Royally In Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “We’re friends. We’ve always been friends. Does he treat me with respect and dignity and act like I’m somebody of worth? Yes. Is he kind and attentive and generous? Yes. He treats everybody that way.”

  “It would be understandable if you let yourself fall for someone with those characteristics,” I said.

  “Nathan Moore and I are not an item. He’s an upstanding member of this fine community, and I would hate for his reputation to be tarnished by a rumor.” Rebecca stood, her back painfully straight. “You’ve been a great deal of help in our first Sugar Creek festival, and I’m grateful to you, Paisley. But you overstep your bounds by even suggesting that anything Angela’s told you about me is true. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a skit to perform and a tea to endure. Miss Sylvie, please come along.”

  My grandmother waited until Rebecca flounced out of earshot. “She’s lying. Maybe our stakeout tonight isn’t enough. I can have cameras the size of ants in every room of her house by quittin’ time.”

  “That’s illegal, so no thank you.”

  She expertly rolled one eye. “Your obsession with staying out of jail can be a real killjoy.”

  “Sylvie!” Rebecca called. “Are you ready?”

  “I gotta go,” Sylvie said. “But be ready this evening. We’ll see if my intel was true—and if the grieving widow isn’t as tear-stricken as she portrays.”

  25

  I sat in the backseat of a 1982 purple van marked Sugar Creek Cable Company at nine-fifteen that night—a chocolate pie in my lap, a pizza box on the seat beside me, and a cooler of energy drinks on the lime green shag-carpeted floor. Stars dotted the sky outside, twinkling what I was certain were Morse code warnings to bail out and run back home.

  I leaned toward the front. “Where did you say you got this vehicle?” There was no Sugar Creek Cable Company in existence, but it looked believable.

  “We didn’t.” Sylvie wheeled the beast into the driveway at Emma’s house, then laid on a horn loud enough to raise any unsettled Johnny Rebs and Billy Yanks in the Civil War cemetery on the other side of town.

  “I assume you procured it by legal means,” I said.

  Frannie turned around, her pleather seat crunching like cellophane. “Hon, here are some truths for you. There’s no such thing as Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny’s never hopped his fuzzy butt into your basket. And your grandma and I do not give two Sean Connerys about the law. We pretty much have lifetime immunity, m’kay? They can’t touch us because we’re walking classified documents who could talk any second. Now you sit back and enjoy the weird and unexpected massage feature of your chair and eat you some pizza.”

  Emma opened her door, cautiously peering in before she climbed in and buckled. “Do I need to ask where they got this van?”

  “It’s best not to.” I handed her the pizza box. “But if you’d like Sylvie to eject the Conway Twitty eight-track for some “Islands in the Stream,” just say the word.”

  She nodded as if that was completely normal and took out a slice of pepperoni. “Where are we headed? Noah told me to be back before the newspaper hit the sidewalk tomorrow morning and not to get arrested.”

  “I can only promise one of those.” Sylvie turned the key, and the engine gasped and choked as if it had the black lung and no will to live. “Hang on. Spy shenanigans are afoot.”

  We peeled out of Emma’s quiet neighborhood like the Mystery Machine on acid. Smoke billowed behind us and the van dry heaved every few seconds as if it weren’t down for the mission and wanted to expel its contents.

  In a matter of three minutes, one rendition of “Tight Fittin’ Jeans,” and a complete stall at a four-way, we arrived at Bowen Street, which intersected with Davis. With barely a glance in her mirrors, Sylvie backed into the driveway of a gray two-story mission-style home with a Razorback sign hanging on the front door. Solar lights edged the landscaping, and a bird bath gurgled from the center of the yard.

  Turning off the van, my grandmother glanced at Emma and me in the back. “You just gonna sit there all night or you gonna serve us up some dinner?”

  “We have to share this?” Emma took another slice and passed the box up front.

  I lowered an elbow on the fuzzy armrest and tried not to think about the strange smell emanating from the seat. “Whose house is this?”

  “Felicity Arbuckle’s,” Sylvie said. “We go to church together, and I know she’s in Gulf Shores getting sand between her nooks and crannies with her newly minted third husband. She won’t mind a bit if we use her driveway as a lookout post.”

