by Maria Geraci
“Let me explain,” he begins.
“By all means.”
He sits in the chair across from me. “So … ” He blows out a breath. “I guess you figured out that I’m … ” He shakes his head like he can’t bring himself to say it.
“What? That you’re J.W. Quicksilver? Yeah. It took me a while, but I finally got it. What I don’t get is why you never told me. Or why you lied to me when I asked you the other day. Right after kissing me, I might add.”
“It’s complicated.”
Huh. That’s exactly what I said to Sarah.
“The kiss or the lie?” I ask.
“Both,” he says miserably. “Crap.” He rakes a hand through his dark hair. “That didn’t come out right. It’s the lie that’s complicated. Not the kiss. The kiss was great.”
This seems like the perfect opening to talk about where our relationship is headed, but I can’t think about that until we clear up the mess he’s made with this J.W. Quicksilver business.
“What do you know about this faker who’s pretending to be you?” I ask.
“Not much except that he approached Betty Jean after she posted on an online review site. He must be trolling reader sites and preying on the clueless.”
“But what does he possibly hope to gain from this?”
“Besides getting his jollies impersonating me? I have no idea. All I know is that this is really bad.”
“I agree.” I think back to how excited Betty Jean and Brittany were when they came into the café. “You know Betty Jean got Botox in anticipation of meeting you?”
Will looks horrified. And he hasn’t even seen Betty Jean try to smile yet.
“You have to fix this. You have to tell everyone that you’re the real J.W. Quicksilver.”
“That’s what Sebastian says I should do.” He puts his head between his hands. “I wanted to come out on my own terms. Not like this.”
“You write popular thrillers. Big deal. Who else knows that you’re the real J.W.? Besides Sebastian?”
“Just my publisher. And my agent. And now you.”
“Not even your parents?”
Will shakes his head. Wait … Will has an agent? It reminds me once again of the secret life he’s been living, and I can’t help but feel resentful.
“The way I see it, you don’t have a choice. You either out this impostor or you let him go around being you. By the way, I hear you’re going to the reading tonight with Brittany.”
He looks at me. “It’s not a date.”
“Does Brittany know that?”
“As a matter of fact, she does.”
I still. “Oh.”
“I told her I wanted to be friends. That’s all. The tickets were sold out, so it was the only way I could go.”
Speaking of which, I really need to secure my own ticket to this circus. “Hold on a sec.” I pull out my cell phone and text Travis.
Hey. I heard through Brittany that you have an extra ticket to the J.W. Quicksilver event tonight. Any chance I can use it?
He texts back almost immediately. It depends on how nicely you ask.
I fight back the urge to put him in his place. Can I please have your extra ticket?
He makes me sweat a couple of minutes before he responds.
Lucy, are you asking me out on a date? Because if you are, then the answer is yes.
No, you big headed egomaniac, I’m not asking you out on a date. Before I hit send on this, I reconsider. It’s probably not the best response if I want to get that extra ticket. I reluctantly delete it. Sure, whatever, I text instead.
You don’t sound very excited. I don’t know. This ticket seems to be in high demand. Maybe I should hold out for someone who really wants it.
What he means is that he’s in high demand. A single good-looking man in this town is more popular than a hero in a Jane Austen novel. Apparently, the only way I’m going to get this ticket is to grovel. I grit my teeth. I would love to go on a date with you.
That’s better. I’ll pick you up at six thirty.
Ack. I feel so dirty. I toss my cell phone back in my bag. “Okay, so I have a ticket to tonight’s event too.”
“With Fontaine?”
“Yep.”
Will frowns. “Does he know that you and I are together now?”
“News flash. You and I are most certainly not together.” If you’d told me just a week ago that I’d be saying that to Will, I’d have thought you were crazy. He starts to say something, but I stop him. “Right now, we have more important stuff to fix than our relationship. So, what’s it going to be? Are you going to tell everyone that you’re J.W. Quicksilver or not?”
“You’re right,” he says grimly. “I don’t have a choice.”
