Wendy Delaney - Working Stiffs 02 - Sex, Lies, and Snickerdoodles Read online

  Steve’s expression didn’t change.

  “Nice to have you back, and as much as I’d like to stay and have more stimulating conversation, I need to get back to work.” She shifted the tub of dirty dishes on her hip. “Wanna drink?”

  “Got one, thanks.” He reached for my wine glass and took a sip.

  Once he and I were alone, I leaned closer. “Joyce Lackey and Russell Falco? Seriously?” Since Joyce was going on fifty and was known more for her blue ribbon cookie baking than her feminine charms, this wasn’t the most probable illicit relationship in Port Merritt.

  “You know what Rox said about the stimulating conversation? Ditto.”

  “Well, if you didn’t want to talk, what did you come back here for?”

  “I saw your car outside in the lot.” Standing, he tossed a ten dollar bill onto the table. “You coming?”

  “Are you going to tell me why you already knew about the thing between Joyce Lackey and Russell?”

  “Good night, Chow Mein.”

  “Wait a minute!” I followed him to the parking lot, my sandals crunching on the loose gravel. “Good night? That’s all you have to say to me?” This had to be the most confusing almost-relationship I’d ever had.

  “Yep. Unless you want to come over and not talk about this.”

  I froze, trying to read him in the shadows created by a street light. The innuendo in his words came through loud and clear, but the angular face with the high cheekbones he had inherited from his Cherokee grandfather revealed nothing except a man who looked like he needed eight hours of uninterrupted shuteye.

  Leaning against his F150, Steve folded his arms. “Do you need an invitation?”

  Probably. “Of course not.”

  He stepped toward me, his eyes dark as onyx. “I’m not quite convinced.”

  He pressed his lips to mine, giving me another taste of the wine I didn’t get to finish.

  “Nope, still not convinced.” Flattening my C-cups against his chest, he kissed me again, longer, deeper.

  I wrapped my arms around him, holding on while he rocked my world.

  When we came up for air he glanced down at the unmistakable bulge in his blue jeans. “I think we’re done here, don’t you?”

  Clearly he was a man who could make do on less than eight hours of sleep. “I’m right behind you.”

  * * *

  I sat up like a shot on the Crippler when the next door neighbor’s car backfired around four. With Myron promptly claiming my vacated pillow, I headed for a long, hot shower with the hope that it would steam out the kinks in my aching back.

  It didn’t, so I swallowed a couple of aspirin and eased my way back downstairs for a caffeine chaser. Unfortunately, once I spotted my grandmother sitting at the kitchen table in her pink chenille robe, I had a sinking feeling that, instead of relief, more hot water was in my immediate future.

  “Morning, Gram.” I refilled my cup with the French roast I’d brewed at o’ dark thirty and waited for her to say something about tiptoeing into her house well after my old curfew.

  Running her hand over her frothy helmet of peach-tinted hair, she squinted at the metal file of index cards she was hunched over. “Chocolate chip walnut or peanut butter?”

  Either my grandmother had suddenly turned into a very sound sleeper or she was oblivious to the fact that I’d been spending most of my evenings across the street. And I knew better than to believe that the woman who had raised me had an oblivious bone in her body. “Huh?”

  “Maybe butter pecan.” She tapped a card. “I won a blue ribbon back in ’96 with this recipe. Of course, the competition wasn’t as stiff then.”

  I sat at the table next to her. “What about your snickerdoodles? Those are always a big hit.”

  Gram’s thin lips puckered. “And take third place behind Joyce Lackey and Beverly Carver like I have for the last two years? Nope, I need something different—something that’ll wow the judges.”

  Joyce Lackey was a quilting, gardening, and baking goddess—probably stiff competition in any of the county fair categories she entered. Beverly Carver, on the other hand, was the mother of my childhood nemesis, Heather. Aside from baking some mighty fine chocolate chip cookies for our Girl Scout troop twenty-four years ago, I’d never known Mrs. Carver to be renowned for much of anything in Port Merritt aside from having an affair with the former mayor, a local scandal in the last decade that had cost him the election and his marriage.

