“Sure. One difference is our bail bonding system. In Kentucky it’s not a for-profit system; it’s referred to as pre-trial services. For those of you interested primarily in bounty hunting, I understand that will be covered in a later segment.”

  Chuck nodded to confirm.

  “There are other minor differences.” Dunk gave the woman a private smile. “Why don’t you catch me when we take a break.”

  “I will,” the woman promised.

  Octavia pushed her tongue into her cheek. Dunk’s wife probably had to share him with every available piece of tail in town.

  He clapped his big hands. “So, let’s start with the basics. In this line of work, the most important thing to remember is you have to blend. That applies to your vehicle and to your clothing.” He stood directly in front of Octavia. “You don’t want the target to know you’re there or give them any reason to notice you.”

  She sank lower.

  “It also applies to your business front if you choose to operate out of a fixed location. If your business is in a heavily trafficked area or if say, your sign is too showy—” Dunk settled his mocking gaze on her. “—clients might be afraid they’ll be seen going in and out.”

  Behind her dark glasses, Octavia rolled her eyes. Now he was just being petty.

  “In your course booklet, you’ll find a checklist I put together of some things you’ll need to seriously consider before going forward. This class is to help you decide if private investigation is right for you, or if you’re better suited to watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote.”

  As laughter rolled over the class, Octavia placed her middle finger on the side of her nose to telegraph to him what she was thinking.

  Dunk didn’t react, just resumed his game-show-host demeanor. “As far as the kinds of cases you’re likely to encounter, it could be anything—missing persons, corporate fraud, background investigations, slip and fall cases, workers compensation, process serving. You might be engaged by an attorney to do investigation related to a case being tried or you could be hired by an insurance company to prove or disprove claims.”

  Another hand went up, this time a young man. “Do you work with the police on cases?”

  “Occasionally,” Dunk said, nodding. “But it goes without saying the police only work with investigators who have the very best reputation. In general, the police stay in their lane and private investigators do the same. Now, let’s go over the extensive paperwork you’ll have to file and maintain if you decide to open an agency….”

  Octavia zoned out, using the time to study Dunk from behind her sunglasses. The few times they had hooked up in college had been electric, but she wasn’t about to attach herself to someone who required more attention than she did. When she’d met Richard, she’d transferred her affections to him—or rather, to his ambition. And for the first ten years of their marriage, they’d been a power couple. She’d fostered social connections to help his law practice grow and he’d given her free rein over their bank accounts. It was a successful partnership.

  Until Richard had lost his damn mind. Unbeknownst to her, their financial situation had fallen off a cliff and instead of facing his problems, Richard had gone on the lam with his lame mistress. The police had gotten involved when an accusation surfaced that Richard had leaked confidential information that had led to the murder of a client. In the midst of the manhunt, she’d been the one to locate him and watch him be handcuffed—a deed that had been humiliating and satisfying at the same time.

  Now the husband she’d been so proud of was cooling his heels in a Louisville jail and calling her regularly. For what she wasn’t sure, although she suspected he wanted her help.

  But she wasn’t sure she had it in her. The more she thought about it, the more she wished she’d done him in when she’d found him. Because more than anything, she hated him for proving she’d bet on the wrong racehorse.

  “What about you?”

  At the closeness of his voice, Octavia realized Dunk was speaking to her. “What about me?”

  “Have you given the topic much thought?”

  Darn him, he knew she could never concentrate in class.

  She looked to Linda for help. Her sister smiled up at Dunk. “We’re keeping an open mind as to what kind of clientele we’ll be marketing to.”

  “Right,” Octavia said. “But make no mistake, you’ll be hearing about the Two Guys Detective Agency.”

  “No doubt,” Dunk said with a wry smile. He glanced at this watch—a Patek Phillipe model that cost as much as a car. “Time for a break, say, fifteen minutes?”

