Treasure Me Read online

  “Blossom, my situation is different.” It was the most simplistic explanation she could muster. “My dad has… problems.”

  Concern puckered Blossom’s brows. “He sounded confused on the phone. He must be pretty old, right?” She slipped her hand beneath the curly mass of her hair and tapped her temple with charming concern. “Is it his head?”

  More like his heart, but there was no way to explain. “He’s not senile, if that’s what you mean.”

  She stared at the girl who liked to torment her, a teenager who suddenly looked older, more compassionate. Then Meade’s vision began to blur and anguish filled her soul.

  She looked out over the years and saw the lake. How she’d stood on the pier with desperation churning her blood and her throat hoarse from arguing. The waters were frighteningly calm beneath a sky thick with clouds. The wind rose up. The air pressure sucked the wind into a fulcrum and Meade, with a mariner’s eye, looked north. Canada lay on the other side of this, the shallowest of the five Great Lakes. The waters of Lake Erie were warm, too warm, and autumn’s first blast was barreling down from the north.

  Please don’t go out on the lake. There’s a small craft advisory, a storm coming.

  But her mother wouldn’t listen. Cat pressed the envelope into Meade’s palm, the photographs that held proof of their ruined lives, and climbed into the skiff. Two boxes lay astern. No doubt Cat, always dramatic, planned to dump their contents into the waters. It never occurred to Meade that her beautiful, self-absorbed mother might also send herself to the bottom of the lake.

  “Meade?” Blossom placed tentative fingers on her arm, drawing her from the shore. “What are you thinking about?”

  Speechless, she struggled away from the lake with her heartbeat ringing in her ears.

  Chapter 4

  Birdie crossed her arms and surveyed Hugh’s mountain of luggage. “You sure don’t travel light,” she said.

  He shoved another suitcase inside the door. “If you’re a good girl, you can help unpack.” He slid the case beside the duffel bag he’d already deposited in the growing heap of luggage. Then he dug a wad of bills from the back pocket of his jeans. “I convinced Finney to return most of your money. Feel free to show your gratitude. I’m all yours.”

  Taking the cash, she stared at him pointedly. “Do you always flirt this much?”

  He kicked the door shut. “Only when I’m confident it’ll get on a woman’s nerves.”

  “You’ve hit the mark, pal.”

  Which wasn’t exactly true. Despite herself, Birdie found his come-ons amusing. She’d visualized the reporter who’d written about Blossom as much older and nothing like the testosterone-drenched hunk before her. The word journalist called up an image of a man with nose hair down to his lips and a cigar clenched between his teeth. Some guy older than Andy Rooney with Mike Wallace’s surly disposition. She certainly hadn’t been prepared for the real Hugh Schaeffer.

  With hair darker than midnight and eyes to match, he looked like Lucifer’s younger brother. His easy smile and faded jeans lent a careless sexuality and his houndstooth sports coat smelled enticingly of men’s cologne. Not that she’d dare have a fling with a guy who made a living exposing people’s secrets. She had enough skeletons to fill three closets. And send her down the river for five to ten.

  He peered in the kitchen before pausing in the living room. “We’re really moving up in the world. If this place were any smaller Thumbelina would feel crowded.”

  Following, she studied the frayed couch and mismatched curtains. She’d stayed in dozens of places like this but he seemed disenchanted with their new digs. As if she cared. “It’s not so bad.”

  “Whatever.” He started down the hallway. From over his shoulder he asked, “Will you tell me your name? I can’t stand the suspense.” When she did he added, “Where are you from, Birdie?”

  She heard him rattling drawers in the bedroom. “I’m from all over,” she called. “My family moved around a lot.”

  “Is your dad in the military?”

  Prison. “Something like that. Actually, I did the moving around with my mother.”

  When he grew silent she wandered back into the mini-foyer. A cream Nautica sweatshirt poked out of his duffel bag. It looked deliciously soft, and she’d been wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours. Shrugging out of her coat, she donned his sweatshirt then—bingo—found a pair of men’s boxer shorts further down in the bag. Peeling off her grungy jeans, she stepped into the boxers. Roomy… but nice.

