Double Trouble (19 page)

PJ crept closer to the window and dug her fingers into the edge as she watched Gabby fall backward and disappear from view.

No.

No!
Sammy was . . . killing his grandma?

Speed dial 1, speed dial 1 . . . only where had she put her phone? She’d just had it, and . . . oh, well.

She flew out the back door and toward Gabby’s house, pounding open the fence, racing up the stairs and through the kitchen. Big band music blared on the console, and there in the family room stood Sammy, one arm around Gabby’s waist as she hovered just above the floor.

She had one of her arms hooked around his shoulder, the other draped back as if in midswoon.

“Sammy!”

He jerked and nearly dropped his grandmother, who grabbed him with both hands around his neck as he pulled her upright.

“PJ!”

PJ leaped, piggybacking Sammy, clawing at his arms. “Run, Gabby! Run!”

Gabby stepped back. “Oh, my. PJ, what on earth?”

“He took your jewelry
 
—or worse, he might even be high! Get out of here!”

Gabby looked from PJ to Sammy. “Is that right?”

“She’s a crazy person, Grandma.” He turned and in one easy move dumped PJ onto the sofa. She kicked out at him and he dodged, a frown on his face. “What is wrong with you?”

“PJ, calm down. I’m fine.” Gabby sat down in the old recliner, eyes wide. “What has gotten into you?”

PJ’s gaze connected with Sammy, who had stepped back and now crossed his arms over his beefcake chest and steely-eyed her.

“Uh . . . I, uh . . . you called me, remember?” She studied Gabby, suddenly wondering if the woman even remembered her frantic call to PJ only an hour
 
—oops, two hours ago. “How did you get my number?”

“It was on my caller ID as a missed call.”

Oh, that’s right. She’d called Gabby yesterday. “You told me your necklace was stolen.”

Gabby sagged, her eyes sad. “Yes, my necklace. I had it for church yesterday, but I can’t remember where I last put it. I thought it was on the bureau, but maybe . . . I shouldn’t have panicked. But you know, it was
 
—”

“Yes, Seb gave it to you as an anniversary gift. I remember.”

“Did I tell you that?”

PJ nodded.

“Oh, my.” Gabby pressed soft, wrinkled hands to her forehead. “I just don’t know what is wrong with me. I put things down and they simply vanish. Maybe I am losing my mind.”

“You just misplaced it, Gran.” Sammy knelt before her, swallowing her hands in his paws.

Yeah, sure. “Was Evelyn here in the past couple days?”

“No
 
—not since you were here on Saturday.”

“Then . . . I think you need to ask Sammy exactly where your jewelry is.”

Sammy looked at PJ again, his expression incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” She gestured to his shoulders, his biceps, his entire body, and when he frowned, so conveniently confused, she flexed her arms.

Now Gabby also frowned at her. “What on earth are you doing?” Gabby glanced out the window as if worried the neighbors might see.

“Steroids, Gabby! He’s taking steroids.”

Sammy stood, shook his head. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?”

PJ glared at him, remembering her same words to him. “Ha-ha. Listen, Mr. Buff. I know the truth. Dally probably figured out the truth, and you were over there to . . . well, I don’t know why
 
—”

“I told you why.” His voice was soft
 
—deadly soft, or perhaps sorrowfully soft. “Granny knows.”

PJ sat on the sofa. “Knows what?”

Gabby looked up at Sammy. “Are you sure?”

“I already told her.”

Gabby turned to PJ. “Sammy is going to propose to Morgan.”

“He told you that too? Gabby . . . what was he doing to you when I came in?”

Gabby directed her grin to Sammy. “I think you’ll have to let her in on the secret or she’s liable to do a citizen’s arrest.”

Or call Boone. Maybe. “What secret?”

Was that a blush on Sammy’s face? One that made PJ cock her head and wonder exactly why she suddenly felt a curl of shame.

He swallowed, then ran a hand behind his fence-post neck. “Grandma is teaching me to dance.”

PJ stared at him. “What?”

