Chapter 4

Four

T he Ugly Man was packed with loud, manly men and the women who they'd sucked into their vortexes of bearded, beer-bellied hell.

Hattie was standing just inside the front door, her hands on her hips, surveying the boisterous crowd.

No one made eye contact with her.

Because she was Hattie, and she had more power in that seventy-something body than Lucy and I would ever have, even if we combined forces and added a thousand more of us. Unless we included King Tut. Then we might be almost even.

"I don't see Charles," Hattie said. "He must have gone in back. I'm going after him?—"

I caught her arm. "Hattie, if he did kill Beckwith and put him in your truck, I don't think you want to run into him alone in the back halls of the Ugly Man."

She frowned at me. "I think I do, actually. I liked Beckwith. I dated him for a while when he was a newbie chef."

Oh… "So, this is a revenge quest as well as a prove-your-innocence quest?" I shifted King Tut to my other side. Even supported by the sweatshirt, he was heavy, and I didn't have the arm strength that Lucy had.

Hattie nodded. "He was a good man, and a fellow chef, Mia. It would be impossible for me not to care."

Dang it. I was a sucker for justice. That was why I'd betrayed the man I'd loved and called an FBI hotline when I'd found the bags of white powder in our China cabinet. Stanley had given me the home and the family I'd never had, and I'd had to walk away.

Because I couldn't stand back and let bad people get away with bad things.

Was I trying to overcompensate for my criminal childhood? Maybe. Didn't really matter.

I was stuck with who I was.

If Beckwith was a good man, then this was about more than Hattie, and Hattie was already a good enough reason for me to get involved. "Let's grab a table and make a plan," I said.

"No." Hattie folded her arms over her chest. "I'm going to find Charles and?—"

" I'll find him. He doesn't know me, so he won't try to attack me." Hopefully. I patted King Tut. "I'm armed with a demon cat, remember?" I tried to pull my sweatshirt back over his head, but he looked at me and growled, that low, dangerous growl that made me decide he was just fine where he was.

Hattie eyed me. "If Charles saw us together when we arrived, he'll know. He'll kidnap you as a hostage to force me to succumb to his amoral pressure. I won't sell the recipes to him. You'll be on your own."

Lucy hit Hattie's arm. "You're a big, fat liar, Hattie. You'd sacrifice yourself for Mia."

"Myself? Yes. My recipes? No." Hattie looked at me. "Go get him, then. I'll give you two minutes, and then I'm coming after you."

I shifted King Tut again. "You know by now that we need a plan. The reason my mom and I never wound up in prison, or even arrested, is because she insisted on a strategy." My biceps were starting to burn as King Tut purred, turning himself into dead weight in my arms. "So, we're going to sit down, and take three minutes to figure out the best approach."

And so I could put King Tut down. Good heavens. Why had I thought carrying a massive beast around for the evening was a good idea?

Lucy took Hattie's arm. "Mia's right, Hattie. That's why this is fun. Because we manage to stay alive each time we go after a murderer. If we get killed, then we don't get to do it again, and where's the fun in that?"

Hattie grumbled under her breath, but she knew we were right. "Fine." She turned to survey the room. "Every table is full. I'm trying to evil-eye someone into giving up their seats, but everyone is avoiding eye contact."

Lucy nodded. "You're like Medusa. Everyone knows not to look at you."

Hattie raised her brows. "Medusa? You're calling me a banished, evil goddess with snake hair, who turns people to stone simply by getting them to look at her?"

"I am."

Hattie blew her a kiss. "Thank you for the compliment, my dear. I appreciate it. Every woman needs to feel empowered."

"We do, indeed," Lucy said cheerfully. "Mia, go send King Tut out there. Have him eat someone. I can see he's getting restless."

I zipped my sweatshirt up higher to cover his head. He immediately started growling, and his back claws dug into my stomach in protest. "Hang on. Maybe we know someone."

"I looked already. There's no one here?—"

"Check again. There's always an opportunity if you keep looking." It was kind of disturbing how often my mom's con artist advice came into play in my law-abiding adult life. Once a criminal, always a criminal was the life wisdom I was trying to prove wrong, but the corpse in the truck outside was making that difficult.

While Lucy and Hattie discussed who they could kick out, I carefully scanned the crowd, one table at a time.

The middle of the tavern was filled with long tables and benches, designed for groups to sit together and new friends to be made.

Along the outside were booths, and that's where I wanted to sit, because it would give us the best view of the tavern. I scanned each one, and then, I grinned. Whoever was sitting in the end booth had hidden behind a notebook, sunglasses, and an old fishing hat. His sweater was ragged, and his shorts were ripped.

He looked like a homeless truant, except for the obscenely expensive watch on his wrist and the bejeweled flipflops on his feet.

I knew those flipflops.