I turned my attention back to Mollie. “Yes, that would be fine.”
She showed me to a small table off to the left of the bar and placed a leather-covered book the size of War and Peace in front of me. “Your server is Gretchen,” she said. “She’ll be with you shortly.” As she started to move off, I touched her arm.
“Excuse me. Do you know if Lawrence Peabody and Andy McHardy have been in here yet?”
“Larry and Andy? They usually get here just after four.” She gave me a curious look. “Why?”
I flushed a bit under her scrutinizing look. “I have some business I need to discuss with them.”
“Oh. Well, they should be here soon. I’ll point them out to you, if you want.”
“That would be great, thanks.” As Mollie moved away, I heard the dulcet tones of my iPhone inside my bag. I pulled it out. Gary. Again.
“God, Gary, give it up,” I grumbled, shoving the phone rather unceremoniously back into my bag. Behind me someone cleared their throat loudly.
“Wow! You really didn’t want to take that call, did you?”
I whipped my head around to gaze at the speaker. Josh stood behind me, his lips twisted into a rueful grin. If I’d thought he looked fabulous earlier in his beat-up clothes, he looked a hundred times more so now. He had on pressed chinos and a topaz-colored collared shirt that brought out the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. The shirt stretched taut against his muscular frame, and I noted again that he was in great shape. I mean Great. Shape.
“Yeah, well, I get a bit cranky when I’m hungry.” I tore my gaze away from him with an effort and tapped at the menu. “I didn’t get to the supermarket yet, and someone told me the food here was good.”
“Oh, it is. The drinks are even better.” He paused. “So, how do you like Fox Hollow so far?”
I picked up my glass of water and took a sip. “Very much, at least so far.”
He gave me a long, searching look. “Getting along with the natives? Some of ’em can be rather difficult.”
He was subtly referring, no doubt, to my earlier altercation with Amelia, and I recalled again the distressed look I’d seen on his face. I was debating how to answer when Mollie sidled up, a wide smile on her face. She laid her hand on Josh’s arm. “Hey, Joshy! Michelle’s in the back. She’ll be right out.”
Joshy!
He smiled. “Thanks, Moll.” He nodded in my direction. “I’ve got to go. It was nice to see you again.” He waggled his fingers at me. “You behave yourself, now.”
I watched out of the corner of my eye as Josh went over to the bar and slid onto a stool. A few minutes later, a pretty brunette wearing a black shirt and matching slacks came out of the back. Her dark eyes lit up when she saw Josh and she ran over, leaned across the counter to give him a buss on the cheek.
“Hey, stranger! About time you showed up,” she said.
He laughed and then the two of them moved off to the side of the bar, talking in low tones. I found myself wondering just what their connection was. Casual acquaintance, or boyfriend-girlfriend maybe?
I sniffed. You behave yourself too, Joshy.
I was spared further speculation as Mollie came back and touched my shoulder. “You wanted to know when Larry and Andy came in?” She nodded toward the front of the bar. “They’re here.”
She moved off, menus in hand, and I glanced casually in the direction of the foyer. Two men stood there, and for a fleeting moment I had the impression of the old comedy team of Abbott and Costello. One man was older, tall and thin, with a thick head of gray hair that looked to be professionally styled. His close-clipped mustache matched the color of his hair, and he wore a blue plaid sport coat over a sky-blue shirt and navy trousers. The color of the shirt matched exactly the color of his eyes, which were large and very, very round. They almost reminded me of a frog’s eyes.
The other man was short and squat, and his tan chinos looked to be about two sizes too small for his rotund frame. He had what my aunt would have called soft features. Dull brown eyes set deep in a face with doughy cheeks and thick, bulbous lips. He too had a thick head of hair, which he wore slicked back from a high forehead, and thick sideburns, Elvis Presley style. The hair might have been dyed, I couldn’t be sure.
They both greeted the hostess effusively. “Give us a table in the back today, Mollie,” said the shorter man. He reached up to clap the tall man on the back. “Larry and I have some private business to discuss.”
