“Or the wastebasket . . . ,” Cassie offered with an innocent lift of brows.
Allison pinched her cousin’s leg under the table as she smiled brightly at her mother. “No, unfortunately I had to throw it away because it had a crack that gave me a splinter.”
“Oh, dear. Well, we’ll just have to order you another.”
“Cheese, sir?” Hadley stood ramrod straight with a small bowl in his hands.
“Yes, thank you, Hadley,” Logan said, obviously not paying attention as the butler spooned a generous pile of shredded cheddar cheese into the bottom of his empty soup bowl. Placing his napkin in his lap, Logan smiled at Alli’s mother at the opposite end of the table. “So, the new school opens next week, eh, Cait?” He raised his water glass. “I’d say fulfillment of your dream calls for a toast, don’t you?”
“Hadley!” Mrs. Rosie O’Brien stood scowling at the door with a tureen in her hands. “For pity’s sake, I said serve the tea please, not the cheese!” Short and trim in stature, the McClares’ housekeeper and cook loomed tall in clout, her steely gaze aimed at poor Hadley, who obviously hadn’t heard Rosie’s directions clearly. Alli battled a smile when Rosie’s glare shifted, her blue eyes frosting Uncle Logan before she bustled over to serve Alli’s mother.
To Alli, Rosie’s endearing grumpiness was as inherent to dinnertime in the McClare household as the candles glowing in Mother’s silver candlesticks. Dressed in her gray uniform with a calf-length white apron, the spunky sixty-six-year-old lent as much spice to family meals as she did to her exceptional cuisine. Unfortunately, her bristly manner was reserved for sweet Hadley, with whom she had no patience, and poor Uncle Logan for whom she had no love. Her petite frame taut with intent, she served clam chowder to Alli’s mother first, continuing to ladle long after her mistress indicated enough. “It’s your favorite, Miss Cait,” Rosie groused, an air of authority that came from a bond forged as Caitlyn’s beloved housekeeper and nanny from little on. The housekeeper’s dark hair was sprinkled with silver and pulled back in a chignon as tight as the line of her formidable jaw. “You could use some meat on your bones.”
“You spoil me, Rosie.” Her mother nodded when Hadley approached with the pitcher of tea, awarding him a bright smile. “Thank you, Hadley—just in time for our toast.”
“Yes, miss—and would you like butter with that toast?” Hadley said with a short bow, awaiting further direction.
Caitlyn’s voice rose in volume, masking the chuckles that rounded the table. She quickly reached for a cracker from a nearby tray before gently patting the butler’s arm. “No toast, Hadley, dear—I think I’ll just have crackers instead.”
“Very good, miss.” He proceeded to pour the tea before disappearing into the kitchen.
Scanning the table with a broad smile that finally settled on Logan, Caitlyn lifted her goblet of tea. “Yes, I do believe this calls for a toast.” She waited until everyone raised their glasses in unison, then chewed on her lip with a nervous grin. “To the Hand of Hope School, a dream-come-true long in the making, the culmination of a desire nurtured long ago between my husband and me, now fulfilled at the hands of my daughter and niece.” A sheen of tears glimmered in her eyes that sparked moisture in Alli’s own. Her mother’s voice continued, wavering with emotion as her eyes settled on Uncle Logan once again, tender with affection. “And to Logan McClare for helping to make it all possible through his gracious and very weighty influence on the Board of Supervisors—I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”
“My pleasure, Cait.” Gaze warm, Uncle Logan nodded with a smile before taking a drink of his tea, eyes fixed on Alli’s mother over the rim of his glass while Rosie dispensed the soup.
“Whoops . . . clean out,” the housekeeper said after serving everyone but Logan, “which, given your ‘weighty influence,’ Mr. Beware, is just as well.” She whisked his bowl away with a smirk before flitting back to the kitchen. “I’ll fetch more—just hope it ain’t scorched.”
Uncle Logan bolted his tea, gray eyes darkening to charcoal as always when Rosie picked on him. “If you want to thank me, Cait, you can rein in your bull terrier.” He snatched a roll from the silver basket on the table and started buttering with a vengeance. “Sometimes I wonder why I even subject myself to dinner here three times a week.”
“Because she’s the best cook in the Bay Area, Uncle Logan,” Blake said with a grin, opting to butter his own roll. “Same reason Jamie’s always underfoot.”
