Goody Goody Gunshots (19 page)

“Really?” She let out a relieved sigh. “Well, that’s good. I mean, it was obvious that he knew me, and I’m always so embarrassed when that happens.”

My feelings about her did another about-turn. “Yeah,” I said with a smile, “I hate that, too. So how do you know Dwayne?”

“We went to high school together. No, that’s not really true. We were in the same class in high school, but we didn’t really know each other. I wasn’t in class often enough for any of those guys to know me. I was surprised he even recognized me.”

“Those guys?”

“Yeah. He was one of the kids who ran around with Kerry Hendrix.”

“Dwayne Escott was?”

“You didn’t know that?”

I shook my head, trying to picture Kerry and Dwayne in the same room, much less the same teenage clique. I just couldn’t get the image to form. “I had no idea. They were close friends?”

“Yeah, those two and a couple of others. I forget their names, though. I wouldn’t have remembered Dwayne’s if you hadn’t told me.” She slipped an apron over her head and grabbed the glass cleaner and a rag. “And then there were the girls. Always a dozen girls or more hanging all over them. To tell the truth, I had no use for them
or
the girls who thought they were so hot.”

There was another image that just wouldn’t pull together for me: Dwayne Escott being fawned over by teenage girls.

“Well, look,” Liberty said, “I’ve kept you from the dishes long enough, and Karen wanted me to clean those candy jars before she got back from lunch, so I’d better get busy.”

I nodded absently, still trying to piece together what she’d just told me. Lou Hobbs—or whatever his name was—had known Kerry Hendrix. Kerry Hendrix and Dwayne Escott were good friends, or at least they used to be. And Lou had been “shot” a few hundred yards from Dwayne’s front door. If
that
was a coincidence, I’d run down Prospector Street in nothing but my underwear.

Chapter 24

I slept fitfully that evening, dodging dreams about
Marshall and Jawarski all night. By the time I finally gave up trying to sleep and climbed out of bed the next morning, I was not only exhausted but irritated with Karen for planting the idea that Jawarski might be upset over that stupid kiss in the first place.

My irritation took an upswing when I stumbled across the bag still holding the exercise pants I’d bought at Alpine Sports. I hadn’t even managed to remove the price tags yet, nor had I bothered to buy T-shirts to go with them. Tossing the bag aside, I went through my usual morning routine from walking the dog to opening the store.

When Karen arrived, I loaded the centerpieces I’d made for Richie Belieu and Dylan Wagstaff into the hatch of the Jetta, settled Max in the backseat with a couple of rawhide chews, and pointed the car toward the Silver River Inn.

Like all of the historic buildings in Paradise, the Silver River Inn has survived a number of different lives since it was originally built. Back in the 1840s it began as a one-room schoolhouse, then grew as new rooms and extra floors were added on, started over as a miner’s hospital, then becoming a library and finally an office complex.

Almost five years ago, Richie Bellieu and his partner, Dylan Wagstaff, bought the place, gutted it, and spent the next two years bringing it to life again as a bed-and-breakfast.

I grabbed a box of centerpieces and led Max up the two flights of stairs from the street. Inside the hushed, elegant atmosphere of the B & B I resisted the urge to tiptoe and turned toward the lobby, the sound of Max’s claws scrabbling on the polished hardwood floor making me wince as we walked.

Richie stood behind the registration desk, and Dylan was busy with something near the front windows. As always, they both seemed delighted to see Max . . . and pleased to see me.

They’ve been life partners for at least ten years, but unlike other couples, they don’t seem to be turning into each other as the years go by. Richie, who’d become a blond since the last time I saw him, is flamboyant, filled with enthusiasm, and usually more feminine than I am. That morning, though, he wore jeans so faded they were almost white and a sweatshirt with a peace symbol fading across his chest over a thin white turtleneck. It was an unusual choice for Richie.

Dylan, who is typically more reserved than his partner, keeps his light hair neatly trimmed and his clothing conservative. He wore dove-gray slacks and a chic gray and black matching sweater that seemed more suited for Richie’s closet than his own. Maybe they
were
turning into each other, after all.