  The room emptied to the sound of raised voices as students conversed among themselves. Octavia pushed to her feet and fell in step with Linda. “Thanks for the save.”

  “I assumed you weren’t listening.”

  “Why should I? You’re taking notes.”

  “I can’t take your exam for you.”

  “Dunk is no brainiac. If he passed it, I sure as hell can.”

  “Octavia?”

  At the sound of Dunk’s voice, her footsteps slowed. “I’ll catch up,” she said to Linda.

  Linda pursed her mouth but kept walking toward the door.

  Octavia turned to see Dunk strolling up. She angled her head. “When did you become a teacher?”

  A smile spread over his face. “Call it my good deed—I want to make sure the quality of the industry stays high.”

  “And it’s a good way to check out the competition.”

  “That too,” he conceded with a nod, then looked her up and down. “Nice costume.”

  “Bye.” She turned to go.

  “Hey, wait.” He snagged her arm with a little laugh. “The Octavia I used to know could take a little teasing.”

  “Maybe you don’t know me anymore.”

  “True, but since it looks like you’re going to be around, I want us to be… friends.”

  “I’d like that too,” she said easily.

  “In fact, I’d like to offer up my services.”

  “Services?”

  “If you happen to get a case before you get your license, or if you don’t pass the exam on the first try, you can run jobs through my agency.”

  “So Linda and I would work for you?”

  He shrugged. “Call it freelancing… unless you’re happy stocking vending machines.”

  Her cheeks warmed over the memory of running into Dunk when she and Linda had been packing around boxes of Cheetos and fried pies. Her tongue watered to turn down his offer, but she recognized the advantage of working under someone else’s umbrella until she and Linda had their papers. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good. Meanwhile, if you need anything—a referral, or help closing Sullivan’s cases, I’d be glad to help.”

  “Thanks, but we closed all of Sullivan’s open cases.”

  “Really?” He pursed his mouth. “All of them?”

  Something in his voice set off a warning flag in her mind, especially since she recalled he’d made a similar offer to Linda once before—that she could transfer Sullivan’s files to his office, and he’d take care of everything. “All the open cases we’re aware of. Do you know something we should know?”

  His shrug was too casual. “No. But if you run across something in the agency’s records you don’t understand, give me a call.”

  She hesitated a beat. “We will.”

  Dunk gave a little cough. “Not that you need a reason to call. How’s the situation with your, um, husband?”

  She gave him a flat smile. “Ongoing.”

  “I’m sorry he’s dragging down your name, too.”

  “He isn’t,” she said mildly. “Didn’t you see the big showy sign? My last name is Guy.”

  A light sparked in his eyes. “So you’re divorcing him?”

  Was she? “I’m… taking it one day at a time.”

  “Ah. Well, if you need a good divorce attorney, I work with several.”

  “Good to know.” She nodded toward the hallway. “I’m going to stretch my legs.”

  Octavia walked out and scanned for Linda. Her sister was on her phone, probably checking on the kids.

  “Hey, Agent 69.”

  She looked up to see a big beefy guy wearing a camo jacket leering at her.

  “What’s under the coat?”

  She frowned. “Screw off, dude.”

  “I’m Ricky.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She made her way to Linda who was ending a call.

  “The kids are behaving, small miracle.”

  “Uh-huh. Listen, you said something once about a file missing from Sullivan’s office?”

  Linda’s eyebrows rose. “I can’t believe you were actually listening.”

  She rolled her hand. “What’s the file?”

  “Klo said it was labeled ‘Foxtrot’. It’s a case Sullivan was working on with the assistant district attorney.”

  “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Just speculation. I did some research on my own. I don’t know if it’s relevant, but Foxtrot was the name of the last horse ridden by Rocky Huff before he was found murdered.”

  “I remember that—it was last November, right?”

  “Yeah, after the fall races at Keeneland. Why the sudden interest?”