  “Plus,” Frannie said, “If we need to tee-tee, I know how to climb into her second story by way of a sturdy trellis and one loosely attached gutter.” She picked off a pepperoni. “Don’t ask. Let’s just say Felicity’s Tupperware parties get pretty wild and crazy. Am I right, Sylvie?”

  “With photos to prove it.” The two toasted pizza slices and chugged on warm root beer while Emma and I sat still in our vibrating seats, probably both contemplating how often our genetic code was filled with typos.

  Frannie pointed across the street. “You can see Melly Pittman’s home perfectly from here.”

  “They’ve certainly done well for themselves,” Sylvie said.

  “It’s a beaut of a house.” A mouthful of pizza didn’t slow down Frannie. “Her husband’s in construction. Builds tiny houses at big prices. Has quite the eye for design.”

  “And we’re watching for Nathan Moore?” Emma asked, as if the two armchair HGTV commentators needed reminding why we were there.

  “Yep.” Sylvie stuck her hand in her blouse and extracted a pair of tiny binoculars from the depths. “He could show up any minute or we might have to wait for hours.”

  Frannie grinned, already enjoying herself. “I brought wine and Uno.”

  Sometimes I honestly wondered how our country hadn’t imploded with these two on the front lines.

  “Paisley, any update on finding the land the Sugar Creek faire plans to build on?” Sylvie asked.

  “No.” I breathed through my mouth before the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview made me upchuck pizza. “I’ve found lots of farms with ponds, some with similar shapes as the one on the blueprint, but so far, none with the windmill and the right amount of acreage.”

  “We appreciate your report. Moving on to other more important matters . . .” My grandmother pushed a button, and her chair spun around like a ride at the carnival. “It’s time we had a family discussion about your relationship status with Matt.”

  Frannie tried to turn her chair, but the seatbelt made a lunge for her throat. She coughed twice, released the thing from its buckle, then twisted until she faced us. “Divulge the deets.”

  I glanced at Emma, sending her an SOS straight out of my corneas.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m not sharing this pie till you talk.”

  That was cruel and unusual punishment. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  Sylvie dropped the smile and regarded me with an uncomfortable amount of scrutiny. “Frannie’s an expert in reading body language. Agent Fran, what are you seeing here?”

  Frannie barely spared me a glance. “Her roots could use a touch-up and falsehoods drip from her every word.”

  Were other family’s heart-to-hearts this painful? Surely waterboarding would be a more relaxing alternative. “Matt and I have gone out. We’ve talked on the phone a few times. Texted a lot. That’s all there is to say.” And I made a mental note to pencil in a hair appointment.

  “I’m about to lose my patience up in here.” Frannie pointed to my chair. “Don’t make me turn that vibrato-chair up to ten. Has there been any kissy-kissy, smoochy-smoochy?”

  “Not yet.” Not with Matt anyway.

  Gasps fired all around, bouncing off the carpeted walls like bottle rockets.

  Sylvie turned to her best friend. “What is wrong with this young man that he hasn’t kissed my granddaughter?”

  “I’m insulted on
her behalf!” Frannie smacked the plastic console. “She’s read at least two books with Sexy Book Club, so she’s more than prepared. Kissing on the back of a horse? Ready. Lip action on a pirate ship plank? Totally informed and prepared to go.”

  Oh, good heavens. “It’s not that he hasn’t sent signals. He has.”

  “And what’s deflecting these signals?” Emma asked.

  “Beau deflectors,” Sylvie said. “She’s wearing her Beau deflectors.”

  I took a long look at Melly’s house to make sure Nathan hadn’t arrived, since I seemed to be the only one paying attention to our original task. “I’m taking it slow, okay? Being stood up at the altar does things to a girl’s confidence.” And her brain. And her heart. And her need for ice cream.

  “Shug, any man would be lucky to have you as his girlfriend,” Sylvie said. “And this Matt seems crazy about you.”

  “I like him,” I said. “He’s nice. He’s got a job. He’s cute.”

