McMillan headed around the side of the house, moving at a fast clip, and we struggled to keep up. Marge grabbed my arm. “This would be another awful time to fall flat on your face,” she said.

  I would have told her what to do with her “helpful hints,” but I was too busy keeping an eye out for the kind of thick root that had tripped me up before.

  We moved into the garage, where our host slipped into the driver’s seat of a big brown sedan. We squeezed into the back seat and looked like schoolgirls being chauffeured by their grandpa.

  Slowly, he backed out of the drive and inched down the street. I glanced over at Celeste, who frowned. At this speed, it might take half an hour just to reach the stop sign at the corner up ahead.

  I turned to Marge, and her eyes were bugging out. A good car trip to Marge was all about the timing: how many green lights you could sail through, how many cars you passed, how quickly you could get there.

  “I think I’m going to have a heart attack if he keeps up this pace,” Marge whispered.

  “Pull it together, Marge,” Celeste whispered back.

  “Where are we heading?” I asked, trying to sound cheerful.

  “I know a place,” McMillan answered cryptically.

  Great. I just hoped we’d get there before winter came.

  Marge settled back against the seat. “You know, I gotta say,” she said to McMillan, probably trying to distract herself from how slowly we were moving, “I was just enchanted by what you told your neighbor.”

  I must have heard her wrong. What part of his threats to shoot the woman had Marge been enchanted by?

  “Oh yeah?” McMillan kept his eye on the road, watching carefully—even though it was a stretch to say that we were “moving.” He cleared his throat. “What did I say?”

  Marge sat up straight as if she were reciting. “You said, and I quote, ‘It’s not like you’ll have flowers sprouting from the outside walls.’ I just loved that image. Didn’t you love it, girls?”

  “Very nice.”

  “Sure, yeah, whatever.”

  Celeste and I mumbled at the same time.

  Marge leaned forward in her seat. “In my mind, I pictured roses in a nice shade of pink, growing right there from the side of a person’s house. Flowers in all colors covering the house like some magic fairyland.” She smiled at the him, who was looking warily in his rearview mirror. “It was a nice thing to say. You could be a poet.”

  “Poetry? Pshaw. Ain’t got nothing to do with being a poet. It’s the seeds, that’s what it’s all about. The berries and the red peppers.”

  “Yes, yes! Red berries in the walls.” Marge smiled; a dreamy look of satisfaction spread across her face.

  “Not in the walls, you fool,” McMillan roared. “In the ground. From my shotgun.”

  Wait. What did he say? I was starting to think my father had slipped me some kind of hallucinogenic into my breakfast waffles.

  “Awesome and…um…wonderfully bizarre.” Marge gave him a thumbs-up.

  Celeste smiled and nodded with the look that only I knew meant, “What the heck.”

  “Would you mind expanding on this shotgun-flower-berry matter?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

  McMillan eyed me through the rearview mirror.

  “It’s the shotgun shells is what it is. Those aren’t real bullets. The shells are filled with seeds.”

  There was silence in the car after that last sentence.

  McMillan continued. “Flowers, berries, peppers, you name it. You think it’s easy for me to plant those things into the ground? Let me tell you something, it isn’t. But I like my yard nice and neat. Everybody should have a nice yard. So I found something to help me with the work. Boom! I point the gun, and the shells are flying into the ground. Care for goldenrod? Fire in the hole!” he screamed as he moved the car another half an inch.

  That last bit caused Celeste to jump.

  I flashed her a look. At least if this got too scary, we could easily jump out of the barely moving car.

  One of the drivers stuck behind us decided at that point to lay down on the horn.

  “Patience!” the old man yelled. “Leave earlier next time.” He slowed down long enough to glare—and the only way to slow down was to stop.

  As he drove away from a symphony of horns, he continued his odd tale of guns and flowers and berries. “I like to keep my flowers in the front yard, and at the side of the house, I’ve got some real nice berry bushes. Use the fruit in my ice cream. Of course, they aren’t in season now.”

  Fabulous. I’d scratched my arms on shotgun bushes.

  Marge, on the other hand, was thrilled with the idea.

  “I love it!” she cried out. “No bending down or kneeling in the dirt for you!”

  I hoped that didn’t mean she’d be loading The Persuader with seeds for pansies and tomatoes.

  After about ten minutes, we arrived at an Italian restaurant where I had never been. As we walked in, I couldn’t help but notice the place looked kind of…old. The silk plant in the lobby was collecting dust, and the greens and blues had faded in the seats of the wooden chairs. The whole place was so dark that you forgot the sun was still up outside the heavy doors. This was how I pictured those restaurants they sometimes showed in movies featuring the mob. Not everyone who goes in gets to come out alive. In fact, their odds are pretty bad once they’ve been seated at a table and been served their drinks.

  “Long time, no see,” a waitress told McMillan as she led us to our seats. Her graying hair was falling loose from her messy bun. Like the silk plant and the cushions, she had some years on her.

  We squeezed into a booth in the far corner of the place, and she handed us some menus with the place’s name emblazoned on the cover. It started with a T and ended with a Y, but the letters in between had mostly faded.