  I took a sip of coffee. “Then I’d go with the butter pecan. The best I’ve ever tasted and plenty of wow factor.”

  Gram’s eyes glinted with pride. “You’re biased.”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “I don’t know. I imagine that would depend on what we were talking about.” She leaned back in her chair and nailed me with her steady gaze.

  Uh-oh.

  “For example, if we were talking about what’s going on between you and Steve.”

  “Gram—”

  “But I know you’re not ready to do that yet.” She patted me on the hand. “Just know that you can talk to me when you finally are ready.”

  I’d never talked to my grandmother about sex and didn’t intend to start, especially since Steve wasn’t just one of her neighbors; he was a friend. “That probably won’t be anytime soon.”

  “That’s okay. Just be careful. I don’t need both my girls rushing into something they might very well come to regret.”

  Great. I was being lumped into the same category of poor decision-making as my mother.

  “I can honestly say that I’m not rushing into anything.” Unlike Barry Ferris and Marietta, Steve and I weren’t making any plans for the future. There had been no declarations of love—actually, no declarations of any kind. What we had was more like a time out from the rules that had governed my relationship with him since the third grade. And the last thing I wanted to do was to rush into anything that could screw up that relationship.

  “Good girl. Now then …” Gram pushed away from the table and tightened the belt of her robe. “Are you ready for some breakfast? Maybe some pancakes?”

  I wasn’t particularly hungry, but since she was in a cooking mood and I wanted to change the topic, I nodded. “Sure.”

  I leaned against the blue and white tile counter as Gram reached for the aluminum flour canister that had been a fixture in her kitchen since before I was born. “You mentioned Joyce Lackey a minute ago. What do you know about her?”

  Gram squinted at me, her hazel eyes hard as jade behind her silver-framed trifocals. “You want to know about Joyce? She has to be one of the most competitive women I’ve ever met. You should have seen her pout four years ago, when my snickerdoodles won the blue ribbon. I’m sure that’s why she had Pete buy her that new oven.”

  “Nothing says lovin’ like a new oven,” I said, fishing for details about Joyce Lackey beyond Snickerdoodle-gate.

  “Maybe. More likely he wanted her to stop complaining about the kitchen remodel he’s been working on the last five years.”

  “A five-year remodeling project is a very long time. You’d think he’d get some help to get it completed.”

  Gram shook her head as she measured flour into a glass bowl. “Based on my experience with Pete Lackey when he came out to replace my hot water heater, he’s very capable. He also strikes me as a proud man and that kind of man doesn’t ask for help.”

  So, if Joyce wanted something done around the house in a quicker timeframe, it would make more sense for Russell Falco to be there when Pete wasn’t around. Not necessarily late at night, but Russell’s presence at the house Monday fit into the realm of possibility.

  “Anyway,” she said, reaching into the cupboard next to me for the can of baking powder. “He’s a hard-working man—keeps to himself a lot and is a little rough around the edges, but he seems like a decent sort. Has to be to be married to Joyce.” Gram chuckled. “Oh, did I say that out loud?”

  I grinned. “Yep.”

&
nbsp; “Ah well, just shows that there’s someone for everyone.”

  “Even if it’s not a match made in heaven.”

  “There’s a lot of ways to make a relationship work.” Gram eyed me over her trifocals. “And not all of them include the bedroom.”

  Yep. Not one oblivious bone in the woman’s body.

  She pulled the milk carton from the refrigerator. “But, of course, you already know that.”

  Yes, I did. Didn’t mean I wanted to discuss it on an empty stomach though. Or a full one for that matter.

  Marietta pushed open the back door, breaking the silence in the kitchen. “Mah goodness! Either you two are up very early or ah’m home even later than I’d thought.”

  “Or both,” I said under my breath.

  My grandmother’s gaze shifted to her daughter. “Want some pancakes, honey?”

  “No thanks, Mama. I had a late supper.” Marietta tucked her left arm behind her back. “And one of the most wonderful nights of my life with the most wonderful man.”

