Chapter 7 Leah
Leah
Hazel and Marjorie executed their next ambush with the subtlety of two reversing eighteen-wheelers.
“Hello, darling!” Hazel’s breezy voice on the phone was instantly suspicious. “Is there any chance your lovely young man is around today?”
Leah rolled her eyes. “If you mean Jackson, then yes he is, but why are you asking?”
The man in question raised an eyebrow at her from the doorway of the study, and she shrugged in a “search me” gesture. She wondered why he’d come to find her; it wasn’t something he made a habit of.
“I’ve got a jar situation and need a man’s help, dearie.”
“What? Can’t I help you—”
“Men like to feel useful, Leah,” Hazel insisted, dropping the elderly vulnerable act immediately. “Marjorie has just arrived, we’ll be round in five minutes.”
The phone went dead.
Damn.
Jackson’s eyes were still burning into her. “That sounded interesting.”
“I tried my best to save you, but I think you’ll be getting a visit shortly from a couple of Esther’s friends.
” Leah shrugged as he winced. He was big enough and feisty enough to fight his own battles.
She shot a glance at his folded arms and admitted that the contours of his biceps could be considered a work of art.
“I’ve managed to put them off until now.
But on the plus side, it will involve flattery and you’ll have the chance to feel like a superhero for five minutes. ”
Jackson looked away.
Escaping from those eyes like a roped calf breaking free from a lasso, Leah hopped up from the desk. “Did you want me for something in particular?”
“I was looking for an extension cord. Do you know where I can find one?”
She was half in, half out of the junk cupboard in the mudroom when the doorbell clanged. Emerging with the extension cord, she found Jackson being swept into the living room on a tidal wave of hairspray and adulation.
“I’ve tried and tried to open it, but it won’t budge!” Hazel was holding a jar of pickles aloft as if it were the Holy Grail.
“She does like a pickle,” added Marjorie, as if she were imparting vital information.
Hazel thrust the jar at Jackson. “I don’t have the grip I used to,” she said. “It’s so hard when you live alone and there’s no one you can call on to help.”
Her plight would be a fraction more heartbreaking if Hazel weren’t a particularly sturdy five feet ten inches tall and an ex-correctional officer. She was also examining him intently in a way that was completely at odds with her dizzy-old-lady demeanor.
Without a word, Jackson took the jar and twisted the top; the lid gave with a satisfying pop. Closing it gently, he set it down on the table.
“So kind.” Hazel patted his arm. “Stubborn jars, dead birds brought in by the cat, and someone who knows about HDMI cables and tax returns—all good reasons to reconsider putting up a Tinder profile, I sometimes think.”
Jackson seemed to swallow the wrong way and choked on his own breath.
“You don’t file a tax return,” Leah pointed out.
“Gerry says there are ‘blue’ jobs and ‘pink’ jobs,” chipped in Marjorie. “And, although you’re definitely not supposed to say that sort of thing anymore, I’ve always agreed with him. I’ve got enough to do without arguing for the right to rod a drain.”
Leah raised her eyes to the heavens.
“Anyway, we’re delighted to finally meet you,” continued Hazel. “Let’s all have a drink and get to know each other.”
Marjorie produced a Tupperware container like a magic trick from the pocket of her raincoat. “I brought homemade shortbread.”
Allowing herself a flare of satisfaction at the panic in Jackson’s eyes, Leah headed for the kitchen.
At least four times, she heard him tell the ladies he had to get back to work.
His cell phone backed him up, pinging relentlessly.
But, at every attempt, Hazel and Marjorie talked over him, diverting his train of thought like professional tricksters and trapping him in the living room with compliments, questions, and sugary goodness.
He was so confusing. She couldn’t get a read on him. Still pissed at his snarky rudeness, she’d come downstairs to find a steaming mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll waiting for her in the kitchen this morning. She appreciated the gesture, but it didn’t make up for him being an ass.
Leah placed a teapot and teacups on the table and handed a mug of coffee to Jackson. He grabbed it like a drowning man clutching a life raft.
“So, will you be selling Amity Court?” Marjorie, Mistress of Subtlety, asked him before he’d taken his first gulp.
“As soon as I can.” Blunt.
“We thought as much.” Hazel gave him a sweet smile, searching his face as if it held the answers to the universe. “Difficult to run a business empire from a distance.”
Marjorie offered him another slice of shortbread.
“You work with your father?” Hazel asked, eyes razor-sharp.
“Yes.”
“Building new construction homes?”
“Among other things.”
“What kind of commitment have you made toward becoming more eco-conscious?”
Jackson didn’t even blink. “We compost environmental protestors.”
Hazel nodded and seemed happy with his answer, which was disturbing.
She relaxed slightly into the dining chair, ever watchful and alert even as she radiated calm.
The conversation moved on but, if Jackson thought the two ladies would give up, he was kidding himself. Leah sat back, enjoying the show.
“And will your girlfriend be joining you while you’re here?
” Bam. Marjorie again. Stony-faced, Jackson fixed her with a long, level look, which Leah imagined had made many a colleague quake at their desk.
It had no effect whatsoever on Marjorie, who dealt with all sorts in the general store.
“Well?” she prompted him with a twinkle and a poke of his shoulder.
“If you mean Niamh, who was at the funeral, I should think she’ll put in an appearance.” Jackson glowered into his coffee.
“Tell us your thoughts on Clayborne Knight,” Hazel prodded him. “Are you a fan?”
“A fan of who?”
“Clayborne Knight. Esther’s crime-solving college professor.”
“He’s the perfect man,” Marjorie declared. “Clever, trustworthy, kind, devoted.”
“And fictional,” murmured Leah. The smallest curve angled one side of Jackson’s lips, as if against his will. She stuck it into the scrapbook of her mind in the likely event she never saw it again.
“I’m desperate for the last book but dreading it all the same. Leah won’t give us the tiniest hint. She’s a veritable fortress for information, that one,” Hazel huffed into her teacup.
“They’re called spoilers for a reason,” Leah pointed out.
“Well?” Marjorie put Jackson back under the spotlight. “What do you think of Esther’s books?”
He’d looked uncomfortable before, out of place, like a work boot among flip-flops. But now the thunderclouds rolled over his face. And just like that, his patience was gone.
“I’m not a big reader.” Jackson abruptly pushed back his chair and stood up. “Please excuse me. I have a million and one things to get on with.”
Those sexy shoes of his click-tapped their way with purpose across the living room and out of the door. He might think he was striding but Leah knew he was running away.
Hazel and Marjorie gazed after him in confusion. “Was it something we said?” Hazel mouthed, bewildered.
“It couldn’t have been the shortbread.” Marjorie checked her Tupperware. “He ate three pieces.”
Leah began to gather up the china. “Nope, that’s just Jackson. I think you used up his quota of conversation for the whole month.”