by A. Gardner
He scratched his head again. “Essie, I’m a terrible person.”
“No.” I rubbed his shoulder, noticing that his breathing had become shallower.
“Yes. I am.” He pushed away my hand. “I showed up late. I had a thing with a client, and I showed up just in time to throw on a cowboy hat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know for sure that my guns were checked or who checked them,” he replied. “I just took Booney’s word for it.”
“Let me guess.” I tilted my head, remembering the smug look on Cydney’s face when I’d left the police station. “You lied to Detective Keene about it.”
“I panicked,” Breck practically shouted. “I couldn’t tell him the reason I was late without exposing me and my sister’s entire operation. I didn’t know what to say, so I just went with the flow.”
“Word on the street is you weren’t too convincing,” I commented.
“I guess that makes me look guilty.” He shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “In trouble with the police or the wrath of Ada? I can’t tell you which one is worse. Probably my sister.”
“I won’t say anything, Breck.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a free truffle for the trouble? I could use some pointers on taste. Ada has been hard at work on it.” He pulled the merchandise out of his pocket again. As tempting as it was to accept, I had a lot on my plate, and I needed a clear head. Wade’s livelihood depended on it.
“Maybe next time.”
One down. Two more to go.
Chapter 10
Miso jumped up and down.
Patrick was waiting patiently at my front door.
My heart rate picked up before I even started climbing the stairs and I suddenly wished I’d taken the time to look in the mirror before strolling down Canyon Street and back to the Painted Deer Bookshop. I moistened my lips and touched the top of my bun to make sure I had no flyaways. I hadn’t seen Patrick since yesterday, and I had a lot to fill him in on.
“Hey, I wasn’t expecting you until later.” I searched for my keys while Miso greeted Patrick by giving him both paws.
“I finished early today at the Hummingbird Inn,” he said, his golden locks shining in the sun. “My aunt has the quite the guest list this week. I can’t believe it, but she has managed to book every room this month.”
“Wow.” I nodded and quickly adjusted the neckline of my workout top. “That’s amazing.”
“Do you mind if we . . . uh . . .” He glanced down the stairwell where a short, round shadow remained still on the sidewalk. Mrs. Tankle was standing outside just around the corner.
“Yeah.” I grabbed my key and unlocked the door. “She’s probably scouting for some dialogue. I’ve caught her writing things down in a little notebook—things her customers say.”
“I thought she was writing a historical romance.” He raised his eyebrows and followed me inside. Luckily, I’d left the place clean.
“I think it’s more about the sorts of conversations people have,” I explained. “Not the actual word usage.” I tossed my keys on the kitchen table. “Now that she knows you’re here, she’ll be listening to see when you go home.”
“She must have a bedroom down there that we don’t know about.”
I shrugged. “Maybe extra cats?”
Patrick chuckled. He sat down on the couch, and it made me smile even more. He was one of my few houseguests that didn’t feel the need to raid my cupboards every time he came over. He respected my boundaries in every little way possible.
“So, how is Joy? Alive?”
“Today,” I answered, retreating to the kitchen for bottled waters. Miso claimed the spot next to Patrick—the best seat in the house. “I hope your mom didn’t mind me leaving so abruptly.”
“At least she knows it wasn’t her cooking.”
“Remind me to pay Clementine a visit,” I responded. “I loved her chicken.” I opened the fridge and ran through our dinner options. I had lots of vegetables and a sack of potatoes I hadn’t used yet. I rubbed the side of my chin trying to figure it out.
“Essie.” Patrick’s voice floated in from the living room and caressed my cheek.
“Yeah?”
“You’re doing that thing,” he replied, watching me from his spot on the couch. “You’re stressing about something. What happened today?”
“Oh, there’s another thing I do? Exactly how many weird quirks do I have?”
“Seventeen.” He chuckled.
“Really?”
“No. I don’t know. It changes all the time.” He took a deep breath. “I’m just going to keep staring until you come and sit down.”