I nod, relieved that he’s finally gotten it through his thick skull that he needs to own up to this. “So how are you going to do it?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure. What do you think?”
“What I think is that it never should have come to this, but since it has, it’s the perfect opportunity to come out. Everyone who’s bought a ticket is coming to see J.W. Quicksilver, right? So just march up in front of the room and tell everyone the truth.”
“You don’t think they’ll be upset with me?”
“Upset? They’ll be thrilled. J.W. Quicksilver, an international best-selling author living right here under their noses this whole time? Believe me, the whole town is going to be talking about this for a long time to come.”
Lucy, you absolutely can NOT wear that.
I read Brittany’s text and giggle.
I put together the most absurd outfit I could rummage from my closet—a too-tight latex miniskirt that I think I wore back in the eighth grade, fishnet hose (leftovers from a Halloween costume) and a sports bra. Then I took a selfie of me in the outfit and sent it to Brittany, asking her opinion.
I know it’s bad of me, but honestly, after the crack she made about my T-shirts, she kind of deserves it.
Why can’t I wear this? I text back. You and Betty Jean told me to try and look sexy. Don’t I look nice?
Lucy, please, I BEG of you. Take it off. Put on anything else but this.
Anything?
Yes, anything!
Oh, goody! I’ve been wanting to show off my new T-shirt. The caption reads: I LIKE BIG MUFFINS AND I CANNOT LIE.
I wait for her response, but nothing comes. Knowing Brittany, she’s contemplating how much time it will take her to dash over here to perform a rescue mission on my outfit. A few minutes later, I get a weak smiley face from her and a text that reads Sounds good.
I’m about to text and tell her that I’m messing with her when there’s a knock on my back door. Uh-oh. Travis. I was having so much fun with this that I forgot the time.
I take a quick look in the mirror to make sure I’m put together. Knee-length black velvet dress. Heels. Red lipstick. My hair is scooped up into a messy bun (it took me two hours to get it looking this good and messy), and I’m wearing contacts instead of glasses. I’m channeling my inner Anne Hathaway from the movie The Devil Wears Prada. Not the before look when she’s all frumpy and sad-looking. I’m aiming for the after look when the Stanley Tucci character takes pity on her and gives her a makeover.
I bought this dress a year ago on a whim, but I’ve been too chicken to wear it until now. It would probably hang in my closet until the moths ate it up, except Betty Jean dared me to look sexy, and I’m not one to back down from a challenge, especially when she’s the one issuing it. This irrational need to always have the last word or always be right is a huge character flaw of mine. I wish I could brush things off as easily as Sarah does. What do I care that Heidi’s Bakery is catering the church social? Or if she provides the refreshments for Betty Jean’s book club?
Except I do. Muffins are always getting the short end of the stick. Sure, anyone can whip up a pretentious cupcake or a greasy donut, but making a really good muffin is an art form.
I swirl around to
get Paco’s opinion. “What do you think? And be honest. Do I look good, or do I look like a clown?”
Paco wags his tail and barks in excitement.
I probably shouldn’t have worded it that way.
“Let’s try again. One bark for I look good, two barks for I look like a clown.” I hold my breath and wait.
Paco barks one time, then dances around in a circle.
Well, there you go. My dog thinks I look good.
That settles that.
I grab my purse and a light sweater and head down the stairs to the café, where Travis Fontaine is waiting on my back doorstep. I’ve seen Travis in his police uniform, of course, and jeans and casual slacks, but I’ve never seen him in a suit. He’s wearing black pants and a matching blazer with a light blue dress shirt open at the collar. He also smells terrific.
“Holy wow. You look good enough to---” I snap my mouth shut before I say something I know I’ll regret.
“To eat?” he finishes with a knowing grin.
I wish I could dissemble better, but I’m no good at hiding what I think.
“Okay, so you look good. Big deal.”
His smile fades as he takes in my outfit. “And you look fantastic. Really, Lucy. Great dress.”
