|
“Remind me again why we’re in Possum Bottom, Minnesota, and not in the Bahamas like we planned.”
Nathan Stokes hunched his shoulders in his dark overcoat and peered at Margaret Dalton from the confines of his scarf as they walked into the wind. “It’s almost Valentine’s Day, Margaret. We were going to be in the Bahamas for Valentine’s Day.”
“I delegated,” she snapped.
Nathan jammed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “You delegated?” He looked to his right, down the two-block shopping district and winced as the swirling wind blew snow into his face.
“I told you, Nathan. I’m the executor of Uncle Arlen Thibodeaux’s will. He died a month ago and the lawyer I hired apparently didn’t—or wouldn’t—deal with the estate.” Margaret settled her Coach purse more comfortably on her leather-coated shoulder. “I delegated the task and look where it got me.”
She looked at the piece of paper in her gloved hand and peered at the brass numbers on the brick storefronts. “Mother and Shannon say I need to delegate responsibility. They always say I’m too—” She glanced at Nathan, a flush pinkening her flawless porcelain complexion. “Well, you know.”
Nathan did know. He could almost hear Katherine and Shannon say it. Margaret’s mother and younger sister had occasionally pulled him aside to prod him about his relationship with the middle Dalton girl. Margaret’s such a control freak. How can you stand it? Isn’t she too bossy for you?
He smiled innocently at Margaret. “Too busy?” he suggested.
“Hmm.” Margaret smiled perfunctorily at a young woman in skin-tight jeans and a short jacket who walked by them. She smiled at Nathan then gave Margaret an assessing look before moving past. “This should be it. I believe the lawyer’s office is upstairs.”
Nathan eyed the Possum Bottom Bowling Alley and Lanes ‘O Fun warily. This trip was shaping up to be more interesting than he’d anticipated, although his plans had been pretty damn interesting to start with. They were supposed to be on a trip to the Bahamas where he had hoped to pop the Big Question while he and Margaret were lounging on the beach. His daydreams about his vacation hadn’t included a foray to western Minnesota through sub-zero temperatures in order to talk to a small town lawyer about a deceased uncle’s estate on an Indian reservation.
Through a cracked pane of glass, Nathan heard Garth Brooks shouting his love of friends in low places and felt a wistful kinship with the singer. The song mingled with the moist aroma of beer and cigarettes coming from an establishment that seldom experienced fresh air.
“His office is above the bowling alley?”
“There aren’t a lot of options in town,” Margaret pointed out.
Nathan looked across the street at the Just-A-Buck store, Al’s Pharmacy and Computer Exchange, Benjamin’s Baubles, and the PBBT—Possum Bottom Bank & Trust. The two story buildings all seemed to house a business below and either another business or an apartment above. He’d noted the same arrangement on their meander down Main Street as they passed Julie’s House of Dance, the Joltin’ Java Café, the Lac Qui Parle Disc-Go-Round, and Frank’s Furnaces & Furniture.
“What is Lac Qui Parle?”
“Not ‘Lacky Parl’. You sound like a native. It’s Lac Qui Parle,” Margaret enunciated, her French accent impeccable. “It’s the name of the county. And the lake, of course.” She smiled at his blank expression. “Loosely translated, it means ‘the lake that talks.’ ”
“Oh.” Nathan hunched his shoulders, frowning at his reflection in a window and the light dusting of snow he spied on his military-cut brown hair. It added to the gray at his temples. “Is Possum Bottom the biggest town around?”
“The biggest one in the county.” Margaret reached for a massive wooden door next to the fogged-over glass door leading to the bowling alley. “I believe there’s about two or three thousand inhabitants.”
“A metropolis.” Nathan intercepted her, pulling open the door and slipping inside.
He unbuttoned his coat and pushed it open, revealing his worn blue jeans and blue plaid flannel shirt covered by a loose blue sports jacket. He peered up the dark stairway to the landing above, where a light in a bulbous fixture dangled. Satisfied no one was above them, he turned his attention to the boxes inset into the wall.
Margaret edged into the small landing behind him and watched as he inspected the brass mailboxes. “What are you doing?”
“I’m an FBI agent, Margaret. I’m naturally curious. I thought I’d check and make sure we’re in the right place.” He tapped one of the four mailboxes. “Jon Kincaid, Attorney at Law. Looks like we got it in one.” Nathan winked at her, his smoky gray eyes glinting with mischief. “Let’s get this over with and get back to the Lamb Chop.”
“Lion and Lamb,” Margaret said patiently. “Our B&B is called the Lion and Lamb.”
“I prefer Lamb Chop.” He started up the worn wooden steps, his thick-soled boots adding a layer of gritty sand to the deposit already there.
