by Meera Lester
“Why do you say that?” asked Abby.
“Just that it’s always so peaceful here.”
Resisting the urge to detail her harrowing night, she asked a pressing question. “And where did you sleep last night?”
“In my truck at the downtown park.”
“Well, that’s just weird. Why did you do that?”
“Lost track of time playing darts at the Black Witch with some of the guys.” He groaned. “We drank way too much whiskey. Somebody—I don’t recall his name—gave me a lift back to my truck. I couldn’t drive. I figured it was safer to stay put.”
“Why didn’t you just park in front of the bar on Main Street?”
“The downtown was packed. No space on Main, and all the action seemed to originate in that downtown park. Leastways, that’s where the drinking started . . . at the booths set up to get people interested in going over to the fair. Guess the fair has almost wrapped up its run. Anyway, one of the booths promoted local wine and cheese. They hook you on the samples and urge you to go to the fair, pay the entrance fee, and buy quantities of the wine and cheese you liked.”
“Uh-huh. So you had cheese and a drop of wine, and they convinced you to buy the wineglass etched with the chamber of commerce logo before you could sample more. Am I right?”
“Somethin’ like that.” He rubbed a sandpaper cheek and changed the subject. “Any coffee left?” he asked, then darted into the kitchen before she could even answer.
Abby had expected him to be bruising for an argument, but he seemed to be in a cheery mood. How nice. She sank deeper into the chair and rocked. He hadn’t bothered to inquire about how she’d slept. Oh, that’s right. It’s always all about you, isn’t it, Clay? And you probably haven’t got a clue how tired I am of dealing with your crap.
Her gaze swept across the lawn, past the citrus trees, all the way out to where the white climbing rose scampered up the six-foot chain-link fence and spilled over with thick sprays of blooms. The perfusion of rose blooms partially blocked the view into the wooded acre behind her property. Where the rose ended, the chicken run stretched to the henhouse. It, too, obscured a section of the back fence. Past the chickens’ house and run, the fence began again with a metal gate that opened between the two properties. There had never been a need to lock that gate. As she stared at it, Abby figured Dak Harmon must have checked it out and known he could easily slip onto her property from the rear. And showing up at three thirty in the morning could have been a calculation against being seen.
Her attention shifted back to Clay, who had strolled onto the patio and had taken a seat to sip his mug of coffee. “Nice to finally have some time together,” he said. “What do you think of your master bath?”
“I love it.” That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? When you do something for someone else, it’s never out of the goodness of your heart, but for the adulation you receive. I get that now.
“Don’t worry about ever paying me back. I’ll think of something. It’s ready to use,” Clay said, grinning. “I’ve been thinking about getting a piece of teak to wrap around the top edge of the tub. I can cut a track and install a glass enclosure so water spray won’t hit the floor.”
“Sounds lovely,” Abby said, thinking that although teak and glass would add a level of elegance, it seemed so unnecessary for such a small bathroom. She knew if she said anything about his idea, he’d take offense, see it as an affront to his creativity, so she said nothing else about it.
“Teak and glass will have to wait.” Clay’s expression darkened. He turned to look at the rose on the back fence.
“Why?” Abby asked, wondering what had caused his whole demeanor to shift. Maybe she hadn’t waxed effusive enough with her compliments.
A corner of his mouth drew up slightly, the way it always did when he found something difficult to say. “You know I’d never knowingly hurt you, Abby, right?”
She drilled him with a questioning look. “Suppose so. Why? What’s going on?”
“When I came here, I thought things were going to be just like the old times. We were always good together. But you’ve changed. Most days, you’re gone.”
“But I tell you when I’m going and where. And when I come back, I tell you what I’ve been doing. My friend Fiona was murdered. When a victim’s family is grieving and needs help, I’m not the type of person to turn my back to them.”
“Yeah.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I guess I was fooling myself, thinking it would be like before between us. It’s true what they say. You really can’t go back. It’s never the same.”
