In Plain Sight by Lorena McCourtney Read Free Book Online Page A

bedroom and draped them over the line.
    I didn’t have a regular old rug beater like my mother always used, but I got out a broom and started whomping. Oh my, did the dust fly! Whomp, whomp, whomp. Even though the rugs had been vacuumed, whomping gets way down deep where vacuuming never penetrates. And there’s a satisfaction in whomping that mechanical vacuuming can never provide.
    I’d done the first rug and was starting on the second when I got that peculiar feeling you get, that prickle between your shoulder blades that tells you someone is watching.
    The prickle spread to a tightening of my scalp. I paused, broom held upright. When you have Braxtons after you, a feeling of being watched is not good. In a best-case scenario, it means they have your whereabouts targeted. In a worst-case scenario, it means one of them is standing behind you ready to bash you with a 2x4 or put a bullet in your back.
    I sprinted through my limited options. Run for the door and lock it? Make a dash for the T-bird and floor the throttle? Drop to the ground and scuttle like a crab to the woodpile?
    No time for any of that. Not if my watcher was as close as my between-the-shoulder-blades radar warned.
    I took a firm grip on the broom handle and whirled.

6
    “I saw you from down on the trail. It’s a pleasure to see someone taking such a conscientious attitude toward her work. I haven’t seen anyone actually beating rugs since I was a little girl at my grandmother’s. Did Mrs. Harrington tell you to do this?”
    “No, I just thought it needed doing.”
    “That’s very commendable. I admire initiative and hard work.”
    I lowered the broom and stared in astonishment. The Mystery Woman, who had looked through me before, was now studying me with a faint hint of warmth in her ice-blue eyes. She wasn’t actually smiling, but she was speaking to me. In cordial tones.
    “Well, uh, thanks,” I said.
    “You’re Mrs. Harrington’s housekeeper?” At my blank look, she added with a certain impatience, “This is the Harrington house, isn’t it? DeeAnn Harrington, the bookkeeper.”
    “Yes, but—”
    “How much is she paying you?”
    I blinked at the blunt question. I could see now that she was somewhat older than I’d thought earlier. At least midthirties.
    “Well, uh—”
    She waved a dismissive hand, apparently impatient with my stumbling. “My former housekeeper is no longer with me, and I’m looking for a replacement. I believe you would be suitable. Not many housekeepers are industrious and dedicated enough to do what you’re doing here. I can offer you more than the Harringtons are paying,” she stated, although I’d still given no indication of what my position as the “Harrington’s housekeeper” paid.
    “You’re offering me a job?” I was astonished on several counts, not the least of which was the nerve I felt it took to snatch a housekeeper out from under a current employer’s nose. Not that I was an employee, but she thought I was.
    “Five hours a day, 9:00 to 2:00, perhaps a little longer if I need you. Six days a week, Sundays off. The usual housekeeping duties, plus you’ll prepare my midday meal at 11:30, which I take as the main meal of the day. Eleven dollars an hour. Cash. No health insurance or other benefits.”
    Having never been a hired housekeeper, nor been in the position to employ one, I had no idea if this amount was paltry or exorbitant. “Don’t you want references?”
    “My last housekeeper had excellent references. References can be deceiving. I’ve decided to trust my instincts. I have confidence that a person who beats rugs will do a thorough job in other areas of housekeeping.”
    “I see.”
    “You’re rather older than I had in mind …”
    She looked me up and down, as if I were a used refrigerator with a bad dent in the door. But if she thought I was going to supply my age, she was mistaken. Once I arrived at Social Security eligibility, I’d decided further details were