Kurtz’s expression was back to wary again.
“Glad to know she’s talking to somebody.” She let a touch of bitterness slide into her voice. “Hasn’t said much to me herself.”
“Seems nice enough,” he mumbled.
“Well, then, maybe you’d be willing to help me a bit. Seeing as how the two of you get along so well.” Nedda narrowed her eyes. Her lips firmed into a flat line.
Kurtz shrugged. “Sure. I mean, I’ll do what I can, I guess.”
You bet you will. “Just keep an eye on her place. See what goes on there—who comes and goes, where she is, what happens with those chickens, like that.” Nedda managed to push her lips back into the semblance of a smile. “Just so I know what’s happening. She’s my kin, after all.” The words tasted slightly sour, but she managed not to grimace.
Kurtz’s brow was furrowed. “So you want me to make sure nothing bad happens or something? I don’t know as how I’d be much use in a fight.”
Nedda’s hands folded into fists. She wasn’t sure whether Kurtz really was as stupid as he seemed or if he was just pretending. Whichever it was, she didn’t have time for it. “I want you to watch my niece. Keep a record of who comes and goes at her place. And keep track of those chickens of hers—any changes in the flock. You do that and I’ll knock twenty bucks off your monthly payment.”
Kurtz stared at her blankly. “Fifty,” he said finally.
“Fifty?” Nedda raised an eyebrow. Who would have guessed the little creep had that in him?
He nodded jerkily, licking his lips. “I’ll do it for fifty.”
For a moment she considered dickering with him. She could probably get him down to thirty-five if she pushed. But that would take time, and she was already bored. “Fifty. And I’ll expect a report from you at the end of the week. Each week she’s there.” Until you go bust, of course. Or she does.
Kurtz nodded again, his jaw tightening. Nedda guessed he didn’t exactly like what he’d signed on to do. But she also guessed he’d go through with it. An extra fifty would make a difference to him.
“All right then. I’ll be back on Friday. Have it ready by then.” She pushed herself upright and headed back toward her car. She could feel Kurtz’s gaze boring into the space between her shoulder blades, but she didn’t much care. Lloyd Kurtz had just become her latest possession, worth approximately as much as her electric stapler.
And a lot less interesting.
The routine in the kitchen at the Rose never became much easier for MG, but it became a lot faster. Chop one onion and her speed didn’t change. Chop fifty onions and the chopping became like second nature. Of course, the chopping also became incredibly monotonous. The main thing she worried about was zoning out with a knife in her hand. She had a feeling that could have painful results.
Darcy added new tasks every day—pulling chicken off the bones for the salads, mincing herbs for pasta and preparing every variety of vegetable and fruit MG had ever heard of and a few she hadn’t.
She’d shown up her second day with her new knife. It wasn’t the cheapest, but it also wasn’t the best. She figured if Darcy threw a fit, she’d ask for an advance from Joe LeBlanc, who might be willing to tell her what to look for.
Darcy looked it over and shrugged. “You’ll need a new one in a couple of weeks.”
MG clenched her jaw. “Why? Isn’t it good enough?”
“It’ll work. But you’ll fuck it up in a week. It’s too flimsy.” Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the way it is. You don’t want good stuff, but you don’t want flimsy stuff either. If you find a knife you can’t fuck up, keep it.”
“You said not to buy a good knife,” MG ground out.
“You need a crappy good knife,” Darcy corrected. “No knife can stand up to the punishment around here—chopping up fifty pounds of potatoes at a shot.” She turned to the counter and handed her the same knife she’d
“Glad to know she’s talking to somebody.” She let a touch of bitterness slide into her voice. “Hasn’t said much to me herself.”
“Seems nice enough,” he mumbled.
“Well, then, maybe you’d be willing to help me a bit. Seeing as how the two of you get along so well.” Nedda narrowed her eyes. Her lips firmed into a flat line.
Kurtz shrugged. “Sure. I mean, I’ll do what I can, I guess.”
You bet you will. “Just keep an eye on her place. See what goes on there—who comes and goes, where she is, what happens with those chickens, like that.” Nedda managed to push her lips back into the semblance of a smile. “Just so I know what’s happening. She’s my kin, after all.” The words tasted slightly sour, but she managed not to grimace.
Kurtz’s brow was furrowed. “So you want me to make sure nothing bad happens or something? I don’t know as how I’d be much use in a fight.”
Nedda’s hands folded into fists. She wasn’t sure whether Kurtz really was as stupid as he seemed or if he was just pretending. Whichever it was, she didn’t have time for it. “I want you to watch my niece. Keep a record of who comes and goes at her place. And keep track of those chickens of hers—any changes in the flock. You do that and I’ll knock twenty bucks off your monthly payment.”
Kurtz stared at her blankly. “Fifty,” he said finally.
“Fifty?” Nedda raised an eyebrow. Who would have guessed the little creep had that in him?
He nodded jerkily, licking his lips. “I’ll do it for fifty.”
For a moment she considered dickering with him. She could probably get him down to thirty-five if she pushed. But that would take time, and she was already bored. “Fifty. And I’ll expect a report from you at the end of the week. Each week she’s there.” Until you go bust, of course. Or she does.
Kurtz nodded again, his jaw tightening. Nedda guessed he didn’t exactly like what he’d signed on to do. But she also guessed he’d go through with it. An extra fifty would make a difference to him.
“All right then. I’ll be back on Friday. Have it ready by then.” She pushed herself upright and headed back toward her car. She could feel Kurtz’s gaze boring into the space between her shoulder blades, but she didn’t much care. Lloyd Kurtz had just become her latest possession, worth approximately as much as her electric stapler.
And a lot less interesting.
The routine in the kitchen at the Rose never became much easier for MG, but it became a lot faster. Chop one onion and her speed didn’t change. Chop fifty onions and the chopping became like second nature. Of course, the chopping also became incredibly monotonous. The main thing she worried about was zoning out with a knife in her hand. She had a feeling that could have painful results.
Darcy added new tasks every day—pulling chicken off the bones for the salads, mincing herbs for pasta and preparing every variety of vegetable and fruit MG had ever heard of and a few she hadn’t.
She’d shown up her second day with her new knife. It wasn’t the cheapest, but it also wasn’t the best. She figured if Darcy threw a fit, she’d ask for an advance from Joe LeBlanc, who might be willing to tell her what to look for.
Darcy looked it over and shrugged. “You’ll need a new one in a couple of weeks.”
MG clenched her jaw. “Why? Isn’t it good enough?”
“It’ll work. But you’ll fuck it up in a week. It’s too flimsy.” Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the way it is. You don’t want good stuff, but you don’t want flimsy stuff either. If you find a knife you can’t fuck up, keep it.”
“You said not to buy a good knife,” MG ground out.
“You need a crappy good knife,” Darcy corrected. “No knife can stand up to the punishment around here—chopping up fifty pounds of potatoes at a shot.” She turned to the counter and handed her the same knife she’d
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