The Demise (3 page)

As Julie started out the door, Georgia grabbed her arm. “Oh Julie, I’m scared. What if I say something wrong?”

“Just stay calm.” Julie gave her a hug.” You’ve got nothing to hide. I’ll talk to you when I get back, okay?”

“Goldilocks, get a move on it.” Agent Berkowitz scratched the day’s growth along his jawline. “Let’s go, let’s go,” he barked, snapping his fingers as he went out the door.

Julie turned to follow him, then glanced back at the younger agent closing his briefcase. He looked up, and for a moment their eyes met. One side of his mouth lifted in an awkward smile. Not the smitten kind of gawking like Brad’s, but a shy, genuine smile. She returned the gesture then left the room, wishing something she’d never wished before; to change places with Donella Willet.

Chapter 3

The original
Lanham’s Grocery Store,
nestled just around the corner from Braxton Square, had changed little since its opening in 1927. A newer more upscale version located near the interstate had enjoyed numerous updates and additions to reflect the changing times in Braxton’s long history, including the more sophisticated name,
Lanham’s Fine Foods
. But the small brick building near the square remained a landmark symbol of a different time, when a town’s local grocery store was more than just a place to buy food; it reflected the heart of its people.

The little store fit right in, tucked among the shops, boutiques, and cafés lending Braxton its small-town charm. In a town that prided itself on clean streets, flower-filled window boxes, and quaint Victorian lamp posts, the Main Street Lanham’s, as the locals called it, added to the overall ambience of the community.

Sheltered beneath its trademark green awning, the store’s long bank of front windows still boasted the old-style paper banners featuring weekly specials.
Apples for 99¢ a pound. Leg quarters for 48¢ a pound. Canned corn 2/$1. 
Only the digits changed as prices rose through the years. Inside, narrow aisles filled with canned goods, cereals, teas and coffee, detergents and paper goods were bordered by a perimeter of fresh produce, cold cases of dairy products, and a small in-store bakery.

Justin Lanham, the founder of Braxton’s pride and joy, may have been a traditionalist in his day, but he was wise beyond his years when he designed a small gathering spot for his many faithful customers. In the back right corner, intentionally located beside the bakery, a sprinkling of parlor tables and chairs offered friends and customers a chance to relax for a while and swap the latest news over pastries and coffee. The store’s own Breakfast Blend, a robust brew dispensed from a vintage copper urn, was always fresh and always on the house. Old man Lanham would rattle in his grave if a Starbucks ever opened on Main Street. To him, a free cup of coffee was as important to business as well-stocked shelves and a hearty welcome from employees upon entering the store.

At half past ten, word of Peter Lanham’s death had already spread across town, and most likely, to every Lanham’s store across the country. A fresh wave of sadness left a sizable lump in Julie’s throat as she entered the store that day. An enormous wreath of black satin ribbons and ebony feathers hung at the entrance. With the offices closed for the rest of the day, she knew many of the corporate employees would be gathered at the small café in back.

“Julie, good morning.” Tess Verlin stepped out from behind her cash register to give her a hug. “It’s all so unbelievable. Are you okay?”

“I guess. It’s been a rough morning for all of us, that’s for sure.” She surrendered to Tess’s embrace, knowing it would be the first of many here. By the time she reached the café in back, she’d been hugged, patted, and had her “little heart” blessed a dozen times. It felt so strange. After all, she wasn’t related to the Lanham family. But as the face and voice of Lanham’s commercials over the past couple of years, she knew people somehow grafted her to the family tree.

The family tree . . .

As she wound her way back to the crowded café, Julie thought about Brad. As Peter’s nephew, he was part of that family tree, though she realized she’d never heard him talk about his family ties. How odd. Then again, Brad was an odd duck. He kept to himself for the most part, preferring the seclusion of his cubicle to the regular office chatter. How many times had she passed his cubicle only to find him sound asleep, sometimes snoring?

Julie poured herself a cup of coffee, then found a seat and joined her coworkers.

