Chapter 3 #2
The memory was still etched in my mind. I’d been looking forward to our first kiss.
During the initial weeks of seriously dating, we’d gone to the theater and hiked and talked about myriad subjects.
We’d never argued. I knew our first kiss was going to be amazing.
But then it wasn’t. It had felt like our lips were made of sandpaper.
I figured, when the truth hit the pavement, he still missed his first wife.
They’d married right out of high school, and she died a year later from complications of COPD.
They’d known she was sick when they said their vows.
Her death wasn’t a surprise. But he’d loved her with all his heart.
Now, fifteen years later, I got the impression he still wasn’t ready to move on.
“Oh, come on, Allie,” Vanna said, adding raspberries to the batter she’d prepared. “One kiss does not make or break a relationship.”
“It didn’t feel right.” I was unwilling to educate them about Zach’s past. It wasn’t my story to tell. “We’re still friends. I’m fine with the arrangement. We play heads-up poker occasionally.”
“What’s that?” Vanna asked.
“It’s a game two people can play,” I said. “Both have to be aggressive, to a point. It’s a lot of fun. As a matter of fact, he’s coming over tonight for a penny-ante game.”
Vanna made a dismissive sound. “Poker is not in the least romantic. You should kiss him again. Take him by surprise. Throw yourself at him. See if it’ll change the chemistry.”
“No you should not do that. Sis, get real. It’s the reason why you lost you-know-who.”
“I didn’t throw myself at—”
“Yes, you did, and he bolted.” Tegan petted my shoulder. “If you’re sure it’s over.”
“I’m sure.” Engaged at twenty-two and unengaged months later, I’d been gun-shy about dating ever since. I really liked Zach, and I’d jumped at the chance to date him, but I knew now we weren’t meant to be.
“There’s someone else out there for you,” Tegan said.
“Is there?” Vanna quipped. “She’s now in the second half of her twenties. Men don’t exactly fall off trees once a woman reaches a certain age.”
Tegan snorted. “In that case, why aren’t you in a relationship?”
“I’m discerning.”
“Back to Jason Gardner.” I was desperate to change the subject. “I’m concerned about him destroying historic properties for a mall. Reika is worried, too. She really wanted the houses to be preserved for a tour.”
“Reika is a stuffed shirt,” Vanna said.
“She is not. She loves our town and its history.” An idea came to me as I fetched a new mixing bowl.
“You know what? As much as I like Jason …” And I did, I realized.
A man with a well-tuned sense of humor was a rare find.
“I’m going to make signs protesting the project.
Maybe it’ll be a way to get the town council’s attention, and they won’t grant the permits, and he’ll move on. ”
“Allie, that’s not a good idea,” Tegan warned.
“I agree,” Vanna chimed. “Nothing good can come from inserting oneself into politics. I should know.”
“What’re you talking about?” I asked.
Tegan sniggered. “My sister wanted to add speed bumps on North Mountain Road. Bikers came out in droves to object. They TPed her house. They smeared her car with petroleum jelly.”
Mountain Road had two designations. North Mountain Road was a twisting road running north of Main to the Blue Ridge Mountains.
South Mountain Road was straighter and headed toward Asheville.
Bikers, most of them Harley lovers, enjoyed speeding along the northern stretch and wouldn’t tolerate being bossed around.
“The worst offense,” Vanna said, “was when they iced up my sidewalk last winter and I fell.”
Tegan scoffed. “You survived.”
“With a bruised hip.”
“A bruised ego, you mean. Allie, my sweet friend, please don’t protest.” Tegan folded her hands in prayer. “You don’t know how Jason Gardner or anyone in his camp might retaliate.”
“In his camp? Does he have a camp?”
“Who knows?”
“Fine.” I sighed. “I’ll bide my time. But if his plans prove to be bad for the community …”
“Vanna and I will demonstrate with you.”
“Speak for yourself,” Vanna gibed.
By the time Darcy and I returned home to my mountain retreat, which was a mere mile from the center of town, I wasn’t in the mood to eat.
However, knowing Zach would need a snack, I threw together a cheese and salami platter, added olives, cornichons, and a mound of cashews, and arranged a separate plate of sugar cookies.
Then I filled Darcy’s food bowl with his favorite tuna dinner and kibble, shifted my to-be-read pile of books from the rustic dining table to the coffee table in the living room—the topmost book being one I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into, Tess Gerritsen’s latest Martini Club suspense— and fetched a couple of decks of cards.
Mission accomplished, I took a moment to survey my place.
“I love you, house,” I murmured.
Darcy leaped onto the top of his barrel-shaped llama, a cat-scratching station near the dining table, and mewed for attention.
“Yes, I love you, too, cat.”
The house wasn’t mine. It belonged to my parents, but they were world travelers and rarely returned to Bramblewood.
I’d been renting from them for the past five years.
I loved the cabin flavor and all the comfy décor the previous owner had ceded to them, right down to the photographs of mountain vistas, the collections of gemstones and native artifacts, and the wood-carved sculptures.
The eagle was my favorite. I’d added a rocking chair and a number of plaques with sassy literary sayings, like one by actress Emma Thompson: I think books are like people, in the sense they’ll turn up in your life when you most need them.
Skylights allowed in a lot of daylight. The stone-faced gas fireplace was inviting.
Darcy particularly liked the bench by the south-facing bay window abutting the kitchen.
When not snoozing on the llama, he chose to soak up rays there.