  McMillan didn’t bother to open up the menu. “I’ll just have some iced tea,” he said.

  I sighed. We’d endured this slow, slow trip, impeding tons of traffic, so this man could have some iced tea?

  I supposed we should do the same. “I’ll have some as well,” I said.

  “Coffee, please,” Celeste said.

  “They have a lobster plate,” Marge said as she perused the menu. Then she noticed Celeste was giving her the eye. “On second thought, I’ll have iced tea as well.”

  Once the waitress had moved on, Marge took out her notebook and her pen with its fancy feather.

  Celeste cleared her throat. “As we have explained, we have been contracted by police officials to investigate the…activities in your yard last week.”

  “I see how this works.” McMillan frowned. “First, the real cops ignore me. Then they send three rookies.”

  “I respectfully disagree.” I ventured a counterattack. “Our work is excellent.” I folded my hands neatly on the table. “We always get results, which is why they called on us.”

  McMillan raised an eyebrow as if to say he didn’t expect an affront.

  Celeste leaned forward and spoke to him in a confidential tone. “When the chief calls us in and hands us a case folder, I can tell you one thing: that’s a case right there he’s intent on solving. It’s high up on his list.” She was very good at schmoozing.

  “And I can tell you one thing too. I’d hate to see the way he handles other cases if this is the best he’s got. With that bozo of a head cop, it’s a wonder there aren’t felons waltzing in the streets with not a care in the world about getting caught.”

  The waitress walked slowly toward us with a tray of drinks. The whole world seemed to have gone into slow motion since we got into McMillan’s car.

  “I can accept your lack of confidence in our local law enforcement; nonetheless, our job here is to help you,” Celeste said, pointedly.

  McMillan leaned in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest and stared at us.

  “Fine,” he finally said. “You’re here to help. What do you wanna know?”

  “Start from the beginning, and tell us what you saw and heard,” Marge said.

  “I’ve told the cops everything already. Didn’t you get that information?” he asked derisively. “Or do I have to start the whole thing over so you can write it down with your bouncy, sparkly toy?” He stared at her pen. “It’s like it’s Take Your Kid to Work Day, and they sent me someone’s child.”

  I admired the way Marge could play it cool in the face of the insults.

  “Sir, this case is in the hands of CMC Investigations, a first-class agency,” she began. “Naturally, the chief has briefed us, but we like to hear directly from a witness the exact chain of events. We work at a high level and details are important. The smallest detail can break a case wide open.” She tilted her head and watched him closely. “So once more I’ll ask you to lay out the facts for us.”

  He stared back in amazement. His eyes moved to her pen. “You got a lot of ink in that fluffy bauble?”

  “I do, and I have extras.” She winked. “We’re professionals.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” McMillan uttered.

  He began with his story that followed all the details contained in the case file. He confirmed that he’d been wearing his hearing aids that night—as he always does, except when sleeping—which I found considerably strange. I could have sworn the odd conversation he’d reported had to be all wrong.

  I sipped some of my iced tea. “I believe our next steps will be talking to your neighbors,” I told him.

  “I hope you’re half as good, at least, as you say you are.” He picked up his glass. “If you screw up, I could die.”

  “How do you figure that?” I asked.

  “I believe whoever did the killing knows I was there and listening. That person knows I called the cops. His next likely step is to get rid of the witness. That’s Crime Fighting 101. I shouldn’t have to tell you that if your outfit’s so elite.” He looked down at his glass. “Where is that slowpoke of a waitress? My tea needs more ice.”

  My only thought was, we should get overtime for having to spend time placating such a jerk. However, I was being a professional, hired to do a job.

  “I understand your concerns,” I said, nodding.

  “I know it must be hard,” Celeste said sympathetically.

  “You must be so worried.” Marge’s eyes were huge.

  Apparently, the girls and I were on the same wavelength.

  If I got it straight, this old man was distressed because the supposed killer in this supposed murder―with no body or any evidence whatsoever to be found―was coming to get him. As a result, we needed a plan to make him happy, to make him feel important. At least for the short term. It was obvious he craved that.

  I thought about it for a minute, and I hoped the others were on board because here I went with my crazy plan.

  “You know, you’re right,” I said to McMillan. “It could be you’re in danger.” I had to control myself not to roll my eyes. “That’s why we’re offering you surveillance of your property. To be certain you stay safe.”

  Marge and Celeste gazed in my direction, but I could tell they were into it as well.

  “We’ll start tonight,” Celeste said.

  “We’ll be right there, parked across the street.” Marge nodded, and her fluffy pen bobbed up and down with her.

  McMillan stared at its glittery pink and sighed. “Very well. I suppose this is the closest I’ll come to a SWAT team.”

  I thought I saw a smile starting in his eyes, but his lips were stuck firmly in a scowl.

  He paid for our drinks. “It’s deductible,” he said. “A business expense.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said.

  Very, very slowly, he filled out a check.

  “Oh wow, a check for iced teas.” Marge looked mesmerized. “Did you forget your credit cards at home?” Marge asked.

