Admit One (26 page)

Allie shot him a look. “Alan asked if I’d like to meet him for lunch. As a friend.”

Mason snorted.

“Really, I think he’s just looking out for me. In a big brotherish sort of way.”

“Ah. Quite so. Because you suffer from a shortage in that department.”

Shaking her head, Allie lifted her purse onto her shoulder. “I believe I’ll let you get back to the lighting. Try not to trip over your smarty pants when you’re climbing the ladder.”

Mason grinned and called after her “I adore you, you know.”

Allie glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Good. You can show me tomorrow night.”  

“WHY,”
Mason said through gritted teeth, as he helped Tucker muscle a molded plastic shower unit out through the front door “do you wait until I come into town to tackle the shite aspects of home remodeling?”

Tucker readjusted his grip as he backed up. “I’m pretty sure you just answered your own question.”

“Slave labor.”

“Consider it a token of my esteem. It’s not every guy I allow to share the joy of taking a sledgehammer to my guest bathroom tiles.”

“How generous of you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Having successfully navigated the steps, they turned sideways, moving toward the dumpster which had been delivered the day before. “On three,” he said, and with simultaneous grunts of effort, he and Mason heaved the piece of faux rose-colored marble junk into the dumpster, where it landed with a bang.

Why anyone in their right mind would have installed a pink shower in the first place was beyond him.

He turned to find Mason bent over from the waist, hands on knees.

“That’s what you get for hanging out in Savannah bars with Branson Hawbaker until the wee hours of the morning.”

“For your information, I was scouting out locations for this evening, seeing as how I’m not overly familiar with the area.”

“Far be it from me to tell you how to
woo
a woman, but taking her to a gay bar might send a confusing message.”

Mason straightened up, his expression sour. “I’m not taking her to a bar, you idiot, gay or otherwise. She doesn’t drink alcohol, remember?”

“From the way you’re gimping around, I’d say you drank her share along with yours last night.”

“That’s why you started up with the sledgehammer first thing this morning, isn’t it? Because you suspected I’d be hung over?”

“Well… yeah,” Tucker said. Obviously.

Mason crossed his arms. “You’re just annoyed because you couldn’t come along. I can always hire out a gay bar for your bachelor party, since you seem to be hung up on that point.”

“My fondest dream fulfilled.”

A soft woof sounded, and Crash came out the open front door, tail wagging like a metronome. He spotted Tucker, gave a louder bark of joy, and hastened down the front steps as fast as his bad leg would carry him.

“Looks like someone’s been investigating the bag of grout in the bathroom,” Tucker said, rubbing the dog’s ears, and noting the white dust around his muzzle.

“Either that or he discovered the scones Sarah brought over. They were dusted with sugar, weren’t they?”

“The… shit, I think you’re right.” Tucker frowned his disapproval at the animal. “Seriously bro? I haven’t even eaten one yet. You have no manners.”

Tucker glanced up at Mason.

“Why don’t you run over to the Dust Jacket, see if you can sweet talk some more scones out of the women, and pick us up a couple coffees while you’re at it. What?” Tucker said when he saw Mason’s hesitation. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about Allie seeing you with a hangover. She does know that you occasionally have a drink.”

With Allie’s older brother being a recovering alcoholic, Tucker knew that it was a sensitive issue, and the reason – or one of them, anyway – that Branson chose to do most of his partying out of town. But it wasn’t like Mason was a raging drunk.

“What? Oh, no.” Mason said. “Just thinking.”

“You’ll think better after coffee.”

“It’s curious how your sudden concern for my mental acuity so neatly dovetails with your own interests.”

“The universe works in mysterious ways.”

Tucker whistled for Crash, who was busy marking a corner of the dumpster as his personal property. “I’ll take him inside,” he told Mason. “Otherwise he’ll try to follow you to the store. Last time he was over there, Rainey put one of those damn rhinestone collars on him. I had to explain to her that man’s best friend wasn’t meant to wear jewelry.”

“Rainey is certainly… shite.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far.”

Mason shot him a look. “I just recalled that I never gave Allison the necklace I bought for her. I had it with me the night she was mugged, but in all the confusion afterward, I forgot about it entirely.”

“So give it to her tonight.”

“I don’t have it. I must have left it at her house. I’ll have to call Branson, ask if he can locate it.”

“You’ll be able to better articulate your request after coffee.”

“Don’t tell me. The universe is at work again.”

“Must be kismet,” Tucker said, grabbing Crash’s collar as Mason started to walk toward the Dust Jacket. “Don’t forget the scones.”

THE
landline was ringing as Will walked in the kitchen door after his morning run.

Tossing his sweat-soaked shirt in the direction of the laundry room, Will snagged the cordless phone – which seemed as much of a relic as any antique – from its cradle.

“Hawbaker residence.”

There was a pause, and then a familiar, clipped voice asked “Is Branson available?”

Since Will had hauled Bran’s hung over ass out of bed and made him run with him this morning and his baby brother was currently collapsed on a chaise lounge out in the backyard, Will thought that
available
was probably a matter of some debate.

“I’m afraid that he’s unable to come to the phone at the moment, seeing as how you two decided to tie one on last night. I would suggest you call your partner in crime on his cell phone, but he’s informed me that he left it in his car, which is still in Savannah.” And Will would probably have to drive Bran over there so that he could retrieve it. “At least you had the good sense to take a cab home.”

Mason cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could ask you a favor.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve anything illegal
or
a pig wearing a tutu – although I’m still not sure I entirely understand Bran’s story of how you ended up walking one on a leash in Forsythe Park last night.”

