by Gail Oust
“I’m not,” Sheila admitted, “but I’m sure the lemon will be lovely, light and refreshing. How thoughtful of you, Kate, to think of me.”
Betsy refused to sit, preferring instead to glower at me from the French doors at the patio’s threshold. An awkward silence prevailed. The topic of pies depleted, I racked my brain for an equally compelling subject. I toyed with “Read any good books lately?” Then I thought about Netflix. Isn’t it grand? Movies without having to leave home. Keep ’em as long as you want. No late fees. No dropping ’em off before the stroke of midnight dressed as the Unabomber. Sensing a lack of interest in Netflix, I happened to notice the photos spilling from an unmarked manila envelope. I pointed to one with silvery-green leaves and bright orange fruit. “That would look great in my backyard. What’s the name of it?”
Sheila snatched the photo and stuffed it back into the envelope. “Hippophae rhamnoides.”
“Hippopotamus…?” My tongue tangled trying to pronounce it.
“Common name sea buckthorn,” Betsy supplied readily. “It doesn’t grow around here, so you’ll have to find something else for your yard.”
All righty, then. I looked at the woman with burgeoning respect. “I didn’t know you spoke botany.”
“Betsy’s more than a pretty face,” Sheila said, smiling. “Her background in science was what first brought her to the attention of Belle Beaute.”
Betsy shrugged off the praise, but I could see she was pleased. A tiny smile tugged at her mouth. “I’m sure Kate isn’t interested in the story of my life.” Her BlackBerry sounded just then. I recognized the ring tone. “I Feel Pretty,” from West Side Story. How fitting for someone in the beauty trade. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve some calls to make. Can I get you anything in the meantime?”
“I shouldn’t stay,” I demurred. In reality, you couldn’t pry me out of my seat with a can opener.
“Betsy, be a dear, and bring Kate and me a glass of iced tea when you come back. You know”—Sheila gestured vaguely toward the kitchen—“the special kind—Vaughn’s favorite.”
Emotion flashed briefly in Betsy’s chocolate-brown eyes before it was masked. Anger? I wondered. Resentment? Grief? It had come and gone so quickly, I didn’t have time to catalog it.
“Sure. Be right back.”
Sheila turned her full attention on me. “Betsy does her own version of sweet tea by adding honey instead of simple syrup like most. Even if you aren’t a fan of sweet tea, you’ll love hers.”
I shot a glance in the direction Betsy had disappeared, but there was no sign of her. I lowered my voice, and said, “The pie was only a ruse. I’m on my way home from the sheriff’s office and wanted to tell you that he’s finally taking our poisoning scenario seriously.”
“Yes, I know,” Sheila replied calmly.
“How do you know? Did he call?” Sheila was one cool cucumber, all right. Most women would be a ball of nerves knowing there was proof positive someone tried to off them. I envied that kind of composure.
“He dropped by earlier to inform me of the toxicology results.”
I brought out my trusty little black book and flipped it open. “I wanted to go over my list of suspects with you to see if any name in particular stands out.”
She arched a brow in a fair imitation of the sheriff’s. “You actually made a list of people who might want Vaughn or me dead?”
“It’s the way I operate.” Did I sound official, or what? Hearing those words, one might think I actually knew what I was doing. I cleared my throat and got down to business. “Let’s start with Todd Timmons.”
“Todd…?” she scoffed. “You can’t be serious?”
“Serious as a heart attack.” I said, not cracking a smile. Where in the world had that come from? Funny how the brain works. “Todd’s extremely ambitious. I’ve watched him schmooze everyone he thinks might advance his career.”
She dismissed my theory with a flick of the wrist. “If ambition was a crime, I’d be guilty myself. Why, most of the people I know would be behind bars.”
“Todd blamed Vaughn for a fall in the ratings of How Does Your Garden Grow?” I persisted. “Without ratings, the networks aren’t interested in hiring him.”
“True,” Sheila said, “the kid’s ambitious, but he’s dumb as a box of rocks. He narrowly missed flunking out of college. Todd can barely remember the way I prefer my coffee.”
My mind balked at the thought of crossing Todd’s name off the list. “If he’s as dumb as you say, how did he wind up being a TV producer?”
