Trouble's Brewing

by Linda Evans Shepherd; Eva Marie Everson

  That was also the year I got the pretty diamond brooch shaped like a crown. “You’re a real queen,” he’d said to me as he presented it, to which I thought, And you’re the king of all hypocrites.

  After lunch with Lizzie, I decided to just walk around town for a while, to feel the cool air on my face, to stare into storefront windows at all the things I could now scarcely afford, and to take the time to think … and pray. But I found myself praying very little. Rather, I vacillated between thinking about Thanksgiving and the big game and wondering how long Van Lauer would be in town.

  Then I’d scold myself for allowing my mind to go there.

  Still, something inside me felt … tingly … remembering the look of him, the sound of his voice—smooth and baritone—the feel of his hand as it took mine in greeting. And his left hand, well, that was even better. His left hand had been devoid of a wedding ring or even the tan line left by one.

  I stopped in front of my favorite corner gift shop and peered through the glass at the display of handcrafted jewelry, then looked up to see if Greta, the owner, might be nearby. I didn’t see her, but caught my own reflection in the window.

  Reaching up, I touched my hair. I wore it in the exact same way I’d worn it for years—cut around my jawline and permed for soft curls. It was so familiar it made me sick.

  I frowned at the rest of my reflection. Like most women in the Colorado high country I saw little use for makeup, but now … I thought I looked so pale. So … old. Or, at the very least, so much older than I was.

  What must Van have thought when he met me?

  I shook my head, as if to cast the very thought aside, then glanced around the corner and down the avenue. A shingle for Marisa’s Hair Salon swung over a doorway. Marisa trimmed my hair every six weeks or so, and I wondered what she’d say to a walk-in. For a shampoo and cut and coloring and a whole new style.

  For the works.

  As soon as I paid for my new hairdo with money I’d been saving for a new place to live, I walked as fast as my legs could carry me to the old Victorian on Main Street where Lisa Leann Lambert was setting up shop for her new bridal boutique. I opened the door to the sound of wind chimes that tingled as beautifully as anything I’d heard in a long time.

  “I’ll be right there,” Lisa Leann called from the back.

  I took a quick look around. Lisa Leann had certainly done a lot with this old fixer-upper, no doubt about that. The front room had been refurbished completely. The floors had been stripped and then polished to a shine. An antique Victorian settee with matching chairs flanked a marble-top coffee table where bridal magazines were fanned out invitingly. Massive prints were framed in gold leaf, prints of Romance-period lovers and Renaissance cherubs. The walls were wallpapered in ivory satin. The old fireplace bricks had been painted in ivory as well, and the mantel was drenched in a Victorian silk arrangement. Rose-scented candles burned at either end.

  “Sorry to keep you,” I heard Lisa Leann say from behind me. I spun around and watched the surprise register on her face. “My goodness! Goldie! Look at your hair.” She immediately came up and began to run her fingers through the new, shorter style. “This is fabulous, girlfriend.” She placed her hands on her hips. “You look ten years younger,” she declared, then cocked an eyebrow. “Wanna know what would make you look even younger than that?”

  “Makeup?”

  She crossed her arms. “How’d you know I was going to say that?” she asked, teasing me with her eyes.

  “Will you help me?” I asked, nearly choking on the words. Lord, if Evie hears about this, I may as well drop out of the Potluck before she boots me out … asking Lisa Leann for anything such as this.

  “Will I help you? Will I help you? Well, darling, you just come on back to my office.” She turned and was halfway out the door of the old parlor. “I’ll have you fixed up so fast and with that new hairdo, well, honey, Jack Dippel won’t know what hit him!”

  Jack, I thought following close behind her. Jack. I groaned inwardly. Jack had been the last thing on my mind.

  9

  Puttiń on the Ritz

  Clay did a double take when he saw Goldie Dippel entering Lisa Leann’s new bridal boutique. Her hair—what was it about her hair that looked so … different?

