Licensed for Trouble (19 page)

“Hence, why I changed it. At age six.”

“And what about Joy?”

“No.
J
does not stand for Joy.”

He seemed to be waiting for more, judging by his eyebrows-up expression.

“I'm not telling you what the
J
stands for.”

“Jessica? Jasmine? Just Joking?”

“Stop.”

“Maybe I will call you Prudy—”

“Don't do that. Really. Don't do that. PJ. That's my name.”

He tapped the box. “You're not the only one.”

“Wait—in my mother's yearbook, there is a Sunny Barton. This toddler is the same Sunny! And Joy is her
mom
.”

“Then who is PJ? Because this box contains memorabilia from the seventies—when Sunny would have been a teenager. But is it Sunny's or her mother's?” He tapped the box.

PJ ran her thumb over the picture. She looked closer at it, able to make out the Kellogg pier, the lifeguard buoy floating beyond the high-dive platform. “I think the box is PJ's—Joy's—but maybe Sunny kept it after her mother died.”

Outside, Dog barked, chasing ducks probably. Upstairs, Max had begun some sort of ominous pounding.

Jeremy took the picture from her and placed it back in the envelope. “Let's solve one mystery at a time.” He pointed toward the banging overhead. “Has he behaved himself today?”

“If you're asking if he's tried to murder me and steal my money and assault me, well, just that one time, but I gave him the old PJ flip, and he learned his lesson.”

He shook his head, caught between a grin and a glare. “Of course you did. That's my girl.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, his smile dimmed. He made a face as if wishing to take back his words.

PJ sorta wanted to reach out and grab them, pull them close.

He held out his hand to pull her to her feet. “Actually, I have a surprise for you.”

“Other than coffee.”

“A thousand times better than coffee.” He put his hand on the small of her back, led her to the front door, and opened it. “Ta-da!”

“My Bug!” Sitting in the driveway, shined up as bright as the blue October sky, sat her vintage 1960s Bug with a convertible moonroof. “When did Sammy finish it?”

“He left a message on my machine. He brought it over this morning. I thought you'd enjoy having it back.”

PJ turned to him and laid her hand on his cheek, patting it. “You're a good boss.”

“Yeah, well, the Vic gives me the creeps. Give it back to Boris. He needs the wheels.”

“What about you? You said it was the perfect stakeout car.”

“It is. But I have my own wheels.”

“Your Harley? C'mon—it's getting colder out.”

“Don't worry about me, Princess. Let's grab your plumber–slash–former soldier–slash–could-be murderer and take a field trip over to Hopkins, see if we can't jog his memory about that night he ended up in the drink.”

“Who's in Hopkins?”

“It's the last known address of Lyle Fisher—the speed racer the cops picked up that night. I'm hoping if we start showing Max's face around, we'll get a hit.”

“Did you know Max can pick a lock?”

Jeremy's mouth tightened into a grim line. “Let's just get this over with.”

PJ stopped in the doorway to the upstairs bathroom and pressed a hand to her stomach. “This I didn't need to see.”

Max stood over the bathtub, pulling a long metal drain snake from the pipe. His flannel shirt lay over the pedestal sink, his phoenix tattoo visible on his bare arm. Years—maybe centuries—of disgusting black goo lay in dribbles and soggy piles on the pink subway tile floor.

“I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Welcome to your relic. This tub was probably installed in the forties, at best. But the plumbing dates to the early 1900s. The pipe in the tub is plugged, and that's why the overflow didn't work. My theory of old Aggie Kellogg falling asleep waiting for her tub to fill may have been correct because the floor was completely flooded, as evidenced by the water damage along the baseboards. The pool found the edges of the bathroom and ran down inside the wall, which is why the wall downstairs is destroyed. There's major cosmetic damage—all your plaster has to be replaced. And in this house, it's lath and plaster, so we'll have to rip it all out and put up Sheetrock.”

PJ braced her hand on the doorframe, waiting for her knees to buckle. Anytime now . . . “How much is that going to cost me?”

“Labor? Nothing. Sheetrock runs about $10 a sheet. But you might have some structural damage. I won't be sure until I get in there. But that's not your biggest problem.”

Of course not.

