Nickeled-And-Dimed to Death (17 page)

The sprinkling of snow we’d gotten overnight was already melting as I turned onto the street that marked the perimeter of the village square. This place was the heart of Shadow Bend. It always reminded me of why I loved my town, and the bandstand was my favorite part. The eight white cast-iron columns framed my memories of summer concerts, and the decorative arches that linked the pillars made me remember gazing up through their intricately carved curves, seeing the never-ending blue sky, and realizing that the world really was a place of boundless possibilities.

As I did six out of seven days a week, I cruised the four blocks leading to my store. For some reason a sense of peace settled over me as I passed the familiar landmarks. The first on my route was the Shadow Bend Savings and Guaranty Bank’s Greek revival building, then the newspaper’s unadorned cinderblock structure, Little’s Tea Room in the Queen Anne, and the movie theater with its limestone façade and Art Deco entrance.

Last was the bakery, and since there was a parking spot right in front, I pulled to the curb. At eight thirty in the morning, there were only a few people on the sidewalks, but I could see through the bakeshop window that the place was packed.

Shadow Bend had a deeply divided population. The locals, mostly farmers, ranchers, and factory workers, had lived in or around the town all their lives. The transplants were mostly people who had relocated to the area either to raise their families in a wholesome atmosphere or to build McMansions on the cheap land that was available.

Almost all of the newcomers were willing to face a long, arduous commute into the city to fulfill their dreams. Problems arose when the move-ins felt the town should adjust to them rather than vice versa. Honking your horn at a slow-moving tractor or attempting to take over the PTA in order to stop the school children from saying the Pledge of Allegiance were just a couple of ways in which the Johnny-come-latelies had alienated themselves from the natives.

Then there was the man who had called city hall and requested the
DEER CROSSING
sign near his house be removed. He told the road commissioner that too many deer were being hit by cars so he didn’t think it was a good place for the animals to be crossing. The locals had gotten a good laugh over that guy.

Because I had worked in Kansas City for many years but always lived in Shadow Bend, my goal was to make my store a spot where both sets of people could feel comfortable. Unlike the upscale health club that catered mostly to the newcomers or the bakery where the townies hung out, I was determined to offer a place where the two factions could find some common ground and perhaps build some bridges.

The craft groups that I hosted were a start. The members included both natives and transplants. Another of my triumphs was the kids who hung around after school. Early on, I had made it known that if I saw any evidence of cliques, discrimination, or bullying, everyone would be kicked out, not just the guilty parties. And since there was no other place in town that allowed the teens to gather, they self-monitored in order to keep their welcome with me.

As I pushed open the bakery’s door, the enticing aromas of cinnamon, brown sugar, and yeast drew me inside. The half-dozen tables were filled with regulars. The white-collar crowd—real estate agents, insurance representatives, and the like—were reading newspapers or networking as they finished up their morning coffee and pastries. The others, mostly senior citizens, were chitchatting over donuts. One of the latter groups called me over, and an elderly man whom I knew but whose name I couldn’t remember said, “What’s the scoop with Boone St. Onge?”

“Uh.” While I was relieved that they didn’t ask about Noah and me, I didn’t want to discuss Boone’s situation, either. Then again, maybe they could tell me more about Elise and Colin.

A sweet-looking old lady who reminded me of Aunt Bee from
The Andy Griffith Show
tugged at my sweatshirt sleeve. “Is it true that he killed that woman because he wasn’t able to get it up?”

“No!” I yelped. Where had that come from? “Boone didn’t kill her, not for any reason,” I quickly corrected her. “He had a strictly professional relationship with the victim.”

“Then what was he doing in her house at eleven o’clock at night?” asked Mrs. Gordon, the mother of Noah’s physician assistant.

“As a favor to Mrs. Whitmore, he was escorting her to a late-night event in the city.” I paused to think over my next statement—would it help or hurt Boone? Deciding it could be useful to spin the story in a positive direction, I added, “Off the record, she was afraid of her husband, so she wanted her attorney present.” There. I had given them another suspect, and by telling them that something was confidential, it guaranteed that the info would spread faster than caramel poured on top of a hot pecan roll.

