Read Online Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) by Susan O'Brien - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan O'Brien
Tags: Humor, Suspense, Humorous fiction, Women Sleuths, cozy, amateur sleuth, Murder mysteries, detective novels, english mysteries, female sleuths, mystery series, traditional mystery, cozy mysteries, humorous mysteries, whodunnit, mystery and suspence, book club recommendations, british mysteryies, cozy mysteries women sleuths, private investigator series
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“grown-up pen” to my shopping list.
“Is there anyone else I can help you see? Friends? A girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
I was about to stand when Marcus looked me up and down and lifted his chin. “What were you doin’ there anyway?”
“I was totally lost,” I replied, sounding exasperated with myself. He seemed to buy it.
Frankly, life had me feeling a little lost. If my father were alive and in my shoes, he’d go flying, where nothing and no one stood in his way. The closest I’d come to that feeling recently was a bubble bath.
I gave Marcus a last once-over too. I wondered if he ever let a vulnerable feeling show. Maybe surviving a bullet would give him something to brag about, something akin to a scar from a dangerous sports stunt. What about killing someone—specifically a pregnant ex-girlfriend? Hopefully that would be a sign of cowardice, not bravery, to his gang buddies.
I shook his hand and wished him luck. It was comforting to know I’d return with his mom, so we could talk again.
He combined an ultra-cool “Yo, thanks” with a wink and upward nod as I left.
He’s charming when he wants to be , I thought. And that’s not necessarily good. Being charmed can be the same as being fooled.
I stopped at the hospital phone on my way out, noting the display on a giant, digital wall clock: 2:05. The countdown before camp pickup was always a ticking time bomb. Get “everything” done in an impossibly short time and hope for the best.
I called Marcus’s mom, but she didn’t pick up or have voicemail, which was a relief, since I needed a plan before I talked with her. I didn’t want to use my cell phone since she probably had caller ID. The first time Kenna and I called their house, we’d dialed *67 first to hide my home number.
Before leaving, I washed my hands in a bathroom. Then I dashed to Whole Foods to stock up on necessities (such as ice cream and chocolate) and conveniences (such as bread and milk). Next stop was the library to check out bedtime stories and hope our old ones weren’t so overdue I’d be turned away. (The librarian was lenient with me.) Finally I stopped at home, set the books where no one would trip over them, filled the refrigerator, checked voicemail, left Kenna a long message, and whizzed to camp in time to see Jack and Sophie march outside with their classmates.
Everyone was pink and sweaty, hauling art projects and heavy backpacks stuffed with soggy towels and bathing suits—all indications of a fun day.
“How about pool and pizza?” I asked when they were buckled in.
“Yeah,” Jack enthused.
“Okay,” said Sophie. “Can I wear my new bikini?” I’d purchased her a modest two-piece—basically a stretchy half-shirt and shorts—since it allowed her to go to the bathroom without completely undressing first. Otherwise, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of bikinis for preschoolers.
“Yep.” I was happy to oblige and keep her content as long as possible. This time of day could be challenging for Sophie. She’s maturing, I reassured myself, and I’m getting better at tantrum prevention.
At home the kids raced inside, eager to put on bathing suits and head for the pool. I dumped their camp gear in the hall, immediately forming a junk pile I didn’t want to deal with. For that very reason, I forced myself to sift through it, carrying uneaten lunch remains to the garbage disposal and stacking various art projects on the kitchen counter to compliment later. The next day, with Jack and Sophie safely out of sight, I’d throw most of it away since I couldn’t save everything, but I also couldn’t bear to hurt their feelings. In a real pinch, I’d photograph adorable mementos for our photo albums.
I could hear Sophie’s accusing voice upstairs. “Where’s my bikini top? Jack, did you take it?”
“No, why would I have it? Gosh!” he responded.
While I certainly didn’t want them arguing, I was glad they weren’t ready to go. I needed to
“Is there anyone else I can help you see? Friends? A girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
I was about to stand when Marcus looked me up and down and lifted his chin. “What were you doin’ there anyway?”
“I was totally lost,” I replied, sounding exasperated with myself. He seemed to buy it.
Frankly, life had me feeling a little lost. If my father were alive and in my shoes, he’d go flying, where nothing and no one stood in his way. The closest I’d come to that feeling recently was a bubble bath.
I gave Marcus a last once-over too. I wondered if he ever let a vulnerable feeling show. Maybe surviving a bullet would give him something to brag about, something akin to a scar from a dangerous sports stunt. What about killing someone—specifically a pregnant ex-girlfriend? Hopefully that would be a sign of cowardice, not bravery, to his gang buddies.
I shook his hand and wished him luck. It was comforting to know I’d return with his mom, so we could talk again.
He combined an ultra-cool “Yo, thanks” with a wink and upward nod as I left.
He’s charming when he wants to be , I thought. And that’s not necessarily good. Being charmed can be the same as being fooled.
I stopped at the hospital phone on my way out, noting the display on a giant, digital wall clock: 2:05. The countdown before camp pickup was always a ticking time bomb. Get “everything” done in an impossibly short time and hope for the best.
I called Marcus’s mom, but she didn’t pick up or have voicemail, which was a relief, since I needed a plan before I talked with her. I didn’t want to use my cell phone since she probably had caller ID. The first time Kenna and I called their house, we’d dialed *67 first to hide my home number.
Before leaving, I washed my hands in a bathroom. Then I dashed to Whole Foods to stock up on necessities (such as ice cream and chocolate) and conveniences (such as bread and milk). Next stop was the library to check out bedtime stories and hope our old ones weren’t so overdue I’d be turned away. (The librarian was lenient with me.) Finally I stopped at home, set the books where no one would trip over them, filled the refrigerator, checked voicemail, left Kenna a long message, and whizzed to camp in time to see Jack and Sophie march outside with their classmates.
Everyone was pink and sweaty, hauling art projects and heavy backpacks stuffed with soggy towels and bathing suits—all indications of a fun day.
“How about pool and pizza?” I asked when they were buckled in.
“Yeah,” Jack enthused.
“Okay,” said Sophie. “Can I wear my new bikini?” I’d purchased her a modest two-piece—basically a stretchy half-shirt and shorts—since it allowed her to go to the bathroom without completely undressing first. Otherwise, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of bikinis for preschoolers.
“Yep.” I was happy to oblige and keep her content as long as possible. This time of day could be challenging for Sophie. She’s maturing, I reassured myself, and I’m getting better at tantrum prevention.
At home the kids raced inside, eager to put on bathing suits and head for the pool. I dumped their camp gear in the hall, immediately forming a junk pile I didn’t want to deal with. For that very reason, I forced myself to sift through it, carrying uneaten lunch remains to the garbage disposal and stacking various art projects on the kitchen counter to compliment later. The next day, with Jack and Sophie safely out of sight, I’d throw most of it away since I couldn’t save everything, but I also couldn’t bear to hurt their feelings. In a real pinch, I’d photograph adorable mementos for our photo albums.
I could hear Sophie’s accusing voice upstairs. “Where’s my bikini top? Jack, did you take it?”
“No, why would I have it? Gosh!” he responded.
While I certainly didn’t want them arguing, I was glad they weren’t ready to go. I needed to
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