Carol Higgins Clark Boxed Set - Volume 1: This eBook collection contains Zapped, Cursed, and Wrecked. (54 page)

“Grant, I need the knives,” Devon said. “Floyd Wellington wants to use a real knife for the reading and I would never even consider giving him permission.”

“That would be out of the question,” Grant agreed.

“I’d like you to go out to the truck and retrieve the knives, then send them up to me on overnight delivery.”

“That, too, is out of the question.”

“Grant, please!”

“I can’t. The streets are flooded, the garage is a long way out on the expressway, and I have a show tonight. Besides which, I’d have to unpack the whole truck to find the knives.”

“Grant, this is a desperate situation.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“Please, Grant. I give you work, which you need.”

“Work running around town, for which you pay me next to nothing. I’m an actor and you didn’t hire me for your show. I could have played the part of the daughter’s boyfriend.”

“He’s twenty-one! You’re thirty-one.”

“So what. It’s the theater. There are no close-ups.”

“Goodbye, Grant.”

“Goodbye, Devon. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Next, Devon tried calling theaters on the Cape. Some of them were still closed for the winter. Others had nothing but information on their recordings that instructed the caller in great detail how to buy tickets for upcoming shows. Devon left a friendly message on two theater answering machines explaining who he was, what he needed, and if anyone could possibly find the time to please call back, he’d be forever grateful.

After he left the second message, hopeful that one of the theaters might be able to help him, one of his mother’s favorite sayings came to mind. “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

Immediately Devon went out to his car and headed to Provincetown, an artsy community at the tip of Cape Cod. There must be something I can find in one of their unique little shops that looks enough like a knife, he thought.

After an hour and fifteen minutes of driving through the pouring rain, Devon parked his car in a public lot and walked over to Commercial Street. During the summer the street was filled with tourists who strolled, shopped, and dined at the outdoor cafés. Many sat at benches, holding their ice cream cones and people-watching. Right now there were no people to watch; the street was nearly empty.

Devon was cold and wet and near despair as he walked down the block, looking back and forth for a storefront that might suggest a fake knife could be found inside. I don’t want to have my palm read, he thought. I don’t need a T-shirt. I’m not hungry. Then he saw it. A little shop that had a mishmash of leather, jewelry, costumes, and masks in its window display. Here goes, he thought, as he stepped inside the shop.

The only person inside was a young man with a Mohawk haircut and rings pierced through his nose, ears, and lips. A variety of silver bracelets nearly covered his sleeveless arms. Black jeans, boots, and a leather vest completed the ensemble. “Hey man, can I help you?”

“I hope so,” Devon said, trying to sound cheery. “I need a fake knife that looks as real as possible. It should look like a big kitchen knife. I didn’t know whether you might have something like that for sale. You certainly have so many interesting items here in your shop,” he said with a wave of his hand. “All these costumes and leather goods. It’s so marvelous.”

The kid stared at him. His dark eyes were piercing.

“I’m a playwright and director,” Devon hastened to explain. “I need it for a reading of a play.”

“Gotcha. I was just thinking.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.”

“My workshop’s in the back. It’ll take me a few minutes. Wait here.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” Devon stood at the counter, praying. He soon heard the whirring of a drill coming from the workshop. He must know what he’s doing, Devon thought. I hope I hope I hope.

Twenty minutes later, the young man reappeared. “How’s this?” he asked, placing his creation on the counter.

Devon looked down at the most beautiful, realistic fake knife he had ever seen. He picked it up. The handle was made of gleaming wood with silver inlets, the blade was shiny but thank God made of rubber. Tears filled his eyes. “This knife is gorgeous. I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

“You can pay me,” the shopkeeper said with a smile.

“Of course,” Devon said, fumbling for his wallet. “You are a very talented young man.”

On the drive home, Devon was elated. Floyd was going to love this knife, he was sure. I absolutely cannot wait to show it to him.

A thought occurred to Devon. Why don’t I drive over to Floyd’s place right now and surprise him with this knife? The whole experience might create a bond between us. We’ll have a good laugh, slap each other on the back, tell each other how wonderful we are. Yes, I’ll drive to his place right now.

For the next fifteen minutes, Devon wavered. That whole plan might backfire, he thought. Floyd might get angry that I invaded his privacy by showing up on his doorstep.

I’d better not, Devon finally decided.

Floyd Wellington likes to be alone.

Mickey McPhee III was feeling a little gloomy. He was rattling around his beautiful home, located in a picturesque town north of Boston, all by himself. His wife was a lawyer and in the middle of a big case. There was no way she could stay home with him on what he referred to as Grandpa Day. His three kids were grown and out of the house. None of them had wanted to join the family business, a sad truth that hurt him deeply. They hadn’t even been tempted. As a result, there was no one in the family he could toss ideas around with, no one to discuss campaigns with, no one to truly celebrate with when the firm landed a big account.

No, he’d never re-create the relationship he had with Grandpa.

Mickey had joined McPhee and You fresh out of college, thirty-eight years ago. For the next twenty years he and Grandpa worked side by side. Together they created campaigns, pitched accounts, and shared the highs and lows of their work. Up until the day Grandpa died in his sleep.

Mickey’s father, like Mickey’s kids, had had no interest in the business.

