Better Off Dead (20 page)

No one moved. Hugo dashed in the doorway,
took one look, and walked back out of the room again. Helen shook
her head in disgust.

"What?" Carroll said. "Why will no one help
her?"

"She's faking it," Bobby D. said gruffly.
"Old gal has a screw loose."

"That's a lie!" Miranda shot back,
scrambling to her feet. She flounced over to the couch and sat back
down. "I am an actress. An actress acts."

"Yeah, well, if you ask me, this actress
acts crazy," Bobby mumbled back.

Lyman Carroll stared at Helen, and then at
her mother. He looked, at first, perplexed, and then... something
more. Something I could not interpret.

"I have to go," he announced and, without
waiting for anyone to accompany him, he fled out the front door.
Who could blame him? I barely had time to dive into the bushes when
he passed within a few feet of my hiding place, headed for his
car.

I had expected him to be angry. Or
frustrated. Or embarrassed.

I had not expected him to be laughing.

Before I could pump Helen for information on
her past relationship with Lyman Carroll, the doorbell rang for the
second time that evening. I wasted no time. I jumped into the
hallway broom closet. If Carroll was returning and saw me, my
entire case would be ruined and my undercover role would be blown.
Preserving my insider's look at Brookhouse was worth a lot more
than a mop handle perilously close to being a stick up my ass.

It was Luke, my lovesick friend from class.
I heard his voice with such astonishment that I gasped, inhaling
dirt from a dust mop dangling off the door in front of me. This
triggered a sneezing fit. I fell out of the closet, desperate for
fresh air, and came face to face with my punk suitor. Worse, Burly
had wheeled into the hallway to see what the hell was going on now,
and the rest of the house stood behind him, gaping. Who could blame
them? It isn't every day a nineteen-year-old punk with spikes for
hair shows up, yes, bearing flowers.

"What the hell is going on here tonight?"
Bobby D. demanded. He snatched the flowers from an astonished Luke
and marched away with them down the hall. "Better

put these in water before they get
trampled," he growled as Fanny scurried after him.

"What the hell is going on here tonight?"
Burly echoed. He looked at Luke, then looked at me. I didn't like
all the things I saw in his eyes: mainly, that he could see right
through the expression on Luke's face. But the one thing I'll say
about Burly—he minds his own business, not mine, even when my
business may very well have an impact on him. He didn't wait for an
answer, just wheeled away down the hall, his hunched shoulders
saying everything. Helen trailed behind him, casting anxious
glances over her shoulder, wondering, no doubt, who this kid was,
how he had found her house—and why.

Only Miranda remained. "What's this?" she
demanded, giving Luke the once-over. "Honey, you better think twice
about getting involved with this one." She jerked a thumb my way.
"She'll eat you for breakfast."

I interrupted her cackle with a retort
calculated to blow her wrinkled old hide out of the water. May as
well dispense with her presence pronto. "This one's mine," I told
her. "And if you come near him with your horny old ass, I'll come
after you with a shotgun." I grabbed Luke and kissed him hard on
the lips. At first he froze, his lips clamped together, then he
woke up to the opportunity before him and actually slipped me some
tongue, the opportunistic little bastard. I pulled away and stared
at Miranda.

"Do you mind?" I asked. "A little privacy
would be nice."

"Well, I never," she huffed, staggering down
the hall looking for someone who'd agree that I was an amoral slut.
I was sure there were at least one or two people in the kitchen who
would gladly agree.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded once
we were alone. I grabbed Luke by the arm and pulled him inside the
house, then slammed the door. What if Lyman Carroll was sitting in
his car somewhere, watching the house? He might recognize Luke from
the department and put him together with me.

I marched Luke into the living room and
demanded he sit on the sofa. He sat. I pulled up a chair and faced
him as if he were an interrogation suspect.

"Do you realize what you're doing? How did
you get here?"

"I followed you," he said defensively. "And
where'd that fat guy with my flowers go? I brought those for you,
not him."

