by Jessa Archer
“Paige says he’s cute. The son, I mean.”
“Cute, yes. In a preppy sort of way. But Andrew has to be at least twenty-one. Probably older. And he’s therefore much, much too old for either of you.”
“Not that much too old, if you follow the rule of half his age plus seven. And historically speaking, even larger age gaps have been socially—”
“Much, much too old for you,” I repeated, cutting off what would almost certainly have been an accurate, but in this case, totally irrelevant history lesson. “And your parents would agree with me.”
I laughed when she gave me an eye roll almost identical to the ones I routinely got from Paige. It was a bit odd actually seeing Delaney’s facial expressions, although I was very much accustomed to chatting with her as I puttered about the kitchen, while Paige and I ate breakfast, and pretty much any other time of the day. Most mornings, Delaney was a chipper, disembodied voice on my daughter’s cell phone. The two of them were best friends when they both lived in California, and despite Delaney’s move to New York City last summer and our move to the Outer Banks of North Carolina a few months ago, the friendship had continued without the slightest hitch.
Paige’s sixteenth birthday was in three days, and she’d begged for an airline ticket for Delaney to visit as her birthday present. The time synced up nicely with their spring breaks, so I’d agreed. We’d traveled up to Norfolk, the closest major airport, the night before to pick her up. I was amazed that either of the girls were up and moving this early, since I’d heard them laughing about something as I finally dozed off a little after midnight.
“Is the guy standing next to Mrs. Whitley the cowboy?” Delaney asked.
“The…what?”
“The cowboy. Paige said that’s what Andrew calls his mom’s boyfriend behind his back. Or maybe he’s his stepdad by now. Although the ranch he worked on had sheep, not cows. Does he look more like a cowboy or a shepherd? The tree is blocking my view.”
“I’ve only seen him at a distance,” I said. “But the word shepherd brings to mind Little Bo Peep for me, and he’s much more like the Marlboro Man.”
Delaney looked a little confused, and I realized the reference almost certainly soared straight over her sixteen-year-old head. The Marlboro Man would have been advertising history years before she and Paige were even born. I was tempted to tell Delaney that her nosy-neighbor act reminded me of Gladys Kravitz on Bewitched, but that was another pop-culture reference that would almost certainly have missed the target, in addition to showing my age in bold neon lights.
She continued looking out the window for a moment, and then said, “Never mind. That’s not him. It’s the police officer. I could only see his hat before, with the tree and Mrs. Whitley in the way. Why do cops wear cowboy hats here, instead of normal police hats like they wear in New York? The type with flat tops. That’s what they wore in Burbank, too.”
“I have no idea,” I told her as I pulled a tray of chocolate croissants out of the oven. “Maybe it’s a southern thing.”
The shower upstairs cut off, signaling that Paige would be down shortly.
“Those croissants smell absolutely divine,” Delaney said.
“Well, they probably won’t be as good as the pastries you’re used to in New York,” I told her. “But they’re pretty darn good for frozen.”
Attila nuzzled closer to Delaney in search of scratches. He’s usually not all that friendly with strangers, so maybe he recognized her voice from Paige’s phone. Or maybe it was just that Delaney was sitting in the window seat, the spot where he’d often curled up next to my mother, Caroline.
In fact, Attila could still be found there with my mom most mornings. Caroline couldn’t scratch him, and he was usually curled up more or less inside her rather than next to her these days, but he still seemed to draw comfort from her presence. My mother had been dead for over six months now, but her spirit hadn’t quite figured out how to move on to whatever waits on the other side. Attila seemed pretty okay with that.
Would Delaney be disturbed if I told her she was sitting in the precise spot occupied by Caroline’s ghost this time yesterday? Given Delaney’s personality, I thought it more likely that she’d be intrigued, assuming we could move past her natural skepticism and penchant for amateur psychoanalysis. Aside from Attila, I was still the only one who could see Caroline’s ghost.
Delaney craned her neck to get a better view of the drama unfolding out front. “So, is the cop talking to Mrs. Whitley Nathan’s dad?”
