Double Trouble (21 page)

PJ sank down beside her, put an arm around her again. “We need to go inside, Gabby.”

“What if I’m making it all up?”

“Making up what?”

“My life!” Gabby turned in PJ’s arms and grabbed her shirtsleeve. “What if I did dream it all
 
—Fred and Doris and Marlon
 
—?”

Marlon? As in Brando? PJ held her breath.

“What if I imagined it all, trying to be a woman I’m not? a woman I never was? What if I am crazy? What if I concocted everything
 
—why would I do that?” She pinned PJ with a wild look.

“I don’t know. I . . .”

“Did I want it too badly? Was it not enough that I had a good life? a wonderful husband?”

PJ held Gabby tightly, running her hand down the bones in her back. “You’re not crazy, Gabby.”
Please, God, don’t let her be crazy.
Because it wasn’t crazy to want to be more, was it? to believe that you were a star
?

Gabby shuddered for a long moment, until finally she leaned back, her hands taking PJ’s. “I don’t want to be crazy, PJ,” she said, letting the rain drench her and scrub the makeup, the mud from her face. Lightning strobed again, but Gabby didn’t move, just tightened her hold. Firm, despite the frail bones, her grip pressed into PJ’s, the mud like cement as it filled the cracks in PJ’s hands. “I don’t want to be crazy.”

Thunder argued in the distance, a retreating voice even as the driving rain began to ease. Down the alley, a car splashed through soggy craters. Water poured off the gutters, spitting out the debris of the storm.

“Me neither,” PJ said softly. “Me neither.”

Focus on the game. Focus. On the GAME!

Karla’s pitch came sailing into her glove with a resounding and sharp whack!

“Sturrrike one!”

Ow.

But PJ didn’t flinch, didn’t even grunt as she pulled the softball out of the pocket and flung it back to Karla, a perfect shot over her right shoulder.

She glanced at Morgan, sitting on the far edge of the dugout, as the batter gave a couple practice swings. Morgan adjusted her cap. Curveball.

The batter crouched over, and even PJ could see that a high ball would be her weakness. But knowing which pitch to call still baffled her. Thankfully, Karla was playing along, although she still hadn’t exactly warmed to PJ.

“You’d better not lose this game for us or you’re going to lose
something else
.
”
Karla’s voice edged into PJ’s head as she relayed the signal. If it weren’t for Morgan calling the shots, PJ had no doubt she’d be tussling with Karla in the dirt again, no amount of waxing on or off saving her as Karla loosened the teeth in her jaw.

No wonder Dally had to be so tough.

Karla glared at her and threw the ball hard over the plate. PJ watched it curve in and nabbed it as the bat whooshed over her head.

“Strike two!”

PJ arrowed it back to Karla, her arm feeling hot, the old adrenaline rippling through her. How she longed to be out at shortstop, in Stacey’s position. She loved scooping the ball from the dirt, throwing it on the run, hearing the satisfying whack of the ball connecting with the first baseman’s glove.

Morgan gave the signal for a changeup, and PJ shot it to Karla.

“Strike three!” the ump called when the batter whiffed again.

PJ threw the ball back, standing up to stretch as the next batter came to the plate. One out, top of the last inning, the Rockets were one run ahead, and the Sting had a runner on second base. They just had to hold them. Behind her, the stands were full, even for a Saturday afternoon, with possibly the entire population of south Minneapolis milling about the three fields. She’d scanned the seats once for Jeremy, but no, he’d kept Dally from attending, as promised.

Probably a good idea. What if Dally’s stalker was in the crowd? Sure, she’d all but ruled out Sammy, but there was still Missy Gainer to consider
 
—a very angry Missy, who played
shortstop for the Sting and now glared at her from second base. Wow, that
was
purple hair. Bold, striking purple, it matched the run of tattoos down both muscled arms. And the snarl on Missy’s face every time she looked at “Dally.” At least PJ had kept her cover.

“Batter up!”

The batter stepped up to the plate. Lanky and stiff, she stood as if she might be afraid of the ball or even Karla.

Yeah, well, Karla inspired fear on and off the field.

PJ knelt behind the plate and, confirming with Morgan, signaled for a fastball, low and outside.

It would help her concentration if she didn’t keep glancing at Missy scraping the dirt with her feet like a bull.

Or keep reliving Boone’s barely cordial tone during yesterday’s phone call. Yes, he was still investigating the auto ring, but no, he wasn’t going to share information, and mostly he called to see if she might be willing to come to her senses, hang up her PI badge
 
—which she officially hadn’t earned yet
 
—and come home.

PJ had spent most of the night listening to the chinchillas, thinking about Jeremy alone with Dally, considering Boone’s proposal, worrying about crazy or not-crazy Gabby falling and hurting herself alone in her house, and even bemoaning little Davy playing on the beach with his new grandma, who might be deported thanks to PJ.

