Pearl gave her daughter a look that seemed to say, Let me put her out of your misery.
Again, Mims waited.
Again, she was disappointed when Pearl turned away without comment. Was Mims the only one who challenged Edith?
“Is it too late to sign up to model at the fashion show?” Edith dumped the two creamers in her coffee with too much verve, creating puddles on the sparkly white Formica. “And what about the kissing booth at the county fair? Is it staffed? I was quite the kisser in my day.” Her gaze tracked Pearl, but her train of thought was obviously on a different rail. “You know, I have an idea that will revolutionize the pancake breakfast.”
The Widows Club board exchanged glances, not that Edith noticed.
“My idea will double the event’s income.” Edith always butted in where she didn’t belong. “Let’s hold a pancake breakfast with kisses from the cooks.” Who were usually the older widows in the club. “I know you staff the kissing booth with young ladies, but I think we should let some of the more mature gals have a turn at smooching.”
Mims choked on her omelet. “Women our age don’t—”
“Women our age do,” Bitsy said sharply, fiddling with her shoulder pads.
Mims tugged at the neckline of her dress, suddenly hot. Maybe she’d swallowed too much Tabasco. Or maybe she wasn’t successfully swallowing her anger at the idea of Edith replacing Bitsy on the board if Bitsy remarried.
Mims’s game was off. She couldn’t juggle everything the way she used to. At this rate, Edith would muscle Mims out of the presidency, and the Matchmakers Club would dissolve, if only because it would be Mims and Clarice, who was a dear but a stickler for the rules, and Edith, who was more than one brick shy of a full chimney.
Life just wasn’t fair.
Pearl slammed two creamers in front of Edith. “Are you going to be here every week from now on?”
“No,” chorused the three board members.
“I am,” said Edith, as hard of hearing as Clarice without her hearing aids.
Chapter Nine
The bell rang over the door of the Saddle Horn, followed by the jubilant ring of Becky’s voice. “And then Ms. Hampton said we looked like hookers.” Becky glanced up at Drew. “What’s a hooker, Daddy?”
The Sunday-morning crowd stopped talking and waited for Drew to answer. Or die of embarrassment.
Drew had too much experience with precocious young women to take the heat for a comment he hadn’t made. He met every gaze squarely, softening his glance for Norma Eastlake, whose husband had been killed a few days ago in a car accident. Drew had worked the scene and had had trouble sleeping that night. There was talk around town about needing a light at the intersection but until someone championed the idea, it would only be talk.
Drew shepherded Becky to the counter, near Jason Petrie.
Iggy sat on the other side of Jason, his straw cowboy hat tilted so far back on his head that it looked like a large misplaced halo.
“A hooker is a lady who wears pretty dresses.” Drew didn’t bother lowering his voice. The crowd would only strain to hear.
“I won’t ever be a hooker, Daddy.” Becky hopped on a counter stool and spun, waving to the regulars. “I hate dresses.”
Their audience chuckled and returned to the business of eating.
“I love it here,” Becky crooned. “I love it, I love it, I love it.”
Drew’s heart swelled with love. Becky was his girl. She was so like him that she’d never get bitten by the wanderlust that had clamped onto her mother.
The bell rang above the door. As one, the clientele turned to see who was entering next.
Wendy Adams stood in the doorway. She wore a long tan skirt and a blue blouse that was buttoned clear to her neck.
Drew stared at Wendy a little longer, at her short blond hair and pretty face, waiting for something. A spark. A zing. Lust.
He sighed and looked away. So maybe Wendy’s hair didn’t overload Drew’s system the way Lola’s legs did, but she was attractive in her own way and came with the benefit of being predictable.
Boring.
That sounded like Lola’s voice. He stuffed the thought away.
Wendy took a seat between Becky and Jason, set her Bible on the counter, and smiled at no one in particular. One thing Drew could say about Wendy: the silence and peace she brought with her was a welcome respite.
In the corner booth, Mims and Clarice smiled at Drew with a similar expression, one that said, We know you’re interested. Let’s get this show on the road.
