I smiled. “Shawn’s overly serious approach to anything remotely connected to animals has obviously rubbed off on me. I’m making this way too hard, aren’t I?”
“Have fun with this. Get people to talk by becoming an engaging character,” she said.
“Thanks for the great advice. And you know what? Since Shawn left Isis here, it’s my call whether she goes home. After tomorrow, I’ll decide what’s best for her. No more going to ridiculous lengths just because Shawn has his rules.”
“There you go.” Kara raised her palm and gave me a high five.
“Thanks for putting things in perspective. I’ve got an entitled cat that needs a home—and soon. I’ll chat up the folks in Woodcrest to please Shawn, but unless I discover that Ritaestelle Longworth is a serial killer, I know what I’ll do with that prissy cat.”
Kara said, “I was worried for a minute there. You love cats, but there is a limit to animal adoration. Wish I could go with you tomorrow because I’m betting you’ll have a blast, despite all your anxiety over this.”
“You want to go? I could tell Tom—”
She held up her hand. “I’m meeting with the architect.”
“Already?” I said.
“Now that the old farmhouse on my property has been leveled, I’m ready to get started. Can you believe it?”
“Seeing a new home come to life is so exciting,” I said. “Your dad and I enjoyed every minute of watching this house being built.”
There had been a time when Mercy was the last place on earth I thought Kara would end up. But she was here for good now. When Tom first mentioned she should use part of her inheritance to buy the local newspaper, she’d completely rejected the idea. Though big-city newspapers were going out of business left and right, the Mercy Messenger was the first thing people picked up in the morning. But it needed help to stay in business. The police blotter surely didn’t deserve an entire page. Especially when most of what was reported had to do with folks getting drunk and disorderly or smashing their cars into fire hydrants.
Kara said, “Do architects snicker when you come to a meeting bearing a stack of magazines with little Post-it notes marking hundreds of pages?”
“It might scare him. But why even worry about that? I mean, he’s working for you, right?” I said.
She cocked her head and considered this for a second, and then smiled warmly. “Yeah. Why worry?”
“See, now I want to go with you,” I said. “But . . . no. This house is your deal.”
“I wouldn’t mind, but we both have plans, and like I said, you’ll have more fun than I will. I’m a little scared. This is a big deal,” she said.
“We’ll both be anxious. Come for dinner tomorrow and we’ll talk about our day.”
But after Kara left and Chablis sat on my lap, her eardrums no doubt stinging from Isis’s noise, I pondered this situation I’d walked into voluntarily. Despite telling myself that tomorrow’s visit to Woodcrest would resolve the problem, I understood that assuming something would be simple didn’t mean it would be.
Seven
Tom picked me up in his Prius about eleven the next morning. No way could we take my van. I was a marked woman in Woodcrest.
As I slid into the passenger seat, I still hadn’t put the wig on. I still hated it as much as I had the day before. Shawn owed me big-time after this.
“You look tired,” Tom said as we pulled out of my driveway.
“Did you know that goddesses are screeching, awful, spoiled creatures?” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
I explained about Isis on the way to Woodcrest. Tom was sympathetic about the hours of sleep I’d lost to the noise coming from my basement, but I had volunteered to help Shawn, and no good deed goes unpunished.
As we closed in on our destination, I put on the wig and a pair of large sunglasses with square rims, then took out a tube of lipstick. Good thing the sun was shining, or I’d look silly wearing the shades. Okay, I probably looked silly anyway. I pulled down the vanity mirror and applied the bright red lip color that Kara had given me before she left yesterday. And stared at the stranger in the mirror. “Nope,” I said, whipping the wig off. “I can’t wear this.”
Tom glanced over at me and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. But finally he removed his Atlanta Braves baseball cap and handed it to me. “Try this.”
I tucked my hair behind my ears and adjusted the size of the hat after I put it on. This time I nodded when I looked in the mirror. “This will do. Even if a baseball cap doesn’t go with this sundress.” I’d taken Kara’s advice and worn one of the few dresses I own—blue cotton with wide straps.
Tom smiled. “Works for me.”
