Chapter 14
Relief coursed through my system, sheer relief that I wasn’t attracted to my client’s husband. Only then did curiosity join the party, I’m ashamed to say.
“Then who is he?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Trista sat back in her chair, her mouth an angry slash. “You’re the private investigator. You tell me.”
Oh, this wasn’t good. I could refund her money, but I needed everything I’d made so far to get my student loans back on track. Time to shift into conciliation mode.
“Here’s what I know: He’s living where you said he would be. The first time I saw him, he wore a tailored suit, aviators, and drove a silver Lexus. The mailbox says ‘Malone.’ I even asked him point-blank if he was Blake Malone, and he said yes.”
But he’d flinched.
Just a momentary hesitation when I’d said the full name, and then he had quickly said he preferred Malone.
“So someone who looks like your husband, answers to your husband’s name, and drives your husband’s car lives in an apartment owned by the family business. Why? And who is it?”
When Trista didn’t answer, I looked over. She’d blanched, her eyes now wide.
“Trista?”
“What?”
“Any idea who this guy is?”
“Maybe.” She sucked in a breath but didn’t let it go.
I looked at her expectantly.
“Blake has a cousin. I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen pictures. The two do look eerily similar—especially from a distance.”
“Wait. Does Blake have heterochromia?”
“What?”
“One eye is light blue, but the other is a dark brown.”
“No. His eyes are both brown.”
Further proof I hadn’t been flirting shamelessly with a married man. “What about the cousin?”
She stood and began to pace. “I don’t know. I told you I’ve never met him.”
“It doesn’t matter. If the man across the breezeway isn’t your husband, then the next task is to find him.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice came out as a whisper. “I need to call my lawyer.”
“I can help you find—”
“No, no.”
I took a deep breath. “Then I’ll refund your money.”
“Just keep what I’ve already paid you,” she said. “But if you wouldn’t mind showing yourself to the door, there’s a lot I have to do before the children get home.”
“Can I help?”
Already on her feet, she shook her head.
I had been dismissed. Only now I had more questions than before.
My first stop was a petty project. One of my clients knew that her neighbor was stealing her packages off her porch. With a little help from the kitten, I had a package that would hopefully make them swear off porch piracy.
I walked to my client’s door with a brisk efficiency and put down a box, one that my client already knew not to open.
Then I took a picture, both as proof I’d done my part and as an delivery person might do.
Since my client didn’t have a doorbell cam, the next step would be to repeat the process until the porch piracy ceased.
When I got back into my car, my mind returned to my newest quandary: Who was that mysterious man with the mismatched eyes?
I could definitely try some new searches, but why not go straight to the source if I wanted to know who was impersonating my quarry?
Former quarry.
Once I arrived home, I knocked on Malone’s door. He wasn’t there. Neither was the Lexus.
If Finnegan’s were open, I’d go ask Havisham and Salcedo their opinions on the whole mess, but it wasn’t even noon. Calling or texting Havisham would be a very bad idea because she would either be waking up or busy running errands.
As for Salcedo? I couldn’t be completely sure she wasn’t in class.
Instead, I spent the rest of the day on paralegal homework and jury research for Attorney Lawless. The kitten took a nap in my lap most of that time. We were playing with the laser pointer when I heard Malone’s voice in the breezeway.
I’d already opened the door before I realized my folly: Mrs. Q had brought down the casserole.
“Stella!” she said. “I was just telling Mr. Malone here that this was your idea.”
Ho boy.
“Very thoughtful of you,” Malone said. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the aviators, but I knew they were dancing. “If you don’t mind sharing your apartment, we could all eat together.”
“Of course,” I said, hoping my smile hadn’t faltered at the thought of the bland, underspiced casserole of waxy vegetables and soggy Tater Tots.
Karma had found me, and it was hardly fair. How was I supposed to know I had been attempting petty revenge on the wrong person?
More importantly, how was I supposed to ask Malone who he really was with Mrs. Q around?
“Come on in,” I said.
Mrs. Q entered carrying the casserole. How she’d managed to get down the steps with her hands full, I was afraid to ask.
“I’ll be right over as soon as I change clothes,” Malone said.
“Oh, is this your kitten?” Mrs. Q asked once she’d put the dish down on the table.
“Yep.”
“What’s his name?”
“It’s a she, and she doesn’t have a name yet.”
Because she’s not going to be my cat for very long. Naming animals meant keeping animals, even I knew that.
Note to self: Look up shelter hours for tomorrow.
I took three of my four plates from the cabinet in the kitchen and prayed I had enough clean silverware. “Want a cat, Mrs. Q? She’d be good company for you.”
“No, dear. She’ll probably outlive me, and that’s not fair to her. No, you keep her. She’ll be good company for you.”