“Hey, watch it, McClare, I’m almost family.” Jamie snatched the roll from Bram’s plate while Bram chatted with Meg.
“Yes, you are, Jamie,” Caitlyn said with a firm jut of her chin, “which is why you and Logan are more than welcome for dinner as much as you like.” Her gaze softened in her brother-in-law’s direction. “I’m truly sorry, Logan, and I will speak to her again, I promise.” She nibbled on the edge of her smile, brows tented in apology. “But it would make things so much easier if you would just . . . well, take Rosie’s . . . humor . . . in stride like the rest of us do.”
Logan grunted. “Easy to do, Cait, when the guard dog’s not chewing on your leg.” He chomped on his roll, throat ducking when he swallowed the bite whole. “I wouldn’t put it past the woman to lace my soup with something vile.”
Caitlyn’s smile was patient. “Really, Logan, Rosie may have a salty tongue at times, but she would never stoop to anything so devious.” She cleared her throat when he started to take another bite of his bread, a smile twitching on her lips. “But perhaps we should say grace first . . . just to make sure?”
He dropped the roll to his plate, lips flat when Caitlyn bowed her head to say the prayer. Her tone was sober until she ended with a special blessing for Logan’s food that carried a definite tease. “Amen.” She glanced up just as Rosie returned Logan’s bowl with a clunk on his plate, her tone as crusty as the bread. “Sorry . . . tail end. Not many clams left.”
“Thank you,” Logan said with a tic in his jaw.
“So, Allison . . .” Her mother delivered a smile, obviously hoping to steer the conversation to friendlier waters. “Did you happen to meet Miss Penny’s handyman? She mentioned she might send him over to meet us regarding any help we might need.”
Allison glanced up, spoon halfway to her mouth. “No, I don’t think so, or at least I didn’t see him.”
“Well, she says he’s wonderful, so I’m thrilled to find someone to help out while Mr. Bigley’s out with his broken leg. The poor man won’t be back for six weeks.”
Cassie blew on her soup. “I feel so sorry for Mr. Bigley. Can’t imagine being laid up for all that time with six mouths to feed.” She sighed and sipped from her spoon. “I’m glad you plan to continue his salary while he’s out, Aunt Cait, but I sure wish we could find a temporary replacement for odd jobs and general protection till he returns. There was just something so comforting about having a man in the building, you know?”
“Yes, I do,” Caitlyn said with a wedge of worry in her brow. Her gaze settled on Uncle Logan, who appeared to be engaged in a serious conversation with Jamie, Bram, and Blake while Meg was busy cutting Maddie’s salad into smaller pieces. “As a matter of fact, I intended to check with your uncle tonight to see if he had any recommendations for a temporary watchman we could employ for a brief time. But in the meantime, I’m grateful Miss Penny offered the services of her handyman boarder.” Caitlyn sipped her chowder from her spoon slowly, eyes closed as if to savor the taste before she glanced up. “I understand he’s a strapping young man who works for her nephew, the captain of detectives for the Barbary Coast.”
The bite of roll Alli had just taken adhered to her throat like the butter was glue.
Her mother continued on as if hard-crusted bread wasn’t stuck in her daughter’s throat, depleting her air. “Apparently he moved into her spare room on the first floor about a year ago and has become like a son.” She laid her spoon aside and nodded her thanks when Hadley removed her empty soup bowl, allowing he
r to focus on her salad. “Miss Penny claims he’s a wonder at fixing everything and does it all in his spare time after his day job as a police detective, if you can imagine that.”
Alli started to hack, and Cassie pounded her on the back, tone laced with humor. “No, I can’t imagine that, Aunt Cait, can you, Al?”
Palms slick on the stem of the glass, Alli bolted her water before speaking, her voice a rasp. “You w-wouldn’t happen to know his n-name, would you, Mother?”
Stabbing a lettuce leaf in her bowl, Caitlyn paused, eyes in a squint. “Let me see—I believe it was Mickey or Ricky or . . . no, wait—Nicky, I think she called him. Yes, that’s right.”
Fork sinking to her plate, Allison stifled a moan as her eyelids shuttered closed.
“Really?” Cassie said with interest, squeezing Alli’s knee under the table. “His last name wouldn’t be Barone, would it?”
Allison sucked in a sharp breath, pinching Cassie’s hand.