  “And has all of his teeth.” Frannie chewed loudly, pointing at me with a pizza crust. “You think that’s not important, but as I learned on my last date, it is not a feature to be underestimated.”

  “When do you go out next?” Sylvie asked.

  “I’m not sure.” I held up a hand to ward off their frenzy of questions. “He’s asked, but I haven’t had time to schedule it.”

  “Schedule it?” Sylvie threw up her hands. “This isn’t a root canal! Come on, Paisley!”

  “I’ve had a lot going on. If you all remember, someone was murdered at one of my events.”

  Frannie wiped her lips with a napkin. “We used to call that just another day at work.”

  “Do not lead that boy on,” Sylvie said. “The menfolk are not inoculated for the likes of a Sutton heartbreak. Trust me.”

  “I’m not going to break his heart. We’re just friends right now—friends who’ve gone out to dinner.”

  “At least give him a chance,” Emma said.

  “I am.” Geez, was this a stake-out or an intervention? “But I’m taking it at my own pace, okay? I don’t have to make out on the first date or tattoo his name on my arm or order our wedding announcements.”

  “Well, of course you don’t!” Sylvie reached out and gave my hand a tender squeeze. “The tat needs to go on your dainty ankle. Less wrinklage.”

  I was ready to tender my resignation to this Sugar Creek Cable Company.

  Emma slid her glasses on her nose and scrutinized me like a bug on a microscope slide.

  “What?” I asked. “Just spit it out.”

  “Do Sylvie and Frannie know about your bank kiss?”

  I nearly self-ejected from the seat. “How do you know about that?”

  She didn’t bother hiding her smile as my aunt and grandmother proceeded to have spectacular conniptions in the front seat. “Noah’s secretary went in to make a deposit and ran into Babs Burlington, who’d apparently just walked by Nathan Moore’s office and saw you in Beau’s arms. Babs dropped her complimentary popcorn at the very sight.”

  “Glory hallelujah!” Frannie raised her hands to heaven and launched into “I’ll Fly Away.”

  Sylvie just sat there and clapped repeatedly like a one-trick circus monkey. “I knew putting you on our church prayer list would work!”

  “Would the Sugar Creek Cable Company be quiet?” I sank deeper into the seat, wishing I could evaporate.

  Emma wasn’t done playing van therapist. “Are your feelings for Beau getting in the way of giving Matt a chance?”

  “No.” Well, maybe. “Probably not. I don’t know.” My feelings for Beau—at times there were too many words to express them. And other times, I couldn’t think of a single word the dictionary provided that adequately defined what was in my flooded heart. “As far as Beau is concerned, I’ve decided—”

  “Hold that thought!” Sylvie spun back around to the front, grasping the leopard patterned steering wheel with both hands. “Look! Romeo has arrived!”

  How did she do that? My gosh, Sylvie really was good. Scary good.

  Nathan Moore parked his truck two houses down, though he left his lights on like an amateur. Or someone who hadn’t been trained by two gun-toting grannies.

  We only had to wait a few minutes before Rebecca came around the corner of Melly’s house, as if she’d exited from a back door. She took a quick look behind her then all but ran to Nathan’s truck. He got out, opened her passenger door. But before she could climb in, he pulled her to him and planted a kiss that would’ve made Sexy Book Club blush.

  Sylvie tilted her head ninety degrees. “Would you look at that?”

  Frannie captured the moment with her phone. “I’m pretty sure the neighborhood watch would make a citizen’s arrest.”

  Emma tsked. “Tangled up like a yarn ball.”

  I knew Rebecca had lied when she’d told me there was nothing but friendship between her and Nathan. I knew it, and yet it still bothered me to see the truth. Especially because it took away all desire for any more pizza. Couldn’t anyone be faithful around here? “Now we need to know how long this affair’s been going on.” Surely it hadn’t just started after Trace died.

  Frannie took a few more photos. “She doesn’t look like any grieving widow to me.”

  We watched as the kissing couple got back in Nathan’s truck and drove away. Sylvie followed them at a distance, and minutes later, the truck pulled into the garage of a two story Colonial while our van idled three houses away.