“Now I have no idea what to do for dinner.” Same as every night.
“You’re busying yourself for no reason,” he added. “Come and sit down.” He patted Miso on the back. I’ll move this fluff ball so you can put your feet on me.”
The possibility of a foot rub piqued my interest. Patrick always teased me for being a bit obsessed, but a foot rub felt amazing after a long day at work. I clasped my hands together and joined him in the living room. It was in my nature not to burden him with my problems. I knew that. He had enough going on with his mother’s illness, his aunt’s bed and breakfast, and figuring out how to be retired without going stir-crazy.
Patrick hated it when I kept things from him, and he always seemed to know when I was.
I didn’t do it on purpose.
“It’s Wade,” I blurted out. “He’s really done it this time.”
“You saw his love staff again?”
“What?” A spell of laughter escaped my lips. “What? No.”
“Just a guess.” He watched me laugh, a slight twinkle in his eyes.
“He’s a suspect, and the cards are stacked against him.” I rested my calves on Patrick’s lap and wiggled my toes hoping he’d take a hint. “I don’t know, Patrick. It doesn’t look good, and if anything happens to him I feel like my sister will fall to pieces. I don’t want that guilt on my shoulders.”
“What guilt?” His eyes widened. “This wasn’t any of your doing.”
“You’re an only child,” I commented. “I know Joy and I aren’t blood sisters, but I feel like it’s my responsibility to make sure she winds up happy. She would do the same for me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I raised my eyebrows. “Yes, she would, Patrick.”
“Yes, she would,” he repeated. “So. What’s your plan?”
“Sort out the liars from the killers,” I answered.
* * *
“Your sister is the worst,” Taryn muttered as our first client of the day stepped off of the elevator. It was an impromptu appointment I’d only heard about when I stepped into my office.
Mayor Millbreck.
“Ladies.” His toothy grin was luminescent. “Double the trainers, double the fun? Well, isn’t this just the royal treatment.” The mayor was petite like Martha. They were a good match right down to the orangey tinge of their spray tans to the swagger of their tracksuits.
Mayor Millbreck unzipped his jacket, revealing a tight-fitting tank top.
“She’s your trainer, not me.” Taryn pointed in my direction. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“Your next client doesn’t show for another hour,” I said, determined to make her stick around. It was the perfect opportunity to remind Taryn how lucky she was to have clients who dialed it down on the aftershave.
“Where do we begin?” Mayor Millbreck ripped off his tracksuit bottoms before either of us could protest. He wore light blue running shorts. Ones that left little to the imagination. Taryn covered her mouth, looking like she might barf all over the nearest treadmill. “Lats? Hammies? Glutes?”
As if the shorts weren’t enough, the mayor leaned side-to-side stretching for his first day of training.
“Make it stop,” Taryn muttered under her breath.
“I applaud your dedication to pro
per warm-ups,” I said, “but you can put your pants back on. We’re taking it easy today.”
“But the fun run is next week,” he argued. “Your sister promised you could make me look like a top-grade athlete in no time. In fact, we might need to book some extra sessions. The expense isn’t a problem.” He reluctantly picked up his tracksuit bottoms and slid them back over his shorts.
“It’s a charity fun run,” Taryn said. “All that matters is that you finish. Oh, and that you have a fun time.” She stood with her arms crossed, her hair up in a high ponytail. She’d also put on some neutral eye shadow, eyeliner, and an extra coat of lip gloss. She must have had Cydney on the brain.
“The mayor of Silverwood is running a marathon this summer,” he exclaimed. “A marathon.”
“And there it is.” I rubbed my forehead. The rivalry between Bison Creek and Silverwood was legendary, and it was said to have sparked from some dispute between the two town founders over a hundred years ago. No one knew what the argument had been about, but that didn’t matter. Residents of Silverwood rarely wandered into Bison Creek and vice versa. Naturally, both town mayors had it out for each other. The exception to the rule was times when a video camera was present.
