Miranda poured the juice. With a bite of runny yolk on toast, I opened the paper and glanced through the news. There, down at the bottom of the page, an article caught my attention. The headline read, “Local Romance Writer Found Dead in Home.”
Susan Walker Mitchell died Thursday evening after slipping into a diabetic coma. Mae Tailor, the Mitchells’ housekeeper, found Ms. Mitchell unconscious upon returning to the residence at about 4:00 p.m. on Thursday afternoon. Blood tests confirmed the presence of both alcohol and Valium in Ms. Mitchell’s system, a dangerous combination. However, doctors attribute her death to hypoglycemic coma, brought on by a failure to eat after taking her morning insulin.
“The levels of Valium and alcohol were high, but not within life-threatening ranges,” Dr. Johansen, the Mitchells’ family physician, stated. “Mrs. Mitchell has been admitted to the hospital four times in the past year for low-blood-sugar seizures… unfortunately, no one was with her this time to prevent her from slipping into a coma.” Ms. Mitchell died without regaining consciousness.
Ms. Mitchell was well loved for her work in the community theater, but she was best known for her career as a romance novelist. She produced twenty-nine books over the past fifteen years, including the best-selling Love on Clancy Lane. Her books are read worldwide.
Survived by her husband, Walter Mitchell, Chiqetaw, and a daughter, Diana Mitchell, Seattle, Ms. Mitchell will be greatly missed.
I stopped reading. Of course. Susan Mitchell. The romance novelist. I remembered seeing her mentioned in the paper before, though I’d never met her. The photograph beside the obituary was most definitely that of my ghostly visitor.
“Is everything okay, Mom?” Oh no, not her, too. It was bad enough that Kip had sensed something, but Miranda spooked too easily, and I didn’t want her involved in any part of this yet.
I squelched the urge to blurt out the truth. “No… no… nothing wrong. Go ahead and run along. Remember to be at the store by ten.”
She grabbed her pack and raced out the door to catch the bus. Grabbing a pen and a steno book I always keep handy near the phone, I ripped the article out of the paper and tucked everything in my purse.
So my ghost was real, or had been. Diabetic coma? Murder? With a dozen thoughts reeling through my head, I made my way out to the car and pulled out of the driveway. I had a lot to do before opening the shop. The only trouble was, I didn’t know where to begin.
* * *
Chapter Two
CHIQETAW IS AN easy town to navigate—the streets are fairly straight, and the traffic, sparse. It was spitting snow as I guided my car down Main Street. The town council had decided to put up the Christmas decorations early this year, starting the day before Thanksgiving. Now, two weeks before Christmas, strands of colored lights sparkled around the lampposts and bare-branched trees that lined the main drag. I took a deep breath of the chill air that flowed in through the open crack of the window. God, how I loved this time of year.
Forty-five minutes before I was supposed to meet the kids at the store—enough to do a little digging. I pulled into the parking lot of Harlow’s Gym. Harlow Rainmark was my best friend in this little burg, and without her I think I’d have gone bananas when I first moved here. Named after Jean Harlow by her starstruck mother, she had valiantly tried to live up to the legend, slipping into dangerous territory as she forced the envelope farther and farther in her youth.
I slammed the door of my Grand Cherokee—one of the few real luxuries I allowed myself—and pushed through the double doors of Chiqetaw’s only spa.
Harlow was behind the desk. Her face brightened and she wrinkled her nose. “I was hoping you’d show up. It’s dead in here. If it gets any slower I’m going to have to turn this place into a morgue.” Her windblown tangle of hair never failed to amaze me. It was as if someone had taken a curling iron and crimped the shoulder-length strands into ribbons of shimmering, coiled gold. It came as no surprise to anyone when they found out that she’d been a professional model until she gave up her career and moved back to Chiqetaw to marry her childhood sweetheart.
“Cleaning day at C ‘n C. I’m not due at the store for close to an hour. It’s snowing, by the way.”
“Ugh.” Harlow hated both cleaning and snow. I agreed with her on housework, but the cold—I loved winter. She was much more of a sun bunny than I.
