Chapter 30
30
FIONA
Later that morning, I stood beside Dax at the front door of a two-story home. It was neat and tidy–I hadn’t seen a place that wasn’t–and only had two mums flanking the front door for fall decorations. He’d just pushed the doorbell, and I could hear the ring. Of course, I could. I could also hear that someone inside just turned off a TV or a tablet or even a phone that played a religious sermon, a man’s deep voice saying repent by tithing your sins. A woman was talking on the phone about nail art. Deep breathing.
“I still have questions,” I muttered to Dax, not wanting to know much about any of those sounds.
“I know,” he replied. “I promise they’ll all be answered.” He shoved the housewarming gift into my hand. “Here. You should hold this. ”
When no one came to the door even though I could hear them inside, I turned to face Dax. “Why potato salad? Why did you buy a jar of pickle relish and stir it in? I know we want the Highcliffs to go into the pickle shop for us, but–”
He held up his hand. “Trust me.”
The door finally opened.
Wow.
The burly man at the door had a real, stuffed… animal tucked under his arm. His smile was affable. His eyes were a little glassy. Nose red. The scent of liquor circled around him. At eleven in the morning. Late fifties, maybe, receding hair. Plaid flannel with bits of fluffy stuff here and there on it, reminding me of the googly eyes Dottie had put on her pumpkin.
“Oh, Dex. Hello,” the man said, offering a congenial wave.
Dex?
“Have you ever seen a beaver as impressive as this one?”
He held out the… beaver, then stroked the animal’s head. The beady fake eyes stared at me.
Dax cleared his throat.
“I’m not quite done with this beaver,” he continued. “I was up all-night stuffing it.”
Wow.
“Who’s there, Bob?”
“Jack’s friend, Dex,” Bob Highcliff called, as he continued to… ahem, pet his beaver.
A sharp woman with shoulder length brown hair came to join us. She wore a crisp white button down tucked into a pair of khakis. The word drab came to mind.
She looked us over with disinterest until she saw what I held. Her eyes widened and her fingers wiggled like she could barely keep herself from reaching out. “Is that potato salad?”
Not, who are you? But… gimme the food!
Dax cleared his throat, which spurred me into replying.
“Yes, it is.” I put that big smile back on my face and held it out to her. “Dax told me how much you like it.”
Happily taking it, she turned and walked away, presumably to get a fork.
“Oh, um…” I was at a loss for words, unsure what to do.
“Come on into the kitchen.” Bob Highcliff turned and walked off as well.
I glanced at Dax, whose mouth quirked up. He held his arm out, indicating I should enter the house first. As I followed Bob down the center hallway, I took in the various dead animals on the walls. Antelope. Raccoon. A possum, perhaps. As I passed the dining room, I froze. Holy hell, that was a cow head mounted on the wall. Dax nudged me between the shoulder blades to get me moving again.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Highcliff was eating the potato salad without putting it on a plate. Like someone holding an ice cream container and eating directly from the carton without any intention of sharing.
Dax had gone to the store and bought it deli-made but moved it into a plastic leftover container he found in my kitchen cabinets. Then he stirred in some of the jarred pickle relish.
“I heard how much you like potato salad and so I brought you some,” I said, remembering the plan.
“Who are you?” she asked before taking another bite.
“Fiona. I’m Dax’s… friend.”
“Girlfriend,” Dax said at the same time.
I glanced his way, and he narrowed his gaze. He’d said that for a reason, but I had no idea why in this case. Mrs. Highcliff didn’t seem like the women at the bookstore who wanted to jump his bones. Unless he slathered himself in potato salad first.
“And I’m Mrs. Highcliff.” Not Marcia, which Dax told me was her first name. Wow, she was a snooty one. “It is quite good,” she murmured. From her, that was probably a rave review. I had a feeling she sat at her computer and rated everything. A pizza delivery driver. Cashier at the drugstore. Pillow comfort at a hotel.
