Russo is considered by many to be a successful business entrepreneur. He’s well connected down at city hall, but according to one of Trudy’s sources, if Russo doesn’t work for organized crime, he has all the right connections. Tall, thin, balding, he looks more like an accountant than someone who owns a string of nightclubs and pricey restaurants and he has the coldest, most disturbing blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
I tried to shrug nonchalantly at the worry underscoring my aunt’s tone. “I can’t afford to turn down a paying client.”
A frown creased her forehead. Aunt Lacy has delicate features and gorgeous peaches-and-cream skin. Her short hair is a pretty shade of brown a bit darker than my own. Our features look quite a bit alike overall, which gives me hope that I’ll age as gracefully as her. At fifty-five, Aunt Lacy can easily pass for forty.
“I don’t know what your mother would think of you skulking about in bushes and associating with known criminals,” she said with a genteel scowl.
“First of all, I do not skulk in bushes.” At least, not very often. “And second, no one has ever proved Mr. Russo is a criminal.”
Pink tinted her cheeks a becoming shade.
“Perhaps, but my sister is probably rolling in her grave at the very idea of you being in the same room with some of these people you call clients.”
Fortunately Aunt Lacy was in too big a hurry to pursue the topic any further. She patted her pockets, located her keys and settled for shaking her head.
“All right, Dee. You’re a grown woman and you have to follow your own path. Trudy will be back in about fifteen minutes. I have to run.”
And of course she meant that literally. Aunt Lacy is big on running. She enters races. She practically lives in jogging outfits. What she lacks in speed she makes up for in determination and endurance. I waved her off and headed for the workroom, where a partially assembled arrangement sat waiting on the counter.
The shop is always slow at this time of day, so I changed the radio station until I found one that suited me better and started singing along. I was doing a little dance around the table in time to a classic rock song when a young voice penetrated both the radio and my off-key singing.
“Hey! Lady, do you work here?”
I stopped moving and looked up from the fern I was tucking into place. Only I had to look down to find the originator of the question. A kid of about seven or eight stood there. He was a skinny little boy in a bright red T-shirt, navy shorts and dirty tennis shoes. His sandy brown hair needed combing and there were beads of sweat on his shiny red face. He had the most gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I would have killed for the thick black lashes that framed them. This kid was going to be a real heartbreaker in a few years.
At the moment those expressive eyes were regarding me with an extremely adult expression.
“Sorry,” I apologized, snapping off the music. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m not surprised.”
That made me blink. “You’re kind of young for sarcasm, aren’t you?”
“I’m ten.”
I’d guessed younger, but then I haven’t had a lot of dealings with kids other than my infant niece since I’d stopped babysitting and started dating around age fifteen. The boy was watching me closely, so I tried for a sage nod.
“Ten’s a good age. Can I help you with something?”
His expression said he doubted it, but his head bobbed.
“I’m looking for D.B. Hayes.”
Not what I’d expected. My mouth fell open, so I filled it with a question. “Why?”
“I want to hire him,” the kid explained as if I were a moron. “There’s a little sign out front that says he works here. The phone book listed this address, but this place is filled with flowers. Did he move?”
Now, the sign out front next to the door is on the small side, but do you know how much a sign costs? Besides, this is my aunt’s shop and that means she gets the big billing. But geesh. Who needs to be patronized by a ten-year-old?
“D.B. Hayes is a private investigator,” I explained to him.
“I know. That’s why I want to hire him.”
“You want to hire a private investigator?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
He shuffled his feet and looked down at his scuffed tennis shoes. His body was so tense, it made my muscles ache to look at him.
“I have to find Mr. Sam,” the boy said. “See, he’s old and I was supposed to keep an eye on him so he didn’t get out and wander away, like he does sometimes, but I was playing a game and I forgot to check the screen door after my mom left.”
He got it all out in one long breath, and I wondered what sort of people would make a little kid like this responsible for some old man with Alzheimer’s. The boy was far too young for that sort of responsibility.
“If he gets hit by a car or attacked by dogs, it’ll be all my fault.”
I put down the fern and tried frantically to think of something comforting to offer. “I don’t think you have to worry about him getting attacked by dogs.”
He looked up at me, then gave a nod as if that wasn’t a perfectly stupid thing to say.
“I guess so. He chases old man Roble’s Doberman all the time. But if I don’t find Mr. Sam before my mom gets home, she’s going to be awful upset.”
“I’ll tell you what, why don’t we call the police and…”
“No!” Panic filled his expression. “I want to hire D.B. Hayes! I can pay him.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of grungy dollar bills.
“I’ve got forty-two dollars saved to buy the Glimmer Man game. It’s coming out next month, but this is more important. Do you think it’s enough to find Mr. Sam?”
The kid was so pathetically earnest, I wanted to hug him and promise everything would be all right. “Look, I’ll tell you what we…”
“I mean, he’s just a cat. Anything could happen to him.”
My mouth dropped open again. “A cat?”
The kid nodded solemnly. “D.B. Hayes has to help me find him. My uncle says that’s one of the things detectives do. They find things for people.”
Faced with that adorable, earnest expression, I swallowed several inappropriate responses while he waited in silence for me to say something.
“Let me get this straight,” I stalled. “You want to hire me to find your cat?”
“Not you,” he scoffed. “D.B. Hayes. And it isn’t my cat, he’s my uncle’s cat. I was just watching him.”
