by Linda Lovely
If I hadn’t known Amber was a detective, I doubted I’d have intuited her occupation. She was beautiful enough to be a model. I immediately upbraided myself for the stereotype. Why shouldn’t a woman detective be gorgeous? Still I wondered if she wore her long hair loose like that on the job. Did detectives need to worry about someone pulling their hair in a tussle?
To make sure my renters had no problems before I took off on a second shopping excursion, I decided to give them ten minutes. They only needed five to give their bags a heave-ho and take off again. I scooped the keys to my Prius off the table as soon as they cleared the drive.
TWENTY-SIX
When I returned to Summer Place with five more bags of cooking staples, my driveway was filled to capacity—Ursula’s rental plus two trucks.
Why were Andy and Paint both here? I parked on the street careful to ensure I was more than ten feet from the Medley driveway. I’d witnessed Janice’s back-out skills. Though she maneuvered her car at a snail’s pace, she still had an uncanny knack for bumping into stationary objects like mailboxes and parked cars.
“Hey, how about some help with the groceries?” I called as I headed to the sunporch toting two of my canvas grocery bags. Andy looked up and grinned. He was busy screwing something into the porch frame near the door.
“Be right there,” he said.
“What gives? Are we double-dating tonight?” I asked as he abandoned whatever he was up to and hurried to my car.
“I wish,” he answered as he grabbed the remaining three bags and headed toward the porch.
“Paint and I went in together on a little surprise.” He beamed. “Follow me inside and all will be revealed.”
“Uh, okay.” I could see Paint through one of the sunporch’s glass panels. He was hunched over, concentrating on a laptop. I wasn’t shocked at seeing either Andy or Paint inside a room I’d carefully locked. Since the men helped with renovation chores and hauled supplies in their trucks, they both had keys to the substantial lock on Summer Place’s front door as well as skeleton keys for the porch.
“You’re too early for dinner,” I commented as Paint looked up.
“I heard the early-bird gets the—” he started.
Andy interrupted. “Best not finish. I know you’re a worm.”
“So what gives?” I repeated.
“Those idiots breaking in to trash your kitchen worried us,” Paint said. “So we bought you a real deadbolt lock for this side door and—”
“And a combo doorbell camera and motion sensor,” Andy finished. “Now if you’re in the kitchen and someone comes to the door, you’ll get an alert on your phone.”
“Yep, and you can see who’s there,” Paint added. “The motion sensor activates the camera even if the troublemaker doesn’t ring the doorbell.”
“Since the place is empty a lot, we’ll put an app on your phone—our phones, too. We’ll all get alerts,” Andy said. “Whoever is closest can check it out.”
“So you think you’re entitled to know about every Tom and Dick who comes calling?” I tried for a sly smile.
“Yeah, right, like you have secrets,” Paint laughed. “Sorry, Brie, your love life’s an open book. Between the two of us and Eva, you have about a minute a day that’s not accounted for.”
“I might surprise you,” I quipped.
A loud knock prompted the three of us to turn in unison. We’d been so busy oohing and ahhing over the technology and ribbing each other, we failed to notice the arrival of visitors—and they were in plain view less than six feet away. I opened the door with its new dead bolt and invited Ursula and Amber inside. My “beaus” weren’t shy about checking out the curvy young arrival.
“Hope we’re not interrupting,” Ursula said. “We heard the laughter and saw the trucks. Thought we’d see if we were missing a party.”
“Paint and Andy, I’d like you to meet Ursula Billings and Amber…” I paused for a second when I realized I didn’t know Amber’s last name and couldn’t introduce her as Ursula’s daughter. “Amber is Ursula’s friend from Miami,” I added.
“Nice to meet you,” Amber and Ursula said in unison. Then Amber looked at her mother and smiled.
“My last name is Royer,” Amber said. “Ursula and I aren’t just friends, we’re related.”
Ah ha. Sounded as if that walk in the botanical gardens had resolved at least one issue. While Amber hadn’t exactly announced Ursula was her mother, the fact of a genealogical bond was no longer under wraps. Did that mean Amber knew the truth about her father and was weighing the pros and cons of making that information public?
