Notorious Read online

  Kurstin looked up from the table, meeting Hayley's gaze squarely. “Why did you look like you were crossing your fingers behind your back when you told Patsy how proud you were of your husband?"

  "Ouch." Hayley flinched but then gave her friend a look of admiration. "Damn. I forgot how good you are at slipping in the knife where it’s least expected."

  "Yes, it’s a talent of mine." Her friend’s level look made it clear she would not be sidetracked. "So tell me about Dennis."

  Hayley pushed her plate away and reached for her wine. "There isn’t much to tell. What he did to disarm Lawrence Wilson was every bit as heroic as Patsy implied. And, God, I was so furious with him for doing it!" She took a sip of wine and leaned back, cradling the goblet to her chest. "We’d only been married three years and he just as easily could’ve gotten his head blown off. It wasn't as if he took time to evaluate the situation before he reacted.”

  "But in the end it worked out fine," Kurstin argued. Then she blanched. "Oh, God, Hayley, I'm sorry. I cannot believe I said something so moronic. The end result wasn't at all ri—"

  "Don't," she said. “I know what you meant. And you're right. At the time it appeared it had worked out fine. Wilson went to jail and Dennis was hailed a hero by the local media. I'm not trying to detract from his accomplishment, because he was courageous. Without a thought for his own personal safety, he single-handedly foiled what he believed was an armed robber and saved the day. The problems—our problems—began when he started believing his own press and thought he had to live up to his shiny new image."

  She drained her glass and set it on the table. Caught up in her thoughts, she stared at it for a few silent moments, then reached out to give the goblet an impulsive flick of her fingernail. It chimed with the round tones of good crystal until she pressed her fingertip against the rim to still the vibrations. In the ensuing silence, she looked up to meet her best friend’s gaze across the table. And confessed, "We were talking divorce when Wilson murdered him.”

  Kurstin straightened in her seat. "Divorce?" she asked. "Hayley, why on earth—?"

  Chin elevated to a pugnacious degree, she interrupted with stiff pride, "Because Dennis started partying hard and messing around with other women." And, oh, dear God, regardless how much time had passed, it remained painful to admit out loud.

  "That isn’t what I was going to ask." Kurstin reached across the table to give her hand a squeeze. "God knows I’m in no position to judge the dissolution of someone else’s marriage when my own was so screwed up toward the end. And you should know me well enough to realize the last thing I would ask for is details of that sort. What I really want to know is why you kept this to yourself all this time. You were there for me when I went through my divorce. Why didn't you let me be there for you?"

  Hayley expelled a laugh that even to her own ears sounded more bitter than amused. "I guess I take rejection kind of personally. I'm funny that way."

  Kurstin's hand on hers squeezed harder and Hayley looked up to meet her friend's gaze with a vestige of the uncertainty she had felt during those last months of her failing marriage. "Face it, when your husband starts prowling around, it must mean you’re the one lacking some necessary attribute. I wasn't exactly anxious to share the news."

  "Oh, sweetheart, you do pull inward when you’re hurting, don't you? Just like when Jon-Mi—"

  Her look must have warned Kurstin not to pursue that subject, for her friend changed direction. "But you are dead wrong, Hayley, if you think Dennis’ catting around is a reflection of your desirability," she said fiercely. "You are so bright and beautiful and funny."

  Her brief bark of laughter was brittle. "You think I haven't assured myself of that a gazillion times? But personal experience doesn’t seem to bear that out. Not back in high school, and not now, either."

  She waved a forestalling hand when Kurstin opened her mouth to argue. "I'm not stupid," she said. "On an intellectual level I understand Dennis simply got caught up in the attention focused on him by all the publicity following the robbery. But intellect wasn’t uppermost all the nights he came home in the wee small hours stinking of whiskey and another woman's perfume."

  "The son of a bitch."

  "Yeah. My emotions tended to eclipse anything my brain had to say, but even those were just about worn to a nub by the time I found him bleeding all over the kitchen. We were still living together in the same house, but mentally I was halfway out the door." She rammed her fingers through her hair and looked at her friend. "Which makes all the media hype doubly difficult. Grieving Widow Testifies at Wilson Trial," she mimicked bitterly. "Grieving Widow Attends Appeal." She swore softly. "I feel like such a hypocrite."