  He pulled out his notepad and jotted a few words next to her name, which was scrawled alongside Vonnie Westbrook’s. What would make a woman her age do something so … so … radical?

  Women in the high country just weren’t ones for putting on airs. He shook his head even as he had the thought. That is, he corrected himself, until Lisa Leann Lambert had swooped into town. He craned his neck to see what vantage point he might have through the tall windows of the boutique. Though they were hardly pictureperfect clear, it appeared that Lisa Leann was making a great to-do about Goldie’s new hairstyle.

  Goldie’s ’s new hairstyle … Clay didn’t know women very well, but what he did know was that women didn’t just go around doing something to beautify themselves for no apparent reason. This could mean only one thing: Goldie was on the make. Someone new had caught her attention, and she was going for it. Puttin’ on the Ritz

  Well, way to go, Mrs. Dippel, he thought. Make ole Coach sweat for once. Give him a dose of his own medicine. Make him suffer and wonder …

  Clay’s shoulders slumped. “Like you have for Donna,” he muttered, then rose from his chair and reached for his coat.

  10

  Buttering Up Reporters

  Imagine my surprise at the sight of Goldie standing in my new bridal boutique, her splendid red hair cut and colored. There she was, looking gloriously like a potential bride.

  It’s not that I was desperate or anything—my bridal shop wasn’t even a month old, and we’d barely just opened.

  For goodness sakes, my Henry and I were just finishing with the painting and resurfacing of this old Victorian charmer. Now I was busy ordering inventory and unpacking boxes.

  But I needed to start on my marketing campaign sometime. And today looked like the day.

  I could see it all, Goldie and Jack Dippel renewing their wedding vows, perched at the front of Grace Church. Goldie wearing an exquisite candlelight dress, picked out by me, of course. Her bridesmaids, the sisters of the Potluck Club, would be by her side in gold satin designer gowns.

  How lovely her flowers—a huge bouquet of blushing ivory roses clasped in her manicured hands. The whole of the church would be splashed in roses tied in golden bows, all ordered and arranged by me.

  This was my opportunity to do what I do best: shine. And this opportunity was hand delivered to me by Goldie’s sudden new look, which of course had to be all about a man. Though, come to think of it, she never said which man, now did she? I assumed the fresh look was for Jack. But since their separation, it was possible that Goldie was on the rebound. Hmmm. That could represent a small kink, but one I would definitely work out, one way or another.

  Still, the thought of it … a wedding in the Potluck sisterhood. My, the sound of that made my heart skip a beat. It would give me a chance to give those poor wrinkling faces some soothing creams and beauty tips, not to mention a splash of personalized color fashioned to put sparkle in their eyes.

  The possibilities were just too exciting to think about. In the process of serving as Goldie’s wedding consultant, I could achieve my ultimate goal, the presidency of the Potluck Club. Move over, Evangeline Benson. I’ll be wielding your gavel yet.

  I surveyed my beautiful new parlor. My colors were exquisite, ivory and gold with touches of pinks and sage from my lovely arrangements of silk roses and framed cherubs. Then, there was the antique oak counter Henry had just refinished and put into place the night before. It glowed in leaded beveled glass, revealing a display space already a swirl of ivory satin. Soon I’d have a few baubles to nestle there—bridal necklaces of pearls and crystal, sparkling tiaras, and silk bouquets.

  The massive cabinet had been fitted with a lovely marble top that he
ld not only my antique cash register but also a lovely silver tray covered with a batch of my fresh chocolate meringue kisses and my silver decanter filled with freshly brewed vanilla coffee. The coffee was ready to pour into my lovely collection of ivory and gold Royal Doulton teacups.

  It was step one of my marketing plan.

  With my shop right on Main Street, across the street from the Higher Grounds Café, I planned to become the information center of town. With my fresh-baked goods and hot coffee, I would woo those who either had access to the latest in the romance gossip or who needed my help in finding a mate. I already had my college son, Nelson, on the job, looking to set up my new matchmaking software that would help my shop become the area’s dating service hot spot.

