Fatal Fixer Upper Read online

  “That’s impossible, of course,” he went on. “You wouldn’t do something like that, would you, Martha?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Maybe you’ll have better luck with another medium. I could give you some names.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll just...” She let her voice trail off as she rose. Her small wooden chair scraped over the marble tiles, a growl of discord breaking the spell of the haunting New Age music that whispered in magical Gaelic of fairies and poisoned glens.

  “Don’t rush off,” Jack told her, rising as well. “I insist on refunding your money. I’m not a thief, you know.”

  She took a step backward, toward the curtain, clearly itching to get out of there. She actually leaned toward the curtain as she moved, actually reached behind her for it long before she was close enough to touch it. “You, uh, you can mail it to me,” she rushed on, her feet shuffling away from him, slowly but steadily.

  “All right. I’ll do that. Do you want to give me your address, Martha, or shall I just save time and send it to Kiley Brigham?”

  The purple curtain flew open even as Martha kept groping for it, and he was not surprised to see Kiley herself on the other side, mad as hell, judging by the way her face was screwed up.

  “Damn you to hell, McCain!” Her hands were braced on her hips and she was breathing a little too fast. She did the heaving-bosom thing well. She certainly had the bosoms for it. Candlelight illuminated the pink spots on her cheeks and the fire in her green eyes. Cat’s eyes, she had, and hair blacker than ink. Hell, she ought to be the one running this scam. Her looks would attract customers like moths to the porch light.

  Well, she’d have to dress the part, of course. Those tight-fitting, faded jeans and that T-shirt that read “Keep Your Opinions Out of My Uterus” would never cut it.

  But Kiley Brigham, girl columnist, wasn’t interested in taking up his line of work. Instead, she was intent on ruining what he’d built into a lucrative business.

  Martha, he realized, was long gone. Must have darted out of the room while he’d been perusing his nemesis, who, he realized, had been perusing him right back.

  “Tell me something, Brigham,” he said, sitting back down in his chair. “Were you mauled by a pack of mediums as a child?”

  She sent him a smirk that should have burned holes through him, but said nothing. Then her probing green eyes got busy scanning the room: narrow, suspicious, searching. He hated to admit it made him a little nervous to have her looking around his place so closely.

  “So, what do you want?” he asked to break her concentration. “You come for a reading? Want me to tell your future, Brigham? Read your palm? What?”

  As planned, her gaze returned to him. “How the hell did you know I was here?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m clairvoyant, remember?”

  “And I’m a Republican.”

  A grin tugged at the corners of his lips. He battled it and finally won. “So, what do I have to do? Slap you with a restraining order?”

  “You really think it would help?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” he said.

  She bristled, but only for a moment. It seemed to him the wind left her sails far more quickly than usual. She heaved a sigh and sank into the chair the other woman had occupied. “Did you have to scare her like that, McCain? You know how tough it is to find out-of-work actresses who come as cheap as that one?”

  He did smile then. It seemed safe. Her rage was ebbing, and in record time. It made him wonder what was wrong. “You want something to drink?”

  “Not if you’re gonna try to foist some herbal, trance-inducing tea on me, I don’t.”

  “Guess you’re outta luck, then.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You don’t really drink that crap. You can fool everyone else in this town, especially the tourists, but you can’t fool me. Why don’t you drop the act?”

  He pretended to think it over, then said, “Nah. Business is booming these days.” He leaned forward, flattening his palms to the table. “Largely thanks to that nasty little column of yours discrediting my competitors one by one on a weekly basis.”

  She leaned over the table, too, her palms on the gleaming hardwood surface like his, her face only inches away. “You make a living by feeding innocent victims a line of bull. They hand over their hard-earned money for the privilege of being duped.”

  “I make a living by giving people psychologically sound advice. People who might not listen to a therapist. I’m good at what I do. I help people. You, on the other hand, make a living putting hard-working people like me out of business. I’ll take my karma over yours anytime.”

  “Karma, schmarma.” She sat back, her palms gliding across the small table. “You know as well as I do that there’s no such thing. No psychics, no ghosts, no magic.”

  “No God?” He asked the question idly, as if he couldn’t care less about her answer.

  She was silent for a long moment, so preoccupied she didn’t even notice him looking at her. Her eyes were a little puffy, as if she hadn’t slept. There was a tightness to her face that suggested worry.

  Then, her gaze still focused inward, she said, “I don’t get it, McCain.”

  “Don’t get what?”

  “Look at this picture. It’s skewed, don’t you think? You’re the crook. I’m the crusader. So, how come you get the adulation and I get the hate mail?”

  “It’s adulation you want, huh? The love of your fellow man?”

  “I don’t want anyone to love me. I’ve scraped by without it for this long, haven’t I?” She said it lightly, rushing on before he could identify the emotion that had crossed her face. “I’d be happy if they’d just stop with the death threats.”

  Jack started to laugh, but it died in his throat when he looked into her eyes. There had been no lightness in her tone on those words, no laughter in her eyes. She wasn’t kidding. “You’ve been getting death threats?”

