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With that, she bid them goodbye and trotted down the stairs, back to the peppy little car she drove. She lived in Hollywood Hills herself, but she operated in a different social circle from Julius—a different world altogether from Russ.
The slider into the kitchen opened, and Loretta Wrentham, Julius’s bride of one month, stuck her head out. “Is the coast clear?”
Julius grinned. “You want me to go downstairs and make sure?”
“It’s all right. I have nerves of steel.” Loretta came out on to the deck. She was in her fifties, slim and fit, with short, graying dark hair. She wore tight-fitting jeans, a white shirt and sandals with three-inch heels that didn’t seem to bother her. She set her ever-present glass of sparkling water with lime on the table and sat next to her husband. “That woman gives me hives.”
“I thought you liked her,” Julius said.
“I do, in small doses. She’s fun, generous, interesting and a little nuts. She loves having you two at her beck and call.”
“No one has Russ at their beck and call. Me, yes. Russ, no.”
“You just play along better than I do,” Russ told him.
“My point is,” Loretta added, “Daphne will run you ragged if you let her.”
Russ smiled. “It takes a lot to run me ragged.”
“No doubt.” Loretta grimaced as if the entire conversation about Daphne Stewart pained her. “She loves the idea of having a rugged, good-looking investigator show up in Knights Bridge as her advance team.”
“Hey,” Julius said, “Russ is going east, not me.”
She rolled her eyes, but Russ thought she looked less tense. She and Julius had only met last summer, but now it seemed as if they’d known each other forever. “Daphne knows her stuff, I’ll say that for her.” Loretta swept up her water glass and took a big drink. “She warned me the first dress I picked out for our wedding wouldn’t work. Although this was my first—and only—wedding, I didn’t want to do the whole white-dress thing. I found a cute cocktail dress I liked. I thought it was cute, anyway. Daphne told me I would hate my wedding photos if I wore it. I’d look sallow and sad. Her words. Sallow and sad.”
“And you were neither that day,” Julius said.
“She’s also responsible for the two of us meeting. Now I really do feel like a heel for avoiding her.” Loretta nodded toward the plants Julius had trimmed. “They look great. This is such a nice spot. I’m glad it’s staying in the family. We can come for brunch. Your daughter makes a great frittata.”
Russ was out of there if they were going to talk frittatas.
But Loretta had narrowed her dark eyes on him. “Julius has told you about my connection to Knights Bridge, hasn’t he?”
“Dylan McCaffrey and Noah Kendrick.”
She gave the smallest of smiles. “That cuts to the chase. Dylan and Noah are best friends. They grew up together in LA and got rich together. Dylan in particular is involved in several new ventures based in Knights Bridge. Adventure travel, an entrepreneurial boot camp and an inn of sorts.”
“Not to mention goat’s milk soaps,” Julius added.
Loretta kept her gaze on Russ. “The soaps and the inn are Olivia McCaffrey’s ventures, but, of course, Dylan is involved. Olivia is the local woman he married on Christmas Eve. Noah is engaged to Phoebe O’Dunn, the former Knights Bridge librarian and the eldest sister of Ava and Ruby, the twins who put together Daphne’s master class. NAK, the company Noah founded and Dylan helped launch, is based in San Diego. They both have homes there, but Knights Bridge—” she sighed “—it’s home for Phoebe and Olivia.”
“Are they involved in Daphne’s class?” Russ asked.
“She’ll be staying at the Farm at Carriage Hill, Olivia’s inn. I don’t know if either Olivia or Dylan will be at the class. Olivia’s a graphic designer, so she might be interested. Noah and Phoebe are at his winery at the moment.”
Russ downed the last of his coffee. “Two friends from California fall for two women from Knights Bridge. Great, but I’m not seeing a role for me here.”
“Loretta worries about Dylan and Noah,” Julius said. “They’re like surrogate sons to her.”
“Dylan’s a longtime client,” she said. “I started working with him when he was a defenseman in the National Hockey League. That he’s now worth at least a hundred million and Noah over a billion...well, yes, I do worry about them. Knights Bridge is a small, idyllic New England town. It’s easy to be lulled into thinking it won’t attract people who might not wish Dylan and Noah and the people they care about well.”
Russ got to his feet. “What are you asking me to do?”
“Have a look at their lives in Knights Bridge from your point of view,” Loretta said. “Talk to Dylan. See what you think. You have more experience with security than either Julius or I.”
