Shotgun Nanny (2 page)

Mark also backed up a step, putting more distance between them and forcing a deep breath into his lungs. How had he missed the signs? The woman was a lunatic. He tried to recall if a full moon was expected tonight, but couldn’t. He remembered how they’d all dreaded a full moon on the force. It was always a busy couple of days.

Keeping his voice calm, he spoke slowly. “Where do you live?”

Her brows rose, the green eyes dancing once more. “If that’s your idea of a pickup routine, you were doing better before. Old movies may be corny, but they have the best lines.”

She made to walk past him.

Old movies?
Mark stepped in front of her, confusion turning to frustration. “Don’t play games with me. I’m an RCMP officer—uh, ex-officer. I saw you drop something in that mailbox.” Realizing he sounded accusing, he softened his tone. “I’m here to help.”

She glanced at the mailbox, then at him, then raised her eyebrows. “Before you arrest me for mail fraud, Mr. Ex, I put a stamp on that postcard.”

“A postcard like this?” He pulled the card out of his back pocket and held it in front of her nose.

She stared at the postcard, raised her gaze to his face, looked at the message she’d written, bit her lip. “You followed me because of that?” Her voice wavered.

Damn if he could make head or tail of this crazy woman. Was she in danger or wasn’t she? “Yes!”

“Oh,

I’m

so
sorry—” It was as far as she got. She gave a snort and burst into gales of laughter that seemed to go on forever, echoing off the buildings. “Ow, my stomach hurts,” she gasped after an eon of one-sided hilarity. “Bobbie is just going to die!”

He was getting the feeling that this woman talked about death and dying in a different way than he did. “Is Bobbie the one in a life-and-death situation?”

“What? Oh. No. That’s Gertrude. She isn’t really dying. She’s just tired from working too hard.”

“So, you personally are not in any kind of danger at all?” He wanted to be absolutely clear on this point.

She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip and glanced at him from under her lashes. “Not unless you arrest me for writing postcards in bad taste. What would that charge be, anyway?”

She was so cute he couldn’t stay mad at her, especially now he knew she wasn’t in danger and his heart rate had slowed to normal. He rubbed his chin, thinking. “We could go with public mischief.”

“Public mischief. Sounds serious. And the penalty would be…?”

He did his best to look stern. “They’d throw away the key.”

Rich and earthy, her chuckle resonated in his chest. She started walking back the way they’d come, and he fell into step with her.

“I’m really sorry. I figured that postcard would get tossed. I never thought how it might look.” Her voice wasn’t the broad Bronx she’d first used. She must, he realized, have been mimicking some ancient movie he’d never seen. Her voice was softer, more West Coast. California, maybe.

“No harm done.”

“You used to be a Mountie, huh?”

“Yes,

ma’am.”

“My grandmother just loved Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald. I grew up hearing them sing, ‘When I’m calling you-oo-oo, will you answer toooo-oo.”’ She leaned into him and sang into his face, pursing her lips and puckering her eyebrows until she could have passed for an old-fashioned movie star.

She trilled the words in a high, clear soprano, and he was so caught up in the feel of her slight body leaning against him and the sweetness of her face that he forgot they’d rejoined the milling crowds. Until he heard a stranger’s voice saying, “Yeah. You tell him, girl.”

She broke away from Mark with a quick laugh. “Then there’s the Musical Ride. I used to think the Mounties was a singing group. Kind of like the Monkees only Canadian. And with horses.”

“That’s us. Other cops get weapons training. We get voice lessons.”

“I learned the truth when I started watching a TV show about a Mountie. The guy was like a real cop, only in that awesome uniform. I just loved that red jacket and those killer jodhpur things. Ooh, and that hat was dead hip.”

“That is the RCMP dress uniform. No real officer would wear his dress uniform to work.”

Her face fell. She appeared so ludicrously disappointed he wished he hadn’t told her. “But then they’re just like any other cops.”

“Pretty much. Except for the singing.”

“Well. First you try and arrest me for mail fraud, now you destroy one of my cherished illusions about the Mounties. I’m just going to have to say goodbye.” She smiled and extended her hand. “My car’s over there.”

