Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2) (7 page)

“Sure. Text me the address.” I didn’t trust Ben, but two kinds of cake? You’d have to be Jesus to turn your back on that.

Maybe I could find out some details about Big Tommy’s investigation. If there even was an investigation.

“Okay...good.” Ben just stood there smiling at me and then he realized he was just standing there smiling at me. He nodded and backed out of the room. “See you soon.”

He waved and headed out. My phone buzzed with a text. I pulled it out of my front left trouser pocket. Ben’s addy.

“He’s cute.” Mellie had finally finished her—my—cupcake and was lingering in the doorway. Was she hoping to eat the cupcake in my hand? I shoved it in my mouth and chewed and chewed and chewed. I have two older brothers, so competition over food is a very real and present danger.

I swallowed and chased it with hot latte. It has taken years for my mouth and throat to build up a tolerance to napalm-hot beverages. Next to my boobs, I think they’re my finest assets.

“So you’re dating a cop now?” Confusion muddied her muddy browns. “Wasn’t your husband a cop?”

“Yep, and that didn’t work out so well for me.” I didn’t hold out much hope that this was going to work out any better. Although, Ben was filthy rich thanks to family money, so I guessed he wouldn’t need to steal two mil from the city. That put him miles ahead of my ex.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Mellie’s smile promised an unending list of all the things she was willing to do to marry well.

“Trust me...there will be no doing tonight.” I picked up my latte and slung my work tote over my shoulder. “I’m out of here.” I headed to the door but then turned around. “Can you send an email hospital-wide and see if anyone wants some of these flowers? And take some home too.”

God knew, it was too much of a good thing. This was why rose gardens were outside.

Ten minutes later, I was in Portia and pulling out of my officially unofficial parking place. Everyone knew that I parked in the first electric car slot closest to the door. No, Portia isn’t electric, but we have like ten slots—none with chargers—so in protest of something stupid, I park there.

You have to draw a line in the sand somewhere.

I hit Monica’s name on my contacts as I pulled out onto Highway 620. I needed to pick up Max from extended care, and then it was on to two kinds of cake.

The phone rang through Portia’s speakers. Hands-free was right up there with donuts and chocolate in the good inventions department.

Monica answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”

“According to Ben, we are now bug-free.” This was cause for celebration. Try being home alone and not talking to yourself...it’s hard...really hard.

I’d call Haley later. Right now, she was meeting with the garden club or the fine arts commission or the Junior League or one of the myriad of other clubs that rich people belong to so they can feel civic-minded. My idea of civic-mindedness was paying my electric bill on time.

“Good to know.” Monica said. “Wanna come over for dinner? I made enchiladas verdes.”

Unlike me, Monica liked to cook and was actually good at it. To my knowledge, her food had never sent anyone to the hospital.

I turned onto Highway 71 and headed to Bee Creek Elementary. “Can’t. Headed over to Ben’s for dinner.”

A solid minute of silence crackled on the line.

“Are we liking him again? I didn’t know we were liking him again.” Monica had reproachful down to a science. She was the Donald Trump of reproachful.

“Um...well...he’s making me dinner that involves two kinds of cake.” Now that I thought about it, I was kind of a carb slut. Not that I particularly cared or wanted to change, but it’s good to label the crazy.

“You’re such a carb slut.”

See? Nailed it.

“Why don’t you and Landon come to dinner with us?” I wasn’t raised by monkeys; I knew it was rude to invite other people to dinner at someone’s house, but Ben was far from off the hook...plus, I could use a wing-woman.

“I guess I could throw the enchiladas in the fridge and have them tomorrow. And glaring at Ben all night could be fun.” Monica was all about the silver lining. “I’m there.”

Notice how she didn’t ask what was for dinner. I hate to say it, but Monica might be a little more flexible when it comes to food than I am. I have principles—what can I say?

“I’m on the way to pick up Max. I’ll get Landon too and meet you at Ben’s. I’ll text you his address.” There wasn’t a chance in hell that I was telling Ben first. He deserved to be inconvenienced by a couple of extra dinner guests. Knowing Monica, she was going to be that high-maintenance guest that wanted some strange condiment no one had, told the cook the food was good but had a laundry list of suggestions on how to make it great, and at the end of the night just wouldn’t leave...God bless her vengeful heart.

