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“Nope.”
"And wait, Hope's grandpa?" I asked, eyebrows raised in surprise as I set aside my crochet project and stood. "Why on earth would the treasure thief give it tohim?”
"Because he was a locksmith," Tucker explained, and when I only stared blankly at him, his lips twitched. "Everyone in their circle knew he was just as good at keeping people out of safes as he was at helping them into them. Now that the old man is gone, my client wants his treasure back.”
“And he hired you to get it for him?"
“Yep.”
I took another sip of my coffee, pondering this new information while the warm liquid settled the buzzing of excitement that wound through me. It was like somethingstraight out of an adventure novel, and being part of such a mystery was beyond thrilling.
Though, Hope’s involvement was a bit of a damper. Someone had gotten shot in her yard because of this treasure. It could’ve been her.
"Alright," I said, standing awkwardly—and with heaps of determination—with my mug and yarn. “Let’s get in there and see what we can see. But I have a feelin’ you’re not gonna find a treasure chest in Hope’s basement. This story sounds more than a little far-fetched.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Worse or weirder?” I asked.
“Both. I’ve had cases that started out much weirder than this one and turned out to be completely true.”
“Like what?” I asked.
He gestured to the door. “Thought we were finally going inside.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you had a point last night about me headin’ into a dark and creepy basement with a man I don’t even know. Maybe I’ve got you all wrong. Can’t blame a girl for wantin’ to get to know you a bit before puttin’ herself in danger, right?”
“Oh, right, so now you’re concerned about putting yourself in danger,” Tucker said, a hint of sarcasm in his tone as his gaze remained locked on mine.
I sat again, giving him a pointed look. “Tell me about a strange case.”
He sighed, his expression a mixture of impatience and reluctant amusement. “We really don’t have time for this.”
“You’re not very easy to get to know. Doesn’t bode well for my fears.”
“Wait, you have enough sense to fear something?”
“Still bein’ evasive,” I shot back, wagging a finger at him. “Careful, I might start to fear you.”
Tucker stared at me for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as if he was weighing whether or not to indulge me. Finally, he caved. “Theft of a Marty.”
“Um… what?”
“A weird case,” he explained with a shrug. “We had to recover a Marty after someone stole it from the local grocery store.”
I couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that bubbled up. “And what in the Sam Hill is a Marty?”
“It’s a robot. Some grocery stores have them. They roll around and clean up messes in the aisles and some other random stuff.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like grocery store robots were just an everyday occurrence. My skepticism must have shown because his smirk grew a little more. “Apparently, a group of rich college kids decided they wanted one to clean their condo, so we recovered it and returned it to the store.”
I blinked, trying to wrap my head around this strange story. “And you’re sayin’ the grocery store hired y’all to do this recovery? Why not the police?”
“Oh, they filed a police report. But sometimes hiring a PI gets the job done a lot faster and with less paperwork than working with the local police.”
“Huh,” I murmured, eyeing him thoughtfully.
Tucker Black, P.I. didn’t seem like the type to joke, but this was still one of the most bizarre things I’d ever heard. Still, the way he said it—with that no-nonsense, gruff demeanor—made it all the more believable.
I shrugged, conceding with a small smile. “Well, I suppose if the grocery store trusts you to recover their fancy cleanin’ robot, I can trust you, too.”