I shook my head. “Must be a deputy. Travis has been in Raleigh all week for some sort of statewide law enforcement conference. He’s not due back until tonight. And it probably wouldn’t be him anyway. When you’re the boss, you can shove undesirable duties like dealing with Rebecca Whitley onto the backs of your subordinates.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Delaney said. “Because I’d pictured him as much more handsome, based on Paige’s description.” She turned toward me, a mischievous smile spreading across her elfin face. “So…tell me everything. You’ve gone out…how many times now? Six? Seven? How’s it going?”
I sighed and returned to the kitchen to move the croissants onto a platter. Delaney was a self-proclaimed relationship expert, and the it to which she was referring in her barrage of questions was my relationship with Travis Lamm, Caratoke chief of police, and also stepfather of Nathan, the guy Paige was seeing.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a simple answer to Delaney’s question. Travis and I had dated back in high school, and even for a few years after, when he was in college in Raleigh and I was in California acting in the television series, Private Eye High. We’d drifted apart by the time he graduated, and the series ended, but fate had managed to bring us back to Caratoke at a time when we were both unattached.
Neither of us was inclined to rush things, however. We both knew it would be really easy to slip back into the old habits that still seemed all too familiar twenty years later. And the Nathan and Paige situation added another wrinkle. The two of them hadn’t known about the history between me and Travis when they started going out last summer. So even if things were to start moving along at light speed between Travis and I, we would definitely be in separate houses until Paige and Nathan are off at college. Anything else would be much too weird.
“Things are going fine,” I told Delaney as I wrapped one of the croissants in a paper towel and pulled a travel mug out of the cabinet to fill it with coffee. “Travis and I have dinner together about once a week. With Paige and Nathan, on occasion, although I don’t know if those count as dates.”
“Oh, those definitely count,” Delaney said. “The fact that you’re pulling other members of the family into your activities is a sign that both of you are considering a serious commitment. Have you progressed to…?” She trailed off as I gave her a stern look of warning and then continued, “To holding hands and long moonlit walks on the beach?”
“She won’t tell you.” Paige was still toweling her long dark hair as she came down the stairs. “But they have. There’s usually sand on her shoes when she comes home. And I think they have lunch together, too, at least a few times a week.”
“You two feel free to keep analyzing my love life over breakfast,” I told them as I put the half and half back into the fridge. “But I’ve got to run, or I’m going to be late for auditions.”
“I’m supposed to remind you to either get avocados at the store or add guac to the taco bar order,” Paige said. “I’m fine with either.”
That wasn’t entirely true. She just knew that I was busy and was trying to keep me from driving to multiple stores in search of avocados that were within that brief, fleeting window between being perfectly ripe and perfectly rotten.
“I’ll check Harris Teeter. If their avocados look good, I’ll make it. Otherwise, we’ll have to settle.” Our one and only complaint about La Costera is that they put tomatoes in their guacamole. And that’s just wrong. The pico de gallo goes on the
side, not squished in with the avocados. “Oh, I pulled the string lights out of your nana’s box of Christmas decorations. There should be more than enough to go around the deck. Travis said Nathan was bringing over the nail gun, but you guys be careful, okay? I’d hate to have to cancel your birthday party because we had to run one of you to the emergency room to have a nail removed from your foot.”
“We’ll be careful,” Delaney said.
“I’m supposed to remind you to get avocados or guacamole,” Paige said. “And don’t give me that look. We both know that even with me saying it twice, there’s still a darn good chance you’ll forget and have to go back out.”
“So send me a text reminder. Or”—I gasp—“maybe walk the half mile to the store?”
Paige grinned. “What an excellent idea. I’ll send you a text reminder.”