I realized I’d been holding my breath and now let out the air accompanied by a sigh. “Who knew I’m a wig-a-phobic?”
Tom laughed, and soon we were slowly driving down the main street in Woodcrest. The town bustled with activity—lots of folks sauntering on the sidewalks and window-shopping. Tourists? That wasn’t what I had in mind. I wanted to rub elbows with the locals. Tom must have read my mind because he pulled into a parking spot in front of a small pharmacy. “I’ll find out where the Woodcrest people have lunch. Be just a minute.”
He was back in less than that. He opened the passenger door and said, “Come with me. Got the necessary info.”
We walked hand in hand around the nearest corner, the summer sun hammering down on us, and soon arrived at an unassuming place called Fairchild’s. The shades were rolled down on the two big front windows. Guess the black-and-white awning wasn’t enough to protect customers inside from the sun’s glare. Unlike the many cafés I’d noticed on the main street that offered outdoor tables, Fairchild’s did not. The antiques store next to the restaurant had end tables and lamps and a small bookcase set outside. But the restaurant only had one of those chalkboard signs with the day’s specials near its front door.
Once we were inside, the smell of fried chicken and what?—barbecue sauce?—made my stomach growl. I liked what I saw, even if my view of the restaurant’s decor—or lack of decor—was dimmed by my sunglasses. Small tables were crammed within an arm’s length of each other, and a glass counter lined the far wall. A board above the counter listed lunch specials, sandwiches, salads and soups. Beneath the glass was an array of tantalizing cookies, pies and cakes.
We walked up to where a young girl in a Fairchild’s T-shirt and blue jean skirt was taking orders.
Tom looked at me. “Tell me what you want, and then grab us a table.”
I chose the Southern Salad and iced peach tea. Two men were just leaving near the center of the crowded room. While I waited for a teenager to bus the table, I exchanged the sunglasses for the half-lens reading glasses I sometimes use for hand quilting. I was already drawing stares. Just like in Mercy, the strangers are spotted immediately, and the Hollywoodesque sunglasses might have been part of the reason.
After I sat down, I licked my lips. The lipstick felt thick and . . . well . . . just wrong. Despite the warm day and the almost as warm restaurant, my hands were ice-cold. I was nervous and tried to conjure Kara’s amused grin when she’d seen me in the wig. Maybe that would relax me.
This is fun, Jillian. You’re playing a part. Just go with the flow.
By the time Tom arrived with our lunch, I’d already made eye contact with two patrons: a man in overalls at two o’clock right and a woman, maybe midsixties, next to our table on the left. Both these people stared at me like I’d stepped out of a spaceship.
Tom put my salad in front of me—a gigantic bowl with strips of fried chicken amid an array of romaine and spinach. Juicy hunks of fresh tomato and a scattering of corn kernels were almost hidden by a generous swirl of ranch dressing. Calorie Salad might have been a better name.
After Tom set down his pulled-pork barbecue sandwich, he said, “I forgot the silverware.” He took the tray and walked back to the counter.
The woman next to me eyed my sal
ad. “Since you’re eating salad, I assume you’re saving room for dessert. Have the lemon icebox pie. Best you’ll ever eat.”
What I’d ordered didn’t land squarely in the salad category in my view, and Tom’s mother made the best lemon icebox pie I’d ever eaten, but I smiled kindly and said, “Thanks for the tip.”
I hadn’t even noticed the gentleman with her until he said, “Don’t mean she’ll like that pie just ’cause you do, Dolly.” He looked at me and grinned. “Chocolate cream is better.”
“Is not.” Dolly pouted and crossed her arms over her chest.
I smiled. “Guess you two eat here a lot. Been married a long time, haven’t you?”
This seemed to bring Dolly out of her mini-depression at once. “Forty years.”
“Wow,” I said.
The man reached across the table and took Dolly’s hand. “Forty years of bliss. Even if our taste in pie doesn’t match up.”
“Both pies are wonderful. That’s why you and your gentleman friend need to pick both,” the middle-aged man at two o’clock said.
