The Hitwoman and the Neurotic Witness (7 page)

“I heard.”

“How?” he asked, tilting his head to consider me suspiciously.

I blinked. I couldn’t tell him Patrick had told me. He might get paranoid about our assassin mentor-mentee relationship.

“Police scanner,” I blurted out, grateful for Templeton’s odd quirk.

Adding the rest of his sugar to his drink, Delveccio nodded his approval. “Smart, listening to the scanner. Lots of good info on there.”

I nodded like I had oodles of experience eavesdropping on the cops.

“That warehouse wasn’t one of ours.” Delveccio sipped his coffee. Leaning forward he whispered dramatically, “It was one of the Lubovsky’s.”

Shocked, I sat back in my chair.

“Why?”

Fiddling with his diamond pinky ring he said quietly, “Maybe someone is trying to take us all out?”

“Us?”
“You know. The families.”

I frowned, wondering whether it was a good idea to try to find someone who was taking on multiple crime syndicates simultaneously.

I looked at my coffee, not daring to drink it for fear he would see that my hand was shaking. “Why me?”

Delveccio considered me for a long moment. “You’re a smart girl.”

“But maybe you need someone with more experience….or better connections.”

“Like our mutual friend?”

Something in his tone set my teeth on edge, so I shrugged noncommittally not wanting to put Patrick in an awkward spot.

“If I’m right about who’s responsible about the bombs,” Delveccio said cryptically, “the next job you’ll get will be to off him.”

Preoccupied with worrying about what kind of trouble Patrick had gotten himself in with the Delveccios, I went through the motions of doing my job at Insuring the Future that morning, ignoring the alternating curious and furtive looks of my co-workers.

When it was time to break for lunch, I just turned off my phone, sat at my desk, and stared at a photograph of Katie.

Then Armani limped up.

“Hey, Chiquita,” she said with more restraint than usual. “Heard you had a rough night.”

Considering that I’d barely escaped death a couple of times, that was the understatement of the year. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“C’mon,” she said, waving for me to follow her. “I got you lunch.”

Following her outdoors to our favorite picnic table, I sincerely hoped she wasn’t going to offer me one of her bizarre culinary creations like a liverwurst and grape jelly sandwich or a Caesar salad loaded with candy corn.

“Pizza,” she said, waving to a box on the table.

I felt a surge of hope, but tamped it down, afraid it would be topped with something weird like chocolate chip cookies. (She’s very fond of cookies.) “Go ahead. Open it.”

I steeled myself as I lifted the lid. I was almost moved to tears by what I saw.

It was topped with black olives. (I’m very fond of olives.)

“Thank you,” I said, choked up by her thoughtfulness.

“Eat,” she said, flopping onto a bench and dragging her bad leg over the seat.

Starving, I wolfed down a slice without speaking.

Armani watched me, concern shadowing her dark eyes. Methodically picking every piece of olive off her own slice, she built a pile of what looked like miniaturized discarded inner tubes on her napkin.

“You don’t like olives?” I asked.

“They’re slimy,” she complained. “I don’t do slimy…except in bosses.” Jutting her chin to the side, she indicated our boss Harry, he who stinks of pepperoni, who was harassing one of our co-workers at another table.

I nodded in agreement. Our boss was definitely a slime bucket.

“So how are you doing?” Armani asked.

“Why?” I asked suspiciously. “Did you have another dream or vision or whatever about me?”

She shook her head, allowing her dark, shampoo commercial-worthy hair to fall in front of her face. Using her good hand, she brushed her locks away before saying, “You seem nervous.”

“Like you said, I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

Her gaze narrowed, like she knew that what had happened wasn’t the real reason I was on edge, but I couldn’t very well tell her that my murder mentor had done something to piss off our mobster bosses.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I blurted out.

She blinked, surprised.

“Do you believe people can see ghosts?” I took another slice of pizza while I waited for her to reply.

“Yes.”

“To which?”

“To both.”

I frowned. I’d been hoping that my semi-psychic friend would tell me that there were no such things as ghosts, or at least that it wasn’t possible for them to be seen.

