CHAPTER 2
"Hello, gorgeous."
I whacked my head on the display shelf.
Well, what would you do if you were lying across the top of a four-drawer lateral file cabinet, and your arm-yardstick attached-was wedged between the wall and the cabinet, trying to retrieve the license renewal application that if you mangled, crushed or couldn't get would mean the end of your business, and the ex-love-of-your-life stood in the doorway looking at your butt?
The shelf shook on its braces from contact with my head. Never mind that the encounter didn't do much for the aforementioned body part. The Fair Haven Chamber of Commerce awards rattled, and signed Detroit Tigers baseballs pelted my head, shoulders, and the back of my thigh. I dropped the yardstick and swore.
"I thought you promised your mother you wouldn't swear anymore." He would remind me of that vow.
"Relapse," I muttered as I looked over my shoulder.
In that loose-limbed, cocky manner I once thought scary, sexy, and so cool, Nick Palzetti stood in the doorway to the spare office. He even dressed the same in a black leather jacket, black knit shirt, and jeans that molded his hips. Lordy, he could still make my mouth go dry.
As I wiggled back and sideways across the long cabinet, I felt my skirt ride up. Of all days to wear a skirt. With my foot, I searched for the desk chair I'd climbed to get on top of the cabinet. I'd kicked off my high heels before standing on the chair, probably the only smart thing I'd done so far.
"Red panties, you naughty girl."
I clamped my legs together. "Quit looking up my skirt."
"Need a hand?" he asked.
The way my luck was going, he'd start clapping. "No, thanks. I'm fine."
My foot finally found the chair. It spun away. I swore again. Mom would understand.
"Don't you know better than to climb on things that move?"
"Gee, I never heard that before."
Thanks to said skirt and gravity, I started to slide. I grabbed the back of the cabinet and dangled, the front edge digging into my ribs. I could have let go. The cabinet was only five feet high and full. Otherwise it would have toppled over, crushing me. Now, that might have been a good thing. It would've put me out of my misery.
Two hands grabbed my waist. Normally, I liked a man's hands on me. Just not the man who broke my heart fifteen years ago. "Okay, Lexie. I've-"
"Don't call me that," I snapped. "I go by Alex." Probably not the best time to assert my name choice.
"Okay, Alex. I've got you." He did. I tried to twist away, lost my grip on the cabinet and fell.
"Gotcha," he said, a half sec before we tumbled to the hardwood floor. He must have twisted because I landed on top of him. That had to hurt. With my height, I'm no light-weight. I looked through a curtain of red. My carefully arranged, very professional chignon had tumbled down. Like the song, thanks to Nick Palzetti, I'd come undone.
"Another fine mess you've gotten me into." I hooked a hank of hair behind my ear and propped my elbow on his chest. "Just like Indiana Jones, hey, Nick? I always knew you'd come back through my door. Of course, I'd rather it was Indy, instead of you."
"Nah." He gave me the boyish grin that melted girls' hearts so many years ago-especially one who was fifteen and had the world's biggest crush on him. "He's old enough to be your father."
"Who?" I was still thinking about crushes and heartbreak.
"Indiana Jones, Harrison Ford. Isn't he the same age as your dad?"
Unfortunately, he was right. The 'Indy' I knew and loved existed in movies from the Seventies and Eighties. I'd worn out VCR tapes. Now my DVDs were in danger of going the same way.
Nick gave me a smile worthy of Indiana Jones and Han Solo. "C'mon, give me a kiss and tell me you're glad to see me."
"I'd rather kiss a Wookie." In order to sit up, I placed my hand on his chest. It was strong, like his heart if the thudding was any indication. I straddled him, my skirt riding up my thighs, and tried to fix my hair.
He laughed. "You always did have a thing for Star Wars when we were kids."
"Still do," I muttered, anchoring the last hairpin. Hang on, was that the front door?
"Hel-lo?" An older woman's voice warbled from the outer office. "Is anyone here?"
My one o'clock was early. My receptionist still hadn't gotten back from lunch. Don't come investigating, lady, I prayed as I scrambled to my feet. My stocking-clad foot slid on the polished floor. Nick grabbed me to keep me from falling. I flopped face down on top of him instead of the floor.
"Oh, dear. Am I interrupting something?" The woman standing in the doorway looked down at us. "Uh, Mr. O'Hara? I have an appointment."
I levered myself off Nick, more carefully this time, and tried to look presentable. I tucked in my navy blouse-belatedly realizing the top three buttons had come undone, confirming to Nick that my bra matched my panties. I remedied that situation. Consigning Nick Palzetti to the netherworld, I found my shoes. This was all his fault. If he hadn't startled me, I wouldn't have fallen. Okay, I shouldn't have been climbing on furniture.
I approached the woman and held out my hand. "I'm Alex O'Hara."