  Uh-oh. Not only was my mother hiding her ring finger, she’d dropped her Georgia peach accent—an ominous combination that had me holding my breath.

  “And you’ll never guess what happened!” She dangled an emerald cut diamond ring in front of my grandmother’s nose. “I’m engaged!”

  Chapter Six

  I could hang around the house and wait with Gram for Marietta to wake up and participate in the please don’t rush into anything discussion, or I could go on a mocha latte run and pick up Marietta’s impulse buys from last night.

  It was my no-brainer decision of the weekend.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled into a diagonal parking spot in front of the Feathered Nest. Since the sign on the gift shop’s front window indicated that it was open for business and the two sedans waiting in the Hot Shots drive-through line were the only other cars on the block, I took this as the perfect opportunity to speak with Kelsey alone.

  A tone buzzed, announcing my presence as I stepped into the shop, but Kelsey was nowhere to be seen. I peeked into the room where most every piece of artwork from last evening’s show still hung. “Hello?”

  When I heard a door shut, I looked behind me and saw Kelsey holding two rolls of masking tape along with several sheets of brown paper.

  Kelsey’s eyes widened, red and puffy as if she’d been crying. “Char, sorry. I must have been in the storeroom when you came in.”

  “Are you doing okay?” I didn’t need to ask. Her pale face, the slope of her shoulders, and the grim set of her mouth as she tried to smile told me everything I needed to know.

  “I’m fine,” she said, averting her gaze.

  Sure. “Well, it looks like I’m just in time to help you wrap things up from the show.”

  She shook her head, her honey-blonde ponytail bobbing side to side. “You’ve already done so much. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to spend any more of your weekend here.”

  I had nowhere else I needed to be and I wanted to find out more about Russell from Kelsey, so I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  “Marietta’s keeping Gram company this morning.” Which was almost the truth. “So I have nothing but time at my disposal. Let me just run across the street for a coffee. Want anything?” I asked, heading for the door.

  “Actually.” Kelsey pointed a slim finger at Lance Greenwood standing on the other side of the door with a tall to-go cup in each hand and a white paper sack tucked under his arm.

  So much for my perfect opportunity to have Kelsey to myself.

  “You look like you could use a little assistance,” I said, opening the door for him.

  His charmer’s smile was a split second late affixing itself to his face, his dark eyes as cool as the breeze blowing in from the bay. It couldn’t have been more obvious that he was as happy to see me as I was to see him. “Thank you so much.”

  Lance brightened when he looked past me to Kelsey. “Here you are, one cappuccino. And I took the liberty of picking up some scones to go with our coffee.” He glanced back at me as he set the coffees and the paper sack on the counter. “If I’d known you’d be joining us … I’m sorry. I know you’re Marietta Moreau’s daughter, but I don’t think we were ever introduced.”

  I extended my hand. “Charmaine Digby.”

  He pressed his hand in mine. It felt smooth and warm, much like the persona he was trying to portray.

  “Charmaine.” His gaze slid over my face as he released his grip. “Yes, I see the resemblance. Remarkable really.”

  I wasn’t wearing any makeup besides strawberry-flavored lip gloss, so this morning, more than most, I knew I bore a closer resemblance to my father, the pasty-faced bastard.

  I looked at Kelsey. Surely I wasn’t the only one in the room who could see through this guy’s act.

  She shrugged. “You have her eyes. Of course, with a little less makeup this morning.”

  Heck, if I’d known I was going to have these two staring at me, I would have made more of an effort in front of the mirror.

  Lance popped the top of his coffee cup and took a sip. “So, you work for your mother?”

  It only felt that way when she was in town. “I work for the county.”

  “Ah,” he said with an air of indifference, making it sound as if my resemblance to Marietta wasn’t quite as remarkable as he had thought. “But you’re obviously here to pick up her purchase from last night. You have that ready for Charmaine, don’t you, Kelsey?”

  She pulled out two rectangular parcels wrapped in brown paper from behind the counter. “I wrapped your mother’s paintings first, since I knew you’d be coming sometime today.”