“Oh, come on, Clay. You know as well as I do, relationships take time and effort . . . by both parties.”
“And that’s my point exactly.” His expression hardened. “So why do I feel like I am a party of one? You’re not the way you used to be.”
“Why do you say that?” Abby asked, her fingers tightening around the coffee mug.
“You really want to know?” He eyed her suspiciously. “It used to be that you were always here, working next to me on the house or in the gardens. Now you are never here. Don’t make time for me. I’ve even had to hire a day laborer just to help get that master bath to where it is.”
“I didn’t ask you to build me a master bath.”
“No, you didn’t. I was doing it out of the kindness of my heart.”
Abby tensed, swallowed her retort. Yeah, right.
“I thought it would be nice if we built something new together, and not just that bathroom.”
Abby stared at him. If he was trying to sound hurt, it had come across like sarcasm. How dare you pick a fight so it seems like your imminent departure is my fault? Unable to hold her frustration inside, Abby said, “You better take a picture of the tub before you go, because I am moving it out to repair the wiring. I heard arcing in the wall when I turned on the jets. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to electrocute me.”
“Oh, come on. Are you accusing me of trying to kill you?”
“The alternative is to think that in your haste to get recognition, you aren’t careful. Think back, Clay, to when I first bought the place and all the neighbors came round to marvel at your work in the kitchen. Then one morning I went to make coffee and barely missed being buried under the light soffit when it fell from the kitchen ceiling. Apparently, after all the compliments, you’d forgotten to finish screwing it in place. The soffit and the tub are like our relationship—both presentations that serve some obscure purpose of yours but are never meant to be permanent. Well, Clay, hear this. In my world, I need things to function correctly. The soffit didn’t. The tub isn’t. And we’re not.”
He glared at her and set his mug down harder than necessary on the glass patio table. “Forget it. I guess we’re beyond talking things through.” He exhaled heavily.
Pushing a wayward strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear, Abby mustered her last bit of strength to return his stare. “You know what . . . ? Just go. I don’t need this.”
His expression seemed grim. “Fine.”
Abby looked away; she reminded herself that two couldn’t argue if one left. After standing up and stilling the rocker, she started for the kitchen.
Clay reached out and clamped his hand on her forearm. “You never loved me.”
“And you never loved me. Honestly, Clay, I’m tired of playing nice, of tap-dancing around your moods all the time, hoping I haven’t said something that’s going to set you off. I don’t want to live my life that way.” She looked at him coolly. “So go, already. Texas this time . . . right?”
His dark eyes registered surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“You shouldn’t surf the Net, looking for your next conquest, Clay, when you’ve just convinced the person lying beside you that she’s the one that rocks your world. She’s the one you love.”
His lips thinned into a tight line.... Eyes imparted hurt and hostility. He released his grip on her arm.
> Abby summoned all the strength within her. “Just go. We’re done here.” She marched back to the kitchen to put her mug in the sink. Holding on to the counter with a white-knuckled grip, she struggled to remain resolute.
Through the open slider, he called out, “Fine. I can make it to Los Angeles in eight hours, two more to Phoenix. I’d like a shower before taking off . . . if that’s okay with you.”
“Be my guest. Clean towels are on top of the washer.” Abby busied herself with rinsing the mug and then placing it on the top shelf of the dishwasher.
Clay grabbed a towel. “Why are you so mad?”
“I’m not,” Abby shot back. “I’m worn out by what happened here last night, when you were doing whatever you were doing in town.”
“What happened?”
“Someone tried to kill me. Did you not notice that the bedroom window has been shot out?” She turned to look at him. His expression registered shock.
After a pause, he shot back, “And yet you keep involving yourself with criminal investigations, like you are still a cop.” He slammed the bathroom door.
Abby exhaled heavily. Yeah, that’s right. Make it my fault. Easier to look into the mirror then, isn’t it?