"Cecilia Yoder." She was an attractive woman in her mid-seventies who hadn't let age keep her from being trim and stylish.
After shaking hands, I said, "This way, ma'am. My office is in there."
I ushered her out of the room I used for storage. It had been Nick's father's office when he owned the agency along with Pop. What a dynamic duo those two had been. Still were. Frank O'Hara and Tony Palzetti. A wild and crazy Irishman and a sexy Italian. The Pops were enjoying Arizona sunshine while in another month we would suffer gray skies, a gray lake, and gray days.
I led Mrs. Yoder into my office, formerly my Pop's. In anticipation of the appointment, I'd cleared my desk except for the computer, phone, a legal pad, and the Mont Blanc pen the dynamic duo had given me when they handed over the firm last spring.
'Handed over' gives the wrong connotation. Pop always said that people didn't cherish what came free. Thanks to the Bank of O'Hara & Palzetti, I had a business loan that rivaled the national debt plus a sneaky clause that said Nick had the option to buy in for his share of the firm. Frank and Tony, aka The Pops, weren't dumb. They knew what they were doing when they sold me fifty-one percent. They knew how much I wanted the firm, how hard I was willing to work for it. Who knew what Nick wanted? He'd shaken West Michigan dune dust off his Dockers long ago. Now he was back.
Hang on. Had The Pops sent him to check up on me?
Mrs. Yoder lingered in the doorway, disapproval fairly shouting from her. "I believe I have made a mistake."
I put on the matching jacket to my gray skirt. "Ma'am?"
"The, uh, scene I interrupted . . ." She pursed her lips, giving me that 'you Jezebel' look. Yet I saw hesitation in her expression, too. Uncertainty.
"I apologize. I fell off the cabinet and he caught-" Pop's caveat zinged through my brain. Never explain, never complain. "Appearances aren't always what they seem. I will understand if you choose to go elsewhere." Please don't. I need the work.
Even with the search for Harry Anslyn, I had to take every case that came along. Not just for my monthly expenses. I wanted to get out from under that loan from The Pops. Until then, I wouldn't feel as if the agency really belonged to me.
Mrs. Yoder's indecision wavered. When she finally took the visitor's chair, I breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
I took down the pertinent information. She was convinced her husband was running around on her. No wonder she nearly bolted out the door. Her perception of Nick and me playing hanky-panky in the office had to have been a painful reminder of what she thought her husband was doing.
Spying on philandering husbands was my least favorite type of case. Spouses say they want to know then get mad at the messenger-me-when their suspicions were confirmed. Unfortunately since The Pops left, those cases had become my mainstay. I couldn't wait to get back to the meaty ones The Pops used to assign me. Like missing persons and workman's comp cases. Finding Harry Anslyn just might do that.
"Is something wrong, dear," Mrs. Yoder asked.
"No, why?"
"You look . . . perturbed."
That's what I got for letting my mind wander.
"No, ma'am. Now let's see if I have everything right." I went over what she'd told me. Husband goes out every Thursday evening for three hours, won't say where, comes back smelling of musky perfume. Mrs. Yoder wore a light floral.
"Are there any unexplained checks or credit card charges, especially on Thursdays?" I asked.
She gave me a sheepish look. "Martin takes care of our finances."
Oh, boy. How many times have I heard that? What a contrast to my folks' marriage. Pop saw the forest while Mom saw trees. That is, he got the big picture, she took care of the details. I inherited both perspectives but leaned more toward Mom's side. Until she'd gotten sick, Mom managed the books for both the business and our family. She kept Pop and Tony well informed about their financial status. I remember monthly meetings around the kitchen table where she and Pop went over personal finances together. The longer I was in the investigative business-the more marriages I saw-the more I realized what a terrific partnership they had. Maybe they were just ahead of their time.
"Can you check the bank and credit card statements?" I asked.
Her mouth twisted. "That seems so . . . underhanded. Like I don't trust him."
I gave her a long look. Finally, she realized what she'd said. "I guess I don't trust him if I'm coming to you."
I waited for her to figure out what she should do.
She sat up straighter in the chair. "I'll look for the statements on Thursday while he's out doing who knows what. It'll give me something to do besides imagining him . . ."
Time to shift gears. "Here's my standard form. Please look it over and fill it out."
Unlike Babette Rhodes, Mrs. Yoder didn't question the reasoning behind the form.
When she returned the paper, I took a quick look at it. "May I ask why you came to this agency instead of one in Grand Rapids?" Which would have been a lot closer for her. Easier for her, bad for me.
"I didn't want to run into anyone I know."
Fortunately for me, many clients did that. Fair Haven is less than an hour west of Grand Rapids. The Pops had often been asked why they'd located their agency in such a small town. They gave the same answer I did. Even people in small towns deserve the best. For the residents of Grand Rapids-Michigan's second largest city-they got a sense of anonymity by using the services of an agency away from people they knew.