“I noticed the camera doorbell,” Amber said. “Is it new? I installed one on my condo door. Cops can’t be too careful these days.”
“You’re a policeman…er police officer?” Paint asked.
Amber nodded. “A detective with the Miami Police. Just here to visit my mom.”
Hmm, she finally said it, called Ursula her mom.
“You two are staying in that rundown excuse for a building out back?” Paint asked. “Sorry, Brie, some truths hurt.”
Ursula smiled. “I’d describe it as rustic rather than rundown. I had to twist Brie’s arm to let us stay.”
“I agreed to the rental before someone broke in and trashed my kitchen,” I added. “Andy and Paint, can we put that app on Ursula’s or Amber’s phone? If someone comes prowling around I’d feel better if they got an alert, too. Anyone headed to the cottage would almost have to walk past this door. The overgrown jungle on the other side of the house doesn’t offer much room to maneuver. Does the camera have a wide enough angle to see beyond the stoop?”
“Take a look.” Paint swiveled his computer screen so I could see.
“That’s really clear.” I was amazed at the view. “But what would the camera see at night with all the lights out?”
“It has night vision,” Amber answered. “I’ve been surprised how clear the pictures are. I carry a gun, but forewarning is always a good thing.” She handed her cell phone to Paint. “Ursula, do you want the app on your phone, too?”
“No way. I don’t want one more app on my phone. They’re time sinkholes. Make a quick check on the weather and ten minutes later I’m studying drought maps for Timbuktu. Think I’ll head back to the cottage and start making our chef’s salad. Thanks for the groceries, Brie.”
As the mother and daughter walked away, I turned to my supposed boyfriends. “You can haul your tongues back in.” I laughed. “You did hear Amber say she carries a gun.”
Paint shook his head. “That only makes her more interesting. But you know my heart’s taken. Well, until tomorrow, when I’m free to date, and Andy is up to bat for—are you really going to make me say it?—a week of Animal Passion.”
Paint hung his head as if in great sorrow. Then he popped up, eyes round. “Say, you wouldn’t mind if I asked Amber out tomorrow, would you?”
He laughed as I punched his arm. He was kidding, wasn’t he?
“Give me your phone, love,” Paint said. “Let’s finish getting this set up.”
Ten minutes later, I’d tested the app with Andy and Paint making stealth passes to figure the motion detector’s range. Impressive.
“Thank you both.” I kissed Paint’s cheek and shook Andy’s hand. “Saving your kiss for tomorrow, Andy.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Since I couldn’t use my run-down cottage’s postage-stamp shower, I headed to Udderly to get cleaned up. At a minimum, Paint deserved a date who smelled good and wore clean clothes.
Eva hadn’t phoned to warn me about barbarians at the gate, so I was dismayed to find our farm entrance blocked again by a ragtag army of picketers. There were about fifteen True Believer demonstrators. Women outnumbered the men two to one. All adults today.
They’d arrived in an eclectic collection of vehicles. A couple o
f junker cars, a shiny new Cadillac, a Prius twin to my own car, and three trucks. The caravan had once again parked on the verge opposite the gate. That meant only humans blocked the entrance, no large hunks of metal forming a barricade.
As I approached my turn, I noticed the mud-caked license plate of the last truck in the makeshift parking lot. Not a single one of its digits readable. Could it be the big truck Mrs. Medley spotted at Summer Place the night before my tasting? The night I felt certain someone poisoned my chocolate mousse.
I slowed my car even more, gawking in hopes of seeing who owned the rust bucket. Unfortunately, no one loitered near the suspect truck. The picketers formed an amoeba-like mass in front of the gate. Though this crowd was smaller than yesterday’s, their faces appeared more hostile. Then again maybe I was projecting. I felt more hostile. Spending hours removing the graffiti in my kitchen and tapping my dwindling bank account to replace foodstuffs hadn’t enhanced my mood.
Sour sweetbreads! I forgot to replace the dead batteries in my clicker gizmo again.