“As fate would have it, Todd landed a summer internship at a cable TV station and worked his way up.” A wry smile curved her mouth. “It didn’t hurt that his daddy had a friend in the business.”
I scribbled this down, striving to appear semi-intelligent and not as “dumb as a box of rocks,” then consulted my notes. “Next on my list is Roger McFarland.”
“Roger…? Mild-mannered, borderline-OCD Roger?”
From her mocking tone, I gathered Todd’s name wouldn’t be the only one erased. “I heard Roger complain that Vaughn interfered with the ‘vision’ he had for his project, Springtime Perennials of the Southeast.”
“Nonsense! Honestly, Kate, I don’t know how you arrive at these conclusions. Roger’s been given complete creative control over the project.”
“There’s more. I also found out Roger’s true passion is horticulture, not publishing or photography. He deeply resents the person who once beat him out of a coveted position. I suspect that was either you or Vaughn.”
“Ridiculous!” Sheila shook her head emphatically.
“The person in question happens to be none other than me,” Betsy said from the doorway, and I found myself wondering how much of our conversation she’d overheard. “The rest, as they say, is history.”
I stared at the woman openmouthed.
Betsy smirked, enjoying my reaction. “I was imminently better suited for the job. Since then I’ve been promoted to vice president in charge of new products.”
Sheila helped Betsy make room on the table for a tray with tall glasses of sweet tea. “Trust me, Kate, Betsy was a much wiser choice.”
“Mmm,” I murmured, taking a sip of tea to buy myself time to mull this over. And found it delicious.
“The secret’s in the honey,” Betsy said. “I order it special from a farm in the upcountry.”
The upcountry seemed like a long way to go for a jar of honey when you can buy it just as easily at the Piggly Wiggly. But to each his own, I guess. The upcountry Betsy referred to consisted of the scenic northwest pocket of the state. Maybe someday I’d check it out. Might even buy some honey of my own when I’m there.
Sheila raised her glass, but didn’t drink from it. “I think you should tear up that list of yours and concentrate on the real suspect—Kel Watson.”
“Why Kel?”
“That’s precisely what I wish you’d find out before he tries again.” She shuddered delicately. “I’m telling you, Kate, the way he skulks about gives me the creeps.”
“Making you feel uneasy isn’t a motive for murder,” I reminded her.
Sheila scooted closer and dropped her voice. “I don’t like to gossip, but it’s rumored the man’s on drugs. Possibly hallucinogenics. For all anyone knows, he might even grow his own. The man’s not all there. For pity’s sake, just take a good look at him. Kel Watson’s caught in some kind of time warp. He’s an aging hippie, a loner. I’ve seen a strange vehicle parked outside the house late at night. I believe he’s stalking me. Aren’t we always being told to trust our instincts? Well, mine are screaming the man’s dangerous.”
I couldn’t fault her logic. I’d once heard an expert expound that “trust your instinct” should be the rule of thumb when it came to personal safety. “I’ll do what I can,” I promised. “I’ll leave the two of you now to get back to work.”
“Let me show you out,” Betsy hastily offered.
I bid good-bye to Sheila and le
ft my iced tea half-finished. Betsy escorted me to the front door, transparent in her haste to be rid of me. Did she worry I’d steal the silver or rifle through her underwear drawer?
At the door, she turned to me. “Woman to woman, may I offer a word of advice?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued. “Try Belle Beaute’s skin replenishing cream. It’ll work wonders on those fine lines of yours.”
As I walked back to my car, I wondered if it would also work on the steam coming out of my ears.
Chapter 27
“Saturday? Saturday—as in tomorrow?”
“I know it’s last minute, sugar.” Connie Sue sounded contrite from two blocks away on Magnolia Lane. “But chances like this don’t drop in our laps every day. I couldn’t believe my luck when Chateau Spa called with a last-minute cancellation. They’d had an entire bridal party booked for hair, makeup, manicures, pedis—the whole shebang—then the bride caught the groom cheatin’ with her maid of honor after the rehearsal dinner. How tacky can you get?”
I peeked in the oven. The rolls were browning nicely, the casserole bubbling. From the half bath around the corner, I could hear Bill washing up before dinner. “That’s tacky, all right,” I agreed absently. “I take it the wedding’s off?”
