“Why don’t we walk a little further while they do their recon?” Roman suggests. “There’s gotta be a deli or something around here. I’m gonna need more than a package of nuts.”
He’s a man after my own heart. I could use a bowl of soup and a salad. Or a sandwich. Not a protein bar.
“Sounds like a plan. We’ll catch up with you.”
Sage’s expression is uneasy, so I smile reassuringly at her before I push open the door and drag her inside.
Chapter 12
Thyme
So, this is a bad situation. Victor and I are sitting side by side at a small, round table in a slightly less-small square room. The receptionist is standing on the other side of the table, pointing a gun more or less at a spot between my right shoulder and Victor’s left. He and I are holding hands under the table, and mine is damp with sweat.
As unnerving as this is—and, believe me, it’s extremely unnerving to be looking at the business end of a firearm—I am heartened to see that the receptionists’ hands are steady and, as far as I can tell, dry. That’s one bright spot. If she shoots one of us, it’s likely to be on purpose and not the result of accidentally firing or panicking or something.
Maybe that’s not a bright spot so much as a slightly less grim spot. But, I focus on it anyway.
I’m about to ask her what her name is, in part to break the silence and in part so I can attach a name to the person holding us at gunpoint. But as I open my mouth to form the question, the door swings open.
The receptionist flattens herself against the wall to make room for Alexis Pridemore, D.D.S., who squeezes past her and takes the seat across from us.
“That’ll be all, Mandy.”
Mandy blinks and flashes her boss a surprised look. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Mr. Jacobs is due in for his cleaning in ten minutes. I need you at your station to greet him and get him started on his paperwork.”
“Um, right. Of course.”
She sidles behind the chair and heads for the door.
Oh good, she’s taking the gun.
“Mandy, leave the gun.”
The receptionist wordlessly passes the weapon to the dentist. I hold my breath during the transfer. I assume—or at least, hope—the safety is engaged. But I don’t really want to find out the hard way.
Mandy leaves, pulling the door silently shut behind her. Doctor Pridemore examines the gun for a few seconds before dropping it into the big patch pocket of her white lab coat. Then she leans back in her chair and looks at me and Victor, silently sizing us up.
While she’s checking us out, I give her the once-over, too. She’s probably in her early forties with dark, glossy hair that hits her shoulders and wide-set eyes. She’s wearing a chunky red-pink color necklace and matching bracelet that look like they came out of the display case in her waiting room.
She smiles, and even though I’m expecting a set of pearly whites, the gleam of her teeth is otherworldly. I’ll bet she uses that charcoal toothpaste, too.
Focus, I chide myself.
“So, what am I going to do with the two of you?”
It’s clear this is a rhetorical question, so I keep my yap shut. I think I’ve done enough talking, what with the ‘I’m her granddaughter’ story that landed us in this pickle.
Victor, however, leans forward and stares intensely at the dentist. “I suggest you let us go.”
She snorts. “Yeah, not happening. Your wife, girlfriend, whatever she is—”
“Fiancée.”
“How sweet. Your fiancée here impersonated my deceased patient’s granddaughter. I’d like to know why.”
Victor cuts his eyes toward me. I know what he’s asking, but I don’t have a good answer. Can we trust her? Probably not. But do we have a choice? Probably not.
“That’s a fair question, Dr. Pridemore.”
“Oh, call me Alexis. You’re not patients, after all.” Her breezy tone belies the grim truth of our situation.
“Alexis, then. Okay, it’s true that I’m not your patient’s granddaughter.”
She circles her hand through the air in a clear instruction to speed it up.
“But I am Thyme Field. Your patient, whoever she really is, stole my identity. She was using my name and Social Security Number, and I’d like to know why.” I echo her words back to her.
She’s good, Alexis Pridemore is. I’m watching her face, ready to note any reaction. If I weren’t, I would have missed it. She blinks, twice, but her expression never changes. After a silent moment, she shrugs.
