility is off the charts, but more than one per—
being
in my life has warned me to stay away from him. Then again he had been awfully kind to Aunt Leslie when she passed out in my doorway, but Paul’s temper does raise some red flags for me. Not to mention the whole he’s-a-cop-and-I’m-a-killer thing.

Chapter Three

T
HE MOMENT
I
stood up from the table, Alice grabbed me by the arm and practically dragged me upstairs to the Lovers’ Suite for more wedding talk.

“You need to help me choose the menu for the reception.” She pulled out a giant folder and dumped its contents on the dusty rose comforter that topped the four-poster bed. “We’ve got to choose the appetizers for the cocktail hour and the menu for the dinner.”

“Can’t Lamont do that?”

Alice frowned. “Aren’t you happy for me, Maggie?”

“Of course I’m happy for you. Lamont’s a great guy.”

“Then why don’t you want to help me? You’re my best friend, my maid of honor, you’re supposed to
want
to help me.” She stuck out her bottom lip in a pathetic pout.

I couldn’t fathom how my best friend could have conveniently forgotten how much I hate weddings, but I thought it was probably better not to point that out during this conversation. “It’s just that I’ve got so much on my mind right now with Katie and everything.”

“I know.” She flashed her most benevolent smile at me. “I won’t be asking much, I promise.”

I cringed inwardly, feeling like the world’s biggest jerk. “Okay. I’m not sure how much help I can be. I’m not exactly a foodie. My idea of gourmet is a frozen Lean Cuisine meal.”

“C’mon. It’ll be fun.” She plopped down on the bed and patted the spot beside her.

It took us almost an hour to decide on the various courses. I have no idea why she even asked for my input because every time I suggested something she overruled me, which was of course her prerogative since it was her day. I guess enduring this particular form of torture without complaint got me back in her good graces because she was all smiles by the time I left.

I’d been hoping that after all that time Paul would have given up on me and I would catch a break about having to make a decision about him, but I had no such luck. (I never do.) He, Lamont, Templeton, and Loretta were all sitting out on the front porch, puffing on cigars.

“Please tell me you got the menu all picked out,” Lamont pleaded the moment I stepped outside. The pathetic appeal coming from the big man made me feel a bit better. Apparently I wasn’t the only one being driven crazy by his fiancée.

After I was done choking on the smoke cloud that enveloped the porch, I moved to the stairs. “All done.”

“You’re an angel.”

“Did you hear that, Paul? Our Maggie’s an angel,” Loretta couldn’t resist pointing out.

I sent Paul an apologetic shrug. He didn’t look as though he was annoyed by my aunt’s blatant matchmaking. “Except that I’m chronically tardy.”

“Oh, you know Leslie didn’t mean that,” Loretta chided. “Her irritability is just a symptom of her withdrawal. She could also be depressed or experience a loss of appetite.”

Aunt Loretta is obsessed with looking up, on the Internet, every symptom and disease known to man.

“Besides, you’ve never been late to one of our dates.” Paul smiled, his dark eyes sparkling with flirtatious mischief. “Maybe it’s just a matter of motivation.”

The remark came across as smarmy to me, considering that the man had once told me that no other woman had ever turned him down for sex before. I was grateful. It made my decision to go home alone that much easier.

“I’m beat. I’ve got a big staff meeting tomorrow morning, so I’m going to head home.”

“Walk her to her car, Paul,” Loretta urged.

Obediently he got to his feet and followed me down the stairs.

“Good night!”

“Good night, dear!” Loretta leaned over and whispered something to Templeton and Lamont as soon as I was out of earshot, no doubt telling them what a perfect catch Paul was for me.

“Are you mad I accepted the dinner invitation?” Paul asked as I pulled my car keys out.

“Surprised.”

“I ran into Loretta and Templeton at Angelo’s Restaurant and they insisted I come.”

I unlocked my car door.

“She’s a very difficult woman to turn down.”

“I know.”

“I could follow you home. Make sure you get inside safely.”

I shook my head. “Not tonight. It’s been a long day and I really do have a big meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Can I at least kiss you good night?”