  McMillan rubbed his forehead. “That’s nonsense. I don’t own any credit cards. The world will end one day because of credit cards. I don’t believe that funds should be electronically exchanged.”

  Marge blinked twice. “No…yeah, sure…you’re right. We should all use credit cards way less.” She looked at Celeste and me like the man sitting next to her was crazy.

  I commiserated.

  Chapter Seven

  As McMillan drove us back to his house, I reflected on how much of the day had been spent driving five miles to a restaurant and then the five miles back. To keep calm, Marge, beside me, listed things under her breath. Red blanket for the kittens, blue balls for the kittens…I knew that what she wanted was to leap into the front seat, put her foot to the accelerator, and mash that baby to the floor.

  We said goodbye to McMillan and settled on arriving at his house for surveillance at 9 p.m. We got into Marge’s car as McMillan waved us off. There he went, our dream client.

  In the haven of her own car, Marge let out a deep breath, kind of like a junkie who’d been in rehab for too long. Now, here was her drug at last. She took off like a rocket through the streets of town.

  “This case is weird—or non-case—I should say.” Celeste braced herself, both hands holding on to the glove compartment. “It’s hard to solve a murder that most likely didn’t happen.”

  “I know,” I said. “Still, a check is a check. I, for one, will take on about any case right now for a good payment.”

  “Amen, sister,” Marge said, stepping on the gas pedal.

  “Of course, solving a case would imply I get to not die in a car crash first,” I said, looking intently at Marge from the back seat.

  “I second that,” Celeste said.

  Marge glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “Oh, stop being such pansies.”

  We dropped off Celeste at her place then headed to the police station where my car was parked.

  “Say, Charlie, can I come home with you and peek in at the kitchen?” Marge asked me.

  “You serious?” I asked back. As if a kitchen were a reason to get all excited and not just a place to eat.

  “Sure,” Marge said eagerly. “I just love a renovation.”

  “Well, it’s actually a mess, but my mom would love to see you.”

  And boy, did that ever prove to be true.

  We arrived at my parents' house, and Marge parked behind me in the driveway. My mom was more than happy to see Marge. She probably thought she passed down her aesthetics genes to the wrong person since I couldn’t contribute to her creative house improvements and didn’t get any pleasure out of it either.

  While I found some cookies and scrolled through my phone, my mother led Marge from room to room, little cardboard sample colors fanned out in her hand. On the walls throughout the house she had painted all the different yellows that we’d lugged home with Brad.

  Wait. Was she planning to paint the whole house now? I should check my room, but I was too scared and tired. I needed some more cookies; she’d made chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin, which were still warm from the oven. I studied the narrow, littered pathway from my chair to the stove, where the cookies sat out waiting on a foil-covered sheet. The path from here to there was filled with paint cans, books, and boxes: lots of stuff just waiting to make me trip and fall.

  “Stunning!” I heard Marge exclaim as they were coming back into the kitchen. “I think the butter-pecan color is my favorite. Very subtle.”

  My mother looked on proudly.

  I shot a text to Alex.

  New assignment is the worst. Spent a very looooong day with Edgar McMillan.

  He’d know who that was; everybody knew. I added the icon of the little face with the bugged-out eyes.

  Not long after I heard a ding.

  Better you than me. Lol

  Then it dinged a second time. I looked down to see a heart. I smiled and got all warm and tingly inside.

  My reverie was disrupted by Marge.

  “I think I know who that was from!” she said, materializing by my side and grabbing a cookie. She gave me a thumbs-up and a wink.

  “Shhh, Marge,” I whispered. I looked over her shoulder and saw my mom gazing at some fabric samples. “My parents don’t know about Alex and me yet, remember?”

  Marge’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oops, almost spilled the beans there.”

  My mother turned to us and made her way through the kitchen maze with the stack of fabric samples that she held up to my chair.

  Not the chairs! At least in the current chaos, I had a place to sit.

  “The green and yellow stripe,” Marge said. “No, wait. The paisley pattern. I really can’t decide.”

  “How about we leave the chairs how they are for now?” I asked.

  My mom sighed. “I think you’re right. I still have a lot to do with the walls.”

  I could have bet anything she’d be in the same deciding-stage one year from now.

  “Oh my, look at the time,” Marge said, looking down at her watch. “Barbara, it’s been a blast, but I have to go.”

  “Already?” My mom looked genuinely disappointed. “Be sure to come by again.”

  “Will do,” Marge said enthusiastically. She waved her fingers at me. “Hon, you get some rest. I’ll come get you at eight thirty.”

  “Going out?” my mother asked.

  I set down my phone. “Just for some stuff for work.”

  My mother leaned against a counter. “Look at you busy girls. You’re always needed somewhere. I had no idea late-night computer issues would be such a thing.”

  After I spent some time cleaning my room, I heard Marge toot her horn. By then it was already dark outside. We picked up Celeste and drove to our destination. We parked across the street and one house down from McMillan’s place, behind another car. As usual with this kind of thing, I couldn’t help but feel a rush of anticipation. It was like a reflex. On second thought, what could happen really? There had been no crime!

 

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