PJ should come with a warning label:
Close proximity to PJ Sugar just might cause lifelong damage.

She kept her focus through two strikes, but as she reached for Karla’s pitch, the ball nicked off her glove, skidding into the dirt.

In an explosion of energy, the batter tossed her bat and took off for first base.

Shoot! PJ lunged for the ball, missed, and scooped it up again, only to hear the umpire yell, “Safe!”

When she turned, Missy had advanced to third. And as the skinny girl on first base gripped her knees, hauling in breaths, PJ had a blinding vision of Karla grinding her bones into dust.

“Sorry!” she hollered as she threw it back.

Karla plucked it out of the sky and narrowed her eyes.

“C’mon, Catch! Look alive!”

PJ shot a glance into the gallery, her heart jump-starting. But no, not Jeremy. And not Dally.

“Keep your eye on the ball!”

Keep your eye on the ball. Right.

PJ hit her mitt a couple times, grabbed Morgan’s call for the plate crowder, and sent it off to Karla.

The ball came flying in, inside, and the batter whiffed it.

PJ grabbed it, bobbling it just a second. Threw it back.

Morgan signaled for an inside drop ball.

PJ watched Karla receive it, nod slightly, and size up the batter.

The ball smacked into her glove. “Ball!”

Karla’s glare landed
 
—thankfully
 
—on the umpire. PJ returned the ball, biting back words of encouragement, like “In the pocket now, Karla.”

She looked to Morgan and saw that Sammy had appeared, leaning against the side of the dugout chatting up Morgan. Apparently he didn’t realize his girlfriend was secretly playing catcher this game.

C’mon, Morgan, give me the signal.

Karla was staring at her, waiting. But even as PJ watched, Morgan turned and looked at PJ, mouth open. Then something that seemed dangerously like accusation entered her eyes.

Behind her, Sammy was talking fast, using his hands, but Morgan just stared at PJ.

What now? PJ waited.

Morgan cocked her head but gave no signal.

Fine. She could probably call the pitch. PJ signaled for a fastball.

Karla shook her head just slightly.

PJ signaled again.

Karla stepped back and fired it into the pocket.

“Ball two!”

“Ball?” PJ stood. “It was right there.”

“It was inside, Catch. Just play the game.” The ump seemed unfazed by PJ’s dark look. Or perhaps she just wasn’t as good at it as Karla.

“She’s crowding the plate. Of course it looks inside. But it was right on the money.”

“You want to play or get thrown out of the game?”

Was he giving her choices? Because what PJ really wanted was to rewind to about two weeks ago to the parking lot outside the Windy Oaks Motel and send
Jeremy
out for donuts. Apparently, she belonged in her cute little Bug
 
—and how she missed it now
 
—watching life from a safe distance.

PJ threw the ball to Karla. Crouched again. Shot a look at Morgan, who seemed to be trying to incinerate her with a glare.

Signaling for a screwball, PJ held her breath until it dropped beautifully into her glove.

“Strike two!”

PJ returned the ball, seeing movement at first base. Skinny wanted to steal
 
—PJ could see it in her eyes. But her gaze shifted to Morgan, who now turned and slapped Sammy across the face.

He barely flinched before he connected his gaze with PJ’s.

Oh no.

But she didn’t have time to put the pieces together, to name her instincts, because the batter moved, sliding back into the box.

If PJ signaled another screwball, the batter would connect and send it into the next field and the sixth-grade Little Leaguers. . . .

PJ kept her gaze off Morgan and guessed wildly. How about an outside curve?

Karla pursed her lips.

PJ held her breath.
C’mon, Karla, show a little trust.

The ball sailed in, a beautiful outside curve that would be a strike regardless of how blind the umpire might be.

The batter grazed the ball and it popped up.

PJ expected it and snatched it on the way down. She was already on her feet, already throwing to second. “Get down!”

Karla ducked as the ball shot to second base, where the second baseman grabbed it and tagged Skinny just as she hit the dirt.

“PJ, look out!”

She didn’t have time to figure out the voice or who might be blowing her cover, just to react as she turned and saw Missy
charging her. She smacked into her, full body contact. PJ flew back, slammed against the wire cage, and slumped to the dirt.

“Out! Out! No run!”

Ow
.

The stands erupted. Stacey came barreling across the field, whooping. “You did it!”

Everything hurt as PJ groped for her lost breath.

Karla reached her first. “Good throw!” She may have even been wearing a hint of a smile.

PJ was checking for broken bones as she met Karla’s grip. The brawler hauled her to her feet.

“You okay?” Karla said, but her words were barely out before Stacey took PJ down again in an enthusiastic jump.

