The World is a Stage (17 page)

“How’s that grandson of yours, by the way?” Rachel added when June continued looking at her warily. “The one who was up for the award at school…”

As she hoped, the older woman immediately perked up. “You mean Mattie, of course. How sweet of you to remember!”

Rachel remembered nothing of the kind, but the last time she’d been here, running a background check on the guy Molly had dated for a few weeks back in December, something like twelve of June’s descendants were about to topple over from all the intellect swelling inside their heads.

The door to Nora’s office swung open just as June was describing scholarships designed for babies with exceptional drooling skills.
 

There, at least, was a woman who knew how detective work should look. Nora Bean, PI, favored skintight pencil skirts and loose, flowing blouses cut from pure silk. Her hair was gray and black in clearly defined stripes perfected by nature, swept up into an efficient bun. All that was missing to complete the picture was one of those forties nylon seams up the back of her well-toned legs.

Rachel had originally come to her to help find out more about the men in Molly’s life, but they’d rapidly become friends.

“Hey Rachel—how are you? You didn’t tell me you were stopping by.” Nora leaned forward and did a dual air kiss on her cheeks. On any other woman, it would be an affectation. Nora made it seem perfectly natural and not at all at odds with her hard-boiled profession. “We could have done lunch or something. As it is now, I’m on my way out.”

Rachel nodded at the camera bag over her shoulder. “A cheating dirtbag?”

“Close. A cheating gold-digger. I’m walking, though, if you’ve got some time. You can be my cover. I was going to pretend to snap photos of the birds in Riverfront Park, but I can pretend I’m shooting your gorgeous face instead.”

Rachel laughed and gave her hair a toss. “Do I look model-y enough for it?”

“You’re breathtaking, and you know it. June, I’ll be back by four. If Mr. Fielding calls again, tell him I’m still waiting on the federal report. If he doesn’t like it, he can take it up with them.”

Despite four-inch heels, Nora walked at a brisk pace that made Rachel glad she had long legs and a runner’s gait. They talked a little about the upcoming Shakespeare in the Dark production before Nora turned off the pleasantries and turned on the efficient investigator.

“So what’s this really about, Rachel? And don’t try fooling me with any of your niceties. It’s a work day during rehearsal time. You aren’t out shopping.”

Nora had once confided to Rachel that her longest relationship had lasted a grand total of three months, and only then because the guy had been trained by the FBI to be able to lie to interrogators. She could see through every other man by the end of date four. Not one of them had ever told her the complete truth.
 

Even with her acting training and experience, Rachel knew better than to try to get anything past Nora.

“It’s Molly.”

“Stop right there. Not another word.” She stopped her breakneck pace and swiveled to face her. “You told me that even if you offered me a million dollars and wept tears of blood, I was never to take another job from you involving your sister. On pain of death, you said.”

“I know I did.” Rachel began moving again. It was better to be distracted by the sweat she was working up in her oversized sweater than it was to focus on just how far she was sinking, propelled by a force that weighed at least two hundred pounds and whose smile filled her with equal parts hatred and hope. “And I’m pretty sure Molly would never speak to me again if she knew I was breaking my promise. But this is bigger than I thought. It’s—”

Nora held up one of her hands, the nails long and bloodred. “If you say ‘life and death,’ I swear I will leave you here. I want facts. Not drama.”

They’d arrived at the park, Nora none the worse for wear, Rachel feeling as though she’d just finished her first six-minute mile since she was eighteen and ran competitively. It was a nice day, clear but crisp, the sun fooling people into stepping out for an afternoon in the city’s largest park despite the thermometer’s cruel mockery.

“Over there, please. By the tree. Stop breathing so heavily and strike a pose.”

Rachel looked around. “Why? Is the gold-digger here? Which one is she?”

“Oh, for crying out loud. Make it more obvious, will you? Just stand and look pretty.”

Rachel caught a glimpse of the offending woman, older than she thought and nuzzling a man who was clearly in need of a shave and a leather intervention on a park bench. They were oblivious to anyone around them, so caught up in whatever stolen moment they were having that they didn’t know disaster watched them through a telephoto lens just a few yards away.

Rachel cocked her head a little, watching them. She could kind of see the appeal to Leather Intervention over there. There was just something about a man who put his brawn and his balls right there on the table.

Snap.

Nora took the first picture, and Rachel used the moment to get her thoughts back where they should be. Not brawn. Certainly not balls. Michael’s crudity must be wearing off on her.

She allowed herself to relax into the modeling role even though she knew the lens wasn’t pointed her way. The only time she felt silly was when Nora told her to stop looking so cross-eyed. She’d been going for sultry.

It only took a few minutes for the whole thing to be done. PI work, much like all jobs, hers included, was a lot less glamorous and fun in real life than it seemed in the movies.

“Thanks, Rach,” Nora said when she was done, carefully stowing her Canon 5D in its matching bag. “You’re a lot better than birds.”

“Gee, thanks.” They turned and began their walk-run back toward the office. “Does this mean you might consider running one itsy bitsy background check for me?”

“Spill.”

Rachel spilled.

Not everything, of course. There was a lot Nora already knew about her life—probably more than Rachel even realized, since she knew there was no one more thorough when it came to her work. But the bulk of it—Molly’s relationship with Justin, the catastrophic consequences, her continued dating record of lowlifes scraped off the bar floor or plucked from a police lineup—they’d already discussed at length. Rachel didn’t have too many female friends, but she counted Nora among those who really mattered. Nora listened and she listened well, but always with the kind of professionalism that precluded tearful nights spent watching
Sense and Sensibility
and eating ice cream together.