I watched as Mollie led them to a small table over in the far corner of the room. She deposited menus in front of them and then moved past my table, pausing to give me a discreet nod. I rose, mouthed a thank-you, and made my way slowly over to their table, pausing once to glance casually at the bar, but Josh and Michelle were nowhere to be seen. I turned and made my way over to where tall Lawrence Peabody and short Andy McHardy were seated. As I drew closer, I paused. It was evident they were in the middle of an argument. Andy was frowning, his finger tapping impatiently against the tabletop, and I could see a vein bulge slightly in his forehead.
“Even you must admit something’s got to be done,” I heard him say. “We can’t go on like this, with her expecting us to jump every time she snaps her fingers.”
Larry shook his head vehemently. “I disagree. I . . .” He turned his head slightly and apparently caught sight of me, standing awkwardly not two feet away. He nudged his companion, who let out a sharp “Ow, what the heck . . .,” and then he stopped speaking as he, too, saw me. Well, if I’d learned nothing else in Hollywood, it was that the best defense is usually a good offense. I squared my shoulders, stepped right up to the table, and smiled.
“Mr. Peabody and Mr. McHardy, I presume?”
Larry rose and held out his hand. “I’m Lawrence Peabody, and he”—he swept his arm wide to encompass his companion—“is Andrew McHardy. How may we be of service?”
I took Larry’s hand, released it, then smiled at the two of them. “I’d like a few moments of your time, if I may.”
“Of course.” Larry grabbed a chair from a nearby table and pushed it over. His big froggy eyes rested for a moment on my V neckline and the swell of my breasts, and then he quickly raised his gaze to meet mine. “Please, sit down. What can we do for you?”
“Yes.” Andy nodded. His thick, dark hair bobbed in time with his head, and I found myself thinking hairpiece, definitely. “We’re at a loss here, I’m afraid,” he continued. “It’s not often a pretty girl seeks us out. We’ve never met before.” His gaze traveled to my cleavage, then he quickly averted his gaze. “I’d have remembered.”
I settled into my seat and offered them my most dazzling smile. “We haven’t met, gentlemen, but I understand the two of you are on the board of the Fox Hollow Museum?”
They exchanged a glance, and then Larry leaned forward. “The museum, eh? Well, yes, as a matter of fact we are. Why? Are you a patron of the arts?”
“In a way. I understand you voted down my offer to display my aunt’s poster collection. I’m Crishell McMillan.”
They looked at each other, and then Larry gave me another once-over. “You’re the niece, eh? Why do you want to speak with us? I was under the impression Mazie was going to talk to you.”
“She did. However, I have some concerns.”
“Concerns?” Larry made an impatient gesture with his hand. “What sort of concerns?”
“I’d like to be sure I was turned down for the right reasons.”
They exchanged a look, and Andy fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at. We considered your offer carefully, pros and cons, and we voted. You lost, four to three.”
“Might I ask the reason the two of you voted against me?”
“Oh, for pity’s sakes,” sputtered Larry. “We didn’t vote against you, we voted against displaying the collection. We didn’t want to be like every other Tom, Dick, and Harry around..”
I leaned forward, smile still in place. “Trust me, t
his collection isn’t like any other around. I’m sure no other museum will be offering a display of posters of all of Grant’s movies, some of them signed, no less.”
Larry frowned, reached up a hand to curl one corner of his mustache. “There is such a thing as overkill, you know.”
“Perhaps.” I exhaled a breath, trying to figure out the most diplomatic way to get my point across. “I don’t mean to upset you gentlemen. I just wanted to be sure that you all sincerely felt that way, and weren’t . . . unduly influenced.”
Andy picked up his napkin, twining it between his stubby fingers. “Unduly influenced? By whom?”
I paused, coughed lightly. “Well . . . I’ve heard that Amelia Witherspoon and my aunt had a long-running feud. And that Ms. Witherspoon is a major force on the board.”
Both men started. They looked quickly at each other and then Andy said, “We’re not familiar with any story about a feud, but your aunt was a fine woman, Ms. McMillan.”
“Yes,” Larry said with a nod. “And while it’s true Amelia Witherspoon is a major force on our board, you may be assured that neither she nor anyone else exerts any undue influence on us.”