Jerking my chin in the direction of the three sitting on the porch watching us, I asked. “For the enjoyment of the audience?”

He didn’t bother to answer me. Instead he kissed me. Not a chaste peck on the cheek, or a subtle brushing of lips, but a full-on, tonsil-touching kiss that stole my breath and sent my heartbeat into overdrive. He was at least a gentleman in that he angled his body so that all anyone on the porch could see was his broad back. “We should try going on another date, Maggie.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“I’ll call you.”

I nodded again, slipped into my car, and drove away before I asked him to come back to my place.

It was a good thing I didn’t. A very good thing.

M
Y PLANS WERE
simple as I unlocked the front door of my apartment. I was going to walk the dog, take a shower, set up my coffeepot for the next morning, and hit the sack for some much needed rest.

You know what they say about plans.

I was so tired that I didn’t notice right away that something was amiss when I walked into my home. Instead, I blithely tossed my purse in the corner and kicked off my shoes. It wasn’t until I was barefoot, keyless, and without a makeshift weapon in hand that I heard it.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Not far away.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It was then that I realized that the dog hadn’t greeted me at the door. In the weeks she’d lived with me, she always welcomed me home with a whining chorus of “Gotta! Gotta! Gotta!” which meant she had to pee that very second or her excuse for a brain was going to explode.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I froze, not knowing what to do. Should I turn and flee? Realistically, how far could I get without my shoes or car keys? Or should I turn on the light and face down the intruder waiting for me in the shadows?

I held my breath, straining to hear whether God was telling me what to do. I didn’t hear anything. The jerk had probably overindulged in crickets and was sleeping it off.

Deciding to make a run for it, I reached behind me, searching for the cold metal of the door handle.

“Hello, Mags. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

So saying, the man in my living room lit up a cigarette lighter and held the flickering flame near his chin so that he looked like a kid telling ghost stories around a campfire.

“Patrick.” Weak with relief, I slumped back against the door.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Holding the light away from his body, I saw that Patrick, my murder mentor, was sitting on the floor, a giant, dark shadow splayed across his lap. Now I knew where the dog was and what was making the thudding sound.

Doomsday the Doberman was having her belly rubbed and kicking her rear leg against the floor signaling her delight.

“I can’t believe you kept her,” Patrick said.

Doomsday’s former owner had been Gary the Gun, the hitman I’d killed just a couple of weeks earlier.

“Not much of a watchdog, is she?” I said, knowing full well that she understood every word I said.

“She’s a good girl, Mags. Don’t be too hard on her. She was guarding the place when I got here.”

“I’ve got to take her for a walk.”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Did that when I got here. Fed her too.”

“Oh, thanks.” Without turning on the light, I moved to sit beside him on the floor, leaning back tiredly against my couch. I figured that whatever it was he was here to discuss was better talked out under the cover of darkness. I hadn’t seen or spoken to the tall redhead in two weeks, not since I’d dissolved into a blubbering mess when he’d told me he thought my sister Marlene was alive.

I’m pretty sure that as a detective, he must be fairly accustomed to women sobbing hysterically, but as my murder mentor, he probably wasn’t all that pleased to witness my emotional breakdown. Maybe that was why he was here. Maybe he wanted to dissolve our working relationship. Maybe he’d figured out that killing people is not my forte.

If that were the case, it meant I’d have no need to kill Jose Garcia. I was completely comfortable with having that difficult decision being wrenched away from me. Though I would need to figure out a way to raise more cash to keep Katie at Apple Blossom Estates.

“Why are we sitting on the floor?” I asked.

“I wasn’t sure whether the dog is allowed on the furniture.”

“I haven’t decided that myself.”

“How’ve you been, Mags?”

“Okay.” I was grateful for the shadows. Sometimes when Patrick Mulligan looked at me, I got the unnerving impression that he saw more than I wanted him to. I really wasn’t okay. In fact, I felt as though I was teetering on the edge of losing it, of losing everything, but I didn’t need him knowing that. The last thing I wanted was to see that look of pity he sometimes directed my way when he thinks I’m not looking. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better. Finally healing from that beating I took at Gary’s.”

