Nothing but Trouble Read online

  “Peej, it’s gorgeous outside. I just got the bike out. How can you even think of being inside on a day like today?” He stepped back, arms wide, his smile every inch trouble, eyes twinkling, his bronze hair already kissed by the sun. “Skip school with me.”

  Indeed, heat had slithered into the hallways on rays of summer sun. From far away, the school buzzer sounded.

  “I’m late.” The words resounded outside her body, as if someone else might be reminding her of the PJ she knew she should be, the PJ who should fight to extricate herself from Boone’s magnetic pull. She managed to turn away, and as she did, the hallway bowed, as if made of gelatin. She took another step; it wobbled, and she ricocheted off the lockers.

  Boone’s hand closed around her arm.

  “I’m late!” Did she yank her arm away? The floor now sucked at her feet, and she pulled each step out with a slurping sound. Sweat slicked her forehead, dripped off her brow.

  The buzzer sounded again.

  “I’m late!” She threw herself into Hoffman’s classroom, landing hard on her knees. Her books bounced against her stomach, ripping at her breath.

  “No! No! No!”

  Mr. Hoffman stood over her, his mouth open—the words must be coming from him, but his lips didn’t move—his dark eyes wide upon her. As she stared at him, his eyes filled and he began to cry, thick crimson tears that dribbled down his chin and splashed on the black-and-white tiled floor, over her books, pooling at her knees.

  PJ held out her palm. No, not tears. Blood.

  She screamed, thrashed awake, and sat up fast. The force slammed her against the little assailant sitting on her knees, bouncing. They smacked foreheads and he rolled off the bed and landed on the floor.

  “Ow!”

  Davy wailed, staring at her like she’d tried to murder him. He scrambled to his feet and ran. “I hate you! I hate you!”

  PJ held her hand to her forehead, trying to sort dream from reality.

  Her white curtains hung limp in the windless morning. Sweat dribbled down between her shoulder blades. A bird chirruped, late, late, late.

  Her breathing motored to idle. A dream. Just a dream brought on by shock.

  Next to her, on the bedside table, her radio buzzed. She slapped at it and realized she must have done that in her early morning daze because it read half-past the hour.

  Awww. . . . “Davy! We’re late!”

  Throwing off her comforter, she ran to his room. He crouched before his PlayStation, still sniffing. He cut his eyes to her with a look that read betrayal. Tears dribbled down his cheeks.

  It hit her then. He’d been on her bed. Trying to wake her? “Davy . . . are you okay?” She knelt beside him, reached out to push away his hair, survey the bump. He jerked away. “Was I having a bad dream?”

  He wiped his snotty nose on the sleeve of his pajamas.

  “Were you trying to wake me up, buddy?”

  Slowly he put down his controller, drew up his legs tight against his chest, and locked his arms around them. He nodded without meeting her eyes.

  PJ sat back on the floor next to him and touched his ankle. “No oatmeal this morning for heroes. How about some Cap’n Crunch?”

  He picked up the controller, gave another swipe across his nose, and nodded.

  “Listen—let’s race. Get dressed and the first one downstairs wins.”

  His thumbs continued pounding at the buttons. But his eyes caught hers. PJ slid her feet underneath her, poised like a runner. “Ready. Set . . .”

  He sprang to his feet and ran to his clothes, neatly laid out the night before.

  PJ took off for her room.

  Davy beat her downstairs (but only because she stood in her doorway waiting) and she poured him a bowl of cereal. She made coffee, leaning a hip against the counter as she watched him, his hair still wrecked from sleep, a line of milk drizzling down his chin. He occasionally looked up, then, as if caught stealing something, sank his face back into the bowl.

  PJ packed his lunch box with a cheese sandwich and a Rice Krispies Treat and herded him out of the house. He kicked her only once, as she helped him into the car. The sprinklers showered her windshield as she pulled into the loading zone.

  “That’s two tardies, Miss Sugar.”

  “Yeah, but note the missing Superman pants,” PJ said, giving Ms. Nicholson a wink as Davy ran past them to class without a good-bye.