“Why, yes,” her mother said with a smile edged in surprise. “Only it’s pronounced Ba-ron-ee, long e according to Miss Penny.” She chuckled. “Apparently he’s very particular about the pronunciation and makes no bones about it.” She speared a tomato and winked at her niece. “A hot-blooded Italian, I believe she called him, and a law officer to boot—a lethal combination for anyone who crosses the line, I suppose.”
Oh, Mother, you have no idea . . . Grabbing her napkin, Allison fanned her face while fire pulsed in her cheeks. And hot-blooded? She upended her water again, desperate to douse the heat of humiliation singeing her body. Well, at the moment, the Italian had nothing on her.
“Goodness,” Cassie said with a chuckle, “detective by day, handyman by night. Does the man ever sleep?”
Her mother smiled. “Not enough to suit Miss Penny, evidently. Claims he’s a demon when it comes to work, pushing himself night and day.”
Demon? I’ll vouch for that . . . Alli slumped back in her chair, eyes glazed.
“Goodness, Allison, are you all right, dear?” her mother asked. “You look flushed.”
“Fine,” she croaked, grabbing Cassie’s water to down half in one painful glug.
Caitlyn reached to press a palm to Alli’s forehead before gently stroking her cheek. “Well, your forehead is cool, at least.” She resumed eating her salad, tone leisurely once again. “So you girls met Mr. Barone, I take it?”
“Nope, not me,” Cassie said, promptly stuffing lettuce in her mouth, gaze roaming the ceiling.
“Allison? Did you?”
Alli cleared her throat, impaling the salad while thinking of a certain hot-blooded Italian. “Uh . . . uh . . . I think so.” She avoided her mother’s gaze, studying a cucumber as if it were the most fascinating of all of God’s vegetables.
“Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t keep me in suspense, darling. What’s he like? Young and strong, I hope? Does he seem like the type to tackle our antiquated building with a vengeance?”
With a vengeance? Alli gulped. “Uh-huh.”
“And then some,” Cassie said with a chuckle. “Al says he’s younger than Mr. Bigley, maybe thirty or so.”
“Really?” Her mother gave Alli her full attention, eyes glowing with curiosity. “And . . . ?”
Alli vented with a heavy sigh, knowing full well her mother wouldn’t rest until she had all the facts. Peering up, she wrinkled her nose as if she’d just swallowed one of the dreaded mushrooms Rosie was so fond of burying in the salad. “Oh, you know the type, Mother—tall, brawny, long on looks, short on personality.”
Caitlyn blinked, her fork drifting to the side of her plate. “Oh my,” she said with a hint of worry in her tone, well aware of her daughter’s short fuse around men since Alli’s broken engagement to Roger Luepke. “You were courteous, I hope, Allison? After all, he is doing us a favor stepping in to help at the behest of Miss Penny, so I hope you hit it off.”
“ ‘Hit’ it off? Oh, I think that’s safe to say, don’t you, Al?” Cassie bumped her shoulder against Alli’s with a mischievous grin.
Allison swallowed a lump the size of the cherry tomato lanced on her fork. “Uh, sure,” she said and took a quick bite, smile tighter than the tomato now lodged in her throat.
Her mother released a sigh of relief that could have ruffled the sheers on the windows. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said with a wide smile that matched the revelry going on among the others at the far end of the table. She squeezed Allison’s hand, the relief in her face evidence of just how important it was they succeed with this school. “After all, we have the privilege of being a light in a very dark neighborhood, girls, so it’s very important to make a good impression.”
The tomato in Alli’s throat could have been an Adam’s apple as it dipped in her neck. The memory of whacking Nicholas Barone, long e, with her stick not just once, but three times, suddenly popped in her brain. A good impression? Oh, you bet. The tomato glugged as she swallowed it whole.
On both shoulders and more . . .
4
Good morning, Nicky.” Miss Penny sailed into the kitchen at the unholy hour of six a.m., the smile on her face as blinding as the sunlight shafting through the double kitchen window. She promptly poured him another cup of the hot coffee he’d just brewed and kissed the top of his head. “It’s going to be another beautiful day.”
He grunted. If you don’t have to trudge through the Barbary Coast on foot, tracking down slime. Or apologize to a spoiled rich kid with a sassy attitude. He tipped the mug straight up, the hot coffee scalding his throat as much as thoughts of Allison McClare scalded his temper. Eyes closed, he felt the burn all the way to his stomach.