  "Why, because you didn't grieve?"

  "Of course I did! You don't live with a man for five years and just get over his brutal murder with a snap of your fingers. He was a great guy before all this happened and the first years of our marriage were wonderful. He didn't deserve to die that way. Nobody deserves to—” Comprehension dawned and she broke off mid-tirade. "Oh. Very tricky, Olivet, McAlvey—whatever." She scrutinized Kurstin. "Let me ask you something. How did you feel when you and Marcus realized your marriage wasn't going to work?"

  Kurstin made a face. "Like a failure."

  "Exactly. Divorce isn’t an easy decision even when you know it’s your only true option, and I doubt many people get through one with no regrets. But try to imagine that in addition to feeling like a failure as a wife, you have the media doing their best to turn you into THE WIDOW, this tragic public figure who exists in bold font caps. Whom, believe me, they do not want to know was in the initial stage of divorcing their cheating shit of a hero. Maybe then you can get a feel for why I feel like a damned impostor."

  "Well, it will all be resolved one way or another soon," Kurstin assured her comfortingly. "Then your life can finally get back to normal."

  "Whatever the hell that is.” Oh, bitch, whine, complain! Summoning a silver lining, she shot Kurstin a wry smile. “Other scandals came along and pushed Den’s heroics out of the limelight for almost a year before Wilson was let out on parole. The murder, of course, turned everything into a total feeding frenzy. But even that had begun to be treated as old news, until the debate over whether Wilson should be the first felon executed in the state since forever heated up again. Then the press came out of the woodwork like an army of carpenter ants. So Patsy had it right—I am notorious again.”

  “Ignore her.”

  “She seems…needier than she used to be.”

  “She’s become so over the past couple of years. We’ve drifted apart. Still, I cannot believe she said that!”

  “I can. Not much surprises me anymore. Even with breaks of relative quiet, I’ve been living with this notoriety for so long I barely remember what normal feels like."

  Then she perked up. "But at least here I have a chance of finding out without the press breathing down my neck and poking inquisitive fingers into every corner of my life. They’re relentless and so damn intrusive, you cannot begin to imagine. But, hey, what do journalists in the state of Washington care about a New Hampshire execution? And face it, with me out of the picture the East Coast media will lose interest and move on to the next poor sucker to provide them with an interesting sound bite or a few paragraphs above the fold."

  Or so she fervently hoped.

  Ty Holloway re-seated the telephone receiver with a bang and swore. Fuck it to hell. Where was Hayley Prescott?

  With Lawrence Wilson’s execution back on the table, she was supposed to be his ticket out of this podunk New Hampshire daily. Okay, so it was not the smallest newspaper in the land. But it was light years from New York or DC, so find her and he could practically write his own contract at the Times or Washington Post. Then it would be So long Manchester; Hello, Big Time.

  Fail to find her, however, and he’d probably be stuck here forever.

  She had been MIA for over a week now. You could find anything on the Internet these
days, so he had managed to locate her home town. So far, however, his discreet inquiries into whether she’d shown up there produced squat.

  He leaned back in his chair. "Marie," he called out. A young woman across the room looked up from her computer screen. "Fetch me a cup of coffee, will ya, hon?" he asked the minute he had her attention.

  It was an inappropriate use of the intern's time, but he knew she had a crush on him and shamelessly took advantage. His mouth tipped up in sardonic amusement as he watched her hop up to do his bidding.

  Moments later, with a smile that dimpled her full cheeks she handed him a mug. "Here you go, Ty," she said breathlessly.

  "Thanks." He brushed his fingers over hers as he accepted the cup. "You’re a doll and a half." Blushing, she turned away and missed seeing him raise an ironic eyebrow at Cal Duncan, to whom he’d queried just the other day, "Where do you suppose Marie buys her dresses, Manchester Tent and Awning?"