“Two outs! You saved the game!”

“Ow!”

Stacey thumped her twice on her catcher’s padding. “Now that’s my Dally!” She winked, grinning.

“Good job, Dally.” The voice came from behind the crowd, which parted for Missy, who stood over her, shaking her head. “I see you still have your skills on the field
 
—I hope you still got it for my cut and color next week.” She whipped off her hat, shaking out all that purple hair like ribbons off a package. “I’m counting on you to do what you promised and turn my mess bloodred.” She held out her hand to high-five PJ, who met it with a smack, trying to keep up.

She remembered the run-in between Missy and Dally that Morgan had recounted. Maybe Morgan
had
heard the word
die
. Only, not so much
die
as . . .
dye
. Missy certainly didn’t
look like she wanted to take Dally out into the back alley and finish the job she started a week ago. Or today, at home plate.

Cross Missy off her list of Dally-napping suspects.

“Good game, Catch.”

The low voice parted the jubilation and found her heartbeat. Boone.

He suddenly appeared above her, a shadow of concern and pride, holding a half sack of popcorn. As he extended his hand to pull her to her feet, something sweet and warm filled her chest.

Boone? Here? The question came out before she could censor her tone. “What are you doing here?”

His smile fell, as if she’d accused him of stalking.

“Is this your boyfriend?” Stacey came up behind her, stuck her hand out to Boone, who looked at PJ as if she’d slapped him. “Hi, I’m Stacey.”

“That’s not Dally’s boyfriend. He’s a cop. And he’s got dark hair.” Missy winked, nudging her. “Unless you got someone new, Dally?”

A cop. How did she know Boone was a cop?

Wait.
“That’s not Dally’s boyfriend
.
”
Which meant she was talking about Dally’s real boyfriend. A cop. A
cop
?

“Yep, she’s definitely moved on.” Morgan pushed past Missy and Stacey, murder in her eyes. “‘Give him a chance, Morgan . . . ,’” she mimicked. “What was that?”

PJ looked at her, past her to Sammy, standing with his hands in his pockets. He gave a small shake of his head.

Oh, Sammy, just tell her the truth
. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Morgan.”

“You’ve been seeing him, haven’t you?”

Around them, the jubilation ceased. Eyes bored into her, accusing. “N-no, Morgan, of course not!”

“I’m not stupid. I saw someone walking out of his grandma’s backyard just last night arm in arm with Sammy.”

PJ shot a glance at Sammy as her mind replayed the stroll to the street, the car screeching away from the curb. Sammy shook his head, panic on his face.

“But the fact is, it was you, wasn’t it?” Morgan continued. “Yet, according to Sammy, he hasn’t even laid eyes on you. Which makes me wonder
 
—what are you two hiding?”

Uh-oh.

PJ’s mouth opened. Sammy’s eyes widened as if trying to laser some message into her brain. She shot a look to a frowning Stacey and avoided Karla and her back-alley expression. PJ didn’t have the courage to glance at Boone. “That’s not true, Morgan. I
 
—Sammy
 
—we . . . can explain.”

“
We?
I knew it. I should have never trusted you.” Morgan raised her hands as if to strangle . . . PJ, herself, Sammy? PJ didn’t know, but she stood there, tripping over the explanations, horrified at the deceit that choked off her voice. “What was all that ‘oh, Morgan, give him a chance’ noise? I’m such an idiot.”

“Morgan
 
—” PJ reached out to her but Morgan stepped away, something feral in her eyes.

“Stay away from me.” She turned and broke through the crowd.

“Um, maybe you shouldn’t come out for pizza with us,” Stacey said softly. “Good throw, though.”

“Stacey
 
—”

Stacey waved halfheartedly. “Later . . . Dally.”

Oh, perfect. PJ hazarded a glance at Boone. He’d crumpled
his popcorn bag, his lips a tight line. She grabbed his forearm as he turned away. “It’s not true.”

“Is this why you’re so surprised to see me?”

“No! I . . . just meant I didn’t know you were going to come to the game.”

He didn’t smile. “I can leave.”

She wasn’t making this better. And it scared her suddenly, how much she didn’t want him to leave. How relieved she’d been to see him. How delighted. “No . . . I didn’t mean it like that.”

His smile returned slowly, but it unknotted the fist in her chest.

“You don’t believe her, do you?” PJ shot a glance at Morgan, now trying to keep Sammy from helping her hobble to the car. From this vantage point, he appeared to be attempting, vainly, to dig himself out of trouble.

Boone slid an arm around her shoulders. “Give me more credit than that.”

Sometimes Boone was so easy to love.

“Need some pizza . . . uh, Dally?”

She smiled at him, at the twinkle in his eye. “You know me too well.”

His hand slipped into hers. “Please don’t forget that.”