Richie swept out from behind the desk and wrapped his arms around Max, planting noisy kisses in the air near the dog’s head. “Max, you old devil, you. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow—were we, Dylan?”

Dylan agreed they weren’t, and Max, who adores both men, wagged his little stump of a tail with delight. Dylan pulled himself away from the lovefest first and grinned up at me. “Are those the centerpieces?”

“They are. You want to take a look?”

“Are you kidding?” Richie ruffled the hair on Max’s head and stood to face me. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve done this time.”

I love that Richie and Dylan are both fans of my work, but I’m also a little nervous whenever I work for them. So far, they’ve been wildly enthusiastic about everything I’ve created for the inn, but nobody bats a thousand all the time.

Dylan took the box from me and carried it to a table in the dining area of the great room. “It’s not very heavy. Are they all in here?”

“I have another two boxes in the car. I thought I’d show you what I’ve got first. If you want me to make changes, I’ll take them back with me.”

Richie clasped his hands together under his chin and swayed slightly from side to side. “Well, don’t tease us. Show us!”

I opened the box, removed the protective wrapping, and placed a single cornucopia centerpiece on the table. Silk leaves and candy “fruit” filled the horn of plenty and spilled onto a piece of cardboard I’d cut into an eggplant shape and covered with dark green felt. Richie clapped his hands in delight.

As always, Dylan’s response was more restrained. “They’re going to look fantastic with the china,” he said with an appreciative smile. “They’re exactly right.”

Richie grabbed one of my hands in his and tugged me toward a large leather sofa positioned in front of a blazing fireplace. “I don’t know why you worry so much. You’ve never let us down.”

Almost giddy with relief, I laughed. “Maybe one of these days I’ll start to develop some confidence in myself, but I’m still worried about living up to Aunt Grace’s reputation.”

“Well, stop worrying. The centerpieces are perfect. Now, what about Monday? You
are
coming, are you not?”

I nodded. “I’ll be here. Do you want me to come early and help with anything?”

“Don’t be silly. You’re a guest. What about Pine?”

“He’ll be here, too—at least he said he would be last time I talked to him.”

With a satisfied nod, Dylan headed for the sidebar where they kept fresh coffee and cookies round the clock. He held up a silver coffeepot that looked old and wickedly expensive. “Coffee?”

Leaving the sofa, I crossed the room to look at the piece. “Is this new?”

Richie trailed behind me, clearly delighted that I’d noticed. “Yes, it is. Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful.” The coffeepot wasn’t the only thing new on the sideboard. A four-piece coffee service sat on a matching silver tray, each piece elaborately decorated with curlicues and silver roses. I don’t know a lot about antiques, but I recognize quality when I see it. “Where did you find this?”

Dylan laughed aloud and nodded toward the street. “There’s a new antique shop across the street—the Ivy Attic—and it’s
fabulous
. This set is nineteenth-century, German sterling silver.”

I ran a finger across the rose on the sugar bowl’s lid. “I’ve heard about the shop, but I never dreamed they’d be selling something like this. It’s breathtaking.”

“And it’s just the beginning.” Richie dragged me back to the sofa again. “You should
see
some of the pieces she has over there. There’s a pair of nineteenth-century French wall mirrors in the back room that I’m head over heels for.” He smiled at Dylan across the room. “Not that anything could take
your
place, love.”

Dylan returned the smile and filled three cups. “As you can tell, we’ve found a new hobby. It’s all I can do to keep Richie from going over there every day.”

Richie wagged a hand in a dismissive gesture. “He thinks I’m going to bankrupt us, but I’m not
that
far gone. I just don’t think a few well-placed pieces would hurt our reputation, that’s all.”

I didn’t want to get drawn into an argument between them, so I accepted the cup Dylan offered me and said, “The coffee set certainly is beautiful. How long has the shop been there?”

“A month?” Richie shared a look with Dylan, and they spoke in shorthand the way couples who’ve been together for a while do. “One? Are you—?” . . . “Didn’t she open the weekend—?” . . . “Oh, that’s right. That’s when—” . . . “Exactly. Shae and Donovan, and that
horrid
sweater.” With the details decided, Richie looked at me again. “About two months, I guess. She opened around the first of September. You really should go check it out. You might even find a few things for Divinity.”

