“Sams! Turn the flippin’ water back on!”
Eve fumbled for the towel, her hand snaking outside the flimsy curtain of her claw-foot tub, suds running into her eyes. She found the towel, grabbed it and shoved it into her face, cleaning out the soap, then turned to fiddle with the faucets. Yes, full on, but not a drip of water from the overhead spigot. “Samson Mulligan, turn on my water!”
She nearly fell out of the tub, grabbed her robe and tied her hair up before flinging the door open. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass transom, casting light down into the upstairs bedroom of her story-and-a-half bungalow. The sound of a saw rumbled up from the kitchen. The dust and the odor of plumber’s glue, not to mention freshly stained wood, could turn her woozy.
Her feet ground into the sawdust despite her recent sweep of the stairs, and she barreled down, one hand holding her towel and barged into the kitchen to find—oh no. Not her brother Samson bent over his workbench but an unknown plumber, crack and all, leaning over a piece of plastic piping.
A stranger.
In her house.
At 6-freaking-o’clock in the morning.
Her father would have a coronary. And right about now, he might agree with her decision to get a conceal and carry. After all, just because she worked CSI didn’t mean she wasn’t a cop.
The plumber stood up, eyes wide as he took her in—fluffy bathrobe, her hair dripping water down her neck. And not a hot plumber, either, although that might not have changed her indignation. This guy looked about fifty and nursed a beer paunch.
“What are you doing here?”
“Your brother sent me. Told me to get working on your kitchen plumbing…”
Nice. Now she would have to murder her brother. And she wouldn’t escape because they’d easily pin motive on her.
She turned, ignored the debris of her unfinished living room, and took the stairs two at a time. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into her parents’ driveway. Samson’s construction truck took up most of the space.
She took a breath. Tried to remember he was helping. Giving her a cut rate.
And inviting strange men into her home at ungodly hours.
Eve got out and headed toward the door, glancing at her watch. Not late yet, but she was cutting it close for her first day on the job in her new precinct. But a girl couldn’t let life bully her—especially if it came in the form of her kid brother-slash-kitchen remodeler.
However, one step inside would rope her into breakfast, including a bright-lights-third degree interrogation about the new job. And promises to attend the annual Fourth of July barbecue.
Maybe she didn’t—aw, she also had the tile issue…
The crunch of tires in the drive told her she’d hesitated too long for escape.
She turned and lifted her hand to her father, just climbing out of his truck. At least he hadn’t driven the cruiser home—not anymore. The fact that he’d parked his patrol car in their suburban driveway her entire high school career had pretty much terrified and run-off every male who’d shown even the slightest interest in her. Even now, she might have to move across the country to get a date without her father doing a background check.
Frankly, even across the country, her father knew the right strings to pull. Deputy Police Inspector Danny Mulligan, twenty plus years on the job, head of the department of Violent Crimes Investigation for the city of Minneapolis knew everybody. Decorated, accommodated—he’d even made the papers more than a few times.
It made it difficult for a girl to slide out from under his massive shadow. His legacy had followed her right into her recent job opportunity, working for one of her father’s best friends.
Chief John Booker, commander of the 5th Precinct.
And with everything inside her, she didn’t want to let Booker—or her father—down.
“How’s my Evie Bear,” her father said, holding his arms open. At six foot, her father wasn’t physically big, but he had a presence, a confidence that filled up the room. His auburn hair thinned on top, but at fifty-eight he was still lean, broad-shouldered and in shape. Nobody messed with Danny Mulligan.
“Dad, I’m twenty-six, I have a master’s degree and I own my own home. It’s just plain Eve.”
“Not to me.” He hopped up on the steps and pulled her into an embrace. “But I’ll keep it Eve on the job.”
“Dad—” She leaned away.
He grinned, his pale hazel-green eyes shiny with pride. “I was talking to Booker—he said you were one of his favorite crime scene rats. Can’t wait to have you work for him”
“I’m a full Crime Scene Investigator now, not a rat. I’m leaving the bagging of evidence to Silas.”
Her father opened the door, shooing her inside. “When are you going to date that young man? He’s got a clean record—I’ve done my homework.”
She shook her head. “He’s just a friend, Dad. It would be like dating my brother.”
“Evie!” Her mother came from the kitchen, wearing an apron, a pair of jeans, her dark red hair tumbling out from a headband. “I was hoping you’d stop by!” She kissed her daughter, then headed for Dad, who pulled her close. “Thank God, you’re home.”
Her father kissed her forehead. “Always, Bets.”
Eve stepped away, into the kitchen. A year ago, her mother had declared war on the wall between the kitchen and their family room in the 1920s farmhouse—one of the original homesteads on Lake Minnetonka—and taken a sledge to the wall. To which her father and younger brother, Samson, finished demolishing, then took out the entire kitchen for a remodel.
Now, Eve grabbed a mug from the cupboard, poured herself a cup of coffee, black, then turned and stole a muffin from the plate on the long island that overlooked the family room and dining area. She paused, gazing through the massive wall of windows to the rippling blue of Lake Minnetonka. A beautiful morning, uncluttered by clouds. Not a hint of trouble on the horizon.
If her mother hadn’t been a Hubbard by birth,
