- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN -
COSTELLO
“Is this maple syrup?” Gina gasped as we climbed out of the white Charger.
“Oh, that’s yours, yeah.” Scotch said it distantly, and I attributed her mood to what we’d just been through. Nearly dying would traumatize anyone.
“Thank you!” she gushed. “Do you think your mom’ll have any of those bear claws hanging around? I always loved those with maple syrup.”
Scotch shot her a look . . . then me. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
Together we stepped through the powdery snow toward the front door. I didn’t think going to Scotch’s mother’s house was the best idea. However . . . I didn’t have a better solution.
Scotch had broken it down convincingly enough: No one knew who she was, no one would know to follow us here. We could recover and make a plan without being hunted. Considering I was sure my father was about to turn on me when he heard what I’d done . . . we really needed a base to work from.
On the doorknob hung a red ribbon. A gigantic wreath covered most of the stained glass window. The house was quaint and warm looking, even from where we stood in the freshly falling snow. It had been coming down since we left my condo, and though we hadn’t driven long, the ground was coated with icy whiteness.
Clearing her throat, Scotch let us in without knocking. The smell of powdered sugar invaded my nose. Around the edges was that heavy fried smell that comes from fast food. There were white boxes piled around the doorway, and on the coat hooks were several aprons in various pastel colors.
“Her mom’s a baker,” Gina said, kicking snow off her boots. “Best doughnuts in town.”
“The best?” I mused, looking down at the blank boxes. The best doughnuts are supposed to come from Sweet Staples. I’d never been; it was a known cop hangout. The exact kind of place I avoided.
Scotch made a tiny noise beside me. “Costello, maybe I should tell you something.”
“Jimmy?” a feminine voice called. “That you?”
“No, it’s us!” Gina shouted back.
All three of us were squished in the tiny hallway, so when the tall woman—who was clearly the source of Scotch’s height—came around the corner, we had nowhere to go. “Honey bun!” she squealed, rushing forward to grab Scotch in a hug. “I haven’t heard from you in a while! What’s been going on?”
“Mom,” Scotch laughed, blushing as she disengaged. “It’s only been what, five days?”
“More like three weeks!” Her kind brown eyes drifted to Gina, then to me. “Oh. Who’s this strapping young man?”
Gina giggled while Scotch went ever redder. “Mom, this is Costello. My . . .” I saw her gears working. “Boyfriend.”
Well, it’s only fair. She’d pretended to be dating me before. Fake or not, it gave me a thrill. “Hello there,” I said, offering my hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Costello?” the woman asked, blinking. Squeezing between the girls, she grabbed me in a tight hug. The same sugary smell permeated her—this was definitely the mystery scent on Scotch. “Call me Margie. It’s great to meet you! You’re just in time for dinner, come sit down. Heather’s uncle and father should arrive soon.”
Scotch turned pale. “Are they both coming over?”
“Of course, of course. Come,” Margie said, waving us into a kitchen that tested the limits of bird-covered wallpaper. A round table was set up with three place mats. “I’ll go and get more plates, hang on.”
Sitting down, I studied the room. There were porcelain cows and roosters all over, magnets covering every inch of the fridge. Photos of Scotch were in abundance—alone or with Gina. There were also a massive number of Margie with some man I assumed was her husband.
Everything about this place screamed warm and welcoming . . . so why couldn’t I shake the bristling part of my brain that said something was wrong? Scotch kept giving me wary looks she thought I didn’t notice. That had to be the source of my unease. Something had her nerves going haywire.
“Sorry I’m late!” a coarse, familiar voice called from down the hall. “Got a call about gunshots downtown. Some guys shot up a place, but no bodies reported, so I let the boys handle it. Smells like tomatoes in here. You making spaghetti again, Margie?”
No, I thought, even as the man I’d never expected to see rounded the corner. He was more mustache than chin, a big man made bigger by a heavy winter jacket. His laughter died in his throat the second he spotted me sitting at the kitchen table.
Detective Stapler. A member of the local PD and very familiar with me and my family.
“You,” he choked, backing into the coffeepot on the counter. “What the hell are you doing in my sister’s house?”
Ever so slowly I looked over at Scotch. She was sitting straight as a razor, her hands clasped together on the table. Her smile was huge and fake. “Uh,” she said, clearing her throat. “Costello, this is my uncle Jimmy. Uncle . . . this is Costello Badd—”
“I know who he is!” the detective interrupted.
“My boyfriend,” she finished.
Watching the cop turn purple took the edge off my anger. Not enough of it, though. “Boyfriend!” he gasped, clutching his chest. “Heather, what—You know who this man is! I know you know! How could you possibly date him?”
Margie swung back into the room, her round cheeks glowing with joy. “Jimmy, you’re here. I was just getting more plates when I realized I needed more dessert for everyone, too, so I went to grab cupcakes from out in the van and that snow is really . . . Jimmy, why do you look like you’ve got the flu?”
Gina’s eyes were darting all over like Ping-Pong balls. She’d known from the start that I wouldn’t appreciate this; so had the woman beside me.
“Scotch,” I said politely, “can we talk outside for a second?”
Her teeth could have cracked with how tight her smile went. “Why, no, because my sweet mother is about to bring us dinner, and it’d break her heart to have it go cold.”
Stapler was still leaning on the counter. “Margie . . . did you know your daughter was dating the oldest son of the Badds?”
All color drained from the larger woman’s face. “So that’s why his name was familiar. I thought . . . with that scar, but . . . but there’s no way . . .” She bit her lip. “Your father is going to kill you, honey bun.”
“Her dad’s an ex-cop,” Gina explained helpfully.
Everyone was staring at Scotch. One by one she met their gazes; then, breathing through her nose, she rose to her feet. “I’d love to explain myself,” she said, “but Costello mentioned something about stepping outside, so . . . I’ll just go do that.”
It took all of my control to rise up and follow her. Stapler had his eyes fixed on me the whole time.