He gazed at her hand for a moment. Long, slender white fingers, a couple of silver rings, although nothing on the wedding ring finger, green nail polish. He grasped the hand in his, not at all eager to let it go, wishing he could prolong their acquaintance.

Briefly, he considered asking her out, then remembered what a total fool he’d made of himself. She’d probably laugh in his face if he asked her for a date. Besides, his life was complicated enough these days.

She shook his hand purposefully. Then turned and walked toward a parking lot jammed with cars, her skirt swaying and drifting.

He glanced at his watch and cursed silently. He’d forgotten all about Brodie. Reluctantly, he turned toward the restaurant.

“Hey!” the female voice stopped him, and eagerly he swung around.

A hand shielded her eyes against the sun as she called, “Thanks for trying to rescue me.”

“I—” If it were this time last year he’d take a chance and ask her out, even if she did laugh in his face. But he had new responsibilities. Even if the lady was willing, he couldn’t get involved with a woman right now. Not with Emily to worry about.

The woman was standing not twenty feet away, waiting for him to finish what he had to say, a slight breeze teasing him as it molded the flimsy dress fabric to her body then puffed it away again. So strong was the urge to close the distance between them that he felt like he was a magnet and she was true north.

“I, uh… Drive safely.” He raised a hand in farewell then turned and walked the way he’d come. All the way to the restaurant where the bizarre situation had started.

And there was Brodie, sitting at a table, already halfway through a beer, his sunglasses reflecting the busy scene.

Beneath the reflective lenses, the mustache spread and tilted in a smile. “Did you get your man?” Brodie lifted the beer in Mark’s direction.

Mark chuckled. His old buddies on the force liked to tease him that he was like the cartoon Mountie who always saved the damsel in distress and always got his man. He was zero for two today. He hadn’t got his man, and he sure as hell hadn’t helped the damsel in distress. Good thing he’d handed in his badge last year. “Not today.”

“First time since I’ve known you, you’re late.”

Mark gestured to a waitress, who was unloading a tray at a nearby table, and sat across from his friend. He needed a beer.

“So,” Brodie pressed, “What’s up?”

Mark pulled the postcard out of his pocket and pushed it across the table.

Brodie leaned forward to read the card and then went absolutely still. He stared at the words for a few moments, then turned the postcard over and back again before glancing at Mark. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Mark blew out his breath in a big huff. “I just made a complete jackass of myself.” The waitress approached, and he ordered a beer.

“You ready for another one?” The perky redhead with the Australian accent gestured to Brodie’s half-empty glass.

“Yeah,” he replied, relaxing once more in his chair.

“Right.” She smiled at Brodie, and Mark knew his old buddy hadn’t wasted any time missing him. He’d been flirting with the waitress.

“Got her phone number yet?”

“I’m working on it.” He pointed to the postcard. “You gonna tell me what’s happening? Or do I read about it in tomorrow’s paper?”

Mark told him, reliving the entire incident as he did so.

The sun was gleaming off Brodie’s white teeth when Mark finished. He could see the physical effort it cost his old friend not to laugh aloud.

“Let it out, man,” he said testily.

Brodie laughed, long and rich, stopping once to wipe streaming eyes. “Hey, I’m sorry, Mark. I know how you must feel, but God, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week.”

“I just don’t get it. Why would a woman write a postcard to a friend and put help and life and death and stuff on it? Whatever happened to weather great, wish you were here?”

“When you figure out what women mean, you let me know. They got no perspective. They break a fingernail and it’s like the end of the world. Then they phone you and say, all casual, ‘Hi, honey, can you fix my car this weekend?’ You ask her what’s wrong with it and she says, ‘Oh, honey, I don’t know. I think the engine fell out.”’

Mark grunted agreement.

“I’ll never figure women.” Brodie sighed. “But it’s fun trying.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Mark picked up the frosty mug that had been delivered and drank deeply.

“What did she look like?” Brodie asked.

Mark closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Caucasian, five-seven, about one-thirty, eyes green, hair brown, age…” He wrinkled his brow. This was always the toughest one. “I’d say twenty-five to thirty.”

“Looker?”

“Oh, yeah.” He snorted; he was beginning to see the funny side himself. “She must think I’m one terrific guy….”

“You acted just like you were trained to. If she’d been in trouble you might have saved her life.”

