The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 49

“He likes ’em,” Skarda said. “He’s been getting sentimental as he grows older.”

“From the moment actress Marla Travis begins reading the lead role in Alexander Stratis’s new play, she feels something vibrantly compelling about him—a restrained masculinity that fires her blood, a sensitivity to the deep mysteries of life that stirs her soul! Her impassioned reading convinces him to produce his play; but Marla’s wary of rushing into more … convinced that her life of bright lights and applause can never mesh with Alex’s faith in family and tradition. Then, in a sun-baked Greek village, she experiences a moment of shattering insight … and realizes that her elemental need for this dynamic man outstrips all else!”

After reading the book description, I set Carter’s Change of Heart on top of the pile. “I don’t know about sentiment,” I said. “There sure seems to be a lot of exclamation points, though.”

“Only ten percent of all the books that have ever been written are worth reading,” Skarda said. “But it’s a different ten percent for everybody.”

Skarda busied himself filling the refrigerator with Leinies while I went onto the deck, leaned against the railing, and watched the lake glistening in the sun. There was no TV in the cabin, no ESPN, so when lake watching got old I went looking for a book to read and found only the old man’s romance novels. I gave Bad Karma by Theresa Weir a try. It wasn’t enough to convert me into a Harlequin Harlot, yet it did make me reevaluate my prejudices. I even made Josie wait a half hour when she returned to the cabin so I could finish reading the book before heading off to Buckman’s.

After switching the padlocks again, we sat on the same stools at the end of the bar as the previous night and watched the Twins play the Angels. About the only difference was the starting pitchers. The bartender served us, just not with a smile. I ordered Summit Ale, only he didn’t have it. He was very apologetic; claimed he had searched far and wide only to come up empty. I didn’t believe him, but let it slide. Josie wondered why Scott would have gone to the trouble of chasing my favorite beer.

“Apparently I’m a celebrity up here,” I said.

Josie ordered the same drink as the evening before, only fewer of them. Around the third inning she noticed that the bartender was keeping his distance.

“Scott doesn’t seem to be himself tonight,” she said.

“He’s probably jealous because I’m sitting here with you.”

“Why would he be?”

I remembered what he said at Dave’s place—Please, don’t tell Josie—yet shrugged and said nothing.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Dyson?”

I flashed on Shelby Dunston, which I found inexplicable, and then refocused on Nina Truhler.

“No,” I said.

“Have you ever been involved with a woman?”

“Frequently.”

“I meant with someone you cared about.”

“I cared about them all or I wouldn’t have become involved. That’s just the way I’m wired.”

“Yet none of them lasted.”

“I’m a professional thief, remember?”

“There are plenty of women who like bad boys.”

“I’m not a bad boy.”

“What are you?”

“Misunderstood. What about you?” I didn’t really want to know, yet I was desperate to change the subject.

“What about me?” Josie asked.

“Whose little girl are you?”

“No one’s.”

“Not ever?”

“I’ve known my share of wrong men.”

“Anyone lately?”

“Besides you?”

There it was, I told myself. Josie was making her move. I couldn’t allow it. I couldn’t do that to Nina. I couldn’t do it to Josie, either, not if there was even the slightest chance that I might be responsible for sending her to jail.

“We’re not involved,” I said. I spoke firmly. Decisively.

“What are we?”

“Co-conspirators. I’m here for the money. Once I get it, I’m out the door and down the street. I’ll be going alone and I won’t be coming back. I’d prefer not to leave any misunderstandings behind.”

“Such as?”

“Josie, I’m not taking you to Paris.”

“Who asked you to?”

“We can’t have this conversation. We can’t even think about it. You can’t look across the table at me and think ‘Mmm, mmm, mmm, how I’d like me a slice of Dyson pie…’”

“Dyson pie? Does that come à la mode?”

“Someone will read your thoughts and all hell will break loose. Do you understand?”

Josie started laughing at me. She paused only long enough to whisper, “Dyson, you moron. I’m gay.”

I must have had the dumbest expression on my face, because she shook my shoulder with one hand and laughed even harder, laughed until a quarter of the people in the bar, including Scott, started laughing, too, even though none of them could tell you what was so damn funny.

First Jenness Crawford and now Josie, my inner voice said. How can you not know these things? McKenzie, you are a moron.

“You thought I was hitting on you, didn’t you?” Josie said.