Coco Norton scooted her chair over to make more room. “Julie, how’d the questioning go? Wasn’t that Berkowitz a trip?”

“No kidding. I thought I’d never get out of there. What a waste of time. I told him he ought to be poring over Mr. Lanham’s office looking for evidence of foul play, not pointing fingers at all of us. I refuse to believe Mr. Lanham jumped, and I told him so, too.”

“Bet he loved that,” Greg Johnson quipped. “Berkowitz has a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas.”

“Well, at least you didn’t have to put up with his flirting,” Coco added.

“And it’s a good thing,” Greg teased. “But what a joke. Why weren’t those guys out following some leads or talking to the Ice Queen out at the Lanham lair instead of acting like all of us are somehow guilty?”

“Oh, I’m
sooooo
glad you’re all here,” Georgia blubbered as she floated toward them. With a series of sobs, she hugged each of them. Greg flinched at the gesture which left a streak of rouge on the shoulder of his white golf shirt.

“Georgia, let me pull up a chair for you.” Julie grabbed one from the table next to them.

“Oh, thank you, sweetheart.” With great flair, she flopped into the tiny chair and wiggled for balance then addressed them after a loud, dramatic sigh. “Oh, my dear, dear friends. This is such a day of sorrow, such a sad, sad day of—” When she could no longer speak, she blew her nose with a loud honk into her handkerchief.

Tony Meldrose, the store’s head baker, interrupted them as he lowered a basket of assorted pastries onto the table. “Boss sends his condolences. These are on the house.” He wiped his hands on his white apron, sniffled, and quickly departed.

“Isn’t that just the kindest thing . . .” Georgia’s voice climbed several octaves before launching into another round of quiet sobs, her shoulders heaving.

Julie put her arm around her, winking at the others. “It’s okay, Georgia. Let it out, honey.”

When she finally composed herself, she blew her nose again then continued. “It’s all the more difficult for me because this is . . . this is the first time I’ve been back here since . . . since . . .” She buried her face in Julie’s shoulder.

“Oh my goodness, I completely forgot,” Julie whispered, remembering too late that Georgia’s ex-husband had worked as a Lanham’s truck driver from this location. Here he had met the person who stole his heart—produce manager, Lucy Llewellyn. The scandalous news of his affair with the woman everyone now dubbed “Floozy Lucy,” still consumed town gossip at ball parks, bridge games, and knitting circles. Such dalliances may be vogue in New York and San Francisco, but Braxton still eschewed such blatant adultery. Especially when it hit so close to home.

Unable to come up with an appropriate response, the silence grew thick until Brad joined them.

“Brad? We didn’t expect to see you here,” Coco said.

He pulled out a chair and straddled it backwards. “Yeah, I know. I just didn’t feel like going home.” He looked at Georgia, his expression asking,
what’s with her?

Greg motioned for Brad to let it go, as they all hoped the sobs would subside.

“I assumed you’d be at the estate with the family,” Julie said. “Have you talked to your aunt?”

“Me?” He eyed the basket of pastries. “No.”

“But you’re family, Brad,” Coco added. “Shouldn’t you—”

“We’re not close.” His abrupt answer hung in the air.

Always willing to fill the gaping silences, Julie said, “Well, either way, we’re sorry about your uncle.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” He jumped up and walked over to the soft drink dispenser, filling a super-size plastic cup with ice and Mellow Yellow.

How could anyone be so unmoved at a time like this? But this was Brad—socially awkward, reclusive Brad. She remembered Peter Lanham once telling her that Brad was the son of his only sibling. Shannon Lanham had died when Brad was just ten. He never mentioned a father, and of course she’d never asked.

A constant parade of customers stopped by, extending their sympathy and asking when the funeral would be held. No one seemed to know until Harley Creech, the town’s only florist, pushed through the swinging doors from the back of the store. Julie bit her lip recalling Gevin’s reference to Harley as the floral version of an ambulance chaser. Harley loved funerals; his favorite albeit discreet motto—“Funerals are a florist’s best friend.” Julie thought it ironic how Harley came to life when someone died. His familiar tacky toupee, which rumor has it he found on eBay for $9.99, always hung on for dear life when Harley got excited. Today, it tilted over his right ear like a small hairy umbrella.