“Is Dylan expecting me to talk to him?”
“He will be by the time your flight lands tomorrow. I’ll call him myself. Noah, too. He won’t be there, but Dylan won’t make a move on anything that concerns Noah without talking to him first.”
“All right. I’ll let you know. I’m not sneaking around, just so we’re clear.”
“No problem,” Loretta said.
“And my first priority on this trip is Daphne.”
“Of course.”
“Even if it’s a waste of time,” Russ added, half to himself.
Julius brushed a bit of plant matter off his polo shirt. “Be glad the O’Dunn twins are putting you up at Moss Hill instead of their mother’s place. She has dogs, cats, chickens and over a dozen goats. That’s where Olivia gets the milk for her goat’s milk soap.”
Russ stared at his friend and colleague. “Goats, Julius?”
“Nigerian Dwarf goats.”
“I have to admit they’re adorable,” Loretta said.
“Have you ever seen a goat, Russ?” Julius asked.
“I have.”
Loretta inhaled sharply. Her husband winced. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Both. I doubt I’ve seen a Nigerian Dwarf goat, though. Nothing wrong with raising goats, but if I have to stay in this town for more than a few days, I’m going to want hazard pay.”
Russ left Loretta and Julius smiling—and looking relieved—and took his coffee mug into the house. The sliders opened into the kitchen, which the daughter who’d bought the house was already planning on renovating. Russ put the mug in the dishwasher. He took spiral stairs in the adjoining hall to one of two upstairs bedrooms. The main living area was located on the middle level of the hillside house, and a master bedroom and bath were on the ground floor. Russ had moved into the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms in March while he figured out what came next for him.
He’d never, not once in his thirty-three years on the planet, imagined working investigations for a Beverly Hills law firm.
Julius had refused to take rent money from him, saying he liked having someone there while he was in transition between Hollywood Hills and La Jolla.
Russ got out his worn duffel bag.
How the hell had he ended up here?
But he knew the answer. He didn’t like it, but he knew.
* * *
Russ eased onto a cushioned stool at Marty’s Bar off Hollywood Boulevard. Opened in 1972, it had survived the changes in the area because of its best and its worst qualities. Best, it served good drinks and good tacos, chili and burgers. Worst, it was a notch above seedy with its dark wood paneling, chipped tile floor and cracked vinyl cushions. Cheaply framed Hollywood photos hung crookedly here and there, featuring everything from black-and-whites of the Three Stooges to color shots of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. It wasn’t a spot to see and be seen, but since neither interested Russ, he didn’t mind.
His older brother greeted him with a big grin. Marty had chosen to put in an application there when he came to Hollywood eighteen months ago because they had the same name. To him, it was amusing, as good a place to tend bar as any before he got rich and famous. “What’re you having, little brother?” he asked.
“Heineken, thanks.”
It was one of a dozen beers the place offered on tap. Marty grabbed a pint glass—scratched but clean—and drew the beer. He was dressed head-to-toe in black. With his chiseled features, clear blue eyes and straight, medium-brown hair, Marty was classically good-looking. He had no visible scars, although plenty were hidden under his black attire. Russ had never been as good-looking. He was beefier, and more of his scars were visible, if from minor injuries. His eyes were a darker blue. A scary blue, a former girlfriend had told him. He didn’t know what that meant, but she’d insisted it wasn’t bad.
Marty slid the beer across the worn bar. “All set to head east?”
“As ready as I’m going to get. You still okay with driving me to the airport?”
“Yep. No worries.”
Russ didn’t see any sign of worry in his brother’s face, but Marty had been taking acting lessons. He didn’t like airports and anything that flew except birds and bugs, and not all of them. But it wasn’t something the two of them talked about. Ever.
“Daphne offered to drive me,” Russ said. “I declined.”
“She told me. Smart move on your part. She’d throw her back out driving your Rover. We’d never hear the end of it. I suppose she could take her car and leave the Rover with me, but I don’t see how that would get you to LAX alive. She tootles around here in that sporty little thing she drives, but I doubt she’s driven on a big highway in years.”
“It’s hard to tell with her.”
“I bet she’d have her own driver all the time if she could afford it. She must do all right, but no way does she have that kind of money.” Marty paused to take an order from another customer, then grabbed a pint glass and poured another beer. “It’s cool she likes this place.”
