Hard Rustler. B.J. Daniels
not her sisters. It still bothered her. “Why, Grandma Frannie? Why leave the house to just me?” she asked the knickknacks. Several frogs looked back at her with big, dusty eyes. Maybe TJ was right. Frannie had left the house to the granddaughter she thought would need the most help.
At the time, Annabelle had been furious at such an insinuation. Now she wondered if her grandmother hadn’t been the only one who’d expected her to fail. Maybe everyone had seen it coming but Annabelle herself.
For whatever the reason, this house was now hers and unless she got it sold and soon... She shook her head, stood and reached for the ceramic bric-a-brac.
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t even thought about food—until this moment. For years she’d had to watch her weight. She still wasn’t used to being able to eat anything she wanted. Now she could give in to her hunger. It was a new feeling. One that signaled more than anything that she would never be modeling again. Too bad she couldn’t afford to eat.
She pushed that thought away. Looking down at the hideous clothes she was wearing, she told herself that she couldn’t go to the grocery store, even in Whitehorse, in this outfit—even if she had any cash. She stood for a moment, feeling lost and close to tears. As she put one of the ceramic creatures into the box she was loading, she spied a container that her grandmother had used for her grocery money.
She was reminded of the time Grandma Frannie had caught her red-handed with her fingers in it and felt a stab of remorse for even having thought about taking the money, let alone getting caught. But mostly what she felt was regret that she hadn’t come back to see the grandmother who’d loved her so much.
That day, her hand literally in the cookie jar, Annabelle had fished around for an excuse. Her grandmother had stopped her and said, “If you’re going to steal, then own it. Same with getting caught,” her grandmother had said. “Lying and sniveling makes you look weak.”
With a sigh, she now lifted the lid of the container, telling herself it would be empty. Reaching inside, her fingers brushed something. She pulled out a handful of crinkled-up twenties and began to cry.
“Grandma,” she said, her voice breaking. She swallowed the lump in her throat and wiped at her tears. Frannie had known she was going to need money. She was the one her grandmother had known would fail. As much as that hurt, her heart filled to bursting with love for her grandmother, who was still looking out for her after all these years. Because someone needed to, that was for sure.
There were enough bills to keep her from going hungry for a while. She said a whispered thank-you to her grandmother and glanced at her watch. Did she really have the energy to shower and change to go to the grocery store to get something to eat?
The answer was a resounding no. If she sneaked in and out of the only grocery store in town quickly, hopefully she wouldn’t see anyone she knew.
* * *
ROBERT “ROB” MCDOUGAL saw that it was his uncle calling and ignored the call. The old mobster probably just wanted to bitch about the way-too-expensive assisted-living facility where he’d been the past four years.
Since Rob was paying almost twenty grand a month to keep him in the resort-like place, he didn’t have much sympathy. It was a deal his old man had made with the “family.”
Rob wasn’t stupid enough to renege on the agreement, since that would get him killed. But he didn’t have to listen to the old man’s constant complaining. Nor was he in the mood to indulge his uncle.
But when his phone rang once again and he saw that it was Bernie calling yet another time, he finally listened to the original message his uncle had left.
“I have a job for you. A real one. Get your butt out here. This is urgent family business.”
Urgent family business? Rob groaned. What now? He didn’t bother to call his uncle back. He simply texted that he was on his way to Golden Years Retirement Living and Spa.
The moment he walked into his uncle’s room, the old codger patted the arm of his wheelchair and said, “Let’s take a walk.”
In his uncle’s generation that might have meant he was about to die. But he didn’t think Bernie had a gun on him or a garrote or even a butter knife from the kitchen. But you never knew.
“What’s this about?” Rob asked impatiently as he pushed the old man’s wheelchair out to the canal after getting a special pass at the main desk to do so. It was hot as hell, even though it was late at night, but it often was this far south. Florida. He hated it. He missed the change of seasons up north. But as long as Bernie was alive... And the old codger didn’t seem to be aging in the least.
“Isn’t this far enough?” Rob asked, swatting at a mosquito as he kept an eye out for alligators. Each year down here alligators attacked ten people on average. They snatched pets from the sides of pools, grabbed little kids and even ate a few adults, twenty-three since 1948, he’d read. Walking along the canal always made him nervous.
His uncle finally signaled they could stop. Looking around he checked to make sure they were alone. They were. Rob was losing patience. His shirt was soaked with sweat and sticking to his back. He swatted at another bug flying around his head and swore under his breath.
“The Marco Polo Heist,” Bernie said.
Rob felt his stomach twist. He’d grown up without a father because of that heist. Everything had gone perfectly until an off-duty guard had shown up. His father and one of the other thieves had been killed. Only one of the thieves had gotten away clean—Bernie. The cops had known Bernie was involved but they’d never been able to prove it.
Bernie had walked away with the loot—which was never recovered since, according to his uncle, it had been stolen right out from under his nose. It had been the only black stain on the mobster’s otherwise glowing criminal career—and something that remained stuck in the old man’s craw.
“I have a lead on the goods,” his uncle said.
After more than fifty years and a lot of blind alleys and wild-goose chases? Rob stared at him. “It just came to you?”
Bernie cuffed him in the back. “Don’t be a damned fool. I know you think I’m getting senile, but I’m as sharp as a shank.”
Right, Rob thought as he watched the old man dig a newspaper clipping out of his pocket.
“That’s her,” his uncle said, handing him the black-and-white photo. “Francesca Clementine.” When Rob had no reaction, he added impatiently, “Baby Doll.”
The notorious Baby Doll. Rob wanted to laugh. He’d had to hear about her all of his adult life. The moll who’d broken Bernie’s heart and stolen a king’s fortune from him.
“That’s her?” He couldn’t help being skeptical. They’d been here before.
His uncle nodded and handed him the obit. He read it, trying not to roll his eyes. “Whitehorse, Montana?” He couldn’t be serious.
Bernie smiled. “Her house is coming up for sale.”
“You want me to buy the house?”
“Hell, no. Too obvious. We don’t want to call attention to any of this. The Feds are still watching me.” Rob doubted this but said nothing. “There are too many people still looking for the loot, you know what I’m saying?”
Just like they were still looking for Jimmy Hoffa.
“You need to leave right away,” Bernie said, keeping his voice down, apparently afraid the Feds were listening from the mangroves beyond the canal. They’d had to come all the way out here by the canal with the wild alligators because his uncle was convinced that his room was bugged. “I think you can handle this alone. Better that way.”
Rob nodded, telling himself he wasn’t going to Montana on some wild-goose chase.
“I’m depending on you,” Bernie said and grabbed his hand to squeeze