Love Me Sweet (A Bell Harbor Novel) (10 page)

Carl met them at the door wearing his blue fuzzy bathrobe. “Why, hello. May I interest you in a sloe—”

“No, Carl. Thanks,” Grant said, shouldering his way past. “Where’s Mom?”

Carl opened the door wider and Delaney stepped in too, her legs quaking in distress. Her backpack was not going to be here. She could already feel it.

“Your mother?” Carl glanced at his watch. “Right about now she could be flat on her back with cucumber slices over her eyes.”

“What?” Grant’s frown was fierce.

“She’s on her way to a—a whataya call it—a beauty spa with your aunt Tina. You know, one of those places where you take a bath in mud and come out looking ten years younger. Hope she soaks in there for a while.” He snickered and pulled a can of Bud Light from his pocket, cracking it open with one hand.

“I think she swiped Elaine’s backpack,” Grant said, giving Carl a long, hard stare. “It had
money
in it, Carl. Do you know anything about that?”

Carl rubbed a hand over his whiskered cheek. “Money, huh?”

“Yes, it was a brown leather backpack. Have you seen anything like that around here?”

“It was Louis Vuitton,” Delaney added. “It was brown with gold initials all over it, and it’s about this big.” She gestured with her hands. Trembling hands. She looked around the room as she spoke, and winced at the view. This shack was full of so much clutter, that backpack could be hiding in plain sight and still blend in.

“No, can’t say as I have, but you’re welcome to look around for it,” Carl said, motioning to the room in general.

“Which spa? Do you remember the name?” Grant pressed him but Carl seemed unfazed. Then again, Carl always seemed unfazed.

“The name? Nah, not even a little bit. Not sure she told me the name, but it’s definitely someplace south of here because they’re on their way to Memphis.”

“Memphis?” Delaney and Grant burst out in unison, and her chest felt as if she’d been kicked. Hard. With a steel-toed boot.

“Yeah, Memphis. Your mother is going to stay with Tina for a while now that the wedding is over with. I think she needed to get away from this winter weather for a bit. I don’t know anything about a backpack, though.”

Grant turned toward Delaney. “Now do you want to call the police?” he asked quietly. “We could just say she’s a missing person.”

“Police? Whoa, whoa there. You don’t know for sure she has it, do you?” Carl held out a hand. “That’s your own mother you’re talking about.”

Grant’s face was grim when he turned back to his stepfather. “I know it, but there’s
forty grand
in the bag, Carl. How fast do you think she’ll burn through that if nobody stops her?”

Carl took a big glug of the beer. Then another, and another until the can was empty and he crushed it with his hand. Then he walked into the kitchen and pulled a torn slip of paper from under a toucan magnet on the avocado-green refrigerator door before walking back to them. “Forty grand, huh? In that case, there’s probably something you should know. I’m not entirely certain, but it’s possible that your mother might have left me.”

“Left you? What would make you think that?” Grant said.

“Because she left me this note.”

“What’s it say?”

Carl glanced at the paper, as if to refresh his memory. He cleared his throat. “It says, ‘Sorry, Carl. I’m leaving you.
’ 
”

“Jesus,” Grant muttered, and Delaney plunked down on the coffee table with a thud because her legs had gone noodleroni under her.

“She’s left me before, you know. Couple of times, but she never gets very far and always comes back as soon as her paycheck’s gone. Usually it’s just a couple of days when she needs a little break, but with that much dough, well, she could be gone a while. All I know is she told me she was dropping some cake off at your place, and then heading to Memphis with her sister, but when I came back from walking the dogs this afternoon, she was gone and this note was on the fridge. Shoot, come to think of it, maybe she’s
not
going to Memphis.”

“Jesus,” Grant said, louder this time.

Delaney dropped her head between her knees, wondering if fainting might make her feel better. Probably not, but she was wishing she could give it a go. A little void of nothingness right now would most certainly feel better than the twirling, swirling anxiety clutching at her insides with nasty claws.

Carl shook his head, finally showing some distress. “I’m sorry about this, Elaine. If Donna does come back, I swear I’m going to have a LoJack installed on that woman.”

