Excerpt of Family Jewels by Norah Wilson, Heather Doherty

"What's a seven–letter word for fire–rising bird?" Mrs. Presley asked from the back seat.

"Phoenix, Mrs. P." Dylan answered, not missing a beat.

But I could have gotten that one. Not that it was a competition between Dylan and me. Much. Not that we were keeping score. Out loud.

"OE or EO for phoenix?" asked Mrs. Presley.

"OE," I shouted. That should count for something.

Dylan gave me a grinning sideways glance.

I bit down on a grin of my own.

A few months ago when we worked the Weatherby case, we'd fallen into bed together, literally. Not that we'd had sex. Well, not sex sex. Still, there'd been a little tension between us for a while after that. We were getting back to normal now, though. Well, as normal as it got when your male apprentice–slash–assistant is smart, sexy, tall and handsome, incredibly good–smelling and funny. Oh, and young. Did I mention young? All of 29.

"And a six–letter word for highest point? Fourth letter's an M."

"Climax," I shouted, half turning in the seat and oh–so–proud of myself.

"No," she said. "No, starts with an S...."

"No fair. You didn't say—"

"Summit!" Dylan didn't turn in the seat. Which was good considering he was driving at the moment. He did, however, cast me a wicked grin. "But I like your word, too."

"Try this one." The seat squeaked as Mrs. P shifted her position.

I heard the tapping of the pencil on the seat behind us. This time, I'd be ready. Dylan tightened his hands on the steering wheel beside me.

"Eight letters. Close and often passionate relationship...."

"Cybersex!"

Dylan snorted a laugh. "Could it be intimate, Mrs. P?" he said.

She looked down at the paper. "Why, yes ... yes it could be intimate. Thanks, kids. I think I'm good for now."

"Anytime, Mrs. P."

For the record, I liked my answer better.

I sank back in my seat. The moment silence prevailed again, my mind drifted right back to that fateful fax from Deputy Almond that started this odyssey.

The fax had come in late yesterday afternoon, and we'd left early this morning, grabbing a drive–thru breakfast and supersizing our coffees. We'd swung by the office and picked up all the fancy new PI equipment we might need. Then we'd picked up Mrs. Jane Presley.

Of course, driving wasn't my first choice. I'd wanted to jump on the first flight. But Dylan, in that damnable voice of reason of his, had persuaded me we'd be better off driving. Mother wasn't in custody, so we didn't have to be in a hair–on–fire hurry. Plus it would give me the chance to return my mother's BMW, or Bimmer, as she called it. And as I, too, quickly learned to call it. She refused to let me drive the thing until I stopped calling it a Beemer, which apparently is reserved for BMW motorcycles.

Not that I was aching for a chance to lose the luxury ride, which had fallen into my possession the last time mother had been to Marport City. She'd hooked up with Frankie Morrell and decided to return to Florida with him, leaving me the use of the car.

At this point I should say I never liked Frankie. And I liked him even less now. Because Frankie was the one who'd gone missing — the one the police suspected Mother of ... um ... disappearing. (The letter hadn't said murder, but I could read between the lines.)

Anyway, Dylan had pointed out that: a) we needed our equipment, which would be easier to transport by car; b) we'd need wheels in Florida anyway; and c) we needed the think time.

He'd been right, of course.

So how'd we gather up Mrs. P? All too easily.