  “Just the one. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you? Quaint little love note on my bathroom mirror, written in what the police department tells me is blood. Human blood, I learned this morning. Cute, huh?”

  It wasn’t his imagination. She shivered when she said it, though the way she clenched her jaw made it obvious she was trying real hard not to show the slightest hint of upset. It was as he was studying the pallor of her skin that Jack noticed his own new position. Just when the hell had he come out of his chair and around to her side of the table? She rose as he stared down at her, as if she didn’t like having to look up at him. Or maybe it was that she didn’t want him to see her teetering.

  Too late for that, though.

  “When did this happen?”

  She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “I was soaking in the tub last night. I got up and went into the bedroom for my robe, and when I came back it was there on the bathroom mirror. For all I know they could have been right on the other side of the shower curtain from me at some point.” Her lower lip quivered, but she bit it hard and quick, then gave her head a shake. “Bastard’s lucky I didn’t see him.”

  “This isn’t funny, Kiley. God. You said the police are on this?”

  She nodded. “Look, don’t trouble yourself over it. I didn’t come here for sympathy.”

  He wanted the animosity back. He wanted to fight with her, wanted her back to insulting his moral fiber instead of making him feel sick on her behalf. “No, you just dropped in to chat, ruin my business and accuse me of threatening your life. I love these little visits of yours.” As an attempt to rekindle the banter, it was sadly lacking. But it worked all the same.

  “Drop dead, McCain.”

  Ah, that was more like it. “Same to you, Brigham.”

  Her head came up fast, green eyes meeting his, wider than he’d ever seen them. “You mean that?”

  He felt as if she’d punched him in the gut. But she just stood there, waiting for an answer, probing his eyes and looking madder than hell, capable of murder
and as vulnerable as a wet cat all at the same time. His hands moved up to grasp her shoulders. “I didn’t leave you any death threat, Brigham. Whenever I get the urge to tell you to drop dead, I say it right to your pretty face. And if I’d been lurking on the other side of the curtain while you were soaking in the tub, the worst thing I’d have done is cop a peek. And I think you know it.”

  She blinked, swallowed audibly and nodded. “I didn’t really figure a message in blood was your style.”

  “Because I’m such a swell guy?”

  She smirked, a little of the old mischief backlighting the fear in her eyes. “Because you know me well enough to know I’d kick your ass if I ever found out.”

  “Any time you wanna try, Brigham.”

  No comeback. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sparred with her and she’d run out of trash talk. It made him uncomfortable to know just how upset she must be to let it affect her acid tongue. And he had to change the subject, before he started getting some stupid urge to help her out, somehow.

  He cleared his throat, realized his hands were still on her shoulders, and lowered them to his sides while searching his brain for a safer topic. “So, uh, how did you manage to get in? How did Chris not notice you lurking outside the curtain?”

  “You mean the scrawny kid with the quartz earring and the bright yellow dust mop on his head?”

  “That’s his hair.”

  “No shit?” She shrugged. “Anyway, he was busy humming along with whatever flaky-ass music you have playing out there.”

  “You know, if you could manage to stop being so damned pleasant all the time, you might attract friendlier fans.” He felt his lips thin as he tried to find a way to give her some free advice without imparting the impression that he actually gave a damn. “And you might try being a little less controversial, while you’re at it.”

  “And how would you suggest I do that, McCain? You want me to put in for a personality transplant?”

  “Maybe try toning down your columns for a while. Find a new subject for a few weeks, give this a chance to blow over.”

  “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?

  She went on a rant about freedom of the press and the First Amendment, but he wasn’t really hearing her. He was noticing the way her fingers trembled as she pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. And then he noticed how the candles still flickering in the reading room–you had to set the scene–filled her eyes with amber glow and highlighted her hair in raven-blue.

  “I will never stop now,” she concluded. “If I stop, they win.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, as if he’d heard every angry word. “On second thought, maybe the personality transplant wouldn’t be a bad idea after all.”

  She hauled her backpack onto her shoulder. “I gotta go.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” He walked her through the shop to the front door.

  She looked around his shop, those witch’s eyes of hers searching for secrets, tricks. She wouldn’t find any. Jack’s tricks were all in the minds of his customers. This crap was real to them.

  Brigham stopped at the front door, turning to face him. For a very brief moment he had the feeling she didn’t want to leave any more than he wanted her to. Damn. He must be overworked or something. They couldn’t stand each other. They detested each other. If someone had asked him to name his number-one enemy, he’d have named her without batting an eye. And he had no doubt she would name him if asked the same question. He had about as much clairvoyance as her ancient, smoke-belching car and she knew it. He reveled in rubbing her nose in her inability to get the goods on him, and it drove her nuts!

  It was strange, the relationship they’d developed over the past few years. She, always trying to trip him up. He, always struggling to stay a half-step ahead of her. It was an ongoing contest with no clear winner in sight. He’d grown kind of used to it...maybe was even enjoyed her irritating persistence in some twisted way.

  Nah.