CHAPTER TWO
My car was parked in the driveway, since we’d cleared out the garage to serve as an alternate party venue in case we were hit by one of the unexpected storms that often formed along the Outer Banks. Attila was now on the back of the sofa, which was his usual perch as guard cat. I pushed the front door open and carefully slipped outside in order to keep him from darting into the yard. If Mrs. Whitley was still outside talking to the police, there was an excellent chance that her dog was roaming about as well, and I really didn’t have time to rescue Leo from another encounter with an angry, territorial cat who was nearly twice his size. Although, to be fair, Leo tended to give as good as he got. The last time we’d had to separate the two, I’d caught Attila licking his paw. He’d stopped and looked indignant when he realized I was watching, but Leo had gotten in at least one decent blow for dogdom.
The little rat had come barreling out of his house last week, apparently thinking Attila was roaming about in the yard. He grabbed the hem of my jeans in his minuscule teeth and started tugging. It wasn’t the first time he’d done that, but it was the first time I’d realized what he was going on about. I’d been emptying the vacuum cleaner dust container into the trash and, as usual, the contents were about ten percent dust or debris and ninety percent cat hair. My only question was whether Leo had attacked me out of respect for a fallen enemy, protesting the mounds of fluff that poor Attila had been reduced to, or because he wanted me to drop the tangled mass of fur onto the lawn so that he could finish their feud once and for all. I suspected it was the latter.
The police cruiser had already left, however, and Mrs. Whitley had taken Leo inside. The only person in the yard was her daughter, who was out at the curb fetching the paper. I waved, and she gave me one of those vague smiles you exchange with neighbors you don’t actually know. The smile suggested that she was at least somewhat nicer than her mother, so I decided to remedy the fact that we hadn’t yet been introduced.
“Hi! I’m Antigone Alden. Most people call me Tig. Are you Andrew’s sister?”
She nodded. “Audra Whitley. Nice to meet you.”
For the first six weeks or so after Paige and I moved in, it had just been Mrs. Whitley and Andrew next door—and Leo, of course. But in late February, the guy who Andrew apparently called the Cowboy behind his back arrived. Audra was frequently around on the weekends now as well. She had out-of-state tags, so either she was just here temporarily, or she hadn’t lived in the area for long.
“Was there some sort of…problem this morning?” I asked. “We noticed the police car, and I was wondering if there’d been a break-in or anything else I need to be worried about. I’m heading into work for a bit, and my daughter and her friend will be here alone, so…”
This was true, even though I was almost certain there was no danger. Caratoke was a safe place. But you could never be too careful where your kids were concerned. And I had a bit of an ulterior motive for asking. I’d discovered that it was, generally speaking, a good idea to know which issue had Rebecca Whitley on the warpath this time. A few weeks back, it had been the fact that some residents of the neighborhood hadn’t been rolling their trash and recycling bins in from the curb by five p.m., as dictated by the HOA. That was one of the HOA’s most stupid rules, to be honest, and most residents were in violation on a regular basis. Unlike Rebecca Whitley, they had jobs and didn’t get home until after five, at which point they rolled in their bins. The week before that, I’d gotten an email saying Whitley had reported me for crabgrass. I didn’t even know for sure what crabgrass looked like. When I researched it online, I’d discovered that the stuff doesn’t sprout until late spring. Long story short, the woman is a crank.
“It was just…this thing with a guy in the neighborhood,” Audra said. “We’re pretty sure he’s the one who nearly killed Leo earlier this week, and now he’s threatening my mother.”
I took both of these statements with a rather large grain of salt. Mrs. Whitley had also accused me of plotting to kill her little darling, when all I’d done was note that the dog was likely to get hit—by a car, not by me—if she didn’t keep him under control. I might also have threatened to let my very aggressive, dog-detesting feline out to chase him off the lawn, but Attila had every right to be out in his own yard from time to time.
“Well, thanks for letting me—”
“Audra!” Mrs. Whitley, who was now standing in the doorway holding Leo, cast a scathing look in my direction and then turned back toward her daughter. “Would you stop dawdling? Rick has to leave soon, and he’s waiting for that newspaper!”
“Heavens forbid Rick has to wait for something,” Audra muttered so softly I could barely make out the words.
