What She Forgot Page 9

  Deanna bit her lip and shrugged. “Hey. Nobody’s perfect.”

  The man laughed. A big, hearty laugh that revealed a perfect set of impossibly white teeth. The man’s face glowed with charm and sincerity, like someone concocted him from thin air to star in a romantic comedy.

  The unabashed wholesomeness of the guy almost frightened Deanna. She’d never seen anything like it. Most everyone she knew in New York never left home without their masks on good and tight.

  “True enough, Ms. Young,” he said. “Nobody’s perfect. So, when can you start?” His eyebrows knitted together below a furrowed brow. “Please say right away. I don’t think I can take another interview.”

  Deanna’s heart leapt in her chest. Dare she take such a chance? Her mother had just pointed out the old cliché, life is short. She wasn’t due back to work in New York for two weeks. Should she do something wild for a change? Just ... go for it?

  “I don’t know,” she began. Acting on a whim? That’s totally out of character for me. But maybe being out of character is just what I need right now. And it would get me out of that junkyard of a house .... Deanna crinkled her nose skeptically at the intriguing man with the pleading eyes. “Don’t you want to know more about me first?”

  “That’ll all come out in the wash,” he said. “Right now, I’m up to my ass in alligators. From what I can see, you’ll do fine.” His head bobbed from side-to-side as he looked her over. “No visible tattoos. No purple hair. Only two piercings, and they’re in your earlobes, where they ought to be. Call me old school, but I like old school.”

  Deanna allowed herself a smile. “Me, too.”

  The man flashed his impossible grin again. “So it’s all set?”

  Deanna blanched. “I ... uh, how much does it pay?” It was a stall tactic. She didn’t care. She just didn’t want to seem ... desperate in front of this man.

  He winced at her question. “Not enough, I’m afraid. But the perks are outstanding.”

  “Perks?”

  “Yeah. Never a dull moment at our place.” He stood and handed Deanna a business card. “Be here tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”

  Deanna quipped, “Not sharp?”

  The man shrugged. “Maybe not. But I’m not that dumb, either.” He winked and walked away, her lavender résumé flapping in his hand.

  Deanna watched him disappear into the crowd on the sidewalk, and for the second time that day, she felt giddy. It had all happened so fast she hadn’t had time to get in her own way.

  She studied the card in her hand.

  Marcus Blatch, P.I.

  Blatch & Smalls Discrete Private Investigations

  22 1st Avenue South, Suite 2

  St. Petersburg, Florida 33701

  Deanna nearly giggled at the thought of trying out a different role, even if the play itself was a farce. She’d been handed a random gift from the gods. A temporary respite from her normal, tiresome life. Out of nowhere, this man, Marcus Blatch, had walked up and handed her the chance to be someone else. His timing couldn’t have been better

  I can type. How hard can it be? Deanna thought.

  She smiled, took a sip of her cappuccino, and stared out at the boats bobbing in the harbor, wondering how long it would take a pair of private investigators to figure out they had a fraud in their midst.

  Chapter Twenty

  A COOL, PLEASANT BREEZE swept Tampa Bay like a broom and toyed with Deanna’s blonde curls as she strolled the seawall on her way back from the café and to her mother’s house.

  My house, she reminded herself.

  Like oil on water, the fact that the mansion now belonged to her resisted sinking into Deanna’s brain. So did her encounter with Marcus Blatch. For the third time, Deanna pulled the business card from her coat pocket and read it, barely daring to believe the whole thing hadn’t been some kind of daydream.

  Could my life really turn on a dime? she wondered ... and hoped.

  Life as a psychologist had worn her to exhaustion. In New York, Deanna had to be constantly on guard with her patients, weighing their every word, carefully choosing the tone of each syllable of her responses so as to avoid the slightest hint of judgment, disapproval, or condescension. Coddling the fragile egos of her neurotic clientele had made every session feel as if she were caught in a storm, left to weather a sea of broken glass in a flimsy, inflatable dinghy.

