Page 47 of Fiona and the Fixer

My eyes drifted to the pickle shop. What were they talking about that was going to bring in all that money? I had a pretty good idea, but no proof. Not with a stupid juice store next door ruining my eavesdropping.

I stood, pounded the rest of my coffee, then tossed the cup in a nearby trash can. It was time to go in and check things out.

As I entered the pickle shop, a little bell above the door jingled. The tangy scent of vinegar was in the air which made my nose twitch.

The walls were the original brick, the floor covered in large black and white tiles. There were three small tables, two chairs at each. The counter was along the back. Green formica. A cash register. Beside the pickle penis guy on a chalkboard high on the back wall was listed their offerings. Or offering.

Pickles. Dill. Sweet. Relish. That was it.

No one was in store, no clerk behind the counter. I didn’t need to have strong hearing to pick up that someonewas moving something heavy somewhere in the back. Something sliding across the floor, a few thumps and a bunch of muttered cursing.

“Hello!” I called.

After a few seconds, a man came from the back, and I pasted on my biggest smile. Dark eyes. Balding, a previously busted nose. Needed a shave because the gray sprinkled into the scruff on his doughy jaw made him look older than the thirty-something I suspected him to be. In dark pants, a white t-shirt and a leather jacket, he looked more like a used car salesman than a pickle store clerk.

“Hi there!” I said, pulling out my inner Girl Scout enthusiasm. I even gave him a finger wave. “I wanted to get a sandwich.”

“We don’t sell sandwiches.”

I let my smile slip to show my disappointment. And because it got to be too much to keep in place. I didn’t know how pageant queens could do it.

“Oh, my cousin MaryAnn’s karate instructor said this was the best place to get a turkey on rye.” I winked at him. “With pickles, of course.”

He looked at me like a mother dealing with kids who’ve already been told no and still pushed. “Look, lady, we don’t sell sandwiches.”

I blinked, trying to look confused. “Then you only sell pickles? Really?”

He pointed up, whether toward God or the menu board. “Only pickles.”

“Okay, what kinds? Cucumber? Carrot? Onions? Do you sell any of that probiotic kimchi? That’s a pickle, right?”

The guy stared at me like I’d sprouted a second head.

“We sell pickles. Green ones.”

“Huh, okay, well then I guess I’ll take six.” I raised my hand and twirled my finger into my hair. “Can I have half dill, half sweet. Oooh, do you have them like in New York City where they’re well done?”

He blinked at me some more. “We’re all out.”

“Of which kind?”

“All of them.”

“You don’t have any pickles left?”

He shrugged. “There was a rush on them earlier.”

I tapped my finger to my lip. “Huh. They must be really good.”

The entry door opened and closed but I didn’t give it much of my attention. What did, however, was an arm slinging around my shoulder.

“There you are, sweetheart,” a deep voice rumbled in my ear. “Thought I said to meet at the coffee shop.”

I stiffened and turned my head. Dax’s face was right there. I only had to lean in slightly and we’d be kissing. His blue eyes held mine.

His fingers squeezed my shoulder to get me over my staring.

I cleared my throat. “I had a hankering for that sandwich with the pickles I told you about, darling. But they don’t make sandwiches.” I fake pouted.

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