Free Nursing a Grudge is Murder (A Maternal Instincts Mystery) by Diana Orgain Page A

review the restaurant again and you had her followed,” I said.
    “Followed? What? No!”
    Vicente ran a hand through his hair. “Ms. Harrington claims my client had her followed? What else does she allege?”
    “The fact that she was followed is not an allegation. It's a fact. I saw the man following her myself.”
    Brent shook his head. “No, that's ridiculous. I admit to one call. I asked her to be my guest at the restaurant and to give me and my staff another shot. But she refused. She babbled something about integrity. Imagine that. She’s a stupid girl with a pen who’d like to cut down a hard-working entrepreneur. She thinks she has some sort of right to post negative reviews. As if that has anything to do with integrity."
    The sound of gravel crunching came from the driveway again, a car’s headlights flashed along the front window. Suddenly there was a loud crash followed by shattering of glass.
    Vicente jumped. “My bike!” he shouted.
    Brent covered his eyes with his palm. “Shit. The wife's home and she just ran over your Harley. Thank God you weren't on it.”
    The three of us immediately exited out the front door and joined Brent’s wife on the driveway.
    She had a helmet of perfectly coiffed blonde hair. She was screaming in hysterics. But neither her screaming nor the drizzly wet weather had any effect on it; her hair didn’t budge at all.
    “Holy night! What is a motorcycle doing parked there?” she demanded.
    “It isn’t parked there anymore,” Brent said.
    “I didn’t see it!” she screamed.
    “Apparently not,” Brent replied.
    V.D. knelt beside his bike as if in mourning.
    I watched them silently. The dented siding on the garage making sense; this was not Mrs. Miles’ first fender bender.
    Brent embraced his wife, and her hysterical shrieking subsided.
    She asked, “When did you get a bike?”
    “It isn’t mine, it’s—”
    “Mine.” V.D. stood up cradling a bike part that fallen off in his hands.
    Brent’s wife pulled away from Brent and stepped toward V.D. “What in the name of all that is holy is it doing parked in my driveway?” she yelled.
    V.D. stepped back, suddenly looking surprised. “Oh. I—”
    “Now honey. Let’s not get upset. What’s important is that you’re all right,” Brent said.
    She took a deep breath and patted her helmet hair, which of course hadn't moved an inch.
    “That's right, dear. Thank you.”
    Brent wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist. “Let's go inside. I don’t want you to catch cold.”
    We moved inside. First Brent ushered in his wife, then came me, followed by V.D. and finally Brent.
    Brent thumped V.D. on the back and said, “Please don’t worry. We have insurance.”
    We found our places back in the living room, where Brent properly introduced his wife, Lillian.
    She seemed to recoil when Brent told her I was a private investigator and that I was here to ask questions about Jill and their relationship—although no greater than the displeasure she had demonstrated to V.D. about his parking in the driveway. After the introductions were complete, she capped everything by saying to Vicente, "If you're ever here again, don’t park in my driveway.”
    With that she stormed out of the room.
    Brett pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Sorry, folks, Lillian’s recently had some news that is distressing her greatly. Please don't be offended. Vicente, of course I’ll take care of the bike.”
    Vicente nodded, but his jaw was clenched and I noticed his full lips were pursed slightly.
    I stood. “Mr. Miles, I’m afraid I need to cut our meeting short. If you will kindly give me the name and number of the gentleman who was following Jill I'll be sure to speak with him.”
    Brent stared at me. “I told you I had nothing to do with that.”
    V.D. said, “Nice try.”
    I feigned confusion. “Oh, right. Sorry. With all the excitement around here I forgot. So tell me, when is the last time you saw Jill?”
    “I haven't seen