“I’m learning to dance, okay? Tango and two-step. And . . . Dally was my partner. Grandma was helping me learn the steps so I could dance at our wedding.”

PJ tried to unlock the meaning behind those words. But what if Sammy was using his grandma, stealing her jewelry, handing it to Dally to fence . . .

Oh, brother.
“Why do you have to find a mystery everywhere you turn?”

As if hearing Boone’s voice in PJ’s head, Gabby slid a soft hand over PJ’s and squeezed. “Why did you think Sammy might want to hurt me?”

PJ closed her eyes. Pinched her nose. “I don’t know. I just . . .”

“Oh, honey. I think it’s sweet that you care about me. It’s what makes you good at your job. But it’s also a weakness. You
can’t just assume your instincts are correct
 
—you have to use your head too.”

PJ cradled her head in her hands. “What if I get it wrong? What if
 
—”

“You’re going to spend your life worried about every step you take?”

PJ couldn’t look at her or Sammy.

“This is about Boone, isn’t it?”

“No . . .”

“And even that little fiasco ten years ago?”

“I burned down a country club. Hardly a little fiasco.”

“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee. You told me that you came back a different person, right? So, did you expect that it would all be easy? that you wouldn’t make mistakes?”

“No, I . . .”

“You’re so afraid that you’re going to make a mistake
 
—maybe miss something
 
—that all you’re doing is turning in circles. You’re seeing things that aren’t there and you don’t know what to think.”

PJ pushed her palms against her head. It was pounding. Most likely because Gabby was inside it.

Gabby touched her hand. “Sweetie. Of course you’re going to make mistakes. But don’t you know that God has a plan for each of them? The truth is, every time you fail, it’s an opportunity for God to show you how much He loves you. You go read Psalm 18, verse 19. It says, ‘He rescued me because he delighted in me.’
Delighted.
That means He likes you. He takes pleasure in you. He is, as Seb would have said, over the moon about you. And every time you do something that just makes you want to scream in frustration, you have two
choices: to curl into a ball and hide or let God pick you up and dust you off and nudge you forward. Let go of your fear of being wrong and being judged, and draw with confidence to the throne of grace, because I promise you’ll find mercy.”

She patted PJ’s knee. “That’s a verse, too, by the way. Hebrews 4:16.”

Mercy. Not getting what she deserved. Seemed to her she’d read that somewhere else recently. Yes, she needed mercy. And probably forgiveness. She closed her eyes and rubbed them. Why on earth would God delight in her . . . ?

Gabby handed her a tissue from the table. “I think it’s sweet that you wanted to protect me. But Sammy is a good boy. He wouldn’t hurt me. You have to have a little faith.”

PJ glanced at Sammy, who slowly shook his head, clearly not as full of mercy as Gabby.

She grimaced.

“It’s the truth,” he said.

It did sound like the truth. In her head. In her heart.

“I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m just trying to figure out who might want to hurt Dally.”

Sammy regarded her with cool eyes, but Gabby took her hand. “We know. Next time, I hope you’ll trust people a little. Now get up and put on your dancing shoes. We need you, and it’s time to tango.”

“He threw you into the trunk? Seriously?”

“Weren’t you terrified?”

“Do you think they’re still out there?”

PJ crouched at home plate, not sure which was harder to catch
 
—Stacey’s pitches or Morgan’s barrage of questions.

She nabbed Stacey’s fastball, moving her body in front of it, not rising when she threw it back.

“You’re getting quicker,” Morgan said. They’d been working for over an hour, the cool breeze of the evening playing with PJ’s dark braids under her baseball cap. She had to admit to feeling a sort of normalcy when she resumed Dally’s schedule. Breakfast with Gabby, who had spent the entire hour critiquing PJ’s rather-iffy tango technique
 
—hey, she was just filling in, right? Then her shift at the Scissor Shack
 
—a full day of shampoos and sets under Linda’s supervision, to Stacey’s entertaining account of her Labor Day weekend.

