Boo (33 page)

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Garth. And happy Thanksgiving to you.”

A pause was followed by, “Hello.”

“Is Ms. Cornforth with you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll make this brief. I’ll be bringing someone with me today.”

“Oh?”

“And I intend on using him to our advantage. Don’t let his coming throw you off.”

“I see.”

“I realize you can’t say much right now, and that is probably a good thing. Your mouth always did get you in trouble. Just stick with the plan. Our day has arrived. And Skary will be better for it. Good-bye.”

Miss Peeple hung up just as the doorbell rang. She straightened her suit, patted her hair into place, and rubbed a finger across the front of her teeth. She went to the door slowly, opened it and said with a smile, “Hello, Alfred. You’re right on time.”

“Settle down, kids,” Wolfe said as Goose and Bunny strained their leashes to find something fun and exciting on their morning walk. The cold air didn’t seem to bother the dogs, who burst through each frozen breath with ease. Wolfe, on the other hand, found it a little hard to breathe and was panting by the time they reached the back steps of his house. He released them from their leashes, and they trotted around the house, not ready to come inside. Wolfe removed his shoes, took his stocking cap off, and unzipped his coat as he went through the door.

Upstairs, he showered, warming up in the hot water, and then came back down for a light breakfast. Nothing sounded good, though. In anticipation of this day, he’d lost his appetite. But it was a good thing, because he knew Ainsley’s feast would be nothing short of grand, and he didn’t want to spoil his appetite.

So instead of eating, he went to his study, found his keys, and unlocked the only drawer that was locked in his whole house. There was one thing in it … the only thing that had occupied it for more than ten years: a ring.

He carefully pulled the box out and opened it up. There in the middle was the dainty gold band holding up a diamond solitaire. He thought of his mother’s hands running through his hair, and the ring that would sometimes catch on a tangle.

She hadn’t been wearing it the day she died. She never wore her jewelry when she traveled. Wolfe had inherited it, along with everything else his parents owned, but this ring in particular meant so much to him. He could hardly hold it without a lump forming in his throat. Today was a little different, because with the lump also came a rare and unspeakable joy, and an anticipation and nervousness that he could hardly utter.

He held the small ring up in the light. It still gleamed beautifully. He knew she would like it. It wasn’t fancy, but it had meaning and warmth attached to it that more gold and diamonds would obscure. He thought Thanksgiving might be a nice time to ask. He had so much to be thankful for. And all her friends would be there to witness it. His heart trembled, but whether from nervousness or excitement he couldn’t say.

He realized it might seem rushed. They’d been dating for less than a month, but for Wolfe, the love affair had gone on for much longer. And now that his highest hopes had come true, what else could he want than to spend the rest of his life with her? He loved her, wanted to take care of her, wanted to make her happy. He held the ring tightly in his hand and thought of kissing her on their wedding day.

A dominating presence intruded on his blissful images of a life full of love … her father. He would have to ask permission. He knew Ainsley would want that. But only a few days ago her father thought him capable
of murder. How would he ever convince him he was right for his daughter? The thought paralyzed any more daydreaming, and soon he returned the ring to its box and set it on the desk.

His thoughts turned to the last Thanksgiving he’d spent with his parents. It had been a quiet one, but with all the fixings. He hadn’t spent a holiday with a turkey since. Today he was going to eat turkey and pumpkin pie and who knew what else. He was going to be around people, enjoy fellowship. And mostly he was going to spend time with the woman of his dreams. This day was setting up to be just about perfect, Sheriff Parker notwithstanding.

He sighed away his dreamy thoughts and put the ring back in the drawer. But he didn’t lock it. His mind was not made up yet.

T
HEIR ATTIRE CLASHED
. She wore orange. He wore pink. She’d been around a lot of years, but she couldn’t say she’d seen too many men in pink. The tie had pink in it too, but also some more masculine colors like blue and green. Thank goodness for that.

Alfred looked around her living room as if he hadn’t been there before, his face registering no certain impression. She lived modestly, it was true, and there was probably a layer of dust on everything, but she reminded herself that he wasn’t the one she was trying to impress anyway.

He glanced at his watch. “What time are we supposed to be there?”

“Any time after eleven.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned back onto the couch, folding his arms against his chest, hardly looking her in the eye. “I can’t say I’m comfortable with this arrangement.”

“And what arrangement is that, Mr. Tennison?”

“Do I have to say it out loud?”

Miss Peeple smiled at him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. You’re not comfortable with coming to Thanksgiving as my date unannounced, or you’re not comfortable with scheming your way back into Wolfe Boone’s life in a quite compromising way?”

He swallowed, his dark eyes seeming to sink into his bony skull. “Yes.”

She laughed. “Well, you are quite desperate, Mr. Tennison, and desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“I don’t believe I’m the only one who’s desperate,” he said. “Let’s not forget that.”

“Oh, I could hardly forget that. A lot is at stake on this Thanksgiving Day.”

He clicked his tongue precisely with the second hand of the nearby clock, his eyes fading with thought. “I’m not sure this is the right thing to do,” he said suddenly.

Missy Peeple sat up straight in her chair and leaned forward on her cane. “Who said anything about
right
, Mr. Tennison?”