Margaret followed, carefully pulling her beige cashmere scarf from her head and settling it around her shoulders. She tucked a strand of chestnut hair more securely into her demure French twist. Like Nathan, she wore jeans, but hers were crisp, ironed, and fit her slender body like a tailored glove. Her rust-colored turtleneck sweater exactly matched her hand-tooled leather boots that in turn matched her leather gloves, now tucked securely in her leather coat’s pockets.
Margaret looked pointedly at Nathan’s hand, hovering at his right side, near his belt on his worn blue jeans. “Are you carrying a gun?” She eyed the loose blue sports coat he wore over his flannel shirt. “You never wear a coat unless you have a gun.”
“I always wear a coat.”
“My point exactly. Are you wearing a gun? We’re on vacation.”
“Of course I’m carrying a gun.”
“It’s Possum Bottom, Minnesota. Why do you need a gun?”
“Angry marsupials, perhaps?” He paused on the step above her. “Why don’t you wait there and I’ll see if anybody’s home.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’re seeing boogie men.”
“I’m paid to see boogie men, Margaret. Wait there.”
She sighed loudly but waited until Nathan ascended four steps. Then she stealthily crept up the stairs behind him, the noise from her Frye boots masked by his heavier tread and an occasional muffled shriek of warped wood from the steps.
“Margaret, just wait.” He didn’t even turn around as he said it.
“How did you know—?”
“I’m trained to know that kind of shit. Just wait.”
Margaret hesitated until he got to the landing and disappeared around a corner. Then she darted upward, puffing by the time she got to the top of the eleven steps. She collided with Nathan, bouncing back slightly from his solid bulk as she rounded the corner on the landing and entered a small foyer in front of three doorways. The heels of her boots made her exactly Nathan’s height and he smiled into her eyes as he put his arms around her.
“Hello, there. I was expecting you.”
“Quit being smug, Nathan.” Margaret tried to pull away but he held her firmly. She gave up and relaxed in his arms. “What are you smiling at?”
“You.” He kissed her, his lips gentle then insistent. “I think we should get back to the Pork Chop and get a fire going in that fireplace.”
She put her arms around him. “You do, hmm? A fire in the fireplace?”
He tugged her nearer so their bodies were as close as winter clothing would allow. “That’s not the only fire I’d like to get going.” His lips brushed her ear, his dark brown beard stubble rasping her cheek and making her shiver. “You know what they say—abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.”
She smiled dreamily at him, wiggling her hips. “That’s not the only thing it makes grow. How long has it been since I saw you?”
“One month, three weeks, and two days.” He brushed a kiss against her ear lobe. “That was the last time I saw all of you, I should say. It’s been one month, three weeks and one day since you went back to St. Louis. Not that I’m counting. I’m glad your plane wasn’t late. I’m anxious enough as it is.”
“It was fortunate your Chicago plane and my St. Louis plane were able to meet in Minneapolis,” she agreed, running her hands over the hard planes of his back. “Otherwise we might have had to do some extra driving.”
“Perish the thought. Did you bring your swimsuit like I asked?”
“Yes, but why? I bought it for the Bahamas, not Possum Bottom, Minnesota.”
“I have plans for that swimsuit.” He pulled away reluctantly. “Let’s get this legal crap over with, okay? I’m not getting any younger.”
Margaret grinned. “I’m eight years older than you. I should be saying that.”
“You’re wearing me out, you insatiable old lady you. Besides, when men get in their forties, they need to start conserving their strength.”
Margaret pulled him back to her. “Don’t conserve too much, okay?” She put a hand on the back of his head and drew his face closer. “Your hair is short. Did you just get it cut?”
“Yep. Problem?”
“Not at all.” She smiled. “I like tickly hair.”
“I’m thinking of shaving my head completely.” He frowned. “You know.”
She nodded. “And I’ve told you, it doesn’t matter to me if your hair is thinning or you’re going bald. I still think you’re sexy.”
He stared into her dark brown eyes. “You’re wearing that perfume again.”
“What perfume?”
“The stuff that makes me just a little bit crazy.”
“Damn. I was hoping it made you a lot crazy.” Margaret kissed him quickly then slipped out of his arms. “Is that the office?”
Nathan shook his head and staggered slightly. “You have such an effect on me, Margaret. All my blood leaves my head and pools in my—”
She shot him a reproving look.
“—toes,” he finished. “Yep, that’s the office.”
The oak door was inset with a frosted window. Jon Kincaid, Esq. was painted on the glass in a florid black script. Nathan tested the brass doorknob cautiously, pushing open the door and looking inside. He stepped into a small antechamber.
“Nobody here,” he commented, looking at the empty wooden desk facing the doorway, another door behind it.
Margaret followed him into the space. “Perhaps his secretary is taking a break.”
Nathan held up a plastic nameplate. “Megan Buchanan appears to be A.W.O.L.” He put the plastic rectangle near a tidy stack of papers and went to the door behind the desk, knocking twice sharply. “Mr. Kincaid? Your three o’clock appointment is here.” He pushed the door open.
| 
