The First Time Again: The Braddock Brotherhood, Book 3 (4 page)

“Good.”

“What about the other one?”

“The indecent exposure. Did Spoley follow you behind the bushes?”

“No!” Trey exploded, outraged. “He was busy writing tickets.”

“His word against yours. You asked if you could go take a leak. There’s no evidence you actually did.” Ryan grinned. “Unless you left any other, uh, evidence behind.”

“You’re enjoying this a little too much, you know that?”

“Aw, come on. When I was a kid I wanted to be you, and now I’m defending you. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make me a little happy to have you as a client.”

“Believe me, Ryan, you do not want to be me. No one does. Not even me most of the time. So, can you make most of this go away or not?”

“I think so. Except, as you said, the speeding ticket, which you’re willing to cop to anyway. Depends on the judge. Let me have Nikki make copies of those citations and get some more information, and we’ll go from there.”

By the time he left Ryan’s office, there was almost a spring in his step. A very careful spring, that is. He had reconnected with, okay, not exactly an old friend, but an old acquaintance. One who didn’t hold a grudge for anything or take delight in his fall from grace. Ryan’s cousin worked for the orthopedist who’d taken over old Doc Fleming’s practice. Ryan promised to call and get the names of the best PTs around. Ryan’s wife had a friend who did housecleaning part time. Trey had drawn the line at asking for referrals to a local psychotherapist. He’d track one down on his own.

Chapter Three

“Ryan Reagle gave me your name and number. I’m looking for someone to help me out around my house. If you’re available, give me a call.”

Baylee Westring scribbled down the number. Thank God, she thought. She needed another job. Any job. At this point, she’d clean caves for al-Qaeda’s crew to make a buck.

She started her ancient Toyota and shot Vivian Longstreet’s Victorian mansion a dirty look as she pulled away from the curb. The old bat collected miniature figurines of dancing cats. They covered every available doily-covered surface on every piece of antique furniture in the oversize house. Vivian expected each and every figurine to be lifted and dusted, along with the surface beneath, and then replaced in exactly the same place. She followed along behind Baylee each week, fussing and tsking and clucking her tongue, rearranging the endless collection to her satisfaction.

It was only one day a week, but Baylee approached each Wednesday with dread and loathing nonetheless. Baylee’d raised her hourly rate in the hope Vivian would fire her and find someone else to clean her clutter under her critical eye. Though Vivian had tried to haggle with her, Baylee had stood her ground, insisting her time was worth twenty dollars an hour instead of the fifteen she’d been charging.

Unfortunately, Vivian had given in, making Baylee wish she’d doubled her rate instead. Vivian was the last remaining Longstreet, and she’d inherited all of her family’s considerable wealth. Baylee had no intention of being underpaid for even this sort of menial work.

At a stop sign, she hit the redial key before continuing to maneuver the little car through Hendersonville.

“T. C. Talk to me.”

Huh? What?
Baylee took the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a moment. Who answered their phone that way?

“Hello? Anybody there?”

“I’m uh, that is, um, you left me a message.”

“Going to have to be more specific, darlin’. I’ve left about a dozen messages already today.”

He sounded distracted but not annoyed. Like he was humoring her.

She cleared her throat and attempted to be more professional. “You need help around your house?”

“Right. When can you start?”

“Oh, um.”

Baylee pulled in to the parking lot of a convenience store. This conversation, which should have been simple, felt anything but. “Well, don’t you want to like, meet me, interview me, call my references?”

“Nope. Ryan’s wife wouldn’t recommend you if she thought you were going to screw me over.”

“You know Jenny?”

“No. I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Then how did—”

“When can you start?”

Well, excuse me!
Exactly what she needed. Another overbearing client. She hoped he had money because she planned to charge him top dollar, sight unseen, just because of his attitude.

“I’m free tomorrow.”

“Great. What time?”

“I don’t know. How’s nine?”

“How’s eight?”

Baylee sighed and didn’t bother to cover it. “Fine.”

“I’m at 2371 Sycamore Road east of Edna Falls. See you then.”

He disconnected. Baylee sat for a minute, staring at the brightly displayed signs in the store window touting discounts on beer and cigarettes, before she scanned her cell phone’s contact list and hit auto dial.

“Jenny, who the hell is T. C.?” she asked as soon as her best friend picked up.

“Huh? What? Seth, put that down. Don’t you dare. You little monster. Come here.”

“Jenny?”

“Sorry. Seth is testing parental boundaries again. Give me that.” A childish howl filled Baylee’s ear and she held the phone away until silence abruptly reigned.

“Jenny? What’d you do to him? Tape his mouth shut?”

“No, but that’s a good idea. I put him in his crib and shut the door.”

“Aww, Jenny.”

“He’s almost two so he gets two minutes. That’s how much time you’ve got to tell me what you’re talking about.”

“Some guy called today about having me work for him. He said he got his number from you. He calls himself T. C.”

“That doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Oh. I forgot. He did say he’d never met you.”

“Do you mind if I point out you’re not making any sense at all?”

“Never mind. Go get Sethie. Give him a kiss from his aunt Baylee.”

“I would, but I don’t want to reinforce his negative behavior.”

“Talk to you later.”

Baylee disconnected. The mystery of T.C. could wait until tomorrow morning. At eight o’clock. Maybe she’d purposely arrive late to see how he reacted. Maybe he wouldn’t hire her. As badly as she needed the money, she had an unsettling feeling about this guy.

