empty, so why not let her live there?”
“Why not check her out first?”
“Like I said, I had a good feeling about her. Anyway, I had her work the same shift I did the first month she was here. Time has proven me right about Regan. She works like a trooper. The register has never come up short on her shift. Now that I’m stove up, Regan adds up all the receipts, makes the bank deposits and balances the books. She handles the ordering. You think either Howie or Deni, or any of my day workers could do that without making a mess of things?”
“I doubt it.” Like most cops, he had a healthy distrust of all mankind. Knowing that Etta had turned over her bank account to a woman she hadn’t checked out didn’t sit well. At all.
“Regan’s got a caring soul,” Etta continued. “The day cook makes me lunch and Regan brings it here. She takes the time to sit with me on the porch and visit. She runs the vacuum and dusts. Does my marketing. And cooks dinner for A.C. and me here every Sunday on her night off.”
“You ever ask Mystery Woman where she’s from? Where she’s worked?”
“No.”
He settled his hand on Etta’s. “You’re letting a woman you know nothing about handle your money and basically run your business. Who’s to say she won’t empty your bank account and disappear? Let me look into her background. Check her references. I can call Nate, have him run her through the national crime database.”
Etta’s blue eyes met his squarely. “Joshua McCall, do you own a part interest in my tavern?”
He sighed. “No, ma’am.”
“Then leave my business to me. I may not know everything about Regan, but I know what matters.”
It was all Josh could do not to remind Etta of the drifter she’d trusted a few years ago. The guy had tended bar only a week before he cleaned out the safe then disappeared.
Etta pointed a long, sturdy finger his way. “While we’re on the subject, I want you to understand that I’m fond of Regan. I don’t expect she needs to get all stirred up over a man who goes through women like water.”
“I don’t plan on doing any stirring in that area.” He glanced at the pies cooling on the counter. “I forgot to stop by the mini-mart, so I need to drive back into town. How about I drop off Regan’s pie while I’m at it?”
“Sounds good.”
He set Anthracite on the floor, gathered up the plates and carried them to the sink. What he did intend to do was look after Etta’s best interests. Which meant finding out all there was to know about Regan Ford.
Chapter 2
“C’mon, Regan. Let’s you ’n me go upstairs to your place ’n have some fun.”
“Not interested.” Regan stood at the tavern’s front door, staring up into Seamus O’Toole’s bloodshot eyes. The beefy Dallas used-car dealership owner’s breath smelled like a brewery.
He leaned in. “There’s lots of women mighty glad they said yes to old Seamus.”
“Not interested, Mr. O’Toole. At all.”
When Regan shifted to open the door, he lunged, thrusting a finger in her face. “Whas’ wrong with you? Don’cha like men? You one of them flamin’…”
As quick as a snake, her hand lashed out, grabbed his outstretched thumb, and forced it back into his wrist.
Howling, O’Toole dropped to his knees.
Behind her, Regan heard the kitchen door swing open.
“Need some help?”
Keeping a grip on O’Toole’s thumb, she glanced across her shoulder. Howie Lyons stood with the door propped open, a metal mop bucket behind him. After six months of working together, Truelove’s night cook knew Regan could hold her own with an obnoxious drunk.
“I’ve got this covered.” She looked down at O’Toole. His face was beet-red, his forehead beaded with sweat. “I said no. Got it?”
“Yeah. Sweet Jesus, I hear ya.”
She let go of his thumb and stepped back two paces.
With his knees creaking in protest, he lurched to his feet. “Ya’ crazy broad! You tried ta’ break my thumb.”
“If I intended to break it, you’d need a cast right now.” She didn’t add that due to her paramedic training, she could also apply that cast. “Did you drive or walk tonight, Mr. O’Toole?”
“Can’t ’member,” he mumbled while massaging his bruised thumb.
Regan shoved the door open. A gleaming silver Beemer sporting a dealer’s tag sat in the parking lot beneath one of the mercury vapor lamps.
“You drove, but you’re walking home.” She held out a hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll put them behind the bar. You can pick the car up when you’re sober, like you did last week.”
When he continued glaring at her, she wiggled her fingers. “Keys. You try to drive, you could wind up in a cell.”
“Maybe.” Wobbling, he dug into a pocket of his khakis. Keys jangled as he slapped them into her palm. “Somebody oughta do something ’bout man-hatin’ women,” he sneered as he lurched out the door.
“Idiot,” Regan said under her breath. After setting the lock, she wove her way around the tables, then stepped behind the bar. She dropped O’Toole’s keys inside a drawer, then hesitated.
Still wearing his grease-smeared apron over his black T-shirt and jeans, Howie gave her a considering look while overturning chairs onto the tables on the far side of the dance floor. “Something wrong?”
“What if that moron staggers in front of a car and gets mowed down?”
“You nearly ripped off O’Toole’s thumb. Now you’re worried about him stepping in front of a car?”
“I’m thinking about Etta. If O’Toole gets hurt, Truelove’s could get sued because he got drunk here.”
“Right,” Howie said. “When I leave I’ll drive the route to his house. Make sure he hasn’t stumbled and hit his head.”
“Thanks.”
Since she had already washed the pitchers and glasses, re-stocked the cooler, wiped down the bar and locked the night’s receipts in the safe, Regan was free to head upstairs. Instead, she began overturning chairs onto the tables.
“You don’t have to do that,” Howie reminded her. “My job.”
“I’ve got time,” she said, hefting another chair.
Snagging an oversize broom, he began sweeping up peanut shells. “I guess neither of us have someone waitin’ at home,” he commented, his voice now harsh and bitter. “Regan, you ever know anyone who claimed
