In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (13 page)

Ross and Mo stopped causing the man to skid to a halt. He dug in his pocket and came out with a beat-up business card. “Stewart Milton, National Star.” He offered the card to Ross who immediately tore the card into pieces and then tossed the pieces to the wind.

Milton pointed the lens at the couple and snapped his camera in rapid succession. Mo slapped the camera down. The man fumbled with it, just catching a good hold before the thing toppled to the asphalt.

“I just interviewed Ms. Davies at Mr. Grant’s hotel here in town,” Milton said. “Heather denies the rumors of a break-up. She says you’re a devoted couple and that the two of you are engaged.”

Milton snapped another photo. When Mo swiped at the camera, Milton leaned away, holding it behind his back. “What do you have to say to that, Mr. Grant?”

“No comment,” Ross muttered.

“What about you, Mo? Any comment?”

Ross stepped between Mo and the reporter. “Leave my friends alone. As for me, if you’d like to interview me about my upcoming film, I’d be pleased if you'd make an appointment through my publicist. If you want to talk about my private life, kindly bugger off.”

“Call me when you want to talk about Mr. Grant,” Milton said to Mo. “I can be reached through the National Star’s main number.”

Ross took Mo’s arm and ushered her forward. When they reached the car, Ross opened the Mercedes' passenger door for Mo to jump in.

“Don’t forget what I said, Mo,” the reporter shouted.

* * * * *

“How do you know that reporter?” Ross asked, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“What?” Her eyes widened, his question had come out of the blue. “I don’t know Milton.”

“He called you by your first name.” Ross scowled. “He knew you.”

“I don’t know him and we certainly aren’t friends,” Mo insisted. “Maybe Clarence told him about me. Clarence seems to be the root of all our problems so far. I’d like to thump him in the cantaloupe and take a paring knife to his grapes,” she muttered to herself.

“What?” Ross asked, his hands confidently turning the steering wheel as he maneuvered the car around one of the squares.

“Nothing,” Mo shot in his direction.

Mo could forgive a lot of things but lying and cheating weren’t among them. Clarence had lied about the assignment and thereby cheated her into violating her professional code of ethics. It was one thing to break into the car of the subject of an investigation sanctioned by the agency. But sending her off on a criminal activity for his own purposes? Just thinking about it made her burn with anger and humiliation again.

She’d nearly been fired. A humongous thug had attacked her. Worst of all, she was forced to contend with the mouthwateringly handsome Ross Grant. Mo glanced over at Ross, his hands gripping the wheel tightly as he drove staring straight ahead. He knew he made her salivate. It was just a matter of time before she humiliated herself further by making a move on him.

Her mouth curved in a sneer. No doubt a guy in his rarified atmosphere of attractiveness probably enjoyed the hopeless yearnings of the trolls beneath him.

Stop,
she thought.
You’re not a troll. You are a reasonably attractive—correction—beautiful woman. Well, maybe not beautiful but an attractive woman.

He glanced at her “What?” he asked taking one hand off the wheel and gesturing with it for emphasis.

“Nothing.”

“
Fab
,” he muttered. His lips pursed, making her want to take a bite of their succulent fullness.

He’d seemed interested in her at the restaurant for a few seconds there. But just when Mo started thinking that Ross wasn’t so bad, she learned he'd lied to her about not being involved in a relationship. And he was involved with a supermodel, no less. Plus, he compounded it with that comment about how he certainly wouldn’t cheat with
her
. Why not? What was wrong with her? Was the jerk saying that she wasn’t cheat worthy?

Just kill me now,
she screamed silently to him.
Correction. Sex first then you can kill me.
She groaned. Ross glanced her way, but this time didn’t ask for an explanation.

The Mercedes finally pulled to a stop in front of an obscenely large antebellum mansion in the Victorian District. The enormous blue house was adorned with multicolored gingerbread carvings. The compact but pristinely kept yard was surrounded with a white picket fence. A woman knelt near the plantings in front of the house, digging a small hole with a garden spade. Unplanted geraniums waited in plastic containers beside her.

Mo confirmed the address on a sheet of paper and then shoved the paper back into her handbag. “This is it. He’s supposed to be in apartment D. I’ll go see if he’s home,”

Just then she spotted a movement in the rearview mirror as a
rustbucket
pulled to a stop about a block away. Milton had followed them.

Mo cringed but decided not to tell Ross. She didn't want to start another fight.

Hopping out of the Mercedes, she strode down the walk, and then up the stairs of the wrap-around porch. Mo pushed the buzzer next to the front entrance for apartment D, but there was no response. She pushed the button again.

“Can I help you,
dearie
?” the gardener asked. She had abandoned her planting and was now standing at the foot of the stairs. Mo was uncertain of her age since a wide-brim straw hat obscured much of her hair and face; nevertheless, she had the impression that the woman was perhaps in her sixties.