I dropped into one of the chairs that faced the customer service desk. “Sure is dead in here.”
She shrugged. “Yeah, I know. What’s up?”
I dug into my purse and pulled out my notebook and the clipping. “I need some info if you’ve got it.”
She leaned forward, always curious. The woman had a nose for gossip like no one else I’d ever met, and if I needed to know anything about anybody in this little burg, she was the place to start.
I handed her the obituary and flipped open my notebook. “Susan—did you know her?”
She read the clipping. “Yeah, I knew her. She was in the Chiqetaw Players.”
“That’s why I asked you.” I knew that Harlow was one of the primary sponsors of the little theater group. If anybody knew anything about the members, she would.
Harlow tapped a polished fingernail against the paper. “Susan had talent. Lots of it. I’ve read all of her books. It’s hard to believe that she’d let this happen. I always assumed she was careful about her diabetes. I guess the condition is harder to keep track of than I thought.” She handed me back the article. “What do you want to know?”
“What about her husband? Did they have a good marriage?”
She raised one eyebrow. “You aren’t looking for a sugar daddy, are you?” When I glared at her, she winked. “Just kidding. I’m going to assume you have a good reason for asking, since I’ve never known you to go muckraking before.” She glanced around. The gym was bare. Luckily, she didn’t really need the income. She’d been one of the few smart ones with her money, investing for the days when she would be too old to play the cover girl.
She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Susan used to think her marriage was perfect, but I hear she filed for divorce recently. Walt’s a scum. Rich and powerful, but a scum. He tried to seduce me last spring, and when I told him to fuck off, he spread a few well-placed rumors that I was a dyke who just married James for his money. Nobody believed him, but nobody would confirm that he was the one who was spreading the gossip, either. I never told Susan though. I didn’t want to hurt her.”
I knew Harlow well enough to know she wouldn’t lie about something like this. “So, Walter’s a scuzbag. I wonder why she married him.”
Harlow shrugged. “I dunno. We weren’t really close. I wanted to be friends and there were times when she opened up, but when I think about it, she never let anybody get too near. You know what I mean? It was almost like she was afraid to let people into her life.” A puzzled expression crossed her face. “I wonder what happens to her estate now.”
“Won’t Walter get it? They were still married.”
Harl frowned. “I don’t know. They’ve got a daughter, though I gather she never comes home. Apparently the girl isn’t very stable.” Leaning forward even though the gym was empty, she whispered, “You know, Susan ran away when she was a teenager. Rumor mill had it that she went chasing after a boy, but I have no idea what happened. She ran off before she graduated. About a year and a half later, she returned to Chiqetaw, pregnant. She married Walter and would never talk about the time she was gone.”
I jotted everything down, making brief, terse notes and underlining the words. It made me feel a little bit like a detective, and I bit my lip to keep back a silly grin. I probably wouldn’t be able to read my own writing tomorrow, but what I could decipher should jog my memory.
“Interesting.” I sat back and contemplated the huge sculpture that took up almost a third of the lobby. Harlow loved being a benefactor; the spa was liberally peppered with local artists’ attempts to break into the spotlight.
She r
ested her legs on the desk, full of old Shape and Muscle & Fitness magazines, her feet encased in a pair of Sketchers. Chic. Everything about her was trendy, always a few months ahead of everybody else. When I hung out with her too much, I began to feel like a blimp next to that sleek, too-thin, too-toned body of hers.
“Can I ask why you want to know all this?” Harl was used to me talking about all sorts of ooo-spooky things, but I wasn’t sure how she’d take my latest revelation.
“Susan showed up in my bedroom last night. I think she has some unfinished business she needs to take care of.”
She stared at me. “Susan was hanging out in your room? You mean her ghost?”
“Well, she’s dead. She couldn’t be there any other way, now, could she?” I feigned a sudden interest in my fingernails, glancing at Harl through my lowered lashes.
“I see.” Her voice was so even it scared me. One of these days, she’d break down and have them cart me away to the funny farm. “And did she tell you what she wanted?” A mixture of laughter and fear danced in her oh-so-blue eyes.
