After I had come back from Ruby’s early Sunday morning, I had washed my face, pulled on jammies, and slid in bed beside a snoring Scott. I hadn’t even tried to strangle him. So that was a good thing. For him.
That morning I had risen early, snuck into his office, and snapped pictures of his schedule for the week, sending them to my phone. I erased any evidence of my snooping the night before, even zapping the history on his phone just in case he decided to go crazy and check. I would absolutely have to be more careful now that he knew someone was watching him. Then I went to the kitchen and made blueberry waffles, bacon, and a fresh pot of Scott’s favorite Blue Mountain Jamaican blend. I even turned Alexa to eighties soft rock and sang along like I was the happiest bluebird in the bush.
Scott had come in, looking bleary eyed from a hangover, but seemed thrilled that I had made him breakfast. He didn’t know that I was holding the oars in that nonrocking boat and that he was very lucky that he wasn’t dead. I mean, I had actually contemplated who would play me in the Lifetime movie When Cricket Cracked: A Shreveport Murder. Would Reese Witherspoon be available? So . . . yeah, he was lucky he was eating waffles and not the end of whatever pistol I could figure out how to use from his gun safe.
Then I had spent the day at my mama’s house helping her clean out her greenhouse. I picked up dinner and chocolate cupcakes with bunnies that I felt sure Julia Kate would like. I even managed to kiss Scott good night and not throw up. I closed my eyes on Sunday night knowing that my husband couldn’t possibly suspect me of suspecting him.
Boom.
Mission accomplished.
When I awoke on Monday morning, I was a determined woman.
So I had called Ruby and told her that I was going to run a few errands before I came in that morning. I dropped Julia Kate at school, which was back in session, thank goodness, and went to Lowder’s to get cinnamon rolls for my private eye. He seemed like a man who needed a little care, and since this conversation was important, buttering him up with delicious pastry seemed a good bet. I was hopeful Juke had gotten the incriminating photos and evidence of my husband’s infidelity because then he could do the extra snooping to see exactly what kind of deal Scott was involved in and where he might have placed our life’s savings. If it was something illegal or unscrupulous, that might be the leverage I needed to get the money he’d taken back into our accounts . . . before I filed divorce papers. Unless he’d invested it in some stupid opportunity. But I couldn’t see him doing that. He was cautious with money.
Ol’ Scott was about to get his fat butt rocked right out of the boat . . . and then I was going to pull the cord and motor away, leaving him in the middle of shark-infested waters.
So after I procured the pastries, I pointed my minivan north.
I had decided not to alert my PI as to my intentions. I figured if Juke wasn’t in his office, no big deal. I could make an appointment and go back. But something inside me—one of those intuitive hunches—urged me to drop by.
No cars or trucks were parked at the bar, but there was an older van parked beneath the metal staircase leading up to North Star Investigations. I climbed the stairs, balancing the bakery box, and knocked exactly ten times, trying not to be aggravated that I was constantly being stonewalled in my progress. As I knocked, I thought I caught a whiff of whiskey through the crack beneath the door but wasn’t certain. By the time I had turned around to leave, I was irritated. Juke had wasted two weeks of my life with no proof of adultery.
Then the door ripped open.
“What? Goddamn it!”
I turned, set my free hand on my hip, and glared at the bare-chested man standing in the threshold of the office.
“You’re drunk,” I managed to growl between my clenched teeth.
“No shit,” Juke said, looking me over. “Do I even know you?”
“Do you even know me?” I repeated his words, my voice rising as I advanced toward him. “Are you serious? I’m your client, you idiot!”
He stepped back only because I shoved him, entering the office, frowning at the mess. Juke closed the door and rubbed his head, making his hair stick up like porcupine quills. “You are? Which one?”
“I’m Cricket. Ruby’s boss.”
“Oh yeah.” He squinted at me, staggering a little as he journeyed to the desk, which held three Chinese-takeout cartons, a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey, and a stack of folders that had almost slid off the desk. The place smelled like sweat, booze, and kung pao chicken.
“What are you doing, Mr. Jefferson?” I looked around at the couch that he’d been sleeping on, the sweatshirt crumpled on the floor, and the overflowing trash can. “This place is a disaster, and so are you. You’re drunk at nine in the morning, for heaven’s sake. You don’t need clients. You need rehab. I’d like my money back, please.”