My eyes bulged. I think a vein popped.
“Now now. Riley is staying with his father for the weekend. You can stay with us. I’m sure the problem will be cleared up by Monday.”
Mr. Hard Hat looked like he wanted to debate that point, but my mother gave him the Ceceri Evil Eye and he backed away.
My mother must have read my thoughts. “Or with your sister,” she said.
A newlywed.
She sighed. “Or with Ana.”
Not with a half-naked Dr. Feelgood hanging around.
“Our house, then,” she said. “It will be fun!”
“You can stay with me,” Jean-Claude offered.
I almost took him up on it.
“What’s that you got there, Riley,
“Yep, that’s it,” Jean-Claude said.
232
Heather Webber
My mother’s eyes widened. “Riley Michael. A mushie?”
I gaped at my mother. Was I so behind the times that she’d known what one was and I didn’t?
“It’s not mine,” Riley said.
“Then whose is it?”
He thrust it toward me. “It’s Nina’s.”
Hmmph. So much for “Mom.”
Twenty-Six
I drove around until I finally found myself parked in the St. Valentine’s lot. I figured fate had led me here, and I should go in and see Father Keesler and get it over with. Instead I cranked up the air conditioner and tried to think clearly.
I’d dropped Riley off at Kevin and Ginger’s early. And I left Jean-Claude at TBS. He’d volunteered to man Tam’s desk for the day, and I took him up on it. There had been a message from Kit, calling in sick. He had the flu.
I’d called him back. He sounded terrible. “And BeBe won’t stop licking me.”
“She just loves you.”
“You’ve been waiting for that, haven’t you?” he said, coughing.
“All week.”
Icy air blew my hair around my face. I gathered it back into a ponytail and held it there.
Facts. I needed to weigh the facts.
Bill was a drug dealer.
Bill was being blackmailed.
Dale was being blackmailed.
Russ was dead.
234
Heather Webber
Greta was dead.
Poor Boom-Boom Vhrooman was dead. I couldn’t say I was going to miss her, but I still felt bad that she’d died.
Bill’s illicit activities, his blackmail, and Boom-Boom’s death were definitely tied together.
Dale’s blackmail only related because his letter and Bill’s were identical in appearance.
The same person, right?
I’d thought so. Until I found that letter in Bill’s office this morning.
I wiped sweaty palms on my jeans, reached for the blackmail letter. Slowly, I opened it.
BILL, DEPOSIT THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS IN THE FOLLOWING ACCOUNT BY
NOON FRIDAY OR I WILL GO TO THE POLICE.
The account was to a local bank, the numbers meaning nothing to me. I thought about calling the bank to get
