Six
Penelope
Penelope looked down at her six-carat diamond engagement ring, surrounded by emeralds from ancient Ceylon, now Sri Lanka, passed down through the Ryder-White clan to the wife of the oldest son. She was the fifth—or was it the sixth?—Ryder-White wife to wear the magnificent and irreplaceable jewel.
Like so much else about her life, she both loved and hated it. Loved that the jewel was rare and stunningly expensive, hated it because it was another stupid Ryder-White tradition and neither of her daughters would one day wear the ring. Her father-in-law had made it clear that it was on loan to her.
Bloody Callum.
Through force of will, Penelope kept her spine steel-rod straight, her clasped hands resting on the cheap vinyl table in a diner on the west side of town. She’d refused coffee, asked for water, and pushed away the menu with one finger, the tip of which was perfectly painted in bright fuchsia.
This wasn’t her usual milieu. She didn’t know how to relate to blue-collar folk but this meeting required anonymity and discretion. Nobody would expect Penelope Ryder-White, society wife and fundraising maven, to frequent this slightly grubby, riotously busy truck stop on the edge of town.
Penelope removed her designer sunglasses, carefully folded them and tapped the edge of the frame against the table. She’d been waiting for five minutes already and her contact was late. She abhorred tardiness and would wait for, precisely, another five and then she would leave. And then she’d find another private investigator, someone who could, at the very least, be punctual.
Finding an investigator wasn’t hard; finding one who could give her quick results was trickier. Callum was becoming increasingly difficult. Things were changing and she needed information to anticipate and head off trouble.
A middle-aged, curvy woman holding a coffee cup dropped onto the bench seat opposite her and shoved her own, cheap sunglasses into bright red hair. With her deep green eyes, freckles, a wide mouth and lack of makeup, she looked like any other suburban housewife.
Penelope raised her thin eyebrows in displeasure. “Excuse me, that seat is taken.”
Amusement flashed in her eyes. “Ms. Ryder-White, I’m KJ Holden.”
She was KJ Holden, reputed to be one of the best investigators in the city? This woman was a whiz at tracking down missing people and family members?
She didn’t think so.
“You?” Penelope demanded.
With an annoyed sigh, KJ lifted her bottom and pulled a thin wallet from the back of her pants. After flipping it open, KJ eased a card from a slot and pushed it across the table. The card told Penelope that she was a registered PI and bail bonds agent.
Right, so much for assumptions. “You must get that a lot,” Penelope said. It was as close as she could come to an apology. People of her ilk and wealth weren’t in the habit of droppingsorryslike snowballs.
“Normally people are politer,” KJ said on a false smile.
She was feisty, too. Penelope rather liked that. Her daughters were feisty and fierce and she liked that they were strong and independent women. Like Callum, Pen looked down on pacifists and suck-ups. Her husband was, unfortunately, both.
“I’m not going to be able to help you if you don’t tell me what the problem is, Ms. Ryder-White.”
Penelope tucked her hair behind her ears and fiddled with the diamond stud in her ear. “I understand that you have a good reputation for finding the missing, but also for making connections between people and companies.”
“I do,” KJ replied. Her words weren’t a boast but a statement of fact.
“Did you ever work on the Jas Garwood case?” Penelope asked, curious. Jas’s hit-and-run death had turned Kinga into a tightly controlled, fearful adult.
KJ shook her head. “I specialize in looking for the missing. However, I know the detective working the cold case and there are no leads on the driver of the vehicle. They’ve chased down everything, I don’t think there’s anything to be found.” KJ tipped her head to the side. “Your daughter was her best friend, right?”
Penelope nodded. “Since kindergarten. Jas all but grew up in our house and the Garwoods consider Kinga their second daughter.”
“I’m very sorry,” KJ said. She tapped her finger against her coffee cup and wrinkled her nose.
Pushing her coffee cup away, she leaned back in her seat and met Penelope’s gaze. Her face and body might fool people into thinking she was a harried mom, but her eyes had seen trouble and were a hundred years old. Those eyes reassured Penelope that this woman could get the job done.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Ryder-White?”
Ah, could KJ give Penelope’s father-in-law a personality transplant? But this woman was a PI, not a fairy godmother with a wand.
Penelope bit her bottom lip, unsure if she should proceed. Would she be opening up Pandora’s box? Would hiring a PI make everything better or worse? She didn’t know...