Unsure of whether he was talking about Gary the Gun assaulting him, or the rough way Doomsday and I had dragged him from the burning house, I stayed silent.

“How’s your niece?”

“The doctors are hopeful.”

“What about you? Are you hopeful?”

“Of course.” The only reason I’d agreed to kill anyone in the first place was that I believed that with the best care possible, my niece would wake up.

“Good. That’s good. Delveccio said he saw you today.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Said you didn’t look too happy about the contract that might be coming our way.”

“Our way?” I hated the way my voice cracked with uncertainty.

I heard Patrick’s sharp intake of breath and then nothing but the soft panting of the dog. Finally he said, “I know the last job didn’t go as planned.”

“That’s an understatement.” Gary the Gun had almost killed both of us.

“I let you down.”

The forlorn note in the detective/hitman’s voice made me wince. Patrick Mulligan was a man who didn’t believe in letting anyone down, which was why he currently had two wives and supported two families.

“No, no, no. That’s not it. I figured after I screwed up the Cifelli hit and then messed everything up at Gary’s . . .” Having the it’s-not-you-it’s-me talk with a hitman was definitely one of the oddest conversations I’d ever had . . . and I’d had some really weird conversations in the past month.

“You did the job. You killed him. Not to mention you saved my life.”

“And you saved mine. I just figured you were giving up on me. I understand, I really do. Working with a rank amateur like me has got to be a liability.”

“I’d never give up on you, Mags.”

I did my best to ignore how special that simple statement made me feel. Besides having the ability to see through my bull, Patrick Mulligan seemed to actually like who he saw. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. If he didn’t have two wives already, I’d say he was the perfect guy for me.

“So why the hesitation with Delveccio?”

“I’m not sure . . . I’m not sure I’m cut out for—”

“You don’t have to do it, Mags. You can walk away anytime.” Reaching out, he patted my shoulder reassuringly.

Flinching, I jerked away.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Again, not you,” I told him. “I was moving furniture earlier and now my shoulders are killing me.”

“If you say so.”

The man had plenty of reason not to believe me. More than once I’d thought he was going to kill me. Still, it pained me to know I was causing him to feel guilty. Despite that his second job involved killing people, he was, in fact, a gentle soul. “Really, Patrick.” Reaching out, I tried to pat his arm. My hand ended up on his thigh instead.

He captured it with his own hand before I could move it in the wrong direction . . . whichever way that might have been.

Doomsday immediately laid her head on top of our intertwined fingers, trapping us. I tried to tug free, but neither the man nor the dog budged.

“We need to talk about that other thing.”

That other thing was my sister Marlene. The one who’d run away after her twin had been murdered. The one I’d been sure was dead, but who Patrick had said was not. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

“Mags . . .”

“Please, Patrick.” I know it was cowardly of me to avoid the conversation, but I wasn’t quite ready to tackle it.

He sighed his displeasure, but thankfully didn’t ask me why I was unwilling to talk about my sister. “If the Garcia contract comes through, what do you want me to do?”

I stroked Doomsday’s ears with my free hand. “I don’t know.”

“How ’bout I ask you again, if, or when, the time comes?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Pulling my hand out from under the dog’s head, he raised it to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it before releasing me. “You sound tired. I’ll let you get some sleep.”

Pushing the dog off of him, he got to his feet. “I really am sorry I let you down at Gary’s.”

“You didn’t,” I assured him, struggling to stand.

I thought I saw him shake his head, but in the shadows, it was impossible to tell for certain. “I’ll be in touch.”

Patting Doomsday on the head, he said, “Keep an eye out for her.” With that, he walked out of my apartment.

Once he was out of sight I locked the door, switched on the light, and turned on the dog with a vengeance. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re supposed to tell me if someone’s here. You’re eating me out of house and home, the least you could do is pretend to be a guard dog.”

Doomsday cocked her head to the side and looked at me as though I were some sort of rabid squirrel she didn’t quite know what to do with. “Sorry?”

It never ceases to amaze me how she can convey in one breathy word how much of an airhead she is.

“Damn right you should be sorry. I’m coming home to an empty house and—”

“Not,” she interrupted.

“Not what?”

“Here Doomsday. Here God.”