Licensed for Trouble (10 page)

PJ spit the paste out into the sink of the office's tiny bathroom. She planned on heading over to the gym for a morning shower, but she had no intention of leaving the building with her mouth tasting like the underside of a Dumpster.

“Goo' i'ea,” she said, the toothbrush back in her mouth.

Jeremy cracked a small smile and closed the door behind him.

Of course, he looked freshly groomed, a full eight hours of sleep behind him, as opposed to her dismal two.

She ran her fingers through her snarled, almost-shoulder-length red hair. Yep, she'd have to move out, and soon.

She exited for the health club before he returned, and an hour later, she retrieved her coffee and—score!—found three powdered sugar donut holes sitting in a bag on the sofa.

“Did you come up with any leads on Bix?” Jeremy sat at the computer, searching his data bank for the last known address on Keith Dennis—the FTA whose file lay open on his desk. A half-eaten bismark soaked grease into a napkin beside him.

PJ pulled her sophomore yearbook onto the sofa. “When would I have done that—maybe between the hours of one and three this morning?”

“Someone got up on the wrong side of the sofa.”

She popped an entire donut hole into her mouth and gave him a dark look. She'd give him the wrong side of the sofa. . . .

She swallowed, chasing it with a swig of coffee. “Can you do a credit header search on Trey Johnson, see if he's in the area?”

Jeremy gave her a strange look. “Where'd you get that?”

“Well, I did manage to dig up a lead.”

“So you
were
up. Please don't tell me you camped out at her house again.”

“Calm down, boss. I read my yearbooks.”

“What, you discovered the name Trey Johnson scrawled between the pictures of the band concerts and the science project winners?”

“Something like that, yes. I'm thinking that Trey, Meredith's boyfriend, or more likely Deena Hayes, her best friend—see what you can find on her, too—might be helping her now.”

“That's a big leap.”

“But it is a new lead.”

She matched his smile of approval with one of her own.

Jeremy turned his attention to his computer. “I have about three hundred listings for Trey Johnson. Let's start with Deena. Her last name is a bit less common.” He sipped his coffee as the trace ran. “She lives in Kellogg. Runs a store—looks like a clothing store.”

“Deena lives in Kellogg? What store?”

“Babies and Baubles. Just off Main Street.”

PJ got up and pulled her bag over her shoulder.

“I don't suppose you'll be getting another round of coffee while you're out? I'll take a double-shot macchiato—”

“I'm not an heiress!” PJ closed the door behind her, took the stairs down, and climbed into the Vic.

Traffic traveling west, away from downtown Minneapolis toward the burbs, was thin, and PJ sailed toward Kellogg almost on autopilot, noting the backup of cars jockeying their way downtown. PJ smelled a game of toss-the-pigskin in the autumn air. Maybe she could attend a football game if she lived in Kellogg again.

Lived in Kellogg again. In the old Kellogg place. Became a Kellogg. The thought sank into her, along with Jeremy's words.
“You won't even consider moving into the house . . . because you don't think you belong.”

Because, well, a girl like her didn't belong to the fairy tale. No, fairy tales were reserved for real princesses, with real pedigrees. No matter how much she wanted to believe in Cinderella, PJ was a refugee taken in by royalty. She couldn't—or maybe wouldn't—escape her lineage.

Kellogg's Main Street always embodied an old magic that stirred to life whenever PJ turned off the highway and onto the strip that edged the beach. Only a few sailboats beckoned to her from their moors in the harbor of the Kellogg Yacht Club. The beach had yet to be combed—leaves tossed by the nearby oak and poplar trees splotched the sand.

Corn husks tied to lampposts and the occasional pumpkin edging a storefront doorway brought to mind the smell of piled leaves, the nip of morning frost.

She passed the theater, took a left at the corner, and found Babies and Baubles in a tiny three-office building a half block from the beach. She squeezed the Vic between a shiny black Lexus and a white Pontiac GT, wishing her car came in a convenient compact edition.