“If she comes back,” Grant muttered.

“If she comes back,” Delaney whispered, then her brain shifted into gear. She lifted her head slowly as a thought formed. “Wait a minute. A LoJack? That’s it! She’s got my phone.”

“And?” Grant asked.

She stood and grabbed his arm. “And my phone has a locator app on it. All I have to do is call my sister and she can tell me where it is. If we find my phone, we find the bag.” God, she was brilliant. She was practically Jason Bourne brilliant. She reached out her other hand. “Give me your phone and I’ll call my sister right now. Your mom can’t have gotten very far. It’s only been a couple of hours.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it over.

“In the meantime,” she said, “maybe you guys could look around here.”

She walked toward the kitchen so she might have a sliver of privacy, but the call went to her sister’s voice mail. “Mel, it’s Lane. Call me back at this number just as soon as you get this message. It’s hugely important. Huge. Life-or-death time.”

She turned around and there was Grant, like a shadow on her heels. “Lane? Is that what your family calls you?”

She nodded, and watched for any dawning realization, but none came.

“It’s cute. It suits you.”

“Thanks.” She’d take a little time later to appreciate that compliment, and be grateful he didn’t know who she was, but right now her main concern was finding Donna the sticky-fingered landlord, and her forty thousand dollars. Technically it was thirty-nine thousand eight hundred and fifteen dollars. And eleven cents. She’d counted it this morning when she packed.

“Listen,” Grant said, “I don’t think that bag is here. I think our best bet is to get in the car and head south. If your sister calls and says we should be going someplace different, we will.”

“You want to just get in the car and drive? Didn’t you just tell me a few hours ago that was a bad idea?”

“This situation is a little different, and unless you have any other suggestions, I think it’s worth a shot. The sooner we catch up to her, the better chance we have of getting your money before she can spend it, and like you said, she can’t have gotten far. With any luck we’ll track her down right away. Worst case scenario, she and my aunt will probably stop at a hotel somewhere and we can catch up with them then.” He reached up one hand and rubbed the muscles corded along one side of his neck. “Let’s just pray to God it’s not a hotel with a casino.”

Chapter 10

THE LAST THING GRANT CONNELLY
wanted to be doing right now was putt-putting down Interstate 196 along the Michigan coast during the worst fucking winter in fifty years. In a Volkswagen. This soup can on wheels couldn’t go much faster than seventy miles per hour, and even if it could, the snow had kicked up again, making it nearly impossible to see. The wind buffeted them around like a bull tossing a rodeo clown, and the heater was virtually useless.

This was going to be one miserable trip, and they didn’t even know if they were headed in the right direction.

Elaine was grim over in the passenger seat. She’d brought her knitting but the needles were silent and still in her lap. The more dejected she looked, the worse he felt. They’d stopped back at his house to grab a few overnight things in case they were gone more than a day, which was looking more and more likely. They still hadn’t heard back from her sister, and every mile on the road could actually be taking them away from the money. Maybe they should have stayed put in Bell Harbor, but he needed to be doing
something
.

“I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am,” he said for about the fifth time in an hour.

“It’s not your fault,” she answered, tucking her pale blue scarf into the neckline of her brown coat. “How could you know she’d take it? Maybe it wasn’t even her.”

He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his fingers were numb, or maybe they were numb from the cold. All he knew was that he could barely feel them. What he did feel was frustration. Deep down, he knew his mother had taken that backpack. It was the only logical explanation. She’d been in the house, and the odds of some other random burglar just happening by on a Sunday afternoon were about zero.

Fast on the heels of his frustration was guilt because this was just the type of situation he would have left to Tyler to deal with in the past. Now it was up to him to fix. Tyler was on his honeymoon. Scotty, Aimee, and Wendy had all left town too. Elaine was Grant’s responsibility, so finding Donna and getting that money back was his job, whether he’d asked for it or not.

“It never occurred to me she’d take it,” he said, “but I told you that first night my mother likes to gamble, so maybe I should have seen this coming. It just makes me so mad. I have zero tolerance for people who lie or steal and she’s done both.” He glanced her way. “My brother says it’s psychological. Like, a compulsion brought on by stress, but I don’t think it matters why she does it. She has to realize she can’t just take stuff.”

