Excerpt

Feather duster in hand, I unlocked my uncle’s gun cabinet. He owned an impressive collection of antique firearms, hunting rifles, and modern handguns. On a whim, I picked up a .38 that looked like my father’s old Air Force issue. To my surprise, it was loaded. How odd! I’d have to inspect all of these things, but not today.

I put the revolver back in its place and swished my duster over the top shelf of the cabinet. Why had Uncle Herb left the weapons in the office? I turned to ask his assistant, but the young man spoke before I could open my mouth.

“Consider the Redman case closed, Ms. Bradford. The last payment just arrived.” To emphasize his point, Timothy Stettin waved an envelope in the air. Sitting behind the massive oak desk, he had worked through a pile of correspondence.

He looked at me, and I suppressed a sigh. “Thank you, Tim.” His lost puppy expression triggered a sense of guilt in me. To cover my reaction, I said, “Why don’t you go to the bank now and make the deposit? Take the afternoon off. I’ll close up here.”

He didn’t smile, but gave me a courteous nod in acceptance of the bone I had tossed him. I wished I could tell him he wouldn’t lose his job, but that would have been premature.

“Thank you, Ms. Bradford. Have a nice weekend.” Tim cast me one brief glance before he took himself—and the check—out of the office.

The door closed behind him, and I watched through the picture window as he walked to his rusty hatchback. For all his twenty-six years, Tim appeared vulnerable. I knew he dreaded having to look for a new job, even though he must have known the day would come.

I didn’t have time to tend to the neglected plant or to ponder Timothy’s future. A man approached the building, which housed only this office and an apartment upstairs. He stopped in front of the door and looked at the white lettering on its windowpane.

His wide-brimmed hat cast his face into shadow, but I got a good glimpse of his figure. Terrific proportions: wide shoulders, narrow middle, and long legs.

Before I could further evaluate him, he had pushed open the entrance door and stepped inside. Not your usual client, I thought. That hat was a Stetson, and he wore quality jeans, a fringed, beige suede blazer on top of a black T-shirt, and a belt buckle that screamed ‘Wild West.’ I had never seen such an ornate design of turquoise and silver. I could have bet the thing weighed half a pound.

Staring at the man’s middle wasn’t exactly proper. So I lifted my gaze to his face. It showed a clean-shaven, dimpled chin and wide planes. His nose had never been broken. His mouth looked grim. Wire-rimmed sunglasses hid his eyes. Lean and stylish! I figured he might be in his late forties—and out of place in New Mons, Illinois.

“Hello,” I greeted him. “Can I help you?”

I sounded like a sales clerk, but at the moment nothing else came to mind.
He turned to me and briefly touched the brim of his hat. “Howdy. I’m here to see the owner of the place. Would you tell him, please?”

That ‘please’ didn’t sound much like a ‘please.’ So I said curtly, “You’re looking at her.”

“You? You’re not Mr. Meyer.”

“No, I’m not.”

“What the—” He stopped himself in the nick of time. “Is this not the Any Agency?”

“That it is,” I said drily. “Anyone. Anytime. Anywhere. The Any Agency, Private Investigations, Incorporated. If you’d care to take another look at the entrance door, you’d see the whole thing written on the glass. In bold letters, at that.”

My slight fit of sarcasm didn’t faze him. I, on the other hand, was appalled. I didn’t normally greet strangers with such lack of basic politeness.

“Well, ma’am. I tried to find this place by house number, but they aren’t easily detected in this odd, little town. It’s half a miracle I did arrive at the right door, considering I’m still tired from a drive across umpteen states. I’m in a serious mood, so I suggest you don’t play games with me.”

I raised my eyebrows and stared at him in disapproval. He came on pretty strong for someone who hadn’t even introduced himself yet. Maybe my sarcasm hadn’t been all that uncalled for.

At the sight of my expression, he took off his sunglasses, his hat, and his attitude. “My name is Jim Golden and I’ve come to hire Mr. Meyer. He was highly recommended to me.”

His aquamarine blue eyes looked stunning in a deeply tanned face. To hide my reaction to such male splendor, I looked straight at him and said, “Mr. Golden, I am sorry. Mr. Meyer has retired. I took over here a few days ago with the intention of closing the agency as soon as all loose ends are tied up. Mr. Meyer did well enough, but this ‘odd, little town’ hardly needs a P.I. There are other agencies in the greater area. May I suggest you go to one in Bellevue or in Codsbridge?”

I took a step toward him, away from the planter in the window, just in time to see something flicker in his eyes. His mouth tightened, and his frown lines deepened. He looked away from me, at the desk, which appeared too empty now that Tim had cleared it…at the telephone, which didn’t ring, and at the framed certificates, which decorated the walls. They bore my uncle’s name: Herbert R. Meyer, P.I.