“So this . . . institution is funded by everyone?” David murmured, unable to get over the surprise.

 Jelly Bean nodded, and moved around the conference table in a slow stroll as he spoke. “Looks that way—we get the bulk of it from private donations and sources since we’re considered a non-profit organization for tax purposes; we’ve got a trickle that comes in grants from the federal government at the local level under the DOH since the majority of our employees are former federal employees with mental health issues. Another chunk of our funding comes from rewards for recovered property or captured felons, Some comes from charities that we’ve helped in the past, and some of it is from investments made from our original philanthropic source. All together, it makes for a smooth-flowing organization.”

“Impressive,” Catherine had to admit. “And I’ve been around some serious money-movers in my time. You must have some terrific accountants.”

“We do,” Jelly Bean murmured, “Big time. In any case, we’re doing all right when it comes to affording the best, and considering we’re never out of work, I think we’re in it for the long haul. But . . . it comes at a price. A pretty steep one at times.”

“Secrecy,” David offered in the little pause. Everyone looked at him and he smiled uncertainly back, but Mike TeeVee was the first to nod.

“Keep this up and you’ll have the whole box of Twinkies, Mr. Phillips. Exactly. The Candy Shop is above all else, a covert establishment, designed to stay out of the public view. That means that those of us who work here have to make certain sacrifices to keep it that way.”

“Such as?” Catherine asked quickly. The two men shot each other quick looks; Mike Teevee shrugged.

“A false identity and a cover life, for one. All of us have secret identities that we maintain. Mine’s running an electronics shop in DC. Jelly Bean here is a copy machine repairman, and Mr. Peppermint runs a bookstore. All mundane jobs that don’t require anyone to supervise us or hold us accountable for our time.”

“Do you really repair copiers?” David Phillips asked Jelly Bean, who gave a modest shrug.

“Yep. Took a six week course and read the manual updates that the various companies send out, so I’m legit.”

“Do we . . . get to pick our own?” Catherine murmured.

“Sure—we’ll give you an aptitude test and see what sorts of careers you’d be suited for that also fit our criteria. I’m pretty sure you’d do well in catering,” Mike TeeVee told her. “But that comes later, after you’ve had your chip implanted and your government files altered—“

“Whoa, back up the truck there, buddy—chip implanted?” Catherine balked. “Nobody said anything about keeping track of my migratory habits.”

“True—but then again, not a lot of people get offered the chance to work with us, so it’s balanced out by the risk. For what we ask of you—and believe me, the chip is a small issue—we do pay handsomely, and not just in monetary benefits,” Mike TeeVee intoned softly. “Still—if you want to take a chance that your body will be lost and your daughter will never know what happened to you—“

“No. Ohhh no, you don’t threaten me with my daughter,” Catherine growled, her shoulders tensing. “She is out of this, completely, you understand?”

“What makes you think that the rest of us don’t have people in our lives that we’re protecting?” Jelly Bean shot back. “Loved ones of our own? Don’t think you’re the only one who’s got family in the shadows, Ms. Willows. I love my grandparents every bit as much as you do your daughter. There is no way I can ever tell them about what I do, and at the same time, there’s no other job in the world that makes me feel as if I’m making a difference. The loss of a little personal freedom for their sake is something I’m willing to do.”

He turned away from Catherine and caught Mike TeeVee’s cynical look, not daring to make a face at the other man; the back of his neck still itched from the newly implanted chip.

Sara studied the computer screen intently. She’d hacked Mr. Peppermint’s code (much too easy—she’d chide him later about changing his password) and was currently looking at his financial records for the Book Hive. It was mildly interesting to see how he’d struggled to keep it on the barest margin of survival, and how since Maynard had been managing it, the profit margin had risen to nearly double.

It had been over an hour since she’d heard the elevator come down and the door to the shop rattle close. When she’d tried to summon the elevator down, nothing had happened. The power for it was off.

Clearly Mr. Peppermint had gone.

With his mother.

Leaving her, Sara, locked up and alone in the basement.

This Would Not Do, she decided quietly. She appreciated how he’d stood up to Miss Lollipop and The Shop on behalf of their love—that was the recent gesture in her mind that kept her anger from getting too hot—but honestly, this was ridiculous.

