Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Read online

  Nick set the turkey on the shelf and straightened. His expression was dead serious, but amusement twinkled in his eyes. “I’ve always been a leg man, myself.”

  Zoë almost choked.

  She retrieved the carton of whipping cream from the counter, stepped around him, and tucked it into an open space on the inside of the door. “Then you’re in luck.” She made a show of squeezing one of the drumsticks. “These legs are nice and plump—perfect for a man to sink his teeth into.”

  A sudden metallic thud sounded behind her, and she jerked up, clipping the handle of the freezer with the top of her head. She sucked in a swift breath and rubbed the sore spot on her scalp, but before she could complain, a can of cranberry sauce rolled across the tile floor toward her feet, immediately followed by a deep, muttered curse.

  She bent to pick up the can and offered it to Nick. When he snatched it from her hand with a frown, she had to compress her lips tightly to keep a laugh from bubbling out.

  Ha! Gotcha. Score one for the home team.

  ****

  The next morning Zoë woke early with a dull headache. She’d had trouble sleeping because her mind kept running over the food prep schedule for the next day. She might not be a real chef, but she was in charge of Thanksgiving dinner for the first time in her life, and she was anxious to avoid a fiasco.

  After a quick shower she poked through the drawer of the battered old dresser, discarding one sweater after another. Boring. Wrong color. Too long. Too short. Nothing she’d brought seemed festive enough for the occasion. When she was growing up, her mother had always insisted the family dress up for holiday meals. Maybe one of her options would look more appealing when it was time to change for dinner. She finally gave up and threw on a plain black turtleneck and stretchy black pants—talk about boring. As a final touch, she slipped into her favorite pair of red ballet flats. At least she could wear fun shoes.

  The kitchen was dark and quiet, like the rest of the house. Some people might be spooked by the lonely, pre-dawn stillness in the old mansion, but Zoë had come to appreciate the solitude. It gave her time to gear up for the day ahead. Once the Prescotts awoke, she would be busy every minute until they retired. She brewed a quick cup of coffee and scanned the recipe on the side of the pumpkin pie spice mixture she’d bought instead of a slew of individual bottles neither she nor Marian would probably ever use again. She was amazed to find it barely more complicated than buying the pie from the bakery since she’d had the foresight to purchase a ready-made crust. Ten minutes later the pie was in the oven. Cooking was almost fun if you allowed yourself a few short cuts.

  A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she sipped her coffee and smelled the first hints of spice from the baking pie. The aroma brought back vivid memories of her mother and grandmother preparing holiday dinners in the old farmhouse kitchen. Zoë hadn’t been home for Thanksgiving in years, and usually tried not to think about it, but maybe she could find a minute to call home later in the afternoon, before dinner.

  The pie had been in the oven for half an hour by the time the others straggled into the kitchen. The men were dressed, but Marian still wore her pink-flowered flannel pajamas with a white terry robe cinched just below her breasts and fluffy pink slippers. Her long blond hair hung loose around her shoulders.

  “I couldn’t even take the time to get dressed.” She closed her eyes and sniffed the air. “That smells like heaven. I’ve never had pumpkin pie for breakfast before, but I want it now.”

  Zoë chuckled. “I’m afraid it’s not quite ready. Why don’t I make you some cinnamon toast to go with your eggs? That might make it easier to wait for the pie.” She pulled a partial bag of sliced brioche from the old-fashioned bread drawer in one of the lower cabinets.

  “Perfect!” Marian beamed. “You’re the best.”

  “That does sound good.” Lyman seated his wife at the kitchen table then sat beside her. “I believe I’ll have some, too.”

  Nick helped himself to a mug of coffee. “Make that three.”

  Zoë eyed the remaining bread. “I’m beginning to think I should have bought another loaf.”

  Just then, the wall phone jangled. She glanced at the clock on the stove—ten minutes after eight, awfully early for a call on Thanksgiving morning. At the second ring, she sent a questioning look to the Prescotts. “Were you expecting a call, maybe from family?”