“Darn tootin’. The bride told the receptionist that the ‘sumbitch’—that’s her word not mine—and her no-account friend are usin’ the honeymoon tickets. The pair plans to fly to Cancun and work on their tans. But enough about the two-timers. Say you’ll come. Pretty please with sugar on it.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” It was hard to refuse Connie Sue when she switched into Scarlett mode. “Spa day? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Whew!” Connie Sue gave an exaggerated sigh. “You had me goin’ for a minute. Not everyone can make it on such short notice, but with Tammy Lynn there’ll be eight. We can all pile into Gloria’s SUV.”
We disconnected after agreeing on a time and place to rendezvous.
“Sounds like you’ve got big plans for tomorrow,” Bill said, returning to the kitchen. He smelled faintly of soap mixed with a hint of sawdust. His silvery hair looked newly combed, and a familiar sparkle brightened his baby blues. “Sure nice of you to fix my favorite dinner.”
I felt a twinge of guilt as I thought of the slice of lemon meringue pie that had nearly been his. Somehow I doubted Sheila’d even taste it, much less share it with Betsy. I removed the rolls from the oven and popped them into a bread basket. “That was Connie Sue. It seems the Babes are kidnapping Tammy Lynn Snow tomorrow for a makeover and a day at the spa. We’ll probably drop by the mall afterward for a little shopping.”
“Tammy Lynn Snow? The sheriff’s girl Friday?”
“One and the same.” I set the salad on the table. “Tammy Lynn has a mad crush on that nice young police officer, Eric Olsen. Eric, however, can’t see beyond eyeglasses the size of Granny Ann’s picture window or the dishwater-brown hair. Eric looks at her as his best friend’s baby sister. Time’s come to shake the boy up.”
“What can I do to help?”
“To shake him up or to help with dinner?”
He grinned. “Whichever…you know I’ll have your back.”
I felt my insides turn soft and gooey at hearing him say that. “Sit down. Dinner’s ready,” I said to hide a rush of emotion.
I placed the casserole on a trivet. A plume of steam escaped when I removed the lid. I poured coffee, then took the chair opposite Bill at the kitchen table.
“Exactly what is it you ladies do at a spa?” Bill asked, digging into the mound of tuna casserole I’d heaped on his plate.
“Good question, but I’m not exactly sure. The usual, I guess,” I said, buttering a roll. In the recesses of my mind, I could hear Monica’s voice. “Step away from the trans fats!”
“Mmm,” he said, sampling the salad. “I like those little red things you put in it. And who’d ever think of adding nuts to a salad?”
He was referring the handful of dried cranberries and walnuts I’d added to make a plain salad look fancy. I wasn’t even sure he’d notice. His praise made me feel like a cross between Rachael Ray and Julia Child. All those subscriptions to cooking magazines had just paid off in spades. “Glad you like it,” I said, trying not to simper.
“Just what constitutes the ‘usual’ at a spa?”
“Hair, makeup, manicures, pedicures, waxing.”
He looked up, fork poised midair. “Waxing?”
Did my intrepid tool man actually pale at the notion? “You know, hot wax to get rid of unwanted body hair. Many young women, I’ve heard, have bikini waxes these days.”
“And that kind of stuff takes an entire day?” Bill chowed down salad, but I could see he’d lost his heart to the casserole. Wait till I brought out the pièce de résistance for dessert—lemon bars. Not pie, but not exactly a sharp stick in the eye, either.
“Claudia talked about a spa she’d been to in Asheville. She said they did all kinds of body treatments—green tea and sea salt, pomegranate and ground cranberry seed.” My eyes half-closed, I envisioned myself in a den of iniquity. Candles flickering. Water tinkling. A Swedish masseuse. “As for massages, you can take your pick,” I rhapsodized. “Hot stone, Swedish, deep tissue, or reflexology. Connie Sue said Claudia already booked a seaweed wrap. It’s guaranteed to firm, tone, and detoxify.”
“Maybe that’s supposed to be fun, but it sounds more like torture. Give me poker and a six-pack any day.”
