Johnny Cakes (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) Read online

  Uncrossing his arms, Clay showed off his buff chest and his lingering summer tan. Weren’t guys you’ve made out with supposed to look unappealing over time?

  “How long is it going to take you to fix that thing up?” Katie Lee asked.

  Clay handed Jet a rag and helped her to her feet; she and I both noticed his attention to the scoop on her tank top. “The steering column needs replaced and the electrical is dodgy. A month or so for that.” Her fingers brushed against a rough paint spot. “Then I’ll work on the body.”

  Jet was freakin’ baiting Clay. She didn’t break any rules. We were officially over. I knew I shouldn’t care. I thought I’d erased him from my consciousness ages ago, but as he was being flirted with in my own front yard, I realized that not only did I not want to want him, I didn’t want anybody else to, especially one of my best gal pals.

  Hugh jiggled his car keys. “Who’s thirsty?”

  “I’ll set up the blender,” Jet said.

  Katie Lee handed me her backpack and jumped into Hugh’s front passenger seat. Doors slammed and the two drove off. Jet and Clay bumped shoulders as they made their way up the front walk. The last thing I wanted was to watch the “magic” between the two and began forming an exit strategy when a black MG pulled into the space Hugh had vacated. The motor cut. The sweet car’s hood had been polished to perfection, just like the driver who rolled the passenger window down.

  Almost inside, Clay and Jet took no notice as they climbed the front porch stairs.

  I strolled over and peered inside. “Agent Cauldwell, are you on a break between stake-outs?”

  Under black Ray-Bans, his beard shadow and boyish grin were a welcome distraction from all the unpleasant encounters I’d had that day. A curiosity stirred and I wondered why he had stopped by and, more importantly, how he and seemingly everybody knew where I was living this year. Not that, in Agent Cauldwell’s case, I really cared. It warmed my insides to think that this hot FBI agent cared enough to check on my well-being.

  “Ms. O’Brien. I trust you received my package.”

  “It was so thoughtful of you to supply me with that box of housewarming gifts. The flashlight, with extra batteries, another whistle.”

  “I didn’t know if you still had the one I gave you last year.”

  “Of course I have it, somewhere. Along with the keychain mace. I just haven’t unpacked everything yet.”

  “Do you have plans?” he asked.

  Turning my head to the house, I confirmed that Clay and Jet had disappeared. “Just a quiet night. Reading mostly.”

  “Can you spare a few hours? There’s an event I’m supposed to attend. I thought we could catch up.”

  “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  FBI are not the squirming type, but I watched with amusement as Storm Cauldwell pressed his thumb into the soft leather steering wheel cover. “Two adults out together. Yes, if that qualifies.”

  His word choice didn’t exactly woo me, but his offer sounded more promising than staring at two couples getting buzzed on daiquiris. “Give me a minute,” I said and trotted my and Katie Lee’s backpacks into the entryway.

  Sheila stood inside, and used her back as a doorstop. Peering over her shoulder, she clicked her tongue, and even though she knew full well, she exclaimed, “Well now, who do we have curbside?”

  “Sheila, don’t gawk, you might scare him away.”

  “So you admit it.”

  “Admit what?” I asked as I hustled up the stairs for a quick change and to smear a layer of mascara on my lashes.

  Annoyingly, she followed me, and lingered in my and Francine’s shared bedroom doorway. Feigning a love affair with a Kudos bar, she worked to eat only the outer chocolate layer. “He looks too young to be a real agent.”

  Lying on my bed helped me shimmy the zipper up on my new pair of Guess jeans. “Just stop. You’re turning a nothing into something.”

  A smile tilted the corners of her lips upward. She knew I fancied the hot FBI agent who waited for me. I hadn’t had the best results with college guys, and dating an older, experienced man had a certain appeal. On the plus side, this one was a good guy who saved people and was licensed to carry a gun.

  Downstairs, the kitchen blender began whirling. To ease my guilt of bailing on my books, I told myself it wasn’t like I was going to get any studying done with happy hour in full swing.

  Sheila neatly folded the empty wrapper and said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” and turned, giving me a full view of the lower butt cheeks that escaped her short shorts, and I pondered how her advice gave me a lot of latitude to work with.