  Lyman frowned and pushed back from the table. “No. I’d better take it.”

  He strode to the phone and jerked the receiver from its cradle. “Hello?” As he listened to the voice on the other end, his expression changed from irritation to relief and then to gratitude. “Yes, I understand. Thank you so much for calling.” When he hung up and turned, new light shone in his plain brown eyes, turning his nondescript features almost handsome.

  “Who was it, dear?”

  He crossed to the table and took Marian’s hand. “It was Sergeant Lewis with the best possible news. They caught Jimmy Mahoney last night.” A slight tremor shook his hand as he clutched hers. “He’s in custody at the Cook County Jail.”

  Marian’s back curved, and her shoulders sagged like someone had let the air out of her.

  Lyman gently brushed her hair away from her face. “I know you never wanted to believe the worst of him.”

  Marian leaned her head into his hand. “I know I should feel relieved—and I do—but I’m also a little sad. I’ve known Jimmy nearly all my life. Now, he’ll probably go back to prison.” She tipped her face up to meet her husband’s gaze. “You never knew him, but he wasn’t always a bad person. I still can’t believe he wanted to hurt me.”

  Lyman bent and kissed her forehead. “Sometimes people change. Jimmy made some serious mistakes, and now he has to pay. The important thing is, he’ll be behind bars, and you and the baby are safe.”

  “Does this mean we can finally relax and live like normal people?”

  He smiled into her hair. “As close to normal as people like us can get.”

  Zoë popped slices of bread into the toaster and wondered if this turn of events signaled the end of her assignment with the Prescotts. The twinge of regret surprised her. Every job ended—it was the nature of the work—but she’d grown fond of Lyman’s absent-minded brilliance and utter devotion to his wife, as well as Marian’s sweet, cheerful disposition. She would miss them when she left Strathmoor.

  And then there was Nick. She would have no reason to see him again after this job ended, and whatever was growing between them would wither and die. It was a shock to realize she would miss his crooked nose and suspicious frown. She would even miss his sarcastic comments about her cooking. Maybe it was his physicality, or maybe his self-confidence, but there was something about his mere presence that made a person feel safe.

  There you go, jumping the gun again, Hargrove. Before you start sniveling in the scrambled eggs, stop and assess.

  As usual, her inner drill instructor made a good point. Lyman seemed convinced Jimmy Mahoney was behind all their problems, but some things still didn’t add up.

  Nick seemed to have the same idea. He refreshed his coffee and joined the Prescotts at the table. “I’m glad to hear the cops collared Mahoney, but I wouldn’t recommend lowering your guard until they get some answers from him.”

  Lyman tilted his head and frowned. “Such as…?”

  “If Mahoney was the gunman in the basement, why did he want the plans for your robot? If he’s short of money, why not demand cash?”

  Lyman pursed his lips. “That doesn’t make much sense.”

  “And then there’s the question of the two bikers who harassed Zoë the day she arrived. If they were Mahoney and Gehke, what were they trying to accomplish, and how did they know she was coming here? Also, who sent that mystery stroller?”

  “Those are all good questions, to which I would like to know the answers.” Lyman settled into the chair next to his wife and patted her hand. “It appears we can’t put the whole business behind us quite
yet, my dear. However, with Mahoney safely in jail, I think we deserve a few days to simply enjoy the holiday and each other.”

  Soft rose bloomed in Marian’s cheeks, and she smiled. “Hear, hear.”

  He lifted his napkin with a flourish and spread it across his lap. “Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I intend to enjoy my breakfast and later the wonderful Thanksgiving dinner Zoë’s preparing. I have a great deal to be thankful for this year.”

  At that moment, the toaster dinged and the oven timer buzzed simultaneously. Zoë managed to rescue the toast before it burned then grabbed a pair of oven mitts. With a quick prayer, she opened the oven door.