Now I’d have to drive up to the squawk box and roll down my window to punch in the code. Just great. Today’s spitters would have my arms and face as a target for their loogies. Double yuck.
In theory, our gate keypad—like all drive-up service windows and banking ATMs—provided easy access to the driver of any vehicle. Ha! Maybe, if you were six-feet tall, drove an SUV, and had guerilla-length arms. Me? Most of the time I had to unbuckle my seatbelt, open the car door, and hang outside like I was counterbalancing a heeling catamaran. Even then my fingers sometimes failed to reach the keypad.
I scooted the Prius inch-by-inch toward the gate. A large woman, who looked like she could qualify for a women’s wrestling team, made it her mission to block my squeeze play. No way could I maneuver my car close enough to reach the keypad from the relative safety of my vehicle.
I sighed. Show no fear. It’ll only encourage them. Spit washes off.
I took a deep breath, flung the car door open, jumped out, and took two giant steps to reach the squawk box.
The wrestler didn’t speak. She did sort of grunt as she poked me with a sign that read: “Hell-Bound Hookers.” I assumed the message was meant to inform me my evil deeds would cast me into hell for eternity. I thought it had less the sting of a biblical curse and more the ring of a Westward Ho slogan. Hookers, hell-bound for glory! Since the woman’s prod was gentle, I resisted the temptation to grab the cardboard and shove it someplace that wrestling holds weren’t allowed. I debated contorting my features, sticking out my tongue, and crossing my eyes. But Mom always warned me I’d be sorry if my face froze in that position. Instead I awarded my jiggling nemesis a smile and a queenly wave.
That made her and her cohorts even madder. A clutch of screaming women instantly surrounded the wrestler. Interestingly, the men seemed to tarry at the back. Among the scowling female faces the one I locked onto fit Eva’s description of Jeannie Nickles, the pastor’s wife and Toomey’s mother-in-law. Unlike her companions, she appeared amused, like this was all good fun. Surely there couldn’t be another True Believer who looked like she’d hand you a bag of chocolate chip cookies to snack on during your presumed trip to hell.
I sucked in a sharp breath as Jeannie, the sweet old lady imposter, awarded me a sly smile. If I believed in witchcraft, I might nominate this woman for a trial.
My heart galumphed like I was running the last mile of a triathlon. Get me out of here.
A sepulcher groan finally announced the gates had decided to swing open. I jumped back in my car. I would have loved to stamp on the gas and plough through the crowd. Jeannie’s rosy cheeks and saccharin smile gave me the willies. I stymied the urge and inched the car forward like an octogenarian sea turtle.
Maybe I’d stay up all night to avoid sleep and possible nightmares featuring Jeannie Nickles, the pleasantly plump grandma drowning newborn kittens. I was pretty sure Paint would be more than happy to keep me company all the way through to dawn.
I spotted Eva and Gerri, Udderly’s new full-time employee, laughing and jawboning as I parked.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” I grumbled as I exited the car. “If I’d known we still had demonstrators, I might have remembered to put new batteries in my clicker.”
Eva and Gerri laughed harder. “Here we thought your exit-the-car routine was pure bravado. You’re ruining your image. You certainly riled that crowd. They’ve been pretty docile all day. Acted like a bunch of placid cows chewing their cud.”
The picture Eva painted made me smile, then chuckle. Laughter was always an excellent blow-off-steam option after fear spiked my adrenalin. And Jeannie Nickles and her compatriots had definitely awakened my fight or flight response.
Eva glanced at her watch. “Hey, aren’t you entertaining Paint at Summer Place tonight? If so, you’d better head straight to the showers ’cause that’s my next stop after Gerri and I finish. And you’d better not use up all the hot water.”
She turned to Gerri. “Brie has a talent for getting in hot water with or without any aid from our plumbing.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I lit tapered candles. Since I’d yet to return the crystal and fine china I’d borrowed from Mom for the tasting, I decided to use them one more time. The porch table’s sparkling water goblets, wine glasses, and Wedgwood china looked elegant. Thank heavens the kitchen vandals had been satisfied with spray painting appliances and stealing food. Had they taken Mom’s china and crystal I’d be heartbroken.
