Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(11)
“Shopping,” I answered.
“You said we were Christmas shopping. This isn’t Christmas shopping,” she whined as we hauled the kids out of the van and toted them into the store. “Christmas shopping is done at the mall. Or on the internet at the last minute with gingerbread and candy canes. Or on the couch in front of the Home Shopping Network in fluffy slippers and pajamas.” She snatched a coupon book from a greeter by the door.
I plunked Zach into the front of a shopping cart. He wiggled in his seat, reaching his pudgy, sticky fingers toward the slow-spinning ceiling fans in the lighting aisle, his high, shrill whine building momentum the farther I pushed him in the opposite direction. I grabbed a stud finder with beeping, blinky lights off an endcap and set it in his lap, silencing him with a distraction.
Vero plucked the stud finder from his hands. “Trust me, kid. Your mom does not need one of these.” She gave him a bag of Cheerios when he started to fuss.
I handed her my shopping list. “See if you can find these. Georgia wants a car care kit and Mom wants one of those window-mounted bird feeders. While you’re in Lawn and Garden, we could use a snow shovel for the house. I’ll head over to the tool department and grab something for my dad.”
“Here,” she said, surrendering her coupon guide. “Stick to the sale items. Don’t spend too much. We just paid off your credit cards.” She disappeared into the crowd with Delia in tow. I pushed my cart into an aisle packed with shoppers and sales associates, grabbing the last cordless drill off the island display for my dad and dropping it triumphantly in my cart. I navigated slowly past the racks of household tools. The aisle was full of women, all of them carrying printed gift lists, probably for their husbands. I wondered how many of them would have empty workbenches in their garages a year from now.
My thoughts drifted to that stupid pink trowel above the workbench in my garage—the only tool Steven had bothered to leave on the pegboard when he’d moved out. I thought about all those empty pegs and dust-filled drawers. About the lengths Vero and I had gone to just to find a damn shovel to bury a body. Weaving between the throngs of shoppers, I began plucking one of everything off the rack: screwdrivers, hammers, tape measures, flashlights, and a collection of pliers in a variety of sizes, shapes, and colors. On second thought, maybe I’d keep the cordless drill for myself. I grabbed a mega-assortment pack of Duracells and dumped them in my cart.
Zach finished his Cheerios and started whining again. Thirty minutes had passed, and I was beginning to wonder where Vero had gone when her cart rounded the aisle and pulled up alongside mine.
“Look, Mommy!” Delia said, her feet swinging from the holes in the seat. “My teeth are loose. The tooth fairy’s going to come and give me lots of money.” Delia pushed her front teeth with the tip of her tongue. I squinted, leaning closer to see. They hardly wiggled.
“I don’t think those are quite ready to come out.”
“That’s why Vero got me one of these.” Delia brandished a pair of pliers. I snatched them before she could wedge them into her mouth, trading her for my iPhone and dumping the tool into Vero’s cart.
Vero smirked down at the contents of my basket. “Looks like someone went a little crazy with the batteries. I thought you said Julian was only gone for a week.” Her voice fell conspiratorially low. “If you need some power tools, Stacey down the street just started one of those home-based adult toy businesses. Free batteries with every purchase and they offer discreet shipping.”
A teenage store clerk paused his restocking to stare at us. My cheeks burned. “I don’t need those kinds of tools, thankyouverymuch.”
“I’ve seen the drawer in your nightstand, Finn, and I respectfully disagree.” The clerk’s eyes drew open wide. “What are you staring at?” she called out to him, drawing the attention of the other shoppers in the aisle.
When the last sets of curious eyes returned to their carts, I lowered my voice. “This has nothing to do with Julian. I’m just sick of seeing that empty pegboard every time I pull into the garage. There’s no reason I should have to rely on Steven or my dad every time something breaks.” Vero and I were perfectly capable of handling the occasional loose screw on our own. I reached for a double roll of duct tape and dropped it in her cart.
“Since you obviously didn’t get to play house with your boyfriend, how’d the writing go?”
My grunt was noncommittal. “I spent the entire weekend searching the forum for FedUp.”
“Any luck?”
“Not a bit.”
“Me either.”
I dragged my cart to a stop, grabbing Vero’s and forcing it to a halt. “You checked the forum from your cousin’s house?” I whispered.
“Of course not!” she said, pulling a face. “I did it from a business center in a hotel lobby.”
“What hotel lobby?”
“That’s not important. What’s important is what I found.”
I gasped. “You found FedUp?”
“No, but get this,” she said, her head bent to mine as we slowly resumed pushing our carts. “Someone calling herself EasyClean has been making a fortune on that forum. A post pops up, all cryptic and vaguely worded—usually from some woman who’s looking to get rid of something big and needs someone to haul it away for a price. Or some mom who’s dealing with a stubborn stain and she’s willing to pay someone to help her clean it up.” Vero kept her voice low, punctuating each description with one-handed air quotes. “After a few days, EasyClean replies with a couple of carefully worded questions, until it’s clear she and whoever posted the message are speaking the same language. Then EasyClean and her new client take the conversation private. Next thing you know, the thread dies—and I’m guessing so does the big, messy husband.”