  At least they’d avoided the pre-school sumo wrestling today. Behind Davy’s anger, the stolen looks, the kicks to her shin, she’d recognized something vaguely familiar. Panic, maybe. Or even desperation. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it niggled at her, right alongside her thoughts of Boone, her mother, and of course, poor Ernie Hoffman.

  The sun blasted out of the sky, hot and stinging, as she drove home from Fellows. She made the mistake of angling around the beach, and an old hunger stirred inside. First thing on the agenda for the morning—a tan. Then maybe she’d have the internal fortification to return to her mother’s and begin the Great Sort. She still didn’t know what to do with the feelings evoked by seeing the pristine, almost mausoleum condition of her room.

  And after her nightmare, she needed to dig her toes into the warm sanity of the coarse Kellogg beach and lie with her eyes closed, letting her brain stop its crazy whirring.

  She’d circled the question all night—obviously long enough to let it embed her dreams: who would have killed good old Ernie Hoffman? The man didn’t have a mean mitochondria in his body, as evidenced not only by his generosity of spirit at her return but his kindness the night of the fire.

  No, Hoffman wasn’t a person with a black book of enemies.

  PJ flinched as she recalled the conversation with her mother yesterday after Elizabeth had told her the news.

  “Ernie Hoffman, my old history teacher?” PJ had hung on the door, absorbing her mother’s words. “When? How?”

  “Today, apparently. His daughter-in-law found him. And—” Elizabeth lowered her voice—“his neck was broken.”

  “Are there any suspects, any clues?”

  “I don’t know, PJ; I’m not a detective.” Her mother shook her head.

  And that’s when things turned south, thanks to PJ’s sudden inability to keep a secret. “I saw him yesterday at the wedding. Did you hear about Jack Wilkes shoving him into the country club pool?”

  Her mother hadn’t blinked, hadn’t moved at the name.

  “Jack Wilkes is Trudi’s husband.”

  “Your . . . friend Trudi, from high school?” She said it like she might be talking about a fatal disease, with the accompanying expression.

  “Yes, Mom, that Trudi.”

  Elizabeth had risen, smoothed her pants. “Well, that explains it, then. I always knew she was trouble.” She’d brushed past a speechless PJ and gone back to work.

  Tried and convicted by Elizabeth Sugar.

  Yes, definitely, PJ needed the beach and soon.

  She arrived home and sprang up the stairs, donned her swimsuit and grabbed her towel, Connie’s daily edition of the Kellogg Press, and a highlighter.

  She fully planned on being gainfully employed by the time Connie returned. Employed and perhaps not homeless.

  She did a quick but less than committed search through the house for the internationals. The house was blessedly quiet.

  Shoving a lawn chair into the backseat of the Bug, she left the house and in moments pulled up to the Kellogg beach. It couldn’t be called large—more of a strip of sand and grass fortified by two tall lifeguard stands—white skeletons against the pale sky—and a still-closed snack stand. Behind the beach, cordoned off by a small bridge, an inlet blanketed by lily pads, corralled kayaks, canoes, and skiffs tethered to stakes and buoys.

  PJ parked her car and pulled out her paraphernalia, then stood at the edge of the sand and took in the panorama of memories, from early childhood swimming lessons to middle school mortification to high school mischief.

  And of course, nearl
y every one of those memories included Boone.

  She picked a spot near the middle, free from shadows, unfolded her lawn chair, whipped off her T-shirt, and lathered on the coconut suntan oil.

  There was little in the way of options in the employment ads. Waitstaff at Sunsets Supper Club and a cook at Hal’s Pizzeria. Security person needed at the bank and a home health aid listing.

  She sighed, closing the paper. Frankly she’d easily qualify for any of those jobs—she’d worked for six months as a receptionist in a swank Vegas spa. And with her stint as a stunt girl and her spotty knowledge of tae kwon do, she could probably land the bank position. But most likely, she’d find herself listing off the daily specials and filling cocktail orders at Sunsets.

  Joe would probably still take her on. He’d liked her even after she dumped the roasted chicken with gravy into Craig Shuman’s lap. Didn’t even bat an eye when she pointed out that Craig deserved it.