“I see,” I said, although I wasn’t quite sure I believed him. His voice seemed to crack a bit when he mentioned Amelia’s name. I waited a few minutes and then added, “Ginnifer Rubin mentioned she’s willing to give my offer further consideration. I wondered if perhaps you might be willing to do the same?”
They exchanged a quick look and then Larry said, “I don’t believe it’s necessary, Ms. McMillan. We’ve voted and that’s that. As far as we’re concerned, the matter is resolved.”
I could see that further argument wouldn’t get me anywhere. It appeared they were all a united front on this point. Best to back away, try a different tack. I shrugged. “I guess we have nothing further to talk about, then.”
Larry’s big eyes looked about ready to pop out of his head, and the little vein in his neck was throbbing. “No, we don’t. Frankly, if I were you, Ms. McMillan, I’d stick to reopening your aunt’s pet shop. The community has a need for such a store.” He rose, giving his jacket a sharp tug. “Come on, Andy. I think I’ve lost my appetite for today.”
Andy nodded and rose. As he passed me he whispered, “Larry’s right. You should concentrate on reopening your aunt’s store. Some things are best left . . . alone.” Then he turned and followed the other man out of the pub.
I returned to my table and sat for a moment, my thoughts whirling. It was painfully obvious I wasn’t going to get anywhere with them. The person I had to convince was Amelia. I needed to find out what that feud was all about, and right now there was only one person I could think of who might be able to shed some light.
Much as I disliked the idea, I was going to have to poke the bear.
I whipped out my cell phone and scrolled down the list of contacts until I found the one marked Mother. I hit the button to dial and waited, mentally reviewing how to broach the subject of Aunt Tillie’s past. She and my mother had never really gotten along—the adage that opposites attract didn’t apply in this case. As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry. My call went straight to voicemail. “You’ve reached the voicemail of Clarissa McMillan. I’m not available right now. Please leave a detailed message and I shall return your call as soon as my schedule allows.”
I bit back a grimace. “Hello, Mother. This is your daughter. Could you give me a call when your sch—when you have time? I’ve got some questions I need to ask you.”
I dropped the phone back into my purse and looked around. The waitress hadn’t come by yet, and I suddenly found the heavy menu just too much to navigate. I was about to get up to leave when a shadow fell across the table. I glanced up and saw a man I could best describe as strange-looking standing there, staring at me. He wore a long peacoat buttoned all the way up, even though the temperature was a pleasant seventy-four degrees. Ratty-looking jeans peeped out from the bottom of the coat, and he wore sandals on his feet. He had a full head of thick, gold-red hair and large tortoiseshell glasses perched on the bridge of a beak-shaped nose. He held a notebook and pen in one hand. “Don’t tell me. Crishell McMillan?”
I looked at him. “Yes. Who are you?”
He bared his teeth in what I assumed was supposed to be a smile, but looked more like a leer. “Quentin Watson, editor in chief of the Fox Hollow Gazette. I understand you’ve just moved to our little burg?”
Ah, so he was the Watson Amelia’d accused me of working for. I forced a smile to my lips and said, “I have. Just this week, as a matter of fact. Are you here to welcome me to town too?”
“Too?” He looked puzzled and then his expression cleared. “Oh, yes, Rita and her welcome wagon.” He made a face, as if he thought the idea silly. “Well, welcome, of course, but what I’m really after is an interview. You’re the first celebrity to set down roots here in a long time. No, scratch that. Ever.” He flipped open the notebook and tapped at its edge with his pen. “It’s quite newsworthy.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said carefully. “And I would love to accommodate you, Mr. Watson, however, I still have a lot of unpacking to do, and I’m really not settled in yet. I don’t even have groceries in my house yet. It’s really not a convenient time.”
“Of course, of course,” he murmured, pen still poised. “Perhaps just a quick quote then, on how you like the town so far, are you finding the people friendly . . . I heard you intend to reopen your aunt’s store. Do you have a date on that?”
“No firm one. Very soon, I hope.”
