Maggie Price - Most Wanted Woman

As he popped the last bite of pie into his mouth, his gaze settled on the stack of mail on the corner of the table. “Is that a digital recorder?” he asked, plucking up the long silver piece of metal that sat on top of the stack.

“Michael bought me that gadget,” Etta said, referring to her eldest son. “I use it to record reminders. Like when to take my medicine. I call it my memory box.”

“Smart.”

“The thing tends to startle me when my own voice comes out of the blue, telling me to take my pills. There’s already enough going on around Sundown to make a person nervous.”

Josh set the recorder aside. “I heard about the prowler.”

“Whoever it is has been peeping in windows for months now. Chief Decker hasn’t had any luck catching him.”

Josh frowned. From working sex crimes, he knew that prowlers sometimes turned out to be Peeping Toms, who had the potential of escalating to indecent exposure, then more serious sex crimes. Like rape. His own career problems had been due to one man’s zeal to take down the six-time rapist.

“How were things at my tavern tonight?”

Etta’s question diverted his thoughts. “The place was packed.” Leaning back, he watched the kitten climb up his chest, wincing when her razor-sharp claws stabbed through his shirt. “Howie’s burgers are still gold. Deni’s as big a flirt as ever. Your new bartender is…interesting.”

“Regan’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? All that dark hair and those big brown eyes.”

Cat’s eyes, he thought again. Watching and waiting. For what?

“I baked an extra pie for her,” Etta added, sliding her plate aside. “The girl’s way too thin. She hardly ever sits still and she eats like a bird.”

“And brings to mind a raw nerve.”

“How so?”

“Cops get used to people getting fidgety around them—goes with the job. But what I do for a living didn’t come up, so it wasn’t that.” He sipped his tea. “I can’t put my finger on why I made Regan nervous. Yet.”

Chuckling, Etta patted his hand. “Joshua, men who are all rakish charm and promise of trouble to come have given women the jitters since the beginning of time. You’re no exception.”

“You think that’s it? My charm made Regan itchy?”

“What else could it be?”

“Yeah, what else?” He thought about how effectively she had evaded his questions, divulging next to nothing about herself. “Does Regan have a last name?”

“Doesn’t everyone? Hers is Ford.”

“Regan Ford,” he said, trying it out. Regan Ford, hailing from no particular place, yet sounding to him more like the deep South than anywhere else. “I take it you checked her employment record and references before you hired her?”

“I didn’t need to. My instincts told me to take a chance on her. She’s living in the apartment over the tavern.”

With the kitten now propped on his shoulder, Josh crossed his forearms on the table. “You gave her a job and a place to live without running a background check? That’s not wise, Etta.”

“My late husband had a philosophy about the tavern business. Never water down the whiskey and, when it comes to employees, follow your heart.” She raised a shoulder. “I had a good feeling about Regan, so I offered her the job. The apartment over the tavern was empty, so why not let her live there?”

“Why not check her out first?”

“Like I said, I had a good feeling about her. Anyway, I had her work the same shift I did the first month she was here. Time has proven me right about Regan. She works like a trooper. The register has never come up short on her shift. Now that I’m stove up, Regan adds up all the receipts, makes the bank deposits and balances the books. She handles the ordering. You think either Howie or Deni, or any of my day workers could do that without making a mess of things?”

“I doubt it.” Like most cops, he had a healthy distrust of all mankind. Knowing that Etta had turned over her bank account to a woman she hadn’t checked out didn’t sit well. At all.

“Regan’s got a caring soul,” Etta continued. “The day cook makes me lunch and Regan brings it here. She takes the time to sit with me on the porch and visit. She runs the vacuum and dusts. Does my marketing. And cooks dinner for A.C. and me here every Sunday on her night off.”

“You ever ask Mystery Woman where she’s from? Where she’s worked?”

“No.”

He settled his hand on Etta’s. “You’re letting a woman you know nothing about handle your money and basically run your business. Who’s to say she won’t empty your bank account and disappear? Let me look into her background. Check her references. I can call Nate, have him run her through the national crime database.”

Etta’s blue eyes met his squarely. “Joshua McCall, do you own a part interest in my tavern?”

He sighed. “No, ma’am.”

“Then leave my business to me. I may not know everything about Regan, but I know what matters.”

It was all Josh could do not to remind Etta of the drifter she’d trusted a few years ago. The guy had tended bar only a week before he cleaned out the safe then disappeared.

Etta pointed a long, sturdy finger his way. “While we’re on the subject, I want you to understand that I’m fond of Regan. I don’t expect she needs to get all stirred up over a man who goes through women like water.”

“I don’t plan on doing any stirring in that area.” He glanced at the pies cooling on the counter. “I forgot to stop by the mini-mart, so I need to drive back into town. How about I drop off Regan’s pie while I’m at it?”

“Sounds good.”

He set Anthracite on the floor, gathered up the plates and carried them to the sink. What he did intend to do was look after Etta’s best interests. Which meant finding out all there was to know about Regan Ford.

“C’mon, Regan. Let’s you ’n me go upstairs to your place ’n have some fun.”

“Not interested.” Regan stood at the tavern’s front door, staring up into Seamus O’Toole’s bloodshot eyes. The beefy Dallas used-car dealership owner’s breath smelled like a brewery.

He leaned in. “There’s lots of women mighty glad they said yes to old Seamus.”

“Not interested, Mr. O’Toole. At all.”

When Regan shifted to open the door, he lunged, thrusting a finger in her face. “Whas’ wrong with you? Don’cha like men? You one of them flamin’…”

As quick as a snake, her hand lashed out, grabbed his outstretched thumb, and forced it back into his wrist.

Howling, O’Toole dropped to his knees.

Behind her, Regan heard the kitchen door swing open.

“Need some help?”

Keeping a grip on O’Toole’s thumb, she glanced across her shoulder. Howie Lyons stood with the door propped open, a metal mop bucket behind him. After six months of working together, Truelove’s night cook knew Regan could hold her own with an obnoxious drunk.

“I’ve got this covered.” She looked down at O’Toole. His face was beet-red, his forehead beaded with sweat. “I said no. Got it?”

“Yeah. Sweet Jesus, I hear ya.”

She let go of his thumb and stepped back two paces.

With his knees creaking in protest, he lurched to his feet. “Ya’ crazy broad! You tried ta’ break my thumb.”

“If I intended to break it, you’d need a cast right now.” She didn’t add that due to her paramedic training, she could also apply that cast. “Did you drive or walk tonight, Mr. O’Toole?”

“Can’t ’member,” he mumbled while massaging his bruised thumb.

Regan shoved the door open. A gleaming silver Beemer sporting a dealer’s tag sat in the parking lot beneath one of the mercury vapor lamps.