  She leaned back, closed her eyes, and let the sun caress her face. A lazy day was spooling out before her, and for the first time in over a decade, calm seeped into her bones, and finally she could breathe, could allow the wind into her lungs slowly. No more gulping, as if running hard behind the pack.

  Home sweet home.

  “I thought I’d find you here.”

  The voice carried the sultry tone of a thousand memories, none of which she wanted to infect her beautiful day. “Go away.”

  “Can’t. I’m on official business.”

  PJ opened her eyes. Boone stood over her, his dark shadow cutting across her legs. He looked on the job in a blue dress shirt that probably turned his blue eyes into lethal weapons. The silver badge on his belt glinted shiny and bright like a medal. As usual, just seeing him curled a wave of emotion through her, not all of it painful. Someday her heart and her head were just going to have to learn to communicate.

  “Are you stalking me?” PJ pushed up on one elbow.

  “I might start.”

  “Hey. Eyes up here, pal.” She grabbed her shirt and draped it over her.

  He smiled. “Miss me?”

  She leaned out of his shadow and cupped her hand to shade her vision. “What’s your name again?”

  “Lieutenant Buckam to you, ma’am.”

  PJ laughed and then cringed. She had to be tougher than this. “You’re cutting off my sun. Now I’m going to have a stripe.” She lay back down, closing her eyes to his imposing drama. “Really, go away.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Are you on beach patrol or something? bothering the locals?” She waved her hand at him, dismissing. “Fetch me a lemonade, then.”

  He stood there, saying nothing. She peeked open an eye just in time to see him slip on his silver sunglasses. They hid his eyes and elicited the smallest burst of rebellious disappointment.

  Oh, she was such a slower learner.

  “Put some clothes on. I can’t bring you down to the station like that. The guys won’t be able to keep their eyes in their heads.”

  “Hah! Like I’m going anywhere with you. Besides, are you arresting me?” She let out a laugh that was part disbelief, part righteous anger. “That’s uncannily perfect. I’d bet you’d just love to put handcuffs on me. Better yet, march me right out of town.”

  She didn’t know when her tone had changed from humor to hurt, but there it hung between them, their past, bruised and bleeding.

  PJ looked away, clenching her jaw, blinking, refusing to cushion the silence.

  Boone stood above her, his chest rising once, twice. “The last thing I want to do is run you out of town. Or arrest you.”

  His words were a splinter, driving through the hard places to the tender flesh beneath.

  “But I do have to ask you to come down to the station with me because . . . we have a problem.”

  “I’m pretty sure there’s a statute of limitations on—”

  “No, I’m not talking about the incident at the country club or Hinton’s pontoon boat.”

  Oh yeah. She’d forgotten about the time they’d borrowed her neighbor’s pontoon boat.

  “Why bother me, then?”

  Boone held out his hand to help her up.

  She ignored his help and stood, then took off her sunglasses and pulled her T-shirt over her head. It stuck to her skin.

  He folded up her chair and draped her towel over his shoulder. “It’s about your . . . uh . . . houseguest.”

  * * *

  Public lewdness?

  PJ stared at the charge sheet, then back at Boone. He cracked a mocking smile and she teetered one nerve short of decking him. “Oh, this is fun for you, isn’t it? Just a laugh fest.”

  “Well . . . maybe. I mean, don’t you think it’s just a little ironic? Especially for me, a guy who knows your history. What is this, something that runs in your family?”

  “Hush up. I’m sure they still have your records somewhere.” PJ glowered at him, as if she just might sprint past him into the files and dig up his rap sheet.

  Still, being here at the police station, with its cool marble, the wanted pictures wallpapering the bulletin board, the phone jangling behind the glass partition, gave her the smallest of chills. Or maybe it was standing in her swimsuit, smelling of coconut, her skin prickling against the full blast of the air conditioner.

  She certainly didn’t appreciate the look Rosie the desk clerk gave her as Boone escorted her in, his hand cupping her elbow, as if she might be the suspect.

  Boone closed his mouth, but a ghost of a smirk remained.

  “He’s not family.” PJ peered past Boone to Boris, wearing a towel—and little else—and sitting on a chair in Boone’s office, his bare feet planted. “Can’t you give him your jacket or some pants or something?”