“I see, I see.” He scribbled something down. “Any comment on the rumor that the museum board turned down displaying your aunt’s poster collection?”
“No comment.” Quentin Watson was sending off a vibe I didn’t like. “I’m sorry, I’ve always made it a point that any interview must be cleared with my agent, Max Molenaro, first.”
“Molenaro?” He scribbled in his notebook, closed it, and capped his pen. “How long does that usually take? I was hoping to feature you in next Sunday’s edition, if not tomorrow’s.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said, in a firm enough tone to let him know that any further argument or wheedling would be pointless. I rose, clutching my purse. “And I really have to get back. I’ve a lot to do.”
His lips quirked downward and I caught a flash of annoyance cross his face, but it was gone in an instant and he offered me a wide smile. “Of course, of course. Thank you for your time and . . . welcome to Fox Hollow.” He turned on his heel and was gone.
I waited a few minutes, hoping Josh and the brunette bartender would reappear, but they didn’t, so I picked up my purse and started toward the door. As I passed the hostess station, I glanced up and noticed a man sitting alone at a table on the side, busily engaged in slapping mustard on what looked to be a huge pastrami sandwich. I recognized the suspenders immediately. It was Ron Webb. He glanced up and our eyes met. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug and shot me a sympathetic look before he turned back to his sandwich. Whether he was sympathizing with me over my argument with the board members or the newspaper editor or both, I couldn’t say.
Out on the street, I shut my eyes and tried to will all the pent-up frustration inside of me to vanish. My first week in Fox Hollow certainly hadn’t started out as I’d planned. For the first time since I’d decided to move, I wondered if I had, indeed, done the right thing.
Seven
I slept on and off, my dreams plagued by visions of a white-haired woman in a witch’s hat, standing over a simmering cauldron. I ran this way and that, trying to get away, and everywhere I went, she popped up, pointing a long-nailed crooked finger at me and cackling. She plopped herself on my chest, leaned over and ran her tongue over my chin. I woke up sputtering to find not a wicked witch but Purrday sprawled comfortably there, his tongue grazing my cheek. When he saw me looking at him, he reached out one paw and gave my cheek a pat. I gave his fur one in return.
“Thanks for
the wake-up kiss,” I told him. “After yesterday I sure need some lovin’.” I sighed. “I used to be so good at catching the bad guys on TV, Purrday. But in real life all I seem to do is make a mess of things.”
His response was to lean closer and meow loudly in my ear. Then he blinked his good eye.
I laughed. “Yes, yes, I know. You’ve been waiting patiently for breakfast.”
I felt another thump and the next second Kahlua’s head popped up. She saw the Persian cuddled close to me and her lips peeled back. She let out a loud hiss. Then she moved forward, paw upraised, and swatted Purrday right across his nose. The Persian let out a groan and leapt from the bed. Her work completed, Kahlua snuggled up close to me and brushed my chin with her tongue.
I sat up so I could look the cat straight in the eye. “You do know that you have no reason to be jealous of Purrday, right? I told you, you are my baby. Purrday was Aunt Tillie’s baby. He’s mourning her just like I am.”
Kahlua looked as if she might be considering what I said, then rolled over and started to lick her front paws. I sighed. So much for communication.
My iPhone started to buzz. I snatched it up from the nightstand and groaned when I saw the number. “Speaking of witches,” I grumbled with a sidelong glance at Purrday, then I hit the Answer button. “Hello, Mother, thank you for calling back.” I was tempted to add so promptly but thought better of it. No doubt my mother considered returning a call the next day quite prompt indeed.
“No need to thank me, dear. Why wouldn’t I call my favorite daughter back?”
“I’m your only daughter, Mother.”
“Oh, Crishell. Why must you always split hairs?”
I sighed. I knew that tone well. It was her you’ve hurt my delicate feelings, so now what are you going to do about it? tone. How my dad put up with that for nearly thirty years was beyond me—I’d escaped as soon as I turned eighteen, three thousand miles away to college. And even though I was thirty-eight years old, my mother always succeeded in making me feel like I was ten again.
The Time for Murder Is Meow Page 6