“Colin Whitmore does have a temper,” the first man commented.

“Really?” I was itching to take notes but knew that wasn’t the approved protocol when participating in a round of Shadow Bend gossip. Like any other game, there were rules that had to be followed. “How do you know that?”

“I was in the bank once when Whitmore was screaming at one of the tellers about something the poor woman had done to make the computer break down.”

“Ah.” This was good intel, but I had to get to the store soon, so I needed to wrap things up. Still, I couldn’t resist asking one more question. “I didn’t know Mrs. Whitmore. Was she a nice person?”

“She didn’t do much business in town. People like that frost my buns.” Aunt Bee’s look-alike
tsk
ed. “And she did create quite a scene when she caught her husband at the motel with his dick out.”

The mouth on that sweet little old lady continued to amaze me, but I certainly shared her outrage at people who refused to buy locally. Smiling, I said, “It’s sure true that my dime store would be in real trouble without its loyal customers.” I discreetly checked my watch. Quarter to nine. “Who was the girl Colin was with?” Let’s see how much of a secret Willow’s identity really was.

The group looked at one another, but no one seemed to know. Mrs. Gordon threw her hands up. “I don’t recall ever hearing who she was.”

“Well, I’ve got to get going and open up the store,” I said, backing away. “It was good talking to you all. Please let all your friends and neighbors know that Boone is innocent.”

After I picked up my bakery order—an assortment of Mexican hot chocolate cupcakes, peanut butter cup cookies, and browned-butter whole wheat muffins—I quickly drove to the store and started setting up for the day. The crafters began to arrive at the same time Hannah reported for work. I assigned her to the register and drafted a couple of the quilters and scrapbookers to move tables and chairs from the storeroom. Generally, I liked to have everything ready, but I couldn’t afford to hire more help.

Regardless of how strapped for cash I was, I never regretted buying the business. Not only did it give me the chance to spend more time with my grandmother, but I’d been able to save the place from becoming another cookie-cutter drugstore. When the Thornbee twins, age ninety-one, had decided to sell the five-and-dime, their only other offer had come from a pharmacy chain.

The twins’ grandfather had built the dime store when Shadow Bend was no more than a stagecoach stop, and, lucky for me, the thought of the business being turned into a Rite Aid or CVS had dismayed them. Which was why they’d chosen to take my much-lower bid.

Every day when I walked into my shop, I said a silent thank-you to those women. As far back as I could remember, I had always loved this store. When I was six, my father had taken me here to pick out my Brownie uniform and all the accessories. Gran always let me come with her to the store whenever she went in to buy a sack full of her favorite sassafras candy sticks. And the day I turned thirteen, my mother allowed me to buy my very first grown-up book—a Harlequin romance—from the shop’s spinner rack.

What with the two craft groups and the regular customers, the morning’s business was brisk. Predictably, it tapered off right about eleven forty-five. Fifteen minutes later, the store had completely emptied out and Hannah left to attend her afternoon classes.

Once I was alone, I checked my messages. Poppy had texted that Boone was in a fairly good mood when he went to the PD, and Boone himself had left a voice mail saying that the cops had mostly repeated their questions about his relationship with Elise and her divorce, then let him go. That wasn’t the best scenario, but at least the police hadn’t rearrested him.

I had just started working on the Stehliks’ bon voyage basket when the sleigh bells above the entrance jingled and a young man carrying a large thermal cooler bag strode inside. He was in his early twenties and dressed in city chic—skinny jeans, black leather jacket with the hood up, and canvas sneakers.

He stopped just over the threshold and looked around; then, spotting me at my worktable, he jogged over and asked, “Are you Dev Sinclair?”

“Yes, I am.” I ran the guy’s face through my mental Rolodex but came up blank. He wasn’t one of my regular customers and I didn’t recall seeing him around town, either. “Can I help you with something?”

“I have a delivery for you.” He plopped the carrier on the counter.

“But I didn’t order anything.” I peered suspiciously at the bag.