She reached down and petted the cat, who remained a warm, heavy, boneless lump in her lap. “I think it’s time to blow this popsicle stand, fellah.”

Reluctantly Sara lifted the cat from her lap and deposited him on the tabletop; he stretched his legs out, flexing his toes and looking slightly grumpy at being shifted. Sara gave him one last pet as she flicked the computer off and rose from her chair. “No fussing from you.”

Sara looked over at the half-open closet on the other side of the room. Earlier another cat had peeked out from it and disappeared again, giving her a suspicious look.

She made her way over and pulled the door open. There were stairs. Two flights later, and Sara was pushing her way through Mr. Peppermint’s shirts as she stepped out from his bedroom closet and into the loft.

The room had been . . . straightened. Not completely tidied, but little touches here and there that told her that someone else of feminine nature had smoothed the coverlet and picked up a few dishes. Sara growled a little and set about finding something to wear.

The trip to Mesa Mall loomed bleakly for Grissom, and he fought the urge to check the clock every few minutes. Part of him wanted to call Sara; explain everything; but he knew she didn’t have a phone on her.

No, she didn’t have much of anything on her at the moment but sleek, smooth skin and perfume . . .

Not a helpful thought, especially with his mother sitting next to him in the car, smiling brightly.

He hated himself at the moment, with a dark, melancholy streak. Miss Chocolate was going to kill him—if she ever spoke to him again. Grissom imagined her coming back to the Book Hive with a flame thrower and gleefully burning it down, laughing throatily as she did so.

Damn it, that was an arousing image, not helped by the little item in his pocket at the moment. He turned the car into the parking lot and found a space; parked and climbed out.

Still sort of hard.

Hard not to be when you have your girlfriend’s tiny black thong in your front pocket, scooped up from your mother’s sight and stuffed away at the last minute, he groaned to himself. A silky little nothing that’s been pressed up against your version of paradise--

//Do we need to get dinner first? You look sort of glazed, Gil--//

//Sorry. Thinking about . . . fire insurance.//

//Oh yes, more of that would be wise,// his mother signed rapidly. She took his arm and looked up at him, her eyes searching his face as they strode together into the mall.

It wasn’t crowded, but there were enough people milling about to make it interesting to navigate around the place. Grissom looped his arm through his mothers and tried to hurry her along, but she kept resisting and stopping to look in the shop windows. As if she had all the time in the world, he fretted.

Trying to relax, he stuck his hands in his pockets, and instantly regretted it.

Warm silk slid under his fingertips, conjuring up images of Miss Chocolate in full, throaty, glistening Naughty Mode, and his body responded to that siren call blatantly, right there in the middle of Mesa Mall.

Sweating, Grissom yanked his hand out and tugged on his jacket, trying to look nonchalant, a maneuver made all the more difficult by the aged mother on one arm and the Titan missile along his inseam. He dredged his mind for countering images, flicking through memories of decomps; a summer mucking out cattle stalls; particularly gross assignments with his uncle Herb, the plumber--

//Gil, you’re awfully warm. Are you feeling all right?// his mother asked after waving in his face to catch his attention. He gave her a smile, and watched her flinch at his sickly expression.

//I’m fine.//

//Are you sure? Are you getting to bed early enough? Not eating too much chocolate are you?//

That didn’t help as vivid, salaciously tinted memories poured into Grissom’s head, complete with THX sound system enhanced moans and sweet, sweet cries.

He could never have enough chocolate, damn it. Bed, table, front seat of the car, elevator, every berth on the Bohemian—Grissom had goals now, and those were only a few of the locations he’d wanted to conquer her on---

I’ve officially become a total pervert, Grissom realized dizzily. On the heels of that thought came another one. How did I get so lucky?

//I’ve got it under control. So where are we coming, er, going?// Grissom signed back, his fingers fumbling a bit. His mother looked at him for a moment longer, her suspicion and concern clear, then pointed to a shop a little further up the main walkway.

Grissom blinked at the name: For the Birds. His mother beamed.

//I found just the perfect piece for that far corner of the garden, Gil! Wait until you SEE it!// she tugged on his sleeve, urging him forward towards the shop.