  Before or after one too many cocktails, Sheila was certain to make an inappropriate move on Hugh or Clay. Sparks were bound to fly. I’d been witness to enough Sheila-She-Devil shenanigans, and experience told me it was in my best interest to spend the evening with law enforcement.

  NOTE TO SELF

  I’ve been Schlecked and hung to dry.

  FBI Agent Storm Caudwell stopped by. Yeah for me.

  CHAPTER 4

  Puttin’ Gas in a Car That You’ve Already Wrecked

  The searing sun descended, melding the outside temperature into a balmy evening. I’d worried that zipper-ankle purple denim and a cotton Polo weren’t dressy enough for a date. Silly of me. The Weatherspoon Gallery Tuesday night gala was a free event for anyone with a Greensboro zip code. Both Agent Cauldwell and I qualified. Besides us there were a handful of art patrons milling about inside the vaulted gallery entry. A corner table covered in a white cloth featured two vegetable platters, assorted fruits, and spinach dip inside a soggy bread bowl. The spread came in black plastic containers, not catered, more likely the grocery store variety. Was this his idea of quality time spent with me? Perhaps my summer away and all the hours I’d spent staring at the River Thames had over spun the sophisticated image I had of him—maturity in knowing what he likes, comfortable with weaponry, a safe set of arms to be tangled in—into the fantasy zone of my mind. I’d really never logged much alone time with the man. Had I been too hasty to accept his invitation? Maybe crazy-hour at the house would have been the better option. At least I could’ve slinked off to my room if I’d become bored, but now I had no choice.

  FBI agent sounded like an American version of James Bond. From the looks of his creased khaki pants, this man of mystery hadn’t overly obsessed this night out, and didn’t look the part to be taking me on a wild adventure.

  “How are your classes?”

  “Good,” I said as I nibbled a melon ball. This conversation was about as exciting as cardboard. I began to run through the list of men that bounced in and sometimes abruptly, out, of my life. Clay Sorenson: On campus ex-lust interest. Explosive, but not a closer. Thinks I’m an accident magnet. Idiot! Bubba Jackson: Bad boy charm that is instant trouble. Although alluring, must avoid for personal safety. Stone Rogers: Ornithology graduate student whose side job is bartender. Surprisingly versed in all things primal. Mitch McCoy: Still in high school and Katie Lee’s hometown best friend’s younger brother. Yikes, jailbait.

  “Do you have any with that professor you introduced me to?”

  It was a struggle not to roll my eyes. He didn’t fool me. He knew her name. They’d exchanged phone numbers or at least she had given him her phone number. Maybe Tuke had competition. Why had Schleck become so popular? I mean just because she’d gotten a divorce and gone platinum. A change in hair color did not amend a snarky personality. Not even Clairol possessed that kind of magic. Idly staring into his eyes, I decided not to aid his failing memory.

  “Schleck?” he mused

  “No. No classes with her. Just Friday afternoons as her aid.” Slave.

  Storm helped himself to a can of soda and a plate of vegetables. He began pulverizing a baby carrot.

  “Question for you. What was so intriguing that you brought me here, to the Weatherspoon?”

  A concerned look I’d seen before registered on his brow.


  “Have you noticed anything unusual lately?”

  I thought of Roger and Francine dressing up as apostles, Sheila’s lack of underwear, Clay at the house, and sneaky Schleck, guilting me into giving her yet another year of free labor. “No, not really,” I fibbed.

  “Any hang up phone calls?”

  Agent Cauldwell was fishing. He was well aware that sophomore year I’d been stalked by a demented redneck art forger. But he didn’t know that Billy Ray had been shot as he chased me through a swamp. I’d only told my gay friend Travis about what had happened. Mostly because I thought sharing would help me forget. That, and I wasn’t sure who had pulled the trigger.

  Gauging his sincerity, I analyzed his stance and watched to see if he fidgeted. Deep down, I wondered if he knew perfectly well that my stalker was dead. Handy with a gun and always knowing my whereabouts, Mr. FBI was a prime suspect of mine. If he had done it, did I owe him a favor?

