"Only you happen to know a lot about explosives and computers and rescuing people from Lucite jail cells."
"I also know a lot about cooking and cleaning. But anyway, those gang guys aren't from St. Alban's."
"How do you know?"
"Their car had Georgia plates."
She studied me a moment. "Is that the sort of thing pencil pushers notice?"
I got back on the subject of our kitchen helper. "I'm sure Tracy was just happy to get the job. This is a pretty tough economy for a small town like this."
"True," she said. "But that makes it even weirder that everyone in town is stupidly happy all the time."
I couldn't argue about that, so I focused on my tasks. Rachel did the same, and we continued working until we'd done all we could to make the kitchen spotless. Then we went upstairs and Rachel rewarded me by letting me watch her change into her bikini.
"I've got an idea," I said, raising my eyebrows.
"Don't even think about it, horn dog. And don't bother pouting, 'cause it's your own fault."
"My fault?"
"I can't help it if I used up all my energy being your scullery maid. So I'm going to go relax in the sun and bronze this body until I'm Brazilian."
"You can do that without feeling the slightest bit of compassion for my, ah, predicament?"
"Yup. Oh, and I'll be completely unavailable sexually until…" she looked at her watch. "Three o'clock. If you can't wait that long, you'll just have to find another way to work off your frustration."
I smiled. "I know just the thing!"
"Eew."
"Eew?"
"Men. Ugh."
I had no idea what she meant, but when she headed to the beach I changed into my khaki shorts, grabbed an EpiPen, and drove back to the sand dune that housed the fire ant colony.