Boo (31 page)

“Your dad doesn’t seem like a cat person.”

“I know,” Ainsley said. “He found Thief a few years after Mom died and for some reason just grew completely attached. It’s weird. If I had allergies, Dad would probably insist I find my own place. But Thief goes everywhere with Dad. They’re partners, I guess you could say.”

“So that accounts for all the cat doors around the house?” Wolfe had to chuckle. He’d noticed them before. Little cat doors everywhere.

Ainsley shook her head. “Weird, huh? I’m not kidding, there’s a cat door on every single door in this house, except the one leading out to the garage. Dad installed them so Thief has complete access.” She shook her head.

Wolfe’s thoughts drifted back to Butch. “Do you really think it’s a good idea I come to Thanksgiving dinner?”

“A good idea? Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t think your father’s too fond of me, and I’m sure your brother will pick up on some of the vibes.”

Ainsley walked across the kitchen and leaned across the counter, her face near Wolfe’s. “I don’t care what either of them think, and I can invite anyone I want to Thanksgiving. So it’s final. You’re coming.”

Wolfe pressed his lips together, not sharing her confidence. “If you say so.”

She grinned. “Good. Besides, I wouldn’t dare let you miss all this great food!” Ainsley continued talking, mentioning that the Weather Channel was predicting some big Thanksgiving storm-of-the-century. Wolfe tried to listen, but all he could think of was meeting yet another Parker family member.

Her doorbell rang. Then it rang again. And a third time.
“I’m coming, you moron!”
Missy Peeple shouted, wobbling her way out of her easy chair. Her nice Yankee quilt, three generations old, fell onto the ground at her feet. She grumbled and grabbed her cane, shuffling across her dirty floor. A fourth time.
“Settle down! I’m an old lady, you stupid
— Oh, hello.”

A huge bouquet of flowers filled the doorway, and all Missy Peeple could see were two strong hands holding them in front of her. A head peeked around the side to reveal a young, handsome delivery boy. “Are you Miss Missy Peeple?”

“These are for me?”

“If you’re Missy Peeple.”

“I am.”

“Then they’re for you.”

“Oh.” Missy took the bouquet, and its vastness almost knocked her over. “How much do I owe you?”

The boy looked at her curiously. “Excuse me?”

“You’re deaf, are you? How much do I owe you?”

“Uh … nothing. They were … uh … sent to you.” He smiled sheepishly. “But you could give me a tip as a gesture of—”

She shut the door and stared at the flowers in her hands. She’d never been sent flowers in her whole life. What did it mean? She crossed to her small dining room table, where she carefully set the flowers.

There were at least a dozen roses, all red, and all alive and vibrant. She swallowed back an emotion … what emotion was that? It seemed vaguely familiar but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. She’d been out of the hospital for a few days now and had received a couple of cards and a phone call or two, but nothing like
this
. No flowers. She gasped at the idea that they might be from the mayor. The mayor had sent her flowers!!

“You scoundrel,” she mumbled, fingering her way through the bouquet to the card, “after all these years, you wait until I’m practically on my deathbed to come to terms with your feelings for me!”

Her hands shook as she grasped the card and pulled it out of its leafy surroundings. It took her several moments to get into the tiny, tightly sealed envelope. She pulled out the card, then went to find her reading glasses.

They were sitting by her chair on the table, on top of Wolfe Boone’s book. She’d only read thirty pages so far, all of it disgustingly dark and gruesome, in hopes of finding something she could use to knock some sense into the boy. She had been on quite a roll when she’d passed out at his house. The timing was so unfortunate. But she sensed her opportunity was slipping away. He’d asked intelligent questions, and his eyes … they had that strange peace in them.

She placed her reading glasses on her nose, hardly able to contain the anticipation of reading Mayor Wullisworth’s affections.

Below his name was a phone number, and Missy Peeple had to sit down and process what she’d just read. A wide smile of satisfaction slipped onto her lips, and suddenly she was feeling better. Much better.

Dustin was just about to discover whether the vampire was going to get the unsuspecting chef when a strange noise in the bookstore interrupted his reading. He looked up to find a group of people huddled before him, all staring at him as if
he
were the vampire. He scratched his head, realized his boss wouldn’t be back from lunch for another thirty minutes, and decided to ask, “May I help you?”

It was apparently the wrong question.

“Is it
true?
”

“We heard he was quitting!”

“Is this his last book?”