“Why the sudden interest in the spirit world?” Armani asked, tearing off the crust of her pizza and eating it first.

“There’s a guest at the B&B who claims she sees death around me.”

Armani lifted an eyebrow. “And you believe her?”

“She seemed pretty convincing.”

“I need to meet her.” She slapped the table with her good hand for emphasis.

“Why?”

“Because she could be playing you. Your family is in the news more than Angelina Jolie. It wouldn’t take much to figure out you’ve been touched by death.”

I took a moment to chew my mouthful of pizza, trying to figure out how to handle this latest wrinkle. If Gypsy really
could
see ghosts and I was being haunted by the men I’d killed, did I really want my friend finding out about it?

“And if she’s a real medium I’ve
got
to meet her,” Armani added, giving me her best hopeful puppy dog look.

I sighed, wondering what kind of trouble I’d just invited. “Okay. Can you come by the B&B around 8 tonight?”

She nodded excitedly.

“No guarantees she’ll want to socialize,” I warned.

“Understood.” She grinned.

I took another bite of pizza wishing
I
understood what the hell was going on.

~#~

When I left work, I almost drove home to my apartment. Then I remembered it no longer existed, which meant I had to return to the B&B. After a day’s worth of listening to people complain that “someone else” had backed into them in a parking lot, the idea of dinner with the witches was enough to make me pop a mint Lifesaver into my mouth, rest my head on the steering wheel of my car, and take a couple of shaky breaths.

A sharp rap on my window had me jerking my head up, smashing my nose into the steering wheel, and choking on the little ring of candy. Coughing, spluttering, and gasping for air, my eyes filled with tears, blurring whoever it was who’d scared me half to death. I’d have told them exactly what a jerk they were if I wasn’t so busy trying to breathe.

Once I’d finally dislodged the mint, spitting it onto the speedometer, I blinked away my tears and glared at the offending party.

Patrick cocked his head and offered me a bemused grin, not the slightest bit impressed by my death glare.

“Did you want something?” I snapped at him.

He indicated I should lower my window. I did so grudgingly.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized.

“You didn’t.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You gave me a heart attack.”

“Do you want me to call 9-1-1?” He reached for his phone.

“No one likes a smartass,” I told him.

“I do,” he teased with a wink. His voice dipped lower as he bent down and stuck his head in the car. “Of course if you’d like me to perform mouth-to-mouth…”

With his breath caressing my cheek, making my heart speed up, it was tempting to close the distance between us. I swayed toward him, but then shook my head, not about to be won over so easily. “We may have a problem.”

The redhead grew serious. “What’s up?”

“Besides the fact that the B&B is suddenly home to a U.S. Marshal
and
his FBI agent brother?” I complained.

He shrugged. “Just be careful what you say and do around them and you’ll be fine.”

“I take it you haven’t met the other guests.”

“If you mean the guy you were hugging last night….” He let the accusation hang in the air.

“Zeke isn’t the problem,” I said, not bothering to correct him. “It’s his friend. Gypsy.”

“He has a friend who’s a gypsy?”

“I don’t know if she’s a gypsy. It’s what she calls herself.”

“So you have a problem with people with stupid names?” he asked.

“It’s not her name. It’s her…ability.”

“Ability?”

“She says she can see ghosts.”

“So she’s a little delusional. With your family history, I wouldn’t think that would be too challenging to deal with.”

“Leave my family out of this.” It’s perfectly okay for me to say my family is nuts. But I draw the line at anyone else pointing it out. “She said I’m surrounded by death.”

He squinted at me and I got the distinct impression that he was wondering whether I’d cracked under all the recent stress I’d been under.

“This could be serious,” I said.

“Relax, Mags. I’m sure Loretta told her your entire life story.”

“I hope you’re right,” I muttered. “If she takes one look at you, screams, and runs from the room you’ll know why.”

He leaned down to whisper, “That’s not usually the effect I have on women.”

If the way everything in my body tightened with need was any indication, he was probably not exaggerating. My mouth went dry, my throat constricted, and I’m pretty sure I squirmed in my seat.