  Then Ty dismissed her, dismissed Duncan, and swiveled back to re-apply himself to his problem. He picked up the phone and punched the extension for the newsroom morgue. Once connected, he requested every bit of available information on Hayley Granger Prescott be delivered to him ASAP. Reseating the receiver, he thrust the fingers of both hands through his hair.

  He had to find her, and find her fast.

  A narrow tunnel of sunshine flooded the dark cave of Bluey’s bar when Hayley shoved opened the entrance door late the next afternoon.

  "Shut the goddamn door," a belligerent male voice demanded. "Whataya tryin' to do, blind me?"

  "Sorry," she murmured and stepped into the bar, closing the door at her back. Her own vision vanished and she stood blinking in the dark for a second. The cool, dark cavern smelled of worn leather and liquor and a hint of stale tobacco even though smoking in public buildings was outlawed years ago in Washington. From invisible speakers Bobby Blue Bland crooned it was a stormy Monday. He was lamenting that Wednesday he went to work and Thursday was “oh, so sad” when her eyes adjusted enough see the dim outlines of tables and the chairs tipped upside down atop them.

  "You Hayley Prescott?" the voice demanded and she turned a fraction to the right. Hunched over the end of the bar was the silhouette of a man. A barstool creaked as he swung around to stare at her and the end of a cigarette glowed crimson for a moment as he took a drag.

  Well, that explains it.

  The smoke he exhaled was a gray wraith slowly drifting up past his head to be pulled out of the room by the efficient ventilation system installed in the ceiling. "Well?" he prompted impatiently. "It's not that hard a question. Either you are, or you ain't." The end of his smoke glowed brightly once again as he drew in another deep drag.

  "Yes, I am," she said, stepping forward and extending her hand. "Harve Moser, I presume?"

  "Call me Bluey." A large hand emerged out of the gloom to swallow hers up. It pumped once and then slid away. "Hang on a sec," he commanded and swiveled back to face the bar. He rose to lean over it. Fumbling around with something on the other side, he swore, but soon emitted a small grunt of satisfaction. A switch clicked and lights sprang on behind the bar. He turned back to Hayley. "All right then," he said gruffly. "Let's get a look at you."

  Hayley stood patiently as he inspected her, using the time to examine him in return.

  Bluey Moser was a big man. He had a full head of white hair, a Roman nose and pugnacious pale blue eyes. Around sixty-five, he still had shoulders and arms like a stevedore. And despite the hint of softness that padded his middle, Hayley would bet he could bounce the meanest drunk out the front door in the blink of an eye should the occasion warrant it.

  "Well, you're a looker," he conceded and swiveled back to the bar to crush out his cigarette. "It's not a job requirement but it never hurts for pulling in business." Turning back, he exhaled his last lungful of smoke and gave her another swift once-over. "A little more elegant than my regulars are used to seeing around here, maybe, but the little outfit should take care of that. No doubt they'll think you're cuter ‘n a button once we get you rigged out."

  Little outfit? Kurstin hadn't mentioned anything about a little outfit. Unpleasant visions of fishnet stockings and flounced, butt-length skirts flirted disagreeably on the fringes of her mind. Hayley opened her mouth to ask about it, but the thought of her nonexistent bank account closed it again. Then visions of some male-fantasy X-rated Parisian-maid getup bloomed in her mind and she once again considered asking exactly what sort of 'little outfit' they were talking about. Before she had a chance to say a word, however, Bluey clamped a hand around her wrist and dragged her behind the bar, where he turned her loose.

  "Let's see what you can do," he commanded. "Make me a tall water."

  Hayley grabbed a glass. Flipping up the cover on the built-in ice bin, she scooped out ice and dumped some in. She selected a bottle of bourbon and measured a jigger over the glass. She allowed the bottle's pour spout to continue dribbling bourbon into the glass while she emptied the shot over the ice. Returning the bottle back to its spot on the shelf, she reached for the soda gun, found the W button and pushed it, adding water to the top of the glass. She placed a napkin on the bar in front of Bluey and set the drink on top of it. "Your tall water, sir," she said with a slight smile.

  "Pretty damn generous with my bourbon, ain't ya?" Bluey demanded. He took a sip and scowled.

