Here Comes Trouble (2 page)

My thanks to my sons, Andrew and Ian, who
loaned me their names when I created the character of Ian Andrews. They are the light of my
life and have never bombed me with water balloons.

Thanks to reviewers, Kathy Boswell and Janice
Bennett, who made this book even more special.

The Trollz provided invaluable support and
laughter during the writing of this book: Joanne
Barnes, Carla "Lala" Bracale, Ali Cunliffe, Lynn
Raye Harris, Avis Hester, Trish Jensen, Terry
Kanago, Judy Miller, "Merry" Michelle Miller,
Hannah Rowan, and RaeAnne Thayne.
To CB, the Troll deity: turn about is fair fodder.

66So, the Ayes have it. Stella Goody and Quinlan Gregory will be married by Mother's Day."
Cait Boswell's tone brooked no argument on the
subject. "We'll start with making sure Quin is
Stella's escort to their ten-year Littlemouth High
School class reunion."

"Oh, no!" Debby Gregory's bracelets ceased
their incessant clanking. She grimaced, then took
a gulp of her high-protein smoothie, rumored to
be fortified with something stronger. Her bracelets
returned to their normal clatter. "I really don't
think my son ..."

"That's right, Debby. Don't think," said Cait
with all the determination of a woman who'd
found her mission in life. As the unofficial Ring Leader and Sergeant-at-Arms of TROUBLE, she
felt it was her sworn duty to keep them all in line.
She steadily met the gaze of each of the five
women cluttering her tidy living room. "Quin is
the perfect answer."

The five ladies met weekly, ostensibly a
reader's group, but more exactly as a cover for
their true reason d'etre: gossip. They referred to
themselves as TROUBLE, composed from the initials of their group, The Readers Organization
Uniting Book-loving Littlemouth Elites. Everyone
in town agreed that the epithet, TROUBLE, suited
them ideally.

None of the five women, Cait, Debby, Prissy,
Irma or Janice, was younger than fifty-five and
they felt they'd earned the right to cause as much
trouble as they considered amusing. If given a
choice, most people would steer clear of them.
But, between them, they headed up almost every
volunteer league or civic position in the city.

There was no avoiding the interfering Troublemakers.

"The reunion is a great idea," said Janice Smith,
who resembled Mae West in not only looks but in
outlook. She was always on the prowl.

"Isn't it romantic?" asked Miss Tipplemouse,
clutching her bosom. Irma Tipplemouse, the only
unmarried member of their group and their token
spinster, had been somewhat scandalized, and then quietly delighted, when the denizens of their fair
town began referring to them as the Troublemakers. "Imagine! Fate brought Quin home so he
could be reunited with his one true love."

Cait laughed out loud. "That's an interesting
fantasy, Irma, but really. They were best friends
in grade school, not exactly lovers."

"Well, I think it's romantic." Irma Tipplemouse
turned to Prissy Goody. "Don't you think it's romantic?"

"I don't think they even like each other," replied
Prissy with a furrowed brow. "My daughter said
she hated his guts."

"You know what they say about the fine line
between love and hate." Debby tossed her head,
upset by the idea someone didn't adore her son.
The fact Quin had been considered the town's bad
boy had never changed her high opinion of him.

Now, however, things had changed.

Quin Gregory had returned to town as the bad
boy made good. As an investigative reporter, he
wrote for one of the largest, if not the largest,
weekly news magazines in the country. He was
very good at his job.

Perhaps too good, considering how long it had
been since he'd been home.

"Stella was six years old when she said that,"
said Cait. "Quin is the perfect man for her. The problem, as I see it, is whether she's interesting
enough to get his attention."

Prissy gasped. "My daughter is a responsible
young woman. Her job teaching biology at the
high school-"

"Boorrring," said Janice, interrupting her.

"She owns her own home-"

"Boring." Again she was cut off, this time by
Debby.

"Her column published in Good Gardens-"

"Not exactly titillating," drawled Cait. "Stella is
full of spunk-but will Quin look below the surface? Men can be so superficial. She's a pretty
little thing, but with his travels Quin is used to
more glamorous women. Stella is perceptive,
smart, and very amusing. But she's the girl he left
at home."

"-Except for college, she's lived all her life in
this town."

"For the most part, so have I," said Irma Tipplemouse.

That was enough to shut everyone up.

"Well," said Cait. "We'll just have to make her
appear more interesting."

Prissy noticed the evil gleam in Cait's eye and
asked cautiously, "What did you have in mind?"

By the time Debby called Quin and told him a wee fib about her Harley misfiring and her need
of a ride home, the others had worked out a game
plan. When Quin arrived, each knew exactly what
to do.

GGHere comes trouble." Stella Goody glanced
through the lace draperies lining her front windows. "It's about time you came home, Quinlan
Gregory."