She put the car in gear and took her time heading home simply because she was in absolutely no hurry to get there. Once upon a time she’d had a lovely two-bedroom, two-bath townhouse to call home. Since her first year in college she’d worked for the biggest privately owned bank in Asheville. After graduation, with a degree in finance and a minor in business, she’d worked her way up to assistant vice president for operations. In recognition of her longevity, hard work and promotion, she’d been given stock options. The bank was solid with a proven track record. She’d borrowed money to buy the stock using a portion of the annual dividends to pay the loan interest. First Bank of Asheville would be gobbled up by one of the big banks soon enough and the value of her stock would double, possibly even triple. The economy was going gangbusters. There was no way she could lose.

Except she had. First to fail was her marriage, which had been a disaster from the beginning, although both she and Scott had been unwilling to admit it and were incapable of being honest with each other. Correction. She had been honest. For a long time Scott had not been. Then the economic downturn began. The value of real estate in North Carolina plummeted as it did all across the country. Like many community banks, First Bank hadn’t been prepared for such a drastic change. In less than a year it went from being the bank it had always been to being closed down by the FDIC. The bank’s stock was worthless, and Baylee had a significant uncollateralized loan she couldn’t repay. Especially after she lost her job.

The townhouse she and Scott owned lost more than half its value. Scott had moved out, and she couldn’t afford the mortgage payments on her own even if it had made financial sense to keep paying them. She’d walked away from the townhouse and narrowly escaped foreclosure with a last minute short sale. She’d been trying to ward off declaring bankruptcy.

She’d applied for other jobs, of course, including those in banking, but it seemed she was either over- or underqualified or otherwise not suited for the few jobs available locally. Somehow she’d scrape together the necessary funds to relocate if she found a position elsewhere. She’d scrambled to do anything and everything she could to survive until the economy improved. She’d worked in Bart Browne’s CPA office during tax season, but that had ended a month ago. After she housesat for one of his clients, she’d picked up a few jobs here and there. Until she found something more permanent, she’d turned herself into a personal assistant for a few locals and did cleaning for a few others. In the meantime she’d moved back home.

She parked in front of the white clapboard structure and surveyed it critically. It hadn’t been in the best part of town when she’d been growing up, just a middle-class, working neighborhood. But this section of Hendersonville had deteriorated in the past twenty years and the house hadn’t held up well. The porch sagged, the cement steps were crumbling and the paint peeled noticeably in several sections. Her childhood home needed some TLC.
Don’t we all?
she thought derisively as she opened the car door.
I miss my mommy.
Baylee had this thought often and smiled sadly. Cancer had taken Diana Westring over two years ago, right before the rest of Baylee’s world imploded. While alive, her mother had been the heart of the family. She kept the modest house clean and comfortable and everything and everyone in it running like clockwork.

No problem had ever been too big for her mother to handle. She’d taken in her own mother, who suffered from dementia, and cared for her until she’d passed away when Baylee was in college. Baylee’s father, Dan, had never hidden his disappointment at not having a son. Diana went along with his wish to become foster parents to a young boy whom they eventually adopted. When Baylee’s older sister Lisa’s brief marriage fell apart, Lisa and the twins moved in with her parents. Diana had cared for the boys while Lisa somehow made it through nursing school.

Baylee’s childhood bedroom was now occupied by the twelve-year-old twins, Jonah and Joshua. When he wasn’t being held in a juvenile detention center, her adopted brother, Matty, had inherited Grandma’s former bedroom. Baylee hadn’t exactly been welcomed home with open arms and had no choice but to sacrifice her privacy. She’d been relegated to a daybed in what had originally been a small parlor at the back of the overcrowded house.

Lisa’s no-frills compact pulled in behind her. The back doors opened almost before it stopped, and a twin tumbled out of each side. Baylee exited her vehicle and closed the door.

“Hey, you guys.”

“Hi, Baylee,” they both responded as they raced each other to the porch, Joshua breaking stride only long enough to yank on her ponytail.

“Ow!” She reached up to comfort her stinging scalp with her fingertips. There had to be a way to booby-trap her hair, she often thought. A small mousetrap would do the trick if she could figure out how to disguise it in order to catch her nephew unaware.

“No TV, no video games, no phone,” Lisa called after them. “You’re both grounded.”

Jonah gave Josh a shove so he could be the first through the door. The screen slammed behind them in protest. “How many times have I told you not to slam that door?” Lisa shouted in frustration.

Baylee gave her sister a good once-over. Lisa was four years older but she looked at least ten. Single motherhood to two rambunctious adolescent boys had taken a toll on her. She was rail thin, her overprocessed blond hair dry and lackluster. Hello Kitty scrubs lent her an air of comic tragedy. To Baylee she looked the way she always looked. Exhausted.

“You guys are home early,” Baylee ventured when Lisa stopped next to her.

Lisa looked grim. “Because your nephews can’t keep their pants on.”

“Excuse me?”

“I got a call from Principal Willis. On the way back from a class trip to the Biltmore, those two were mooning drivers from the back window of the bus. They’ve been suspended for three days.”

Baylee stifled the laughter bubbling in the back of her throat. Had Lisa forgotten she’d pulled the same sort of stunts at their age? She’d been wild to the point of being uncontrollable as a teenager. Karma had come back to haunt her.

Baylee, on the other hand, had been the good girl. She studied hard and behaved herself.
And look where it got me.
She was divorced and broke.

They headed toward the house together and had started up the steps when a nondescript white sedan parked at the curb. Baylee paused to glance at the driver, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Lisa had opened the door and looked around to see what had snared Baylee’s attention. She gazed at the man exiting the driver’s seat. “Damn.”

Silently, Baylee agreed as the man approached. He was dressed neatly in an open-collared, short-sleeved white shirt and black slacks. He wore a badge and ID at his belt.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he greeted them pleasantly enough.

“Officer Frost,” Baylee replied.

“Mateo around?” His gaze took in the house behind her as if he could somehow see inside and answer his own question without their help.