Leaving Carolina (10 page)

“You’re damage control, aren’t you?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You didn’t return to Pickwick out of concern for your uncle. You’re here to convince him to leave the family skeletons in the closet.”

I stare at him as I struggle to contain the knee-jerk response common to many of my clients—telling the person to mind his own business and stomping off.

“I understand there is little love lost between you and the other Pickwicks, so my guess is that one or more of those skeletons belong to you.”

I surge upright. “I have no idea what possessed my uncle to take you into his confidence, Mr…” What is his last name? “My reason for returning to Pickwick is no one’s business, so I am not going to discuss it with you, Mr.…”
And you call yourself an image consultant
.

Axel rises from the bench. And smiles. “Smith. Mr. Smith.”

Whatever he finds amusing, he can keep to himself. I have other things to ponder.
Like what just happened here?
Thank goodness he has no idea what I do for a living. Or maybe he does.

“I apologize for overstepping the bounds, Miss Wick.”

As well he should. “I have work to do.” I head toward the mansion and the phone calls I need to make, among them one to the agency that’s investigating—

I whip around. “Since you seem to know everyone’s business, perhaps you can tell me where to find my uncle’s godson.”

His eyes widen. “Obadiah Smith?”

A.k.a. Obadiah Number Two. “Yeah, named after my uncle—a matter of ingratiation, I’m sure.”

His brow lowers. “Actually, it had nothing to do with ingratiation and everything to do with honoring a friend.”

Is there anything my uncle
didn’t
tell him? “Where can I find him?”

He strides forward with that increasingly familiar hitch. “This is probably the wrong time for a formal introduction”—he extends a hand—“but I’m Obadiah Smith. Obadiah
Axel
Smith.”

I
stare at the hand, taking in the sturdy, grease-streaked fingers and wide, calloused palm of one Obadiah Axel
Smith
. How could I not have—?

Common name. And, honestly, who expects Obadiah of the Old Testament to be paired with a name usually associated with Axl of Guns N’ Roses bad-boy fame?

Still, I feel stupid. And more so when the other pieces fit. Last night, after the incident with Bart and the night-vision goggles, it occurred to me that Axel might have a military background. Then the message from the investigative agency mentioned Obadiah Smith was in the army…

Actually, I feel
really
stupid. And “meanspirited,” as my mother would call someone who said what I did about Axel’s name being a matter of ingratiation.

Continuing to stare at his hand, vastly different from Grant’s smooth and well-manicured version, I draw a slow breath.
Yes, your comment reflects poorly on you. Yes, it was ugly. But simply apologize and—

Hold it!
This
is the man responsible for my return to Pickwick. If not for him, Uncle Obe wouldn’t be wanting to change his will. Obadiah Number Two is a meddler—and quite possibly a con man.

“I suspected you didn’t know.” He lowers his hand. “I should have said something sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It was one of those rare opportunities you know you should pass on—”

“What opportunity?”

“To better understand the big-city woman who bears little resemblance to the girl her uncle talks about.”

As if I want to be understood! And what did Uncle Obe tell him about me? That Axel would know me by my obscure appearance? sturdy build? lack of fashion sense?

Now, now, what would Piper advise?
No huffing and puffing and big, bad wolfing, as I advised Cootchie Lear after she slammed her purse upside the head of a reporter who asked her the odds of her husband cheating on her again.

I take a step back. “Who knows that you’re my uncle’s godson?”

“Most everyone.”

“Including my relatives?”

“Of course.”

“Then you didn’t attempt to hide your identity from them as you did from me?”

His eyebrows lower, casting a shadow over his eyes. “Until a short while ago, I thought Artemis had filled you in.”

“Well, he didn’t. And neither did Bart last night or Maggie when I ran into her this morning.”

“They must have assumed you knew.”

I tilt my chin up. “Thanks to Artemis, there seems to be a lot
of that going on. He should have told me that my uncle’s godson is also his gardener.”

“I’m sure he just forgot.”

“I’d call it selective memory—the better to manipulate me.”

“The man’s almost eighty.” The serious set of Axel’s face lightens slightly. “Recently, your uncle told me Artemis has started keeping extra pairs of shoes at the office for when he shows up in socks.”

That
is
forgetful. I shake my head. “That may be some of it, but not all.”

Axel looks away a moment, then says, “I’d hang most of the blame on forgetfulness, but it’s true that he has an ornery streak.”

A vision of next month’s credit card statement flashes before my eyes. “One that’s going to cost me a bundle to track down the very person who’s been right under my nose.”

Axel’s jaw hardens. “Are you investigating me?”

I startle as my words play back, too clearly to have been mere thought.

“Are you?”

I sigh. “Yes, I hired an agency, but it was the responsible thing to do considering I’d never heard of you until Artemis called me in L.A.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “What did you find out?”

I cross my arms over my chest, intentionally mirroring him. “Only that you were honorably discharged from the army.” In the next instant, another piece fits, and I lower my gaze to his right leg. “Because of your injury.” An assumption, but I know it’s right.

He frowns.
“That’s
what you paid a bundle for?”

“It’s just the initial findings.”

He stares at me and then in a cool voice says, “Save your money Ms. Wick. If there’s anything you want to know about me, you only have to ask.”

But will he be honest? “All right… So you’re Obadiah Smith.”

“I prefer Axel, though I doubt for the same reason you prefer Wick.”

That arrow has my name on it. “Tell me this, Axel. How did you convince my uncle to change his will, and in such a way the Pickwicks will suffer further ridicule?”

He’s so still that with a few smears of camouflage he might disappear into the landscape. “Despite what you think, your uncle isn’t easily influenced. He’s burdened, and if making amends to those hurt by your family relieves him, he has my support.”