  Yes, making matches is definitely one of my spiritual gifts, one I would employ on the dear citizens of Summit View, whether they knew they needed it or not.

  In fact, as I looked out my front window, I spied one of my prime wedding candidates, a Mr. Clay Whitefield, Summit View’s newspaper reporter, leaving the café and climbing into his rattletrap jeep. I opened the door of my shop and waved to him as he backed into the street.

  Clay looked both surprised and pleased to see me in the doorway. With a quick U-turn, he was parked right in front of my store.

  “Clay Whitefield,” I said. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

  Clay climbed out of his jeep. “Lisa Leann, it looks like you’re making a lot of progress with this old place.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said as I latched on to his elbow and tugged him through the beveled glass door. “I want to show you around and ask you to run a front page feature about what I’ve done here.”

  Clay let out a low whistle. “Lisa Leann, from the looks of this, I’d say you’ve given this town a touch of class. This is beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Clay. Of course, I’m not done yet. A lot of inventory has yet to arrive. But you can see that the space on the south end of the shop is set up to display a lovely selection of bridal gowns. We’ve got the dressing rooms set up, and I found this beautiful antique full-length mirror. Of course, you’ll notice this area is filled with natural lighting, giving our brides-to-be a natural blush. Plus a natural blush is what each of my brides will receive with her complimentary makeover.”

  “A makeover.”

  “Yes, see my makeup vanity in the corner? As I am a makeup expert, I will show the brides the best way to do their makeup for their wedding day.”

  “Looks to me like you’ve already had your first client.”

  “My, Clay, you are one observant fellow,” I said as I straightened my makeup brushes while I topped a tube of lipstick. “Yes, I just made over one of the members of the Potluck Club.”

  “Pray tell me, Lisa Leann, who was it?”

  “You’ll see my handiwork soon enough, because I’m telling you, Goldie Dippel absolutely glows.”

  “Goldie? Interesting. Why would she have a makeover, just after leaving Jack?”

  I gave Clay a sideways look. “Clay Whitefield, just how do you know about that?”

  “I’m the local news guy. I make it my business to know these kinds of things.”

  I gave him one of my most charming smiles. “Is that so?” I reached for my silver platter of chocolate meringue kisses. “Try one.”

  Clay’s eyes lit up. “I’ve heard you’re a fine cook.” He took a bite of my melt-in-your-mouth meringue, an old family recipe handed down by my great-grandmother Louise Annabelle Appleton. With his mouth still full, he chuckled. “Now I’ve got proof.”

  “Have a seat and let me pour you a cup of my fresh French vanilla coffee.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “And help yourself to another meringue or two or three.”

  Clay sat down on my fabulous gold chenille settee, and I placed the kisses and his china cup of vanilla coffee on the marble coffee table in front of him. I settled in the matching winged Victoria.

  I waited till Clay had taken a sip of coffee and popped another meringue into his mouth. “So tell me about yourself. Are you seeing anyone?”

  My, was that a bit of color rising in his cheeks? Clay swallowed, blinked, then smiled wryly. “I’m the one who gives the interviews around here.”

  I batted my eyes and smiled. “Oh, and you do a marvelous job at that. But being the proprietor of this lovely new bridal boutique, and seeing that you are one of our town’s most eligible young bachelors, well, I can’t help but be a bit curious.”

  Clay shifted uncomfortably then stared me down.

  “My love life is something I absolutely do not talk about,” he said with a grin. “Especially with wedding consultants.”

  “Oh, then, you’re a man with a past. Tell me, anyone I know?”

  Clay stood up and glanced at his watch. “Look at the time, and me with those deadlines.”

  I rose and faced him, blocking his exit. “Now, Clay, I didn’t mean to scare you off. If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. Just know that I am your friend, a safe friend. I’ll only bring up the subject again when you’re ready to try out my new dating service.”

  Clay stopped looking toward the door and turned his full attention on me. “A dating service?”