Fifteen minutes later, he reappeared in the living room, where Abby sat curled on the couch, sorting packets of seed she’d saved over the winter in labeled envelopes. He had towel dried his hair, shaved, and dressed in khakis, a narrow leather belt with a sleek silver buckle, brown lace-up oxfords, and a tomato-colored polo shirt with a Ralph Lauren label. After stashing his dirty clothes in a white plastic bag, he hoisted it under his arm and carried it, along with his suitcase and laptop bag, out the front door to his truck.
With both anger and sadness surging inside, Abby watched him leave the house. He still had the power to hurt her. And even if they couldn’t be a couple, the bonds they’d formed long ago were proving stronger than she had realized. She placed the seed packets in the small cardboard box, rose, and strolled out to the front porch, with Sugar by her side. Her eyes burned, threatening tears, but she fought against them.
In the gravel driveway, Clay slammed his truck door and walked back toward her. His dark eyes locked onto hers; the scent of his soft cologne permeated the air. He stood in front of her, his expression dark and pouty. “Guess this is it.” His tone sounded husky and slightly hostile.
Her chest tightened; her stomach twisted into knots. “Yes,” she said. After a pause, she added, “Whatever it is you are seeking, I hope you find it. I think we know it was never me or the farmette.”
He stared at the tassels on his brown oxfords. When he lifted his gaze to look at her again, his eyes shimmered. “Take care of yourself, Miss Abby Mac.” He swung himself up into his truck and started the engine. A moment later, he drove away . . . out of her life.
* * *
When Kat called in mid-afternoon to see if Abby might want to come into town and meet her for coffee, Abby declined. She hadn’t moved for hours after watching the dust settle in her driveway. She had not expected the deluge of tears after Clay had gone nor the conflicting feelings that had emerged after her tears dried. Feeling vulnerable and exposed, she had no desire beyond sheltering herself in solitude and the company of her chickens and bees and Sugar’s unconditional love.
“Not today,” Abby said.
“It’s because of what happened last night, isn’t it? Word of the shooting at your place is all over town. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am . . . or, at least, I will be,” Abby said, eyes misting up again. She sniffed.
“I heard you were there alone when Dak Harmon tried to kill you.” Kat took a big breath and let it go. “Why wasn’t Clay there? Of all nights, where was he?”
“He didn’t want to get a DUI. He told me that he spent the night in his truck in the downtown park.”
“And that would be a lie. Sorry to be so blunt.”
“I know,” Abby said. “He should have come up with something a little more creative. Everybody knows about that fence going up around that park when the town hosts the fair. The irony is that if he’d waited one more night, the fair would have been over, the booths in the park dismantled, and the fence taken down.” Abby cleared her throat. “He probably met someone. Oh, well. It’s a moot point now.”
“How so?”
“He has gone. This time to Texas.”
“You sad?”
“A little. But my heart gets lighter when I see that new master bath he built. Honestly, Kat, it tops any bathroom you might see in a fancy magazine.”
“And I still haven’t seen it. Don’t know when I can get there again, though. The heat has turned up on Fiona’s case now that Harmon is in the slammer. We’ve got ballistics going over the gun and casings.”
“Anything from the motorcycle in the mountain garage that Gus Morales is repairing? I’ve been thinking how tidy it could be for the case if that tire tread matched the partial tire print at the scene of Fiona’s burning car.”
“Uh-oh,” said Kat. “Hold on, Abby. The chief is calling me. I swear that man has eyes and ears in the back of his head.”
Abby waited while Kat took the other call. When she again picked up the thread of their conversation, Kat’s tone sounded urgent. “I have got to go. Chief wants me to bring Premalatha Baxter in for another interview. Get this. The gun Dak Harmon used to shoot out your window is registered to her.”
“No kidding?” Abby twisted a clump of her hair around a finger as she thought about that development. “Well, you know . . . Premalatha wore a tunic when Jack and I last saw her, and it was hot enough to fry an egg on the hood of my car. Make her push those sleeves up when you get her into that interview room.”
