Frank, Incense, and Muriel

CHAPTER ONE

Imagine my surprise when Frankie Salerno showed up at my front door one cold, December, Monday morning. Displaying a set of dimples that could make a grown woman cry, he gave me a quick once over and let out a long, slow, wolf whistle. “You’re looking good, Brian. Real good.”

Being ogled at is one thing. Being called that ridiculous nickname after a fifteen-year hiatus another. I felt a knot form in the pit of my stomach as my thoughts traveled back to Ms. Traynor’s ninth English class when Frankie wrote me a note. I have no idea of its contents. Nor do I care. All I know is the teacher intercepted it.

She read it, raised an eyebrow, and zeroed in on me.

“I believe Frankie had you in mind when he wrote this,” she said.

To my horror, she began to read the note aloud. She got as far as the salutation he’d printed on the outside of the folded sheet of three-ring notepaper.

“To the Brian.”

The class erupted into fits of laughter and Ms. Traynor, satisfied we’d suffered enough humiliation for one day, returned the note to Frankie and resumed her lesson. From that day forward, I was the girl named Brian, and Frankie became my sworn enemy.

From where I stood a decade and a half later, not much had changed except that I’d grudgingly accepted my fate. Having a few more brain cells than feminine curves had advantages. If Frankie thought otherwise, so be it. He was entitled to his opinion. But really, who needed it? Or him?

“I’d like to say it’s great to see you again,” I said, “but we both know I’d be lying. Let’s end this before it gets messy, shall we?”
“Aw, come on.” He pressed his large, square hand on the screen door. “Do you have any idea how many Reeves are in the phonebook? It took me more than an hour to find you. I had to check the listings in Buffalo, Niagara Falls, Lackawanna–”

I held up my hand to silence him. I’d lived in western New York state all of my life and did not need a geography lesson. What I needed was to get on with my life. Without him. Still, I could not resist getting in the last word.

“It would’ve been quicker if you’d looked under ‘M’ instead of ‘B’,” I said.

“I was kidding about the Brian part.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“I dunno. I was a jerk back in high school and some things never change. Besides, it says a lot more about me than it ever did about you. I’m the one who couldn’t spell brain.”

His admission caught me off guard. “You can’t help being dyslexic.”

“And you can’t help being a genius. How about we call it even and let bygones be bygones?”

I hate to admit it, but he almost had me. Chalk it up to just the right inflection in his husky voice and that he actually sounded sincere, or maybe it was that wounded puppy dog look in his dark brown eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for men with impossibly long lashes. In any case, I was on the verge of forgiving him. I was this close. Until he smiled.

Berating myself for being such a fool, I inched the door shut. “Bye, Frankie.”

“Wait.” He ran his fingers through his thick, black hair. “I need your help.”

“Yeah, right.”

He crossed his heart. “It’s the truth.”

“Uh-huh. Like the time you needed my help with your science project? I nearly got expelled because of the stink bomb you made and let off in the library. Or what about when you convinced me your father had a problem with alcohol and I let you store his beer and liquor in my parent’s garage? All fifteen cases of it. When my parents went out of town, you threw a party at my place. The first thing Mom and Dad did after they called their insurance agent was enroll me in a private girl’s school in Canada. Can-naa-daa, for crying out loud. Do you have any idea how long and cold the winters are up there?” I shivered at the memory.

“But–”

“Forget it. I’m not falling for another one of your stories. I don’t need to be jeered at, made fun of, or humiliated in front of your friends.”

Realizing he might have brought an audience along, I glanced past him to the black GMC Envoy parked a few yards from my front door. I didn’t see any of his posse yukking it up in the backseat. Nor were they lurking behind the knee-high snowdrifts lining the drive. But that didn’t mean much. I’d learned the hard way guys like Salerno usually traveled in packs.

“I’m serious,” he said.

“Ha! You’ve never been serious a day in your life, and I’ve got the battle scars to prove it.”

His jaw tightened. He flipped up the collar of his black leather jacket and averted his gaze. Amazed my comeback actually hit a nerve I used the opportunity to study him. Over six feet tall and powerfully built, he’d grown into a handsome man. No surprise there.