“I need to get into the wall and replace the entire drainpipe.” He was winding the snake back up. “It's an old house; the plumbing is probably rusted through. I was snaking it out, and I'm pretty sure I poked a hole in the drainpipe.”

“When you say
drainpipe
—”

“The one that runs from the tub through the wall to the drain in the basement. I have to rip down the wall on the first floor to get to the pipe. Otherwise you'll have a swamp in the basement. Sorry.”

“I'll give you sorry.” Jeremy said it so softly, it seemed that Max hadn't heard it, the way he bent over, putting his tools away.

PJ glanced at him. “It's not Max's fault the place is a wreck.”

Jeremy just hardened his mouth to a tight line.

“I guess I have to replace the wall anyway. . . .” She closed her eyes, doing the math.

“I'll loan you the money to get started,” Jeremy said.

“Since when do you have money?”

He smiled, something darkly cryptic inside it. “I don't sit around all day waiting for lost people to fall into my lap, Sugar.”

She opened her mouth, closed it. “I'll find Bix. I will.”

“I know.” Jeremy slipped a hand into hers, squeezing just a little. He turned to Max. “You can get started on it when we get back.”

“Get back from where?” Max closed the toolbox and stood. He'd removed his stocking cap, and in full-out revolt, his hair couldn't make up its mind which way it wanted to go.

“We found a lead on the night you went over the bridge. A speeder got picked up right around the time you were found on the beach. We think he might have a connection to you. He's gone missing, but we do have a last known address. We're going to go talk to his landlord. Tag along, and let's see if anyone recognizes you.”

PJ glanced at Jeremy, at the dark expression on his face as he spoke. He hadn't removed his hand from her shoulder.

Max grabbed his flannel shirt and nodded. “I'll get Dog.”

The smell of fall gripped the air—the fragrance of old leaves, apples, and pumpkins—as PJ, Jeremy, Max, and Dog climbed into her VW Bug.

“Okay, I take it back; I already miss the Vic,” Jeremy said. “I feel like a pretzel.”

“You're the one who told me to give it to Boris. You should have heard him on the phone—he's probably sprinting over here.”

Behind them, Max was trying to wrestle Dog onto his lap. “We should have taken my car.”

Jeremy flicked him a look, which PJ didn't require translation to read. He had no intention of trusting the guy, even enough to drive.

The town of Hopkins always charmed PJ. The tiny bungalows with their quaint attic rooms, wide sidewalks edging groomed yards filled with rows of hosta, cedar bushes, clipped hedges.

However, the charm had died at Lyle Fisher's last known residence. The duplex, a converted Cape Cod covered in stucco, bore the stamp of afterthought architecture. A dormer addition ran the length of the back, and another smaller one capped the front, with long, narrow windows like two hooded eyes peeking up from the roof. Leaves peppered the yard and stuffed the edges of a cracked paved driveway. A snarled rosebush grew between the two sets of cement steps leading to the separate residences. Only a white impression, outlined with grime, remained of the former metal numbers signifying Lyle's address.

The place betrayed all the earmarks of desertion.

“I hadn't held out too much hope, I guess,” Max said quietly from the backseat.

PJ opened her car door. “There's still someone living here, maybe next door.”

“How do you know?”

“The garbage is out.” She pointed to the rubber can at the end of the driveway.

Jeremy pried himself out of the car, followed by Max, who shoved Dog back into the car while PJ cracked the window. “We'll be right back . . . Jake.”

Dog looked at her with what seemed disgust and flopped down on the seat.

“Please don't eat my vinyl. I just got it fixed.”

PJ kicked a few leaves along the cracked sidewalk, letting them catch in the air. She stopped to peer inside the duplex window. Vacant, with shiny oak floors and a floral wallpaper border in the orange kitchen. She'd lived in too many places like it over the past ten years.

From a duplex to a mansion. It seemed as if her résumé had a few logical gaps.

Jeremy mounted the steps of the next unit, already ringing the bell when PJ stepped up beside him, in front of Max, and smiled widely for whomever might be peering from behind the wispy curtain at the window.

An elderly woman eased the oak door open. Her tidy, graying hair was short and curly around her timid blue eyes, and she shoved her face into the crack between the door and the frame. “I'm already a Christian woman; I don't want to hear about the end times or why I need the Book of Mormon.”