  On the center rack sat a shining wonder, a veritable work of art. The crust was a little too brown in a couple of spots, but otherwise the pie was perfect. She reached in and carefully slid it out. It was a miracle. The top was smooth and uncracked. It even had tiny beads of moisture on the surface, just like a bakery pumpkin pie. And she had made it herself. At that moment, she didn’t care if the rest of dinner was a disaster. She had done one thing exactly right.

  She was sorely tempted to take a picture with her phone and send it to her mother as proof.

  A couple of hours later, while the others watched the Bears play the Lions on television, Zoë slipped up to her room to make her call. Her hand shook as she pressed the Send button. How long had it been since she’d spoken to her parents—six months, maybe? Or was it more like nine? She never seemed to know what to say, and besides, she’d been busy.

  Her oldest brother, Adam, answered the phone. “Hey, Zoë, how’ve you been?” Children’s voices clamored in the background, then Adam’s voice softened, as if he’d put his hand over the phone. “You guys settle down, or no pie for you!”

  “I’m fine. I just called to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. Is Mom busy?”

  “Always, but I know she’ll want to talk to you.”

  A few seconds passed before her mother’s flustered voice came on the line. “Zoë, I’m right in the middle of mashing the potatoes.”

  So much for wanting to talk. “Hi, Mom. I’m sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s sweet of you. I suppose you’re eating alone, as usual.”

  “Actually, I’m on a job, and I’m cooking dinner for my clients.”

  “You’re cooking?” Incredulity rang in her mother’s words.

  “I baked a pumpkin pie this morning, and it turned out perfect.”

  The rhythmic metallic ring of an old-fashioned potato masher against a metal bowl sounded in the background. “Pumpkin is the easiest. It’s a good thing you didn’t try something that takes skill—like mincemeat or lemon meringue.”

  And there it is. Why do I even try? “You go back to your potatoes. I just wanted to say Hi.”

  “Call any time, and good luck with the rest of your dinner.”

  Zoë hung up with the same miserable feeling of inadequacy that usually accompanied conversations with her mother. At almost thirty, she should have learned better by now.

  Happily, the rest of dinner was not a disaster. The turkey with its pop-up timer proved to be idiot-proof, and a serious topping of brown sugar disguised any problems with the yams. Only the mashed potatoes were a near miss. Lyman decided to try having GRAMPA add the hot milk, and the result ended up all over the kitchen. A few clumps even decorated the ceiling. In true inventor spirit, he chalked the mishap up to experience and insisted on cleaning up the mess himself.

  Since Marian had decided they would eat in the formal dining room, Nick volunteered to retrieve the heavy, gold-edged china and etched crystal stemware from the enormous glass-fronted buffet cabinet. Frankie “No Nose” might have started life in a tenement, but he’d made certain future generations of Prescotts dined like royalty.

  Dinner was a resounding success. Lyman and Marian couldn’t say enough about the food, and Nick managed to pack away both turkey legs and at least three helpings of everything else. As he wiped the last drop of gravy from his plate with the last bite of turkey, Zoë tapped his shin with her toe under the table.

  She raised one brow. “Do you still think the bird was too big?”

  Before he could reply, Lyman spoke. “Zoë and Nick, you’ve done so much for me and Marian. We’d like to do something for you.”

  Zoë started to object. “But that’s—”

  He raised one hand and shook his head. “You’ve worked long hours, day in and day out, for weeks. I want you both to take the rest of the weekend off.”

  Nick set his fork on his empty plate. “I thought we agreed it was important to remain diligent for the time being.”

  “And I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone now,” Zoë added.

  Lyman turned to her. “I spoke to your employer this afternoon, and she agreed you need a break. Your colleague, Ms. Callahan, will be here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock and stay through Sunday evening.”

  “Casey’s terrific, but she’s just one person.”

  “Marian and I plan to spend a quiet weekend at home, so I’m sure one bodyguard will be sufficient for three days. I promise we’ll keep the alarm set at all times.”

  Zoë had to admit the idea of three days off sounded appealing. It would be nice to sleep in her own bed, eat food she didn’t cook, and refresh her wardrobe. Since she and Nick had agreed to collaborate on security, she would have liked the chance to confer with him in private, but since that wasn’t possible she shot him a quick, questioning glance.