  Frannie took a sip of her soda then returned the can to the questionably clean cup holder hanging from her door. “So he brings her back to his place nightly. I think it’s safe to assume they’re not running lines and rehearsing for the next dinner theater.”

  “Even though I’m not exactly surprised,” I said, “I’m disappointed in Nathan. I would’ve never pegged him for a cheater.”

  Sylvie nodded her head. “Bank president. Community icon. Deacon in his church. Who knows what other skeletons he’s got lurking in his well-dressed closet?”

  Was an affair enough motive to kill? “I guess we need to pull every one of those skeletons out.”

  “You got it, hot lips.” Sylvie met my gaze in her rearview mirror. “That’s just what we’re gonna do.”

  26

  In my Electric Femmes days, I’d stay up all night and sleep till noon. While I didn’t miss the tour bus life—the waking up disoriented in a different town every day and the exhausting party lifestyle— I did think fondly of luxuriously sleeping until noon.

  The clock read 6:00 a.m. when I walked out my front door Saturday, still pondering Nathan and Rebecca. I startled in the dim light, surprised to find Beau lounging in a chair on the porch, a worn leather-bound book in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. He looked like something straight out of a Tennessee Williams play, with tortured eyes, that intelligent twang on his tongue, and even at this hour—vibrating with a magnetic energy that pulled me in.

  He straightened in his chair, wincing as if his body had been locked in position for many hours. “Mornin’.”

  “Good morning to you,” I said, trying not to notice how his sleepy voice was delightfully rough and rumpled, while I sounded more like a strangled bullfrog till about 9:00 a.m. “Did you sleep out here?”

  “The mosquitoes were lonely. Thought I’d keep them company.” Eyes full of a thousand stories were now a little puffy. I noticed with a small amount of envy that his disheveled, wind-blown hair didn’t make him look unkempt, but even more ruggedly handsome, like a Scottish laird who’d braved the elements or an English lord, storm-battered as he stood on the moors.

  I probably needed to slow down on the romance novel reading. I blamed this on Sexy Book Club.

  “Either you’ve been on voluntary security detail or you’ve been up all night.” I settled into the seat beside him. “What’s going on in that tired mind of yours?”

  He took a drink of coffee. “Since I never went to college and pulled an all-nighter, sometimes
I like to stay up and see what the fuss is all about.” There was a smile in his voice, but his words couldn’t sift out all the bone-tired fatigue.

  Like he had done to me many times before, I relieved him of his coffee and took a slow drink. “When are you going to learn to make coffee right and put some creamer in the stuff?”

  He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head, watching his mug. “Coffee should be black and strong. If it doesn’t make your gallbladder convulse, what’s the point?”

  “So you were telling me why you’ve had a one-man sleepover on our porch.”

  “Had another visit from Detective Ballantine last night.”

  Fear wasn’t a cool hand running against my skin, but a shot of battery acid slipping down my throat, burning into my heart and veins. “Did he stop by to tell you you’re off the suspect list?”

  “Nope.” Beau watched the sprinklers in Mrs. Bukowski’s yard swirl to life. “He dug up some more dirt from my Army days. Wanted to hash that out.”

  “You were a sharpshooter, not a knife thrower. And now you’re being penalized for heroically protecting our country?”

  “Calm down, Tina Turner.” He regarded me from beneath heavy eyelids. “They conducted another search of the house yesterday.”

  “Why? Are they working off a tip?”

  “I’m not sure. They also wanted to talk about that note I received from Trace to meet him before the dinner theater started.”

  “The one he said he didn’t send?”

  “Yep. I couldn’t produce it since I threw it away, and Ballantine implied perhaps I’d made that up as an excuse to antagonize Trace.”

  Good heavens. I needed something stronger than this coffee.

  “Who did send it? And why?”

  He gave a lazy, indifferent shrug, but I knew his brain was working overtime to come up with answers as well. “I’m not telling you this to scare you,” Beau said. “I’ve lawyered up, and I wanted you to hear it from me instead of getting some bloated version from the Sugar Creek gossip network.”

  I was pretty sure Sylvie and Frannie were founding members of that particular service organization. “Thank you for that.”