Drew heeded the advice of those all-knowing smiles. “Hey, Wendy.” When his daughter didn’t immediately take his lead and greet Wendy, Drew nudged her.
“Hey, Ms. Adams,” Becky said dutifully as if he’d asked her to unload the dishwasher.
“Hi,” Wendy replied, barely above a whisper.
Pearl slid a coffee in front of Drew and a hot chocolate with a mountain of whip in front of Becky. The waitress flicked an assessing glance at Wendy. “What can I get you?”
“Water.” Wendy cleared her throat. “And a menu.”
The menus were laminated and in front of Wendy on the counter, tucked behind the salt and pepper. Pearl slapped one on the counter and charged away in her white running sneakers.
“I never come in here,” Wendy said with a sideways glance and a shy smile in Drew’s direction. “My parents didn’t allow it when I was growing up.”
Her dad, more likely. Howard Adams had a reputation for a short fuse and a conservative outlook on life.
Wendy cleared her throat again. “It’s been on my bucket list.”
Drew gave a little head shake. Wendy was too young to have a bucket list.
“We come here every Sunday.” Becky wobbled her chin from side to side. “Ho ho ho. I’m Santa.” Her whipped cream beard listed to the left.
“Oh, honey. Don’t make a mess.” Wendy grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser and wiped the beard and grin from Becky’s face.
Becky crossed her arms and glowered.
“Did I do something wrong?” Wendy looked perplexed.
“No,” Drew said quickly.
Becky’s glower swiveled in his direction, to which he responded with a look that she undoubtedly knew meant Behave.
His daughter glowered at the salt and pepper shakers.
“It’s a thing at the Saddle Horn to make whipped cream facial hair on Sundays.” Drew gestured toward a booth where the two Yancey girls giggled at each other and their puffy beards.
“I’d forgotten that was a thing.” Wendy’s lips wavered toward disapproval. “That’s so…messy.”
Pearl plunked a small ice water in front of Wendy, shook a can of whipped cream, and put a fresh coil of whip on top of Becky’s hot chocolate.
Becky tossed her hands in the air. “You’re the bestest waitress in the whole wide world, Pearl.”
“Tell that to Alsace.” The elderly waitress gave Becky a rare grin. “I could use a raise.”
The bell tinkled. The coffee shop quieted.
Lola walked in. Her messy ponytail had gotten messier since Drew had seen her at the farmhouse. And yet somehow, she created a spark inside him. A zing. Lust.
It was her legs, he decided. They were world class in length in those leggings. In fact, those leggings should be outlawed in Colorado. They might make male drivers run off the road. Just look at Iggy. He was staring at Lola’s legs with a smile splitting his sharp face as if he was imagining—
Lola’s gaze bounced into Drew, jarring all rational thought into neutral. Drew was aware of Becky sitting next to him, the clink of a fork on a plate, and Lola’s deep blue eyes. But he was in limbo. Waiting. Waiting for Lola to say something to him.
She said nothing. Her chin might have dipped a bit before she moved on to study Wendy, perhaps cataloging whether she was wearing a pearl ring or was missing an earring.
Drew scowled and shook his head, brain working once more. No way was Wendy
Randy’s lover. Comparatively, Pris was a likelier candidate.
Instead of finding a seat, Lola stood at the cash register and waved a large red thermos. “Bring the pot, Pearl.”
“Order up,” Alsace called from the kitchen, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon under the heat lamps.
Talk resumed. Beards were made. Lola pretended to be oblivious to it all. A lock of her light-brown hair curled around one cheek.
Iggy continued to give Lola’s legs an appreciative glance. Jason leaned forward to see what had captured his business partner’s attention, and grinned.
Drew felt a stab of annoyance. “When you get a minute, Lola…” He caught his landlady’s eye. “We need to talk about your front window.”
“Is it broken?” Becky tried to lick whip from her upper lip. “Or is her window dirty? You made me clean windows last summer, and I didn’t like it.”
Drew swiped his daughter’s white mustache but that did nothing to stop her from staring at Lola like she was an exotic animal in the zoo.
Lola pretended great interest in her cell phone.