I changed out of my work clothes into a loose-weave summer sweater over leggings, ran a brush through my hair, and was pouring myself a glass of chardonnay when the doorbell rang.
Zach usually knocked. I set the bottle and glass on the dining table and went to open the door.
I was surprised to see Lillian Bellingham, the owner of Puttin’ on the Glitz, with her grandmother Magda.
A fashion horse, Lillian rarely ventured anywhere without being outfitted to the nines.
Today’s ensemble included a romantic fascinator hat adorned with yellow flowers, a yellow chiffon dress, and strappy heels.
She was carrying a relatively heavy-looking dress bag.
Though Magda was wearing espadrilles, she was so petite the top of her head didn’t reach my chin.
She was an avid reader of all genres, and she never missed a book club meeting.
Like her granddaughter, she liked to dress up, today’s outfit being no exception.
I could do without the lacy blouse, but the designer jeans were topnotch and studded with rhinestones.
“What a surprise.” I invited them in.
“I would’ve phoned ahead,” Lillian said, “but I saw you making the turn onto your street as I was finishing up with a client, and thought it would be best to drop in to show you a few more of the outfits I scored at the theater department for the Gatsby party. Am I interrupting anything?”
“My first sip of wine.” I motioned to the bottle. “Would you like some?”
“Would I ever.” Lillian’s voice was a breathy mix of Marilyn Monroe meets Sharon Stone, with a tinge of a Southern accent.
For a brief moment, she had lived in Hollywood and had starred in a couple of B movies.
Inside of two years, she had tired of beating the pavement and, like me, had come back to the Asheville area to be close to family.
Her parents were the ones who’d fronted her the money to open her shop.
They, like Magda, were well-to-do, thanks to investments they’d made over the years.
“Magda, wine?” I asked.
“I’ll pass, dear,” Magda said. “I’m not much of a drinker. At my age, liquor can make me unsteady. Heaven forbid I trip over my sweet Baboo.”
“Her schnauzer,” Lillian confided.
While she moved to the living room and draped the dress bag over the back of the sofa, I poured her a glass of wine and carried it to her. Magda followed.
Darcy leaped off the llama and whizzed past us with his catnip toy. He swatted it under the sofa, pursued it and, like a talented hockey player, batted it across the room, straight between the legs of the armchair to the right of the fireplace.
“Cat, stop!” I ordered.
Darcy didn’t obey. He chased it and began clawing the underside of the chair.
“Stop. C’mon. I know I need to get the webbing fixed.
Come out.” He obeyed, whacking his toy into the Plexiglas kitchen door.
Why was it Plexiglas? Because I’d wanted to earn a positive Cottage Food Operator health rating, so on the rare occasion when I couldn’t bake at Dream Cuisine, I could do so at home.
To comply with the rating, I’d installed the see-through door to keep the kitchen separate from the rest of the house.
Darcy was pretty much hypoallergenic, and I groomed him often enough to remove his undercoat, but I wouldn’t allow him into the cooking area. Ever.
Lillian took a sip of her wine and set the glass on the end table beside the sofa. “He sure is a devil.”
“I don’t have a clue what’s gotten into him,” I said. “I mean, I know spring fever is a thing. Is there such a thing as summer fever?”
Lillian laughed. “Don’t ask me. I never had a pet.”
“Yes, you did, sweetness,” Magda said. “You had a turtle.”
Lillian howled. “A turtle that did nothing but sit on a rock, Nana. Allie”—she unzipped the dress bag and removed a gold-and-black number from it—“the first dress I want to show you is another flapper costume.”
“Look at the embroidered sequins,” Magda said. “Aren’t they incredible?”
Lillian swiveled the dress on its hanger so I could inspect it.
“Gorgeous,” I said.
“I think I might wind up slinking into this for the party,” Lillian added. “I wanted your approval.”
“With your coloring and blond hair, it will look exquisite.”
“Lillian, dear …” Magda cleared her throat and motioned with her chin at the dining table.
“Oh, my,” Lillian said. “You’re having guests over to play cards. Why didn’t you say so?”
“Just Zach.”
“Ooh.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “How’s it going with you two?”
“Is she talking about Detective Armstrong?” Magda asked. “Hubba-hubba.”
I laughed. “We’re friends.”
“Uh-huh.” Lillian winked. “You keep telling yourself that.” She eyed her grandmother. “You should see the way he looks at her.” She pressed a hand to her chest and swooned. To me, she said, “Did you meet the newcomer? Jason Gardner?”
“I know Jason,” Magda chimed.
“You do?”
“I knew his parents, I should say. He was a boy at the time.” Magda didn’t live far from the Sugarbaker estate. “His parents often asked your mother to babysit him. He was quite a renegade, running hither and yon. I bet he turned into a looker.”
“He did,” Lillian said. “He came into the shop to purchase a tuxedo.”
Given his wealth and such, I couldn’t imagine he didn’t own a tuxedo, but perhaps when he left California, he’d arranged for a moving company to bring all his worldly goods, and to date nothing had arrived.
“Although, if he’s still a renegade, this would be a better choice.” Lillian pulled a striped men’s suit from the bag. It reminded me of something a gangster might wear. “I have to say he’s very natural and warm. Not at all what I’d pictured after hearing the gossips wagging their tongues.”
Like any town, Bramblewood did have its share of rumormongers.
“What have you heard?” I asked.
“He’s running from the law. He’s as broke as a skunk. He’s leveraged to the hilt. And”—she paused for effect—“he murdered his parents.”