“The least I can do is log a good time for a dinky little five K.” The mayor rolled his eyes and proceeded to grab his elbow and stretch his arm across his body. “We’re going to train hard, and this is going to be the best event put on this spring in the entire county.”
“I see.” I took a deep breath. “Well, thank goodness my sister recommended me.”
“Yes, bless her for that,” the mayor added, a forced smile returning to his face.
“What sort of experience do you have running outdoors?”
“Let’s see.” He paused, glancing out the window at Canyon Street just as a school bus turned a corner. The mayor cleared his throat, rubbing his forearms and finally examining the quality of his latest spray tan.
“I think that means none,” Taryn chimed in.
“Not a problem,” I replied. “I can work with you even though it’s pretty short notice. You’ll have to start your mornings with a jog from now on. There are plenty of trails around here. The one around Lake Loxley is pretty flat.”
“I prefer to stay indoors today.” He smoothed the top of his gelled hair. It looked shinier in the light. Too shiny. Borderline greasy. “I’m not having a very good hair day and the folks down there will ask for photos. You understand.”
“Yes, because every person within a mile radius knows who you are and just can’t help themselves,” Taryn commented in a monotonous tone. I nudged her shoulder.
“Exactly.” The mayor walked toward his treadmill of choice, blind to the fact that her remark hadn’t been a compliment. “You get me.”
I pressed my lips together, finding it comical that the mayor had chosen the same treadmill that his wife had gravitated toward. It must have been the view. I turned the machine to the lowest speed.
“You and Martha must be on the same wavelength.” I crossed my arms, wondering how I was going to survive the next two weeks training both of the Millbrecks.
The mayor’s smile faded at the mention of his wife. “How do you mean?”
“You chose her treadmill.” I tilted my head toward the machine.
“Oh.” He focused on the view ahead of him.
“How are you two these days?” It was a loaded question. I knew the answer because I’d seen their dysfunctional relationship firsthand. The town had no clue that they hardly spoke to each other anymore. They put on a good show.
But I knew.
“Martha has a busy social calendar.”
“Yes, she does,” I agreed.
The mayor took a deep breath and pumped his arms. Memories came floating back of the time I’d found him hiding from his wife in a storage bin in their backyard. I could never quite work out how he’d managed to cram his entire body into such a small space or what he’d planned on doing when the sun went down and a nightly freeze frosted his lawn.
“Okay, another five minutes and then you’ll start jogging,” I instructed him.
“What about my diet?” He narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t I supposed to start carbo-loading or whatever the heck that’s called?”
“It’s just a five K, Mayor. Don’t eat a ton of junk food and you’ll be fine.”
“That’s good news,” he said. “Martha has got me on the keto, and she won’t be happy if I start bringing carbs into the house.”
“Let’s see how you feel the next few days.”
I snuck a glimpse of Taryn, who was sticking out her tongue by the water cooler. Training the mayor was going to add even more to my schedule. I’d been thinking about Wade’s rifle all day. I still had Booney and Old Man Simpkins to talk to about the shootout but my day was already packed. I was busy with clients all day, and it was Tuesday. I cringed at the thought of racing home in time to make Mrs. Tankle’s sugar-free peanut butter brownie things. I didn’t want to risk being shunned by her inner circle, not to mention I didn’t want to be known as the girl whose artichoke appetizer gave everyone gas last month.
I never knew what to expect at book club.
Chapter 11
“I refuse to talk about the art of seduction. This is a book club for heaven’s sake.”
Mabel lifted her chin and surveyed the selection of snacks on the table. Mrs. Tankle’s bookshop looked rather messy. There were teacups lining the windowsill, and several half-finished quilts sat on the couch in her back reading room. Either she’d been doing some spring cleaning or her mind was occupied with more pressing matters.