“Kind of.”
“Awfully cryptic, aren’t we? I have got to hear the full story, but I have the feeling you’re not going to spill it right now, are you?”
I gave her a rueful grin and stood up. “Not now, babe, but I promise to tell you everything as soon as I’ve got more time.” I was on my way out when another thought struck me. “Hey, I’d love to ‘casually’ meet a few people who might have been close friends of hers. Is there going to be a reception following the service?”
Harlow tossed her magazine back on the pile. “I have no idea, but I’ll try to find out. Meanwhile, why don’t you come with James and me to the opening of Obsidian! Starts at eight sharp, tonight. It’s a play by a local writer. His name is Andrew Martinez, and he was in Susan’s writing group.” She grinned. “You won’t believe what else he writes. Anyway, James and I are taking him out afterward to celebrate the new show. Tag along?”
“Are you sure that I won’t be intruding?” I hated being a fifth wheel and chances were Andrew already had a girlfriend. Celebrations like sit-down dinners always felt awkward now that I was divorced.
She got that all-too-hopeful look that always spelled trouble for me. “He’s unattached and won’t be bringing a date. I’ll say that you and I want to play catch up. The autumn’s been so hectic that it’s really true, you know—we need to spend an afternoon gossiping. And who knows? Maybe something will come of the meeting.”
I narrowed my eyes. “It never works out, Harl. Don’t even go there. But yeah, I’ll come with you. I can use an evening out, and the kids can grab something from McDonald’s.”
She told me that the play would be at the local high school gymnasium. I gave her a hug and headed out, wondering what she would think when I told her the whole story. Unlike most of the residents of Chiqetaw, Harl accepted my quirkiness without comment, but when I started talking about ghosts, she got spooked. I think she must have been scared by some mutant pervert on a bad Halloween.
BY NOON, WE’D polished every inch of the Chintz ‘n China. I excused Kip and Miranda after handing them each a five-dollar bill. “Be home by six at the latest. If you want, stop and pick up some take-out for dinner. I’ve got to go out for a while tonight and won’t have time to fix anything.”
They pocketed the money and took off, Miranda for the library and Kip for Sly’s. In Seattle, I’d never have been so carefree. Too many things could happen to kids if we didn’t keep tabs on them. But in Chiqetaw it seemed as though the outer world hadn’t quite caught up. At least not on an everyday basis. Here, it was still safe to leave the car unlocked when I ran into a shop. Kids in Chiqetaw didn’t disappear on their way to Mickey D’s.
Once Cinnamon and I were alone, I snapped up the “Open” sign and smiled wearily at her. “Well, the place looks better. Thanks for coming in this morning. We needed the help. Starting Monday, I’ll need you here all day, six days a week, through the Christmas rush. Can you manage that?”
She nodded, eyes wide. This was her first real job. She was twenty-two and took her responsibility so seriously that sometimes it made me want to laugh, but I didn’t, because you just couldn’t buy loyalty like that in an employee anymore. The girl had three kids. Her boyfriend had been thrown in jail a little over six months ago. “I can use the extra money.” She fiddled with the linen napkins she was folding. “Christmas is going to be tight this year.” Tight was right—Cinnamon didn’t get any child support, and she lived with her mother.
She put the water on to boil. We served tea and a few baked goods that I ordered from the local bakery every day. On weekdays, we dished up homemade soup and biscuits during the lunch hour. Most of my business, however, came from people buying china and imported teas, jellies, jams, crackers, real anglophile stock and wares.
As she filled three giant thermoses I saw that she had chosen Misty Lemon, Orange Spice, and, of course, the ever-present Earl Grey. With sudden inspiration, I chalked “Citrus Surprise Afternoon” on the menuboard and broke open a couple of jars of marmalade and lemon curd to go with the sliced pound cake and muffins we were selling. The scent of lemon curd made me hungry. Remembering my uneaten breakfast, I slathered a spoonful on a piece of the cake, grinning at Cinnamon as I wiped crumbs off my shirt.