  Octavia glanced back toward the classroom. Dunk was standing outside the door talking to the exquisitely inked Candy Lewis, who seemed riveted by whatever he was saying. The man had a gift for winning over people and getting what he wanted.

  And she had the feeling he wanted something they had.

  Chapter 3

  LINDA TOOK in the clutter of renovation supplies lining the perimeter of the living room—mismatched boxes of tile, buckets of drywall mud, and random tools. Just another reminder of the things Sullivan had left unfinished, and more for her to-do list that seemed to grow longer and longer. Add to it the mounds of Octavia’s clothes, shoes, bags, and makeup piled on and around the futon where she slept, and Linda was starting to feel like a hoarder.

  Trying to ignore the tension headache lurking behind her eyes, she lowered herself into the chair in front of her desk and surveyed the accumulation of mail. She didn’t want to know the contents of any of it—only the coupons were a welcome sight. But she’d put off the task long enough. With dread churning in her stomach, she picked up a letter opener and sliced into the first envelope, then another… then another. She made separate stacks as she worked her way through the pile. Mixed in with countless bills were sympathy cards from far-flung acquaintances who’d only just heard of Sullivan’s untimely demise. She dutifully read the comforting words printed over clouds, leaves, sand, or water and placed the envelopes in a separate stack for thank you notes. People meant well, but it all seemed so… pointless.

  At the sight of the next envelope, her hand stilled. Stamped across the front were the words “Mailed from a Federal Correctional Institution.” The return address was Nelson Guy, Federal Correctional Institute in Manchester, Kentucky. “Hi, Dad,” she murmured, then opened the envelope and removed the letter.

  Dear Linda,

  My cellmate Wallace told me a former cop in Lexington had died, and I was sad to learn it was Sullivan. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but I liked him. I’m sorry for you and for the kids. I should be there for you. As soon as I get out of here, I’ll make it up to you and to Susan.

  Love, Dad

  Linda pressed her lips together. Octavia had changed her name when she was a teenager, but their father still called her Susan, which had only forged a deeper wedge between them. To her knowledge they’d had no contact in years. The thought of a family reunion once their dad was released unleashed her headache. She wasn’t sure how much more upheaval she could take.

  From Jarrod’s room came the sound of thumping music, then the ear-shattering addition of his beginner drum licks. She groaned. “I should kill Octavia for giving him drums.”

  “Mommy,” Maggie said at her elbow, startling her. “Don’t kill Aunt Tavey.” Her blue eyes were rounded and she held her beloved pom poms.

  Linda smiled. “I was only kidding, sweetie. I’d never do anything to hurt Aunt Tavey.” She pulled her close for a snuggle. “I’m just nursing a little headache.”

  “Jarrod is a really bad drummer,” Maggie said earnestly. “Even Max thinks so.”

  From a blanket on the floor Max whined, then pawed at his ears.

  “Your brother will get better at the drums.” A spectacular crash of cymbals reached them. “Hopefully.”

  Max crawled under the blanket.

  “Maybe we can soundproof Jarrod’s room with all the leftover Kleenex,” Maggie suggested.

  Linda laughed. “Good idea.” Half a pallet remained in the garage, contest winnings for writing a greeting card verse to make people cry. Someday soon people all over would receive a card with the words she’d written printed over clouds, leaves, sand, or water and would think it was so… pointless.

  “When will Aunt Tavey be home?”

  “Soon. She had to return some clothes she bought at the mall.”

  “They didn’t fit?”

  Linda considered the regrettable trench coats and fedoras. “Something like that.”

  “Can I use your headphones and watch a movie?”

  “Yes, you may. But no snacking—Aunt Tavey is bringing home pizza for dinner.”

  “Hurray for pepperoni!” Maggie cheered as she ran away, shaking the pom poms.

  Linda smiled to herself, glad to see one of her children happy. At the urging of Jarrod’s school counselor, she’d taken him to see a grief therapist. But from the way Jarrod was abusing the drum set, it was clear he was still working out his anger over Sullivan’s death. She bit back sudden tears. She had no father figure to offer him—Sullivan’s father had died before they’d met and her own father was… lacking.