  Hayley flashed a spontaneous grin and he paused, the glass suspended halfway to his mouth, an arrested expression in his eyes.

  She shrugged. "I learned to tend bar in a Chinese restaurant."

  "That explains it then," he agreed sourly, taking another sip with palpable appreciation before setting the glass down on its coaster. "The Chinese believe in serving a strong drink."

  “They do. It's the only way I have ever made one."

  "Well, you wanna work for me, girl, you're gonna have to get over it. I believe in one jigger per drink and no more. On the other hand, if you can curb your heavy hand with my liquor then you've got yourself a job." He named an hourly wage. "Plus tips. Tuesday through Saturday, seven to two. If you need an occasional weekend night off, it can be arranged as long as you request it ahead of time." He pulled another Marlboro out of his shirt pocket and fired up. Then he scowled down at her. "So, you want the goddamn job, or not?"

  "Yes, I'll take it. When do you want me to start?"

  "Tonight."

  "Okay." She hesitated. He wasn’t exactly a small talk kind of guy, but what the hell. She didn’t plan to start monitoring every word that left her mouth at this stage in her life. She had come home to make her life less complicated, not more so, and worrying that a simple statement might trigger a grouchy old man's impatience was definitely more complicated. If he didn’t want to indulge in small talk, that was too damn bad. "I hear you still bring in some of the best blues players around," she said. "I'm looking forward to hearing what you have to offer."

  And concluded Harve 'Bluey' Moser must not consider blues small talk when he almost smiled at her.

  "You like blues and jazz, girl, you're gonna like the bands we’ve got playin' here. Hell, come to think of it, I guess you already know the sax player who plays with Ragged Edge. Guy named—”

  The front door banged open and in spite of the light on behind the bar, Bluey's arm flew up and he hissed like a vampire caught by dawn's early light. Then he swore roundly, ending with, "Son of a bitch, I forgot this is Wednesday. That's delivery day," he added unnecessarily as a young man wheeled in a hand truck stacked with boxes. He turned to her. "Listen, you come on back at seven and we'll get you set up. Oh, wait. I better get you your little outfit."

  Now it was Hayley's turn to swear, if only mentally. She followed him to a closet behind the bar, trying to marshal a good solid reason why she should not have to wear his stupid costume. Before she could dredge one up, however, he had already opened the closet door, rattled through some hangers, and whipped something out.

  "Here," he said, thrusting a little turquoise
vest at her. "Try this one on, I think it should fit you. You can wear a tank top underneath it if you want to, though you'll probably pull in more tips without it. Pair it up with a black skirt or pants-- your choice. And don't forget the bow tie. For some damn reason men really go for that. Idiots probably think they're being served by a goddamn Playboy bunny or something."

  Hayley sagged back against the bar and nearly laughed in relief. She stared down at the scrap of material in her hands for a second, then slid it on atop a taupe silk shirt that was left over from more prosperous times and fastened the vest's two buttons. This was the little outfit? Not tacky stockings or an obscenely short skirt that would show her butt for all the world to ogle if she was not super cautious? Well, alrighty then. This, she could live with.

  Her attitude wasn’t quite as insouciant that evening when she donned the garment sans the elegant silk blouse. She was standing in her panties and bra in front of the full length mirror when Kurstin knocked on her bedroom door. Quickly whipping the vest on to prevent her friend from seeing the safety pin holding her bra strap together, she called out an invitation to enter. First paycheck she received, she was buying some decent underwear.

  Buttoning the vest automatically, she turned back from smiling a greeting over her shoulder to check its fit in the mirror. Her jaw dropped.

  Sweet Mary, Mother of God. A slice of her worn bra's lace cups showed in the vest's V neckline, and entire stretches of the shot elastic that formed the brassiere's sides were exposed in the deeply cut arm holes. She scowled at her image. She looked ridiculous. She—

  "I look like a damn rag picker," she groused, reaching up to pinch the shoulder seams until everything was properly covered. Her gaze sought Kurstin's in the mirror. "How are you with a needle and thread?"

  "About as proficient as you." Kurstin dropped onto Hayley's bed and rolled onto her side, propping her head in her palm as she observed the dilemma.