Best friends always have your back. Whether it’s voodoo-dolling cheating exes, ding-dong-ditching hated coworkers, or being bitchy to people who’ve bugged your house, besties are always in your corner.

I checked the address and turned onto Ben’s driveway. I pulled up to the closed wrought-iron gate. In other parts of Texas, this gated entrance would have been for a whole neighborhood, but here it was just for Ben’s house.

“Wow.” Max rolled down the window to check out the gate. My little man never ceased to be stunned by the ultra wealthy. I’d ceased a while ago. Excess was the norm around here.

“Yeah, wow.” Landon rolled down his window and hung half of his body out. “Where’s the house?”

“I don’t know.” There were so many oak trees crowded together, it was hard to see much. Rarely did I venture this far into Lakeside, where the lots were lakefront and the houses were estates.

I hit the intercom button on the box next to the gate.

“Hello.” Ben’s voice was tinny and sounded far away.

“Hey, Ben, it’s Mustang.” It appeared that rich people never left the gate open, even when company was expected.

“Hey.” He put a lot of manically happy into such a short word. “Come on up.”

The gate swung open as Monica pulled in behind me.

We drove in together, and I really hoped Ben didn’t have a camera, because I wanted to see the look on his face when he saw Monica.

I pulled up to a contemporary Texas Hill Country two-story with lots of white limestone and chrome and weird angles. It had to be at least ten thousand square feet. By Lakeside standards, it was little more than a fishing cabin. The grounds were straight out of
Better Homes and Gardens<
/i>, and the house had no doubt graced the cover of
Architectural Digest
.

Further proof that we had nothing in common. My house was decorated in Early American Garage Sale, while his had probably been done by some snotty French decorator who dealt in obscure antiques that cost more than my car. The only antique I owned was my wagon wheel coffee table—it was an honest-to-God wagon wheel from the 1950s. True, the 1950s weren’t known for their abundance of wagon wheels—but hey, it looked like I had my own obscure antique too.

I opened the car door and stepped out.

“This is fancy,” Monica called from her open car door.

“Okay, boys,” I said over my shoulder, “grab your backpacks. There might be time for homework before dinner is ready.”

“Done, Mom.” Max opened his door and scooted out.

“Me too, Mrs. Ridges. We worked on it in extended care.” Landon slid down onto the driveway. He ran to his mother and hugged her like he hadn’t seen her in years. I miss Max doing that. Now I’m lucky if I get a ’sup nod.

“Good, more playtime.” I locked and closed my door. I really should have thought to bring some of the flowers he’d sent me today. It’s good manners to show up for dinner with gifts. The fact that I would be regifting a gift from Ben was unimportant. If push came to shove, I had some Tic Tacs in my purse. I’d rebrand them as after-dinner mints.

The huge, chrome, double front doors opened, and Ben smiled his way out of the house. “Welcome.” His eyes landed on Monica and Landon and his smile wobbled, but he held onto it. “Monica...so good to see you.”

He walked to her with his hand out ready for shaking.

“Is it...really...good to see me?” She pumped his hand once and dropped it.

Be bitchy from the start and set the tone—Monica was in it to win it.

“Yes.” He squatted down to Landon. “Hey, big guy.”

“Is it true?” Landon grinned. “Two kinds of cake?”

Man after my own heart.

“You bet.” Ben came to stand by me. He looked like he was debating about whether to hug me hello.

I took a step back, and his face fell. Did he really think we were going to pick up where we’d left off?

Ben turned to Max. “So glad you came over. I’ve got the Xbox all warmed up and ready.”

“Cool.” Max grinned, but I could tell he was faking it. Of course I hadn’t told Max our house had been bugged, but he knew something was wrong between Ben and me.

Kids always know.

Ben was so eager to impress. “And I’ve been learning Minecraft. Maybe you could give me some pointers?”

Max’s face lit up for real, and he leaned forward as if Minecraft were magnetically pulling him closer to the house.

“You have Minecraft?” Landon forgot all about his mother and headed toward the front door. Apparently, Minecraft was a kid tractor beam. In fact, it beat out Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny for best thing in the world. Sorry, EB, but you’ve got to do better than some crappy old eggs to compete with Minecraft.