  “Billy Ray and all that is history.”

  “I’d like to think so, but seems my office got a call.”

  Had someone found a foot or some other indigestible body part and identified it?

  “What kind of call?”

  A thin figure, pale, freckled skin, too young to be wearing her dark hair in such a frumpy style moved across the wide plank flooring toward us. I immediately recognized the Weatherspoon curator, Liz Stein. Professor Schleck had introduced us freshman year, before the gallery had been built. A year had passed since I’d seen her at the Turkish art gala. Reminiscing made me squeamish. I remembered how I’d popped a few curry balls, whomped back a champagne or three, and inadvertently inhaled large clouds of hookah smoke, which would have been fine if it weren’t for the undercooked Dairy Queen burger I’d eaten on the drive down from Canton, Ohio. The combination had me hugging porcelain in the ladies’ room where Liz had stumbled upon me prostrate, speaking to God on the big white telephone.

  Grasping both my hands, the lady I barely knew plunged into concern. “Rachael darlin’, is everything alright?”

  Not knowing where she was headed with this question, I didn’t answer coherently, but in more of caveman-like ah, um’s.

  Beneath her plastic black-rimmed glasses, her face froze in time.

  Besides grades, Professor Schleck busting my hump and seeing more of Sheila Sinclair than was healthy, I didn’t have any real worries until tonight. These two were working to rattle my sanity cage and my irritation swelled.

  “Everything’s great.” I made a point of nonchalantly gazing through the open-air gallery. “You’ve been busy. Looks like there are some new collections on display. Pop art. I love the trendy parodies they portray. And those minimalism pieces up in the loft?”

  Liz waved a dismissive hand. “Some Roy Lichtenstein pieces and some other notables are on loan.”

  “This is Storm Cauldwell.”

  I never knew when or when not to call him agent.

  She sighed heavily. “I wasn’t sure my call would be taken seriously.”

  I so wasn’t on the clue bus these two rode. “What’s going on?”

  “Rachael, I’ve seen him in town.”

  “Who?”

  “That Ray character. I was leaving the Sizzler and he was there, bold as brass. Driving out of the parking lot in a fancy BMW.”

  This conversation was a waste of time. An urge to shout, Ole Billy Ray’s deader than a doornail, crept inside my chest, but that kind of commentary would lead to a load of questions I didn’t want to answer, so I played along. Looking to Storm, I quizzically asked, “BMW?”

  “Last vehicle registered to Billy Ray was a white van with tinted windows,” Agent Cauldwell said. “And that was abandoned in Bluffton, South Carolina.”

  I placed a consoling hand on Liz’s forearm. “I think you had a mis-sighting. Probably spotted someone with a similar build.”

  Clenching her fists she spoke slowly as she gave a description. “Hawaiian shirt, leather loafers, tan face with deep crow’s feet at the temples.”

  My jaw slackened and an acidic taste rose in the back of my throat. “Dippity-do slicked hair gray pushed back behind the ears?”

  She nodded. “The con man that almost sold me the fake Clementine Hunters.”

  “Jack Ray,” I blurted. “He calls himself Lucky.”

  Agent Cauldwell looked to me. “Billy’s cousin from New Orleans?”

  “He’s here. If he thinks he’s going to fool me twice...” Liz’s voice trailed. “He’s slippery. I don’t want trouble.” She gazed to her left as a few students, having feasted on free food, moseyed out of the building. Her head closed the space between us. “I lost the deposit on the artwork to that man. Five grand of university funds. It could’ve cost me my job, but since Rachael busted the forgery ring and charges were pressed, they kept me on. What should I do if he comes around or tries to contact me?”

  I didn’t like what I was hearing. Jack Ray. In town? It had been two years since I’d met the Jimmy Buffet look-alike sleazy art dealer on Bourbon Street. Was he brazen enough to try and peddle artwork to Liz again? That would be foolish. He had to know that Billy was missing. Was he here looking for his cousin? Or worse, was he looking for me?

