Sticky Fingers by Nancy Martin

Author:Nancy Martin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press
Published: 2011-12-12T11:02:51+00:00

14

Before any of the reporters caught sight of me, I trotted up the back porch steps of Eckelstine’s house and looked through the glass in the door. I had pulled my hair into a ponytail and jammed a ball cap over it.

Inside, the kitchen was a mess. I saw dirty dishes and glassware everywhere. A carton of milk forgotten on the counter. Bowl of bananas turning black. A stack of pizza boxes four feet tall. Sure signs of men living alone. I guessed Clarice hadn’t been here in days.

The door was unlocked. Which is practically an engraved invitation, right? So I opened the door and went inside.

From under the sink, the lower half of Reggie Ricco, owner of Busted Flush Plumbing, stretched out onto the kitchen floor. I recognized his belly, because his sweatshirt was all hiked up. He had a tattoo of a mermaid on his stomach, riding the wave of his considerable body hair. His head, shoulders, and arms were inside the cabinet, at work on the water pipes.

“Reggie?”

“Huh?” He banged his head as he came out from under the sink. When he saw it was me standing there, he dropped his wrench.

Reggie had graduated from high school with me, and his wife was Stripper Betty. She wasn’t really an exotic dancer, but back in tenth grade she’d accidentally lost her shirt when it got caught on the school bus door, and she’d been known as Stripper Betty ever since. High school humor is timeless.

The color drained out of Reggie’s face. “Roxy! What are you doing here?”

“I’m your assistant.”

“I don’t have an assistant.”

“Shut up and listen, Reggie. For the purposes of the newspeople outside and anybody else who might wander in, today I’m your assistant, and if you say otherwise, I’m going to tell Betty about you and me.”

Okay, I’m not proud of it. One afternoon a bunch of years ago, I’d bumped into Reggie, bought him a couple of beers, and ridden him like a circus pony. It was before he’d married Betty, but the interlude had so frightened Reggie that he still lived in fear that anyone—particularly his wife—might find out what he’d allowed to happen.

On the floor, Reggie stared up at me and gulped.

I said, “I’m not here to jump you, Reggie. I’m just going to have a look around the house.”

“You c-can’t do that. I’m bonded. If you steal something—”

“I’m not going to steal anything. I’m just looking.”

“But—”

“Dammit, is there anybody else in the house?”

“A kid. Teenager. He’s upstairs in his room, I think.”

“Okay, when does the father get back?”

“He said he’d be gone a couple of hours. He called me because the sink backed up, and he says they’re having some kind of funeral thing here soon, so I came right over to— Look, Roxy, I—”

“It’ll be okay. Forget I’m here.”

While Reggie stared in horror, I prowled out of the kitchen.

I peeked into the dining room. The table was covered with books, newspapers, and coffee cups. And more pizza boxes. In the living room, I decided the furniture had been chosen by a decorator who liked hotel lobbies.

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