Amusement danced in Patrick’s green gaze and a cocky smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

“You never told me why you’re here.” My voice came out as a strained whisper.

The light faded from his eyes. “I wanted to let you know that I don’t think the Lubovskys are trying to kill you.”

“Because their warehouse was blown up?”

His mouth flattened into a thin line. “How do you know about that?”

“Delveccio told me.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“I went to visit Katie before work.”

“And he just happened to be there at the crack of dawn?” Tension threaded through his tone.

I shrugged. “He’s pretty keen on finding out who’s blowing things up. He seems to think it might be your fault.” I held my breath, carefully watching Patrick’s expression as I dropped the bombshell.

His gaze clouded over. “Did he tell you that?”

I nodded.

“Dammit!” He slammed his palms into the door frame, rocking the car.

“Hey!” I protested.

Straightening, he stared off into the distance, his eyes cold and unyielding.

For a second, I considered telling him that Delveccio might want me to kill him, but my self-preservation instinct kicked in. I liked Patrick, and I trusted him to a point, but telling a hitman that I might have to off him, seemed a bit foolish. Swallowing hard, I held my tongue, watching him.

Except for the muscle twitching in the redhead’s jaw, he stood as still as stone.

Reaching out of the car window I touched his wrist. “Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, I can help.”

He looked down at where our bodies made contact. A slight smile played at his lips. “You kill me, Mags.”

“I’d rather not,” I whispered, stroking my fingers up his forearm.

He swooped in to press a quick, hard kiss to my lips before walking away without a word or backward glance.

I watched him leave, struggling to breathe against the invisible vise tightening around my chest.

My need to avoid Delveccio outweighed my desire to see Katie, so I went straight back to the Bed and Breakfast.

DeeDee bounded up to my car the moment I pulled to a stop. “Maggie! Maggie!”

I couldn’t help but grin at her exuberant greeting. “Did you have a good day?”

“Gave hamburger Susan me,” she panted excitedly.

Rubbing the spot between her eyes, I bent down and whispered, “What about God and Piss? Did they have a good day too?”

“Left bored Piss.”

“Piss left?” I asked, surprised.

“Gone. Bored God. Fortune no wheel.”

“Oh crap,” I muttered. “I forgot to leave the TV on for him.”

“Trouble Maggie.”

“You have no idea,” I told her.

She licked my chin sympathetically and then bounded away to sniff something at the far end of the yard.

I tiptoed into the B&B hoping to make it down to the basement before anyone realized I was there.

No such luck.

“Is that you, Margaret?” Aunt Susan called from the dining room.

“Nope,” I yelled back. “I’m a burglar, here to steal your silver.”

Without missing a beat, she said. “It’s all in here.”

Sighing heavily, I made my way to the dining room.

She hadn’t been kidding. The table was laden with every bit of silver or silver-plated junk the B&B held. Some of it was tarnished, almost black. Some of it gleamed brighter than the sun.

All of it fell under the watchful eye of U.S. Marshal Griswald who held a polishing cloth in one hand and a silver napkin ring in the other. “Hi. Susan just went upstairs,” he said cheerfully, as though it was an everyday occurrence to come home and find a lawman shining knick-knack crap. “How was your day?”

I blinked.

“My brother says you make a mean scrambled egg.” He rubbed the polishing cloth against the metal, making sure to get into all the nooks and crannies.

“I grew up in a Bed and Breakfast,” I said slowly. “I can make breakfast and I can make beds….besides that I’m woefully bereft of life skills.”

He chuckled.

“You don’t have to do that,” I told him.

“I don’t mind.”

“Are you paying for your bill through some sort of barter agreement?” I asked. “Because if she makes you scrub the bathrooms, you should request an extra free night or something.”

“I find this to be satisfying.” He admired his handiwork before pulling another tarnished item from the pile. “I can see my progress. There’s a definite beginning and end.” He waved at the collection of gleaming metalware. “That’s not something I usually get in my line of work.”

I nodded like it made sense, but really I was thinking that it was only a matter of time until everything would turn dark and cloudy again.