Elaine shifted in her seat.

He kept on talking, nervous and wanting to fill up that space. “Regardless, you’re being an incredibly good sport about this, Elaine. If I were you, I’d have called the police. Shit, I think we should call the police anyway and she’s my own mother.”

She looked out the window. “We can’t call the police.” Her voice was quiet, almost as if she wasn’t talking to him so much as just lamenting that fact, and it nearly made him slam on the brakes as his brain sorted through the facts.

He was an idiot.

The only reason somebody losing forty large would refuse to call the police was if the money wasn’t theirs to begin with. Jesus. He was on this highway to hell to get back
stolen
money that had already been
stolen
, and Elaine was no better than his mother. He’d been suspicious that first night, but he’d tucked the concern away because Elaine was cute and quirky. And because she did yoga and had a mouth made for kissing.

A full minute passed before he could make himself ask.

“Is that what it is for you, Elaine? A compulsion?”

It took her a few seconds to look back over at him. “What? For me? What are you talking about?”

“Stealing things. I’m a little slow to put the pieces together but I just figured out why you don’t want to call the police. Where’d the money come from?”

She rolled her eyes in an Oscar-worthy performance, as if his accusation was the most ridiculous suggestion imaginable. She was a better performer than Blake Rockstone.

“Are we back to that again? It’s my money. God, I told you that. You still don’t trust me?” She huffed in frustration, real or otherwise.

“Why would I trust you? I can’t even trust my own mother, and you haven’t been very forthcoming with information in the few days we’ve known each other.”

Her cheeks went pink. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

His phone vibrated on the dashboard, and Elaine jumped in her seat before grabbing it and tapping at the screen. “It’s my sister.”

She put the phone to her ear. “Mel? Thank goodness. What took you so long to call back?”

There was a murmur from the other end so all he could hear was Elaine’s side of the conversation.

“Well, just because you don’t recognize the number, don’t you think you should listen to your messages? I left you, like, five of them.”

Murmur. Murmur.

“Fine. Whatever, but here’s the deal. I need you to use the location finder on your phone to find mine. Somebody stole it and we’re trying to track them down.”

Murmur, murmur, murmur. Grant saw Elaine’s cheeks go pinker still.

“Just me and a friend. We think my phone may be on its way to Memphis.”

Murmur, murmur.

“A friend, I said.”

Murmur, murmur, murmur, murmur. Pause. Murmur.

Elaine sighed and glanced his way. “His name is Grant and we live in the same apartment . . . building.
Now
will you tell me where my phone is?”

Murmur, pause, murmur.

“Kankakee, Illinois?” She looked at Grant. “Does that sound right?”

“I’ve never heard of it but Illinois is the direction we’re headed,” he said. “Now at least we know they’re going south.”

Elaine nodded. “That’s really helpful, Mel. Thanks, but I need you to do me another favor. This is important. I need you to keep an eye on that phone’s location. If it stops or changes directions or something, we need to know, like, immediately, but don’t tell Mom or Dad, OK? I don’t want them to worry.”

Murmur, murmur.

Grant watched her from the corn
er of his eye, talking earnestly to her sister, her face animated. What kind of thief would be so concerned about worrying her parents? After a few more minutes, and a bit more vague but very nonfelonious-like discussion, she hung up and put the phone back on the dashboard.

“She’s going to check in every half an hour. So as long as my battery doesn’t die, we’re in good shape.”

They drove on for another mile or so, the scrape of the windshield wipers and the soft ka-thunk, ka-thunk of the tires rolling over snowy highway the only sounds.

“I told you my family had a soap business, right?” Her voice was soft, her words hesitant, but relief pulsed through him. Finally, she was going to give him some solid answers.

“Yes,” Grant answered. He looked straight ahead but she could tell she had his full attention. His curiosity was obvious, and logical, and she didn’t want to lie. It just wasn’t in her nature, but if she told him her
real
story, he’d think she was nothing more than a poor little rich girl who’d run away from home. Which, technically, she was. And try as she might, she knew she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Boyd. It was just too mortifying. She liked Grant. She liked the way he looked at her as if she were sweet and innocent, but all of that would change the minute he knew about her sex video. So for her sake, and his own, she had to keep the falsehoods to a minimum.

