Secret Vows (Hideaway (Kimani)) (6 page)

The sweep hand on Webb’s gold timepiece made a full revolution before he asked, “What if you don’t complete the job?”

Bloodless thin lips parted in a feral grin. “I’ve never started something I didn’t finish. But if I don’t, barring divine intervention, then you’ll be out a half million dollars.” Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Monk took out a cell phone, placing it on the love seat cushion. “This phone will be our only contact until the job is done. I’ll call to give you updates. If you don’t pick up, then I’ll call again because I don’t believe in leaving voice mails or texting.”

“If I miss the call, then I’ll just call you back,” Webb said.

Monk shook his head. “You won’t be able to call me because I’ve blocked all outgoing calls. Once we conclude our business arrangement, the phone will be deactivated. You’re in security, so I know you’re familiar with burn phones.” Monk flicked his wrist, glancing at his watch. “I don’t want to be rude but I must leave. My taxi is waiting and the meter is running.”

Webb stood and walked over to his desk. He picked up a large expandable pleated envelope, handing it to Monk. Earlier that afternoon he’d opened the safe and counted out five hundred thousand dollars in hundreds and fifties. He normally wouldn’t have had more than ten thousand dollars in the safe, but that was before Basil passed away.

When Basil’s houseboy had called to say he’d discovered the lifeless body of his boss sitting in a chair in his home office, Webb had rushed to the Beverly Hills’ mansion and emptied the safe. He didn’t own a counting machine, so it’d taken him almost three days to tally more than six million dollars in cash. Basil had drawn up a will, leaving Webb everything: house, cars, jewelry, money in several personal bank accounts and Slow Wyne Records. He now was the head of two companies. Slow Wyne and a security company selling high-tech surveillance equipment.

Webb had contacted his former cellmate to ask if he knew someone to help him with a personal problem. Ian Scott had spoken to his father, a shadowy man with ties to organized crime. Mr. Scott had quoted a figure and Webb had agreed. He would’ve paid any amount of money in order to bring down Serenity Records.

Monk gave him a warm smile for the first time. “Thank you. There’s no need for your mother to see me out. I know the way.”

“How did you—”

“How do I know that your housekeeper is your mother?” Monk asked, reading Webb’s mind.

He nodded numbly. “Yes.”

“Do you actually believe I’d meet with you in person if I didn’t check you out, Mr. Irvine? I know everything about you, and I do mean
everything.
You have a good evening.”

Webb waited a full five minutes and then returned to the refrigerator for a split of champagne. The pop of the cork echoed softly in the meticulously furnished home office. He’d spared no expense when it came to decorating his home. For Webb the house, personal tailor and on-call driver were surrogates for what he reviled most. He hated the opposite sex. It was because of a girl’s lie and his denial that her brother had disfigured his face. It was Basil who’d exacted revenge for the mutilation, and Webb had repaid him by Webb confessing that he’d killed his assailant, pleading self-defense when Basil would’ve been charged with second-degree murder.

He heard movement and turned to find his mother staring at him. Donna Gibson hadn’t passed her surname or any of her physical characteristics along to her sons. Both looked like the men who’d gotten her pregnant.

“How did it go?” Donna asked.

Webb filled two flutes with the bubbly liquid. “Good.” He handed her a flute, smiling when their eyes met. “Now we wait.”

Chapter 5

Mission Grove

J
ason knew he’d remained cloistered much too long when he opened the refrigerator to discover he’d run out of milk. It was apparent he’d drunk more
café con leche
than usual. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. Where had the day gone? It was after seven.

Scratching his bearded cheeks, he decided he was ready to leave the house. He didn’t want to believe he’d been in Mission Grove for ten days, and in all that time, he’d ventured out once. He’d driven into town to shop for enough groceries to stock the freezer and pantry for at least a month, and it was time he replenish the perishables.

Time had stood still for him once he descended the staircase to the studio. He’d spent hours writing music, stopping only to take power naps, eat, drink copious cups of coffee liberally laced with milk and sugar, return emails, shower and change his clothes. He’d been in the zone composing pieces that were different from what he’d written before. They weren’t for the artists signed to Serenity Records or any other producer wishing to pick them up for their label. It was for himself. The instrumental reflected his present state of mind. It was moody, atmospheric, otherworldly. His bare feet were silent as he walked across the kitchen to the staircase at the rear of the house. It was time to shave off the beard and end his self-isolation.

* * *

Jason found enough space in the parking lot to park the Range Rover next to a Volkswagen Beetle. It was Thursday and Stella’s would probably be filled to capacity. An unlimited buffet and karaoke drew regulars and wannabe singers like bees to flowers.

He preferred eating at Stella’s rather than many of the upscale Portland restaurants. He liked the home-style dishes and the laid-back atmosphere that beckoned customers to come in and stay for leisurely casual dining. Tuesday and Wednesdays catered to family dining with table service and the rest of the week offered a buffet with choices of main dishes, soups, salads and desserts.

