“Friendship only for the next two years,” I said.
Oliver nodded, his ears turning crimson. “Totally agree. Is she going to work here, too?”
Clark and I couldn’t afford to hire another teenager—or anybody for that matter. “No. She’s just here until we figure out a good place for her to live,” I said, having already left a message on my aunt’s cell phone. If Aunt Yara couldn’t take Violet, I’d figure something else out.
Oliver looked at my aching cheekbone. “I should’ve asked. How’d you get this shiner?”
It was a sad fact that my having a bruised face didn’t faze him in the slightest. “Got into a brawl with a guy named Crackle.”
Oliver’s eyebrow rose. “Gut feeling is that you should never fight physically with a guy named Crackle.” He leaned to the side, studying my face. “The yellowing is good—shows it’ll heal fast.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Oliver winced. “Has Aiden killed him?”
“What makes you think I haven’t killed him?” I reached for my half full mug of coffee.
“You would’ve led with that fact,” Oliver said wisely.
He wasn’t wrong. I sipped. “Aiden wasn’t happy, but he realized that he’s an ATF agent and can’t just go kill people. However, I have a plan to turn Crackle in as soon as I take care of a couple of things.”
“Like Violet?”
Yeah, Oliver was no dummy. “Yes. Like Violet.”
The blue in Oliver’s eyes stood out against his pale skin once his blush retreated. “If this law thing doesn’t work out, maybe you could start a business where you find strays places to live—like you did for me.”
I grinned. Oliver had been arrested for trespass on a farmer’s land, and it turned out both the farmer and Oliver were alone in life and could use help, and now Oliver lived on the farm. What he didn’t know was that the farmer had recently changed his will to leave Oliver millions someday, hopefully in the far, far future. It was odd how life turned out. “I’m glad things have worked out for you.”
“I owe you,” Oliver said, turning as voices could be heard. “Sounds like your client is here.” He opened the door and hustled down the hallway, skipping Violet’s office as he did so.
Then he led Bernie and Florence back. They were holding hands and giggling as they sat on my two guest chairs.
I sighed.
Bernie frowned, his comb-over neater than usual. Today he wore pressed brown slacks beneath a blue vest. “What happened to your face?” His chest puffed up like he was a Silverback ready to rumble.
I waved a hand in the air. “You should see the other moron.” Then I took in Florence’s flushed face. She looked lovely today in a pale green pantsuit with a pink silk scarf knotted at her neck. “Please tell me you two haven’t been all over town holding hands,” I said.
Bernie’s bushy eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Of course we have. We found each other again.” He leaned toward her, happiness in his faded eyes. “We’re taking it slow. Well, kind of.”
Florence released his hand. “We thought you’d be happy for us.”
I sat back, not wanting to squelch their happiness. “Bernie is the main suspect in a murder involving your ex-fiancé, the man who left you millions as an inheritance. You can see that this might look bad to the prosecuting attorney’s office, not to mention a jury someday?”
Florence fluttered her hands together in her lap, flashing several sparkly rings. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She settled. “Have you found out any information about this Sharon Smith?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “I’ll speak with the detective later today, and if he doesn’t have any information, I may call in a private detective.”
“Oh, I already have,” Florence said, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling. “I can check with them, or you can, I guess.” She dug through her handbag, pulling out her wallet, lipstick, and a brush before snagging a business card to hand over. “There you go. I have several because I said I’d hand them out all over town.”
“Great.” I took the card. While I normally used my great-uncles, several times removed, it was always good to know another private detective. Until I looked at the card. The front was pink with lime green squiggles, and the words ‘Hawk Investigations’ in electric blue in a fancy font. It looked like it had been printed on an older dot printer. The number at the bottom looked familiar.
My stomach sank. “Please tell me—”
“Yes,” Florence said in a rush. “Can you believe it? Thelma and Georgiana have started a detective agency. I think you inspired them.”
“Me?” I asked weakly.