An elegant script on the door and window betrayed the clientele. Inside the aura of money portioned out in fresh gardenias, the classical music piped through the stereo, the chandeliers dripping from the ceiling and casting spotlights on the displays of designer handbags behind glass, jewelry hanging on glass racks. In the back, a baby section with European-looking prams with shock absorbers, hand-tooled high chairs, racks and racks of high-end baby clothes, lacy layettes. Everything for the well-attired baby and mother. PJ picked up a bear, checked the price tag. Put it back.

A woman dressed in a black baby-doll dress and calf-length leggings looked up at her and gave her a white smile.

Deena?

Time had been generous. Deena wore her blonde hair up, her face as young as it had appeared in the yearbook. “Can I help you?”

And with her greeting, PJ went speechless. What kind of PI went into a situation cold? She'd walked in without a plan, and now she'd probably have to buy something to get Deena to open up.

She didn't belong here. But . . . an heiress would.

What would a Kellogg do?

PJ smiled, aware that she wore a pair of old jeans and a jean jacket, her red hair down and finger-combed. She affected a lazy browse. “Just looking. My sister is having a baby.” She picked up a stuffed sheep.

“That's a sleep sheep. It plays four different soothing sounds to help your baby sleep better.” Reaching over, Deena pressed the quilted tummy. A whine sounded from the toy. “That's a whale.”

“It sounds more like someone is dying,” PJ said, handing her the toy. “Sorry.”

“If you prefer, we have a dog that emits a pleasing scent. We just got him in—I'll get one for you.” She disappeared into the back.

PJ roamed the store.
Think like an heiress; think like an heiress.
Bix wasn't here, and for the first time in years, PJ hadn't a clue how to blend in, how to act a part.

Deena returned, holding a floppy, long-eared, stuffed hound dog. “Here he is. You just have to push his tummy, and more smell comes out.” She gave the belly a little squeeze. The fragrance reminded PJ of something sweet—lavender, maybe, with a hint of baby powder. Oh yes, she already felt soothed.

Deena stopped talking, her cool green eyes running over PJ. “I know you, don't I?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“You look so familiar to me. Oh, I know—I saw your picture in the paper.”

“PJ Sugar.”

“I met a Sugar just last week.” She put the dog down. “What was her name? She bought a bathrobe. It's out being monogrammed.”

“It's probably for my sister.”

Deena walked over to the counter and typed on her keyboard. “Let's see. Yes, here it is . . . Elizabeth Sugar. Monogrammed initials: EAB.”

Elizabeth Ann . . .
B
?

“It came in yesterday. Did you want to pick that up?”

“Uh, no, actually, I'm here on official business. I'm looking for a woman named Meredith Bixby.”

Deena's smile vanished. “Why would I know her?”

“I was looking in an old yearbook and I noticed you two were friends.”

Deena turned, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now why would I ever be friends with that snake?”

“But you were in high school.”

“Oh, honey. People change.”

“Like Bix.”

Deena fingered her necklace. PJ noticed her bare hand and the strange look that crossed her face. “Oh no, not Bix. People like Bix don't change.
I
changed. I got smart. ”

“So you have no idea where Bix might be?”

Deena gave a wry smile. “If she knows what's good for her, a long way from here.”

PJ wrote down her number—next on her list would be to get business cards—and handed it over to Deena.

“PJ Sugar . . .” She looked up with a smile. One filled with way too much recognition. “Aren't you the one who burned down the country club a couple years after I graduated?”

PJ smiled at her. Shook her head. “Nope. That was somebody else.”

Deena flicked the paper between her fingers, and PJ saw her hold on to it until she got into her car.

Then she crumpled it and dropped it into the trash.

* * *

Connie stood over her KitchenAid mixer, whipping up a batch of Toll House cookies, as PJ walked in, untied her Converse, and padded into the kitchen. PJ hardly recognized her attorney sister with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing yoga pants and a rumpled Harvard sweatshirt, apparently playing hooky from another day of work. “Who are you?”

“An endlessly hungry pregnant woman.” Connie scooted out a stool with her foot. “Tell me about the mushroom house.”

“What are you doing home?”

Connie pulled out a cookie sheet. “I'm using my sick time—I probably have a month accumulated. Just until I get over morning sickness.”

