John’s recliner was Kara’s favorite spot whenever she visited, and she sank into the aging leather cushions. She drew up her legs, her knees touching one arm of the chair. “My kittens are definitely spoiled rotten. Is that noise coming from your basement something I might have to contend with in the future?”
Kara’s two kittens were four months old now. They’d been born to a rescue Shawn had me foster—a loving, sweet cat and the antithesis of Isis. Kara named her calico Mercedes and her orange tabby Ralph. Mercedes had been the name of her best friend in high school, but Kara claimed she’d never met a Ralph until I’d brought her the kittens. Some cats seem to name themselves.
“Ralph and Mercedes show no signs of the diva disease, as far as I can tell,” I said. “Before Isis leaves here, whether to return home or to head to a new family, I hope my three can convince her she’s a cat, not Egyptian royalty like her namesake.”
“Tell me how your undercover operation went today. Did you come off as a decent reporter?” Kara asked.
“Major failure.” I went on to explain what had gone down, more embarrassed than ever about being spotted as a fraud so quickly.
“Ah, the Internet betrayed you,” she said. “It’s a curse and a blessing. But it sounds like you did learn a few things this morning.”
“Not enough,” I said. “I hope Tom and I can figure out what’s happening in that house with a new ruse he and I devised—one I’ve decided I am very uncomfortable with, by the way.” I told her about Ed’s connection to Ritaestelle and what I’d brought home from his shop.
Kara laughed. “I can’t see you as a spy. But Tom? Let him take the lead tomorrow. He’s got the experience.”
“I’m worried about this disguise business. Did you ever go undercover on an assignment when you worked for the newspaper?” I said.
“Print journalists aren’t like the kind of investigative reporters you see on the TV news. We can’t go in with hidden cameras. We have to be very upfront when pursuing a story, right down to our real name.”
“That’s tough,” I said. “How did you get people to open up?”
“I tried to engage people, play straight with them, be honest. And in the end, I lost my job to the ever-shrinking hard-copy newspaper business.”
“Do you miss it?” I said.
“I did at first. I mean, I played by the rules, wrote plenty of pieces I’m proud of, and when my position disappeared, I felt a little lost. But now that’s all behind me,” she said. “I’m closing in on buying the local paper, building my house and learning plenty from Tom about stuff I never even knew I’d like. Surveillance is so cool.”
“What hints can you give me about getting people to open up?” I said.
“You’ve already been tagged as a troublemaker, and as we’ve both learned, word gets around in these small towns. You’ll have to be careful.”
“You think I do need the disguise, then?”
“To get as much information as you need, I’d say yes. Maybe I can help with the disguise. Show me what Ed gave you.”
I led her to my bedroom, and minutes later, after I’d donned the wig and showed Kara the dress, I could tell she was trying hard not to laugh. And I was more self-conscious than I could ever remember.
I shook my head, causing the stinky fake hair to offer up even more aroma. Syrah, who’d been observing me with intense curiosity, hissed and ran off when the hair on my head actually moved. I’d scared the poor guy.
“I cannot do this,” I said, whipping off the wig.
Kara attempted not to laugh, but her eyes betrayed her. “Sure you can. But the floral dress from 1950? No way. I’d just wear a pair of sunglasses and the wig. You don’t want to draw too much attention, and that dress would definitely make you look like an escapee from the funny farm.”
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
T
om 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 salad. “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.