Code Name: Nanny (SEAL and Code Name #5)(43)
Summer locked the SUV and followed with Sophy, checking out the area for idling cars, loitering workers, or any other potential threats. Her route brought her past the man in the Autobody uniform, who made a rude gesture in Tracey’s direction, then stalked back to the BMW.
Because Cara had insisted the girls’ routine stay as normal as possible, Summer hung back unobtrusively amid the chattering crowd flowing down the hall. Sophy had a violin lesson first thing, and Summer watched Audra escort her sister to the music room, where Sophy was greeted by her teacher. Then Audra continued up the stairs, headed for the language wing.
After making sure Audra entered Intermediate Spanish, Summer circled back to the front steps, pleased to see a plainclothes security guard in position. The woman would make periodic spot checks on both girls, Summer knew.
She had argued for even more supervision, but no officers could be spared without clear evidence of intended harm. That left Summer on her own, which was generally the way she preferred to work, anyway.
She checked her watch, then trotted down the steps. There was still time for a slow circuit of the school grounds before she returned to the house.
A delivery truck was backing toward the garage when Summer turned the corner in front of the O’Connor house. The driver slammed on his brakes, cursing at a snappy silver BMW that raced along the driveway and cut around him on the right.
“You got a death wish or something, moron?”
The driver of the BMW—Tony’s Autobody again, Summer noted—fishtailed hard, then shot out of the car. In seconds the two men were circling and trading insults that would have made a mobster’s hair curl.
After more arguing, the Autobody poster boy waved his papers in the air and pointed toward the house.
The truck driver swung up his arms. “Not here. Can’t you read? This is 1221, not 1251.” The trucker gave an angry wave at the neat brass letters on the front porch. “Now get lost, because you’re costing me time, which I ain’t got any extra of.”
The repairman slouched to the car, ground into gear, and raced back to the road, making a rude gesture.
Headed to Tracey’s house, Summer concluded. Given his number-reading abilities, she didn’t place much confidence in how long the repaired BMW would hold up.
She looked up to see Gabe leaning against her window, watching the BMW.
“Whole lot of activity for a Friday morning. Tony’s Autobody?”
“Wrong house. He was returning the car to Tracey Van Doren’s house.”
“I thought the car looked familiar. Everything quiet at school?”
Summer nodded, gathering her purse and Liberace’s cage. “I’d like to go over the plans for Mexico before I leave to pick up the girls.” Summer looked up the driveway as the back door opened. A tall woman in a pink Chanel suit was talking with Imelda. “Who’s that?”
“Amanda Winslow, Tate’s mother. She charmed most of Washington in her day, and she still makes heads turn. I think she came by to drop off a silver urn and a painted platter for Cara, but it might have been a painted urn and a silver platter. She and Patrick were arguing about how to make the perfect sushi roll, the last I heard.”
Summer had to admit that Tate’s mother was striking. Her laugh was infectious as it drifted over the lawn. “Any strife there?”
“The mother-in-law part, you mean? Not a whiff. Her son’s in love and she supports him two hundred percent. She says Cara and the girls are the best thing that ever happened to him.” Gabe looked at Summer and shook his head. “Relax, will you?”
“I must have missed that part of the job description,” she said flatly. “Can we go over those plans now?”
Amanda Winslow turned as a short man in a denim chef’s jacket and a red beret came to the back door, accompanied by Imelda.
“That’s Cara’s chef, I take it?”
“Patrick, the wizard with pastry.”
The senator’s mother appeared to be issuing a string of orders, which the chef listened to carefully, but he stopped nodding when the truck driver jumped down and began to unload produce boxes.
“But I need the organic,” the chef said anxiously. “I ordered raspberries and basil.”
The driver shrugged. “I got rounds to finish, Rodney. I can’t stand here all day yapping.”
“It’s Patrick, not Rodney. And there must be a mistake. I didn’t order these things.”
The driver leaned closer and waved his clipboard. “Fratelli and Sons don’t make mistakes, understand?”
“But—”
“Listen, Rodney, I need a signature, and one way or another, I’m gonna get it. You see what I’m saying?” Scowling, the driver headed back behind the truck while the chef stared glumly at the clipboard.
Gabe rubbed his jaw. “The man is a genius with pastry dough, but hopeless with pressure, I’m afraid.”
“Why doesn’t he order from someone else?”
“It’s hard to find good suppliers. In San Francisco, he could pick and choose, but not here.” Gabe rolled his shoulders. “I’d better go help him with those potato sacks. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Summer followed Gabe to the garage, where the young chef was struggling with a fifty-pound bag of russet potatoes, which he dropped when he saw Gabe and Summer.