The World is a Stage (29 page)

“Is that your professional opinion?” she managed.

Nora laughed, a deep, throaty sound that contained the aftereffects of years of chain smoking. “No. That’s friend to friend. My professional opinion is a lot worse.” She tapped the envelopes. “I have everything you want, all your dirt and details. Assuming you’ve already cleared the bill with June, they’re as good as yours. I don’t want to, mind you, but the professional oath I swore I’d uphold compels me to give them to you.”

“But you’d rather not? Because I’m a bitch?” Rachel was confused. Not that she thought her friend was in any way being mean. But in the past, she’d always been on Rachel’s side, happy to help her bury the jerks Molly dated under piles of hard evidence. That was why Rachel was willing to pay her exorbitant fees.

This was the first time Nora seemed…reluctant. Her hand gripped the folders like they were little investigation babies she couldn’t bear parting with.

“I’d
much
rather not,” Nora agreed. “I know you think you have noble intentions and all that, but I think you’re wrong this time. I think you’re making a big mistake.”

“And that’s your professional opinion?”

Nora shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. “You’ll never pry that one out of me. Not without another deposit.”

“You’re worse than a fortune teller,” Rachel said with a groan. “I can’t believe you’d make me pay to hear things about myself I probably already know.”

“A girl’s gotta eat. Now.” Nora tossed the first of the two envelopes—the fat one—in front of her. Rachel reached for it and began tearing at the seal. “That one is Mr. O’Leary’s.”

She stopped, staring at it in some confusion. Michael O’Leary was a lot of things, but dangerous had been wiped off her list of Things Working Against Him a long time ago. Irritating, yes. Persistent, sure. Devoid of reason, absolutely. But a file like this?

“Seriously?” she asked. “This thing is huge.”

“And it’s not what you think. Go ahead. Open it.”

Rachel did, fanning out the first few pages and scanning them greedily. Nora’s files always started out the same way, a snapshot clipped to a basic dossier of stats. Place of birth, age, school records, employers—stuff that rarely interested her. Michael’s information wasn’t all that surprising—a lot of it he’d already told her. He was born in Fairfield, Iowa. Both parents were still alive. Twenty-eight years of age and a Christmas baby, which was nauseatingly cute. Moved to Spokane around age twelve, didn’t do well in school, never even applied to college. And his employment record was spotty, mostly big empty spaces punctuated by a few prize money awards for his Scottish Highland Games.

“You aren’t to the good part yet,” Nora offered, popping a piece of nicotine gum into her mouth. “Try about page five or so.”

Rachel did as she was commanded. But once she reached the area her friend was talking about, she blinked a few times. It was just numbers. Bank accounts, financial statements, investments. Holy cow—what did that many zeroes after a one even make?

“Is this a joke?” She flipped through the pages, but it held more of the same. It was basically a copy of a stock portfolio. A very successful stock portfolio. “Are you telling me Michael’s deep, dark secret is that he’s some kind of gazillionaire?”

“Well, not all of it. You’ll notice that the name Orville Jennings pops up a lot. He’s a distant relation of Mr. O’Leary’s, but he was granted formal custody in 1998. He has no kids of his own, no other family he seems to care for, and it looks like about seven years ago, he made Mr. O’Leary his sole beneficiary and joint partner on just about every investment account he has. The farm is Michael’s outright.”

“And Michael knows this?” That wasn’t possible. The man lived in a mobile home, for crying out loud. She’d seen him in all of three different band T-shirts and the same pair of shorts, and close-toed shoes seemed to be some sort of anomaly. He drove a Pacer. He drank cheap beer. He farmed lentils.

Nora has the wrong man.

Nora laughed. “Don’t look at me with that expression. I don’t have the wrong man. I think there are hidden depths to your friend that you have yet to explore. And if I were you, I’d explore them every chance I got. He’s a cute little thing.”

“He’s not my friend. And he’s not little.” Rachel left the rest of it hanging off of Nora’s well-made-up lips. “There’s really nothing else? No date rape? No stint in juvie?”

“First of all, I don’t think you’re allowed to call it juvie unless you’ve actually been there. And no. Other than a few parking tickets—which he paid—and a few underage drinking episodes, your man is golden. If you ask me, he’s quite a catch.”

Rachel snorted. “Some investigator you are. He’s obnoxious, that’s what he is—the bottom-feeder you throw back. Gimme the other file.”

Nora laid a firm hand over the top of it and shook her head. “This one comes with stipulations.”

“That’s not fair!”

“I’ll give this to you, per our agreement, but I don’t want you to open it.”

Rachel gripped the arms of her chair and did her best not to say something she would regret. Nora was her friend. She liked her. She trusted her.

“I’d like to hear your explanation,” she said, teeth clenched. Her face felt like it was on fire.

“Admirable,” Nora murmured. “A few months ago, you would have slapped me.”

“I’m about to.”

“Unlike your Hercules there in file A, Mr. Peterson has a few blips in his past. Calm down for a minute and just listen, will you? There is enough in there to pull him away from Molly for good. If I give you this, you have all the power and all the cards.”

It was her worst fear, coming to life.
Molly was a magnet for those kinds of guys—she could help it no more than all the other women of the world who were too trusting and unable to remember their own fathers.

“But I think you need to talk to him first. Him or Mr. O’Leary—and I’m not handing this over until you can promise me that.”

“What? Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m asking you to—as a friend. As much as I hate to admit it, there are some things a private investigator can’t discover. I can look at patterns and lives and records, and sometimes I can even snag a conversation or two in a seedy bar. But there’s more to this story than what’s on the paper here, and you’re going to have to do the blank-filling for yourself.”