  A guy as well groomed as Hugh probably owned more bath products than a diva. Crouching, she snapped open a suitcase.

  “I didn’t give you permission to rummage through my things.”

  She looked up. Hugh stood several feet away, scowling. “Do you have something to hide, Mr. Reporter?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Not today. By the way, where do you keep the bath gel and the toothpaste? It’ll save time if you tell me which suitcase to check.”

  “Cute. You’re a stand-up comic and a thief.”

  The last hit too close to home. “Like you said, I’m just rummaging.” She started to her feet with her chin tilted haughtily. “Can’t you share or what?”

  Hugh wasn’t listening. His devil dark gaze followed her ascent, the heat igniting in his expression making her ankles wobble. He zeroed in on her legs, naked below his skimpy boxers. Spots of color bled across his cheekbones.

  He swallowed. “My mistake. Rummage away.” Their gazes tangled, and a dangerously sexy grin eased onto his lips. Muttering a curse, he scrubbed his palms across his face. When he came up for air he’d replaced the grin with a look of distaste. “On second thought, stay out of my stuff and we’ll get along fine.”

  “Don’t hold back with the sweet talk.”

  “Cross me and there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Keep laying it on, dear.”

  Nearing, he wicked away her bravado with the advantage of height and a quiet and very masculine sort of impatience. “Ground rules,” he said, backing her into the wall. “I don’t have to share my stuff. We’re stuck together but I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to like you.” He scoured her face with disdain. “And, babe, if I decide to sweet talk you, you’ll know it.”

  She glared at him. The man had a short fuse—she’d have to watch her step. Sharing an apartment was a no-brainer, sure. If she spent the next week padding her pockets with his cash it would be all to the good. With luck, she’d find the portrait of Justice and follow the clues to the treasure, whatever it was. She’d make off with the loot without revealing any secrets.

  She’d also clean out Hugh.

  By the time he figured out what hit him, she’d be halfway across the country with a fortune in gold bullion or a cache of artwork. Or she’d make off with enough jewelry to live easy for years to come. She’d also snatch the best pickings from his gear and all of his cash.

  Even so, he was a reporter. He might start asking questions she didn’t dare answer.

  “Where’s your luggage?” he asked, as if on cue. “Still in your car?”

  * * *

  Three hours later, she escaped the apartment with her secrets intact. Hugh had peppered her with questions she avoided by darting into the bathroom to shower.

  When she returned, tingly and pink, they agreed they both needed a nap. Trying to earn points, she casually offered to let him have the bedroom. He was paying more rent, she said, plying him with a gracious tone so effervescent she swore her teeth might rot. Naturally, any decent guy would offer to camp on the couch while insisting the woman take the bedroom. A lady needed privacy to paint her toenails or sort through whatever items she’d stolen during the day’s work.

  It was a shock when he readily agreed to keep the bedroom, cementing his status as no gentleman.

  Not that she was a lady. And, with chivalry dead, when she awoke to his snoring drifting down the hallway she lifted a twenty from his wallet.

 
From the restaurant below, tantalizing scents wafted heavenward. At the bottom of the stairwell, she hesitated. The shouting inside the kitchen would send most people fleeing but she had a heist in her future and needed to locate the portrait of Justice. Drawing up her courage she hurried forward, only to discover smoke billowing from the massive stove in the center of the room. An old woman, oddly done up in her Sunday finery, was flapping her arms.

  “Hells bells! We’re doomed!” The ruffled sleeves of her dress brushed across veined wrists. “Quick—put it out!”

  Shoving the woman aside, Finney slammed a lid over the flames. “Didn’t I tell you to stay clear of my stove?”

  “You said nothing of the sort.”

  “You’re as deaf as a post. Back off, old fool. I’ve got red blazing before my eyes!”

  The cook’s tirade brought Birdie to a standstill. Finney Smith was fiery and attractive in a heavy-set sort of way, but she didn’t seem like the sort of woman to mess with. Her gaze settled on Birdie, who saluted.

  Finney gave a short nod of approval. “Tell me you’re working the dinner shift.”

