Mom and I decided to keep our relationship on a superficial yet loving level. She didn't ask questions about my personal life, nor did I offer up any answers unprompted. Dad, on the other hand, would have drawn his own PFLAG posters to march in a gay pride parade if he'd felt it would bring us even closer. The bottom line was, however, that I loved them both. And to see their happy faces at my surprise visit dispelled any issues I had with the depth of my relationship with my mother.

After the initial flurry of kisses and hugs and updates on all of our activities, we piled into my parents' Roadtrek motor home, which they'd purchased for a cross-country excursion that never happened, and drove to the nearest Olive Garden for an early lunch. Over pasta, garlic sticks, and the famous bottomless salad, my mother asked about Laurette's wedding. She had heard through my sister in Maine that someone had died at the reception and she was champing at the bit to hear the details.

"He was a chef. He worked for some kind of mobster based out of Miami. Javier Martinez."

"I've seen that guy on the news," Dad said. "Feds have been trying to nail him for years," he added gleefully, thrilled to be discussing something other than which restaurant chain they were going to target for an early-bird special later. "You think Laurette's husband poisoned him?"

"I don't have any proof of that, but I've got a gut feeling he's involved somehow."

"Motive?" Dad could barely contain himself. When I became embroiled in the murder of former child star Willard Ray Hornsby last year, my notoriety reached new heights. My Dad, a huge fan of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, reveled in my involvement. He was a closet detective and an avid reader of mystery novels. He yearned to discuss the fine points of police work with Charlie whenever he could corner him in a room, and now that I was this amateur sleuth who'd cracked a real case, he found it harder and harder to suppress his own desire to be the next Lieutenant Columbo.

My mother wasn't very tolerant of her husband's fascination with murder. She preferred lighter topics such as the latest movie releases and what kind of salary I was pulling down for this small independent film shoot in Miami. Even though her time in show business was peripheral and now a distant memory, Priscilla Jarvis loved talking money.

"Just give me a hint. Is it at least five figures?"

"It's not about the money, Mom," I said defensively. "Sometimes it's about the art."

"I thought you said it was a cheap horror movie," she said, her eyes raised with suspicion like most mothers who are on the brink of catching their child in a lie.

"That's right. And sometimes it's not about the art, it's about just working on something. The director is really hot right now, and if I do well, he could use me again when he gets his first big job at a studio. This could be an amazing opportunity."

"What does Charlie think?" Dad asked innocently.

I should have at that point confessed that my relationship was teetering on the edge of extinction, and that I hadn't been able to reach him by phone from the moment I arrived in Florida, and that I feared he was banging a judge, but instead, I popped the last garlic bread stick into my mouth and, between chews, replied, "He thinks it's great."

After a brief tussle over who was going to pay the whopping twenty-two-dollar bill, we piled back into the Roadtrek, and drove north toward the senior center where my parents square danced every afternoon at one o'clock sharp. My father pulled off Highway 111 and zipped along a narrow back road, the motor home taking up most of the pavement. I prayed we wouldn't collide with a car coming from the opposite direction.

Gripping the wheel, Dad glanced back at Mom and me as we sat at the tiny kitchen table booth in the back of the vehicle. "So, you want to know what I think?"

"No," Mom said emphatically. But Dad was years beyond listening to her.

"I think Juan Carlos has somehow crossed this gangster Martinez, and Martinez sent this Teboe fella to the wedding to rub out Juan Carlos. But before he had the chance, Juan Carlos spiked his drink with a fast-acting poison. How does that sound?"

My mother rolled her eyes, and jabbed a finger at Dad. "Keep your eyes on the road!"

Dad grimaced, and then swiveled back around.

"I swear he's going to get us killed someday. If it's not from poking his nose where it doesn't belong, it'll be from his driving," she said.

Dad sat quietly in the RV's captain's seat. He desperately wanted a response to his theory, but he didn't want to ask me for fear of another tongue-lashing from his wife.

"Sounds like a reasonable scenario, Dad. Except for the fact that the poison was something called monkshead. Very rare and not indigenous to California. Someone had to bring it to the wedding with the intent of using it. It was pretty clear Juan Carlos wasn't expecting Austin Teboe to show up."

