In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (3 page)

“What the bloody
hell are
you doing?” Ross shouted. “You must be mad. That’s a rental!”

After thrusting her feet through the sunroof, Mo carefully lowered her body until she successfully seated herself on the passenger side and retrieved her purse.

“Get out of there.” Ross pounded on the driver’s side window, glaring at her through the glass.

In response, Mo shot him a raspberry like a true adult. She grasped the knob for the lock on the passenger door and pulled. The knob snapped back down immediately. She tried again but the thingy stubbornly refused to move. She glanced up and saw Ross punching at the key fob in his hand.

“You’re being so childish,” Mo called as she attempted to time her next pull between his punches. The knob moved up and Mo felt victory within her grasp…just before the knob slipped through her fingers and slammed down again. The victor grinned at her through the window.

Thinking maybe she could find a mechanism in the car’s interior to override his keypad, she scanned about her and located a red switch on the dashboard.

“Ah ha.” Mo turned an answering grin on Ross as she flipped the switch.

Instead of the locks opening, the car’s horn screeched and the headlights blinked on and off. Bacon bits. She’d hit a panic button.

The noise continued to blare and Mo clapped her hands over her ears. On the upside, she could no longer hear Ross shouting at her.

Slinging the purse handle over her neck and shoulder, Mo braced her hands on the dash and then maneuvered her feet under her before standing in a crouch on the leather seat. She fixed her hands on either side of the opening. Then she pulled herself up and through the sunroof. A twitter sounded and the car alarm cut off. Mo managed to struggle into a seated position on top of the car with her feet still dangling inside through the sunroof.

“Get down from there you ridiculous woman,” Ross snapped.

“If you were a gentleman, you’d help me.”

“Not bloody likely.”

Mo drew her legs out of the sunroof and scooted to the driver’s side, reasoning that would be the easiest vantage point from which to jump. Unfortunately, Ross stood in the way.

“Either help me or move," she said.

“All right,” he yelled with clear exasperation. Ross reached for her waist and she placed her hands on his shoulders.

Mo leaned forward to slide down and his arms came up around her. Strange
flutterings
radiated throughout her body as the movement brought her face-to-face, chest-to-chest, and then belly-to-belly with Ross. Mo’s feet dangled a few inches above the pavement when he held her against the car, his eyes staring into hers.

Ooh, she liked tall men. He must be at least six feet.

For a few seconds, Mo heard nothing except for the blood coursing through her body and a roaring in her ears. Ross didn’t appear unaffected either. He gazed down at her lips as his face moved toward hers.

He’s going to kiss me
, she thought.

His sensuous mouth moved closer and her lips parted in expectation. Despite his general jerkiness, she couldn't help but want to taste those lips.

“Hey. Get off that car,” a voice called from a second floor window of the house across the street. “You’re disturbing the whole neighborhood.”

“The car alarm is off. Butt out, rump roast,” Mo shouted up.

"I'm calling the police," the nosy neighbor said as he ducked back into his house.

"What was I thinking?" Ross muttered. He released his hold on her waist and Mo fell to the ground in an ungraceful heap. Scrambling to her feet, she shoved her feet into her shoes.

She started to reach for her Coach, but Ross seized it and rummaged inside.

“Give that back,” Mo demanded.

Ross drew out her wallet and displayed the driver’s license. “At least your name really is Imogene Tuttle.”

Mo grabbed for the wallet but he held it out of her reach.

“What’s this?” He removed a business card. “Incredible Love? You’re not with a tabloid?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Incredible Love. Is that an escort service?”

He thrust the wallet and purse at her.

“No!” Mo stuffed the wallet into her bag and put the strap over one shoulder. She knew she would regret the admission she had to make. “I’m a private investigator. That's the name of the agency.”

“And breaking into my car was part of an investigation? Who hired you?”

“That’s confidential.” No need to tell him she didn’t know.

How ludicrous it would be to explain that her boss, Harriet—Harry to her employees—was going to do this job but had broken her arm. Mo hadn't received this assignment until just thirty minutes ago.

“You’re amazing,” Ross said shaking his head. Then he placed a hand at her elbow as if escorting her “Get in. I’ll drive you away from the scene of the crime.”

Mo felt disarmed by his gentlemanly manners and pulled away from his light touch. Not being in
control
. That was something she didn't care for at all.

“No thanks," she said. "My car is around the corner. Besides, I don’t know you. You could be a rapist.”

“You know I’m an actor.”

“One movie role doesn’t constitute a character reference." She stared down at the cobblestones to hide a smile as she teased him. She sensed that his celebrity was the way to get a rise out of Ross Grant.