“So you think this guy has a record?”

“I’m sure of it. But even that might be okay if I hadn’t overheard that conversation with his brother. They’re hiding something, and I don’t like it.”

“Molly’s a big girl with big-girl pants. Are you sure you want to start telling her who gets in them?”

“She’s falling for this one fast and hard, Nora. And he’s already hit her once.” Rachel paused uncomfortably. “Well, allegedly. She swears it wasn’t him, but you know what she’s like about that kind of stuff.”

“And what about the other guy you mentioned? The friend? The one you obviously have the hots for?”

Rachel stumbled on a rock. “If you’re talking about the one I want to brain with one of the swords from the costume department, then yes. You should check up on him too.
Especially
him too.”

She kept her words level and neutral, but she could see Nora studying her out of the corner of her eye. She schooled her features as best she could.

Michael had sat across from her at the coffee shop, all full of himself because he managed to pull her hefty five feet nine inches up the movie theater aisle and out onto the street. Even fuller of himself because she’d let him. It was the moment, nothing more. Sam Spade always made her sentimental.

“I think maybe you’re digging your own grave,” he’d announced between mouthfuls of pastry. “With your sister, I mean.”

“I beg your pardon?” If his goal had been to antagonize her, that was the fast track to get there. No one told her how to handle her sister, least of all a man she’d known a few weeks and who had the understanding and finesse of a horse.

He’d had the audacity to laugh. “Oh, calm down, woman. It’s not going to do you any good to get your fur all riled up for me. I’m not scared of you. In fact, I think it’s kind of cute.”

“I think you’re kind of heinous. So we’re even.”

“Just hear me out for a minute, will you? I’m not going to pretend to know what goes on inside that pretty head of yours, but your sister is lucky to have a guy like Peterson. Damn lucky. There’s no better man I know, and I would sign my name to that fact.”

Rachel had snorted. “You must not know very many people.”

He’d instantly sobered, leaning forward as if to try and intimidate her. “Lash all you want at me—to my face, behind my back, with your tongue or with your fists. It doesn’t bother me, and I’d rather take all your anger than have you spreading it around. But be very careful what you say about my friends. Even I have limits.”

“I’m not scared of you either.” Rachel refused to look away or back down, even though her heart was thumping painfully, suddenly too big and explosive for her ribcage. “And my limits? You’re constantly treading them. Stomping them, actually, with your big, stupid feet.”

“That’s better.” He relaxed, though there was still a soberness to his face that unsettled her. “Can I say something serious now?”

He’d taken her rigid silence as assent.

“Molly and Peterson—they
are
scared of you. They’re both good people, and they seem to have a nice thing going on. But for some reason, they think if you have even one minute to yourself, you’ll fuck up the best thing either one of them has had in years.” All Neanderthal jokes aside, his brow lowered, and those ridiculously blue eyes of his looked into hers, clouded and troubled. “That’s not true, is it, Rachel?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The conversation had begun to make her feel very uncomfortable.

“Me. I’m talking about me.” He’d placed one of his man-paws over her hands then, all warm and comforting and sending pricks of sensation up her spine. “This might come as a surprise to you, but I don’t really like Shakespeare. In fact, I think he’s kind of a tool with all those big words and dramatic, girly men. I do like Peterson, though, and I like Molly. And though you may not believe me, you’re pretty great yourself.”

Rachel refused to blink. If this was a declaration of some sort, he sucked at it. Even if her body temperature had risen a few dozen degrees and her head felt suddenly light and unattached to the rest of her.

“So?”

“So.” Michael shook his head. “Don’t you think it’s kind of…weird that I’m hanging around the stage all day?”

“I think you’re a sad, pathetic man without anything else to do.”

“That’s true,” he’d said with a grin. “But I’m also a man doing a favor for a friend. They want your blessing, Rachel, more than anything else in the world.”

She’d sat back, then, the sticky vinyl of the seat too hot and too confining to make her the least bit comfortable.
What was this?
“What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m asking you, as a personal favor, to give them a chance. Lay off, lay low, and let them figure their own shit out. That’s all.”

Lay off? Lay low?
Michael-the-Mule was telling her what to do?
The room grew dangerously quiet, and Rachel could barely see beyond a few feet in front of her. “Are you saying it’s been your job this whole time to make sure I do that?”

“No.” He sat back, satisfied. “It’s been my job to keep you from making a mistake until you’re ready to see straight. I think you’re ready. They don’t—but you’re a lot more reasonable than I think people give you credit for.”

She felt the impact of his words before they fully registered in her brain. It was odd that her body would acknowledge the blow first, recoiling as though struck. She waited for a moment, expecting the wash of red-hot anger to follow.

It didn’t come.

According to Michael’s confession, she was being watched. She was being babysat. She was being
handled
. There was nothing worse than that. Her mother had to be handled, her massive ego stroked even as she was prevented from making a spectacle that would reflect poorly on her brand.

But instead of making Rachel so furious she couldn’t see straight, the knowledge fell over her like a numbing blanket. Molly thought she was no better than their mother—when all this time, Rachel had been doing everything,
changing her whole life
, to try to take care of Molly.

And the only person leaping to her defense was Michael.

“Say something, Rachel,” Michael had said, peering over the table at her. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”

“I can’t believe this,” she’d muttered, pulling away so that all contact between them was separated. It was too much.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Do I look like I want to talk about it?”

“Good point. I’m sorry to spring it all on you like this—and believe me, I feel awful about lying to you that whole time. You deserve better. Just…don’t go crazy or anything now, okay?”