“I’ve got to get back to stuffing and stroking cream into this beaver’s pelt.” Bob held the animal in the air, then strode away. A door slammed shut and then a song from… Air Supply came on.
WOW.
Dax leaned in and whispered, “Stick to the plan.”
I needed the reminder because I was a little stunned. I’d worked with the FBI for years. Knew lots of bad guys. Lots of crazy people. But never met anyone like these two. I was a little afraid to find out if Hannah was like them. I had her somewhat built up in my mind and it sure as hell wasn’t like her parents. I had to hope maybe she’d been adopted.
I cleared my throat. “Thank you, ma’am. I use pickle relish.”
“You made this?” she asked, looking me over as if she didn’t think I could actually do it. I couldn’t, but I was willing to take one for the team here.
“Yes, I think the relish adds a little sweetness, don’t you?” I asked, sticking to the plan.
She took another forkful, then worked it in her mouth as if she was sampling fine wine.
“It is quite good.”
“I got the relish from the pickle store on Main. Have you been to it?”
“No.”
“It’s across the street from your daughter’s store.”
Her lips pinched together. “It’s a good thing her boyfriend, Jack, is a mortician. Steady work. Good job security. Always a need.”
My gaze whipped to Dax’s and he gave the slightest head shake.
Someone pounded up a flight of stairs and seconds later, came into the kitchen through a door I thought was the pantry, but most likely was to the basement.
I gave the woman a quick once over. Early twenties, dark hair pulled back in a high ponytail. A white earbud tucked into her right ear. She was dressed in leopard print yoga pants and a loose pink sweatshirt that slipped off one shoulder, eighties-style. Barefoot .
Her eyes lit up when she saw Dax. Not only lit up but went as sharp as the claws on that beaver Bob was currently stroking somewhere in the house.
Dax really was that hot, but women in Coal Springs were practically feral when around him. It had to be pheromones because my life had been crazy ever since I got the first hit of them at the convenience store.
“Hello, Dax,” she practically purred.
I did everything in my power not to roll my eyes.
As she stepped closer and closer, Dax reached his arm out, set his hand on my shoulder and yanked. I stumbled into his side, and I placed my hand on his chest for balance.
“Briana,” Dax said, keeping me close. “Meet my very serious, monogamous, gun-toting girlfriend, Fiona. Sweetheart, this is Briana, Hannah’s younger sister. She’s a trampoliner.”
A what ?
“I’m very flexible.”
“She brought potato salad,” Mrs. Highcliff added, not the least bit fazed that her daughter was practically feral and trying to poach Dax right in front of me.
Briana didn’t stand down, only bit her lip as if she was trying not to take a bite out of Dax.
“Yup, I brought potato salad. And my gun,” I added, just repeating the part where I could shoot her. I wondered for a second if she’d be mounted on the wall if I did. Dax wanted me to be his fake girlfriend to protect him from the Briana’s in town. And the actual Briana Highcliff. At first, I was content with that. Now, I felt jealousy and a ridiculous wave of possessiveness toward him.
I was the one he climbed in bed with. I was the one whose hand he held. I was the one–he asked to fake date. Just fake.
Except it didn’t feel all that fake any longer.
Briana sized me up, probably wondering if she could take me, even with Dax’s not-so-subtle gun warning. “Hey,” she replied, stepping back and retracting her claws.
“Hey,” I replied.
“I do like this addition,” Mrs. Highcliff said, taking another bite. “I’ll have to go to the pickle store and get some.”
Thankfully, she fell right into our trap. Dax was a genius, or a seasoned veteran fresh from the trenches of the Highcliff family.
“Should we go together?” I asked her, pasting on a smile that Dottie would be proud of. “I mean, I’m sorry I didn’t bring you more.” The batch Dax had made was fairly small intentionally. No need to bring enough for a community picnic–not that I’d ever been to one, but I was sure they had a bunch in this town–but just a tease for the potato salad aficionado. “Then I can make you more.”
Did that sound like Dottie? I hoped so.