tangle with his older brother spoke of sibling affection coupled with a dose of reality. One didn’t get to choose one’s blood family.
Lynda cut in. She was clearly enthralled with Stan’s friendly, jovial manner. “We can’t wait to see what you do.” Waving the card he must have also given her, she said, “I’m going to talk to my husband. We have a makeover wish list. Summer needs some shelves, and I’d almost kill for a new entertainment built-in.”
Stan looked at Summer. She detected interest in his expression. “You’re in the guesthouse, then?”
“Yes.”
He turned to Lynda, and said, “We’d love to see how you did it—the addition and guest suite design. Maybe it’s something we could do on our property. It’s a terrific selling feature. Bonus space.”
Low squeaks and grunts came from the monitor hanging on her hip. “The baby must be waking up. I better go. Nice meeting you, Stan.”
She twinkled her fingers and dashed off. Stan’s voice followed her into the house.
“The pleasure was all mine, Summer.”
Arnie nearly tripped over a stack of two by fours and face planted on the floor. He was having a helluva time adjusting to his altered center of gravity. The bodysuit Izzy procured rounded his shoulders and had a weighted stomach. He looked like a middle-aged guy with his gut hanging over his belt and a fat ass courtesy of a butt prosthetic.
Bushy eyebrows, an itchy hairpiece, a mustache he didn’t care for, glasses, and colored contacts made his transformation complete. If he kept his distance and kept his mouth shut, Summer wouldn’t recognize him. Or so he hoped.
The kitchen door slammed. The sound of heavy feet thumping across the original, cheap linoleum floor got closer. Stan burst into the living room carrying something.
“Cookies,” he called it. “From the neighbors.”
Arnie heard the enjoyment in Stan’s words and searched his face. He looked positively giddy.
“You’re grinning. Those must be some amazing cookies.”
“They’re not bad.” Crumbs dotted the front of Stan’s shirt. With nodding approval, he shoved another cookie into his mouth.
Plucking one of the cookies from the plate, Arnie gave it a taste test. “Yum.” He thought for a second and laughed. “Think the neighbor makes brownies?”
There wasn’t anything peculiar about Stan’s reaction, but he sure was acting sketchy. “Dunno. Maybe you can ask her.”
Nibbling absently, he finished the cookie and was about to go off on his brother for being an annoying little shit when something dawned on him. Something important.
“Wait a minute. When you say neighbors, are you referring to …”
Stan cut him off. “Summer’s house? Why yes, Arnie. Yes, I am. Jesus, man. It took you long enough to catch on. Her landlady caught me at the truck with welcome cookies.”
He searched his brain and gathered what he knew about the people Summer was involved with.
Bud Gerry and his wife, Lynda, lived at 369 Wishing Star Lane. They had one adult daughter, Brigit. Bud custom painted cars for a living and did well enough to have a shop with half a dozen employees. Lynda retired from an admin assist job two years ago. These days, she was a do-gooder organizing charity drives and volunteering at a Jewish assisted living center. From all accounts, the Gerrys were good people.
“Lynda, right? Lynda Gerry.” Arnie asked for Stan’s confirming nod before continuing. “So you made contact. How’d it go?”
There was no way to miss the way his brother’s eyes danced with merriment. Something had obviously happened, but rather than just spit it out, Stan was going to make him grovel.
“Lynda is what Granddad would call a hoot. She’s super friendly in an investigative way.” He chuckled. “I recited our cover story, start to finish, and she ate it up with a smile. Gave her a business card, too. Plus, I might have secured us a chance to do an in-person walkthrough of the addition on their house.”
Arnie jerked to attention as much as the bodsuit allowed. “Summer’s guesthouse?”
“Correct,” Stan replied with a mocking smirk. “Seeing the layout firsthand falls under the reconnaissance heading, right? Check out strategic features and whatnot.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Are you reading that damn spy manual Dottie’s spent the past three years compiling? You know it’s satire, right?”
“Being satirical doesn’t make it any less valuable. I’m learning a lot about what NIGHTWIND does. Still don’t understand where your weirdness fits in, but hey, what the fuck do I know?”
There wasn’t a simple way to answer, so he just rolled his eyes and looked exasperated.
“Dottie says you’re like Gandalf the