I was suddenly, strangely envious of the closeness they shared. My ex-husband and I had had that once—at least I’d thought we had—and I missed it . . . or at any rate, I missed believing that I had it. Finding out about Roger’s affair had left me wondering about everything I’d once believed in.

Watching Dylan and Richie exchanging glances, I thought about Marshall kissing me and about Karen’s warnings that I should tell Jawarski or risk losing him. It was hard for me to believe that Jawarski would make a big deal out of a little kiss, especially when I hadn’t even been a willing participant. But what if I was wrong?

I didn’t want to be with someone who flipped out over little, inconsequential things, and I hated the idea of jealousy, but deep inside I knew that Jawarski wasn’t the type to fly off the handle without reason.

The kiss wouldn’t bother him . . . but the lie would.

Chapter 25

Maybe I
should
talk to Jawarski, but I couldn’t see
any reason to rush things. I needed a little while to think about how I was going to approach him, exactly how to tell him about Marshall without making it sound as if I’d stepped over the line or that I was imagining a line that didn’t exist.

We’d spent so many months tiptoeing around each other, I didn’t really know where we stood, and I didn’t want him to think I was assuming more than he intended. In short, it was a conversation I knew I had to have but still didn’t want to.

No matter how slowly I sipped, it didn’t take anywhere near long enough to drink the coffee, and in spite of my protests that he didn’t have to, Dylan insisted on carrying one of the two remaining boxes of centerpieces up the stairs, cutting another excuse for procrastination in half. For once, Richie’s accounting package worked without a single glitch, and less than half an hour later I descended the stairs for the final time.

I was almost to street level when the ornate sign for the Ivy Attic, in the window of a Victorian-style house across the street, caught my eye and gave me the excuse I’d been looking for to put off talking to Jawarski. Not that we needed antiques at Divinity, but as Richie said, you never knew. Besides, as a member of the Downtown Merchants’ Alliance, it was my civic duty to welcome a new business owner to the community.

Pleased with myself for my ingenuity, I led Max across the street and clipped him to a piece of fencing that surrounded a yard filled with old metal farm implements. When I let myself in through the front door, the musty smell of old buildings greeted me—unusual for our area of the world. Buildings, no matter how old, don’t pick up that moldy smell when there’s no humidity to cause it.

A large bureau stood flush with the door, and two tall windows flanked a Victorian secretary made of what looked like mahogany. A narrow opening between the bureau and the cash register revealed a long room filled with pieces, the sheer size and volume of which made me feel claustrophobic.

“See anything you like?” A woman’s voice sounded close to my ear and caught me off guard.

I pivoted to face her and found myself eye to eye with a woman a few years younger than me. Her copper-red hair was so bright, I knew the color couldn’t be natural, and her eyes were slightly puffy, as if she’d been crying recently or suffering from hay fever.

To my surprise, I recognized her. I just couldn’t figure out why Marshall hadn’t mentioned that his half sister had returned to Paradise. “Ginger?”

Her smile drooped a little, and she moved into the light so I could see a sprinkling of freckles trying to make themselves visible beneath layers of foundation and powder. “Yes. Do I know you?”

Paranoia returned full-force, and suddenly Marshall’s visits, that kiss, and his presence at the murder scene seemed almost sinister.

But that was ridiculous. Marshall? No way he could have been involved in Hobbs’s murder . . . could he? Shaking off my suspicions, I smiled at the woman standing in front of me.

“You did once. Abby Shaw. I went to school with Marshall.”

“Oh my—” Her smile regained all of its brilliance, but it seemed almost unnaturally bright. “Well, of course it’s you. I would have figured that out sooner or later. How are you?”

“I’m doing well, thanks.”

“Last I heard, you’d fled the coop, too. Don’t tell me we both came crawling back.”

“I didn’t exactly come
crawling
,” I protested, even though I had. “I came back almost two years ago after my Aunt Grace died. I own her candy shop now.”

“Really?” Ginger reached somewhere above my head and pulled down the largest cat I’ve ever seen. She held it close to her chest and scratched under its chin, and the thing let out a contented rumble. “I’ve just been back a couple of months, but I love this store. Do you like it?”