"Oh, I'll get the goddamn flowers," I
assured him, perhaps not the most gracious speech of thanks I had
ever made. "Tell me how you found me."

"I followed you home the other day," he
said. "Don't get all excited. It was your fault."

"My fault?" I asked.

"You're the one who told me you had a
bathtub Porsche. It was easy to spot. I just had to drive around
campus until I found it. Then I waited until you got off work and
followed you."

"Aren't you a little young to be a stalker?"
I asked. "And don't think you're going to get away with that
tonguing at the door."

"You're the one who started it," he shot
back. "What are you so hot about, anyway?"

"Because—" I said, then stopped. "Because.
That's all."

"Because you're a private investigator and
this has something to do with Brookhouse, right? That's why you've
been asking me all the questions about him."

"How did you know that?" I asked,
alarmed.

Luke looked away, ashamed. "I went through
your knapsack the afternoon you fell asleep. I found your license
and stuff. And your gun."

"You went through my knapsack?"

"God," he said. "Don't get so upset. It was
your fault."

"My fault again?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah." This time, he was the indignant one.
"Feeding me that stupid story about a boyfriend and drugs and
dropping out and coming back and being in your twenties and all."
He straightened his shoulders. "I may be young, but I'm not stupid.
I knew you were at least thirty. And the rest of your story didn't
make sense either." He had the decency to issue a disclaimer. "Not
that you aren't really hot for someone who's over thirty," he
added. "I still really want to, you know, maybe, go get coffee or
something."

"I can't tell you how your offer brightens
the evening of this decrepit, ancient old crone," I said
sarcastically.

"You mean the old lady who just left?" he
asked, missing the point. He shivered at the thought of Miranda.
"She's scary."

"Forget it," I said. "Do you know what
you've walked into the middle of?"

He shook his head. "But I want to help you.
I do."

What choice did I have? He knew enough to
blow the whole case. I had to tell him. With any luck, he'd help me
out by keeping quiet about it.

Luke was triumphant at the thought
Brookhouse might be a murderer and rapist. "I knew it," he said. "I
told you he was a scumbag. That man has got to be brought down." He
slammed one fist into his palm, making a smacking sound. Something
he'd seen in a movie, I knew.

"Well, you are not going to be the one to
bring him down," I explained. "No way. This is really serious. You
know that gun you found?" He nodded. "I use that gun just about
every Sunday. At a shooting range. So I can kill with it, if I have
to. People shoot at me and I shoot back. I don't want you in the
middle of anything. This isn't a game. I don't want you hurt."

"You think I'm too young to be of any help,"
he accused me.

"I think you're too inexperienced in things
like this to be of any help, even if you want to be."

"You need me," he pointed out. "I'm on the
inside, too. Please, I know I can help you."

We were interrupted by the arrival of Fanny.
"Here we are!" she said brightly. She was carrying a tray piled
high with homemade oatmeal cookies. "I knew you would want some of
these, dear," she said. "And I brought us some nice milk, too."

Milk and cookies? Was this some sort of
subtle slap in my face? I watched her carefully, but no, Fanny
seemed sincerely engrossed in making sure Luke got his
refreshments. No sarcastic subtext for her.

"Give me some of those," Bobby demanded as
he strode into the room, a fresh deck of cards in hand. I guessed
the right to privacy had a statute of limitations of approximately
five minutes in this house. "And I don't want milk," he complained.
"Christ. Is there some bourbon anywhere?"

Bourbon and cookies? God. He'd keel over by
midnight.

One by one the rest of the household
filtered in, drawn by their curiosity about the young boy who had
arrived bearing flowers for me. But no one was rude enough to ask
outright who he was or what he was doing at Helen's. Not even
Burly, who wheeled his chair over by the fire and sat there,
stabbing a burning log with the fireplace poker and sending sparks
showering.