And because she did, Russ thought, he was working with Sawyer & Sawyer as an investigator, living in Julius’s guest room and on his way to Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. Russ had met Daphne when he’d come up from San Diego in February to check on Marty, make sure he wasn’t living under a bridge. She’d been sitting two stools down from where he was now, drinking a French martini and bitching about some nonexistent problem. She’d found out Russ was just out of the navy, doing security and investigative work on his own in San Diego, and put him in touch with Julius.
“This place suits Daphne’s contrary nature,” Russ said.
“She likes to surprise people. Also I make a damn fine French martini, if I do say so myself.”
Three young women came in and ordered margaritas, laughing and chatting about their plans for the evening as they sat on stools down from Russ. He left his brother to his work and took his beer to a small booth. He ordered fish tacos and settled in for the next hour, until Marty was free to take him to LAX. In exchange, he could use Russ’s Rover while he was back East.
After Russ finished his tacos, Marty delivered a fresh beer and set a squishy, tissue-wrapped package on the table. “A present for you. Don’t get taco grease on it.”
Russ unwrapped the tissue to reveal a well-made Hawaiian shirt. “It has palm trees on it, Marty.”
“Damn right. I figured now that you’re a real PI, you need your own Magnum, PI shirt, just like Tom Selleck in the ’80s—except you’re not as tall as he is and you don’t have his sense of humor.”
“I don’t live in Hawaii, either.”
Marty grinned. “A little devil-may-care attitude wouldn’t hurt you, Russ. Selleck was about your age when he was playing Magnum.”
“Thanks, Marty. A Hawaiian shirt with palm trees on it won’t stick out at all in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.”
“Go ahead, little brother. Put it on while I finish up.”
Russ held up the shirt after Marty disappeared behind the bar. The palm trees were relatively muted. What the hell. It would make Marty happy for him to wear it, and it would be comfortable on the long overnight flight across the continent.
He changed in the men’s room. When he got back to his booth, Marty was ready. “Looks great. You want to finish your beer or head out now?”
“Now’s fine. Thanks for the shirt, Marty. I feel cool.”
His brother laughed. “You are the definition of cool. Come on. Let’s get you to the airport.”
* * *
Marty drove. He hadn’t had any alcohol, and he wasn’t distracted by the prospect of spending the next few days in a little New England town to make sure Daphne Stewart could do her master class without incident. Not that anyone—Daphne included—was concerned or had any reason to believe there would be an incident.
Russ grimaced at the prospect of wasting the next few days of his life, but he said nothing.
“I’m buying a car,” Marty said. “A friend is giving me a good deal on a clunker. All I need.”
“You’ve managed to get where you need to go without a car.”
“Friends, Uber and public transportation. It’ll be good to have wheels for a few days. I won’t take off up the Pacific Coast Highway, though. Promise.”
“I recorded the mileage.”
“Of course you did.”
Russ hadn’t, which Marty knew, but it was the game they played with each other. Marty, the irresponsible dreamer. Russ, the feet-flat-on-the-ground military type.
Wasn’t that far off from the truth.
“Have you decided to take a permanent position with Sawyer & Sawyer?” Marty asked.
“I’m there now. That’s all I know.”
“You can’t camp out at Julius Hartley’s place forever. Unless the daughter who’s buying it is available?”
Russ wasn’t going there. He had no interest in either of Julius’s daughters. “Right now I’m focused on this trip.”
“I thought you’d worm your way out of this one. Daphne’s got you by the short hairs, doesn’t she?”
“She’s a valued client and a good friend.”
Marty sputtered into laughter. “You just did the civilian version of saluting smartly. Daphne’s great, but she knows how to get what she wants. Think she’ll go through with this class in this little town? We have a pool going at the bar. Most of us think she’ll twist an ankle or get a sinus infection to find some way out of it.”
“I resist any urge to predict her behavior. She’s talking about helping to start a children’s theater in Knights Bridge.”
“With the theater-major twins? Seriously? Where’s the start-up money coming from? Don’t let Daphne fool you. I’ve seen her calculate a tip. She’s careful with a buck.”
“I’m not getting mixed up in what happens with this theater.”
“You always were the smart brother.”
When Marty pulled up to the appropriate terminal, he had a death grip on the wheel but otherwise seemed okay being this close to aircraft. He cleared his throat and turned to Russ. “I’m doing fine, Russ. I mean it. Don’t insult me by worrying about me.”
“What makes you think I’m worrying about you?”