Well played.
At this rate I was going to name the cat Hot Potato because no one wanted to keep her.
“Honey, I’m home,” Malone sang as he entered the door I’d left unlocked for him.
My heart squeezed. All those years with Ken, and he’d never once made that joke.
Stop it, Stella. This man is not who he says he is.
But at least he wasn’t a cheater.
That you know of.
To quell the arguments in my head, I took a bag of salad from the fridge and opened it with a bit too much force. Romaine shot up and then rained down like confetti.
“It’s okay—we don’t need a salad,” Mrs. Q said. “There are vegetables in the casserole.”
“Good point,” I said as I picked up the lettuce that had flown all over the little kitchen. “I thought I’d be semi-fancy, but the universe had other plans.”
“Hey, let me help you with that,” Malone said as he bent to pick up lettuce from the floor. “Besides, I brought a bottle of wine. That can be our fancy.”
“Thanks, Malone,” I said. As his last name met my tongue, I remembered that I didn’t know for sure he was a Malone.
Probably? Maybe? A preliminary search between homework and jury research had shown that Blake Malone did, indeed, have a cousin of approximately the same age.
More research showed that Blake’s father and the cousin’s father were twins, which might’ve explained why they looked so much alike.
The cousin even lived in California, which would explain why Malone had said he didn’t plan to be here long.
Oddly, I couldn’t find a picture of the cousin anywhere, and if I couldn’t find a picture of someone on Pedro Pascal’s internet?
That person worked very hard to make sure they couldn’t be found.
Also, even if I’d found a picture, that wouldn’t explain why he’d answered to Blake. I itched to know the answer to that question, but something told me not to have the discussion in front of Mrs. Q. He wouldn’t be as forthcoming with her involved.
“Silverware?” he asked as he washed his hands.
I pointed toward the top drawer, then opened a cabinet and reached for stemless wineglasses. My kitchen was so tiny, Malone and I backed into each other. He grinned, but I must have been looking at him too speculatively because his smile faded and he mouthed, “What?”
I mouthed “Later” in response.
Soon we were seated at the table, and Malone poured wine for each of us. Mrs. Q ladled out casserole. Sadly. I would’ve definitely taken a smaller portion than what she gave me.
“Before we eat, how about a toast to neighbors?” Malone lifted his glass, and Mrs. Q and I did the same. He lifted the glass with his left hand. So, a southpaw. Interesting.
“To neighbors,” he said.
“To neighbors!” we responded before clinking glasses.
My pulse thrummed in anticipation of what would happen when he took the first bite. He might not have been the man who claimed casseroles were cheating, but I had a healthy enough respect for schadenfreude that I couldn’t wait to see his reaction.
It felt like forever before he took his first bite. It was all I could do to act casual and not stare at his fork on its way to his mouth.
“This is really delicious!”
My eyes snapped to his face, trying to gauge his expression. He might not be Blake Malone, but he was still a marvelous liar.
Mrs. Q preened. “I’m so glad you like it.”
In confusion, I looked down at the uneaten gelatinous scoop on my plate. Had the casserole changed? Had I fallen into an alternate dimension where Blake Malone was nice and Mrs. Q’s casserole was tasty?
I took a bite.
Nope.
Still bland. Veggies still waxy. Tots still soggy.
I forced my lips into a smile because the creator of my torture was watching me. “Delightful as always, Mrs. Q.”
Now who’s a lying liar who lies, Stella?
We ate in silence for a minute or so before Malone snapped his fingers.
“Mrs. Quattlebaum, I hope you don’t mind if I add some hot sauce.
I totally forgot. My doctor said that it can help keep my blood pressure lower.
Oh, and it adds antioxidants and revs up your metabolism, too.
I hate to ask, but doctor’s orders, you know? ”
With that sheepish grin, the man could get away with anything.
“I had no idea,” Mrs. Q said. “If it can do all that, then I would like to try some, too.”
Stunned, I watched as Malone left the apartment and returned with a trio of hot sauces. No table, but he kept more than one kind of hot sauce?
While I was pondering that conundrum, he explained the properties of each sauce as well as possible health benefits but was sure not to oversell, saying that hot sauce was only one part of a healthy diet.
Mrs. Q interjected from time to time with an “I declare” or a “What do you know?” but she was riveted to the discussion.
Then she added a tiny drop to her casserole.
She held the fork away from her mouth for two seconds before taking a bite. At the pop of flavor, she closed her eyes with a satisfied “Mmmm.”
I’d been outmaneuvered again. Thank goodness Little Miss Petty’s reputation was no longer on the line. Unfortunately, her heart was in danger of once again falling for a most unsuitable man.
When Mrs. Q looked down at her plate, he winked at me.
My heart fluttered.
I was a goner.