“I wonder what Dally did,” Stacey had said, curled up in one of the salon’s black faux leather chairs, when they had a break between patrons.

“Me too,” PJ responded, hating that her curiosity meter just wouldn’t shut down. Yes, Jeremy had checked in with her yesterday before her return to Dally’s, given her the report on Missy, but he’d been specifically cryptic about his whereabouts and activities.

She hated how her imagination took over. Or that she even cared.

Good thing Morgan dropped in to shanghai her for softball practice after work. It was only four days until their next game, and tomorrow night she had a tango lesson with Gabby and Sammy. It kept her brain off who might be stalking . . . well,
her
, what Boris might be doing, and who might really be stealing from Gabby.

And of course, her rather-pitiful attempts at the tango. PJ hoped to keep from knocking over any more priceless antiques next time. Last night, despite moving back the furniture in Gabby’s little family room, she’d managed to take out a vase full of plastic gardenias. Meanwhile Sammy had crushed her toes under his freighter-size feet more times than she wanted to count. If she heard, “Well, you’re sure not Dally” from him one more time, she’d start stomping on the tops of
his
feet.

Now her stomach growled, and her brain, not to mention her thighs, burned with Morgan’s list of fast-pitch instructions.
“The catcher is the leader on the field. Only the catcher can see all the plays at once
 
—and her job is to read the batter, read the field, and keep the batters from getting on base and especially from scoring runs.”

No pressure there. She’d listened to Morgan explain Dally’s
list of pitches: fastball, changeup, drop ball, rise ball, screwball, curveball, and knuckleball.

“Remember, when the batter comes to the plate, you’re not only considering her stance and how she hits, but the game situation, the condition of the pitcher, and even the weather. You have to constantly think strategy.”

“I need ice cream,” PJ said as Morgan hobbled up to the plate and pretended another hitter stance.

“I’m in the back of the box. You have a runner on first. Pitcher is fresh.”

“I don’t know
 
—fastball?”

Morgan lowered the bat. “Drop ball, inside. You want to make them bunt.”

PJ lifted her mask, sighing. “I can’t do this, Morgan.”

Stacey came in from the mound. “What’s the holdup?”

“PJ’s crumbling.”

“I’m not! I’m just . . .” She tumbled back in the dirt, stretching her cramped legs. “Confused.”

Stacey collapsed on the edge of the grass and picked at it.

Morgan leaned on the bat. On the field next to them, a group of six-year-old T-ballers scrambled around the bases.

“Let’s play that,” PJ said.

Stacey smirked.

“I think the kids are so cute. Their parents stand on the sidelines and tell them which way to run.” Morgan giggled.

PJ sat up. “Oh, that’s perfect. I have an idea.” She looked at Morgan. “
You
call the pitches. You know what you’re doing, and I can catch and throw. So you sit on the sidelines and do the heavy thinking. We’ll make up some new signals; I’ll glance at you, grab them, and translate them to Karla.”

“That’s a great idea! Do you think we can pull it off?”

“You don’t know this, but I was born to sneak around.”

Stacey grinned. “You put that on your résumé?”

“Maybe.”

“I think it will work,” Morgan said, straightening. “Let’s do it.”

PJ pulled off her catcher’s mask, holding her wig in place as she did. It was more of a formality. She had no illusions that she might be fooling anyone watching. “I would hug you, but I smell pretty bad. I promise, you don’t want to get near me.”

Morgan eased her way down to the dirt. “Apparently, I don’t even need to smell bad to repel someone. Sammy’s been ignoring me for the better part of a week.”

PJ eased off her glove, flexing her hand. “What? I saw him chase away the adoring fans the other night. He’s crazy about you.”

“Not anymore. He used to be so . . . attentive. He’d show up to all our games, come over after work; we’d go running together. Now every night he’s busy, and sometimes I only get his voice mail. I think . . . maybe he’s seeing someone else.”

“Uh . . .”

“And now Reggie
 
—you met him at the pizza parlor
 
—he asked me out, and I’m wondering . . . well, I don’t know. I love Sammy, but maybe I’m setting myself up to get hurt.”