“Is good,” I mumbled. She snorted, but within a moment she joined me in the impromptu lunch. We pushed aside the newspapers on one of the little tea tables that set in the alcove by the window and sat down with our tea and cake to wait for the first customers of the day.
Within moments, Nancy Reynolds pushed through the door, looking for her special order. A flurry of snow followed her in—winter had arrived strong and early this year. I popped the last of the cake in my mouth, gulped down my tea, and dove into the afternoon.
BETWEEN CLEANING THE shop and getting ready for the play, I had no time to follow up on any of the information I’d gotten from Harlow. I raced home, made sure the kids were okay, then shuffled through my closet. Someday soon I was going to have to break down and go shopping, like it or not.
Jeans and sweatshirt wouldn’t do. I’d always preferred long skirts and warm turtlenecks. I finally decided on a calf-length black rayon skirt, a royal purple turtleneck, and a gold necklace. Dressy, but not so dressy that I’d stand out. I didn’t want to admit that I might end up on a blind date. Hart’s fix-ups never worked. I perfunctorily sprayed my wrists and neck with Opium and brushed out my hair. The braids had left it with a gentle cascade of waves. It had been a long time since I had a chance to dress up.
Kip meandered into the foyer as I clattered down the stairs. He stopped cold at the sight of me. “Mom, you look great! Where are you going again? I forgot.”
“To the opening of a play. One of Harlow’s friends wrote it.” I fastened a pair of gold hoops on my ears and transferred everything over to my good purse.
Kip pursed his lips in a grin. “Yeah, I bet. She fixing you up again? You sure look ready for a date.”
“You’re eight going on eighteen, know that?” I pointed to the clock. “I’m not going to be out late, so your homework better be finished by the time I get back. Miranda’s in charge, and if something goes wrong, you have my cell number, and Mrs. Trask is right down the street. I called her, she knows I’m going to be out for a couple hours, so she’ll be home if you need her.”
He snickered—a habit he picked up from me. “Yeah, yeah. My homework’s already done.” I gave him a hug, and he hugged me back. “You smell good.” Softly, he added, “Mom, are you ever going to get married again?”
The question stunned me. Was he worried about me, or worried that I would replace his father? I sat down on the bench in the hall and pulled him over to sit next to me. “What makes you ask that?”
“You seem lonely.” With a twinkle in his eye, he poked me in the ribs. “I wouldn’t mind, as long as he’s nice! It’d be cool to have another guy around again.” He jumped up and, waving
his bagged sandwich, disappeared into the living room.
Lonely? I grabbed my keys and slid behind the wheel. I suppose, after my reaction to Roy’s defection, that it was obvious to the kids that I didn’t relish being single, though I’d come a long ways since those days. Granted, I did wander around the house till 3:00 a.m. on the nights when I couldn’t sleep, but I thought of myself as happy. Miranda and Kip were good kids, they weren’t in trouble, and they were healthy and thriving. My business was doing pretty well, and I lived in a town that, for the most part, accepted my eccentricities. I had friends and a social life of sorts. I could take care of myself.
So was I unhappy being single? As I pulled out of the driveway, I realized that as much as I’d like to, I couldn’t answer the question.
* * *
Chapter Three
DESPITE THE LACK of traffic, I was late getting to the theater and ended up tiptoeing up and down the aisles until I spotted Harlow. I slid into my seat and settled back to watch the show. The play itself was good, but the Chiqetaw Players butchered it. During the performance, I kept stealing glances at the man I assumed was Andrew. He winced every time somebody onstage tripped over a line.
After the show, Harlow introduced us as we trooped backstage to congratulate the cast. Andrew shook my hand. His grip was firm, cool. “May I ask what you thought of the show?”
I mulled over my options. What could I say? I glanced around, no actors in sight. “Uh… to be honest, the play itself was wonderful. The production stank. You’re not working with the Seattle Rep here.”
“You frequent the theater?” He lowered his voice. “I don’t think most of the mighty Chiqetaw Players know anything about what they’re trying to do.”
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