“How can I do that if I don’t even know what the story is?” Rachel’s frustration level was at an all-time high. Nora was being enigmatic on purpose. It was fine for the PI persona she had going on, but it wasn’t good for this situation. Not when they were talking about Rachel’s whole life.

“Here’s all the story you need. I think Mr. Peterson is a good person. I think Mr. O’Leary is a good person too. And more than anything, I think following your instinct—the Rachel instinct that acts before considering the consequences—would rip this thing open and do enough damage to ruin a lot of things. Mr. Peterson and his family. Molly’s happiness. And most of all, your own happiness.”

“What does my happiness have to do with anything?” Rachel bit out.

Nora tapped the fat folder. Michael’s folder. “I believe Mr. O’Leary cares more about his friend than you think. I’m giving you a loaded gun here, Rachel. All I’m asking is that you don’t shoot it without being very sure who’s going to end up taking the bullet.”

“Does that mean I can have it and go?” She wasn’t sure how much longer she could sit here.

“Promise me. Promise me you’ll talk to one of them before you open it.” Nora’s cold, gray eyes met hers, and Rachel could see the older woman meant business. But then the steel softened a little, just around the edges. “Please? As a friend?”

“Okay.”

Nora cupped her ear. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Okay, Nora. I will do everything you say.”

Nora smiled. Rachel did not. It was the best she could do under the circumstances.

She gathered the papers and shoved them into her deep, cream-colored purse, eager to get out of the office and into the fresh air.

This hadn’t exactly gone as planned. It seemed Michael was an obscenely rich liar, and Peterson had dark secrets she wasn’t allowed to know. And she’d paid how much for this information?

“One last thing,” Nora called out as Rachel wrapped her hand around the doorknob.

“What?” she asked warily, not bothering to turn around.

“When you pore over every last detail of Michael’s file tonight over a bottle of cheap Merlot, be sure to examine his medical records.”

“Why?” She perked up a little. Maybe he had some debilitating and infectious illness she could use to keep him from the Shakespeare After Dark production.

“Let’s just say I found his measurements interesting. Very interesting, if you know what I mean.”

Rachel slammed the door behind her, but even the sound of wood on wood, with June’s gasp over it all, wasn’t enough to stifle Nora’s deep-throated laugh.

Chapter Nineteen

Listen to Many

It was strange, standing outside Michael’s trailer, knowing that the rippling hills extending off for acres in every direction were his. The burgeoning plants were his. The machinery was his. If he wanted it, he could probably buy the farm a few miles down the road—or give it all up and take his Airstream on the road before finally settling down with some delicious bevvy of women in coastal Mexico.

What was he doing here?

More importantly, her weekly film class date with Jennings aside, what was she doing here?

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Rachel turned away from the fields to face him standing at the top of his steps. She’d heard him coming, of course. A herd of elephants had more stealth than he did. “Just a penny? You really ought to ask Dominic for a raise.”

“Okay, okay.” She could tell from his voice he was smiling. “I can go up to a nickel. But those better be some good thoughts.”

“Dirty ones, you mean?”

“I’m not picky. Any thoughts that include me with all my body parts intact will do.”

She smiled too. It was hard to stay morose in his presence for very long. He stood quietly, and she knew he was waiting for her to share her thoughts or cut him down with an insult or even storm away to go knock on Jennings’s door and hightail it out of there.

She did none of those things.

It was confusing, this wishy-washy sensation inside her that made it impossible for her to hurl accusations at his head. Making decisions and sticking to them was what she did. She should have confronted him about his money, asked him about Eric’s past and the deep, dark secret Nora didn’t want her to know.

But then what? What comes after that?

She didn’t know. And she didn’t want to find out.

“I was just thinking about the show,” she lied. It was neutral territory. It would have to do. “You’re not half bad, you know. You could be an actor if you wanted.”

He snorted and moved down the steps. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, his feet bare, hair perfectly tousled, the scruff of a blond beard just beginning to show. He’d probably rolled out of bed when she pulled up.

Her heart clenched. Michael in bed. Michael getting out of said bed just to say “hello”.

“Stop. You’re making me blush.”

“I’m serious.” She crossed her arms over her stomach. “You have a natural gift for it.”

His laughter boomed through the morning air, his hand shooting out and resting on her forehead. “Are you sick or something? Delirious again?”

“Very funny.” She felt her color rising. She couldn’t remember all of their conversations from opening day, but she knew she’d said too much. “It just seems like a waste, you out here raising crops and playing jailer to Nick.”

“I dunno. Being jailer has been an interesting experience. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought lately.”

“You? A lot of thought?”

He draped a loose arm over her shoulder. It was a friendly move, nothing the least bit sexual about it, but it was enough to make every part of her body spring to life. It was like she was twelve and dancing with a boy for the first time. Every smile meant something; every touch was logged into her mental files to be reviewed later.

“It’s shocking, I know—don’t tell anyone. But this farm has a way of turning boys into men. Hard work and no bullshit. It does crazy things. And it’s more fun than I thought it would be, whipping Nick’s ass into the ground. I sometimes wonder…”

“So do it.” Rachel turned, loosening herself from his arm to face him. His eyes still sparkled with warmth and humor, but there was seriousness there as well. She shifted, overcome with just how intently he looked at her. “Turn this place into a boot camp or something—if you have the resources, I mean. You’re a good coach. You have an incredible way with people. It’s like you see something inside them, and they can’t help but want to please you.”

He studied her with an uncomfortable intensity. Rachel launched ahead, eager to fill that awkward space with
something
. “I can’t tell you how nice it would be to have a place like this to send my mom. Or Molly. Someplace to turn girls into women.”

He gripped the back of her neck, but not hard and not with any ill intentions. A warm, callused thumb rubbed along the base of her skull. It felt magical.
He
felt magical.