"Damn. I thought I had the case wrapped up." He thought some more. "How about this? You said Juan Carlos is cheating on Laurette. What if she found out and was wild with fury, and decided to take him out at the wedding. But instead, she poisoned Teboe by accident-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Clyde. Shut up! You don't know what you're talking about! Laurette is not a murderer!" my mother screamed, whacking him on the back of his head with her crossword puzzle book.

"They say it's always the least likely suspect," he said softly.

"Well, then you might as well accuse Jarrod. Or what about me? I was down here in Florida with you. Thousands of miles away from the wedding. That makes me the least likely, wouldn't you say?" She was mocking him now, and he hated it.

I was about to intervene when I noticed a black Lincoln Town Car behind us. I left my mother at the table and walked up to sit next to Dad. I casually glanced out the side-view mirror for a better look. It was the two linebackers I had seen earlier scouting out the Sand Drift Motel. And they were closing in on us.

Chapter 16.

"I don't want anyone to panic," I said quietly and evenly. "Don't turn around."

"What?" my mother said, spinning her head around faster than Linda Blair in The Exorcist. "Is it the police? How fast are you going, Clyde?"

"Jesus, Mom, what did I just say?"

"What is it, son?" Dad asked, an excited lilt in his voice.

"We're being tailed."

My mother's face fell.

Dad's eyes danced with glee as he tightened his grip on the wheel and broke out into a wide smile. "Want me to outrun 'em?"

"For crying out loud, Clyde, we're in an RV!" my mother wailed before grabbing my shirtsleeve in desperation. "Do they have guns, Jarrod? Are they going to shoot us?"

"I don't know," I said. "I have no idea who they are."

"Then that settles it," said Clyde Jarvis, former Navy captain and hero of the high seas. "They're going to eat my dust!"

And with that, Dad slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

As the Roadtrek shot forward, the sudden jolt sent my mother and me flying to the back of the RV, and we both landed on the plush plaid comforter decorating the queen-size bed just off the narrow kitchen area. After untangling our limbs, I glanced out the back window to see the Town Car speeding to catch up with us.

I studied the license number and committed it to memory as my mother grabbed the wood-trimmed dining table for support, and hoisted herself forward toward her husband.

"For God's sake, Clyde, slow down before you get us all killed!"

Ignoring his wife's pleas, my dad could barely suppress his euphoria over his first experience with a real-live car chase. "Those fuckers still on my ass, son?"

I wasn't used to hearing my dad swear. He was usually such a gentleman, but the adrenaline of the moment was turning him into his favorite macho movie star, Clint Eastwood. Dad was suddenly in his own Dirty Harry movie and loving every minute of it.

"Still there, Dad," I said.

Dad jerked the wheel, and the Roadtrek screeched into a sharp turn off the paved road. My mother and I collided, and fell to the floor as dishes and glasses from the cupboards rained down on us, smashing and shattering all around us.

"Clyde, my Fiestaware!"

But Dad had tuned her out, and was intently steering the RV down a narrow dirt path through a wooded area. The vehicle shook and rattled as it plowed over the bumpy terrain and managed to drown out my mother's own colorful language.

I grabbed the steel handle on the utensil drawer and used it to regain my balance and climb to my feet. But Dad threw us into another sharp turn, and the drawer flew completely out of the cupboard. A hail of forks, knives, and spoons fell clattering to the floor, much to my mother's horror.

Dad checked on us through the rearview mirror to make sure we weren't bleeding or unconscious. Then, with another gleeful smile breaking out on his face, he gripped the wheel of the RV tighter and barreled forward through the woods.

"Dad, where are we going?"

"Don't worry, son. I know these roads like my own backyard. Those ass wipes won't be able to keep up with us for long!"

The Town Car had fallen a bit behind but we were still in its sights. How we were going to lose them was a big question mark in my mind.

My mother was on her knees, carefully picking up the broken shards of her dinner plates and silently cursing my father.

