Father Fever. Muriel Jensen

own things. When he had time to think about it, he’d decide what to do with them.

      It had been a week and a half since Aunty’s attorney had called him to let him know he’d inherited a two-acre estate overlooking the Pacific Ocean and he still couldn’t quite believe it. He’d grown up in a house three times this size, but it had never been a home, and he’d never felt as comfortable in it as he did here after barely a week.

      His inheritance included this twelve-room Colonial Revival home, a guest house, an apartment over a four-car garage, and a small forest of firs, ash and oak tucked around the back of the property in a half-moon embrace. A shaggy lawn stretched thirty yards in front of the property to the edge of the cliff that rose fifteen feet above the ocean. Shrubbery he couldn’t identify provided protection from the cliff’s edge.

      And it was all thanks to the gratitude of a woman he’d never met, a CIA agent code-named Aunty who’d been his phone and radio contact on several jobs for the Company. He’d helped save her life in Africa when she’d been trapped in the path of a rebel advance, but he’d called in mercenaries to bring her out, so technically, they’d saved her life. That detail hadn’t mattered to her, according to Aunty’s attorney, who’d notified him of his windfall.

      David was grateful, of course, and aware that the gift couldn’t have come at a more fortuitous time.

      Life as a CIA agent had lost its glamour for him and his team after the fiasco in Afghanistan, and now the three of them were starting over as “civilians.”

      So the large, comfortable furniture from his Chicago apartment now sat among a little round mahogany table, an old Windsor piano from the turn of the century, a curio shelf that now held his collection of hand-carved decoys. A large armoire removed from the bedroom had become a perfect entertainment center. The attorney had sent him a list of things willed to other beneficiaries and David had those shipped off to him.

      He punctuated that observation with a sneeze. He held a folded handkerchief to his nose and thought it ironic that someone who’d survived spring and summer in Illinois as a boy without succumbing to allergies should be felled by the mold and mildew of an Oregon winter. Trevyn McGinty and Bram Bishop walked through the open front door, each with an armload of folding chairs borrowed from city hall’s meeting room.

      “Are you going to help us?” Trevyn asked, moving on through to the dining room and shouting back over his shoulder, “or are you just going to stand there and congratulate yourself on making points with the mayor of Dancer’s Beach just two days after moving to town?”

      Bram followed Trevyn with a tauntingly disparaging glance in David’s direction. “He’s going to stand there,” he said. “He thinks that just because he’s letting us live with him for a couple of months that indentures us somehow. Tell us again—” his voice rose as he went into the other room “—how we ended up having to host a party for two hundred people when we know absolutely no one here!”

      There was the clatter of metal on metal as they began to open the chairs.

      David pocketed his handkerchief and went into the large dining room that accommodated a table that seated twenty. For the purpose of the party, he’d distributed those chairs around the living room and placed the table at the side of the room for buffet service.

      He helped place folding chairs. “Because Aunty always hosted the historical society’s masked ball every year and her…passing left them high and dry a mere ten days before the party.”

      They exchanged grim glances. Trevyn and Bram had worked with Aunty, also.

      Trevyn sighed and looked around the room. “She was so no-nonsense on the job,” he said with a reminiscent smile. “It’s weird to think that she had this beautiful home and willingly left it for…what? We were looking for excitement, but what is a sixty-year-old woman looking for?”

      “Some kind of fulfillment, maybe,” Bram guessed. “You could tell by the way she worked she wasn’t the kind of woman who did nothing but golf.”

      They were all quiet another moment, then he put a chair in place and asked briskly, “There’s no Elk’s hall or armory or anything in town where they could have had this affair? They had to have it here because that’s the way they’ve always done it?”

      David shook his head. “Invitations had already gone out. Many to out-of-town people who are summer residents of Dancer’s Beach. Calling to change locations would have been too complicated. So the mayor stopped by while the two of you were still driving the U-haul in from Chicago and asked me if I’d consider saving their hides. Since all three of us will be doing business in this town in one way or another, it seemed like the sporting thing to do.”

      Trevyn unfolded the last chair. “What do you know about these historical society types?”

      David stood back to survey their work. “Not much, except that I imagine they’ll be Mrs. Beasley’s vintage—middle sixties—so don’t get your hopes up for a lap full of beautiful young things. But they might prove to be potential clients for your photo studio.”

      “Hope so.” Trevyn flattened the seat of a chair in a corner, his expression suddenly serious. “I can’t believe Aunty left you all this—or how lucky we are that you’re still looking out for us even though we’re not in the field anymore.”

      David moved a floor lamp aside several inches to make room for the chair. “We’ve been on so many rotten jobs together, it seems like now that we get to live real lives, we ought to at least start out together.”

      They’d shared experiences over the past few years that made men closer than brothers. In good times, they’d been an efficient, effective machine that did the government’s dirty work.

      In bad times, they’d shared one another’s pain, nursed one another’s wounds, and on a few occasions, saved one another’s lives.

      The experiences made transitioning into normal, everyday life difficult. And an exercise best shared with friends. “Well, how come he got the guest house and I got the room above the garage and a daily dose of carbon monoxide?”

      Bram was putting him on. He’d done his job fearlessly on their last mission when everything had gone bad on them. He was a couple of years older than Trevyn and David and had seen far more action—too much, maybe—but there wasn’t a selfish bone in his body.

      “It keeps you out of the way,” David replied. “You know, like the crazy relative nobody wants to talk about.”

      “Would you really rather have the guest house?” Trevyn asked Bram, still serious.

      Bram shook his head at Trevyn, then grinned at David. “He’s so easy. No, I don’t want the guest house. I’m very comfortable in my apartment. I don’t need a dark room and space to store all the contraptions you’ve got. I’ve got my office downtown and when I come home, all I need is room for the television, a coffeepot and a bed.”

      The three loped out of the house to the truck Bram had used to pick up the chairs from the party supplier. There were another dozen to unload. A pewter sky spit rain and blew a cold wind around them.

      “Did I tell you I got a case?” Bram asked as he leaped into the truck to hand chairs down. “It’s just a divorce case surveillance, but detective work has to start somewhere.”

      “At least you found an office and got it open in three days.” Trevyn took two chairs in each arm and started backing toward the house. “I’ve found a photography studio, but it’ll be weeks before I get it in good enough shape to open the doors.” He turned and hurried into the house with his burden.

      David watched him go, concerned about his carefree attitude, so at odds with the burden he carried inside.

      “He’s going to be all right. Stop worrying,” Bram said, handing David down a pair of chairs.

      “He won’t talk about the mission,” David disputed. “That isn’t healthy.”

      Bram