“It’s a cutthroat business, sure. But I’ve never stooped this low.” Miss Peeple hoped he wasn’t referring to accompanying her to the Parkers’. “Wolfe is a good man. He always has been, despite the perception people might have of him. It’s just an image.”

“And your
point?
”

“I’ve always considered him a friend. I don’t have many friends. This isn’t a business about having friends. But Wolfe I guess I could call a friend.”

“You could also call him your bankroll, Mr. Tennison. He’s the reason you can wear those fancy shoes and that fancy watch and slick your hair back like you’re someone special. Am I right? Without Wolfe Boone, you’re merely another editor groveling at the feet of those more powerful than you.”

Mr. Tennison’s eyes reflected a distant bitterness. Then his face turned stern. “Wolfe owes me.”

“Oh?”

“I’m the reason he is where he is today. Wolfe Boone’s career would’ve had a three-month shelf life along with all the other writer wannabes if it hadn’t been for me. You know, he’s not that good a horror writer to begin with. His language—much too flowery. His characters always have too much depth. I’ve had to steer him along the way, show him what the world wanted from him. If it hadn’t been for me, he’d be writing poetry in a coffee shop somewhere on the West Coast.”

“He does owe you, then.”

Mr. Tennison’s reserved anger released in the form of a hot sigh. “Editors are endlessly underappreciated.”

“I can imagine. So then you’re not going to have a problem carrying out our plan?” Miss Peeple said. “Somewhere between stuffing your face with dressing and indulging in one of the fifteen desserts I’m
sure Miss Parker has prepared, you’re going to rise to the occasion, aren’t you?”

Mr. Tennison settled into the couch and nodded. Then he said, “But I don’t know how he’s going to respond when I arrive, crashing Thanksgiving in the form of your arm piece.”

Missy flashed a grin at him. “Don’t underestimate the element of surprise. And believe me, this will be quite the surprise, sir. We’ll just have to convince him of the chemistry between us, so as to distract him from the real reason you are there …”

Mr. Tennison stood and said, “I need to use your toilet.”

“Are you about done in there?”

“I’m hurrying. What time is it?”

“Twenty till.”

Despite the cold weather outside, Melb Cornforth was sweating up a storm in Garth Twyne’s small, tiled bathroom. She managed to pull the T-shirt over her head, but that was all the progress she’d made.

It was Garth’s lousy idea that they wear matching long-sleeved T-shirts. He happened to have two identical ones that he’d won at the fair three years ago while tossing beanbag frogs onto lily pads. “Couples in love wear matching T-shirts,” he’d assured her. “Don’t you see them on the streets? At the store? The carnivals? They hold hands and wear matching T-shirts.”

Sure, they wore matching T-shirts. But the problem was, Garth Twyne was a skinny rail of a human being with hardly a patch of fat on him. Melb Cornforth, on the other hand, was what she liked to call … well … “voluptuous,” though the scientific community insensitively referred to her frame as “overweight.” She was big-boned and tall, that was all.

She tugged at the arm holes of the extra-small T-shirt, trying to get at least one arm in. She almost suffocated herself at one point when she managed to jab the first part of her arm through one hole but got stuck
with the rest of the T-shirt snug against her face. After what seemed like an eternity, she found the other arm hole and got the other arm through, but now her arms were stuck straight up in the air and the rest of the T-shirt was wrung around her neck.

“What’s going on in there?” Garth asked from the other side of the door. “How much primping can someone do with a T-shirt?”

With arms straight up in the air and the rest of the T-shirt choking her neck, she managed to say,
“Shut up!”

She wriggled her body left and right and thought for a moment she’d created quite a dance move. But then her thoughts went back to the task at hand. The trick would be to pull it down without ripping a hole in the shirt. She’d seen the way teenagers dressed these days, with no regard for modesty, but she was no teenager, and she wasn’t about to wear something with a gaping hole in it, no matter what people “in love” do.

“What man wears an extra-small T-shirt?” she growled with maddening restraint. Then, without warning, the T-shirt dropped two inches, releasing her arms to her sides. She laughed with relief and carefully rolled the rest of the material down, sucking in her rib cage and everything else that would constrict, until once and for all the T-shirt was in place. She could hardly breathe.

She turned to the mirror and bit her lip. Sweat had smeared her makeup, and her curls were now soggy and limp. She took a few pieces of toilet paper, blotted her skin, and tried to fluff her curls with her fingers, though now she was scarcely able to
raise
her hands above her chin without the shirt riding up on her belly. She decided maybe the crisp air outside would dry her off a bit, and she turned to the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She gasped.

She looked horrible, as if she’d shrunk her ten-year-old nephew’s T-shirt in the dryer and then decided to put it on. Every curve, roll, and bump she had was not only noticeable but accentuated. How could she leave the house?

But the more she studied herself, the more she realized that the shirt wasn’t a far cry from the tight bodices worn by all those women in all
those romance novels. So there wasn’t a stitch of lace to be found—it
did
make her look a bit skinnier. She’d always wanted to wear a bodice, and maybe this is what it
felt
like to wear a bodice. She turned to see herself at every angle, and just as she was about to toss her head back and strike a romantic cover pose, Garth shattered her fantasy. “
Helloooo?
You dead in there or something?”