by Jessa Archer
“Hooligans?” I snorted. Did anyone actually use that word in conversation? It was hard not to laugh out loud.
“Becky.” A man’s voice came from inside the house, and then Rick, AKA the Cowboy, joined her in the doorway. He was a good-looking guy—tall, with a scruffy beard, dressed in jeans and a white shirt. I’d only seen him briefly in the past, and from a distance, but I could now see that he appeared to be a bit younger than Mrs. Whitley. And he did kind of look like the Marlboro Man.
Rick placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re getting yourself all worked up, hon. Remember what the doctor said about that? You don’t need to argue and threaten. If she breaks the rules, just report her and be done with it.” He had a slow drawl. Not really southern, or at least not the Deep South. Texas, maybe?
Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then she smiled up at him. “You’re right. I shouldn’t waste my time. Especially when she so clearly thinks she’s above the law.”
She turned to go back inside, but I was angry now and I fired back with just as much venom as she’d sent my way earlier. “Listen here, Becky. I’m legitimately sorry about Leo’s close call. My problem isn’t with him. It’s with you. Maybe you and Rick here should go out tonight. Have dinner. See a movie. Go shopping. Anything that gets you out of the house for a few hours. Because Paige and her friends will be playing music in the backyard. With any luck, they’ll also be laughing and having a good time. They might get a little loud. In fact, I hope they get a little loud, because that’s what you do at fun parties. And let me make this crystal clear. If you do anything, anything at all, to wreck my daughter’s birthday party, you will wish you’d never crossed me. Do you understand?”
Rebecca Whitley sniffed once, eyes blazing. Then she stepped back inside her house without another word and slammed the door.
There was a good chance I’d just made the situation worse. But Rebecca Whitley was a bully. I’d been backing down, trying to be pleasant, even though she steadfastly refused to meet me halfway. I’d dealt with bullies before, so I should have known that wasn’t going to work. If you don’t stand your ground, they’ll push a little further each time.
When I turned back to my car, I saw that the old couple had stopped to see what was going on, probably because I’d raised my voice. They seemed embarrassed that I’d caught them staring, and quickly resumed their morning constitutional. Paige, Delaney, and Attila were also watching from the front window, with Caroline’s ghost directly behind them. The girls were clearly amused at seeing me go off on Mrs. Whitley, but Mom looked worried more than anything else. After several years as the awful woman’s neighbor, I’m sure she was mentally cataloging all the ways in which Whitley could make my life miserable. And she would probably do precisely that. But I was tired of kowtowing to her every unreasonable demand simply to keep the peace. She wasn’t Queen of Seaside Estates, or even Queen of Windward Court. It was high time someone stood up to her.
I resisted the urge to follow Whitley’s lead and slam the door of the Sonata. I also resisted the urge to peel out of the driveway, mostly because the girls were still watching, and I didn’t want to set a bad example.
It was a good thing Paige had purposefully kept her guest list kind of small, because I hadn’t realized we’d need to clear the party with the neighbors or the HOA. Given the chaos of the move and my mother’s death, I’d barely glanced at the bylaws. Although I did vaguely recall Justin—my very best friend and Paige’s father, at least on paper—saying that he’d had a few choice words with Mrs. Whitley when she complained about the number of people who dropped by the house after Caroline’s funeral.
I’d left the note in Whitley’s mailbox merely as a courtesy. It seemed like the neighborly thing to do. If the house on my right hadn’t been vacant, I’d have left a note for them as well. I’d even gone the extra mile and sent them a small bribe to thank them in advance for tolerating the inconvenience. La Costera, the Mexican place that was catering the taco bar for Paige’s party, didn’t do regular delivery, only takeout. So I’d scheduled with OBXpress, the Outer Banks version of GrubHub, to deliver a bag of tacos and burritos to the Whitleys. I thought it would be a nice thank-you-in-advance gesture for tolerating a few hours of music and mayhem in our backyard. While I’d doubted Becky Whitley would have deigned to eat anything I ordered even before this latest confrontation, I was pretty sure Andrew would scarf it down. Maybe Rick, too. But I might as well pull up the receipt they emailed me to see if I could cancel the peace offering. The food would almost certainly be dumped straight into the trash.
I’d never imagined Rebecca Whitley would be happy about the gathering and had even joked to Travis that she’d probably call in at least one complaint before the night was over. But I’d also never imagined that she’d actually try to veto the party or call in political favors to cancel it. Because seriously, how rotten does someone have to be to try and wreck a girl’s sixteenth birthday party?
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About the Author
Jessa Archer writes sweet, funny, warm-hearted cozy mysteries because she loves a good puzzle and can't stand the sight of blood. Her characters are witty, adventurous, and crafty in the nicest way. You'll find her sleuths hand lettering inspirational quotes, trying to lower golf handicaps, enjoying a scone at a favorite teashop, knitting a sweater, or showing off a dramatic side in local theater.
Jessa's done many things in her long career, including a stint as a journalist and practicing law. But her favorite job is spinning mysteries. She loves playing small town sleuth and transporting readers to a world where the scones are delicious, wine pairs with hand lettering, and justice always prevails.
www.jessaarcher.com
Copyright © 2019 Jessa R. Archer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover Design: Amy Queau
Curtains for Romeo/Jessa Archer. — 1st ed.