Leo leapt from Mrs. Whitley’s arms and barreled down the drive. Based on past experience, I expected him to take a victory lap around the block to celebrate his escape. But the little dog halted at Audra’s feet, wriggling enthusiastically.
“Hi, Leo!” She scooped him up, planted a kiss into the mane that surrounded his tawny face, and then headed into the house with the dog and Rick’s newspaper, cooing about what a very good boy Leo was.
“I got the note you left in my mailbox,” Mrs. Whitley told me after Audra was inside with the dog. Even at eight thirty in the morning, the woman was impeccably dressed, in a crisp green jumpsuit. “I’ve a good mind to report you for tampering with the mail. Putting something into another person’s box is a federal crime, in case you aren’t aware. And even though you never bothered to ask, my answer is no.”
“Your answer to…what?” I asked. The message I’d left in her box the day before was simply a courtesy notice that Paige was having her sixteenth birthday party and that there might be a bit of extra noise, along with some cars parked in the cul-de-sac. I’d promised that the party would end by eleven and that I’d try to get them to keep the music at a reasonable level. And I’d said that I’d be sending over a small gift to thank them for being understanding.
Maybe she meant that she didn’t want the gift?
“The answer to whether you can have this party,” she said, crossing her arms. “My answer is no. According to the HOA bylaws, unless you’ve gotten approval in advance from the HOA and any proximate neighbors, you cannot have a gathering of more than fifteen people. You did not clear this party with the HOA. I know that for certain, because I called to check. And either way, it wouldn’t matter, because you are required to seek my approval, in writing, two weeks prior to the event. And as I’ve just noted, you do not have my approval.”
I gave her a wide, humorless smile. “Well, then it’s a good thing that we’re only expecting fourteen people, isn’t it?”
That might have been a lie. Paige had invited sixteen people, but several had said they couldn’t make it. I’d ordered the taco bar for twenty, because teens can be bottomless pits, and leftovers were never a bad thing, especially with an additional person in the house this week and the fact that my schedule for the next two days was kind of busy. It might be Paige and Delaney’s spring break, but mine was already over.
An elderly couple who lived at the far end of the cul-de-sac strolled by, studi
ously pretending not to be listening to our conversation. The old man gave me a sympathetic smile, but his wife kept her eyes pinned to her walking shoes. You could tell from her expression that she’d locked horns with Rebecca Whitley in the past. I suspected she and her husband were both relieved that someone else was in the line of fire.
Whitley’s eyes had narrowed to tiny slits when I looked back. “I don’t believe you. And I will file a grievance if there are more than fifteen at your house. Don’t think for a minute that I’ve forgotten your thinly veiled threats against my Leo. In fact, if I wasn’t already quite certain who poisoned him last Sunday, I would have put you at the very top of my list of suspects.”
“Poisoned?” I exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I most certainly am not kidding you. Leo had to have his little tummy pumped out, and he’s still not back to normal. We nearly lost him. And please don’t pretend you care, Tig Alden. I know exactly how you feel about my little Leo.”
Admittedly, Leo was not my favorite canine. He tormented Attila, deposited his smelly little gifts on my lawn, and had in fact dropped one smack in the middle of my doormat my very first morning in Caratoke. But I suspected his personality flaws were due more to nurture than nature. It was hard to blame the dog when his owner was so clearly at fault.
The woman had also cried wolf on multiple occasions. To hear her tell it, everyone had it in for her, her family, and her darling Leo. Since she’d claimed I was the wolf on one of those occasions, I wasn’t inclined to accept anything she said at face value. And I had a hard time believing that anyone in the neighborhood would poison a dog, even to spite Mrs. Whitley.
“Furthermore,” she continued, “you may think you can do anything you please because you’re dating the chief of police, but the mayor is a close personal friend of mine. I’m one of the top donors for his reelection campaign. His wife and I even play golf together. If I call Peggy with a complaint, I can assure you it will be heard by her husband without delay. I’ll have Mayor Winstead direct the police to break up the party immediately if your daughter and her hooligan friends violate the noise ordinance.”