“You think that nicotine patch belonged to her, right? They probably both smoke. Dak had a pack on him when he used you for target practice. And thanks to his stupidity, we’ve got his DNA on the discarded butt he dropped at your back fence.”
“Saliva sample,” said Abby.
“Premalatha denied being a smoker, but we’ll ask her again. Now, Abby, forget about Clay. Get some rest. Sleep, chocolate, and a new man will fix what ails you.”
After hanging up from the call, Abby spent the next half hour stapling screen wire to the exterior of the house, over the hole where the large window used to be. And as an extra measure against any mosquitoes and other insects entering the house, Abby also stapled sheets to the interior wall as temporary curtains. She hadn’t finished pushing in the last staple before her cell phone rang. A neighbor wanted to order three jars each of Abby’s apricot jam and backyard honey—the result of word getting around that both had been judged blue-ribbon winners at the county fair. And the calls didn’t end with that one.
A family who lived a mile north of Dr. Danbury’s place wanted fifty sample jars of farmette honey to give away as favors at their daughter’s upcoming wedding. The cash deal carried a proviso—Abby would be required to deliver the sample jars directly to the home of the bride’s mother. Abby’s excitement mounted as she mentally tallied the income that the wedding order would generate and the potential windfall that might follow if the wedding guests became regular paying customers. But even as the thought of an improved cash flow invigorated her, a sobering thought intruded. Was there honey enough to fill the orders? Abby quickly checked the shelves above the washer and dryer. Eight small jars. Not enough. Next, she removed the lid from the white five-gallon honey bucket on the kitchen counter, but it had been drained until nearly dry.
Abby racked her brain. Who might have extra jars that she could buy back until she could open the hives to see if she might take another frame or two? Abby thought of Smooth Your Groove and Fiona’s botanical shop. The former had been forcibly closed and locked by the health department. That left only Fiona’s stash. And as she recalled, Fiona kept a few jars in her shop and held back the others in the storage shed near her cottage.
“By any chance are you in the cottage?” she ask
ed after Jack answered her call.
“That I am. For the last quarter hour, I’ve been chatting up Paws, the landlord’s long-haired, six-toed kitty. The big boy just invited himself in. Popped up the hole, he did. I’ve put out a tin of fish for him and a bowl of crackers for me. So, what can I do for you?”
“I’m short honey for orders I have to fill. Fiona bought two cases from me. She told me she was going to put out a few jars for sale and stash the rest in her storage shed near the cottage. Could I—”
“Buy it back? No. Come up and get it. That would be spot-on lovely.”
“Could I come now?”
“I’ll put out more crackers,” he said with a chuckle.
“Okay if I bring Sugar?”
“Only if you promise that she doesn’t remember how I previously threw the two of you out.”
Abby laughed. “Don’t know about that. Can’t speak for Sugar.”
After clicking off the call, Abby searched the laundry basket. She pulled out a folded pair of jeans and a pale green T-shirt that still held the scent of fabric softener, slipped out of her work clothes, and put the jeans and T-shirt on. From the guest bath, where she stood in front of the wall mirror, vigorously brushing her hair, she heard her cell phone alerting her to an incoming text. It was from the police chief, saying his wife wanted honey for her church—eight-ounce jars, fifteen total. Abby texted back, I’m on it. If I have enough on hand, I’ll deliver tomorrow.
After nuking a clean, moistened washcloth in the microwave for a few seconds, Abby shook it out, tested the heat, and then draped it over her face. She dried her face with a towel and applied a light foundation, some blusher, a dab of mascara, and a couple of strokes of plum lip gloss. After grabbing a yellow paisley-patterned scarf and a heavily embroidered jeans jacket, she stuffed the pockets with treats for Sugar. She looked approvingly at herself in the armoire mirror before locking the kitchen slider and exiting the house through the front door.