  Life outside the office wasn’t that much different. The tedium—the staidness—had leached into her social life as well. Once people discovered Deanna was a psychologist, something inside them shifted. They either stilted their conversations to avoid exposing anything personal about themselves, or they flaunted their crazy in front of her eyes, confessing to all kinds of fetishes and deviant desires as if describing a nasty rash to a dermatologist.

  Beyond her secretary Sally and her mentor, Larry, there’d been precious little opportunity to forge any kind of real relationships.

  But here, maybe, was a chance to change that.

  Deanna read his name again. Marcus Blatch. How different it had felt to be in his presence. Something about the man made Deanna want to believe the world really did harbor possibilities ... opportunities waiting to be explored ....

  Deanna smiled up at the sky. Perhaps someone up there had been listening to secrets that, until today, her heart had dared not share even with her. On her walk into town, Deanna had secretly wished to be anyone but herself. Then, like a magic genie, Marcus Blatch had appeared out of nowhere and granted her wish.

  He’d offered her a job on the spot. A fresh beginning as—

  As what?

  Deanna suddenly realized she had no idea. Secretary? Office manager? Junior detective? Janitor? Deanna laughed. Who cares?

  Whatever the position turned out to be, Deanna was quite certain no one would feel threatened by her bachelor’s degree in communications. And if it didn’t turn out, well, what was the harm? Her life back in New York wasn’t going anywhere.

  She picked up an abandoned oyster shell and threw it back into the bay. A second later, a mullet leapt from the water and splashed down with a belly flop. Deanna took it as a sign. She decided, then and there, that when she showed up at the offices of Blatch & Smalls tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. sharp, she’d keep her doctorate in psychology to herself. After all, wasn’t that what frauds did? Keep secrets?

  THE WIND HAD DIED DOWN by the time Deanna rounded the corner where Coffee Pot Bayou linked into Tampa Bay. She stopped to admire the huge house that shouldered the mouth of the bay on the opposite shore.

  The dusk-colored, wedding cake of a mansion sported three tiers of white railings, the uppermost being a widow’s walk topping a tower. The grand home stood like a sentinel in its generous acre of lawn, guarding the northern tip of the bayou. Deanna felt comforted by its familiar presence. She pictured the huge holiday wreath that would soon adorn its widow’s watchtower, and the green garlands that would be, as they were every Christmas, swagged along the concrete balustrades that lined the seawall the mansion commanded.

  This used to be my home, Deanna thought. Could it be again?

  Deanna breathed in a lungful of salt air and resumed her walk home along the seawall. As she passed a dock jutting into the bayou, she spied the smooth, brownish-gray arch of a dolphin’s back as it emerged from the water. It blew out a spent breath and disappeared into the deep.

  Deanna smiled. And to think, right now I could be stepping over hobos and shoveling snow.

  A few minutes later, Deanna’s house came into view along the bayou. Beside it stood Mrs. Havenall’s more modest house. A white-brick bungalow, it shone so bright and crisp and clean it seemed to emphasize the neglect of the pink stucco monstrosity to its right. Deanna winced. If she did make a new life here, it was going to take a hell of a lot of work.

  As she approached her front door, Deanna noticed a bouquet of flowers in a vase on the doorstep. The colorful blooms were the shape of puffballs—like oversized, pastel heads of dandelions gone to see
d. Deanna smiled and picked up the vase. She stuck her nose in a bloom and sniffed. It stunk. She crinkled her nose, then screamed. A spider lurked at the center of every bloom!

  Deanna hurled the vase. It hit the sidewalk, spilling flowers and spiders as it shattered.

  Mrs. Havenall came running up. “Dee! Are you okay?”

  Deanna nodded, then pointed at the strewn bouquet.

  “Those lousy jerks!” Mrs. Havenall put her fists on her hips. “They’ve been dropping stuff off ever since the obituary posted.”

  Deanna crinkled her nose. “Who has?”

  Mrs. Havenall blew out an exasperated breath. “Your mother’s fans. I’ve been trying to get rid of them before you saw them. Hopefully, this is the last one. I’ll go get my broom and a dustpan.”