He was always a curious spectator on Karaoke Night. Some of the performers could barely carry a tune, and those who could occasionally flubbed the lyrics. There had been a young teenage boy with an amazing vocal range, but when Jason had approached him asking him to make a demo tape for Serenity, the kid had claimed his parents were totally against him singing secular music. He’d been one of the rare finds whose talent would thrive in the Christian music market.

Jason waited in line to pay the fixed price for the all-you-can-eat buffet first. Drinks from the bar were not included in the price. Thereafter he wended his way through the throng, while searching the crowd for Chase. Smiling, he spied his friend at a table with several members of the house band. The drummer waved him over. Jason shook hands with each of the men at the table. They were a motley-looking group, having unkempt beards and eschewed haircuts, and favored multiple piercings and tattoos. However, their appearance did little to belie their talent.

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Doug, the lead vocalist and guitarist.

Jason’s dimples deepened in his clean-shaven face when he flashed a broad smile. “Sorry about that, but I got caught up writing.”

Doug waved to a waiter, pointing to the empty pitcher on the table, then putting up two fingers. “Can you pull yourself away for a few hours on Fridays and Saturdays?” he asked Jason. “The band needs you because we just lost our keyboard player and female vocalist. They ran off to Vegas and got married because she got tired of being his baby mama.”

“It’s about time he did something noble,” Chase mumbled under his breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to begin Karaoke Night,” boomed the MC’s voice through the speakers set up around the restaurant. All conversations halted. Dressed in a red top hat, matching silk shirt with checkerboard suspenders, black knickers, argyle knee socks and a pair of oversize bright yellow shoes, he strutted across the stage like an inebriated clown. He stopped, reached into the pocket of his knickers and put on a large red clown nose. The restaurant exploded in laughter. “For those of you who are here for the first time, let me to introduce myself. I’m MC Oakie. If I look different tonight, it is because I’m going to change it up a bit. We’ll have singing, and maybe we’ll be able to get in a little dancing. Right now I’m going to ask the waitstaff to stop what they’re doing and come up on the stage.” He beckoned to Greer. “Come on up, Greer. Your uncle will not fire you if you take a five-minute break.”

Jason couldn’t pull his gaze off Greer as she walked up the steps to the stage, the other waiters following. She looked different tonight. Her hair was a mass of tiny curls that bounced around her shoulders and framed her incredibly beautiful brown face. He was sitting close enough to notice the light cover of makeup that accentuated her eyes and lush mouth. Chase had mentioned she’d gone through a contentious divorce yet, looking at her, she radiated poise and confidence. Jason smiled. She’d changed her running shoes for a pair of red clogs.

MC Oakie took off his hat, cradling it against his chest. “Every week I watch you guys lip-synching with your customers. Tonight I’m going to flip the script because it’s your turn to entertain everyone and no lip-synching.” Hooting and whistling followed the announcement. He bowed low. “Ladies, you’ll be first. Think about what you’d like to sing because you’re not going to know when I’m going to call your name. You may leave the stage now.”

* * *

The increasing heat in Greer’s face had nothing to do with the overhead spotlights. She wanted to pull off MC Oakie’s red nose for putting her and the others on the spot. He was right about lip-synching because she was guilty as charged. She enjoyed singing in the shower and also when cooking and cleaning the house. She’d been one of those little girls that used a hairbrush as her microphone. She’d also sung in the school choir from grade school through college. Her mother had accused her of choosing the wrong career path but Greer knew she didn’t have the temperament to go into the music business.

Walking off the stage, she returned to the bar to fill beverage orders. Immediately after her aunt had passed away, business at the restaurant had decreased appreciably because there were days when Bobby refused to get out of bed. Greer had taken time off to fly to the West Coast and have an in-depth conversation with Bobby, pleading with him not to let Stella’s dream die with her. His comeback was that there was no Stella’s without his wife. It took a while, but Greer had convinced her uncle to restructure, incorporating family-style dining with activities that would attract a more diverse crowd. The result was two days for table service and four days for buffet dining.

Also her uncle had resisted raising his prices when everything was going up. Thankfully he owned the building outright so, instead of mortgage payments, he only had to pay property taxes. Karaoke night always brought in new customers who would eventually become regulars, and hiring the live band had reestablished Stella’s popularity. Greer picked up two pitchers of beer, mulling over which song she would sing.

* * *

Jason really didn’t want to commit to sitting in with the band because it meant rehearsals and playing four-hour sets on Fridays and Saturdays, but the band had willingly performed as session players whenever he had needed driving, funky baseline tracks.

“I...” His words trailed off when he saw Bobby’s niece approach their table with a pitcher of beer in each hand. Their eyes met when she set them on the table. Reaching into the pocket of his slacks, he withdrew a money clip and handed her a large bill.

“Put your money away, Jason,” Chase ordered. “I’ve got this round.”

Grasping Greer’s hand, Jason gently squeezed her fingers. “Take it and keep the change.” Pushing back his chair, he stood. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to get something to eat. And, Doug, you’ve got yourself a keyboard player.” Agreeing to sit in with the band was a no-brainer, but getting to see Bobby’s niece two nights a week was an added bonus. He wasn’t certain what it was about her that drew him, but he wasn’t going to dwell on that.

