Love Spell Read Free Page B

soon as she got her first paycheck. It rang again immediately. She flipped the ringer to “off.” Grabbing the keyboard, she started hammering in search criteria for free, local advertising. Eventually voicemail picked up.
    “Hi,” she heard that tinny, grating recording of her voice say. “You’ve reached Sullivan and Self Private Investigators, where we never fail to find what you’re looking for. I’m unavailable to take your call at the moment. Please leave your name, a detailed message, and a phone number I can reach you at, and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Have an excellent day!”
    The machine beeped, and Daryl’s unfortunately familiar voice blared from the speaker. “Yo, Lindz! Ya get my card? Yeah, I heard about your surgery. Figured you’d like it.”
    “It was a regular dental checkup, moron,” Lindsay muttered to herself.
    “I made it myself,” the man added. “Well, Mom helped with the spelling, but I put the whole thing together. I even used that recycled stuff you’re always talking about.
    “Anyway, I’ll be there in a bit. You stiffed me for our last two dates. I’m still takin’ you to dinner. Tomorrow. My place. Mom’s making her lasagna. I’ll have her come getcha sometime. Love ya, hot stuff! Ciao!”
    Lindsay nursed a new headache. Daryl Duncan was quite possibly the stupidest man on the planet. She wondered what stroke of bad karma had earned her his affection. It was one thing to have the wealthy, handsome John Francis offer to take you to dinner—that was at least flattering, even if he was an obvious liar and a two-timer. But Daryl? Lindsay was uncertain whether she could have penetrated his skull with a diamond-bit drill. Oh, she’d tried turning him down nicely the first five times he’d asked her out. After that, she’d grown increasingly blunt. That failed too. Ignoring him sometimes worked, but Daryl had this disturbing habit of showing up at the most unexpected of places and times. Lindsay grabbed her pad of sticky notes and jotted a reminder to increase her counter-stalking defenses.
    Why wouldn’t men leave her alone? Except as clients, of course. She could handle men—especially rich, handsome ones—paying her to do their snooping for them. But why did they all keep asking her out ? She had vowed she wouldn’t bother them . Couldn’t they extend her the same courtesy? Was it really that hard to avoid commenting on her eyes or her legs or her… never mind. She was a professional doing professional work. She was not some piece of meat to be ogled, thank you very much.
    She deleted the voicemail as soon as it ended, and then went back to perusing her e-mails. Spam. More reminders. E-mail from Mom about how worried she was about her daughter. Message from an old high school girlfriend. Something about the Nevada State Fair. She looked askance at that, but then remembered she’d been browsing sites about Las Vegas for someone who almost pretended to become a client. Nothing of real note. She deleted the spam, read the message from the girlfriend, opened the one from Mom just to trigger the “message read” receipt on Mom’s e-mail, and kept the one about the fair for no real reason at all. When she finished she flipped through her list of past “almost clients.” If no one would come to her, she would have to go to them.
    “Ashworth, Beverly,” the first card read. Mrs. Ashworth had called her three months back, inquiring whether Lindsay would help find her lost dog. At the time, it seemed like a silly request—Lindsay was not some low-class pet detective. The older woman had accepted Lindsay’s courteous explanation as to why she couldn’t take the case, but seemed disappointed all the same. Unbidden, the stack of bills from the morning’s mail came to mind. Maybe Old Lady Ashworth’s prize Pomeranian was still alone and afraid somewhere? She dialed the number, and waited until a kind, elderly voice came on the line.
    “Hello, Mrs.