  Lance took the paintings from Kelsey. “Allow me to help you to your car.” He nodded toward my ex-husband’s Jaguar XJ6, the shiny silver wheels that he’d provided in the divorce settlement to fast-track me out of his life. Of course, the bastard neglected to mention that his oil-sucking Jag would break down before I made it out of California, so that fast track turned out to be a rather costly one.

  I wasn’t quite ready to be escorted to the door. “Thank you. It’s not locked.”

  I turned to Kelsey once Lance stepped out the door. “Maybe three’s a crowd and I should go.”

  “Sorry. He can come on a little strong sometimes, but he wanted to help me clean up after the show. Since it was his show, I couldn’t very well say no.” She blinked, her dark blue eyes pooling with tears. “And without Russell …”

  “It’s not a problem. Give me a call later if you want some help,” I said, wishing I had parked further away to give myself another uninterrupted thirty seconds with Kelsey. “Before I go, I need to ask you a question about Russell.”

  Wiping her eyes, she gave me a nod.

  “When you were with him Friday night, what was he wearing?”

  Her full lips curved into a wistful smile that tugged at my heart. “What Russ always wore—a black t-shirt and blue jeans. For him, that was his work uniform.”

  Which exactly matched what I found on his boat. “Did he tell you where else he had been working lately?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, but wherever it was I know he had to get there by boat the last few days.”

  “Why by boat?”

  “Somebody came to the house and slashed the tires of his truck Monday night.”

  With no desire to head home and do the requisite oohing and ahhing with my mother over her new paintings, or worse, her diamond engagement ring, I hit the road after fortifying myself with a mocha latte. Really, it was the perfect, lazy Sunday morning for a drive. It couldn’t have been more perfect because the turn off for the Falco home on Morton Road was just ahead, and I knew that Andy and Nate would be fishing in the channel off Harstone Island.

  After I took the left turn and passed the old Hansen farm where my grandmother used to buy her eggs, I slowed, remembering that the Lackeys’ house was around the next bend.

  A modest gray-blue Cape Cod-style house with
white trim, dormer windows, and a front yard bordered by a white picket fence came into view.

  The street was deserted, so I parked the Jag at the next turn-out to get a better look.

  The flower bed behind the fence, resplendent with cobalt blue flowering sage, red bee balm, tall Shasta daisies, lavender phlox, and white candytufts, intersected with hydrangea bushes in full bloom at each corner.

  Joyce Lackey’s reputation as a master gardener certainly lived up to its billing, but I was more interested in the back of the house. Specifically, how far away was it from the southern shore of Merritt Bay if Russell Falco had been commuting by boat?

  I looked at the fenced yard that abutted the Lackey property. No open invitations to trespass here. I trekked further up the street with the hope that there might be some public access to the water. No such luck, but I did see a friend of my grandmother’s pumping her fists as she walked in my direction.

  Sylvia Jeppesen, dressed in a maroon jogging suit and white Nikes, wore wrap-around dark glasses and had her short silver locks tucked behind her ears. Her mouth split into a smile almost as bright as her sneakers.

  “Well, fancy seeing you out here,” she said, catching her breath.

  “It was such a pretty day I thought I’d go for a drive around the bay.” True enough but not much of an inducement to draw Sylvia in and get her talking. “Plus, I thought it was time I start looking for a place of my own. Do you know of any houses for rent down here?” Preferably unoccupied.

  She pointed down the street. “Well, there is the old Hull house on the other side of that willow tree. It’s been for sale for almost a year, so they might be willing to rent it out. You should go down and take a look. It’s empty.”

  I didn’t want to appear too eager, so I stayed for a few minutes and chatted with Sylvia about the quilt she was entering in next week’s county fair. Then as soon as her Nikes started slapping asphalt, I made a break for the Jag.

  Less than a minute later, I parked in front of a dingy vanilla-colored rambler with a For Sale sign pitched by the driveway. In case anyone was watching, I wanted to look like a prospective buyer and took a flyer from the plastic sleeve attached to the For Sale sign. The listing agent had done an excellent job featuring all the positive attributes of the property, highlighting the thing I was most interested in—the private dock.