“I’ve had dozens of roles,” he insisted, taking the bait. His brows converged in an angry
vee
.

“
Ummm
,” she said, glancing over his shoulder. “Mr. Grant?”

“Does anyone remember I played Hamlet in a film the critics universally proclaimed as the definitive Shakespeare?” he continued.

She'd never seen a Brit wave his hands so emphatically.

“Yoo-hoo. Ross? Hey!"

“What do you want?” he shouted. “Do you want to tell me how sexy the
SpyMatrix
scene was when I drowned that guy in gravy?”

She inclined her head. “Yeah, that gravy thing was sexy.”

“You want to tell me how you dreamed about me and had my poster on your wall. The one with the ludicrously big gun?” He finished at the top of his lungs.

“Not really. I wanted to tell you a police car turned the corner.” She grabbed his arm and physically turned him. “I thought with you being famous and all, you might not want the publicity.”

“For what? I’m the victim.”

“Well, you were disturbing the peace with your car alarm,” she suggested. “And you did attack an innocent woman...Me.”

“Bugger.”

* * * * *

The phone rang, echoing against the walls of the studio apartment. Clarence crossed to the table beside the bed to answer it.

“Baby,” the woman’s voice said on the other end of the line. “When are you getting the money?”

Clarence smiled. “Don’t worry so much, sweetheart. We’ll have it this week.” He drew the lipstick tube out of his pocket. Red Paradise.
His girl’s favorite color.
“After we have it, we’ll get out of this town.”

“I’m afraid he’s not going to pay,” she cried. “What if it all goes wrong? What if he sends his goons after you?” Genuine fear coated every word.

“He’s not onto me,” Clarence said, trying to soothe himself as well as his girl. “I have someone set up for the crime. If he goes after the blackmailer, he’ll take out that guy instead.”

 “I hope you’re right or we are both dead.”

He hoped so too. Clarence knew he wasn't cut out to break the law. Too nerve racking. It would all be worth it when he and his love were on a tropical island together.

No,” Clarence said. “Everything is fine. We’ll both be rich soon.” He paused, but the voice on the other end said nothing so he continued, “I want to see you.”

“Not now. It’s too dangerous.” She hung up before he could reply.

Clarence replaced the receiver and then sauntered toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. “My name is Dagger. Stephen Dagger.” He pointed his fingers at the mirror as if he were pointing a gun. “It’s virtuoso.” Waving the “hand” gun he made a “
pow
,
pow
” sound. Then, whirling around, he bounded out of his apartment and skipped down the stairs to the front door.

His landlady, old Mrs.
Truesberry
with her yellow colored hair, emerged from her ground level apartment to meet him in the foyer.

“Hello, dear boy,” she greeted him.

Clarence hopped from the last step to land with both feet on the hardwood pine of the foyer floor.

“
Truesy
,” he said, calling her the special nickname she loved. She was an irritating old bag but Clarence knew how to get around her ...and save on rent when necessary. But money wouldn't be a problem soon.

“You are absolutely gorgeous tonight.” Clarence pinched her cheek and the old lady giggled. “Have you done something new to your hair?”

“Just freshened up the color a bit.”

He examined her intently. The color was
gag
inducing. “Stunning,” he said with a smile.

“And where are you going at this time of night?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. “Not on a date.”

“No date.” He chuckled. “You know you’re the only one I love." He patted her on the arm. "I’m off to work.”

She made
a
tsking
sound. “Those people expect to much of you, dear. They’ve got you working night and day.”

“You are so right,
Truesy
.” He kissed her hand before vaulting to the door and swinging it wide. “I’m working on a way to change that.” After blowing a kiss in her direction, he closed the door behind him and headed off down the sidewalk.

* * * * *

At the exact moment the Sound of Music girl on screen became sixteen going on seventeen,
Kubikov’s
cell phone vibrated.
Finally a report.

He grabbed the phone from the coffee table and examined the face. The text displayed there taunted him:
Dagger not found. Upd8 L8r :-(

His grip tightened around the phone.

Fools. More failure. On top of that, how many times had he ordered his employees not to use emoticons in business communications?

Kubikov
texted
a return message:
Surfus
jdi
dmmsu
.

Another message zinged back
:
?
????

He fought the urge to pound the phone on the coffee table. Instead, he typed in:
STOP YOUR FU@K UPS. JUST DO IT. DON’T MAKE ME SHOOT YOU.

The return was quick:
K
. :
-)

Relaxing back into the sofa cushions, he sighed. Sometimes employees just needed a little incentive to succeed.