“Oh, Morgan . . . maybe you should talk to Sammy.” PJ glanced at Stacey, who was regarding PJ with a strange expression.

“I did. He told me he was working. Even yesterday. But I know the shop was closed. When I swung by there, it was dark. He lied to me.”

A cheer went up from the next field.

“Give him a chance, Morgan. Don’t cut him off too . . .” PJ glanced at Stacey, who was frowning. “What?”

“Nothing. Only . . . you sounded a lot like Dally just then.”

Maybe because she and Dally were keeping the same secret? PJ managed a feeble smile.

Morgan reached over and tugged on PJ’s braid. “You do remind me a lot of Dally. Someone I can count on. A true friend.”

A true friend.
That was a description of Dally, wasn’t it? She wasn’t the kind of person who stole boyfriends or got into fistfights or clipped old ladies’ jewelry. In fact, over the past week, PJ had to agree that Dally and she were a lot alike, like Jeremy had predicted. Just a couple of women trying to figure out how to live with themselves and their mistakes.

“Thanks, Morgan.”

“I’m just glad that you’re okay. But who do you think is after Dally?”

PJ shook her head. “Maybe Karla?”

“With the big game coming up this weekend? No. She knows I’m out of commission.” Morgan lifted her bandaged ankle.

“I was really thinking it might be Missy. I was thrown into an Impala. But according to the FBI, she still has hers.”

Stacey was leaning over her legs, stretching. “No, she doesn’t. I saw Missy yesterday, hanging out at Rick’s softball game. She has a hot new convertible MINI Cooper. I remember because I wondered how she could afford it on her nursing assistant salary.”

She had a new car? “But then what happened to the Impala?” Had Jeremy or Lee gotten it wrong?

Stacey angled her a dark look. “Maybe she ‘lost’ it in a parking lot on the Wisconsin border.”

“Why do you have to find a mystery everywhere you turn?”

PJ stood, brushed off her uniform. “I don’t know who kidnapped me. Unless, of course, it’s Dally’s mysterious Mr. R.”

“Mr. R.?” Morgan rose, swung the bat over her shoulder.

“Yeah, I found a note in Dally’s stuff. A Dear John rebuttal. A ‘You’ll regret letting me go’ kind of note signed only by the initial
R
. I got to thinking that whoever the
R
was, maybe it was someone who might have something to lose if that note ever got out into the open.”

“Mr. R.?” Morgan repeated, now staring hard at PJ.

PJ could practically see Morgan’s thoughts written in her expression. As in Sammy
Richland
?

PJ quickly said, “I think it’s a first name, not a last.”

Morgan said nothing.

“Don’t panic, Morgan. Sammy’s still into you.”

Morgan made a face at her.

PJ made one back.

* * *

Night had shifted over the neighborhood by the time PJ returned to Dally’s house. She walked up the sidewalk, swinging her mask and glove, aware of how she’d acclimated to the neighbors
 
—the rottweiler next door was already barking, seeing her even from a half block away. The gardener across the street lifted his spade in hello.

She noted that Sammy’s Charger, usually lounging at the curb in front of Gabby’s house, was conspicuously absent, but across the street, farther down, she noticed a black Ford Focus. Had she seen it before? It suddenly appeared in her memory.

As she passed Gabby’s house and turned in to Dally’s walk, the car door opened.

She froze, one hand on her mask, quickly reviewing her self-defense techniques. At the least, she could lob him upside the head, flee to Gabby’s. Where Gabby could clock him with one of her porcelain vases . . . ?

Out stepped Mr. FBI. Or at least who she assumed to be the man Jeremy had assigned to watchdog her. He appeared every inch an FBI man in his dark blue suit, shorn hair, and all-business look as he crossed the street.

“Hello,” he said, extending a hand when he got closer. PJ considered it only a moment before she took it. He was taller up close, with wide shoulders that pulled at his suit coat, betraying a regular date with a gym. His brown eyes barely scraped over her before lingering on the house. “I’m Lee Simmons.”