Frankie had always been cute in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way.

A butterfly fluttered inside my tummy and I groaned inwardly. In spite of my little outburst about why I should avoid him, I found it difficult to do so. Taking in every chiseled angle, my eyes scurried past his full mouth, square jaw and impossibly wide shoulders to the fourth finger on his left hand.

No wedding ring.

Wedding ring? I blinked to clear my head. What was wrong with me? I was no longer the weird young girl with unruly hair, bottle-thick glasses and a stupid crush on the bane of her life. I’d survived my teen years and a good portion of my adulthood–thank you, very much–without Frankie Salerno. I could no doubt do so now. Which meant it was time to end his unexpected visit and get back to my Christmas preparations.

I lifted my chin to tell him to get lost, but the twinkle in his eyes stopped me dead.

“See anything you like?” When I did not immediately reply, he added, “Face it. You’ve always had a thing for me.”

He gave me another quick once over that should have raised my ire, but elevated my body temperature instead. Angry at my reaction, I wrapped my fist around the doorknob and in my best schoolteacher voice said, “Not in this lifetime. Nor the next. See ya, Salerno.”

The confident grin vanished from his face. “Muriel. Wait.”

The door creaked on its hinges. Time seemed to stand still. In all the years we’d known each other he’d only referred to me by my given name once. I realized whatever had brought him to my doorstep must be important.

“I need your help,” he repeated, as if reading my mind.

I felt my resolve begin to crumble and pinched my eyes shut. I didn’t need this. I didn’t need him.

In less than four days a dozen odd–and I do mean odd–members of the Reeves clan would arrive for the Christmas holidays. Between now and then I had a million things to do. Clean the house. Decorate the tree. Hit the mall for those last minute gifts. I’d looked forward to seeing my family and enjoying a brief sojourn from my responsibilities at Wayford Academy, a private girl’s school, since mid-August. Far from being a domestic goddess, however, the fewer complications I had the better. And when it came to complications, Frankie ruled.

“Remember Rachel Queen?” he asked.

I felt my eyes bug out of my head. That’s what this was all about?

“The girl who asked you to the Sadie Hawkins Dance?” I asked. “The one who spent more time with you behind the bleachers than on the dance floor?”

“Whoo-hoo! I always knew you were jealous of her.”

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. The only thing worse than a twenty-eight-year-old woman who still had the audacity to blush, is a know-it-all macho jerk who just happened to be right.

I had been jealous of Rachel. Probably still was if I stopped to think about it. The blond, curvaceous cheerleader may have struggled to get a passing grade in every subject but lunch, but she never failed to get the attention of the male species. Or more importantly, one in particular. Imbedded inside my brain for all eternity was an image of her and Frankie locked lip-to-lip and hip-to-hip at the only school dance I ever attended.

Brushing away the memory to the recesses of my mind, I plucked an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of my sweater.

Frankie rubbed his palms together. “Invite me inside, Muriel. Listen to what I have to say. If you decide you don’t want to help in the investigation, I’ll leave. I’ll even promise never to darken your doorstep again.”

Although the prospect of his never darkening my doorstep again greatly appealed to me, my brain focused on the one word I suspect he knew all along I would be unable to dismiss.

“Investigation?” I heard myself ask. “What investigation?”

“I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to find Rachel.”

“And you have proof of this? The part about you being a PI, I mean?”

Pulling a small leather case from his inside breast pocket, he flipped it open and held it up for me to read. In bold, black print was the name Salerno Investigations beside his photograph. Below a local address, phone, fax, email, and website information. As far as I could tell, it looked legit.

Returning the identification to his pocket, he arched a brow. “Well? Are you going to invite me in, or what?”

I asked myself that very same question, and then slowly stepped back to open the door. I had a sinking feeling I was making the biggest mistake of my life. I wanted to blame it on my morbid curiosity about Rachel and what had become of her, but I knew I’d be kidding myself. My interest lay solely in Frankie.

And he knew it.