“That’s unfortunate—for you. But the good news for me is that you’re already dead. That’s how you ended up here, right? Your name’s been added to the Death Index, and you’re as good as a ghost. Which means, if you die, it won’t register as so much as a blip. I mean, aside from with your fiancé here. But his grief will be short-lived, as it were.” She cackles at her pun, and it’s a stark reminder of the gun weighing down her pocket.
“Sure, you could kill us,” Victor agrees in a casual tone. Under the table, he’s tightening his grip on my hand. “And Thyme’s death might be easy to conceal, given the situation. But mine won’t. I’m a reporter on assignment. My editor knows where I am, and she’ll be concerned if I don’t file a story by five o’clock.”
This time, the dentist’s mask slips. Her cheeks hollow out as she sucks in a breath. Time to land a one-two punch.
I nod. “And we’re traveling with a police detective. He knows we’re in this building right now, meeting with you. Your choices aren’t quite as wide as you’d like to believe.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Suit yourself.”
She stares at me. I can see her mouth working. She’s gnawing on the inside of her lower lip—worried now.
Good.
Finally, she says, “Well. This isn’t good. If you’ll excuse me, I need to make some calls.”
She pushes back her chair and removes the gun from her pocket, training it on us as she edges her way toward the door. She exits quickly.
Victor’s halfway out of his seat before the door’s completely closed, but the sound of a lock clicking into place drains the speed out of his movements.
Still, he walks over to the door and jiggles the knob. It’s no use. We’re locked in.
Chapter 13
Sage
The man behind the counter is explaining the snowflake system to Rosemary. It’s clear he’s skating over the details, giving her a sketchy, incomplete description of how this convoluted local bartering program works.
“But you do also accept cash and credit cards, right?”
She turns toward me and arches an eyebrow. She’s asked this question three times now. He keeps not hearing it. I’m beginning to think it’s intentional.
He huffs out a breath, and I figure maybe I should try to get an answer.
I pitch my voice sweet and high, girlish and maybe a little bit helpless. I’m not proud of it, and I would never model the behavior in front of Skylar and Dylan. But Rosemary isn’t getting anywhere.
“Sir? We’re asking because we’re obviously not from here. We’re just passing through, and we wanted to get that … um … banana slicer for our sister. She’s getting married tomorrow.” Maybe. Possibly. Probably not.
“Ordinarily, sure. We don’t get a lot of outsiders, but I can take payment from you. To tell you the truth, though, today’s the First Friday Frenzy, so I really shouldn’t. Besides, you’ll get better deals if you go to the frenzy.”
Rosemary shoots me a look that asks ‘what the heck is the First Friday Frenzy,’ as if I have some secret knowledge that she lacks. I shrug, and ask the clerk.
“And what’s the frenzy? Sorry.” I throw in a ditzy giggle.
“Oh, right. You’re not from here. So, all this stuff is here on commission.” He waves a hand over the display.
“Like in a resale store?”
“Exactly. All the stores in town operate this way. And w
e all take snowflakes as well as, uh, regular payment.”
Rosemary’s eyes narrow, a sure sign that wheels are turning under her blonde topknot of hair. “So, the address listed under the price—is that where the consignor lives?”
“You got it, girlie!” He seems almost giddy at the fact that we’re finally catching on.
“And the frenzy?” I reel him back to the question at hand.
“Right. So the first Friday of every month, starting at three o’clock, there’s a … well, it’s like a neighbor festival or community yard sale, I guess. Everyone rolls up their garage doors and sells their stuff at home. There’s music and food and drink, and everyone slashes their asking prices. It’s a party atmosphere. So, if you see something in a store, like the banana slicer, and the frenzy’s coming up, you wait and buy it then.”
“And today’s the first Friday.”
“Yup.”
I check my watch. “So the frenzy starts in less than an hour?”
His eyes drift to the apple-shaped clock hanging on the wall. “You got it.”
I turn to Rosemary. “So I guess we should go to 16 Frost Court if we want the slicer.”
