Софи Райан - Telling Tails

“Does that mean you know how to tango?” I asked.

He smiled. “I might.” He took the broom from my hands. “I’ll sweep; you mop. It’ll be faster.”

We started at the far end of the store by the cash desk. I let Mac get a head start. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you,” he said. “What did Sam say about the accordion?”

“He agrees with me—we should be able to get four or five hundred dollars for it.”

Mac grinned. “I really am glad I didn’t take the growler of beer.”

“Me, too,” I said. I told him about Glenn’s beer bread.

“Is that the same as making lemonade out of lemons?” he teased.

“Very funny,” I said, “although I think you’re right.”

“Did you get the message I left on your desk?” Mac asked. “Nick called again.”

I dunked the sponge mop in the bucket of hot water and oil soap, used the handle to squeeze out the excess and starting mopping along the baseboard. “I got it. Thanks,” I said. “I called him back but I just got his voice mail. It’s probably just about Thursday night. He’s been meeting Jess and me at the jam.”

“Are things okay with you two?” Mac looked up from his sweeping.

“Yes,” I said. “Maybe.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Rose isn’t going to stop until she gets answers that satisfy her. Which means she’s probably going to bang heads with Nick again.”

“You think she’s right?”

I scrubbed at a stubborn splotch of dirt on the floor. “Between you and me, yeah, I do. It’s all just too neat, like a present tied up with a bow. Real life isn’t like that. It’s messy. You can’t put all the pieces in a box and close the lid, to stretch the metaphor.”

Mac lifted a chair to sweep underneath it. “So what’s next?”

“Rose and Mr. P. are going to talk to Michael Vega tomorrow.” I shook my head. “And I didn’t tell you. When I was down at the pub Sam told me he saw Jeff Cameron arguing with a man a couple of days before Rose was attacked.”

“Let me guess,” Mac said. “It was Vega.”

“The description matches him, which probably means it was him.” I dunked the mop again. “You know what really bothers me?” I said. “Why did Leesa Cameron go along with Nicole giving her an alibi?”

“Because otherwise she didn’t have one?”

I shook my head. “No. I mean what made her think Nicole wouldn’t back out and tell the truth at some point? Jeff was Nicole’s brother. I’m surprised Leesa didn’t realize the alibi would eventually fall apart. No matter how mad I got at Liam, my first loyalty would always be to him because he’s my brother.”

“Not all siblings are like the two of you.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.

For a moment Mac didn’t speak; then he said, “I have a brother. We’re not like you and Liam.”

“I guess I’m lucky.”

“So is Liam,” he said. He made it to the stairs and leaned the broom against the railing. “I’m just going to get the dustpan. I think it’s in the staff room.” He headed up the steps two at a time.

So Mac had a brother. I thought about his apartment upstairs that didn’t have a single photograph of anyone. As far as I knew, no one had visited in the more than eighteen months he’d been in town. What had happened in Mac’s previous life? Maybe that was the real mystery.

Chapter 17

“Did you call Michael Vega?” I asked Rose as we walked out to the SUV Wednesday morning.

She shook her head and opened the door for Elvis, who meowed a thank-you and jumped onto the seat. “I think we should have the element of surprise on our side.”

“What if he’s not home?”

“He doesn’t go in to work until twelve thirty on Wednesdays,” she said. “I checked.” She looked rather pleased with herself. “This is not my first rodeo, Sarah.”

“I can see that, Little Buckaroo,” I said.

Mr. P. was just coming along the sidewalk as we pulled into the parking lot. We waited by the car until he joined us.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling at both of us and at Elvis. “Isn’t this a beautiful day?”

“Yes, it is,” Rose agreed, taking the arm he offered her.

“We could have picked you up,” I said.

Mr. P. glanced back over his shoulder at me. “Thank you, my dear, but I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy this blue sky and sunshine if you’d done that.”

I unlocked the back door. Elvis headed purposefully through the workroom, followed by Rose. Mr. P. went into the sunporch. I looked at my watch. “Will about an hour from now work for you to go see Michael Vega?” I asked.

He set his messenger bag on the table they used as a desk. “Yes, it will,” he said. He patted down the few wisps of hair that he had. “I appreciate you driving us.” He hesitated. “I do have a driver’s license.”

“I thought you probably did,” I said.

“I gave up my car a few years ago because it spent more time in its parking spot than it did on the road. I’ve thought about buying another one, but I don’t want to end up becoming one of those old fools who doesn’t know when it’s time to stop driving.”

I smiled at him. “Somehow I don’t see that happening,” I said. “But I’m happy to take you and Rose anywhere you need to go.”

Mr. P. smiled back at me. “Thank you,” he said, “for the taxi service and the vote of confidence.

I found Mac on his hands and knees with his head and shoulders in the storage space under the stairs. “Sarah, is that you?” he said, his voice partly muffled by his head being in the small closet.

“It’s me. What are you looking for?”

“That box of vintage Pyrex casserole dishes, the red and yellow ones.”

I closed my eyes and pictured the inside of the storage space. We had a list on the back of the door of what was inside, but not where it was. “Try to the right under what would be about the second step,” I said.

Mac grunted, then began backing up, sliding a cardboard box out with him. I leaned over to check the writing on the top: Pyrex dishes—red and yellow , was written in Avery’s angular printing. “Thank you,” he said.

A dust bunny was stuck to the side of his head above his left ear. I brushed it away with my hand. “The dust bunnies are organizing in there,” I said.

“I think they’re more like dust elephants,” Mac said, standing up and brushing more bits off his shirt.

Mr. P. came toward us, headed for the stairs with a round metal tin in his hands. “Good morning, Mac,” he said.

Mac smiled at the older man. “Good morning.” He craned his neck in the direction of the green-and-gold tin. “Did Rose make coffee cake?”

“No. I made date squares,” Mr. P. said. “Would you like to try one?”

“Yes, I would,” Mac said.

I leaned sideways into their line of sight. Mr. P. smiled. “Would you like one as well, Sarah?” he asked.

“Please,” I said.

“And a cup of coffee, of course.”

I nodded.

“Could I help?” Mac asked.

Mr. P. waved away the offer. “No, no. Finish what you were doing. I’ll be right back.” He headed up the stairs.

“What do you need the casserole dishes for?” I asked.

“Remember the guys who bought the armoire?” Mac said.

I nodded.

“They’re hosting a wedding—a very small one—next weekend, and they were looking for more of these dishes, and possibly several wooden chairs.”

“Chairs we have,” I said, thinking there had to be a dozen outside in the garage.

“I thought I’d get Avery to bring in four or five and make sure they’re dusted, just in case,” he said.

“Fine with me.”

Mac glanced over at the stairs. “Are you going with them to talk to the trainer?”