  He shrugged, as if to say, “Up to you.”

  So she gave Lyman a gracious smile. “In that case, thank you very much.”

  After all, it wasn’t like they were leaving the Prescotts on their own. Casey was a perfectly competent agent. And what could happen in three short days?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning Casey Callahan arrived at eight forty-five with a small overnight bag and her usual sunny smile. Zoë knew the Prescotts would love her. Everyone loved Casey. She was warm and friendly, yet calm and practical—like everyone’s favorite babysitter—but her softly rounded curves and honey-blond hair hid a sharp mind and amazing observational skills. Nothing slipped by Casey.

  Zoë led her into the foyer. “It’s so great to see you. It seems like our paths hardly cross anymore.”

  Casey unwound her camel cashmere scarf. “It’s been at least a month—since the job in Dallas, wasn’t it?”

  “Um, hm. You can leave your bag by the stairs, and I’ll take you to the living room to meet the Prescotts.”

  As she’d predicted, Lyman and Marian warmed to Casey immediately. If pressed, Zoë would admit to being a little jealous of her friend’s natural ability to put people at ease. And it didn’t help when Nick ambled into the room and fell all over himself, smiling and offering to carry the newcomer’s luggage up the two long flights to the staff quarters. She crossed her arms and watched them make their way upstairs, chatting like old friends.

  Hmph. With her he’s all smiles, while I get nothing but attitude.

  She was shocked when he came back down carrying her rolling suitcase.

  “This was sitting in the hall. I assumed you wanted to take it with you.”

  “Um…yes.” She reached for the handle. “I thought I’d switch out a few things and make a quick trip to the dry cleaner.”

  He kept a firm grip on her bag and headed for the kitchen. “If you’re ready to go, I’ll take this out for you. It doesn’t weigh much. You must be leaving most of your shoes here.”

  Zoë grabbed her jacket from the closet in the foyer and her purse off the table on her way through the kitchen. “I have plenty more at home.” She held the back door open for him then locked it and set the alarm.

  Nick headed across the courtyard toward her Mini Cooper. “Casey seems quite competent. She should be able to handle things while we’re gone. I think the Prescotts like her already.”

  “Everyone always does.”<
br />
  “She’s very pretty, too.”

  She raised one brow. “Do you want me to fix you up?”

  He laughed. “I was just wondering if all the Phoenix, Ltd. agents are as gorgeous as the two I’ve met.”

  Nice save.

  He set the suitcase next to her car. “Do you have big plans for your unexpected long weekend?”

  She unlocked the doors and opened the back hatch so he could stow her bag. “Not really. Everyone I know is spending the holiday with family. I’ll probably water my cactus, do some laundry, and binge-watch a couple of my favorite shows on Netflix.”

  “You probably have time to make a quick trip home to Iowa.”

  She thought back to her call with her mother. “I don’t think so.”

  Nick hesitated, as if he’d like to ask more questions, then seemed to decide against it. “Since you’re not super busy, how would you like to go to a hockey game tomorrow night?”

  His tone was casual, but Zoë noticed a subtle tightness around his mouth.

  “Hockey?”

  “Yeah. You know, guys with sticks chasing a little black disc around on the ice.”

  “I know what hockey is, but I thought the Blackhawks were sold out for the season.”

  “They are, but we’re much smaller potatoes.”

  “You’re inviting me to watch you play hockey?”

  “Well…yeah. I haven’t been able to play since I started this job, but my team has a game Saturday night, and I told the guys I’d play. My brother-in-law plays on the team, and my mom and sister will be there.”

  He must have sensed she was about to decline his invitation and dangled the perfect bait. How could she pass up a chance to meet the two most important women in his life? In her experience, mothers and sisters were the best sources of information about a man. They knew where all the skeletons were buried and took great pleasure in exposing them. She was bound to pick up an interesting tidbit or two she could tuck away for future use.

  “Okay. What time?”