There hadn’t been so many women in his life that he hadn’t been able to recall their names or faces. However, none of them were willing to take a backseat to his music. His last relationship had ended when a woman he really liked had complained that she didn’t see him enough. Writing and editing music and working long hours with temperamental singers didn’t lend itself to a nine-to-five workday.

Jason likened his lifestyle to the wind. It could change direction at any time. There was no pressure for him to marry and give his parents grandchildren. His brother, Gabriel, and sister Alexandra had fulfilled that obligation. Ana and Jacob had decided to wait until their six-month anniversary before starting a family. No one was more surprised than Jason once his twin announced she didn’t want to end her marriage of convenience to Jacob Jones. The man who’d appointed himself her protector had become her lover, husband and life partner.

Picking up a plate, Jason moved along the buffet station, selecting baked chicken, dirty rice and collard greens with pieces of smoked turkey. He viewed the dessert section, eying a sweet potato casserole with a pecan crust. He’d never been one to favor dessert, but as a born and bred Southern man, he loved sweet potatoes. Moving over to the beverage section, he filled a glass with sweet tea.

By the time Jason returned to his table, karaoke had begun in earnest. One young woman with waist-length extensions belted out “Proud Mary,” while her two backup dancers gyrated as Ikettes. He enjoyed the dance moves more than the vocals. An elderly man, supporting himself on a cane, had to be lifted onto the stage. He sang an incredible rendition of Louis Armstrong’s version of “Hello Dolly.” Everyone stood and applauded him as he bowed before someone physically lifted him off the stage.

MC Oakie applauded along with the others. “Good people, I’d like to call Stella’s own Greer Evans to the stage.” An eerie hush fell over the assembly as she made her way to the stage. Oakie dropped an arm over her shoulders. “Have you selected your song?”

She nodded. “I’m going to sing ‘And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going’ from
Dreamgirls.
” She took the microphone and waited for the musical lead-in and lyrics to appear on the screen.

Jason felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up the moment Greer opened her mouth. If he hadn’t been there in person, he would’ve sworn it was Jennifer Hudson singing the heartfelt torch song, along with superb acting that had earned her an Oscar.

Doug whispered a curse under his breath. “I had no idea she could blow like that. I’m going to ask her to sing with the band.”

Doug wanted Greer to sing with a local band of musicians who, although extremely talented, still hadn’t made it big. Their only recording credits were on records produced by Serenity. Jason witnessed in Greer what he and Ana had recognized in Justin Glover. It was untapped raw talent. The song ended to stunned silence. Seconds later Jason found himself on his feet, applauding and whistling through his teeth. She was magnificent!

Greer stepped off the stage, eyes downcast as she walked quickly in the direction of the kitchen. She smiled at Bobby who shook his head in amazement. He extended his arms, and she moved into his strong embrace. “You were great.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest, listening to the slow, steady beats of his heart. “You’re biased.”

Bobby dropped a kiss on her hair. “Damn straight. You sing as well as my Stella. I used to love to listen to the two of you singing whenever you cooked together.”

“Do you know that I still cook and sing?” Greer had stopped trying to understand why her aunt’s quirks and idiosyncrasies had influenced her more than her mother’s. Perhaps it was because her mother was a scientist and only dealt in what could be proven so that Greer had found her aunt’s lifestyle much more offbeat and exciting.

Easing back, Bobby cradled her face. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Going on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “So am I.”

At no time since she’d come to Mission Grove had Greer forgotten why she was working at the restaurant. She wasn’t here to reconnect with her uncle or old-timers who’d watched her grow up. Someone was selling guns to those who couldn’t pass the background check. Every two hours she took a break, lingering in the parking lot to observe those coming and going. Charles Bromleigh was still the only name on her list of suspects. He came to Stella’s a minimum of four of the six days they were open for business. Chase always sat at the same table, ordered the day’s special or took advantage of the buffet Thursdays through Saturday. Tap beer was his drink of choice, with never more than two glasses on any given day. Despite his taciturn demeanor he was generous when it came to tipping. Most of the restaurant patrons avoided him as if he carried a communicable disease. The exception was Jason Cole.

She patted Bobby’s shoulder. “I better check the buffet trays. It looks as if the dim sum, pot sticker dumplings, spring rolls and barbecue spareribs are a big hit tonight.” Greer’s favorite was the steamed dumplings filled with chicken, pork or prawns.

Her uncle had hired an assistant cook whose mother’s ancestry was traced back several generations to Western China. Although they’d intermarried and assimilated, the women in Andrew’s family continued to prepare the dishes that had been passed down from great-grandmother to grandmother to mother to daughter.

Greer walked out of the kitchen as Andrew walked in through the opposite swinging door carrying an empty tray. He winked at her. “Great job.”

She smiled at the slender blond man with sparkling hazel eyes who had legions of young women chasing him. What they hadn’t known was Andrew was in a committed relationship with a much older woman.

“Thank you. What needs replenishing?”

“Nothing right now.”

She returned to the dining floor, picking up discarded plates and flatware, and stacking them in a large plastic bin for the waiters who did double duty as busboys and dishwashers on buffet nights. Greer acknowledged those with a smile and a nod whenever they complimented her singing.