PJ hid a smile. “We're actually looking for someone. A former tenant in the other unit. Have you lived here long?”

The woman glanced at Jeremy, then back to PJ. “I own the place. Who are you looking for?” Before PJ could answer, the older woman's gaze drifted to Max. Her face screwed up. “Do I know you?”

Max's entire body stiffened. “I don't know; do you?”

The woman's mouth tightened into a tiny knot as she peered at him. Then she reached into her housecoat and pulled out a pair of round, bottle lenses. Propped them on her nose. “No. Sorry. It's hard to tell without the hair. I guess you all look alike.”

“Are you talking about Lyle Fisher?” PJ glanced at Max. He looked like he should sit down.

“That's right. Fisher. He up and disappeared four years ago—taking his rent for the month with him, thank you very much, I haven't seen him since. But I do have a box of his stuff.” She slipped her gaze over to Max again. “Something about you seems familiar, though. Are you sure you don't know Lyle?”

“I don't—,” Max started.

“He's his cousin,” Jeremy said. “Lyle sent him to get his stuff.”

“Well, then maybe he can pay me the last month's rent, too.”

Oh, good one, Jeremy.

“How about part of it?” Max reached into his pocket. “I have about a hundred here.”

There went the little knot in the old woman's mouth again as she considered Max's offer. “Fine.” She swiped the bills from his hand and disappeared.

“You'd better hope she's coming back,” Jeremy said quietly.

PJ shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and glanced at Max. He was using his X-ray vision to stare through the door.

The woman returned with a printer box, the top secured with packing tape. She opened the storm door with her hip and held out the box. “It's all yours. The rest I donated to Goodwill.”

On the side, the name Lyle Fisher was written in black block letters.

She gave Max a last look. “Next time you see him, you tell your cousin I want the rest of my rent. Two years of putting up with his odd disappearances and strange friends, and this is the thanks I get.”

Max nodded, as if yes, indeed, he'd do that very thing.

She closed the door on them.

Max carried his treasure out to the Bug and balanced the box on the hood, then stepped away from it, considering the box as though it might contain national secrets. Or perhaps a bomb.

Jeremy produced a pocketknife. Max took it from him without a glance.

PJ watched Jeremy's face, his eyes scrutinizing Max as he ran the knife under the tape and loosened the top. He tried to hide it, but she sensed his relief when Max closed the knife and handed it back.

Inside the car, Dog woke up and began to bark, shoving his nose out the window. Leaves, swept up by the wind, became a whirling dervish, caught in her hair.

Max stared at the box. “Okay.” He took a breath. Wiggled the top open.

A manila envelope full of mail lay on top. Max picked it up, riffled through it. “Junk mail, all of it. All addressed to Lyle Fisher.”

PJ picked up a dusty black calculator. “It's dead.”

Under the envelope lay a belt, a Maglite without the batteries, a plastic canteen, a pair of warped aviator sunglasses, and finally, a watch.

Max took the watch out, ran his thumb over the black band, the raised dial face.

“That's a military watch. The kind special ops uses,” Jeremy said.

“You can buy these off the Internet, can't you?” PJ asked as Max handed her the watch.

“They're pretty pricey, but yeah.” Jeremy leaned over her and took the watch from her hands. He worked the dials. “It's the waterproof kind that SEALs wear.”

And he would know. She saw Jeremy pause as if scrolling through memory. Then he shook himself out of it. Handed the watch back to Max. “Why would Lyle leave this behind?”

“Or these.” Max riffled through the envelopes. “Hey, look at this. It's a picture.” He tugged out a four-by-six snapshot, staring at it. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

“Max?”

He flipped it over, shook his head, then handed the picture to her without a word.

A picture of a threesome. Two men sat on a bench, with a woman in the middle. One man had long blond hair, tied back, bronzed and muscled in a sleeveless shirt. The other, his brown hair also long, sat bare-chested, his arm curled around the back of the woman. Her eyes twinkled as she laughed into the camera; the wind had caught her hair and dragged it across her face. Both men grinned, but only one had a dimple pressing into his cheek. From this vantage point, PJ couldn't make out a tattoo. Yet, despite the hippie hair, PJ easily recognized her new plumber, although in this picture, his eyes appeared brighter, his smile without the tinge of sadness.