“Thank you for brewing the coffee,” Miss Penny said, retrieving a cup from the cabinet to pour some for herself. “Did you eat one of Mrs. Lemp’s cinnamon muffins, I hope?”
He grunted in the affirmative, and she carried her coffee to the table to sit beside him, eyeing his empty plate that contained nary a crumb.
“Good. Busy day ahead?”
Blasting out a sigh that belonged at the end of a day and not the beginning, he rose to carry his dirty plate and mug to the counter, setting them down with a clatter. “Oh, you know—just the usual. Following up leads on the robbery, investigating the murder at Dead Man’s Alley, butting heads with your nephew, groveling to a rich dame . . .”
“Nicholas . . . ?” Her tone held a warning. “Allison McClare is not a ‘dame.’ She is a beautiful young woman inside and out, and I expect you to treat her with respect.”
Beautiful? On the outside, maybe. He slung his suit coat over his shoulder, unwilling to brave heatstroke before Allison McClare could fry his temper again. “Maybe you should have this conversation with her, then. The woman has no respect for the law.”
Miss Penny took a sip of her coffee. “Depends on whose law you’re talking about, Nicky. That of the city of San Francisco or a surly Italian at the end of a hard day.” Her lips squirmed over the rim of her cup. “Or the beginning . . .”
“Only because I have your dirty work to do,” he muttered, making his way to the door.
“Ah-ah-ah . . .” Miss Penny lifted her chin, brows raised in expectation. “It’s not my ‘dirty work,’ Mr. Barone, it’s that of a grouchy detective who can’t hold his temper.” She tapped a finger to her cheek. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
A smile twitched at the edge of his mouth, but he refused to give sway. Lips clamped in his usual frown, he returned to press a kiss to her head, the scent of lavender from her hair rinse reminding him just how grateful he was for Penelope Peel in his life.
“Could you bend down, please?” she requested, and he huffed out a loud breath, squatting before the woman who was as much a grandmother as his own. She patted his cheek, a blue-veined hand caressing him with the same affection glowing in her face. “Be nice,” she said softly, “she’s not an ogre like you, you know.”
“Ha!” He rose and gently squeezed her shoulder. “Not to you, maybe.”
/> “Or you either, Nicky, if you utilize some of that boyish charm you exude with me and the girls. You’d do well to keep in mind what our president says. ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick.’ ”
A big stick. His lips quirked. Yeah, she’d probably whack him with it. “Yes, ma’am,” he said to appease the smiling imp that watched him with a gleam of pride in her eyes. “And speaking of sticks . . .” He reached for the new pointer on the counter, the one he’d purchased at the Emporium over the weekend, almost afraid to give it to Miss McClare for fear of what she might do with it. He aimed it at Miss Penny with the first crook of a smile since she’d walked into the room. “So help me, Mrs. Peel, if that da—”
A silver brow shot up.
“—woman . . . wallops me with this one, you are footing the bill when I snap it in two, is that clear?” He snatched his Homburg from one of the coat hooks and angled it on his head.
“I guarantee you, Nicky, if you smile at her like you smile at me, you won’t have to worry about her breaking anything but your heart.”
“Humph.” The idea of falling for a spoiled debutante was as appealing as getting bludgeoned with a stick. “No, thank you. I’d rather tangle with the sewer rats on the Barbary Coast than a rich da—”
The brow was up before he could even finish the word, and his lips ground tight. “Woman,” he bit out, making a break for the door. “Although piranha might be a better word. With any luck, she’ll still be home in her feather bed, dreaming of money.”
“Hate to break it to you, Detective, but she’s there—saw her classroom light on from my bedroom window. She’s a hard worker, our Miss McClare. Mind you, Nicholas, I expect a good report from the principal,” she called when he flailed a hand in the air on his way out.
“She’s not ‘our Miss McClare,’ ” he muttered down the weed-littered steps, popping animal crackers to cushion his stomach for another encounter with the lady and her stick. What the devil was a rich dame doing up this early on the Barbary Coast anyway, teacher or no? Or at least on the edge of it, on the southeast corner of Telegraph Hill, where a large contingent of the Irish had settled along with Mrs. Penelope Peel and her family. He noted the two straggly boxwoods along the short three-foot walk to the street and made a mental note to trim and pull weeds in front of Miss Penny’s three-story Victorian.