I went over my fees before saying, "What time does he leave so I can follow him?"
"F-Follow him?"
What? Did she think I'd look into my crystal ball and 'see' her husband fooling around? "My usual procedure is to follow and take pictures of the assignation. Pictures you can use to confront him or take to your lawyer."
"Lawyer?"
I nodded. "For divorce proceedings."
"Divorce? I never said anything about divorce."
I'd jumped to conclusions on that one. Guess she hadn't thought out the consequences of finding out what her hubby was up to. Yeah, yeah. I've had clients who just wanted to know but didn't want to change their status quo. Some even said they didn't want to give up their home because it was too nice.
Not me. If I found out my spouse was cheating on me, I'd boot his as- uh, behind right out the door. Then I'd fry his butt. Even if Michigan is a no-fault divorce state, I'd find a way. Nobody lied to me and got away with it.
I folded my hands on top of the legal pad. "Mrs. Yoder, what exactly do you want from me?"
"I want to know where Martin goes on Thursday nights."
"And when you find out . . .?"
She twisted the strap of her purse that she'd kept on her lap. "I don't know."
As kindly as possible, I asked, "Do you really want to know?" Because if she didn't like the answers I gave her, guess who'd get the blame. But, hey, I'm tough.
She didn't respond. Her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled. I reached behind me for the box of tissues. Before I could hand over the box, she tightened her jaw and blinked several times. "Yes. I need to know. He's an old goat and I love him. If he's seeing some young chippie, I'll just have to give him an attitude adjustment. We'll be together fifty years come Thanksgiving. He is not trading me in for a new model."
I smiled at the change in her. "My suggestion is that you check statements. I'll follow him on Thursday and see where he goes."
"No pictures," she insisted. "I couldn't bear to see him with another woman. You can tell me what you saw."
"Okay." No pictures, my foot. Clients who say that always ask for proof later.
She opened her purse. "I'm not sure what to do now. Do I give you a retainer . . ."
Obviously, she hadn't been listening the first time around. Nor had she read the form she'd signed. Typical of clients who were so emotionally wrung out by their situations. I went over the firm's policy regarding fees again. She seemed like a very nice lady who wouldn't renege on an obligation, but The Pops had drilled into my head to get a retainer up front. When clients didn't like what you told them, sometimes they refused to pay. Talk about shooting the messenger.
She paid in cash. Most clients in her situation did. No paper trail. Except for the receipt, which I gave her. She may not want a paper trail, but the IRS liked to see mine.
After reassuring her that I would find out whatever I could, I ushered her out of my office. Nick was perched on the corner of my receptionist's desk. Susan had her elbows on the desk, chin resting on her knuckles, apparently enthralled by Nick's descriptions of life in the nation's capital. I probably looked like that when I was fifteen. I shot him a lethal look behind Mrs. Yoder's back.
After my newest client left, I turned to Susan. "You were late getting back from lunch. You knew we had a client coming in at one. Do you need a new watch?"
She sputtered about traffic. Right. Like there's traffic in a two-stoplight town after the tourists have left. I didn't have any more appointments so my plan was to work on what I called-in my mind only-my Big Case. Finding Harry Anslyn.
First, I needed to know why Nick Palzetti had come back. Was he spying on me for The Pops? Or did he have another reason? One I definitely wouldn't like.
I pinched his ear and dragged him into my office. Of course, if he'd wanted to stop me, all he had to do was jerk his head away. At six-two, he topped me by four inches and outweighed me by sixty pounds. He yelped and threatened me with a personal injury lawsuit.
"Go ahead. There's a lawyer two doors down."
The Pops had bought the red-brick, two-story building shortly after they started the agency. As with most of the structures on Main Street, it stood cheek-to-jowl with its neighbor. In some instances, a walkway to the beach separated the buildings allowing access to the parking area in back. I have a good relationship with two of my immediate neighbors-an accountant who handles my taxes and the lawyer who does my legal work. I've done some collections-ugh!-for the accountant and legwork for the lawyer. A good arrangement for all.
I released Nick's ear at the same time I closed the solid mahogany door behind us. Susan had the curiosity of most eighteen-year-olds. I didn't want her to share what she heard. When I hired her in June, I made sure she understood the word confidentiality. I also assured her that I would fire her for a breach of said confidentiality. Being a good friend's daughter wouldn't save her. Since Nick wasn't a client, I wasn't sure she'd keep what she heard confidential.
She was skating on thin ice in a couple of other areas. I warned her last week that she had to either get her act together or she was going to be another casualty of the semi-recovering economy. She didn't need to know I wouldn't really fire her, even if saving on her wages would help my bottom line. If I had an empty receptionist desk, it would give the appearance that the agency wasn't doing well. In this business, as with many others, appearances were important.