“I’m looking for Clarence Adamson.” Mo went back down the stairs. “He lives here, doesn’t he?”

"Yes, he does. I’m his landlady, Mrs.
Truesberry
." When Mrs.
Truesberry
removed her hat Mo noted that sixties was probably a conservative estimate of her age. The lady now appeared to be in her seventies, but instead of the white hair one would have expected, the gardener had Mountain Dew-colored hair. “Clarence isn’t in right now. I saw him go out about an hour ago.”

Ross emerged from the car and then loped toward them.

“Do you know where he might have gone?” Mo prompted.

“I wouldn’t want to say. I’m no busybody and I’m certainly no gossip.” She stared curiously at Ross as he approached. “Do I know you?”

“No," he said with a frown.

 “You look very familiar,” the landlady continued.

“I get that a lot.” Ross put on his sunglasses even though a bank of clouds obscured the sun.

“Are you sure we haven’t met?”

“I would definitely remember if we had,” he remarked.

“Oh, aren’t you sweet,” Mrs.
Truesberry
tittered.

Mo doubted Ross had meant the comment that way. “About Clarence,” Mo said. “He wasn’t sick or anything was he?”

“Oh no.
Nothing like that.
The dear boy seemed to feel just fine.”

“Did the
dear boy
tell you where he was going?” Ross asked.

“Yes.” She nodded, but then shook her head. “Well, not exactly.”

This conversation was worse than pulling teeth from a flea. “Where did he say he was going?”

“I wouldn’t want to say anything I shouldn’t,” Mrs.
Truesberry
hedged. She glanced back at the house as if she was hoping something would give her an excuse to escape them.

“It’s all right to tell me,” Mo assured her.

“Are you his girlfriend?” Mrs.
Truesberry
asked with a surprisingly acidic tone. “He said he didn’t have a girlfriend. He knows I don’t allow them in the apartments.”

“No, I’m not his girlfriend. I work with Clarence. Our boss was worried when he didn’t come into work today.”

At the word “work”, the landlady smiled. “You mean Incredible Love? That must be so exciting.” Mrs.
Truesberry
clapped her glove-covered hands together enthusiastically. “While you’re here maybe you could give me some advice. I have a problem with my husband that I’ve been meaning to come in and speak to you about. You see
,
we haven’t had sex in six months and nine days. He never seems to want to. Since we used to have sex at least once a day I’m sure he must be cheating. It’s not as if I don’t keep myself hip. I even have a tattoo—a tramp stamp. It’s so cute. It’s this little heart and it’s right at the top of my—”

 “Mrs.
Truesberry
?” Mo tried to interrupt.

“There’s this widow who lives around the corner. I think she’s the one he’s
boinking
.”

“Mrs.
Truesberry
, can we please get back to Clarence?” Ross asked, impatiently.

Mo was with him on that one. The
ick
factor of the mental picture of Mrs.
Truesberry
and her husband engaged in…shudders.

“Well, all right,” Mrs.
Truesberry
huffed. “Clarence left here dressed in his costume. He’s always extra handsome when he wears it. I suppose he was going somewhere to use his costume.”

"Costume?” What in the watermelon could the woman
be
talking about?

“Clarence likes to dress up as a character. Then he goes places to pretend he is really that person.”

“His character? Is he an actor?” Ross asked, pushing the glasses up to the top of his head. His eyes searched the landlady's face.

“Not exactly but…” Mrs.
Truesberry
paused for a moment before continuing, “I think I know where he must have gone.”

They waited for a few beats, but she didn’t continue.

“Yes? Where?” Mo asked.

“That movie convention he’s been talking about for at least a month. The one over at that center across the river.”

“I know Clarence is a film student. Did one of his professors give him an assignment?” Mo couldn't wrap her mind around all this information.

“Maybe, but that school shouldn’t let him do it. I’ve told him it’s dangerous.” The landlady’s brows converged in a frown. “Oh, that’s so disappointing. Clarence said he would take me with him to the convention.”

The woman was so scattered, Mo wanted to tear out her eyebrows. Ross stood rigid with irritation. “Dangerous? What’s dangerous?”

“He goes around carrying that big pretend gun. Someday is
gonna
think it’s real and shoot that boy.”

Uh oh. “What character is Clarence pretending to be?” Mo asked even though she wasn’t certain she wanted the answer.

“Oh that super spy. What was his name again?”

“Stephen Dagger?” Ross supplied dryly.

“That’s right. How did you know?” Mrs.
Truesberry
grinned.

“Just a wild guess.”

Chapter Seven

“I can’t believe it,” Mo said.

Clarence seemed to be at the heart of their problems. But it was so hard to comprehend. The receptionist had always been just the agency's comic relief. Could he have gotten mixed up with dangerous thugs?

“Believe it.” Ross pulled the car to a stop at a red light. “Which way to this convention place?”