Whack The Mole (Lucy McGuffin, Psychic Amateur Detective 2)

I shouldn’t let him get away with this, but then his eyes go all big and soft on me, and like the chump I am, I give in. “Okay. Just this one time.”

Mike’s cell goes off. “Do you mind if I take this?”

“Sure, go ahead. I’ll wait for you in the truck.”

He turns his back to me to take the call in private.

I get up into the front seat and Paco plops himself down onto my lap smearing dirt onto my flowery dress. Rats. He must have stepped into some mud during our walk. I check out my bag to see if I have anything to wipe it off with. Nope. Maybe Mike keeps paper towels in his glove compartment. I pop it open. There’s no wipes or towels, just a few manuals, and a…gun?

I swallow hard.

Mike keeps a gun in the glove compartment of his pickup truck.

I know a few people who own handguns for protection and plenty who own shotguns for hunting so it shouldn’t surprise me, but I’m still staring at it when he comes back from his call.

“Ready to go?” He follows my gaze.

“Oh! Um, sorry, I wasn’t snooping.” I gesture to the mud stain on my dress. “I was hoping to find something to wipe this off with.”

“No worries.” He calmly reaches across and shuts the glove compartment, then pulls out a clean towel from a gym bag in the back seat. “Here, this should help.”

“Thanks.” I manage to get off most of the dirt. The small bit that’s left blends into the floral pattern of my dress, so it doesn’t look too bad.

“I have a permit for that gun, by the way. In case you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t, but now that you mention it…” I laugh snort. “I guess driving a delivery truck can be dangerous?”

“So I’ve been told.” He smiles. “Ready for some brunch?”

The Harbor House’s parking lot is full of expensive sports cars, but Mike doesn’t seem fazed. He hands the keys to his slightly dented pickup truck to one of the pimply faced valets and the three of us head into the foyer.

“What a cute dog!” The hostess smiles at Paco. “I’m sorry, but we only allow animals in our outdoor seating section,” she tells us.

“Perfect,” says Mike.

She leads us outside to the patio and low and behold who is sitting at the outdoor bar nursing a beer? Man Bun. Minus Tara, thank goodness because I just don’t think I can put up with her kind of energy right now.

Man Bun looks up from his drink. “Hey.”

“Oh, hi…” I search my brain for his real name—“Wade! No, I’m sorry, it’s Wayne. Right?”

“How’s it going?” he drawls.

I introduce him to Mike. The two men shake hands. “Man—um, Wayne works for the Cooking Channel. He was part of the film crew that was at The Bistro when we found that…surprise in the dumpster.”

“All that work for nothing,” Man Bun (because that’s the only way I can think of him) says glumly. “The cops swiped all our film. They say they’re not giving it back either.”

“What are you still doing in town?”

He hesitates a fraction of a second before saying, “Waiting to hear about my next assignment.”

An odd tingle runs down my spine making my Spidey sense sit up straight. This isn’t exactly a lie, but he’s hiding something. Something big. Something he doesn’t want anyone to know.

“If we could continue this way, please?” The hostess says trying to guide us toward our table.

“Nice seeing you, Wayne,” I say.

He mumbles something that sounds like you too.