It was a crowded little place, with bird houses and sun catchers and hummingbird feeders hanging from the ceiling, and little plaster displays of gnomes, spinners, garden signs, stones, and hedge borders everywhere. Grissom noted that although the items ranged from classic to kitsch, the prices were in one range: high. He shot his mother a suspicious look, thoughts of Miss Chocolate temporarily banished.

//Mom?//

The shopkeeper, a round little woman with her hair in a scraggly bun, beamed. “Oh yes, the lady who wanted the birdbath!”

Olivia nodded, and pointed to an object that was on the far side of the shop. Grissom blinked a little, startled by the unexpected beauty of the thing, and stepped closer to examine it.

The column of the birdbath was a fluted Greek column of white and gray marble, supporting a wide basin of matching white and gray marble, polished and sleek. The entire thing was free of any excess ornamentation except for a pair of fourteen inch white marble centaurs, male and female, who stood flank to rump, leaning back over themselves to kiss. The carving was exquisite, showing many lovely details that Grissom noted with a pulse of pleasure. The carver had made the manes flow, and revealed the underlying muscle along the male centaur’s body. The female had lean curves and a winsome expression as she kissed her companion, her arms reaching for his shoulders.

“A fairly nice piece if I do say so myself,”  the shopkeeper noted with pride. “My nephew does them. Anyway, your mother wanted this one, so we set it aside. Like it?”

“It’s . . . nice,” Grissom admitted, “and I do owe her a birthday present. How much?”

The price the shopkeeper quoted was on par with Miss Chocolate’s Astrabellas; Grissom winced a little but nodded gamely. His mother hugged him, and for the next few minutes Grissom felt a rare sense of joy in being able to make her happy.

She asked for so little, he mused, and in truth, he hadn’t spent much time with her lately . . .

Which reminded him exactly why again, and Grissom checked his watch. “So—how quickly can you have it delivered?”

The shopkeeper chuckled, as if this was a wonderful joke. “As soon as you pay for it and haul it out of here, sir. We don’t do deliveries I’m afraid, although we can wrap it for you.”

He grumbled, and fished in his pocket for his wallet.

Wrong pocket. Grissom quickly shifted for the other one.

It didn’t take long for Grissom to realize that marble lost a great deal of its charm when the reality of its weight became apparent. Although he wasn’t completely out of shape, the effort of carrying a marble birdbath, (estimated weight at about a seventy seven pounds, he guessed) the half mile from the shop to the car was enough to make him sweaty, out of breath, and convinced, dimly, that Miss Chocolate must have had a hand in picking out his mother’s birthday gift. It was just her sort of devious punishment, and by the ache in his back, arms and legs, he’d be feeling it for a while.

Matters weren’t helped by his mother’s concerned signing every few steps, and by the time they made it to the car, Olivia was convinced that her son was on the verge of a heart attack.

//Gil, I’m serious! You need to get more exercise!//

He wanted to sign back that he was lifting weights at the moment, but settled for putting the birdbath in the trunk of the car and wrapping it securely in the blanket he kept there.

//I’m fine. I need to make a call, so why don’t you think about where you’d like to go to dinner, and I’ll be right with you.//

She nodded, climbing into the car, leaving Grissom to dial his cell phone.

After two rings, the message came on, Miss Chocolate’s familiar voice deep in his ear. “Hello, Gilbert. If you’ve reached this recording, then you’re probably aware of how very unhappy I am. At the moment, I’m incommunicado, and will probably be so for a while. I expect you to keep up your part of the Two Shepherds case, but maybe it would be a good idea for us to stick to Emails for the time being. “

“Sara!” Grissom growled helplessly. He glanced through the back window at his mother as the voice in his ear continued.

“It’s not a matter of your mother over me; I can live with another woman in your life, Gil. It’s locking me in a basement and treating me like an inconvenience instead of a partner that has me a little upset. So go have dinner and you can keep my panties—they may be the only pair you’ll be seeing for a while.”

The phone recording clicked, and Grissom shut down the connection with nerveless fingers.

He blinked, utterly at a loss for the first time in years.