She'd just received a warning call from the
neighborhood watch committee, telling her they
thought Quin was on his way to see her. She could
just make out a man some distance away, yet there
was no doubt it was Quin. Her pulse raced as he
sauntered down the sidewalk, closer to her front
yard. A saunter that was unmistakably Quin's.

How had she forgotten how attractive he was?
When had his childhood features taken hold in her
memory, making her forget the handsome man
he'd become?

Maybe now, thought Stella, nervously wiping
her palms together, she'd have a chance to make
amends for what she'd said to him the last time
she'd seen him-ten years ago. She leaned closer,
over pots of African violets thriving in the morning sunlight on the shelf in front of the window.
The cool glass tickled her forehead as she pressed
close.

Quin looked just the same, and yet, different.

A battered red pickup reared around the corner
onto her street, spewing out black dust along with
a series of backfires. Quin ducked and rolled to
the ground.

What on earth?

Did he think someone was shooting at him?

Although, considering his job and his personality, probably many people wanted to shoot him.
There'd been a number of times she'd have happily volunteered for the task.

As the truck disappeared from sight, she
watched Quin stand and clutch his rib cage, while
looking around sheepishly as if he was afraid
someone had seen him behaving like an idiot.

She grinned. He'd always been an endearing idiot.

He began walking again, the sidewalk devoured
by his stride. She smoothed her skirt, preparing to
open the door in welcome to him. But he kept on
walking.

Right past the walkway leading to her door!

Stella blew the hair out of her face.

As far as she could see, there wasn't any other
reason for him to come this way except to see her.
Maybe she should open the door and call out to
him? No. That would come off as too desperate.

She should have realized some things never
changed. Why expect Quin to be any different
now? The rest of the town used to find him downright infuriating, but she'd considered him exasperating-and fun.

It wasn't as if he'd returned to Littlemouth to
stay. If he'd stopped, she'd likely have set herself
up for feeling abandoned by him again when he
left. Yet, she was curious about him and hoped for
an opportunity to reconcile their relationship after
it had ended so abruptly ten years earlier.

As he passed her property, she noticed the little
boy from across the street heading toward Quin.
By all appearances, Ian Andrews was an adorable
poppet of a five-year-old, with his red curls bouncing in the wind. It would be a sad day when his
mother bowed to the requests of her husband to
trim those curls, because they were stunning. In
reality, though, Ian was Littlemouth's own version
of a nuclear accident. Like a cyclone, the boy spun
out of control, creating havoc in his path.

Stella wondered whether to warn Quin to keep
his distance, but Ian carried a toy spaceman in his hands and was obviously having a great time talking to it.

The spaceman had been a bone of contention at
the last neighborhood watch committee, with Mrs.
Maplethorp complaining because of the loudness
of the electronic noises it emitted. A compromise
had been reached, however, and Ian had kept his
toy. He was only allowed to play with it outdoors
during daylight hours.

Quin was probably safe.

Stella covered her ears as the boy made a jab at
the toy. A high-pitched squeal sounded.

Quin flinched. He had to keep reminding himself he wasn't in a war zone any more. He wasn't
undercover in Kosovo. He wasn't in Kuwait, Iraq,
Iran or any other number of dangerous places.

"You scared me, kid," he said. He was back
home in Littlemouth, Kansas, the least dangerous
and the corner of the world he'd once considered
most boring. Now, however, things were different.
"I don't suppose that was an air raid siren?"

"It was Super Spaceman," replied the boy as he
studiously eyed Quin. "Super Spaceman had to let
the powers of good know that Bad-ovo's forces
have landed."

"Bad-ovo?" asked Quin as he squinted down at
the child.

"He's the bad guy. Super Spaceman is the good guy." The boy offered the toy to Quin. "Want to
play with him?"

Quin gravely accepted the proffered spaceman
and noted the series of multicolored buttons embedded in the toy's chest cavity. He punched a
button and cringed as another shrill siren filled the
air. "I'm going to have to get one of these. It's
pretty cool."

"Yeah. He's the best. Only problem is, you
can't play with him after dark. `Dults around
here," the boy nodded darkly toward the house
they stood in front of, "don't like it."

"Dults?"

"Mrs. Maplethorp. Anyone not a kid."

"My name's Quin. What's yours?"

"I'm Ian." He wiped his grubby hands on his
jeans, then shook Quin's outstretched hand. "Want
to come over and watch my Super Spaceman
movie?"

"Sounds like fun, but I've got to head home
now." He handed the toy back to Ian.

"Gotta tell your mom where you are, too?"

"Something like that," said Quin with a laugh.
"It was nice meeting you." With a wave goodbye,
Quin went back to his wandering.

As far as he could see, very little had changed
in Littlemouth. His mother hadn't changed much
either. And they said you couldn't go home.

Now that he was back, in his mother's case, he wished she'd changed just a bit. Coming to her
with banged-up ribs and a black eye, after a minor
incident involving being tossed from a moving car
by a group of bandits, hadn't been the best idea
he'd ever had.