just remembered…” She made a move toward the stack of envelopes.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Della said. She leaned her palms on the table, tenting the envelopes with her body.
Della looked like an angry rottweiler guarding its kibble. Was that a bit of drool at the corner of her mouth? Mattie stifled a hysterical laugh at the thought, then straightened, attempting to gain control of her ping-ponging thoughts.
“I’m sorry. I—I really can’t say—stay…” she stammered. “I have a shipment of books from Ralph Barnes’s estate that I need to go through.”
“Ralph Barnes?” Erica shivered. “He gave me the heebie-jeebies. Always walking around in that silk smoking jacket like Hugh Hefner.”
Della ignored her, focusing on Mattie. “You’re not wiggling out of this one, Missy. I don’t care if St. Peter died and left you the keys to heaven.”
Erica fidgeted with a bar napkin, seemingly oblivious to Della’s rising temper. “Isn’t St. Peter technically already dead?”
“It’s okay,” Shay said, shooting Della and Erica disapproving looks. “We understand.”
Erica shrugged but Della landed on her feet, pointing at Mattie. “No, we don’t!”
Mattie cocked her head, studying the image of her friend. With her arm extended in perfect pointer position, she looked more rabid golden retriever than rottweiler.
“Mattie!” Della’s voice cracked and Mattie jumped, suddenly alert. “I’ve waited twenty years to hear what’s inside of that envelope of yours.” Della’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What are you so afraid of, Mattie Harold?”
Oh crap. All sorts of things came to mind—bugs, the bottom of her garbage can when she lifted the bag out, the rejection of men dipped in self-tanner….
Mattie had never had an athletic moment in her life. She’d always assumed that whatever gene was responsible for hand-to-eye coordination was dormant in her body. She had a colorful history of sending tennis balls into outer space and gymnastic coaches to the ER. But for one shining moment, she was Olga Korbut and Chris Evert rolled into one. She was on her feet before anyone could blink. Her hand shot out, unchallenged, grasped her envelope and shoved it safely into her purse. She executed a perfect half-spin and was halfway across the room before Della knew what had happened.
“Gotta run!” she called cheerfully.
Then she tripped over the threshold on her way out the door.
Jack watched Mattie Harold weave her way hell-bent through the maze of bar tables and pinball machines toward the back door of the bowling alley. He’d suspected she was tipsy earlier. Her gaze had seemed a little out of focus and her face had been flushed. But when she stumbled over the threshold, arms flapping like she was an agitated flamingo in an effort to keep from falling, he realized she was more than tipsy. He grinned. Damn, she was cute. She’d always been the cute one in the bunch. She was Della’s age, a few years younger than he was, but she still looked like the kid he remembered.
A kid who was about to walk into traffic drunk as a skunk.
He stepped out of the building and slipped behind Della’s minivan, ready to intervene if necessary. But Mattie successfully made her way through the cars in the parking lot and to the sidewalk that lined Main Street. But she’d now stopped and was fiddling with a piece of paper. An envelope, maybe? What in the world was she up to? He thought he recalled seeing a stack of envelopes on the bar table, but hadn’t paid much attention. The haze of his own embarrassment at his appearance had been pretty thick.
He watched as Mattie began tearing the paper into pieces. He couldn’t help but grin. She appeared to be seriously pissed off at the envelope. Mattie then wadded the pieces of paper into a ball and tossed it into the roadside ditch.
Jack felt a rush of curiosity that he hadn’t felt since he’d stopped taking on personal investigations. He slipped his shades on and repositioned himself by another car, making certain that Mattie wasn’t headed toward a vehicle of her own. The last thing she needed to do in her condition was to get behind the wheel. Thankfully, she was leaving on foot, though her feet didn’t look too steady, either.
He watched until Mattie disappeared from sight, then his gaze settled on the ditch. Whatever lay crumpled in that soggy ditch was none of his business.
But that wasn’t going to stop him.
Mattie dipped the sponge into the soapy water and squeezed, her head pounding as she bent over the bucket. She straightened, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose with her free hand. She’d slept off the tequila last night—well, yesterday afternoon and last night—but woke this morning feeling like she’d been hit by an eighteen-wheeler. And had been dragged behind it for about a mile.
The midday sun was now glaring off the chrome bumper of her car like a laser, and the sunglasses were no match. And she was unnaturally hot, even in shorts and a tank top. Not to mention a little queasy. She wanted to go inside her duplex, pull the curtains and die. But she wasn’t going to. Washing the land barge was her penance for drinking like a fish and buying the ridiculous vehicle in the first place. Besides, she wasn’t exactly mentally sharp, and washing the car was one task that didn’t require her to think. She’d managed to retrieve one load of books from Ralph Barnes’s estate this morning, but by the time she’d hauled the heavy boxes into the store she’d felt bloodless and about as strong as a noodle. No more tequila, she vowed. Never, never, never.
She squatted next to the side of the car and scrubbed at the dingy silhouette of the police shield as if it would miraculously disappear. No such luck. Little flakes of faded white paint stuck to her sponge. Groovy.
Mattie stood and snatched up the hose. She shot a stream of water at the sudsy side and pretended the nozzle was an Uzi. More paint chips cascaded to the asphalt with the water and settled in a mocking little puddle around her bare feet. So much for improving the outside. Hauling the estate books this morning had left a trail of spiderwebs and grime in the back seat, so she traded the hose for her cordless vacuum, shoved her sunglasses on top of her head and crawled inside.
The car was like a vault. But it wasn’t the size that unnerved her as much as the car’s gender. Insane, she knew, but the car was a guy.
She’d always had a secret habit of assigning gender to inanimate objects. This car had male written all over it. Testosterone practically haunted the thing, left behind by the countless police officers that had driven it. It even smelled like a man. The scent of aftershave and the faint odor of cigarettes still lingered, forever embedded in the worn upholstery.
It was completely foreign to her.
Men in general were a mystery to Mattie. She was an only child and therefore had missed brother exposure. Her parents divorced when she was ten, wiping out any chance that she’d have a sibling and severely altering her view of her father, who’d gone from father extraordinaire to awkward director of every-other-weekend activities in the blink of an eye. Of her friends, Shay was an orphan and Erica’s older brother had married and moved away by the time they’d become close. Della was the only friend with a brother still at home, and Mattie’s feelings for Jack were hardly sisterly.
Mattie’s gut took a one-two stomach-acid punch as an image of Jack, complete with bad self-tanner, formed in her head. She moaned, revved the vacuum and went to work on the upholstery. Her tenuous grip on mental and physical health just couldn’t process the new Jack.
A mechanical scream suddenly came from the hand vac, ripping Mattie from her thoughts. She dropped the vacuum and listened with dread as a chopping sound replaced the screech, decreasing as the engine sputtered to a halt. She eyed the vac, which now lay on the floorboard like a dead animal. Obviously something other than lint had been sucked into the lint trap. She sighed.
The day just got better and better.
She sat cross-legged on the back seat, pulled the vacuum into her lap and popped it