I turned his way and smiled.
Dolly said, “Wayne over there should go into politics, don’t you think, Miss . . . ?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
Uh-oh. Miss What? I didn’t have to be as honest as Kara did on her assignments, so I could make up something or—
“Stewart,” Tom said.
Thank goodness he’d arrived. Apparently I’m not all that quick on my feet.
He put out his hand to Dolly’s husband. “Tom Stewart. We’re looking to buy a place in a small town. City life isn’t for us, we’ve decided.” At least that last part was true.
“Then you’ve come to the right part of South Carolina. Peaceful here. And still as pretty as god made it,” he answered. “I’m Herman, by the way. And this is my Dolly.”
“I have to say, I’m impressed with this friendly town.” Tom looked at me. “Just might be what we’ve been searching for, hon.”
I cut a chicken strip in half and dabbed it in dressing. Before I took a bite of what looked and smelled delicious, I said, “We drove by this huge estate. What is that place?” I glanced at Dolly and then over at Wayne.
“The Longworth Estate,” all three of our new acquaintances said in unison.
But it was Dolly who rolled her eyes. “Sad thing when someone so upstanding falls so far.” She shook her head, looking genuinely glum—but with what? A hint of satisfaction, perhaps? She had such great facial expressions, she could have been an actress.
I chewed that glorious hunk of chicken and then said, “Oh my god. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything this good.” I didn’t want to sound too interested in the town gossip. Not yet, anyway.
Wayne had pushed his empty plate away and was leaning back in his chair sipping coffee. “There’s plenty more good choices at this here establishment. The chicken-fried-steak sandwich is my favorite.” He looked over at Dolly. “Heard anything more about Ritaestelle? She get out of going to court?”
Herman said, “Woman’s sick in the head. She’s not going to no court. Chief Shelton’s her friend from way back, so she’ll fix it. No Longworth in their right mind needs to shoplift anything. Yup. Sick in the head.”
This was good information. I had to keep them talking. “Does the poor woman have money trouble? I mean, that house . . . that beautiful acreage . . .”
Herman looked at me and tapped his temple. “Sick in the head.”
Dolly looked about ready to burst. “You are too gullible, Herm. Always have been. I heard tell they found stuff from that new jewelry place in her purse. That man who owns that store where it came from needs that money. Disgraceful on Miss Ritaestelle’s part, you ask me. Klepto-whatevers don’t take precious things, and that man makes his own jewelry. Kleptos supposedly take silly items like . . . like ChapStick.” For some reason Dolly thought Tom was her ally in this assumption, because she looked at him. “Isn’t that right?”
Tom was in the middle of enjoying his sandwich but swallowed quickly and said, “You might be right about that.”
Dolly nodded, looking pleased.
Wayne said, “Sorry, Dolly, but I’m with Herman. Something ain’t right. Miss Ritaestelle’s got to be sick. Think of all she’s done for this town. Rather than saying—”
“Done right for this town in your minds, maybe.” Dolly crossed her arms again, her cheeks flushed.
Herman stood. “I think we best be on our way. Old business isn’t what potential homeowners in Woodcrest need to be hearing about. Come along, Dolly.”
Dolly’s lips were pressed together, and bright spots of color lingered high on her cheeks. She hoisted a large white vinyl purse over her arm and stood.
Wayne was staring into his coffee, and I saw a smile playing on his lips.
Herman shook Tom’s hand and nodded at me. “Nice to meet you folks.”
“Yes.” Dolly mustered a smile. “Forgive me for my earlier remarks. The Longworth family has a long history of generosity. I sounded downright mean about Ritaestelle’s difficulties. And that’s not the kind of person I am.”
She and Herman left the restaurant, and as soon as the door closed after them, Wayne leaned toward me. “Forty-two years ago Ritaestelle showed up at a local dance hall with Dolly’s boyfriend. Or so Dolly says. But she says lots of things.”
Tom said, “Women have amazing memories.”
Wayne laughed. “Don’t I know that.”
“Hey,” I said, “I resemble that remark.”
We all had a laugh, and then Wayne left, too.