A deep-throated engine made its driveway entrance. Paint had arrived. Well, at least I hoped the engine powered Paint’s ride and not the behemoth with a mud-caked license plate I’d noticed across from the Udderly picket line.
“Hello, beautiful,” Paint called as the porch door swung open. “You know this lock only protects if you use it...”
Yowzer. Sometimes Paint’s good looks sucked the air right out of my lungs. His thick black hair glistened. The laugh lines bracketing his mocha eyes offset the smoldering intensity of his gaze. Then there was that danged dimple. His broad shoulders challenged the seams of his sport jacket, while the pale blue shirt open at the collar revealed an inviting sliver of bronzed chest.
Paint put down the bottle of wine he’d brought and wrapped me in his arms. The kiss wasn’t a quick howdy. He might have been passionately welcoming me home from a long, dangerous trip. Paint’s kisses always spelled danger.
When the kiss eventually ended, my mind was mush. What had Paint said when he walked in? Ah, yes, something about remembering to lock doors.
“I knew you’d be here any minute. Didn’t imagine there’d be much time for bandits to rush in ahead of you. Besides I now have that early warning system you and Andy installed. If I’d been busy in the kitchen, my phone would have alerted me.”
“Okay, I’ll give you a pass this time. But please keep the danged door locked.”
Paint closed his eyes and inhaled. “Smells great! Whatever you’ve been busy concocting is making my stomach do can’t-wait cartwheels. Guess I didn’t have to stop for that burger on the way over after all.”
I punched Paint’s arm. “You didn’t really?”
“No, I didn’t.” He kissed me again. “Didn’t stop at the drugstore for poison antidotes either.”
“Then I guess we’ll both have to live dangerously. Our salad course is ready. I’ll serve it while you open the wine. You can even choose which plate you get. I have only one request. Let’s focus on cheerful topics over dinner. No mention of Harriett, lawsuits, True Believers, or vandals. Okay?”
“Fine by me.” Paint grinned. “You’re giving me permission to bore you with whisky distilling small talk and dazzle you with my entrepreneurial skills. Ta da. Just lined up another Lowcountry investor, and I’m about to close on an ideal spot for my Charleston-area distillery.”
“Bravo.” We clinked glasses. “You are a
wesome. I have absolute faith in your entrepreneurial wizardry. I’m so happy for you. It’s a huge undertaking, expanding your product line and your territory at the same time.”
Paint frowned. “There is one downside. It means I’ll be spending a lot more time in Charleston, away from the Upstate, and, more specifically, away from you. But I promised we’d only talk about happy things.”
A hint of panic made it tough to swallow the wine I’d just sipped. I sensed Paint was picking at the edges of what was really on his mind. Was he planning to end our relationship? Blame it on the cruelty of a geographic divide? Admittedly it would be hard to plan Brewing Trouble weeks if Paint was tied up in Charleston, a four-hour drive from Ardon County.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
I leapt up to clear the salad plates and bring in the main course—a Portobello Stack. The vegetable tower had grilled Portobello mushrooms for its structural base. Layered above were candied carrots, sautéed zucchini, caramelized onions, and fried green tomatoes. A rich cashew sauce meandered its way down the sides of the tower.
“It looks too pretty to eat,” Paint said. “Well, almost.”
As he took his first taste, I purposely shifted the conversation away from Paint’s mention of long Lowcountry absences. Sooner or later Paint would return to the topic. He was a master of timing. He’d know when to make his declaration. He’d probably just tossed in a hint about our inevitable separation to start the idea percolating in my mind. I felt certain he’d had ample break-up experience and knew how to deal with discarded girlfriends’ sobs. Best to leave the break-up—if that’s what it would be—to the shank of the evening.
Fine by me. I was into postponing sobs.
I tried for my cheeriest tone. “Were you shocked to hear Mollye and Danny got engaged?”