“What happened?”

“He lost his mind, didn’t he?”

“He’s gone crazy!”

The questions and comments came at him like machine-gun fire, and Dustin just stood there and listened. He wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it because he didn’t know what they were talking about, until someone from the back shouted, “Hey kid! Is Boo going to write another book or not?”

Dustin looked at the crowd, trying to pick out a pair of eyes that didn’t seem threatening or angry. He didn’t find one. He shut his book and said, “I … uh … don’t know.”

“We heard through the grapevine that he’s hanging up his horror hat and turning to religion. That’s not true, is it?”

Dustin scratched his head again. Was this what this chaos was about? He hadn’t heard a thing, but then again he wasn’t really up on the religious news of the day. He could tell you what city Anne Rice was signing in next weekend but had no idea what time the church down the street started.

All he could think to say was, “Well, I’m sure it’s just a publicity stunt. Sometimes they release rumors to get buzz going, especially when a new book comes out.”

The chill of the crowd seemed to thaw slightly, and Dustin realized he needed to take a breath as well. He smiled at the crowd and said, “Now, who would like a copy of
Black Cats
before we’re sold out?”

In the solitude of his private study at the church, which measured six-by-eight feet and barely held a desk (which could only be assembled once all the pieces had been brought into the room), Reverend Peck bowed his head solemnly and prayed to God.

He couldn’t use words. He was beyond words at this point. But he knew the Good Lord heard his heart, which held great sorrow for his community and its people. Yet Reverend Peck did not know what to do about it. He was completely at the mercy of God. He’d spent several sleepless nights going over all the possible ways that God might intervene in the crisis of this little town’s soul. But the reverend knew that what he needed was a full-blown miracle.

After forty-five minutes of prayer, he felt only mildly better and still had not a single answer to his dilemma.

Missy brought Alfred a cup of tea, glancing at the flowers he’d sent as she passed the dining room table. So this was how “business” was done in New York, eh? She’d never wanted to leave Skary before, but things like this might make her give the city a try.

“What a nice thought, Mr. Tennison, to send me flowers.”

“How are you feeling?” He took the tea.

“Do you really care?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. But I respect your honesty. Now, let’s get to the bottom of why you are here.”

“I think we both know why.”

“You need my help.”

“As far as this book idea of yours goes, it doesn’t seem to be accomplishing a purpose, other than the fact that I’ve got some pretty good scoop on the residents here.”

“You of all people should know how important information can be. And I doubt you got to be where you are in this business by being an impatient man.” She actually suspected the opposite, but stroking a man’s ego was never a tactic she underestimated.

“Miss Peeple, you understand how detrimental Mr. Boone’s sudden decision to leave the writing world is. Not only to me but to the publishing house and fans worldwide. And of course your town has quite a stake in all of this.”

“What is it that you want, Mr. Tennison? I’m old, and quite frankly I don’t take my tomorrows for granted. Let’s just get to the point.”

“I don’t have to tell you that this conversation never took place.” He paused and then said, “I need you to do whatever it takes to get Wolfe Boone writing his novels again. And soon. It’s of the utmost importance. He won’t even return my phone calls anymore. I am relying on you.”

Miss Peeple smiled. She was way ahead of him. Before visiting Boo on Sunday, she’d craftily decided that the whole town needed to be informed of what was going on, so she left a few messages scribbled on bathroom walls, dropped a few hints at the local beauty shop, and even appeared at the local bar to get some talk going around a pool table. She wondered if any of the rumors had taken root yet.

“Well, Mr. Tennison, it’s going to take a lot more than flowers, but you’ve come to the right person.”

“Oh? And what will it take?”

Missy Peeple could not help but smile. “Well, sir, love is in the air.”

A
INSLEY PARKED HER
car in front of the market and got out, pausing briefly to smell the early morning air. There was no doubt it was Thanksgiving. Out of every home that had a chimney, misty, swimming streams of smoke floated to the sky like featherweight ribbons. And the aroma in the air was sweet and warm, as if every oven in town was baking something special.

Ainsley made sure she had her list and went into the store. She grabbed a basket, not a cart, because she didn’t have a long list: a few things she preferred to buy fresh Thanksgiving Day, and a couple items she’d forgotten on previous trips. She strolled the aisles as if in a department store looking for a gown to wear to a ball. Every spice, every cut of meat, every fresh-picked vegetable—they all interested her.