Sitting in his tasteful den, with its leather couches and booklined shelves, Mickey gazed out the window. His home was
perched on a hill and had a magnificent view of the sea—which on sunny days took your breath away. But today the weather was awful, which contributed to his sense of malaise. If I had at least been able to go out and play a round of golf, he thought, I’d feel better. Grandpa loved golf.

He twiddled his thumbs. A magazine he’d meant to read for work was on his lap, unopened. Impatiently he picked up the remote control and flicked on the television. A news station was reporting how dangerous the storm could be if people weren’t careful. Not surprising, Mickey said to himself, changing the channel, something he did constantly. His wife hated to watch television with him because he was only interested in the ads. After he’d sped through about a hundred channels, he flicked the television off.

It’s been a rough year, he thought. The health club we had just signed up filed for bankruptcy. Our top writer stole from the poor box. Not good, Mickey thought. Not good at all. I hope those contracts come in from the department store. I’m anxious to get started on the campaign. Dan Carpenter certainly sounded excited about the account.

Mickey smiled. Dan had been with the firm a long time and was a good worker. Maybe I should open up to him more. Maybe I should make him a trusted confidant. He isn’t family, but I truly believe he has the firm’s best interest at heart. As I told him, he has good judgment. I think he could become a good friend.

It’s lonely at the top, Mickey thought as he picked up his cell phone. I’ll never have a relationship resembling the one I had with Grandpa, but maybe Dan and I could become better acquaintances. I’ll call him now just to say a friendly hello.

He went through his list of contacts, found Dan’s cell phone number, and pressed send. Already Mickey felt better.

When Dan’s cell phone rang, the sound of blaring trumpets that might signal the arrival of royalty filled the room. His whole body twitched. The apology card he had just picked up off the dining room table went flying out of his hands. Trembling, he reached down, pulled back the Velcro-lined flap of a holster attached to his blue-and-yellow striped belt, and grabbed his phone. One look at the caller ID sent him into orbit. Mickey McPhee. Next to Mickey’s name was a playful image of a tiny old-fashioned phone ringing off the hook, an image that suggested the call was sure to be cheery. But the cartoonish phone appeared onscreen every time the phone rang, no matter whether the call was good, bad, or a wrong number.

This call I know is bad, Dan told himself, as he stared at the little phone dancing merrily around the screen. I can’t answer it. Mickey must have seen the television news story that jerk outside filed when Dorie, Jack, and Regan disappeared into the garage. The way that reporter was gesturing, he couldn’t have been saying nice things. Dan heard the reporter ask Dorie if she was Mrs. Carpenter, but thankfully he didn’t ask anything about Adele Hopkins’ background. But if Mickey saw the report he’d want to know every detail of what was going on. Every last detail.

Dah dah dah dahhhhh
.
Dah dah dah dahhhh
. “Stop!” Dan shouted angrily to the phone in his hand. Ordinarily he loved the regal sound of the trumpets. The music had once been used in a commercial for margarine that people mistook for butter.
Dah dah dah dahhhhh
. Now it was fraying his nerves, but he was too paranoid to press the silence button, afraid Mickey would sense that Dan was dissing him. He decided to let the phone ring until voice mail kicked in.

Seventeen quick bursts of music later, the trumpets silenced. The cell phone beeped, indicating a missed call, then about thirty seconds later, made a loud chirping sound indicating Mickey had left a message.

Oh my God, Dan thought. What should I do? I’m going to have to listen to what Mickey said, but maybe I’ll wait. He was staring at the phone when the front door flew open.

Dorie, Jack, and Regan hurried in out of the rain. Dan put the phone back in his holster, walked over and shook Jack’s hand, then gave Regan a hug. “Hello, you two. We appreciate your help more than you know,” he said, trying to appear calm.

“We’re happy to do whatever we can,” Regan answered.

“Did you find anything in the garage?” Dan asked hopefully.

“The car is locked but we know it’s a rental. There’s a sticker on the license plate,” Dorie explained. “As I remember, it’s the same car she drove over here that day we met her.”

Dan clenched his fists. That fateful day at Fern’s diner. He looked from Regan to Jack. “I can imagine what you must think. We realize we should have checked out Adele Hopkins. But we didn’t. That reporter would just love to hear about that, I’m sure. I feel so foolish.”

“I’m telling you, Dan,” Dorie said, “our instincts about Adele were right. If the woman hadn’t fallen down the steps we wouldn’t be in this situation. She didn’t do anything wrong, the
poor thing. We just have to find out where any family members might be or a friend who will settle her affairs. We know she was recently divorced, so her ex must be somewhere out there. If we find him, he should be able to tell us who to contact.”

“
If
she was telling us the truth,” Dan said.

“I believe she was,” Dorie said firmly. “Look at her things. Self-help books about being rude and irritable, apology cards. This woman had a lot of guilt. She must have been going through some kind of turmoil.”

“Let me call my office,” Jack said quickly. “When Regan and I were waiting for you to get here, I called my first assistant and briefed him. I’ll give him the license plate number and he’ll get in touch with the rental car company. They must have Mrs. Hopkins’s driver’s license information. We’ll start from there.”

“Jack, why don’t you use the phone in the kitchen?” Dorie suggested. “Sometimes the cell phone reception isn’t so great in this house.”

“Thanks, Dorie,” Jack said as he followed her out of the room.

Dan turned to Regan, his face tight with worry. “Did you notice anything on the seat of the car?”