  Boone raised an eyebrow as if she’d asked him to hand over the keys to his motorcycle—did he still have a motorcycle?—or perhaps his beloved Mustang convertible.

  “He looks cold.”

  “He should. He’s in his birthday suit.”

  “Maybe he was hot. It’s a hot day out.”

  “Is that your excuse?” Boone ran those pale eyes over her again and she tugged at the bottom of her T-shirt.

  “How much for bail?”

  Boris lifted his head, as though just hearing her voice, his chiseled face stony, revealing nothing. She guessed that he’d already revealed too much for the day. Oh, she shouldn’t be laughing. This cut way too close to her own greatest fears.

  “He’s not officially arrested yet.” Boone lowered his voice to gossip level. “Actually this is the third time we’ve hauled him in. I think Mrs. Cartwright must be standing at her bathroom window, her thumb poised over the speed dial to the station. The guy was still chanting when we got there. Hadn’t even gotten to the baptism part.”

  “Baptism?” PJ’s voice matched Boone’s, and Rosie shot them a look. Yeah, look out, Kellogg. Boone and PJ are up to their old tricks—someone get a fire extinguisher. She resisted the urge to stick out her tongue.

  She could admit, however, that the old electricity sizzled just under her skin, especially when Boone bent close and whispered into her ear, jump-starting her heartbeat.

  “After the first arrest I went online, did a little research. Evidently there’s a Russian religion that requires all their members to douse themselves with cold water every morning—”

  “In the nude?” PJ valiantly attempted to purge from her mind any accompanying mental picture.

  Boone raised his eyebrows.

  PJ stepped away, crossing her arms. “I don’t know Mrs. Cartwright yet, but I’m thinking I’m going to have to make a neighborly visit with homemade cookies. Seriously, though, don’t we have some privacy in our own backyard?”

  “Maybe you can put up a little beach umbrella?”

  “Oh, very helpful.” PJ ran a hand around the back of her neck, squeezed a tight muscle. Her skin felt hot and greasy from the sun. “Is he under arrest? Do I have to post bail?” Restocking Connie’s
barren pantry had taken her pocket cash, and she was still waiting on her final check from the Shrimp Shack. If bail was more than $37.53, then Boris was going to have a nice long sit in the pokey.

  Maybe, however, jail was the safest place for him.

  “No, you can take him home. Just no . . .”

  “Sunbathing?”

  Boone nodded, too much humor in his eyes for her good as he opened the door for Boris. PJ averted her gaze as the man strutted past her, his chin up. Oy, as Vera would say.

  “By the way, he seemed pretty upset when we brought him in. Kept repeating the word kid. . . . Is David okay?”

  PJ stared at him, shaken as much by his tone as his question. “Yeah. I mean . . . how do you know Davy?”

  Boone’s eyes gentled. “I was on duty when they found your sister’s husband.”

  Oh. The cold floor radiated through her flip-flops as she stood there, contemplating all she’d missed. “Boris was surfing the net last night. . . . I thought he was looking to buy . . .” Her own stupidity grabbed her around the throat, tightening it. “Obviously he wanted a present for Davy. I guess I owe him an apology.”

  She turned to go, but Boone reached out. His touch on her arm sent a jolt of warmth, a hot mix of danger and exhilaration she thought she’d left in the corridors of Kellogg High.

  “I’m going to call you, you know.”

  She swallowed, caught in Boone’s heartbreaking expression.

  Her lips parted to say no, but nothing emerged.

  PJ shook herself free and ran out after Boris.

  * * *

  Cheese Nips could be counted as grains and proteins. At least that’s what PJ told herself as Davy turned his nose up at the chicken nuggets she heated for him. She’d managed to negotiate three into his stomach before ransoming the crackers into his possession. He grabbed the box and sat down on the floor.

  “I know your mother doesn’t let you eat like this, Davy. We’re going to have to come to some understanding here.” She could be speaking through a wall of ten-inch glass for all the acknowledgment he gave. She had held on to a vibrant hope that they experienced a breakthrough that morning. Not only had she awakened some sort of affection from him—after all, he’d been trying to rouse her from her nightmare when she bashed him in the head—but they’d gone the entire ride to school without him screaming once.