I smiled to myself. Bill was such a guy’s guy, but that’s why I loved him. Loved him? Where had that come from? Out of left field, that’s where. I liked Bill sure, but love? Love was a whole other dimension.
Suddenly I’d lost my appetite and shoved my plate aside.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Bill frowned, noticing my dinner was half-finished. “Sure you feel okay? You’re not coming down with something, are you?”
I rose to refill our coffee cups. “I’m fine,” I said. A little shaky about the love thing, but fine.
We finished our meal, polished it off with more coffee and lemon bars. Afterward, Bill helped me clear the table and load the dishwasher even though I told him not to bother after a long day building bookshelves.
“Care to stay awhile, watch some TV?” I asked once the kitchen was tidied. “If we channel surf, we might catch some Law & Order reruns.”
“Tempting as that sounds, I need to shower off the sawdust, and you’ve got a big day ahead.”
“Soon then,” I replied. “Let me at least walk you to the door.”
We stood for a moment on the threshold. It was the time of day I liked best, when day gracefully surrendered to night. When light, rosy and soft, seeped into darkness. A single star burned bright overhead. I was acutely aware of the man beside me. The man who “had my back.” A notion I found tremendously appealing. I was overcome by a combination of nerves and anticipation—reduced to being a sixtysomething-year-old teenager. It was then I noticed a smudge of sawdust on Bill’s shoulder that had escaped his attention. I reached to brush it off, but he caught my hand. He smiled, and my bones felt they were made of Silly Putty.
Turning my hand over, Bill pressed a kiss into the palm and I felt a jolt all the way to my toes. Then he bent down and kissed me. My lips parted under his, whether in surprise or as a reaction I don’t know, but my arms wound around his neck and I kissed him back.
Neither of us was smiling when the kiss ended. Had Serenity Cove experienced an earthquake? I wondered. Were we on a fault line? I’d distinctly felt the earth move. I could still feel the aftershocks.
My, oh my.
Our first stop of the day had been at an eyeglass center that advertised fast service on contact lenses. Hooray! Gone forever were Tammy Lynn’s oversized glasses. Already the girl looked better. Chateau Spa was next on the agenda. Or “the Chat” as we dubbed it.
Our intrepid band of Babes—and lone Babette—congregated in a reception area tiled in imitation marble. To
the best of my knowledge, except for Claudia and Connie Sue, none of us had ever been inside a pampering palace. “Who would have guessed?” Claudia marveled. “Here I traveled all the way to Asheville with this place just down the road.”
Tammy Lynn gazed around doubtfully. “I don’t know, y’all. This place looks way too expensive. I think we shoulda settled for the Cut ’n’ Curl in Brookdale. Ethel Rae gives great perms.”
Connie Sue put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about a thing, honey lamb. Not with your fairy godmother on the job.”
Silently, however, I agreed with Tammy Lynn. Like her, I, too, found the opulent surroundings somewhat intimidating. Chateau Spa was a living, breathing testament to faux French. Lots of gilt. Oodles of red and gold. A mini-Versailles? Though I’d never been there, I’d seen pictures. I hoped the proprietor hadn’t gotten faux chateau confused with faux brothel. Hadn’t been in one of those either, but I’d heard tales. Would the Babes be mistaken for extras in Moulin Rouge at the end of the day? If so, I vote to rename Tammy Lynn…Fifi.
“Mornin’, y’all.” An attractive blonde greeted us with a friendly smile. “My name’s Terri. So happy y’all could make it on short notice. Bridezilla demanded we schedule our full staff, then bam! ‘Sorry folks, weddin’s off.’”
“Poor thing,” Pam commiserated. “It must have been devastating.”
I rolled my eyes. Leave it to my BFF to sympathize with a woman referred to as Bridezilla.
Connie Sue urged Tammy Lynn forward. “Terri, this is Tammy Lynn Snow, the reason for today’s little excursion. We want her to get the full treatment, includin’”—she ruffled Tammy Lynn’s dingy locks—“highlights, cut, and makeup.”
“We want her to look like a new woman when you’re finished,” Gloria added.
“Ladies, y’all came to the right place. Tammy Lynn’s own mother won’t recognize her by the time we’re finished.”
