chic boutique and her Nine West boots.
With a name like Daisy June, a girl was practically forced to develop a sense of style.
Besides, D.J. was nervous, and clothes, she had long since discovered, could act the part of old friends. People might come and go, but her pink suede slides would follow her anywhere.
Yesterday evening she’d sat in a parked car down the block from Maxwell Lotorto’s house and watched him engage in a confrontation with a stout gray-haired woman. Hunched low in the front seat of her Mustang, she’d watched four young children follow Max and the woman out of the house. With her window rolled down, D.J. caught enough of the conversation to glean that the children belonged to Max, that the irate woman was either a housekeeper or nanny, and that she was quitting or being fired. Maybe both.
D.J. had never believed in angels or anything like that, but if she did, she’d swear one had been guiding her footsteps last night. She’d been in just the right place at just the right time to gather a solid foundation of information.
Standing in front of Tavern on the Tracks for the second time in fewer than twenty-four hours, D.J. attempted to quell that slightly sickening butterflies-in-the-belly feeling by calling it excitement. She’d spent years making her living by locating missing persons, some of whom had taken exception to being found. She had not yet, however, changed her identity or masqueraded as someone else to get the job done.
Today would be her first day “undercover.” Today D. J. Holden, P.I., kick boxer extraordinaire—if she did say so herself—and undoubtedly the only woman in her yoga-for-relaxation class licensed to carry a concealed weapon, was going to be Daisy June Holden, career babysitter.
Without doubt, she was better suited to investigative work than to child care. She’d done a good portion of her own growing up as the only kid in the home of two much older adults, but she’d adored Bill and Eileen Thompson. She’d followed Bill around like a pup on a leash, absorbing knowledge about his private investigation business like soil absorbs rain—naturally, effortlessly.
She expected to expend a lot more effort learning to corral a bunch of rugrats.
Late-morning sunshine warmed the pavement of the small northern California town of Gold Hill, making D.J. squint. She left her sunglasses on top of her head, nonetheless, wanting to appear casual, eminently approachable when she walked into the restaurant that adjoined the bar. Tavern on the Tracks was comprised of two adjacent storefronts, each with its own entrance. On the right was the bar. On the left was a space that appeared to be undergoing renovations. A sign on the latter space said that an Italian restaurant would be opening soon. Yesterday D.J. had been to the bar; today she decided to investigate the restaurant.
Licking her lips, she walked across the threshold.
It was dark in the as-yet-unlit restaurant. She looked around, making out only shadow. It was way dark.
Standing still while her eyes adjusted to the dimness, D.J. let her ears do her investigating for her. Not only was it dark, there was a vaguely smoky, musty smell in the room that made her think of Mickey Spillane novels.
Until she heard giggles. Giggles and whispering that sounded distinctly juvenile.
As her eyes adjusted from outdoors to indoors, D.J. carefully approached one of the leather booths.
On the floor beneath the table, two squirmy, chortling boys huddled together like puppies.
She crouched down for a better look. “Hello.”
When they saw her, the bolder of the boys put his finger to his mouth and hissed, “Shhhhh. You’ll alert enemy forces.”
“Sorry,” she whispered back. “Why are you hiding?”
The other boy started to answer, but the first child clamped a hand over his mouth. “We can’t talk to you until we know whose side you’re on.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “I’m on your side.”
“You gotta get under here then.”
D.J. viewed the cramped space and gave a mental shrug. If you can’t beat ’em…
She grunted as she crawled in beside her new comrades. With her five-foot, seven-inch frame hunched beneath the table, she felt like an arthritic turtle and knew she wouldn’t be able to hold out long. “What’s the location of the enemy forces?”
“They’re over there.” The curly headed self-appointed spokes-person of the duo pointed in the direction of the neighboring bar. “Eatin’ stuff.”
“Eatin’ stuff.” D.J. nodded. “Why aren’t you two over there eatin’ stuff?”
“Eatin’ on a mission is sissy.”
“But I’m hungry,” his partner piped up.
D.J. looked at the other boy, physically a near carbon copy of his compatriot. Obviously brothers, they looked little like Max, which meant, she assumed, that they favored their mother.
Yesterday’s discovery of the children and the apparently defecting caregiver had not told her everything she needed to know, but it had given her a place to start. Max Lotorto needed child care. His wife must have passed on or moved on, because he clearly had responsibility for these kids. Assuming the woman was alive, what had made her leave gorgeous Max and their four kids? Was she still in the picture at all? D.J. had no outstanding maternal instincts, but voluntarily leaving one’s children did not sit well with her.
If the children’s mother was alive, perhaps Max had some fatal flaw that had made the marriage untenable. That was the kind of information Loretta wanted, the kind of information D.J. had come to the restaurant to get.
The boys began nudging each other and whispering. “What are your names?” she asked them.
The gigglier, hungrier one started to answer, but his brother gave him an elbow shot to the ribs. “We’re not supposed to tell,” he said over his brother’s cry of “Ow!”
“That’s when we’re outside,” the other boy said, elbowing back.
A skirmish—one that would surely put D.J. at risk from a flailing appendage—seemed about to ensue, until a very deep, very authoritative masculine voice called out, “Sean! James! Where are you?”
“Shhhh,” the boys hissed to each other. In a loud whisper the more dominant child commanded, “Change locations, change locations!” Both boys scrambled on their hands and knees to a new hiding place, presumably the next table over.
D.J. tried to scooch out, using her elbows and knees, but getting out from under the table wasn’t nearly as easy as climbing beneath it in the first place, and a pair of work-boot-shod feet entered her line of vision before she had time to straighten.
A hand appeared before her face, palm up. She took it.
Work roughened but warm and large, Maxwell Lotorto’s big mitt made hers feel small and feminine—quite a shock given that in elementary school the other girls had voted her “biggest girl’s hand in fifth grade.”
As her eyes adjusted to the light, she noted the surprise—then suspicion—in his gaze. He definitely recognized her from yesterday.
Letting go of her hand, Max watched her steadily, no doubt awaiting an explanation, and D.J. would have loved to provide one, but her mouth was so dry she had to lick her lips again, and in truth she hadn’t thought of an explanation for something like this.
Finally he spoke for her. “So why, he wonders, has the lady come back to hide under his table?”
“Good question.” She had to smile, nodding her appreciation. “I’d start there. But I wasn’t hiding, actually. I was becoming acquainted with two very personable young men. Yours, I assume?”
More giggling from the next table over. Hands moving to his hips, Max glanced the boys’way. “Get out here, you two. It’s time for lunch.”