The Spring At Moss Hill. Carla Neggers
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do, in small doses. She’s fun, generous, interesting and a little nuts. She loves having you two at her beck and call.”
“No one has Russ at their beck and call. Me, yes. Russ, no.”
“You just play along better than I do,” Russ told him.
“My point is,” Loretta added, “Daphne will run you ragged if you let her.”
Russ smiled. “It takes a lot to run me ragged.”
“No doubt.” Loretta grimaced as if the entire conversation about Daphne Stewart pained her. “She loves the idea of having a rugged, good-looking investigator show up in Knights Bridge as her advance team.”
“Hey,” Julius said, “Russ is going east, not me.”
She rolled her eyes, but Russ thought she looked less tense. She and Julius had only met last summer, but now it seemed as if they’d known each other forever. “Daphne knows her stuff, I’ll say that for her.” Loretta swept up her water glass and took a big drink. “She warned me the first dress I picked out for our wedding wouldn’t work. Although this was my first—and only—wedding, I didn’t want to do the whole white-dress thing. I found a cute cocktail dress I liked. I thought it was cute, anyway. Daphne told me I would hate my wedding photos if I wore it. I’d look sallow and sad. Her words. Sallow and sad.”
“And you were neither that day,” Julius said.
“She’s also responsible for the two of us meeting. Now I really do feel like a heel for avoiding her.” Loretta nodded toward the plants Julius had trimmed. “They look great. This is such a nice spot. I’m glad it’s staying in the family. We can come for brunch. Your daughter makes a great frittata.”
Russ was out of there if they were going to talk frittatas.
But Loretta had narrowed her dark eyes on him. “Julius has told you about my connection to Knights Bridge, hasn’t he?”
“Dylan McCaffrey and Noah Kendrick.”
She gave the smallest of smiles. “That cuts to the chase. Dylan and Noah are best friends. They grew up together in LA and got rich together. Dylan in particular is involved in several new ventures based in Knights Bridge. Adventure travel, an entrepreneurial boot camp and an inn of sorts.”
“Not to mention goat’s milk soaps,” Julius added.
Loretta kept her gaze on Russ. “The soaps and the inn are Olivia McCaffrey’s ventures, but, of course, Dylan is involved. Olivia is the local woman he married on Christmas Eve. Noah is engaged to Phoebe O’Dunn, the former Knights Bridge librarian and the eldest sister of Ava and Ruby, the twins who put together Daphne’s master class. NAK, the company Noah founded and Dylan helped launch, is based in San Diego. They both have homes there, but Knights Bridge—” she sighed “—it’s home for Phoebe and Olivia.”
“Are they involved in Daphne’s class?” Russ asked.
“She’ll be staying at the Farm at Carriage Hill, Olivia’s inn. I don’t know if either Olivia or Dylan will be at the class. Olivia’s a graphic designer, so she might be interested. Noah and Phoebe are at his winery at the moment.”
Russ downed the last of his coffee. “Two friends from California fall for two women from Knights Bridge. Great, but I’m not seeing a role for me here.”
“Loretta worries about Dylan and Noah,” Julius said. “They’re like surrogate sons to her.”
“Dylan’s a longtime client,” she said. “I started working with him when he was a defenseman in the National Hockey League. That he’s now worth at least a hundred million and Noah over a billion...well, yes, I do worry about them. Knights Bridge is a small, idyllic New England town. It’s easy to be lulled into thinking it won’t attract people who might not wish Dylan and Noah and the people they care about well.”
Russ got to his feet. “What are you asking me to do?”
“Have a look at their lives in Knights Bridge from your point of view,” Loretta said. “Talk to Dylan. See what you think. You have more experience with security than either Julius or I.”
“Is Dylan expecting me to talk to him?”
“He will be by the time your flight lands tomorrow. I’ll call him myself. Noah, too. He won’t be there, but Dylan won’t make a move on anything that concerns Noah without talking to him first.”
“All right. I’ll let you know. I’m not sneaking around, just so we’re clear.”
“No problem,” Loretta said.
“And my first priority on this trip is Daphne.”
“Of course.”
“Even if it’s a waste of time,” Russ added, half to himself.
Julius brushed a bit of plant matter off his polo shirt. “Be glad the O’Dunn twins are putting you up at Moss Hill instead of their mother’s place. She has dogs, cats, chickens and over a dozen goats. That’s where Olivia gets the milk for her goat’s milk soap.”
Russ stared at his friend and colleague. “Goats, Julius?”
“Nigerian Dwarf goats.”
“I have to admit they’re adorable,” Loretta said.
“Have you ever seen a goat, Russ?” Julius asked.
“I have.”
Loretta inhaled sharply. Her husband winced. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Both. I doubt I’ve seen a Nigerian Dwarf goat, though. Nothing wrong with raising goats, but if I have to stay in this town for more than a few days, I’m going to want hazard pay.”
Russ left Loretta and Julius smiling—and looking relieved—and took his coffee mug into the house. The sliders opened into the kitchen, which the daughter who’d bought the house was already planning on renovating. Russ put the mug in the dishwasher. He took spiral stairs in the adjoining hall to one of two upstairs bedrooms. The main living area was located on the middle level of the hillside house, and a master bedroom and bath were on the ground floor. Russ had moved into the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms in March while he figured out what came next for him.
He’d never, not once in his thirty-three years on the planet, imagined working investigations for a Beverly Hills law firm.
Julius had refused to take rent money from him, saying he liked having someone there while he was in transition between Hollywood Hills and La Jolla.
Russ got out his worn duffel bag.
How the hell had he ended up here?
But he knew the answer. He didn’t like it, but he knew.
* * *
Russ eased onto a cushioned stool at Marty’s Bar off Hollywood Boulevard. Opened in 1972, it had survived the changes in the area because of its best and its worst qualities. Best, it served good drinks and good tacos, chili and burgers. Worst, it was a notch above seedy with its dark wood paneling, chipped tile floor and cracked vinyl cushions. Cheaply framed Hollywood photos hung crookedly here and there, featuring everything from black-and-whites of the Three Stooges to color shots of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. It wasn’t a spot to see and be seen, but since neither interested Russ, he didn’t mind.
His older brother greeted him with a big grin. Marty had chosen to put in an application there when he came to Hollywood eighteen months ago because they had the same name. To him, it was amusing, as good a place to tend bar as any before he got rich and famous. “What’re you having, little brother?” he asked.
“Heineken, thanks.”
It was one of a dozen beers the place offered on tap. Marty grabbed a pint glass—scratched but clean—and drew the beer. He was dressed head-to-toe in black. With his chiseled features, clear blue eyes