"What's your name, dear?" Fanny asked and,
upon receiving it, proceeded to grill him about where he had come
from, who his parents were, what he was studying, his dreams in
life and everything short of what favorite position he enjoyed
while having sex in that hot car of his. And here I thought I was
good at wringing information from people. I was an amateur compared
to Fanny. Four daughters had apparently taught her how to squeeze a
young man dry of every scrap of personal information. She learned
that Luke was from New Jersey, that his father was CEO of some
software company, that his mother was dead and a much younger model
had taken her place—and that both his father and stepmother were
now on an around-the-world cruise to celebrate their fifth wedding
anniversary.

"Oh, dear," Fanny said. "You're all alone
here at school. Didn't they help you move in?"

Luke looked at her like she was crazy. "I
can move myself in," he assured her. "I've been going away to
school since I was eight."

"No." Fanny was appalled. "I wouldn't have
dreamed of sending my Charles away until he was at least
fourteen."

Luke shrugged. "I guess I was just in the
way."

"If you don't mind," I began as I stood and
glared at everyone assembled in the room, "Luke and I are going out
into the front yard to have a private conversation." This was
getting a little too chummy for me. If I didn't nip this bonding in
the bud, Luke would soon be sitting at the card table with the rest
of the crew, sipping Mai Tais and getting in my way.

I grabbed Luke by his arm and dragged him
out the front door before he could protest. Behind me, Burly was
stabbing at the burning logs with such enthusiasm, I heard a crash
as they tumbled to the hearth.

"Ouch," Luke complained when we reached the
front porch. He pulled his arm free and rubbed it. "That hurts.
Jesus, you're strong."

"You have no idea," I promised him. "Get in
your car."

"What?"

"Get in the car. I don't want anyone who
might be watching this house to see us together for any longer than
he has to."

"Like who?" Luke asked. He sounded excited.
"Who's watching the house? What's going on?"

"Nothing is going on," I said slowly as we
settled down in the front seat of his BMW. Man, the kid was right.
The car was like a rolling palace. The seats were covered in
leather and if you pulled a lever, fell straight back. I know
because I accidentally pulled the damn thing while looking for the
seat adjustment and ended up flat, laid out like a Sunday
buffet.

Luke took this as an invitation. Before I
could stop him, he was on me like a fly on cow flop. He pressed his
mouth on mine and this time he went straight for the tongue.

"Stop it," I demanded, struggling back to an
upright position. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Well, if we can't work together, why can't
we be together?" he asked. "I know you like me, Casey. I felt you
really kissing me in there. We would be a great team."

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand,
and glared at him. "Forget about it, Luke." I should have been
nicer, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't afford for him to get in
the way. "I appreciate your help. I really do. But I don't date
guys younger than my dirty laundry and I can't expose you to
danger."

"I'm not afraid of danger," he
protested.

I sighed. There was no way I was going to
win this battle and I wasn't going to waste my time trying. I'd
have to think of a way to throw him off the scent. But I needed
more time to think.

"Look, I'll see you in class the day after
tomorrow. We can talk afterward, go get that coffee you keep
talking about. Maybe you can help me out after all."

"Really?" His eyes widened and he smiled.
Man, it was a great smile. "I knew I could talk you into it."

"Who says you've talked me into it?" I
asked, peeved. "I didn't say you could help. I said maybe you
could."

"I meant I knew I could talk you into
getting coffee with me. Admit it. You like me. A little."

He waited, head ducked, those long eyelashes
of his resting against his cheeks. Damn. Like taking candy from a
baby.

"I've got to go," I said firmly. "Don't say
a word until we see each other again, you hear me?"

He followed my instructions to the T. Not a
word passed his lips. Instead, the cheeky little bastard leaned
over, put a hand on the back of my head, pulled me toward him and
laid a kiss on me that I could feel clear down to my size nine
toes. God help me, I kissed him back. And by the time I regained my
sanity, it was too late. As I scrambled from the car to moral
safety, he was grinning ear to ear.

"Don't ever try that again," I warned him as
he backed down the driveway, still grinning.

I watched him drive away, too quickly. What
nineteen-year-old in a BMW wouldn't floor it after a shot of
testosterone? Was that what it had been like to be nineteen? God,
but life must have been pretty damn hot back then. Too bad I
couldn't remember.