Everybody Loves Evie. Beth Ciotta

he did it for you.”

      I stopped in my tracks, sank to my knees. “What are you talking about?”

      “Dad’s been pretty closemouthed. All Mom and I got out of him was that retirement was for the birds. He needed to keep busy. Missed shooting the breeze with the town folk. But yesterday I stopped in there, and what do I see?”

      “I’m scared to ask.”

      “A stage. Complete with a lighting and sound system. The bartender said Dad’s been auditioning bands. Bands without a female singer and not opposed to adding one.”

       I’m thinking it’s time we discussed your moving home, little one.

      “Oh, no.”

      “Here’s the thing—I thought this tiff between Mom and Dad would blow over. It didn’t. I thought I could reason with them. I can’t. Between my responsibilities at the bank and the time I’ve spent trying to mend parental bridges, I’ve been neglecting Sandy and the kids.”

      My brother’s wife and stepkids were high-maintenance, his job high pressure. To relax, he played tennis and golf and worked out in a home gym. Although he was younger than me, he was probably a prime candidate for a heart attack or a stroke or some other god-awful ailment that plagued type A personalities.

      “After telling me to butt out of her business,” Christopher added in a low voice, “Mom threatened to never speak to me again if I mentioned the bonds to Dad. Whatever she’s doing with that money she’s doing behind his back. What if she’s become addicted to the shopping network? What if she’s plotting to run off to Mexico with her boy toy?”

      “This is our sixty-three-year-old, never-been-on-a-plane mom we’re talking about.”

      Only Christopher wasn’t listening. He’d made up his mind and, if you asked him, he was never wrong. “Maybe I should confront Fancy Feet. Tell him to back off. If he thinks he’s going to seduce her out of her savings …”

      “Maybe he’s sincerely attracted.” I didn’t want to believe anything tawdry was going on, but I felt compelled to stand up for Mom. She was tough, but she wasn’t an ogre.

      “Men aren’t typically romantically attracted to women several years their senior, Evelyn.”

      Double ouch. I pressed a hand to my hot cheeks. Some men are, I wanted to say but didn’t. “Don’t confront the man, Christopher. If you’re wrong, you’ll embarrass Mom. And if you’re right …” What a mess. “Just don’t.”

      Meanwhile, his accusations rooted and blossomed. What if Mom had been suckered by some sort of swindle? I could envision Arch sitting across from me, lecturing me on a grifter’s prime mark: the weak and gullible and, often, as with the investment scam we’d busted on the cruise, the retired.

      Adrenaline surged, clearing my clogged sinuses and rocketing me to my feet. I was halfway to my closet when my brother said, “I could use some help here, sis.”

      This was a first. My brother crying uncle and reaching out. To me, of all people, the black sheep of my grounded, successful family. And he wasn’t the only Parish acting out of character. Knowing work was sparse in Atlantic City, my suit-and-necktie Dad had bought a seedy redneck tavern to bolster my singing career. No-nonsense Mom was learning the Bus Stop and the mambo and spending a wad of dough on who knows what. Was she having a breakdown? Was her message about me coming home for the benefit a veiled cry for help? “I’ll be there day after tomorrow, latest.” Tears pricked my eyes as I dragged out Big Red—the monstrous suitcase I’d toted to the Caribbean and London—for the third time this month. My noncommunicative, wholly reliant family needed me.

      CHAPTER TEN

      THE SUN WAS SHINING as I peeled rubber through the Inlet and parked in the semimuddy lot of the Chameleon Club. My mood was black. I’d tried calling Arch three times while I’d packed. I needed his advice and all I got was his voice mail. Instead of leaving a message, I’d hung up, disconnected from the man in more ways than one.

      My pulse and brain raced in tandem as I scaled the steps and power walked toward the boardwalk entrance. No umbrella. No spiky heels. No mishaps. I breezed inside and glanced at the bar. Pops was engrossed in conversation with two barflies, neither being Tabasco. I scanned the club for Beckett. Not seeing him, I strode for the door marked Private.

      “Not there.”

      I forced a smile and faced the leathery bartender, dressed much as he’d been the day before, only his vest was red instead of black. “Is he around?” Again I thought of secret rooms for secret-agent plotting. “Somewhere?”

      “He is.”

      I motioned Pops to the opposite end of the bar, away from his friends’ big ears.

      He approached me with wary eyes, palming that retro rolled-brim hat to the back of his silver head. He looked a little like Morgan Freeman, dressed a lot like Buster Keaton and sounded exactly like Barry White. “Aren’t you supposed to be home, recovering?”