“By all means, come in.” Ben gestured grandly to the open front door.

We all played Frogger—jumping from limestone slab to limestone slab—to get to the front door. What happened to plain old concrete sidewalks? Clearly, the rich like aesthetically pleasing disconnected walkways.

Inside the chrome front doors, there was nothing but perfectly decorated house. Lots of the white limestone used outside had made it inside as well. The living room was all clean lines, off-white furniture, and wood—but nothing standard like oak or maple. I was willing to bet the wooden slats on the ceiling and floors were something exotic, expensive, and endangered. Thanks to Ben’s architect, somewhere there was a treeshrew without a tree to shrew in.

This was a room that was all about being photographed instead of lived in. No one with children had off-white furniture. Well, no one with kids had off-white furniture for long. At the back of the living room, floor-to-ceiling windows framed a stark, rectilinear pool surrounded by lush grass. I’d always liked swimming pools that fit into the landscape. This one just looked like a blue hole in the ground...still, it was better than the pool I owned—which was to say that I didn’t own one. I did force myself to use the year-round heated one at Astrid’s, but I counted that as hazard pay since usually I had to share it with her.

We walked into a huge kitchen full of stainless steel and windows overlooking Lake Travis.

“Wow. This is nice.” Monica’s bitch was slipping. I was disappointed; she’s better than that. “Is that a Viking TVR4806BSS?” From the tone of her voice, I was expecting either the Shroud of Turin or Elvis’s bejeweled white jumpsuit.

I followed her line of sight. The Viking Whatever was a stove—with burners and knobs, just like every other stove. Maybe this one was robotic and did the cooking? Personally, I’m holding out for one of those food replicators from
Star Trek
. NASA really needed to stop sending probes out and get on that.

All eyes turned to me. Apparently, I wasn’t oohing and aahing enough about the kitchen. “It’s um...” What was I supposed to say? “Very um...clean and you have um...” I looked around for something to comment on. “...A very big refrigerator.”

Nice save, if I do say so myself.

“You have to excuse Mustang. She’s a terrible cook. She stores clean sheets and towels in her kitchen cabinets.” Monica didn’t just throw me under the bus, she jumped into the driver’s seat, backed up, and speed-bumped me over and over again.

“That’s not very nice.” Hos before bros, or since Ben had bugged my house, bitches before snitches.

“You hate to cook.” Monica shrugged like she couldn’t help the truth. “Am I wrong?”

“No, I didn’t say you were wrong, only rude.” I stuck out my tongue. The best communication techniques were ones I’d learned in kindergarten.

I glanced back at Max and Landon. They seemed as bored as I felt. I looked around the kitchen, which would have easily fit three of my houses inside, and noticed that there was no food—anywhere. For someone who claimed to have cooked me dinner, the kitchen was suspiciously food-free.

Maybe this was the show kitchen? The real one was probably in the basement, full of sweaty, overworked, illegal French chefs who were chained to the stove and forced to make éclairs and soufflés all day and night. For humanitarian reasons, I should have called immigration, but I really liked éclairs and soufflés.

I went to stand between Max and Landon. They might need backup in case one of those illegal chefs broke out fighting for their freedom.

“Let’s eat while it’s still warm.” Ben nodded to a hallway. “Right through the butler’s pantry is the dining room.”

My eyes went to the farm kitchen table and eight chairs. So we were to dine in the dining room. In my last house, I’d had a dining room. That was where I’d stored the stupid crap my ex-husband gave me for Christmas—like a treadmill and a set of pots and pans and a rowing machine.

We walked through a hallway with floor-to-ceiling, glass-fronted cabinets filled with dishes. I leaned closer to get a better look at the dishes...china?

What single, straight man owns matching plates, much less fine dinnerware? If he pulled out napkin rings, a sterling-silver soup ladle, and a gravy boat, I’d know that any sparks I’d felt for him before were total misfires. Gravy boat equals bats for the other team—not even a plays-on-both-sides kind of situation.

“Here we are.” Ben led us into a giant room with more floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Lake Travis. It looked like he might own his own cove, and the house was a horseshoe built around the lake views.