“Well, we do have a little soap business, but it doesn’t bring in much money. My dad used to work, but then he had a long dry spell where he didn’t do much of anything at all. Bills piled up.”

All of that was true. Not even an exaggeration. Once the record label dropped her dad, her parents kept on spending, trying to keep up with the illusion of success as if money was still coming in, and they fell further and further into debt. Delaney and her sisters worked as celebrity stylists, but it wasn’t until
Pop Rocks
came along that things began to improve.

“Now he’s working again, so that’s good,” she went on. “The family is all pitching in and we’re finally getting back on our feet, but with everyone living in the same house, it’s a little too much, you know, family time. Actually, my oldest sister moved out years ago but my middle sister and I stayed. Apartments are pretty pricey in . . . Miami so living at home works OK.”

She took a breath. Teetering on the edge between fact and fiction was exhausting work. “Anyway, I felt like they could manage without me at the moment so it seemed like a good time to, well, make a break for it, I guess. You left your family once. That should make sense to you.”

So close, so very close to the truth. She
was
trying to make a break for it. She’d become a stylist by default, because her mother and sisters were absorbed in that world, but she’d never planned it that way for herself. She’d just . . . followed. Like she’d followed along with doing the reality show. She was doing it for her parents, not because she wanted the fame or the attention. She couldn’t tell him all of that, though. Not right now. Not knowing how he felt about the soulless masses of Los Angeles—because he’d think she was one of them.

Once Grant had helped her get that stupid bag back and she had her money and identification, she’d tell him everything. All of it. Even the awful stuff about Boyd, but until then, she needed his help. It was a weak justification, but she wasn’t prepared at the moment to deal with the emotional fallout of piling on the grittier details. They were stuck in this car together until they found Donna, after all, and telling him more about her situation would only serve to make this trip more awkward.

“So, you took all your money and moved to a new town.” He said it as a statement, as if to make sure he understood her.

“Yes.”

“Why the hell did you pick Bell Harbor? Especially now?”

She felt her cheeks heating up. “If I tell you, you’ll think it’s a frivolous reason.”

The look he cast her way said
try me
.

“I read an article in a travel magazine that said the dunes and beaches were really pretty. It showed a picture, a charming little picture of Bell Harbor, and I stared at that for days and days, and finally I thought, if I could imagine a perfect little town on a perfect little beach, it would look just like that. So . . . that’s how I picked Bell Harbor. How was I supposed to know this whole side of the country was going to have the worst weather event in modern history?”

Her aspersions must have offended the weather gods—because one second she was talking about beaches, and in the next second, their car was spinning wildly out of control, careening across the highway at sixty miles per hour. The phone went flying in one direction, the knitting from her lap went flying in another. Round and round they spun, like that awful teacup ride at Disneyland. Faster and faster.

“Hang on,” Grant shouted.

Still they spun, until Delaney couldn’t tell which direction they faced or if they were even on the road. A blur of lights flashed past as another car spun around and barely missed them. Grant’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel as he fought against the momentum of the spiral. On they flew, until the thunder of hard-packed snow crunched against the metal of the car as they plowed into the ditch. Scraping, metal crushing, followed by a bang, and at last, the car came to an abrupt and total stop. Her body flew forward, the seatbelt jerking her back and kicking the breath from her lungs.

How many seconds had passed? Ten? Ten thousand? Dazed, she looked over at Grant. His face was as white as the winter sky outside.

He looked back and reached over to clasp her arm. “Are you OK?”

She nodded. “I think so. Are you OK?”

“I think so.”

Their rapid breathing hung like fog in the car. Delaney looked past him, out his window, to see that they had stopped ten or twelve feet away from the side of the freeway, but it felt as if they could have spun around for miles. Her own window was nearly covered in snow because they’d plowed into a drift. The engine had cut when they collided. Taking a breath, Grant turned the key with an unsteady hand. The engine sputtered, but unbelievably, turned over and revved up.