“But, now, hang on. At the frenzy, it’s snowflakes only. No cash, no credit. It’s simpler for the sellers.”
That makes some sense. I unzip my wallet and dig out a twenty-dollar bill. “What’s the exchange rate? Could you change a twenty for snowflakes?”
A ripple of discomfort crosses his face, but, after a second or two, he shrugs, dismissing it. “Sure, why not. Twenty bucks, let’s see … that’ll get you, uh, thirty snowflakes. The banana slicer is listed at four. Today, Marianne will probably let you have it for three. So you’ll have plenty of snowflakes left to shop around elsewhere.”
“Marianne?”
“Marianne Lewis, at 16 Frost Court. Tell her Trey sent you.” He winks at me and reaches under the counter for a blue zippered vinyl envelope, the kind a person might keep cash in.
I hand over the twenty in exchange for a pile of pure white paper that looks and feels like Monopoly money. I examine one. There’s the black outline of a snowflake in the middle. That’s it. No wording. I assume he’s given me thirty single snowflake bills, but we’ll find out soon enough.
I shove them into the billfold and zip the wallet back up just as Roman and Dave come into view on the street. Roman’s hefting a white bakery bag and giving a thumb’s up sign with his free hand. Perfect timing.
“Well, thanks, Trey, you’ve been really helpful.”
“Sure thing. Maybe I’ll see you girls at the frenzy. Everybody closes up shop early so us merchants can get in on the fun, too.”
“Great. Listen, Trey, do you have a restroom I can use?” Rosemary smiles widely.
“Sure, down that long hallway. The door’s on the left.” He jerks a thumb toward the back of the store.
“I’ll wait outside with the guys,” I tell her. I’m more interested in the contents of that bag in Roman’s hand than I am in using the facilities.
She nods and heads for the bathroom. I smile a goodbye at Trey and walk toward the door, nearly tripping over my untied shoelace.
I crouch to tie it as Trey’s phone rings.
“Kitchen Kookery, this is Trey,” he answers then listens as the person on the other end launches into what seems to be an urgent story. I can hear the high, fast cadence of a woman’s voice, but not the words.
While I’m down here, I untie my other lace and refasten it, tighter. At this point, I might as well wait for Rosemary. And, okay, sure, I’m eavesdropping. I’ll own it.
I stand up and catch Roman’s eye through the window. I hold up a finger—one minute—and then turn and stroll toward the restroom.
“Police detective and a reporter? Identity theft? No, I haven’t seen any detectives. Just a couple of girls passing through, asking how the barter system works …” Trey trails off and looks at me.
My heart thumps. Trey’s caller is asking about us. And judging by Trey’s reaction, it’s not so that they can alert the welcome committee.
“Hey,” he says, resting the phone receiver on his shoulder, “come here for a minute.”
I break into a run and catch Rosemary as she’s opening the bathroom door. I grab her by the elbow and pull her along with me while Trey drops the phone with a clatter and rushes out from behind the counter.
“What the—?” Rosemary begins to protest but, at the sight of the large, red-faced man barreling toward us, she stops mid-sentence and starts trucking along with me.
“I really hope there’s a back door,” I huff.
“Sweet Lord.”
There is. And we burst through it into a narrow, tidy alleyway.
“Left or right?” I shout, scanning in both directions.
“Uh, left?”
Just then, we hear barking coming from the right. Roman, Dave, and Mona Lisa are standing at the end of the alley. The humans are wearing bemused expressions.
“Right,” I counter, and we sprint toward our husbands.
I crane my neck to see if Trey is following us, but he’s standing at the edge of his property, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
I pour on a final burst of speed and launch myself into Roman’s arms when I reach the end of the alley. Beside me, Dave’s catching Rosemary while the dog circles at their ankles.
“What in the name of pastries is going on?” Dave asks.
Chapter 14
Rosemary
Sage and I don’t waste the time trying to explain. We drag the guys (and the dog) around the corner and across the small park.