PJ eyed the bowl of cookie dough. “That's not breakfast, is it?”

“Elevenses.” She pulled out a spoon from the drawer. “Are you going to keep the house?”

“I'm not sure—but I came over to tell you that Mom is on a cruise.”

Connie put down her spoon. “Come again?”

“She's on a cruise. She told the neighbor, but not us. How do you like them apples?”

“Huh.” Connie considered that for a moment, scooping another spoonful of cookie dough. “Weird.”

PJ got out a spoon. “Yep.”

Finally Connie pulled the bowl toward herself and began to spoon dough onto the pan. “I should attempt to actually cook some of these for Davy.”

“That's it? No panic? No indignation?” PJ swiped a fingerful of dough and licked it off. “Mother hasn't been on vacation in ten years. And now she's, what, cruising the Caribbean?”

Connie dropped the final ball of dough onto a pan. “Maybe she'll get a tan.”

“Connie. What if something happens to her? Don't you listen to the news? People get thrown overboard, attacked by pirates!”

“Please. Pirates?” Connie slid the cookies into the oven, closed the door, licked the spoon, and then let it clatter into the sink. “Don't worry.”

“I am worried. It feels weird—like I suddenly don't know her. And apparently, she's buying bathrobes, only not for you. Sorry.”

“Buying bathrobes?”

“One, at least. With the initials
EAB
.”

“I don't even know anyone with those initials.”

“Yes, you do—Elizabeth Ann . . .”

“Browning? Buckwheat?”

“Funny. Did Mom change her name?”

“It's probably a gift for some friend at the club. Calm down.” Connie opened the fridge and pulled out a container of milk.

“Did you know that she had a friend in college named PJ?”

Connie set the milk on the counter. “No, I didn't. I wonder if she named you PJ after her friend.”

“She didn't name me PJ, actually.”

Connie grinned. “Oh, that's right.” She took down two glasses. “Maybe that's why she freaked out when you started calling yourself that. Of course, I always knew you were a PJ.”

Connie poured the milk, then turned when the buzzer sounded and moved the pan of cookies to the higher oven rack.

As PJ watched her, Connie's written words from the past slipped back to her. “Why did you write that in my yearbook—about me being amazing?”

Connie looked at her, flicking her hair from her shoulder. “What?”

“My yearbook. You wrote that I was most likely to be amazing.”

“Maybe I was being pithy. But to me, you were sort of unbelievable.”

“Please tell me that is good.”

“Of course. I watched you from the outside of your vortex, always wishing I could be in it. You
did
amaze me.”

“But I was always in trouble.”

Connie lifted her shoulder. “It looked more like fun to me.”

“Do you have significant memory loss? I was grounded for half of high school.”

“But the other half, you were out with Boone. Having all the fun.”

Maybe she was. She hadn't seen Connie's face in the powder-puff football pictures, the homecoming shots. “Sorry. I should have invited you in.”

“It's okay. I couldn't have kept up with you, anyway.”

“Stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Being so nice. Calling me amazing. Why do you do that?”

“Hey, I'm an attorney. I try to look for the innocent parts of a person.”

“Yes, but I was hardly innocent. I remember you standing in the hallway upstairs, watching me sneak out of the house.”

“Oh, well, that was pure fun for
me
. I couldn't believe you scaled the porch. Or that Boone caught you. I was so jealous of you and Boone.”

“Me and Boone?”

“He was crazy about you. I wished I had a boyfriend.” Connie pushed a glass her direction. “It seemed like everything came so easy to you.”

“No, you were the one things came easy to. You fit right into the life Mom wanted for you.”

Connie took a sip of her milk. “That didn't mean you couldn't fit in. You never saw yourself as a Sugar.”

PJ twirled the glass on the counter. “Because I'm not one.”

The clock ticked. The fridge gave a moan.

Nothing from Connie. Until, “You've got to be kidding me.”

PJ lifted a shoulder. “I'm adopted; let's not forget that. And it's not like we're even remotely alike. You're tall and dark; I'm a redhead—”