  He looked down at her and then he flinched at the size of the knot that formed in his stomach. For a second, he’d seen it in her face, just as plain as day: cold, dark fear. She hid it quickly, covering it up with the stubborn determination he was used to seeing there. But not fast enough. Not before he’d spotted it haunting her emerald eyes. It wasn’t an emotion he’d ever seen there before. She was probably the gutsiest loudmouth he’d ever known.

  She cleared her throat, reached for the door handle. “Well...”

  “Yeah.”

  She nodded once, stepped outside into the normal world again. He winced inwardly, because he had the feeling someone was about to drop a piano on her.

  He caught the door before it could swing closed. “Brigham?”

  “What?”

  “Watch your back, okay?”

  “You bet your amethysts, I will.” She winked, then strode away as if she wasn’t terrified of being alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jack McCain might be the lowest form of pond slime, Kiley thought as she sat at her desk back in her office at the Burnt Hills Gazette, staring at her empty computer screen. But he wasn’t the kind of guy who would leave messages in human blood on a bathroom mirror.

  She’d known that before she’d asked him, but hadn’t been able to resist asking all the same, just to gauge his reaction.

  There was a tap on her office door before it opened, and her boss, the most gorgeous woman in town if Kiley was any judge, stepped inside. “Did you get anything on McCain?”

  Sighing, Kiley shook her head. “He knew it was a setup. Smelled it like a rat smells cheese.”

  Barbara Benedict laughed and raked a hand through her pixie-cut ash-blond hair. “You ever wonder about that, Kiley?”

  “About what? Whether he’s part rat?”

  “Whether he...maybe really has something. Some kind of...you know.”

  “God, it would be one warped Universe if it handed out gifts like that to guys like Jack McCain.”

  “Yeah, he’s already got the looks, the charm—you’re right, it would be unfair.”

  Kiley hadn’t been referring to Jack’s looks or his charm, but she didn’t bother to correct her employer.

  “So, did you ask him about the, uh—the incident?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, hell, you should have seen it. It was the performance of a lifetime, Barb. The hint of worry in his eyes. The concerned knit in his brow. The hand on my shoulder. It was perfect. He almost had me believing he was worried about me.”

  “You don’t really think he did it, though.”

  Kiley lowered her head. “No, it’s not his style.”

  “Then why are you so sure his concern is phony?”

  “Because Jack McCain doesn’t worry about anybody or anything besides himself and his bank balance. If he’s concerned at all, it’s that I’ll try to pin this on him and disrupt his livelihood in the process. No, Jack is a con man. I’ve dealt with men like him before. I know ’em when I see ’em.”

  Barbara tipped her head to one side. “You talking about your ex now?”

  “They’re so much alike it’s tough not to compare.”

  “What did that guy do to you, anyway? You haven’t talked about it since you moved out here. I’m dying of curiosity.”

  Kiley pushed her hair behind one ear, rising from her chair and grabbing her shoulder bag from the desk. “I gotta go find a subject for this week’s column. I’ve got a bear for an editor and she’ll skin me alive if I don’t.” She sent Barbara a wink, then moved past her and out of the office.

  Kiley walked out through the parking lot, trying to let the slanting October sunshine lift her spirits. She inhaled the scent of dying leaves, tasted late autumn in the air, told herself the alarm system would be all installed by the time she went to bed and that all was right with the world. But it wasn’t easy to shake off the chill that had settled into her bones since she’d seen that message in the mirror.

&
nbsp; At her car, she ran a hand over its sun-warmed fender. “You up for a ride, Lana?”

  The car sat there, silent, ready. Her trusty steed. It was way better than the Porsche she used to drive. Lana had character. She unlocked the driver’s door, checked the back seat and got in. Then she drove into town to have her lunch in the park, as she did every day, weather permitting. People knew where to find her. She used to consider that a good thing.

  Now, though, maybe not so much.

  Still, she needed a tip, and this was her best shot at landing one. She walked to the corner hot dog stand. “Hey, Bernie. Gimme the usual.”

  Smiling, the compact, muscular vendor began putting her foot-long-with-the-works together. “Heard you had a break-in last night,” he said as he heaped on the sauerkraut.

  Her brows rose. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Around.”

  Bernie’s son was on the town’s police force. But she wouldn’t rat him out for spreading gossip. It was a small town. Everybody knew everybody’s business.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Got a whole new security system being installed tonight.”

  “Smart.” He put her dog in a cardboard boat, set it aside and fished an icy diet cola from his cooler. “Three ninety-five, same as always.”

  She slid a five-dollar bill across the top of his shiny stand. “Keep the change, same as always.” She took her dog and drink and started to turn away.

  “So, you sure it was someone that broke in, not someone who was already there?”

  She turned back to face the hot dog vendor again. “What do you mean, Bernie? There was no one there but me.”

  “Well, yeah, but you know the stories about that place. It has a history.”

  She blinked three times as every part of her went on high alert. “What kind of a history?”

  His face changed; he looked suddenly...different. Worried, and maybe regretting his words. “I, uh—I figured you knew. Then again, it’s old stuff. You’ve only been in town a year.”

  “Two years,” she corrected him. “And I’ve only been in the house for a few days. So, if there’s something I should know, then I’d appreciate you telling me.”