“You’re the one who called Jeremy the other night.”

Lee glanced back at her. “You okay?”

PJ nodded. “Thanks.”

“I just wanted to let you know I’m out here. You let me know if you need anything.”

“How about a large pepperoni pizza with mushrooms . . .” Oops. No sense of humor. “Thanks.”

He nodded and turned back to his vehicle. It occurred to PJ that if he was trying to maintain a sense of distance, perhaps attempt to catch the perpetrator, he might, you know, be a little less conspicuous? When Jeremy wanted to fly under the
radar, he’d motored around in an old VW Rabbit masquerading as a pizza delivery guy.

But maybe that was the point. Lee wanted to stand out. As a deterrent to whoever wanted to throw her into the back of vehicles. He’d get no arguments from this iffy softball player who needed a shower.

Unlocking the front door, she pulled it closed behind her, resetting the dead bolt.

She ran a bath and soaked for an hour before emerging a prune. Then, cozy in her Superman pants and a clean tee, she fed the chinchillas
 
—she knew better than to let them out
 
—raided the cupboard only to surface with Cheese Nips (scary how much she relied on Gabby to feed her), and stood at the entrance to Dally’s room a long time trying to put her finger on what might be missing. Her gaze traveled over the bed, the closet, the dresser . . .
the dresser
. The picture of Mount Rushmore was missing. She went over to the dresser, looked behind it, under it. No picture.

If only she could remember the face in the picture. She stood for a long moment, trying to re-create the memory, and finally gave up. She probably could confirm with some surety that it hadn’t been Sammy. . . . She would recognize a man of his bulk.

Still, it irked her as she finally curled onto the sofa with the remote. Scanning through the channels, she landed on AMC.
Roman Holiday
. Gregory Peck and beautiful Audrey Hepburn, runaway princess, hiding her identity.

Runaway . . .

Princess
. She heard Jeremy’s voice, low and soft in her mind.
Princess.
She probably shouldn’t like it, shouldn’t like the way it
made her feel pretty. Even royal. Shouldn’t like the smile that slid up his face when he said it.

She turned off the television and sat in the darkness, eating Cheese Nips. Okay, she could admit it
 
—she missed Jeremy. For some reason, when he’d suggested she work for him, she’d believed it might be, well, together. Surveillance . . . together. Breaking into country clubs . . . together. Saving small countries . . . together.

But no. Dally was with Jeremy. And she was here with the chinchillas.

Not that it mattered. She closed the box and lay back, closing her eyes.

“Poppy? Patsy? Phoebe? You will tell me if I get it, right?”

They sat on the front steps. Even with his face lost in the shadows, she could trace it without looking
 
—dark eyes, square jaw with a scrape of whiskers.

“You may call me Anya.”

He smiled at her. “Thank you . . . Anya.”

Wait, was her name Anya? No . . . Danya? Dalya?

No . . . Trouble . . . Boone called her Trouble.

“You’re not what I’d call trouble.”

I’m not?

The phone rang and she jostled awake, blinking into the flickering darkness, watching . . . Hey, how had the television turned on? Sure enough, Gregory Peck had invaded her subconscious, not only “not calling her trouble,” but now talking on the telephone.

She reached below her hip, pulled out the remote where she had lain on it, and watched as Gregory Peck conspired to trick poor Audrey.

From inside the tomb of her bag, she heard her cell phone tone. She dug it out, not looking at the caller ID. “What, Boone?”

Silence.

“I’m sorry. Did I interrupt something?” Jeremy’s voice emerged deep and smoky, quiet.

She clicked down the volume on Gregory and propped her feet on the coffee table. “Hi.” Her tone came out shorter than she intended.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Just . . . “Nothing.”

“Well, I wanted to check on you. Where are you?”

“Dally’s. I met your friend Lee outside.”

“Good.”

He sounded tired, his voice roughened by lack of sleep. It turned something inside her and made her ask, “You okay?”