  Birdie inched toward the dining room. “Um… I don’t start until tomorrow.”

  “You got an appointment somewhere in town?”

  She had an appointment to find the portrait of Justice, which probably didn’t count. “My social calendar is empty at the moment.”

  “Put on an apron, get out to the dining room and help Delia.” Finney grabbed the fluttering old woman by the shoulders. “Take this with you.”

  Birdie shrunk back. “What is it exactly?”

  “A thorn in my backside.” The cook prodded the woman forward. “This here is Ethel Lynn Percible. She’s been waiting tables and doing the books at The Second Chance since before you were born. Get her to retire and I’ll owe you.”

  Who worked rigged up in a daisy-dotted dress and a saucy church hat of pink velvet? “You mean she’ll be helping me and Delia out front?” Of course, there was an additional problem. Birdie had never waited tables in her life.

  Ethel Lynn’s hat slid sideways as she approached. Birdie stepped back. “Heavens, child, don’t be afraid of Finney’s bad temper. Why, she’s evil to the core but she won’t hurt you.”

  Finney leaned over the stove to check a bubbling pot. “I’d like to hurt you, old bat. Come near my stove again and I will.”

  “Idle threats.” The woman proffered her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I already know who you are, Birdie. What a delightful name.”

  “It’s short for Bertha.” Birdie grimaced. “My mother had a sick sense of humor.”

  “Apparently.” Ethel Lynn straightened her hat. “Why don’t you take your coat off, dear? Gracious, it’s awfully big for a slender girl like you.”

  From the stove, Finney waved a spatula like a sword. “There’s an extra uniform in the closet back there by the sink.”

  Worry rooted Birdie to the spot. Everything worth keeping was inside her coat: money sewn into the hem, tools of the criminal trade deftly hidden in secret pockets. The few private remnants of her life were also tucked inside. Complying with the command was not a good plan.

  “Why don’t I run back upstairs and leave my coat in the apartment?” As the words left her lips, she remembered Hugh, asleep upstairs. What if Mr. Reporter rifled through the pockets? “Nix that. I’ll keep it on.”

  Finney sliced the air with the spatula. “While you work? You’ll overheat.”

  “I’m cold—freezing, really.” She checked the closet and found a white shirt with black piping. There was also a black skirt sized for a much shorter woman. She held it up. “This skirt is too small. It’ll barely cover my ass.”

  Something in the cook’s expression warned she’d take enjoyment in stringing Birdie up if she didn’t get changed, and fast. Thankfully, the cook’s narrowed gaze returned to Ethel Lynn. Mortal enemies, those two. Birdie made a mental note never to be caught standing in front of Ethel Lynn if Finney was throwing cutlery.

  The cook marched across the room and grabbed Birdie by the shoulders. “Go. Hang up your crazy military garb. Put on the uniform. Now.”

  Several hours later, Birdie thought she’d run enough miles to qualify for a track and field event at the Olympics. An employee-training program didn’t exist at The Second Chance Grill—Delia thrust a pad into her fist and shoved her into the hungry mob.

  Which wasn’t so bad. Sure, she dropped a few plates and poured coffee on one of the tables. But compared to Ethel Lynn, she was the epitome of calm. The old woman screeched whenever a plate slid to the edge of her tray. She twittered when waiting by the pass-through window for an order. She dropped a bowl of tapioca into a toddler’s lap and, while serving coffee at table nine, bashed into a man’s head with the coffee pot.

  But Liberty was a small town. The restaurant’s diners seemed familiar with Ethel Lynn’s high-strung constitution. The man, quietly rubbed his aching head, ducked the next time she approached. The toddler, a boy, took a daisy from the vase on the table and handed it to Ethel Lynn. It was touching to watch the diners treat the old hen with affection.

  The townspeople were just as friendly with each other. Birdie slowly wiped down the counter as a middle-aged lady with a constellation of freckles sauntered from table to table bestowing kisses and hugs. Her generous spirit altered the energy in the room, smoothing over the tantrum of a toffee-skinned tot at table three, who veered from tears to rapture when she whispered sweetly in his ear, and bringing an elderly gentleman to his feet, his arms beckoning her in for a short waltz between the tables of delighted onlookers. The lady settled at table five, where a younger woman waited with a bright smile. When the women embraced and the older one planted another kiss, Birdie absently feathered her fingers across her own cheek.