“She doesn’t like to clean windows either. I can tell.” Becky dunked her face in the whipped cream, shifted her chin around, and then surfaced. She used her fingers to make the whip on her chin into a point, pivoting her face toward Drew.
“Nice,” Drew said.
Becky angled her face toward Wendy, who didn’t notice his daughter looking for attention. She was reviewing the menu as seriously as if it listed the features of a new car she was considering.
“Excellent villain.” Lola gave Becky two thumbs up.
Becky slid off her stool and ran over to Lola, tutu bouncing. She tilted her face up for inspection.
“I couldn’t have made a better bad-stache with real hair.” Lola leaned down for a closer look. “And I’ve made all kinds of beards and mustaches from hair.”
Beaming, Becky raised her arms and turned around on her tiptoes, a cowboy-booted, football-jersey-wearing ballerina. She held the pose for Lola. “Did you make bad-staches for dead people?”
The coffee shop quieted again. Even Drew wanted to hear the answer.
Meanwhile, Becky’s pointy beard plopped to her tutu.
“Oh, honey. You’re making a mess.” Wendy held up another handful of napkins and then paused, suddenly uncertain. She blinked at Drew. “You have to wipe them when they drip, right?”
“Sure. Of course.” As a kid, he’d thought dripping was half the fun, possibly because the rest of the week he’d had to wipe the noses of four squealing, frustrating girls. Most Sundays, he let Becky drip on herself. But that was before the threat of Jane. Becky needed more decorum and discipline if he was going to retain full custody.
Drew called Becky over, grabbing his own set of napkins.
“Lola.” Bitsy called Lola over to the Widows Club table. “We’re holding a bake sale Tuesday night benefiting the Little League. We’d love to have you participate.”
“Are you sure?” Lola looked as if she’d unexpectedly been chosen to pitch in game seven of the World Series when she’d never pitched in her life. “You’ve never asked me before.”
“Dad.” Becky tried to squirm out of reach. “Too hard.”
Drew released Becky and wiped his own hands, shamelessly eavesdropping on Lola, same as the rest of the coffee shop patrons.
“I suspect not asking was our loss.” Bitsy grabbed on to Lola’s hand as if they were dear friends. “Anyone can participate. In fact, Wendy Adams raises the most money every year. There’s a prize for that.”
Wendy didn’t lift her gaze from the menu. “It’s my chocolate-apple Bundt cake. It’s an old family recipe.”
Drew made a sound of agreement. Wendy’s superior baking talent wasn’t news. Her Bundt cake always sold out.
Lola had been chewing the lipstick from her lips. “I’m not a very good cook.”
“With a body like that, who cares how well she bakes?” Iggy whispered to Jason.
Drew scowled at him. He didn’t want Becky to hear talk like that.
His daughter scrambled to her knees on her stool just as Pearl topped off her hot chocolate with more whipped cream.
“I’ll help you.” Bitsy’s congenial tone convinced even Drew that Lola could be a success.
Still, Lola hesitated.
“Can we count on you?” Edith asked a second before Mims opened her mouth, presumably to ask the same thing.
Mims frowned.
There were too many cooks in the Widows Club kitchen. Drew bit back a grin. It was about time someone gave Mims a run for her money.
“Okay. If you’re sure.” Lola turned to go, looking less than excited at the prospect of being included in the bake sale.
She should be happy the widows weren’t blackballing her for that window display.
“I don’t win every year,” Wendy said kindly to Lola as she passed. “You can set up next to me if crowds make you nervous.”
“That’s very kind.” Again Lola’s gaze swept Wendy speculatively.
Drew pressed his lips together to keep from telling her Wendy wasn’t the owner of Randy’s jewelry collection. Wendy was the marrying kind. Everybody knew that. Since she’d come in, Iggy hadn’t given her more than a cursory glance.
“You be good to Scotty,” Pearl said to Lola, exchanging the thermos for Lola’s cash.
The coffee shop quieted. Gazes turned to Norma, Scotty’s widow, who sat frozen in her booth with her oldest teenage daughter, who had a mug of hot chocolate untouched before her.