  Deanna objected. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s no bother. I was just sweeping up my front stoop anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. You have enough of your mother’s stuff to wade through. I’m sorry the house is such a mess. Your mother wouldn’t let me throw out a thing. I had to sneak the garbage out when she wasn’t looking.”

  Deanna nodded. “It’s okay. You were a trooper to put up with her. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

  “Easy.” Mrs. Havenall smiled. “By being happy, Deanna. Give me a smile and I’m paid in full.”

  Deanna obliged. “Thank you.” As she watched Mrs. Havenall head next door to fetch her broom, Deanna wondered how different her life would have been if she’d had a mother who’d cared.

  Deanna sighed and shrugged. That would have made for an interesting psychological study.

  She opened the mailbox and grabbed the handful of mail inside, then stood on the stoop and sorted through sales flyers, restaurant menus, neighborhood flyers, and credit card offers. One envelope caught her eye—a greeting-card-sized envelope in an expensive-looking, delicate, peach- linen paper.

  Deanna recognized it as her mother’s signature stationery.

  Deanna studied the envelope. She couldn’t quite make out the addressee. Someone had crossed through it and scrawled, “Return to Sender.”

  A gust of wind blew the junk mail and flyers from Deanna’s hand, scattering them across the lawn. Deanna tucked the envelope into her purse and chased down the errant mail, while Mrs. Havenall swept up the shattered vase and crumpled flowers.

  “Life is like the mail,” Mrs. Havenall quipped as she stood up and watched Deanna.

  Deanna stomped on a flyer to keep it from blowing away. “How so?”

  Mrs. Havenall smiled. “So little of it’s really worth holding onto.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Deanna picked up the flyer.

  “Here. Let me take that.” Mrs. Havenall grabbed the wads of junk mail Deanna had chased down. “I’m dressed like a scrubwoman. No need for you to mess up your clothes.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Havenall. Really. You’re the best.”

  “I’m not the best, hon,” she winked. “I’m like that car rental company, Avis. I only try harder.”

  Deanna grinned. She knew exactly how her neighbor felt.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  WHAT WAS IT ABOUT THAT woman? Blatch thought as he walked back to his office, still clutching her résumé. He couldn’t get Deanna Young out of his mind. He’d spent not more than a few minutes with her and only exchanged a handful of words. Still, that had been enough to know she was something special—and that if he’d stayed any longer, she would’ve seen right into his soul.

  His anxious, longing soul.

  This is ridiculous, he told himself, stuffing the résumé into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Still, his mind wouldn’t let it drop. There was something off about the woman, in a good way. Deanna Young had that spark—that thing. It had been missing between him and Cathy, and had made it impossible for him to commit to her.

  Blatch couldn’t put his finger on exactly what the “thing” was that had gone lacking. He only knew that his heart wanted what it wanted. And without the thing, his heart ached in a way that could only be stopped by ending his relationship with Cathy. But he’d never gotten the chance ....

  Blatch knew Deanna Young had the thing. He felt it in the sudden lightness of his step. In the unexpected smile on his lips. In the strange stirring in his core. It was as if he’d stepped through a veil that revealed his life, up until now, had only been practice—a dress rehearsal for the real thing.

  Geez! Get your head on straight! Blatch told himself as he opened the door to the office he shared with Barney Smalls. His partner was a decade older, with a decade of private investigative work under his belt. Smalls could smell bullshit in the air at two parts per million. Blatch sucked in a breath and slapped on his best, hard-boiled, gumshoe cloak and stepped inside.

  Smalls was sitting at the reception desk. He gave Blatch the once-over as he walked in. “Don’t tell me. Another freak?”

  Blatch shot him a hard smile. “Only if you consider blonde bombshells freaks.”

  Smalls grinned. “Please tell me you hired her.”

  “I did. She starts tomorrow morning.”

  “All right! Wait. What about our ten o’clock? Snyder’ll be here any minute.”

  Blatch shrugged. “We’ll tell him she’s at the courthouse filing papers or something.”

  Smalls chewed on the idea. “Okay.” He stood and shrugged into a tweed sport coat with leather patches on the elbows. He tugged down the sleeves and straightened his tie. “So, how do I look?”

