Web of Lies (Page 12)

Finn was more slippery than grease on a hot skillet. He preferred to tackle problems in a roundabout way, which usually involved pulling his pants up while he ran away from whatever gun-toting husband was hot on his trail.

Me? I went at my problems straight on – and knife point first. Another reason Fletcher Lane had trained me to be the assassin, and not his son, even though Finn was two years older than me.

Finn held up his empty cup and let out a low whistle between his teeth. A moment later, Sophia came through the double doors that led to the back of the restaurant.

The dwarf clenched a battered silver coffeepot in her stubby fingers. The one she always kept warm for Finn.

Fletcher too, before he’d died. Once again, Sophia wore her usual Goth outfit – black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black boots. Today, dainty silverstone hearts hung from her black leather collar. They clanged and clashed like cymbals as she walked.

"Sophia? Pretty please?" Finn smiled and held out his empty cup.

The Goth dwarf grunted, but the corners of her lips, crimson today, twitched upward into a tiny smile.

Finnegan Lane could charm any woman he set his mind to, and he enjoyed practicing his skills on every female within a twenty-foot radius. Young, old, pretty, toothless.

Didn’t much matter to Finn. He enjoyed playing the part of the old-fashioned, charming, Southern gentleman to whatever audience was handy. Even the gruff, tough Sophia Deveraux wasn’t immune to his ladykiller smile.

Then again, he’d had thirty-two years to wear her down.

Finn batted his green eyes at Sophia while he sipped his fresh cup of coffee. Sophia gave him another minuscule smile, then moved over to the double sink, where she was draining a colander of elbow macaroni to make some salad. Normally, during the lunch hour rush, there wouldn’t be room to move or turn around back here.

Waitresses would be stacked three deep behind the counter, waiting on Sophia and me to cook up their latest order. But it was just the two of us today. I’d sent the rest of the staff home with pay, after it had become apparent I wouldn’t need them to man the Pork Pit.

"What about Owen Grayson?" Finn asked between sips of steaming coffee. "How are you going to cash in that favor?"

Grayson’s visit hadn’t made the newspaper article, but I’d mentioned it to Finn last night when I’d called to tell him about the attempted robbery at the Pork Pit. He’d been more excited about Owen Grayson owing me a favar than the fact Sophia and I had foiled the would-be robbers.

"I’m not," I said. " I would have done the exact same thing to Jake McAllister and his friend if a couple of homeless guys had been eating here instead of Eva Grayson. Saving her from getting dead doesn’t change anything for me."

Finn shook his head. "Gin, Gin, Gin. You really need to learn to take advantage of these golden opportunities when they present themselves to you."

"And what golden opportunity would that be?"

He gave me a calculating look. "I’ve had dealings with Owen Grayson before. He’s deeply devoted to his sister. Their parents died young, and he raised her himself. A real family guy that way. I imagine you could ask him for the moon right now, and he’d find a way to deliver it."

"Good thing I don’t want the moon then."

"But – " Finn started.

"Forget it," I said. "I’m not asking Owen Grayson for anything. All I want to do is cook Fletcher’s barbecue sauce, run the restaurant, keep my head down, and make sure Jake McAllister gets what’s coming to him."

"Even with your testimony, the girls’ testimony, it’ll never go to trial," Finn pointed out. "Jonah McAllister will make sure his boy won’t spend a day in jail, no matter what he has to do to accomplish that feat."

"And what if I called in that favor Owen Grayson owes me?" I asked. "You know, take advantage of this golden opportunity I have? Asked him to help me make the charges stick?"

Finn snorted. "Then you’d be wasting your favor, and you know it. Even if you got Owen Grayson to back you up, Jake McAllister still would never see the inside of a jail cell. Because Jonah works for Mab Monroe. Even somebody like Grayson would think twice about crossing Mab, especially since he has his sister to think about. I imagine Owen would like to be around to help her finish growing up and not die a fiery, torture-filled death at the hands of Mab or one of her giant flunkies."

"I know. But it’s still a nice thought. The idea of Jake McAllister being somebody’s prison yard bitch gives me the warm fuzzies."

Finn snorted. "You are deeply disturbed."

I grinned. "And that’s why you love me."

Finn snorted again, then batted his eyes at Sophia to get another refill on his chicory coffee. After the dwarf obliged him, Finn stuck his nose in the financial section of the Ashland Trumpet. I leaned my elbows on the counter, stared at the newspaper photo of the Pork Pit, and brooded about my unwanted publicity. Maybe the reporter could have a small accident. Something painful, but not immediately lethal –

A shadow fell over me, blocking my light. "Ahem." A small, polite sound.

I looked up. My lone customer of the day, the girl, stood in front of me. My eyes immediately flicked to the dishes on her table, the way they always did. I liked knowing my customers enjoyed their meals, and there was no better proof of that than an empty plate.

But food still covered the girl’s dishes. She’d barely touched her grilled cheese sandwich, steak-cut fries, and triple chocolate milkshake. A shame, really. Because with Sophia’s sourdough bread, I made the best grilled cheese in Ashland. And the milkshake? Heaven for your taste buds.

The girl cleared her throat again and held out the ticket I’d written her order down on.

"Was there something wrong with your food?" I asked.

"Because it doesn’t look like you ate a lot of it."

"Oh, it was fine." She shifted on her feet. "Guess I just wasn’t as hungry as I thought I was."

I frowned. Everybody got hungry in the Pork Pit. No true Southerner could resist the combination of spices, grease, and artery-clogging fat in the air. But the girl couldn’t be a Yankee. Not with that soft drawl that made her voice ooze like warm preserves. More than likely, she’d thought there was something off about the food, considering no one else had been brave enough to come in and try it today. I’d never met Jonah McAllister, but I already disliked the man.

I rang up her total. "That’ll be $7.97."

The girl dug through her wallet and handed me a credit card. I raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I don’t have any cash on me."