I said, “Seems there is something wrong with Miss Longworth—but shoplifting? The poor woman fell. How could she shoplift if she needs help walking down the hall?”
“Maybe Ritaestelle is having some sort of a breakdown. She could be on medication.”
“True,” I said. “Let’s finish our lunch and head to the park. Hopefully we can find out something else.”
Tom dug his fork into a gigantic heap of coleslaw while I continued the wonderful Southern Salad experience.
I felt guilty wearing Tom’s hat as we sat on a white wrought-iron bench in the charming and well-manicured city park. He has this small bald spot on his crown that might become seriously sunburned. But I didn’t dare take the hat off, and in fact I tucked telltale strands of hair back under the cap. I felt more comfortable with the sunglasses back on, but I had this sickening feeling that Chief Nancy Shelton might be just around the corner and would recognize me even if I’d worn the wig.
This acre of flowers and lush green trees smack in the center of town couldn’t have been more lovely. The bench we’d chosen was one of four that made up a square surrounding a small fountain. The murmuring of spilling water helped to calm me as Tom and I sat in silence. Such a peaceful place.
A woman about my age—midforties, maybe—arrived twenty minutes after we’d sat down. She was assisting an elderly lady who needed a cane to help her walk.
“There you go, Mama,” the younger woman said. She handed her mother a brown paper lunch sack after they’d both sat down on the bench perpendicular to ours.
The birds and the squirrels began to arrive before the older woman tossed out the first bread crumbs. Her shriveled, arthritic hand trembled as she tossed the food to the anxious sparrows and blackbirds. Two squirrels sat up like little begging dogs, and I soon saw why. “Mama” reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out several peanuts. With a peanut in each palm, she bent toward the squirrels and held out her shaky hands. The squirrels approached quickly, grabbed their prizes and ran off behind the oak trees beyond.
“You’ve got them trained,” I said with a smile.
The younger woman spoke. “She brought me here every day when I was a kid. Now it’s my turn to make sure she gets as much joy as we shared back then.” She placed an arm around her mother and squeezed her.
The cloudy-eyed and slightly confused look the old woman gave her daughter was one I knew well.
In my grandfather’s later years, he remembered only routine—and none of his family. We had become strangers.
Tears welled in my eyes at the memory, and the young woman saw this. “Ah, you understand.” Her lips quivered, and she returned to their task, assisting her mother in getting a new handful of bread crumbs from the bag.
Tom took my hand in his and said, “You come here every day?”
“Yes,” the woman said, not making eye contact. She remained focused on helping her mother. “I’ve never seen you here before. Tourists?”
“You could say that,” he said. “But tourists on a mission.”
She looked at Tom then. “What does that mean?”
“We need information about a local woman,” I said. Looking for a house, pretending we were married, wouldn’t cut it for me this time. I just couldn’t lie to this woman. I couldn’t play what suddenly seemed like a ridiculous game.
Tom turned sharply to look at me, but I avoided his gaze, removed my sunglasses and went on. “I’m Jillian, by the way.”
“I—I’m Rebecca, and this is my mother, Gertrude.” But her voice was hesitant, her look guarded.
The old woman turned to her daughter. “Gertrude, you say? That sounds so familiar.”
Rebecca patted her mother’s thigh. “That’s your name, Mama. Gertrude Hill.”
“Oh. That’s nice, isn’t it?” Gertrude went back to feeding the birds.
Rebecca took a deep breath and released it slowly.
“Do you know Miss Longworth?” I asked.
Tom sighed, and I felt his shoulder slump a little. He probably didn’t think I was doing the right thing by taking this tack.
“Are you the FBI or something?” Rebecca said. “Has it gotten that bad?”
“Why would you think that?” Tom sounded as surprised as I felt.
“Are you?” Rebecca persisted. “Because I think you’re supposed to show me a badge or something if that’s the case.”
I shook my head. “No. We’re not police or FBI or anything like that. But we do know there’s been trouble at the Longworth house. Have you heard about it?”
The Cat, the Lady and the Liar Page 5
