Nicole wondered if Giraldi’s partner had finished planting bugs in the salon and wherever else he could reach. Unless, of course, he was a real cable guy and not a pretender. Then she had a brief but visceral vision of Agent Giraldi poking through her belongings. Where would he plant anything in that room? Under the mattress on the floor? In the lone lamp? The drawer of the single nightstand?
“No,” Nikki said firmly. “We’re not going to be here that long.” She glared at Giraldi, who nodded and smiled like an actual cable guy might.
His partner came out to join them, apparently done in the salon, and he and Giraldi went outside and around to the back of the house, stringing the cable as if they were nothing more than the installers they were pretending to be.
She waited with Madeline out on the front steps, tapping her foot with impatience, spoiling for a fight. And that was before all the other trucks started pulling up to the front curb like spacecraft returning to the mother ship.
Chase Hardin pulled in with his father. Behind them came Robby and Enrico, a pool man, the AC guy, and a truck delivering lumber. When there was barely a spare inch left to angle in, John Franklin’s boat of a Cadillac floated in and nudged one fender toward the curb. The Realtor caned his way around to the passenger side and opened the door, handing out a large woman with short salt-and-pepper hair. She was Franklin’s height, but looked to outweigh him by a good fifteen pounds—a St. Bernard to his hound dog. As they made their way toward the house, the woman carved a path through the chaos of cars and equipment for the less hearty Realtor to follow.
Avery joined them on the front steps, her hair up in a ponytail, a fine layer of sawdust coating her hair and face. She wore the old tool belt at a jaunty angle, or maybe that was the only way it would stay up. When she spotted the Hardins, Nicole felt her tense slightly, then watched as she arranged her lips into a smile and swaggered out to greet them.
John Franklin worked his cane prodigiously but still trailed behind as he and his companion made their way up the drive and toward the garden gate. The woman wore pastel-colored madras walking shorts that pulled unflatteringly across her stomach and thighs and a sleeveless button-down blouse in a bright lemon yellow. Her arms were heavy but well muscled. Her skin was tanned from the sun.
Giraldi walked toward them from the opposite direction while his partner headed for the truck.
“I’m just going to assume you’ve bugged the whole damned house,” Nikki said under her breath as he handed her the work order for her signature. “So you might as well not bother listening.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“And if our television reception’s bad, I’m going to call the company and report you.”
Giraldi smiled and handed her the same card he’d handed her before. The “company” listed didn’t have the word “cable” anywhere in it. “Both my boss and I would love to hear from you.”
She turned to go in the house, but he put an arm out to stop her. “I’ve got something for you,” he said. “Walk out to the truck with me and I’ll get it.”
“Fine.” She strode past him toward the driveway, nodding to John Franklin and the woman as they passed, aimed like vectors now toward Madeline. At the cable company van, Giraldi slid open the back door and Nicole peered inside half expecting to see agents with headphones and listening devices like she’d seen on TV. But it was just the inside of an empty van. He reached inside and pulled out what looked like clothing.
“What is it?”
Giraldi held up a bright blue T-shirt with the words “Convenient Cable” scrawled across it, then flipped it to show her the cable company logo on the back. “A small parting gift for you,” he said.
“I already have clothes.”
“You’re overdressed for your surroundings, Ms. Grant,” he replied. “If you’re going to work on this house and blend in, you’re going to have to start dressing like the natives.”
She snatched the T-shirt from him and wadded it into a ball.
“I took the liberty of getting you these, too.” He unfolded a pair of gray knit short shorts with “I (heart) Pass-a-Grille” stamped across the seat in large pink letters.
She’d never seen anything less her. “You shouldn’t have.”
“You really shouldn’t be stripping those doors in designer clothes. I hate to see you ruin them.” He winked at her before he turned to open the passenger-side door. “You need to have something left to wear when it’s time to go get your brother and bring him in.”
Nikki stood in the driveway, clutching what looked like a wad of fabric to her chest. There was something odd about the intensity with which she watched the cable truck drive away, but Madeline dismissed the thought as she stepped down into the garden to meet John Franklin and the woman clearing a path before him.
“Hello, Ms. Singer.” The Realtor was slightly out of breath unlike the sturdy woman beside him. “I want to introduce you to my bride, Renée. Renée, this is Madeline Singer.”
“It’s Maddie,” Madeline said, extending her hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Oh, I’ve been dying to get my hands on these grounds for a good long time.” Renée Franklin’s handshake was firm and decisive, just shy of bone crushing. “Everything is so overgrown and out of control.” She shook her head. “A garden is like a child, Miz Singer. It needs a firm hand and constant attention.” Her eyes glittered with an almost religious fervor. Her accent was vaguely southern as if it had been acquired slowly over time. “Why, this level of neglect is almost criminal.”
“Now, now, dear. Don’t get yourself worked up.” John Franklin gently patted his wife’s formidable shoulder, the adoration in his eyes so stark it made Madeline’s stomach hurt. Her own husband was getting harder and harder to reach. Steve had pretty much stopped answering his cell phone, and far too many of her attempts to reach him on the house phone had been deflected by Edna.
Renée Franklin raised her arms in supplication. “Oh, just look at those poor birds-of-paradise. You can barely see them or the frangipani. And the bougainvillea and confederate jasmine! They’re magnificent, but they really need to be trained up over those balconies.”
She circled the fountain as she exclaimed and pointed. Facing the house, she gestured toward two huge, straggly-looking plants that flanked the front steps. “Those are triple hibiscus. There’ll be three blooms in different colors. But they’re so leggy.” She clutched her heart as if she were wounded. “Oh, I wish I’d brought my pruning shears.”
If Renée Franklin were a ship, she would be a Coast Guard cutter—solid and certain, slicing through the waves without a moment’s hesitation. They followed her out of the front garden and around the side of the house as best they could. Her husband, who managed surprisingly well with his cane, responded eagerly and lovingly. Maddie, who enjoyed spring in Atlanta mostly as a pleased observer, simply nodded when it seemed appropriate, but understood little.