  As panic surged, my eyes locked with Agent Cauldwell’s. This is why he brought me here? What an idiot I was. This wasn’t a date. He wanted me to hear about the Ray spotting from Liz in case I was holding any information back. He didn’t trust me. My survival triggers kicked into alert mode. What did the FBI suspect?

  Like a parent settling an anxious child, Agent Cauldwell compensated for Liz’s anxiety with a soft voice and channeled über-serenity. “Liz, I ran a report on arrests and violations for the past three months in town and neither Ray came up.”

  Her lip quivered. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  Reaching to the hors d’oeuvre table, he handed her a bottle of water. “That’s not what I’m saying. From a law enforcement standpoint, we don’t have anything.” So much for his calming effect.

  In company or alone, I didn’t think any woman was lucky to be near the New Orleans art con who oozed sleaze. I took Liz’s side. “The man’s pond scum.”

  Storm rattled a recap off the facts. “He doesn’t have a record. The charges in New Orleans were thrown out of court. Jack Ray is an innocent man, free to roam.”

  Was he kidding? In or out of jail, the man was a criminal.

  Liz’s breath became erratic and I worried that she’d hyperventilate. “If he walks in here, are you saying I have no recourse?”

  “If you feel there’s a threat, call campus security.”

  Tuke Walson to the rescue? A nice enough guy, but. “Isn’t their specialty more student-control-oriented? Closing down toilet paper wars and hallway Jell-O Slip-N-Slides?”

  Agent Cauldwell reached into his back pocket. From inside his wallet he pulled out a business card. “This is my direct line. If you see him, call me.”

  Taking the card from his hands, Liz seemed to relax. “Thank you. Hopefully you won’t hear from me. If you’ll both excuse me.” She took a few steps before turning back around. “Rachael, you be careful, too.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  What a fool I am—to think Agent Cauldwell likes me, romantically. Meeting at the Weatherspoon to ease Liz Stein’s concern made his intentions toward me clear. And by the way did not count as a date.

  What are the chances really? Counting on Liz’s sighting being bogus.

  SEPTEMBER 1988

  CHAPTER 5

  Joshin’

  Mid September, the heat that pocketed the Carolina red maple trees tricked them into keeping their waxy green leaves, rather than turning and falling. Riding in my car between the hours of nine and five ranked up there with sitting in a frying pan on simmer. On the plus side, the house I rented from Sheila had air-conditioning. The constant rattling and humming from the unit could be heard below the bedroom Francine and I shared. At first the swirling blades were annoying, but over the weeks I’d
become accustomed to the puttering sound.

  Sitting in a cubby that I guessed had a past life as a janitorial closet did not make the anticipation for Friday afternoons gleeful. This week had been one of those that sit still, seemingly in cahoots with the heat. With a half hour of grunt cataloguing work left, I tucked my nose into my t-shirt in an effort to filter out Schleck’s smell: sweet perfume and old glue from pressing her finger along the spine of too many books. The combo penetrated the room with a manufactured metallic scent, making me headachy. A small window the size of a shoebox sat at head-height behind the professor’s high back chair, and as the afternoon shadows grew longer, the office became darker. I fantasized about getting home. Tonight, all my roommates had plans, and for one glorious evening I’d be able to cocoon in peace with the air conditioner for company.

  There was never anything remotely similar to conversation between the professor and me. The only chitchat in her office revolved around instruction pertaining to mundane task-type projects she had lined up. I mostly listened to her ruffling pages, opening and closing desk drawers, clicking her pen bobble with a vengeance, and the shuffle of student’s feet that passed by her door on the hour.

  I was actually okay with our working relationship. It’s not like I wanted to discuss my roommates and their boyfriends or what well drink I planned on drowning myself in when I left. Uncharacteristically early, Schleck stood and began to pack her leather Gucci briefcase. Could this be my lucky day? Without being overly obvious, I tidied the stack of sixteenth-century Italian art and sculpture slides that I’d been labeling.

  Professor Schleck was going to send me home before happy hour began.

  “Are you finished labeling?” she asked.

  Duh, there were a gazillion slides in half a dozen boxes. “Not quite.”

  “Do see if you can make some headway before five. I have an important appointment so I’m going to have to leave you.”