There's Something About Marty (A Working Stiffs Mystery Book 3) by Wendy Delaney Page A
Authors: Wendy Delaney
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overstepped when I kissed you last night, but I assure you that nothing is going to happen today that you don’t want to happen.”
He had missed on that promise by at least a half hour, but he was right about the two of us. Nothing was going to happen.
∗ ∗ ∗
Twenty minutes later, I was on Kyle’s sailboat, sipping mineral water at the table he’d set for two. “Are you sure I can’t do anything to help?” I asked as I watched him slice the mushrooms he’d bought.
I knew he didn’t need me crowding him in his one-person galley, but we had an hour to kill before the egg dish he was preparing would be ready, and I was running out of safe subjects to talk about.
“Nope, I’ve got this.” He transferred the mushrooms into a sauté pan.
“Smells good. What are you making?”
“Spinach brie frittata. My grandmother’s recipe.”
“Passed down generation to generation?” I asked, imagining Kyle in braces, cooking with his mom.
His face split into a smile as if I’d said something funny. “No, my mother doesn’t cook. Everything I know I learned from my nonna.”
Sounded like we had that in common, too. Only my grandmother was English-Irish, not Italian.
“What’s your mother do, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Focusing on the mushrooms he was sautéing, he shrugged. “Let’s see, she shops and travels, and redecorates the living room every few years.”
Jeez, he was describing my mother in the flush years following her TV series.
“And to be fair,” he added, “she also volunteers at my dad’s hospital and sits on the board of a couple of nonprofits.”
“Back up. You said your dad’s hospital. He’s a doctor?”
“A neurologist back in Boulder. He also teaches there at the university.”
“Sounds like someone who has a lot of letters after his name.” And some big bucks for each one of those letters. Maybe that explained the sailboat and the expensive dinner last night. Kyle came from money.
His expression darkened as he added several cups of chopped spinach to the pan. “Something like that.”
I had the feeling that I’d struck a nerve. Some father-son thing? I didn’t want to intrude into Kyle’s personal life more than I already had, but this seemed like an opportunity to shift the conversation toward the subject where I needed his expertise.
“Had you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Hell no, I wanted to be a rock star.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, but he certainly had the looks to be the front man in a band. “Decided you didn’t want to buy a bus and play a different city every night?”
“Hey, when I was thirteen I thought that sounded pretty cool. Twenty years later there are days I still do.”
“It must be interesting though, working in the ER.” Not the smoothest segue, but it would have to do. “Oh, speaking of the ER, one of my friends from high school was there last night with her two-year-old.” I paused, hoping that he’d turn toward me so that I could read his reaction.
When he did I continued. “Jordan Makepeace.”
Nothing registered except the same feigned expression of interest I got from Steve whenever I talked about my job.
“His grandmother—Phyllis Bozeman, if you know her—found him outside eating a plant and rushed him to the hospital.”
Again, no flickers of recognition. If Phyllis or Jordan had made prior trips to the ER, they hadn’t been on Kyle’s watch.
“Is he doing okay?” he asked.
“Seems to be. From what I heard it sounds like his grandmother got him there in the nick of time.”
“Good for Grandma and Jordan then. Plant toxins can be very dangerous.”
Yes, they were, as I had recently learned. “Is that something you see very often?”
He cracked an egg into a bowl. “No, and usually the parents say that they have no idea what the kid ate or drank.”
“But you’re able to run some labs and find out, right?”
Reaching for another egg, he grinned at me. “Someone’s been
He had missed on that promise by at least a half hour, but he was right about the two of us. Nothing was going to happen.
∗ ∗ ∗
Twenty minutes later, I was on Kyle’s sailboat, sipping mineral water at the table he’d set for two. “Are you sure I can’t do anything to help?” I asked as I watched him slice the mushrooms he’d bought.
I knew he didn’t need me crowding him in his one-person galley, but we had an hour to kill before the egg dish he was preparing would be ready, and I was running out of safe subjects to talk about.
“Nope, I’ve got this.” He transferred the mushrooms into a sauté pan.
“Smells good. What are you making?”
“Spinach brie frittata. My grandmother’s recipe.”
“Passed down generation to generation?” I asked, imagining Kyle in braces, cooking with his mom.
His face split into a smile as if I’d said something funny. “No, my mother doesn’t cook. Everything I know I learned from my nonna.”
Sounded like we had that in common, too. Only my grandmother was English-Irish, not Italian.
“What’s your mother do, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Focusing on the mushrooms he was sautéing, he shrugged. “Let’s see, she shops and travels, and redecorates the living room every few years.”
Jeez, he was describing my mother in the flush years following her TV series.
“And to be fair,” he added, “she also volunteers at my dad’s hospital and sits on the board of a couple of nonprofits.”
“Back up. You said your dad’s hospital. He’s a doctor?”
“A neurologist back in Boulder. He also teaches there at the university.”
“Sounds like someone who has a lot of letters after his name.” And some big bucks for each one of those letters. Maybe that explained the sailboat and the expensive dinner last night. Kyle came from money.
His expression darkened as he added several cups of chopped spinach to the pan. “Something like that.”
I had the feeling that I’d struck a nerve. Some father-son thing? I didn’t want to intrude into Kyle’s personal life more than I already had, but this seemed like an opportunity to shift the conversation toward the subject where I needed his expertise.
“Had you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Hell no, I wanted to be a rock star.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, but he certainly had the looks to be the front man in a band. “Decided you didn’t want to buy a bus and play a different city every night?”
“Hey, when I was thirteen I thought that sounded pretty cool. Twenty years later there are days I still do.”
“It must be interesting though, working in the ER.” Not the smoothest segue, but it would have to do. “Oh, speaking of the ER, one of my friends from high school was there last night with her two-year-old.” I paused, hoping that he’d turn toward me so that I could read his reaction.
When he did I continued. “Jordan Makepeace.”
Nothing registered except the same feigned expression of interest I got from Steve whenever I talked about my job.
“His grandmother—Phyllis Bozeman, if you know her—found him outside eating a plant and rushed him to the hospital.”
Again, no flickers of recognition. If Phyllis or Jordan had made prior trips to the ER, they hadn’t been on Kyle’s watch.
“Is he doing okay?” he asked.
“Seems to be. From what I heard it sounds like his grandmother got him there in the nick of time.”
“Good for Grandma and Jordan then. Plant toxins can be very dangerous.”
Yes, they were, as I had recently learned. “Is that something you see very often?”
He cracked an egg into a bowl. “No, and usually the parents say that they have no idea what the kid ate or drank.”
“But you’re able to run some labs and find out, right?”
Reaching for another egg, he grinned at me. “Someone’s been
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