“Let’s go down there.” I point to a path that curves between two scrubby shrubs. It seems to lead away from the town’s commercial center. I don’t know where it ends up, but away from the shops and the people looking for us works for me. I plunge down the craggy trail.
Dave urges Mona Lisa past the shrubs without so much as a sniff, and Roman and Sage crash along behind us.
Back east, where my sisters and I grew up, most of the mountain trails are wooded, bordered by lush trees and trickling springs. And at the shore, where my parents ran a resort that we’ve taken over, the beach path is dotted with sea grass and beach heather and fragrant blossoming trees. Out in Los Angeles, the scenic canyon trails Dave and I hike are rockier and drier, but not like this.
This path is nothing but dust lined with rocks—towering, dark gray rocks—and clods of dirt. It’s arid and punishing.
So, when we round the second bend and find a slope that leads down to a shimmering blue, manmade lake surrounded by an arc-shaped residential development—colorful detached, single-families houses laid out in a pattern of four nesting horseshoe shapes, each slightly larger than the last, each with a patch of grass and a tree or two—my gasp is one of shock, not of mere surprise.
“What the devil is this place?” Roman says in a low voice.
Sage answers with a shrug. “Mirage, obviously.”
“I don’t think we’ve been out in the desert long enough to see a mirage.” Dave makes this contribution to the conversation in a tone that suggests he thinks Sage is being serious and not a smart aleck.
I clamber down the hill and mount a boulder to squint at the ironwork sign that stretches above the street entrance to the neighborhood. The sign’s design is a clear attempt to match the style of the vintage sign welcoming visitors to Snow City’s small downtown. But this shiny sign is too perfect to be of the same era as the oxidized, weathered one in town. Its newness makes it easy to read the words: ‘Welcome to Winter Lake Village.’
I turn and climb back to the others. “It’s not a mirage. It’s Winter Lake Village.”
“Winter Lake Village,” Sage muses. “Wonder if one of those streets is Frost Court?”
“That’s what I’m thinking, too. Do you still have the pile of mail?”
“Yeah, Thyme only took the letter from the dentist. Why?”
“At least one of those cata
logues has a forwarding sticker with her address on it, right?” I recall the yellow label.
“Um, that’s right. Several pieces of mail have those stickers.” She paws through her bag.
“Give me any one.”
She digs out a magazine and presses it into my hands, back side up.
I turn it over to check out the cover. It’s a quarterly for knitting enthusiasts. This is definitely the fake Thyme’s subscription. I turn it back to the address field and gently peel off the yellow sticker that bears Thyme’s New York address. I lift the label from one corner with exquisite care, then I yank it off with a smooth motion.
Sage leans over my shoulder and we stare down at the address I’ve uncovered, the one that’s printed on the magazine: Thyme M. Field, 24 Holly Branch Court, Snow City, Arizona. Despite my care, I’ve ripped off most of the original zip code with the label. But it hardly matters. I’m willing to bet … all my snowflakes … that Holly Branch Court and Frost Court are two of the four manicured streets clustered in Winter Lake Village.
The wind picks up, and I shiver. Until now, adrenaline and exertion have kept me warm. But standing still, up on this rock outcropping, with the breeze coming off the lake, I’m reminded that I may be in the Arizona desert, but this is the cold desert climate.
I stamp my feet to get the blood flowing again. “Come on. Let’s go find Thyme’s house.”
We slip through the gate and split up. Four of us, four streets. I run to the center of the development, the smallest arcing street and check the sign: Icicle Court.
I jog to the next street and bump into Roman at the entrance. He’s pointing his thumb behind him. “That’s it.”
I wave my arms overhead, and Dave and Sage head toward us. The four of us cluster at the entrance to Holly Branch Court and catch our breath. Mona Lisa strains on her leash, interested in the lake.
“So, this is the street. Now what?” Sage asks.
Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding Page 6
