his legs, Max felt the boys stiffen. Anger pumped more adrenaline into his veins. With her elbows sticking out and her slivered eyes spitting threats, Carmichael, the self-avowed übernanny, looked startlingly like Miss Gulch in The Wizard of Oz just before she took Toto away from Dorothy.
“Mrs. Carmichael,” he warned in a low, cautionary voice, “try to remember what I told you.”
She nodded. “Exactly. Bad blood breeds bad blood, and from what you said about their mother, those two are likely to be in prison before they’re ten.”
“Mrs. Carmichael—”
“You’ll be doing yourself a favor if you let Social Services handle them.”
Sean squeezed tightly against Max’s knee. Max felt his anger reach frightening proportions.
Tightly controlling himself, he leaned down and murmured to James. “What did you call your brother?” James whispered in reply, eliciting a nod before Max straightened. “Mrs. Carmichael,” he said, “you are a poo-poo doo-doo brain.”
The woman’s mouth opened and closed like a baby bird trying to feed.
“And just so that you and I completely understand each other, do not ever mention Social Services in connection with my children again, not even if you’re standing on the other side of town in a soundproof booth.”
“I quit!” the woman snapped, face growing redder with each second.
Maxwell smiled grimly. “Just when I thought we were getting along.”
Mrs. Carmichael’s nostrils flared, but she spun without another word and stalked to the maroon Buick she’d parked at the curb.
Max didn’t wait to watch her get in. He turned the boys around, nudging them toward the house. On the porch, ten-year-old Anabel stood somberly with her arm around Livie, their baby sister. Garbed as usual in her thrift-store fairy princess costume, she had what appeared to be either makeup or strawberry jam all over her face. Her huge, worried eyes swallowed her face.
Max ground his teeth. Terrific. So much for setting a good example. They’d heard everything.
Tossing his ex-nanny’s apron onto the sofa, Max clapped his hands with forced joviality. “So, who’s starving? I’ll order pizza.”
Anabel was the only one who spoke. “We had pizza last night.”
Fatigue pulled Max’s body like gravity. Very little frightened him in life. He hardly ever panicked, and he hardly ever prayed. Hard work, truth, loyalty—those were the values he believed in. They ought to be enough to bring a man through most difficulties. Now he stood in his living room, with four pairs of worried eyes watching him, and directed this message heavenward: SEND HELP.
Chapter Two
Daisy June Ryder liked fashion. Before the business had started gasping for breath, and she’d opted to pay the past month’s utility bills plus as much of the back rent as she could—which wasn’t much, really—from her personal checking account, clothes and shoes had been her number-one material indulgence.
So when she dressed for success as a prospective babysitter, D.J. put on her favorite sixty-five-dollar Melrose Avenue jeans, an Anna Sui top that she’d bought at a second-time-around chic boutique and her Nine West boots.
With a name like Daisy June, a girl was practically forced to develop a sense of style.
Besides, D.J. was nervous, and clothes, she had long since discovered, could act the part of old friends. People might come and go, but her pink suede slides would follow her anywhere.
Yesterday evening she’d sat in a parked car down the block from Maxwell Lotorto’s house and watched him engage in a confrontation with a stout gray-haired woman. Hunched low in the front seat of her Mustang, she’d watched four young children follow Max and the woman out of the house. With her window rolled down, D.J. caught enough of the conversation to glean that the children belonged to Max, that the irate woman was either a housekeeper or nanny, and that she was quitting or being fired. Maybe both.
D.J. had never believed in angels or anything like that, but if she did, she’d swear one had been guiding her footsteps last night. She’d been in just the right place at just the right time to gather a solid foundation of information.
Standing in front of Tavern on the Tracks for the second time in fewer than twenty-four hours, D.J. attempted to quell that slightly sickening butterflies-in-the-belly feeling by calling it excitement. She’d spent years making her living by locating missing persons, some of whom had taken exception to being found. She had not yet, however, changed her identity or masqueraded as someone else to get the job done.
Today would be her first day “undercover.” Today D. J. Holden, P.I., kick boxer extraordinaire—if she did say so herself—and undoubtedly the only woman in her yoga-for-relaxation class licensed to carry a concealed weapon, was going to be Daisy June Holden, career babysitter.
Without doubt, she was better suited to investigative work than to child care. She’d done a good portion of her own growing up as the only kid in the home of two much older adults, but she’d adored Bill and Eileen Thompson. She’d followed Bill around like a pup on a leash, absorbing knowledge about his private investigation business like soil absorbs rain—naturally, effortlessly.
She expected to expend a lot more effort learning to corral a bunch of rugrats.
Late-morning sunshine warmed the pavement of the small northern California town of Gold Hill, making D.J. squint. She left her sunglasses on top of her head, nonetheless, wanting to appear casual, eminently approachable when she walked into the restaurant that adjoined the bar. Tavern on the Tracks was comprised of two adjacent storefronts, each with its own entrance. On the right was the bar. On the left was a space that appeared to be undergoing renovations. A sign on the latter space said that an Italian restaurant would be opening soon. Yesterday D.J. had been to the bar; today she decided to investigate the restaurant.
Licking her lips, she walked across the threshold.
It was dark in the as-yet-unlit restaurant. She looked around, making out only shadow. It was way dark.
Standing still while her eyes adjusted to the dimness, D.J. let her ears do her investigating for her. Not only was it dark, there was a vaguely smoky, musty smell in the room that made her think of Mickey Spillane novels.
Until she heard giggles. Giggles and whispering that sounded distinctly juvenile.
As her eyes adjusted from outdoors to indoors, D.J. carefully approached one of the leather booths.
On the floor beneath the table, two squirmy, chortling boys huddled together like puppies.
She crouched down for a better look. “Hello.”
When they saw her, the bolder of the boys put his finger to his mouth and hissed, “Shhhhh. You’ll alert enemy forces.”
“Sorry,” she whispered back. “Why are you hiding?”
The other boy started to answer, but the first child clamped a hand over his mouth. “We can’t talk to you until we know whose side you’re on.”
“Oh.”