  Oakley’s face floated into her mind. He’d stepped in when Jarrod had gotten into a fight at school, and he’d let her know he was available if she needed anything.

  But she didn’t want to go there… she was too raw, too vulnerable. She needed to stand on her own two feet.

  The door leading to the garage burst open and Octavia appeared. “What is that godawful racket?”

  “Jarrod playing your gift. Again, thank you for that.”

  Her sister held up a shopping bag that looked suspiciously full. “Wait until you see what I bought us!”

  “I thought you were returning everything. We’re all on a budget, remember?”

  Octavia gave a dismissive wave. “I made an exchange.”

  “Sometime we need to talk about the basics of money coming in and money going out.”

  “I got us wigs!” She held up one in each hand, one short and blond, one long and brunette.

  Linda stared. “Why?”

  “For surveillance, silly. Let’s try them on.”

  Linda wasn’t in the mood, but Octavia’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Okay.”

  Standing in front of the foyer mirror, they tugged on the wigs—she the dark one, Octavia the light one—and stuffed their own hair out of sight. Linda laughed at their reflection. “Wow, you’re right. We’re almost unrecognizable.”

  “I got us fake glasses, too, and ball caps. I thought we could keep them in a bag in the van in case we need them.”

  “I could see where they might come in handy,” Linda conceded.

  “And…” Octavia reached into a smaller bag and removed a box. “New business cards!” She opened the lid and removed one, then handed it over.

  “Two Guys Detective Agency,” Linda read. “Specializing in missing persons, domestic surveillance, and criminal investigation.” She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Self-fulfilling prophecy,” Octavia insisted. “Besides, we found Richard and he was missing.”

  The agency address and phone number was listed at the bottom of the card, along with a slogan. “Even Victoria can’t keep a secret from us,” Linda read, then smirked.

  “Clever, huh?”

  “You didn’t put our names on the card.”

  “Right.” Octavia pressed her lips together. “I thought it might be best if customers think we’re actually guys, at least at first.”

  Linda worked her mouth back and forth. “I don’t like it… but I get it.”

  The chime of the doorbell sounded, barely audible above the din coming from Jarrod’s room. Linda put her eye to the peephole and bit back a groan. “It’s my neighbor Nan.”

  Octavia grunted. “The fat one?”

  “Be nice—she has a lot of sway in this neighborhood. Would you mind asking Jarrod to take five?”

  “Sure.”

  After Octavia disappeared down the hall, Linda worked up a smile, then swung open the door.

  Nan Boyd stood on the stoop wearing a smug expression.

  “Hi, Nan.”

  The woman squinted. “Linda? Is that you?”

  With a start she realized she still wore the wig. She laughed and reached up self-consciously to pull it off and finger-comb her hair. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Is something kinky going on over here?”

  “Er, no. It’s… never mind. What can I do for you, Nan?”

  “I’ve come on official homeowner association business.” She handed over a sheet of paper. “You have the wrong kind of mulch, and you have thirty days to correct the problem.”

  Linda frowned. “A friend has been helping me with the yard until Jarrod is old enough to mow.”

  “Bald-headed, looks like a thug?”

  Tamping down her irritation, Linda nodded. “His name is Stone Calvert—he occasionally works for—” She stopped, then wet her lips. “I mean, worked for Sullivan.” She gestured to her newly planted annuals. “I think he did a great job.”

  “It’s pine straw mulch,” Nan said with thinly veiled disgust. “Section 8b of the HOA bylaws clearly stipulates you must use pine bark nuggets.”

  “I didn’t realize,” Linda murmured. “Sullivan always took care of the yard.”

  “If you could call it that,” Nan said flatly. She peeked around the doorway. “He left lots of projects undone inside and out, didn’t he?”