  She’d spent her life drifting from state to state. It had been years since anyone kissed her. The last man she dated, a gambler in Reno, stole most of her cash on his way out of the relationship. Desperation brought her a woman roommate in St. Louis, but they’d lived in wary silence. Even the Chens, who’d been her only friends in Kentucky, had known to keep their distance.

  Mesmerized, Birdie wandered to the end of the counter. The two women bent their heads, deep in conversation. What did it feel like to experience such closeness? Neither woman kept an eye on her purse. In between the hushed smiles and soft laughter they could’ve been stealing each other blind. They weren’t. Such unquestioning trust was overwhelming to behold. How did people do that?

  When Birdie got to work picking pockets she worked with dreary intent. The anonymity of a bustling street corner was preferable to a roomful of diners whose names were becoming familiar. It was easy to work the crowded dining room, and she netted fifty dollars. She’d drop something on the floor, a spoon or a fork, and snatch a wallet on the way up. Safe behind the counter—and if both Delia and Ethel Lynn were in the center of the dining room—she’d rifle through the wallet, slip out a few dollars, and then return it to its unsuspecting owner.

  Through it all she kept an eye out for the portrait of Justice. In a room so crowded it was difficult to check the walls. People stood on the sidelines, chatting with neighbors or fussing with children who wouldn’t stand up or sit down, and the walls were chock full of antiques. She’d nearly given up hope when, at closing, a man beside Delia chuckled loudly.

  Birdie stopped clearing dishes and lifted her head. Her legs were on fire with exhaustion and her mood low. Glumly, she glanced at the man as he moved away from the cash register.

  And there, on the wall behind him, was the portrait from Hugh’s article.

  No wonder it had been impossible to find. People stood in front of the cash register all night paying their bills and gabbing with Ethel Lynn and Delia. Not one of the diners glanced at the picture. Of course, they weren’t aware of the secrets hidden behind the freedwoman’s dark eyes and regal poise. They didn’t know about the clue supposedly hidden beneath the gilt frame or the promise of u
ntold riches.

  Birdie started toward the portrait with her breath catching on her lips.

  Chapter 5

  Hugh awoke on a gargled snort.

  Where am I? He peered through the darkness of a bedroom that sure as hell wasn’t his condo in Akron.

  Christ—I’m in Liberty. He groaned, remembering: he’d lost his job at the Akron Register yesterday and was stuck in the boondocks seeking redemption. He needed to write a stellar exposé on Anthony Perini, the thieving bastard who was AWOL on his honeymoon.

  In a best-case scenario, Anthony had thousands in ill-gotten loot. He was soaking up cash from the people sending money to the websites for the nonexistent medical expenses of his now-healthy kid.

  Scratching his belly and considering the possibilities, Hugh wandered through the apartment’s cramped living room and into the even smaller kitchen. If he was trapped here for a few weeks he might as well make the best of it. He’d been furious when he’d stormed out of the Register. He’d fled back to his condo to throw stuff into suitcases as if he’d show the City Editor, Bud Kresnick, who was boss by packing up and leaving for good.

  Hugh scrubbed his palms across his cheeks. He was a pathetic bastard, a journalist skidding toward oblivion. Too many years had been spent chasing tail instead of doing his job. He’d been a real human being once—he’d even been engaged twice. Now he was nothing more than a self-pitying, unemployed writer.

  Flicking on the lights, he studied the kitchen. He liked an orderly environment, so he wiped down the counters then found the dishwashing soap beneath the sink. Within minutes he’d washed the few plates and glasses growing dusty in the cupboards.

  Through it all he worked in a state of sexual frustration that brought back memories of his pining adolescence. Irritated, he stalked into the hallway to grab his luggage. What was his problem? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had sex lately. Melissa had been in one of her jungle moods before everything went sour and she dumped him. So why was he mired in illicit thoughts?