I feel a sarcastic “How noble of you” coming on but resist. I am not in a good place. As I advise my clients to do in difficult situations, it’s time to extricate (live to fight another day). I drop my arms to my sides. “It’s good to know where you stand, and now I need to get to work.” Lots to do, and providing I don’t have another Bart-in-the-library-with-night-vision-goggles encounter, it should be a productive day. Of course, there’s no accounting for Pickwicks…

“Mr. Smith, I’d appreciate it if you would continue to keep unannounced visitors away. Guard the estate, if you will.”

His lids lower, reducing his eyes to simply blue—nothing at all capital-
B
about them. “And, thereby, Piper Wick.”

I resist the urge to put my hands on my hips. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, I forgot about those lethal heels of yours.”

Ack! He’s not going to let me forget that, is he? I draw myself up. “I just want to avoid a repeat performance of Bart’s welcome home.”

“Between Errol and me, I’m sure we can accommodate you.”

I grit my teeth. “Thank you. I’ll see you later.” I pivot.

“At Church on the Square tomorrow?”

That nearly stops me, not because of the sardonic edge to his voice, but because I can’t imagine stepping foot inside the church of my youth. While Mom and I were more welcome there than most places, some of those who “amened” the loudest at Jesus’s command to love one another were the quickest to shun us the following Monday.

“No, thank you,” I call back. And he can take that however he likes.

My clients are happy, my partners at Budge, Biddle, Wells, and Wick are happy, and I’m happy. Well, trying to be, but as I haven’t had an interruption since I returned from jogging hours ago, I’m definitely on the happy end of the spectrum.

I lower my iPhone to the counter and stretch my arms above my head. Long day, but before I go to bed, I plan on exploring the mansion, though not in any way that intrudes on Uncle Obe’s privacy. Just a peek behind doors closed to me when I was growing up.

I turn on the stool to survey the kitchen—a room three times larger than any family needs to prepare meals. Of course, my great-grandparents entertained on a grand scale, so there was a time when the kitchen fit the need. Now it’s just cavernously outdated.

“But functional,” I murmur as my stomach groans. Earlier I was surprised when a look in the refrigerator and pantry revealed both were stocked. More surprising was that the contents weren’t exclusively “Southern”—no chitlins, biscuits, or bacon drippings. I did notice a half-dozen jars of pickled corn on the uppermost shelf of the pantry…in the back corner…beyond a row of baked beans… behind the applesauce. Not that I went looking for them. Well, actually I did. While I dropped most Southern foods from my stomachs vocabulary due to their effect on my waistline, there is one I’ve missed—Uncle Obe’s pickled corn that took Best in County every year.

Dare I open a jar? After all, once I return to L.A., the pickled-corn well will dry up, and I could be left with unanswered cravings. Far better to resist temptation than wallow in taste bud memories. So just the one jar.

I hop off the stool and cross to the walk-in pantry. From atop a creaky stepladder, I reach past the applesauce and snag a jar of pickled corn. I can almost taste the yellow kernels that press against the glass, as if looking out at me as eagerly as I look in at them. Hmm. Cold or fried in butter?

A loud rap from the kitchen causes me to whip my head around. Unbalanced by the sudden movement, I shift my weight opposite but overcompensate. With a high-pitched creak, the stool tilts floorward.

“No!” Not the pickled-All ten fingers splay as I grab for something to keep the stool upright. I catch the lip of a shelf, but as the jar heads for the floor, the
stool goes out from under me. I register a shriek, a crash, a spray of moisture, and a scent I was so looking forward to in a different context. A moment later my sandaled feet hit the floor, and I slam back against a shelf.

“Oh no.” I survey the yellow mess splashed across the floor and lower shelves amid shards of glass.

“Miss Wick!”

I screech when
that
man appears in the doorway with
that
dog. And
that’s
when I remember what caused this—Axel pounding on the back door!

“What are you doing here? And how did you get in?”

As Errol backs away (must be the pickled smell), Axel’s eyes move over me, making me uncomfortably aware of my appearance. He shakes his head.

Is he laughing at me? at the mess
he
caused?

Sliding his hands into the pockets of his painter’s pants, he leans a shoulder against the doorframe—an unnerving pose because it isn’t a pose… because he isn’t putting his best face forward… because he looks real and sturdy, like a man you could hold onto in a storm—

Ah! Grant is real. And sturdy. It’s just that, as a public figure, he has to keep his guard up and put his best face forward—
GQ
style. I like
GQ
style.

I press my shoulders back. “I asked what you’re doing here, Mr. Smith.”

His smile reaches all the way to his eyes. “It’s called knight-in-shining-armor syndrome. The knight hears screams, and rather than
wait for the damsel to open the door, he rushes in to save her from fiends.” He glances at the floor. “And the odd jar of pickled corn. Found your uncle’s stash, I see.”

I have no reason to feel guilty. I’m a guest, and Artemis said to make myself at home. Nor is there any reason to feel embarrassed. I step away from the shelf. “I was deciding what to make for dinner when your banging on the door made me lose my balance.”

“So this is
my
fault.”

I start to nod but am struck by the pettiness of trying to pin this on him. “No.” I sigh. “But if there
were
a fiend in this twisted fairy tale, it would be you.”

He chuckles. “Had I known you were risking your neck for pickled corn, I would have let myself in with the key.”

He has a key? Of course he does. He got in last night, didn’t he? And just in time to save Errol from my twitchy trigger finger. Once again, I feel vulnerable. Axel may be Uncle Obe’s godson, and he may have made no untoward moves when we were alone last night, but he’s still a stranger.

Not until he frowns and moves back from the doorway does a body language check reveal that my unease shows. Determinedly, I put my face in place, a snap in my back, and pep in my step as I trod over glass to emerge from the pantry.