“You’re

not

helping.”

“Maybe this’ll help. Two tickets to the Grizzlies game Saturday.” He pulled tickets from his shirt pocket and waved them in front of Mark’s nose. “Basketball’s not like women. There are rules in basketball. The same ones for both teams. And there’s no talking about it.”

Mark grinned. “You’re still steamed at Shelley, huh?”

“Don’t get me started. She wanted me to see a relationship counselor. Says I’m shallow and can’t commit to one woman. This from a gal who makes her living taking her clothes off in front of hundreds of men.”

Saturday afternoon at a basketball game. He didn’t even let himself think about how much he wanted to go. He shook his head. “I can’t. Emily.”

“Can’t

your

black-belt-in-judo nanny watch her?”

“It’s her birthday party. The first one since…”

“Sure.” Brodie stuck the tickets in his pocket. “Did you call that clown friend of Shelley’s?”

“She’s an ex-stripper. That’s how Shelley knew her.”

Brodie’s eyes widened. “No. How’d you find out?”

“Standard background check.”

His friend choked on his beer. “You did a security check on a birthday-party clown?”

“Good thing, too. Another family recommended a clown who checked out. I got her instead.”

“Her? Is she good-looking?”

Mark rolled his eyes. “Did you ever see a good-looking clown?”

“No. But then I didn’t catch the stripping clown. That could be interesting. Do you still have her number?”

“I don’t know where you find the energy.”

Brodie shrugged. “My motto is never pass on a pretty woman. You don’t know when the next one’s coming along.”

Immediately, an image of the woman with the postcard rose in Mark’s mind. Damn. He hadn’t even asked her name. “I wish you’d told me that an hour ago.”

“What? The life-and-death babe?”

“Yeah.”

His buddy shook his head. “Uh-uh. You made a total ass of yourself in front of that one. My other motto is, if you fall flat on your face in front of a pretty woman, stay facedown until she’s long gone. The good news about Ms. Life and Death is, you’ll never see her again!”

2

ANNIE TUCKED a stray purple and yellow curl behind her ear, but it promptly boinged out to poke into her ear canal where it would tickle every time she moved. She grimaced with annoyance in the rearview mirror, making her huge red smile look like a burst sausage.

The hottest day of the year, and she was stuck in the tiniest car ever invented—

you couldn’t fit air-conditioning in it even if you could afford it—and the biggest wig.

“Gertrude, honey,” she told her clown reflection, “we need a vacation.”

The little car crawled up the hill to an address high on the slopes of North Vancouver, just as she’d been told. Told over the phone, which was standard procedure when she took a clown booking for a birthday party, then told again in a follow-up letter containing detailed instructions on how to get to the house where the party was to be held and how to gain entry.

Gain entry? Annie read that part again. More than a simple knock on the door was required. First there was a key code she would have to punch into a security gate to get past the fence. This changed daily, the letter informed her. So they thought she might be a part-time clown, part-time jewel thief?

Okay, ahead of her the gate appeared. She drew her little Smurf-blue putt-mobile up to an alcove that looked like a banking machine. She pushed in her number, waited a moment, and the gates swung open reluctantly.

After all the rigmarole, Annie expected a castle with a moat, at least, but the house was a family-size, modern-looking stone-and-cedar affair. Hardly looked like the Pentagon.

As the gates closed behind her, she started to get a claustrophobic feeling. For a second, she wished she’d turned back when she’d had the chance. The curse of an active imagination and a love of old movies was that she found herself picturing ridiculous scenarios. She was Philip Marlowe approaching the mansion where the two-timing dame was holed up, cynically wondering if he’d get out with his life.

The truth was even more ridiculous. She was a grown woman in a clown costume, wearing polka dots the size of asteroids.

She parked at the end of the drive and exited her vehicle as instructed. She swapped her trainers for Gertrude’s huge floppy clown shoes and shuffled to the door, the plastic rose in her lapel bobbing to hit her in the nose with each step. She dragged her battered suitcase past perfectly manicured lawns, sterile-looking flower beds containing mostly small evergreen bushes, and up three swept steps. By the time Annie got to the intercom buzzer at the front door she was feeling wilted—not only by the heat. She noticed a small camera in the corner above the door and poked her tongue out as far as she could.