My cheeks go hot. “Thanks.”
Paco looks between the two of us and wags his tail. Travis scores points by reaching down and scratching him in his favorite spot behind the ear. “Hey, little guy, I’m taking Lucy out tonight. You okay with that?”
Paco barks as if to say, Yes!
“Be a good boy,” I tell my dog, “and if you find any dead people, call 911.” I add this last part as a dig to Travis.
He chuckles. “You still think your dog sees ghosts?”
Under Travis’s eagle eye, I make sure to lock my door. He’s always after me about security, something I have to admit to being lax on in the past. But ever since I found my first dead body, I’m more than happy to oblige. “I don’t think Paco sees ghosts. I know he does.”
“And you’re a human lie detector,” he adds, shaking his head in disbelief.
When Tara Bell was found murdered in my kitchen, I had no choice but to tell Travis the truth about me and Paco. I thought that once he knew about our special skills, he’d let me assist with the police investigation, but he didn’t believe me. He thinks I’m “intuitive” and that Paco, whose history before I rescued him is a bit sketchy, has been trained as a cadaver dog.
How many chihuahua terrier mixes do you know that serve as cadaver dogs? None. That’s how many. But Travis is too stubborn to open his mind to the truth.
“One day you’ll feel foolish for doubting me.”
He raises a brow as if to say he’ll take his chances on that.
“So, about tonight,” I begin.
“What about tonight?”
“Thanks for getting tickets. I had no idea you were a J.W. Quicksilver fan.”
“I’m not,” he says, “but I know how much you like his books.”
I start to open my car door, but he beats me to the punch. I’ve been in a car with Travis before, but he’s never been this chivalrous. I go over the evidence in my head.
Nice suit.
Cologne.
Opens the car door for me.
Bought tickets for tonight because of me.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think this is a real date.
“Thanks,” I say cautiously.
“My pleasure.” He smiles, and my insides go all mushy.
Oh no. My girl parts think this is a real date too.
4
The Harbor House is owned by Brittany’s family and is Whispering Bay’s fanciest eatery, serving premium seafood and upscale cocktails. I worked here during the summers while I was in high school. Even though the work was hard, the experience cemented my passion for cooking.
The parking lot is crammed with cars, and the valets are directing everyone to an overflow lot. Rusty Newton, a local cop and one of my favorite customers (he comes by every morning for a cup of coffee and a lemon poppy seed muffin), is assisting with traffic flow. Rusty is what the locals call a good old boy. He’s in his mid-forties, and he’s been on the force forever. He and the department’s receptionist, Cindy, have been dating for a while now.
Seeing a police presence at the event reminds me that Whispering Bay’s finest might be needed before the night is out. Impersonating another person has to be a crime, right?
“Do you know if Rusty is going to be here all night?” I ask Travis.
“Why?”
“Just wondering. So … could you arrest someone if you had to? I mean, since you’re not on duty?”
“Why? Are you expecting a rumble?” he teases. “Some overzealous fans planning to rush the stage and fight one another to get the first autograph?”
“Not exactly.”
The humor in his eyes fades. “Lucy, do you know something I don’t?”
I wish I could give Travis the heads-up on what’s about to go down, but I promised Will he could do this his way. I clamp my mouth shut before I accidentally spill the beans.
Travis groans. “Promise me you’re not planning some kind of crazy shenanigans tonight.”
“What on earth makes you think that?”
He raises a brow.
“Okay, so maybe in the past, I’ve pulled a few stunts, but it was always for a good cause. Like finding a killer,” I remind him. “But there’s no unsolved murder, no dead bodies, nothing to worry about. Right?”
“Right,” he says, but he doesn’t sound confident. Considering our history, I can’t blame him.
