He smiles at me, and that’s when it clicks. An icy current darts down my spine.
“No, you’re not,” I say. “You’re the library guy.”
Grant shifts in my periphery, still reaching into his jacket. “Who?”
“The guy Jack knew, who let us into the library. He works there. He’s not a detective. He’s anaccomplice.”
Lesley chuckles. “And what a testament to my undercover work that you think so. I do hope you’ll review me on Yelp. But no, I was not helping Jack, and I don’t work there.”
“Yes, you do! I saw you. You had a badge and everything.”
He reaches into his pocket for something. “You mean this?” He tosses it at me and I snatch it from the air.
I peer at the words printed on the card, slightly off-center, and read them aloud.“‘Boxton Pubic Libary’?”
Lissa sighs. “Best I could do on short notice. Anyway, no one notices the little details in the moment.”
Lesley grins at me. “You certainly didn’t. Jack didn’t.” I fling the name tag back, aiming for his face. To my dismay, he catches it handily. “Tell me, whereisthe backstabbing bookish bastard?”
I square my shoulders. “He was given a one-way tour of Ipswich Bay,” I say, trying to sound threatening even as Grant audibly shudders. But Lesley and Lissa just look impressed.
“Right on,” says Lesley. “Listen, much to discuss, and we’ll get to it all. But I assure you, we’re on your side. We’re trying to take these arseholes down.”
Arseholes, plural? An uneasy feeling snakes through my gut.
Grant shifts on his feet, but doesn’t move his hand. “Who are you with, MI5?”
Lesley frowns. “Er, not strictly speaking, no.”
“FBI?”
“God, no.”
There’s a pause. Grant takes a steadying breath laced with dread, as if he knows the answer to his next question could be the end of life as he knows it.
“Are you,” he asks slowly, “a quirky private detective in over his head and desperately in need of our help?”
Lesley’s face lights up. “Bang on! Well done.”
Grant drops his empty hand from his jacket and turns toward me.
“Fine,” he mumbles, resigned. “We’re in a novel.”
CHAPTER NINE
It was Lesley’s idea to hold our briefing session at the nearest Dunkin’. It’s Grant’s fault that we agreed and are now sitting numbly among shocks of hot pink and neon orange, waiting for Lesley to finish slurping his entire iced latte in one go.
Back in the alley, we deliberated behind Jack’s broken-down car while Lesley and Lissa waited on the sidewalk.
“Trust them?” I hissed at Grant. “Did your brain fall out on the highway? What happened to the guy who would rather babysit his cat than actually face our problems?”
“Leave Arthur out of this. Also, it’s not babysitting if it’smycat. Andalso, there’s a big difference between agreeing to a coffee meeting and becoming an international fugitive.”
To my chagrin, this was where he finally played the story-structure-expert card. It was allegedly too soon for us to come face-to-face with the Big Bad Guy, but could be right about time for us to cross paths with a mentor or ally of some kind. A zany private detective and his sunny assistant would fit the bill, even if they did spend the last half hour shooting at us.
So we came to an agreement: First we’ll do the part of thebook where we hear these people out. Then I get to decide if it’s the part where I throat-punch them.
Lesley’s coffee slurping has me considering skipping to that part early. I promised Grant I would at least listen to what he has to say, but I can’t shake my skepticism. Between his expensive-looking clothing and his shaggy gray hair, this man looks more like a retired rock star than a private detective. And his assistant, with her space buns and lime-green fur-trimmed jacket, looks like she’s running thirty years late for the Spice Girls open call. It’s a lot, even for a romance author with a love of whimsy.
