12
Marcus stayed for a little longer then he headed home. I went upstairs, ran a bath and tossed one of Maggie’s herbal soaks into the water. I was brushing my hair when the phone rang. It was Brady Chapman.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Kathleen,” he said, “but Maggie is helping Ruby chaperone some kind of overnight thing at the high school and I didn’t think it was a good idea to call Marcus with this.” He sounded . . . rattled, which was really unlike Brady.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s my father. And Elliot Gordon.”
“What about them?”
“They’re at the bar at the St. James Hotel. Right now they should just be wrapping up their rendition of ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’”
I started to laugh. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I really wish I was,” he said drily. “The manager called me. If I pick them up in the next half hour she won’t call the police. The problem is, I’m in Minneapolis. I couldn’t get Lita, either.”
“I’ll go get them,” I said, kicking off my fuzzy slippers.
“Thank you,” Brady said. “Like I said, I didn’t think it would be a good idea to call Marcus.”
“I agree.” I felt a little guilty. After all, I had, in a way, suggested to Elliot that he get in touch with Burtis. “Don’t worry. I’ll get Elliot up to his room and I’ll take your dad home.”
“I know my father’s reputation,” Brady said. “But the truth is, he doesn’t drink very much himself.”
I laughed again. “Then he’ll probably just sleep it off and wake up with a really big headache in the morning. Don’t worry about this. I’ve been around my parents’ theater friends all my life. This won’t be the first time I’ve had to rescue someone who had a bit too much. At least they’re just singing Lynyrd Skynyrd. Be grateful they’re not reenacting Hamlet and Laertes’s duel with real swords.”
“I owe you, Kathleen,” Brady said.
“No, you don’t,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
I pulled on my jeans and a sweater, yanked my hair back into a ponytail and grabbed my purse and keys.
Brady must have called the hotel manager back, because when I walked into the hotel a woman came from behind the front desk and walked over to me. “Ms. Paulson,” she said, offering his hand. “I’m Melanie Davis.”
She was about my height, and curvy with smooth brown skin and gorgeous dark eyes. I’d heard Lita mention her name.
“I’m here to get Mr. Chapman and Mr. Gordon,” I said.
“I think they’re just finishing their encore,” she replied drily. She led the way to the bar. The hotel had been experimenting with live music on Friday and Saturday nights but I didn’t think this was what they had in mind.
Burtis Chapman and Elliot Gordon were an incongruous pair at best. Burtis made me think of something carved from a block of stone, strong and solid. His face was lined and weathered from so much time spent outdoors. He’d lost most of his hair—all that was left were a few white tufts that were generally poking out from under his ubiquitous Twins ball cap.
I knew that not all of Burtis’s business dealings were on the up and up, but he had a generous soul and he was deeply loyal to the people he called his friends. And that was more than enough for me and had been long before he’d helped rescue me from a burning building.
I had no idea that Burtis could sing. Or Elliot, for that matter. They were rocking out to Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll.” The jazz trio—guitar, bass and snare drum—looked like they were having just as much fun.
“They’re good,” I said softly. The manager gave me a look that told me I shouldn’t have said that out loud.
I wasn’t the only one who liked what I was hearing. The song ended and people began to clap enthusiastically. Burtis and Elliot bowed, acknowledging the applause. I made my way over to them, skirting around the tables. Burtis smiled when he caught sight of me.
“Kathleen, girl, what the hell are you doing here?” he asked.
“I thought you might need a limo driver,” I said.
“Are you tryin’ to say I’m too drunk to walk home?” he asked. I knew he wasn’t angry. I could see a devilish gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, I am,” I said.
He laughed, a deep booming sound that seemed to bounce off the walls. “Well, you’re right.” He turned to Elliot, gesturing at me with his free hand, his other arm still around Elliot’s shoulders. “That son of yours is a fine man,” he said. “And he’s a damn fine police officer, which I know you don’t wanna hear but I’m gonna say it anyway. But he was dumb as a glass of water when it came to her. Almost screwed it up big-time.”
“I’m parked out front,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“You tryin’ to shut me up or change the subject?” Burtis asked.
I smiled at him. “Either one will work for me.” I put my arm around Burtis’s shoulder, which had the effect of making me feel as though I’d just joined a very odd Vegas kick line.
“Shotgun,” Elliot said then.
“You can’t call shotgun,” Burtis countered.
“The hell I can’t,” Elliot retorted. “I just did it.”
“I’m not riding in the back like an old dog.”
“If you can’t run with the big dogs you better stay on the porch,” Elliot said.
The words hung between them for a moment, then they both laughed at some joke I didn’t get.
At least we were moving in the direction of the door. “First of all, no one is riding in the back,” I said. “And second”—I looked at Elliot—“you’re not coming with us.” I pointed at the ceiling. “You’re going to bed.”
Burtis smirked at him.
“I called shotgun,” Elliot said. “We have a verbal agreement.” He had a little trouble getting the word “agreement” out.
“We can outrun him, Kathleen.” Burtis winked at me.
“We’re not running anywhere,” I said firmly. “You”—I pointed at Elliot—“are going to bed. “You”—I moved my finger to Burtis—“are going home.”
“I’ll sue,” Elliot said.
“You can’t sue your boy’s girlfriend,” Burtis said.
I wondered just exactly how much they’d had to drink.
“The hell I can’t!” Elliot straightened up and adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“Don’t you?” Burtis asked.
They laughed again like it was the funniest thing either one of them had ever heard.
I tried to steer them toward the elevators but they were bigger and stronger and since we were still linked arm in arm I found myself on the sidewalk with them before I quite knew what happened.
Burtis slapped the passenger-side fender of the truck with one hand. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore,” he told Elliot.
“How did you two get here?” I asked.
“That depends,” Elliot said, “on whether you believe in evolution or creationism.”
“You forgot aliens,” Burtis said.
Elliot nodded solemnly. “Or aliens.”
The preschoolers at story time were easier to manage than those two. “I mean did you two have a car?”
“I have an Audi,” Elliot said, holding his head up with a decided amount of pride.
“La-di-da,” Burtis replied. “I have a truck.” He smacked the fender again with his big hand and looked at me. “Open up, girl.”
I unlocked the passenger door and Burtis hauled it open. “Get in, Elly May,” he said to Elliot.
“I called shotgun.” Marcus’s dad crossed his arms petulantly over his chest, his feet planted wide apart. The effect he was going for was ruined because he was swaying slightly. I had the feeling if I poked him with my finger he’d topple over.
Burtis dropped his elbow down on the hood of the truck, forearm upright, fingers spread apart. “Let’s go a round,” he growled. “I can still take you.”