We leave his car with a valet. Inside the building, we’re shown to a private salon with a terrific view of the gulf. The room holds maybe two hundred people, and it’s packed. Brittany is right. This event is big. I glance around to see lots of familiar faces, including—
“Lucy!” My mother scurries across the room to give me a hug. She’s got a glass of champagne in one hand and a yummy-looking appetizer in the other. “Isn’t this exciting! J.W. Quicksilver here in Whispering Bay!” She steps back to get a look at Travis and me. “Well, don’t you two look wonderful! Is that a new dress?”
“Um, sort of.”
My father, who’s always three steps behind my mother, catches up to the conversation. “Hello, kids,” he says good-naturedly.
Travis shakes Dad’s hand. “George. Good to see you again.” He gives my mother a smile straight out of the Eddie Haskell school of smarm. “Molly, you look lovely. You and Lucy could be sisters.”
Mom titters like a schoolgirl. “Aren’t you the charmer?”
Oh, brother. “I didn’t know you two would be here tonight.”
“Why wouldn’t we?” says Mom. “After all, we’re part of Betty Jean’s book club. She gave us all a heads-up so we were sure to get tickets.”
“Practically the whole town’s here,” says Dad. He waves across the room to Victor Marino, who’s chatting it up with Phoebe Van Cleave. They’re both members of the Sunshine Ghost Society and the principal naggers who want to involve Paco in a séance. Victor waves back. Besides them, I recognize lots of my regular customers, as well as most members of the Gray Flamingos.
“I had no idea this room could hold so many people,” says Mom. “Makes it the perfect place for a wedding reception, doesn’t it?” She winks at Travis.
I wish the floor would swallow me whole. Thankfully, before Mom can book the band for my nonexistent reception, Dad slaps Travis on the back. “Why don’t I buy you a real drink while we let the girls gab?”
Travis throws me an amused look as Dad takes him away to the bar.
“Look! Even Will is here,” says Mom. “And you know how much he dislikes J.W.’s books. I guess as the town librarian, he felt it was his duty to attend. Don’t he and Brittany make just the cutest couple?” I follow Mom’s gaze. Brittany looks spectacular in a slim navy-blue dress and heels. Will is wearing a suit, and he looks incredibly h
andsome. I have to agree with Mom. They do look good together.
A waiter passing out champagne comes our way. I grab a flute off his tray and take a chug. I have a feeling I’m going to need a few more of these to get through the night. “Have you seen J.W. Quicksilver yet?”
“Not yet,” says Mom. “But I’ve met his personal assistant.”
“He has a personal assistant?” This is getting stickier by the second.
“Well, of course he does. All the big celebrities have them.” Mom points to a woman standing in the middle of a group. Mid-twenties, brown hair pulled back in a bun, glasses, kind of frumpy. “Her name is Anita something. Very nice, but the poor woman looks a bit overwhelmed. Although you’d think she’d be used to all this by now. J.W. is a worldwide sensation. He probably attracts a lot of attention wherever he goes.”
Before I can respond, an older woman comes up to join us. She’s got long, blonde hair, and her dress is so tight, it’s a wonder she can breathe. “Ladies, are you having a good time?” Her voice is oddly familiar. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was—
My champagne goes down the wrong way. “Betty Jean?” I sputter. “Is that you?”
Even Mom isn’t quite sure what to make of this. “You look … well, you look … Betty Jean Collins, how on earth did you get yourself into that dress?”
“It’s called Spanx. Don’t you think I look like Farrah Fawcett?” She carefully pats her blonde curls. “It’s a wig. But don’t tell anyone.”
“What’s up with your face?” asks Mom, making her my new personal hero.
“Botox. And a makeover at the Clinique counter at Dillard’s.”
“Don’t you think that long, blonde hair looks a bit … too much for a woman your age?” Mom says, trying to be tactful.
Betty Jean makes a huffing sound. “If Christie Brinkley can get away with it, why can’t I?”
“For one thing, Christie Brinkley is younger than you,” I say. “Plus, you know, she’s a supermodel.”
“Phooey. The only difference between me and Christie Brinkley, besides a few years, is that she has a really good team behind her. I’m thinking of getting my neck done. What do you think? And be honest.”
