Maggie Shayne - Deadly Obsession

By the time he entered the kitchen, his grin was a mile wide. But Rachel wasn’t there. Just the boys. Joshua was setting the table, and Jeremy was making French toast and a lot of smoke. The coffeepot was full and calling to him, though, so he grabbed a cup off the table.

“Morning, boys.”

They were so focused on their work they hadn’t seen him. “Morning, Uncle Mace! We’re making breakfast,” Joshua said.

“I see that.” He moseyed to the coffeepot and gave the burner a sneaky downward turn underneath Jeremy’s pan before filling his mug. “Mmm. Looks great.”

Jere shrugged. “You’re supposed to take it easy. We figured we’d help out.” He turned the burner back up, but not as high as it had been.

Josh ran behind his uncle to pull out a chair, and Mason sat down. “Don’t feel like you have to do this every morning, guys. I’m fine. I really am.”

He wasn’t. His lungs still felt as if they’d been scrubbed on the inside with steel wool. And his arm still hurt like hell. It was healing, but he was pretty sure there were going to be lasting scars.

Jeremy brought a plateful of charred bread to the table. Mason helped himself to a couple of slices, and applied liberal amounts of syrup to help it go down. “Nice job, Jere. Thank you.”

Jere shrugged. “It was no big deal.” He stabbed a slice for himself.

Josh looked at the stack. “Is it s’posed to be so black?”

“It’s fine, Josh. Try it—you’ll see,” Mason told him.

“Ooookay.” Josh speared a slice with his fork, looked at it doubtfully, then dropped it on his plate. Before he did anything else, he broke off a corner of the crust with his fingers, and looked down at the floor. And then he sighed. “I forgot. Myrt’s not here.”

“You miss her already, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Mason nodded slowly. “Well, maybe it’s about time we talk about getting you a dog of your own, Josh. We have the room here, and you’re old enough to handle the responsibility now.”

Josh nodded slowly. “I guess. It won’t be the same, though. I want Myrtle.” He looked up. “You think Rachel will bring her over today?”

“I’ll call her and ask.”

Josh’s answering smile was as bright as the June sunshine.

June. Gosh, it was June, Mason realized. “Jeremy, about your graduation...”

“Don’t worry about it. Misty and I have it all planned.”

“You mean Rachel and Misty’s mom, don’t you?” Joshua asked him.

Jere made a face. “All of us. It’s gonna be at Rachel’s. We’re renting a party barge, and a big tent for shade.”

“Or in case it rains,” Josh said.

“Rachel ordered a cake, and Misty’s mom is taking care of decorations. And I’m making a playlist for the DJ.”

“There’s going to be a DJ?”

“Rache asked if I wanted a DJ or a band. I said DJ.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Saves more money for the present.”

Oh, God, Mason thought. He needed to do something about a present. “What about the rest of the food?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Rache said something about catering. I don’t know.” Then his smile faded. “Don’t be mad at her, Uncle Mace. You were in the hospital, and graduation is only a week away.”

“Mad at her? I think I’ll buy her a present.” A week. Hell.

There was a knock at the door, and Mason started to get up, but Jeremy sent him a “don’t you dare” look that reminded him of himself, so he sat back down and let his all-grown-up nephew open the door.

“Hello. I’m looking for Detective Mason Brown.”

It was a woman’s voice, and not one he knew.

“He’s here. Come on in.”

Mason did get up then, as Jeremy opened the door wider to admit a blonde who was within a year, one way or the other, of thirty. She had rivers of hair, all wavy, flowing halfway down her back, pretty blue eyes and an infectious smile.

“I’m Mason Brown,” he said, offering a hand. “You are...?”

“Your new nurse, I hope,” she replied, taking his hand. She clasped it firmly, still smiling, smoothing her white and sunshine-yellow floral-print sundress with her other hand.

“I...” He drew out the syllable. “I haven’t even posted the ad yet. How did you know?”

“I have friends who work at Saint Joe’s,” she said. “I just left my job to move into a home care position in Binghamton. But it’s going to be a few weeks before I start.” She lowered her head, shook it slowly. “I misunderstood, thought I would be starting immediately. My own fault, but the gap leaves me in a little bit of a lurch. I have rent and a car payment and...well...” Her head came up again, and she replaced her bright smile. She was like little Mary Sunshine, he thought. “You don’t need to hear my woes. The thing is, when my friend told me about the hero cop who was being discharged and would be needing home care, I figured I could be the first one to apply for the job.”

“I was going to go through an agency.”

“This is my résumé, work history, et cetera,” she said, thrusting a folder at him “I’m really good at what I do, if that’s not too immodest a thing to say.” Then she blinked. “Maybe it was. It was, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Mason said. He was getting a kick out of her, revising his estimate of her age back three or four years. She had a very young, bubbly personality. Twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven. “I just wasn’t expecting...” He shook himself, looked back at the boys, shrugged. “Why don’t you come in and have a seat? I’ll pour you some coffee and—”

“Oh, no!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “No, I can’t possibly stay. If I don’t find something soon, I’m doomed. Besides, I’m clearly interrupting your breakfast.” She waved at the boys and shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry, guys.”

“That’s okay,” Jeremy said, beaming.

She looked at Mason again. “Just take a look through my credentials and give me a call if you like what you see,” she said brightly.

“All right, I’ll do that. I just want to be clear with you, though, that I’m not going to need a lot.”

“Oh, I’ve worked with burn victims plenty of times. You need a daily dressing change. Twice daily, maybe. And a thorough listen to those lungs of yours. It’s as much the heat as the smoke that affects them, you know.”

“That’s what the doctor said.” He was impressed. “Okay, I’ll give your paperwork a look and let you know what I decide.”

“Thank you, Detective Brown.”

“You’re welcome, Miss...” He looked at her business card.

“Gretchen,” she said. “Gretchen Young.”

* * *

“Myrtle!” I said, using my “this is exciting, so listen up” tone of voice. She jumped up from her circular Memory Foam doggy bed, where she’d collapsed right after our morning walk, and cocked her head to one side, ears perked. “Wanna go for a ride ? In the car ?”

She said “snarf!” but I knew what she meant was, “Do you really need to ask? Do you not yet know that rides in the car are my freaking raison d’être?”

What? She’s a smart bulldog.

I grabbed her leopard-print goggles and matching silk scarf from the peg on the wall, along with my keys, and we went out the front door. We could’ve gone straight from the kitchen into the attached garage, but the steps were a bit steep for her. This was easier. I pointed at the garage and clicked one of the buttons on the key fob. The door rose slowly, and Myrt, recognizing the sound, danced around my feet, snuffing and snarfing. “Come on, then.” We walked together into the garage. She went directly to the passenger-side door and then stood as straight as a pointer, smiling a mile wide. Yes, dogs smile. Don’t question it. It’s fact.