He took a notebook from his back pants pocket and flipped through it. “Well, it says right here that this stuff goes to Dev Sinclair at Devereaux’s Dime Store on the main street in Shadow Bend.”

“But—”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot that I picked this up on my way over here.” He cut off my protest, then said, “Here,” as he thrust an envelope into my hand.

I removed the pale-blue cardboard rectangle, saw the familiar handwriting, and my heart skipped a beat. The note read:

Dev,

There’s been an emergency and the clinic is swamped with patients that need immediate treatment. I won’t be able to call you until early evening, or maybe later. I’m sorry, but we’ll have to postpone visiting Max Robinson until tomorrow.

I remembered that you like sushi, so I ordered an assortment for your lunch.

Noah

P.S. The delivery guy’s been tipped already.

Touched by Noah’s thoughtfulness, I stood unmoving for a few seconds until I noticed the delivery guy tapping his foot. Aware that there were no sushi restaurants within a thirty-mile radius of Shadow Bend, I gave him a ten-dollar bill, then sent him on his way. Once he was gone, I examined the three black plastic containers on the counter. Through the clear lids, I could see beautiful creations that were truly works of art.

There were avocado, spicy tuna, salmon, and shrimp tempura rolls, as well as kappa maki, unagi, and maguro. It was considerably more food than I could eat in one sitting, and I found myself wishing that Noah were there to share it with me. I’d had my first taste of the exotic treat years ago when he’d taken me to a sushi restaurant in the city. It had opened my eyes to the world outside our small town, an event I’d never forgotten.

Thinking about that date made me check to see where Noah had ordered the food. When I saw that it was the same place where we’d eaten as teenagers, I had to swallow the lump in my throat.

Having this lunch delivered from Kansas City had been expensive, but money didn’t mean very much to Noah. What really moved me was that he had remembered what we had shared and that maybe the experience meant as much to him as it did to me.

CHAPTER 16

F
or a split second I considered putting the sushi containers back in their bag and going over to the clinic to share the meal with Noah, but a couple of things stopped me. One, I would have to close the store, which I did only in an emergency. Two, and more important, what if I was reading too much into the gesture?

Having been thwarted by my insecurities, I texted Poppy and asked her to join me for lunch. I knew she’d enjoy the treat. And since she was one of the few people I trusted completely, I decided it was time to tell her everything and get her opinion on the Noah situation.

Ten minutes later, Poppy and I were sitting at my worktable, eating slices of kappa maki and drinking the pot of tea I’d brewed while I waited for her arrival. As we scarfed down the cucumber roll, I revealed all the stuff I’d been keeping from her—Jake working with his ex, Noah wanting to be back in my life as more than a friend, my ambivalence over the newly rekindled feelings I had for him, and my confusion about his feelings for me.

Poppy nodded and chewed until I ran out of angst. When it was clear I had no more to add, she said, “Are you nuts? Of course Noah is still in love with you. He never stopped. You were the one mad at him, remember?”

I shrugged. That wasn’t exactly how I recalled the situation, but I didn’t want to argue.

“The real question is whether you’re in love with him.” Using her chopsticks to lift a piece of sushi from the plastic container, Poppy paused with the slice near her lips. “Or are you just pissed off at Jake?”

“I—I’m not . . .” I stuttered to a halt. Trust Poppy to cut to the heart of the matter.

“Of course you are,” she chided, then popped the morsel into her mouth.

I was silent as she chewed. She was right. I was a tad upset over Jake’s behavior—if a tad equaled the amount of water in the Mississippi River.

Swallowing, she asked, “But is it your heart or your pride that’s wounded because Jake stood you up and hasn’t called?”

“I don’t know.” My shoulders slumped. “And I hate not knowing.”

“Sure you do.” Poppy arched a brow. “You’re almost as much a control freak as I am.” She grinned. “I’m surprised you don’t bug the dime store like I do the bar. Especially the craft corner. It must kill you not to know what they’re all saying back there.”

“
Moi
?” I teased, then sighed. “My real problem is that I vowed never to let my emotions get the best of me ever again.” I grimaced. “Love has not exactly worked out for me in the past.”