“Will do.” Lola nodded and left.
“Lola does good work with the dead,” Pearl said into the silence. “Always comes in here for coffee before she starts.”
Drew hadn’t known that. He watched Lola walk across the street in those leggings. No cars screeched to a halt. No men drove their trucks into parked cars. It was a miracle.
When she’d disappeared around the corner, he turned his attention to his coffee cup and protecting his daughter. “Wendy, what are you doing later? Say after three?” Before his daughter could ask what he was doing, Drew added, “There’s a new Disney movie out, and I promised Becky we’d go see it today.” He’d done no such thing, but at the prospect of going to the movies, Becky remained silent.
“I’d love to.” Wendy smiled that gentle smile of hers, the one that said she was no trouble. Ever. “You’ll change, of course,” she said to Becky.
“Why?” Becky jolted upright, flinging a trail of whip from her chin across the counter. “I have clothes on.”
“Because that’s what you do when you go places.” Wendy’s smile never wavered. “You put on clean clothes and make yourself look presentable.”
Drew smiled. Wendy was definitely going to be a good influence on Becky.
Why, she probably knew how to French braid.
Chapter Ten
Lola walked the short block to the Eternal Rest Mortuary.
The past twenty-four hours had been surreal. Randy’s betrayal, the Widows Club fund-raiser, and the two sides of Sheriff Drew Taylor.
After she’d left the farmhouse, she’d parked down by the river, letting a few tears fall. There were fewer tears than the day before because she had clues to help her uncover the truth.
She’d scrutinized the contents of Randy’s keepsake box, committing each piece to memory, breathing in the scent of the near-empty perfume bottle like a bloodhound.
The river rushed by as fast as the unanswered questions streaming through her head. Why had Randy kept such things? He hadn’t saved the ticket stubs from the New York Yankees game they’d attended together. What had Lola meant to him? Why had he taken her pearl ring, and what had he done with it? The pearl ring and her book of dreams were all she had left of Nana, of her promise of true love.
If he’d been alive, she would’ve slapped him and demanded he move out. But he was dead, and the best she could do was slap the steering wheel.
In the midst of her
low, her boss, Augie Bruce, had called to say Scotty Eastlake’s body was ready for her services. Never mind that it was Sunday; working on a silent client was just what Lola needed to center herself.
She entered the mortuary through the back door, relieved to have escaped the microscope of the coffee shop. In Sunshine, she was the oddity. Most people didn’t understand her. Most people didn’t want to try. From the day Augie had hired Lola, she’d been judged on the quality and compassion of her work, not the city she was born in or the way she dressed. She hurried down the back stairs to the basement, entering the preparation room and nearly running into her boss.
“You didn’t have to come in on a Sunday.” Augie’s round features and bald pate were tan from keeping up the grounds. In addition to managing the mortuary gardens and cemetery, he did the embalming, while his wife, Rowena, ran the front office. “I only let you know I’d finished with Scotty so you’d know what you had on your plate on Monday.”
“I needed a break.” Lola put on plastic gloves and took shallow breaths. The nose-burning scent of embalming fluid still lingered. She opened a small window and then placed a hand on her client’s firm shoulder. “Hello, Scotty.”
She hadn’t known the deceased personally but she knew of him. It was hard to live in Sunshine and not have heard of most people in town at one point or another. Scotty had been a house painter who’d commuted to Greeley for work. He hadn’t seen the semitruck that hit him at the same intersection where Randy had been killed. No, she hadn’t known Scotty, but Lola understood him. He wanted to look his best for his final farewell with his family and friends.
“Are you still okay covering for us in a few weeks?” Augie asked. His daughter was graduating from college in Denver.
“Of course.” There’d be little to do unless someone died.
“Good. I left you Scotty’s file on the counter.” Augie shed his gloves but not his compassionate expression. He cared about the people he served in the basement. They were his friends, his neighbors. “The file has photos from his wife and an article the Sunshine Valley Weekly did on Scotty two years ago. I put his wedding ring back on, but we haven’t received his suit yet. Let me know if you need anything.” He left her, closing the door behind him.
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