I repositioned myself in my seat, remembering a comment Mabel had made once about women who crossed their legs for attention. Mabel was the most conservative of the bunch and the most crabby. I often wondered why she still came to book club.
“There are plenty of books on that topic, Mabel. Don’t be such a prude. You were young once.”
Zelda Finke touched the brim of her casual baseball cap that matched her T-shirt and jeans. She was Mrs. Tankle’s most trusted confidante and owned a large collection of hats that she claimed were useful for covering up her grays.
“There is no sex in these chapters.” Mrs. Tankle waved her manuscript in the air. She’d spent all afternoon making copies for everyone to read and annotate, as she’d mentioned several times since the start of the meeting.
“And since when did this turn into a writers’ group?” Mabel added. “You’re the only writer here, Virginia.” Mabel eyed the snacks again and wrinkled her nose. “What? No carrot sticks?”
“Well, I don’t mind.” Zelda shrugged. “She can do whatever she wants. It’s her book club. And you can eat carrot sticks at home all by your lonesome.”
“I don’t mind either,” Barbara Morgan chimed in. She wore a chunky sweater despite the warmer weather outside. Paired with her bushy hair, the shades of brown made her look like a wild squirrel.
That left me and also Clementine—the newest member of the group. She’d stuck out like the blueberries in a blueberry muffin when she’d first moved to Bison Creek. Now, she fit in a little more even though the shade of her latest handbag was turquoise with a hot pink monogram of her initials embroidered on the front.
“Maybe we can split our time discussing books and writing?” I watched Zelda take one of my sugar-free peanut butter brownies. They’d turned out better than I’d expected.
“Perhaps.” Mabel avoided all eye contact and crossed her arms. “I’ll agree to that if Virginia agrees to include a veggie platter at every meeting from now on. Some of us like the extra vitamins.”
“I’ll make some arrangements.” Mrs. Tankle nodded in my direction. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
“Ah!” Mabel jumped out of her chair.
My heart raced as a plump Russian Blue flew out of her lap with a hiss.
“Pumpkin,” Mrs. Tankle scolded her new cat, “how many times do I have to tell
you? No pouncing on our guests.”
“I prefer Bing.” Mabel brushed the front of her blouse as though Pumpkin had an infectious disease.
“But Bing never comes around,” Barbara commented. “I’m not even sure she’s real.”
“Exactly my point.” Mabel carefully lowered herself back down in her seat.
“I’ve run into a few snags,” Mrs. Tankle continued.
“Snags?” Clementine licked her lips, observing the selection of sweets that she could no longer partake of unless they were gluten-free.
“Yes.” Mrs. Tankle took a deep breath. “I have some issues with my plot. You see . . .” She glanced around the bookshop, fixating on the door as an afternoon breeze swirled through every aisle. A group of tourists stepped inside, whispering as they observed the stacks of books in the display window. “I forgot to flip the sign.”
“I love the plot,” Zelda said.
“Of course you do,” Mabel muttered.
“Well, I can’t wait to read how it ends.” Zelda helped herself to some more brownies and one of the lemon drop cookies she’d brought to the meeting. She’d claimed they were also sugar-free, but it hadn’t tasted like that to me.
“You might have to wait a while.” Mrs. Tankle watched her customers move from the bargain bin to the shelf of newest releases. “There is no ending.”
“What do you mean there’s no ending?” Zelda shook her head in disbelief.
“I mean, I can’t come up with one.” Mrs. Tankle threw her hands in the air. “I’m completely and totally blocked.”
“Must be a sign from on high,” Mabel responded.
“We need to find you someone nice.” Zelda rolled her eyes, taking tiny bites of her lemon drop cookie. “All these years of being single have turned you sour. There must be a name for that.”
“I think it means she’s become a cougar,” Barbara said as quietly as she could.
“No, honey, that’s something else entirely.” Zelda waved her hand. “She’s in hibernation, not on the prowl.”