  “Certainly. A computerized dating service. My son is going to install it for me when he visits me from college—he goes to University of Texas, you know. He’s coming in for Thanksgiving this week.”

  “Really.”

  “And I’m going to need a few volunteers to beta test it for me. Imagine, you can sign up, complimentary of course, because you are the press. A little investigative reporting about the benefits of my dating service will provide another fabulous front page story, I think.”

  I couldn’t tell if Clay was shell-shocked or just terribly impressed with the enormity of my proffered gift.

  “Why, that is one incredible idea. As a matter of fact, I’m looking for someone to write a local gossip column, or, should I say, advice for the lovelorn. You seem to have a way with words, and I think you would be perfect for the job. You could draw in your wedding advice so it would be a form of advertisement. Understand, you would pay for the privilege of seeing your name in print. Still, I think such a column could have a lot of benefits, for both you as well as for my paper.”

  My, the thought of it all was enough to make the blood rush to my head. “Clay. Did anyone ever tell you that you, you are a genius?”

  Clay smiled in a very satisfied way. “Not nearly enough.”

  “Listen, I plan to have fresh-baked treats every morning here at the shop. Now, I’m not an official bakery. But to tell you the truth, Buttering Up Reporters my baked goods will be complimentary for people like you, people who can keep me informed, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. And as I too am in the information business, it would be my pleasure to stop in and see you.”

  The phone rang. When I picked it up, I heard the impatient voice of Deputy Donna on the other end of the line.

  “Lisa Leann? I was wondering if you have some luggage I could borrow.”

  “Donna! Are you going on a trip?”

  With my keen peripheral vision, I noticed that when Clay heard Donna’s name, he took a step closer. The look in his intense brown eyes told me his secret. Donna! Clay’s got the hots for Donna! I smiled.

  Donna answered, “I’m thinking about taking off for Los Angeles with Vonnie. It seems she has some unfinished business there.”

  “No kidding? Los Angeles. Imagine the two of you there.”

  “Lisa Leann, I’m just driving past your shop.”

  I looked up, and sure enough, there she was in her sheriff ’s Bronco. I waved. Clay turned around and watched her pass.

  “Don’t tell me that you’ve got Clay Whitefield in there.”

  “I do. Clay just made me a little business offer.”

  “Oh boy. Listen, you can’t say anything to him about my tr
ip with Vonnie.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s got his pad of paper out, right? He’s writing something down about our conversation right now. Right?”

  I looked up, then turned my back on Clay. “Well, Donna, yes, as a matter of fact. What’s all this about?”

  “Clay’s been nosing around about the David Harris situation. I can’t let him expose Vonnie, not yet, anyway. She’s much too fragile for that.”

  “I see.” I turned and looked back at Clay. He was a nosey one. “Don’t worry, Donna, I’ll take care of it. And yes, you can borrow my luggage. However, with my daughter’s due date coming up, I’ll need it back within a few months as I’ll be heading for Texas to lisa leann help her care for the new baby. But the two of you won’t be gone that long, will you?”

  “No, no, just a few days. Hey, appreciate it. Well, look at that. A tourist just ran the town’s stoplight. Gotta run.”

  I hung up but could still hear Donna’s siren whoop as she pulled her speeder over. I turned back to Clay. “Now, where were we?”

  Clay stood with his arms folded, a smirk on his face. “Oh, was that Donna? She and I were talking earlier today. Told me she was going to see David Harris in Los Angeles with …” He paused for good measure and grinned all the more. “Goldie, I believe she said.”

  Why, that sly dog, I thought as I looked at Clay with admiration. My new friend here was on a fishing expedition and thought he was clever enough to outwit me. So help me if I didn’t giggle.

  Clay was immediately suspicious. “What’s so funny?”

  “Just that you seem to know more about the Potluck sisterhood than me.”

  “Well, this is a small town, and I do share a history with each of those ladies.”

  Now, that comment raised both my suspicions and my eyebrows. “A history? What sort of history? Like in romantic?”