* * *
“Whydoyou look so good?”Riley asked him as they headed north on Route 83, leaving the city in the rearview mirror.
“You make it sound like I never look good,” Nick complained. Alistair had failed to mention the attention putting effort into his appearance would garner. “What am I? Some unwashed hideous troll?”
She snorted. “You know you’re hot. Quit being weird about it. I just want to know why you’re extra hot.”
Extra hot. Maybe he wouldn’t toss the shirt and shoes in the dumpster.
“I’m not being weird. You’re the one who tried to burn down a farmers’ market.”
“I was just trying to be nice to Gabe and do a favor for Kellen, and the situation spiraled out of control.”
“Maybe next time try being nice in a way that doesn’t get the cops called,” he suggested.
“I’ll do my best. How did it go over at Rupley’s? Did you find the cat?”
“Even better.” He filled her in on the video doorbell shenanigans and the neighbors.
“Oh my God. You got Alistaired!” she said in delight.
“You say that like it’s a thing.”
“It’s totally a thing. He’s a legend with the single male population. One of the guys I worked with at SHART got a divorce and spent six months moping around until someone introduced him to Alistair. Next thing you know, he’s wearing shirts without coffee stains, growing a beard, and styling his hair. His wife took him back, and he quit his job so they could travel the country in an Air Stream.”
“We wouldn’t survive Burt’s farts in an Air Stream.”
“I think you can look good and hang on to your present living situation,” she told him.
He picked up her hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “You look good too.”
She looked down at her shorts and tank top. “Not Alistair good.”
* * *
Cindy McShillens livedin a beige Cape Cod on a hill that would have overlooked the river if it weren’t for the nudie bars and sketchy massage parlor blocking the view. Duncannon, Pennsylvania, was known for its plethora of strip clubs and “She’s somebody’s daughter” billboards.
“How did you know we were in trouble today?” Riley asked as he signaled the turn into the McShillens driveway.
“Call it boyfriend’s intuition.”
“Maybe my psychic powers are rubbing off on you,” she teased.
The woman who answered the door was short, Black, and dressed in biker shorts and a t-shirt that said Coffee First. She had a toddler on her hip and two scruffy mutts with wagging tails at her ankles. “You two don’t look like my grocery delivery,” she observed.
“Mrs. McShillens, I’m Nick Santiago, private investigator. I have a few questions for you about your coworker Larry Rupley.”
“Ugh. That guy. Come on in,” she said, stepping back from the door. The dogs bulleted into the yard to sniff the Jeep’s tires.
“Is it the groceries, babe?” a man called from the back of the house.
“No! It’s a PI who wants to talk about that asshole from work.”
“Asshole!” the toddler chirped. Her dark hair was styled into a series of perky pigtails that bounced when she shook her head.
“Dammit. I forgot you started repeating everything I say,” Cindy groaned. “Don’t say that word, Maxine.”
“Asshole,” the toddler said amicably and stretched her chubby arms out to Nick.