We broke through a thicket of trees, and hit a gravel road that stretched across an empty field. In the middle were some train tracks. And a red light in front flashed at us to stop. But we didn't.

"Dad, I think you better slow down."

"Clyde, a train's coming," my mother said, her voice trembling, knowing in her heart he had no intention of stopping. After thirty-five years of marriage, she had developed an instinct.

A train approached from the east, clocking in at close to sixty miles an hour. The Town Car didn't see it. Dad slammed down on the accelerator until his foot pressed against the floor. We hurtled onward, and careened over the tracks just as the black-and-white-striped guard pole came down fast within an inch of our taillight.

I looked out the back window to see the two goons in the Town Car erupt in panic. As the driver hit the brakes, the car spun to the right, its passenger side door crashing into the metal guard pole. The mile-long Amtrak train zipped by, serving as a wall to separate us, and ensuring our escape.

Dad let up on the accelerator and, with a big, broad grin on his face, turned around and said, "Everybody okay back there?"

My mother was so filled with fury, she couldn't even open her mouth to yell at him.

I, on the other hand, was duly impressed. "Nice going, Dad. Thanks," I said.

"No problem, son." He tried to stay cool, but he couldn't stop beaming. The guy was proud of himself for making short work of the bad guys.

My cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Charlie. Finally. I hit the talk button, and sounding a bit too much like my mother for comfort, I said, "Where the hell have you been?"

Charlie's voice was calm. "Been working on a new case. I haven't been home much."

"I've been trying to call you. You're never home."

"I've been working a stakeout. It's been brutal," he said, and then after a long pause, added, "Isis has been nice enough to come over and walk Snickers while I've been at work."

Uh-oh. Isis was a talker and I knew what was coming next. "How come you didn't tell me you saw Wendell Butterworth again at Costco?"

"I tried, but I couldn't reach you."

"You could have called me at the precinct and left a message. I can't protect you from that psycho if you keep things from me."

"Well, I'm thousands of miles away from him now, so it's a moot point."

"I hate when you get like this. You don't want to face the fact that this guy is stalking you again, so you slip into a state of denial."

He was looking for a fight. He was still angry with me. I had two choices. Engage or retreat. It was better to retreat. At least for now. "You're right. I'm sorry."

He wasn't used to me backing down so quickly. But if we lapsed into a fight, then I wouldn't have been able to sweet-talk him into securing me some information.

"So I was wondering if you could run a license plate for me," I said.

"Why? What's going on down there?"

"Oh, it's nothing, really. Just a car I've spotted a couple of times while I've been out. I just want to make sure Wendell didn't find out I'm in Florida and follow me here."

My mother's ears perked up at the mention of Wendell. I had tried to keep Wendell's recent parole under wraps for fear they would be sick with worry.

"He's out?" she said, her voice tense.

I nodded, and then cupped the phone with the palm of my hand. "Yes, but it's nothing to worry about."

I took my hand away and said into the phone, "Florida plate. CASA CON 6."

"Hold on," Charlie said. "I'll run it through the computer."

While I waited, my mother stopped picking up her broken Fiestaware and hovered over me with a worried look on her face.

"When was he released?" she said.

"A few weeks ago," I said as nonchalantly as possible.

"You see him skulking around any?" my Dad asked, glancing through the rearview mirror as we barreled back toward my parents' house on the Sebastian River.

"Oh no," I lied. "He knows to keep his distance."

"I should hope so," my mother said.

"I'm just playing it safe," I said.

"I got a good look at those goons in the Town Car," my dad said. "Neither one looked anything like that creep Butterworth."

I instantly clamped my hand back over the phone's mouthpiece and prayed Charlie didn't hear.

"But you never know. He may have made some friends in prison," Dad said.

My mother shuddered at the suggestion.

Dad was still in Clint Eastwood mode. "I'll mow those fuckers down if they dare try anything."

"I'm probably just being paranoid," I said.

Charlie came back on the line. "Car's registered to a building contracting company in Fort Lauderdale. Casa Construction. It's one of twelve company cars."

"Why would somebody from a construction company chase us?"