  “Like you forgot your Fuller Brush case.”

  Smalls winced. “Ouch.”

  “You look fine. Just put on a different tie.”

  Smalls puffed out his chest. “I like this tie.”

  “So do jelly donuts.”

  Smalls looked down. “Oh.” The smugness disappeared from his face. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out another tie. He switched it out while Blatch questioned him.

  “So what do we know about Snyder?”

  “Not much more than what he said on the phone.” Smalls drew the tie up to his neck. “I made some calls. His sister’s been missing for two years. As far as the cops are concerned, her case is as cold as an arctic toad’s ass.”

  “Who was working it?”

  Smalls made a face like he smelled a fart. “Castleberry.”

  Blatch scowled. “Figures. So what’s the new evidence? Some kind of letter, you said?”

  “Yeah. But Snyder said he didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. Says it’s irrefutable evidence, though.”

  “Of what?”

  “Murder.”

  Blatch’s scowl faded. His jaw went slack. “And he’s just been sitting on the letter for years, like it’s some kind of annuity?”

  Smalls shook his head. “No. He just got it in the mail Saturday. He left us the message yesterday. He’s coming in today. The guy’s not messing around.”

  “I still don’t see why he didn’t call the cops.”

  “Says Castleberry was a condescending prick. Never took the case seriously.”

  Blatch’s left eyebrow rose. “I can’t argue with that sentiment. Still, you think we should be getting tangled up in this? Local law enforcement won’t like us treading on their toes.”

  “What toes?” Smalls said. “They’re not doing squat on the case. Look, you want it or not? Right now, beggars can’t be choosers. And the way I see it, we’re a week away from moving this dog-and-pony-show into a cardboard castle. So do me a favor, would you? Suck it up and be nice.”

  Blatch opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Smalls scrambled to answer it. In the doorway stood a slightly disheveled, angry-looking man in his mid-twenties, though the lines on his face made him look much older.

  “Mr. Snyder. Please, do come in.”

  “HOW CAN I TRUST THAT you guys know what you’re doing?” Snyder took a sip of coffee, grimaced, and set it back down on the conferenc
e table.

  “Not sweet enough?” Smalls asked.

  “Too sweet. I prefer Starbucks. It’s got a bitter edge.” Snyder grimaced. “Kind of like me, I guess.”

  “That’s understandable,” Blatch said. “Losing a family member has got to be tough.”

  “How would you know? You lost somebody?”

  Blatch nodded. “My father. But not the way you lost your sister. Cancer got him. I know where he is and who to blame. You don’t. That’s a pain I don’t know, but I’m not unfamiliar with frustration.”

  Snyder eyed Blatch up and down. “How so?”

  “I’ll be straight with you, Mr. Snyder. I used to be a cop. And I used to work with Castleberry.”

  Snyder pushed away from the table. “I’m out of here!”

  Blatch stood. “Wait. Just hear me out. You don’t like what I have to say, you can leave.”

  “I can leave now.”

  Smalls stood. “That’s very true, you can. But with us, you get a team with connections. Believe it or not, sometimes the cops can come in handy.”

  “Not for me, they haven’t.”

  Blatch put a hand on Snyder’s shoulder. “Tell you what, I’ll up the ante. You don’t want to hire us, you can punch me in the gut. But first, you’ve got to hear me out.”

  The lines crossing Snyder’s brow softened. “Okay.”

  “Thank you.” Blatch sat back down. “I worked for ten years as a cop here in St. Pete. I know how the system works, and who works the system, if you catch my meaning.”

  Snyder nodded.

  “Good. I worked with Castleberry on missing person cases for the last year. Most of them turn up of their own accord a few hours or days later. Arguments. Misunderstandings. People teaching somebody a lesson in how much they’ll miss ’em when they’re gone.”

  “That ain’t my sister. This is different.”

  “Yes. We agree. But what you’ve got to know is when I worked at the SPPD, we got dozens of missing person calls every day. Keeping up with them was like trying to patch the sky.”