I hitched my hip on the corner of my desk-imitating Nick's pose in the outer office. "What brings you to Fair Haven, Nick? Passing through?"
He snorted. "Nobody passes through Fair Haven. It's the end of the road." He had that right. Next stop heading west was Lake Michigan.
Nick sprawled in the visitor's chair recently vacated by Mrs. Yoder. "You were a little hard on the kid out there. She was only a few minutes late."
"Third time this week."
"It's only Monday," he pointed out.
"She was late three times last week, all right? Do not presume to tell me how to handle my employee and don't change the subject. Why are you here?"
I folded my arms. I didn't just sound defensive, I looked it. He'd better not be here to claim his share of the business. For the past eight months, I'd busted my rump to make it on my own. He wasn't going to stroll in just as business was picking up and take it away from me.
Here's what sticks in my craw. Through high school, I ran errands, answered phones, and filed-all the scut work at the firm-while Mr. Football Star ran around dazzling girls with his dark hair, dark eyes, and those thick lashes girls would kill for. While he went off to the University of Michigan and majored in seduction, I commuted to Grand Valley State-criminal justice-and helped The Pops in the office. Gradually, they turned more and more work over to me before retiring. I was building a good reputation until they left. Nothing like being undermined by your employees. Former employees.
I've had to work doubly hard just to stay afloat. Nick was not going to take it away.
"Would you believe I came to see you?" His mouth creased into a whimsical smile.
I knew better than to believe him. "It's been what, Nick? Eight years?" At Mom's funeral.
He had to have an ulterior motive. I mean, come on, he didn't even come back for The Pops' retirement celebration in February.
Nick appeared to ponder for a moment. "Maybe eight for you. I saw you two years ago when I came home for Christmas."
"And you didn't think to stop and say 'Hi'? To Pop?" Wouldn't want him to think I cared that he'd seen me and hadn't bothered to talk to me.
"As I recall, you were sitting on a stool at Clancy's Tavern as some knuckle-dragger tickled your tonsils."
While my cheeks burned at the memory of that unwanted kiss, I silently cursed my fair Irish complexion. Genetics betrayed me every time. "Knuckle-dragger is right," I said. "I guess you didn't stay long enough to see me deck him."
"Guess not."
"Would you have talked to me if you had?" Why did I ask that? It wasn't like I wanted him to know how much I missed him.
We grew up together. Our playpens sat side-by-side in the front office while our mothers worked at the agency. Okay, slight exaggeration. I was in the playpen. Since he's three years older, he got to play under desks.
"Forget I asked that," I said hastily. "Why are you back? It's not like your folks are here anymore."
"I saw them in Scottsdale last week. They send their love. Frank, too. He said to tell you his golf game is improving."
Oh, Lord. They did send him. Since they'd bank-rolled my venture, I sent regular reports. Did they think I wasn't doing a good enough job? Did they think I needed help?
Don't go there, I told myself. Think positive. Don't let him know you think he's here to spy on you.
"How's your mom?" I asked.
Maria Palzetti was especially dear to me. After Mom died when I was twenty-two, Maria was my life-saver. She didn't try to take Mom's place. She was just there for me during that horrible time. I hate to say it, but I miss Maria more than I miss my father.
"Mom's fine. She got her way with Pop so she's happy."
It was Maria who declared the investigative business was for the young and not for someone past seventy. She told Tony it was time to retire. His triple bypass might have had something to do with her decision. Pop thought it was such a good idea he retired, too. At Maria's instigation, they sold me the business. She was a dynamic force. Neither of The Pops would dare go against her. Maria also made sure her son wasn't denied his inheritance. Hence, Nick's option to buy into the business.
I tried again. "What are you-"
He got up and walked around. Though the office was spacious, the usual business accoutrements made it smaller. Besides the long bookcase behind the massive cherry desk, there was a vertical file-definitely not one I'd ever climb on. Next to it was a printer stand with a slow, but reliable, black-only printer that had seen a lot of use. Pop said it was like a Timex. It took a licking and kept on printing. I guess that came from an old commercial. Susan had the faster laser color printer out front.
Nick brushed against my swinging foot. Though he murmured an apology, it took every bit of self-control not to shrink back. He would see it as a sign of weakness.
"I like what you've done to the place."
"Not much," I demurred. I'd tried to brighten up the mahogany-paneled walls with large white-matted photos I'd taken around Michigan. The ones of Lake Michigan lighthouses, like Big Red in Holland and Point Betsie, were my favorites.
"I picked up your Pop's baseballs. I'm glad you kept his collection." He gave me a winsome smile over his shoulder. "I always wanted that one signed by Al Kaline and the rest of the Tigers' 1968 World Series team."
"In your dreams. Back to my question. Why are you really here?"
He turned away from examining the photo of the Pictured Rocks along Lake Superior. "I'm considering a career change."