“It belongs to one of his theater friends over there. And to be fair, it was a miniature pig, and extremely well-behaved as far as swine go.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“I was wondering if you might have seen a small craft paper bag with a profusion of ribbons in the house. Perhaps in the parlor.”

“A what?”

“A brown bag,” he articulated slowly. “Tied up with black ribbons.”

Frowning, Will started walking toward the front of the house. “Did you leave your monthly supply of beauty products over here or something?”

“Actually it’s my idiot repellent. Be sure not to look inside, lest you be adversely affected.”

Will grinned. He liked the limey. He really did.

“I don’t see any brown bag,” he said, looking around. “But then Josie’s been here.” He shot a guilty glance toward the dirty socks he’d left under the sofa yesterday. He needed to remember to put those in the hamper before she yelled at him. “So if you left something here, she probably tidied it up. You might have to ask her where she put it.”

“Is holy water sufficient?” Mason asked. “Or should I bring a crucifix just in case.”

Will chuckled. “You know, I think Josie would enjoy the fact that you’re scared of her.”

“Like you aren’t?”

“Hell no. Josie’s a cream puff.” Will glanced over his shoulder before he remembered that Josie was at the Dust Jacket. “Wait.” He spotted what looked like some black ribbon over on the bar. “I think I might have found it.”

Will strode over, lifted the bag by the handles. The silver label on the bag made him frown. “You bought something from Torie?”

“She had something I wanted, and – being one of a kind – it’s not like I could go elsewhere to acquire it. But it gave me no pleasure, believe me.”

“What is it?”

“None of your business.”

Probably something for Allie, then. “I suppose you want this for tonight.”

The other man hesitated, and Will figured he was suppressing twin urges to fume and to squirm. It sucked having everyone – let alone the nosy older brother of the woman with whom you were involved – all up in your business. Will sympathized with him on that point, but couldn’t deny he also got a kick out of giving the Brit a bad time. It was amusing to see how much Mason would take before that stiff upper lip lifted in a snarl.

“You know, this would probably be a lot more pleasant for both of us if I pretended you and my sister were asexual beings, and then I wouldn’t have to ask you about your intentions.”

“Excellent plan. Can I arrange to pick the package up later?”

“I have to go into town anyway, so how about I drop it off in about an hour?”

“Brilliant. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. I –”

Will’s voice trailed off as he looked at the bag more closely. That was the same type of ribbon they’d found at Eugene Hawbaker’s gravesite, and attached to the key in Jimmy Owen’s apartment.

Coincidence? Maybe. Like he’d discovered, the ribbon style was common enough.

But anything that connected Victoria to his family – even the dead members – was worth looking into.

“Is something wrong?” Mason asked.

“Nothing that concerns you.” He didn’t think. “I’ll see you shortly.”

Will made short work of showering and changing. He checked in with the home healthcare aide whom they’d brought in to help with their father as a sort of stop-gap until they could agree upon a facility, and dropped the gift bag off to Mason, who greeted it with relief. Will thought about making some brotherly remarks about having his sister home at a reasonable hour and all of that bullshit, but the fact was that – as much as he sometimes didn’t want to believe it – Allie was a big girl. This past week, especially the conversation they’d had after Wesley Norbert’s departure, had really brought that home.

More surprising was the fact that he basically trusted Mason. It was clear the man was crazy about her, and he couldn’t forget that Mason had been the one to find Allie in that mausoleum. If he hadn’t been so damn proactive about looking for her, who knows how long she would have been trapped there, helpless and alone.

Thinking of Allie helpless and alone made Will’s knuckles whiten on the wheel. It galled his filial – not to mention his professional – pride that they weren’t any closer to having a suspect in custody. But because he knew how dangerous it was for him to become so single-minded toward that goal, how easy it was to bend facts around to suit an agenda rather than looking at them objectively, he’d removed himself from most of the active investigation. He didn’t want any evidence they gathered to be tainted, or made inadmissible, because of his relationship to the victim.

It took pretty much all his willpower not to butt in and take over, to lock Allie away in her room until they’d figured out what was going on. The former was inadvisable, the latter impossible. Will had to trust his people, and he also had to trust Allie not to put herself in harm’s way. She wasn’t foolish, thank God, and – should it ever come to that – she knew how to handle a firearm. He’d made sure of that. Luckily she was surrounded by people all day long at work and spent most evenings at home. She’d cancelled her walking tour last week due to her injury, but Will planned to put a plainclothes officer in the group next week, just in case. 

And in the meantime, he’d trust Armitage to look out for her. The man might be pretty, but he was sharp as hell. And if Norbert’s busted nose was any indication, he also packed a mean punch.

Realizing that he’d arrived at his destination, Will parked his car, frowning at the tidy little storefront as he climbed out.
Southern Comfort.
Ironically named, in any number of ways.

He’d contemplated having one of his people call Torie up, keep himself out of this entirely. But the fact was that the questions he wanted to ask her were based on little more than… call it curiosity, or maybe a hunch.

Now, Will had learned, through trial and error, to trust his hunches. But a hunch wasn’t sufficient reason for him to have his ex-sister-in-law brought in for questioning.

And knowing Torie, she’d lawyer up and then find a way to make it look like the family was unfairly harassing her. She loved to paint herself as a tragic figure in her divorce, the woman who’d been so distraught by her husband’s alcoholism, his lack of attention to her needs, that she’d been left no choice but to seek comfort in the arms of other men.