Harley approached the café, clearing his throat and adjusting his rug. “Funeral’s set for Friday,” he announced like a town squire. “Just got word from Patricia herself. None of the churches in Braxton are big enough, of course, so it was decided the funeral will be held over at the Community Theater. Yessir, this’ll be one for the record books. Standing room only. No doubt about it. Standing room only. Better get there early if you want a seat.”

He waited as if expecting questions or a response, but none came. Finally, he cleared his throat once more, grabbed a maple bar from the pastry basket, and headed for the front door, repeating the news to everyone he met.

No sooner had Harley left the café, than Floozy Lucy strolled through the swinging back doors, heading for the soft drinks. Thankfully, Georgia was busy doing what she always did when she was anxious—clipping her fingernails. They all held their breath, watching Lucy fill a drink, pop a straw in the lid and meander back out. With rolling eyes in unison, they let out a collective sigh, grateful for Georgia’s momentary preoccupation.

INCOMING!

Julie covered her coffee cup, a lesson she’d learned years ago in the office break room. The incessant
snip snip snip
of Georgia’s nail clippers was bad enough, but after watching a renegade sliver of
Scarlet Surrender
fly into her coffee just as she was about to sip, Julie made a mental note to forevermore protect her food and beverages when Georgia was near.

Brad shuffled around them munching on a cinnamon bear claw and washing it down with Mellow Yellow. He took a final bite and swallowed, wiping his hand on his slacks. “Julie, could I talk to you for a minute?” He nodded his head away from the crowd.

“Sure.” She followed him toward the dairy case.

He stopped and turned to face her, tracing the rim of his plastic cup. “The thing is, I was wondering . . . well, since we don’t have to work the rest of the day, I was wondering if you’d like to catch a matinee or something.” He jostled the straw poking out of his cup.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.” The straw jostling stopped. “Why?”

“Because it’s inappropriate, Brad. You may not have been close to your uncle, but he meant a great deal to the people of this town, and that includes me.”

He dashed a quick look, pushed his glasses up, then moved his attention over her shoulder. “Yeah. I know. I was just thinking maybe it would take your mind off all that. Mine, too.”

“No.” She tucked her hands in her pockets and turned back toward the café.

As Julie reached for her purse and said goodbye to the others, she watched Brad slip away, heading back toward the front of the store. Stalling to make sure he’d be gone, she took her cup to the trash can.

A large, soft arm looped around hers. “Walk me out, Julie,” Georgia said, her tone hushed and reverent. “There’s much too sad in here. I need to go home and rest.”

As they crossed the parking lot, Harley Creech’s delivery van whipped by them, stirring the warm summer air in its wake. At the sound of something snapping above them, they both looked up, noticing the store’s huge American flag swirling at half-staff.

And once again, Georgia Schwimmer began to bawl.

Chapter 4

By 4:30 that afternoon, Julie wished the long day would end. She couldn’t stop thinking about Peter Lanham, continually visualizing him sprawled out on the rough pavement beneath the water tower, as if the paramedics had left him there. There it was again . . . her always active imagination, forever playing on the screen in her mind in vivid Technicolor. She felt so helpless, consumed with an absurd but urgent need to rush up that hill to the water tower and cover poor Peter Lanham’s body with a soft blanket.

Or something.

One thing she knew for sure: she would find out what really happened to Peter Lanham if it were the last thing she ever did.

The script for
Romeo and Juliet
lay open on her lap, but her eyes kept drifting back to the movie screen in her mind.
Who cares about the Montagues and Capulets when such a cloud hangs over our own little hamlet?

Besides, she wasn’t so sure those two bonehead special agents had a clue what they were doing. Well, at least one bonehead. Berkowitz wasn’t only a jerk; he was completely out of touch with life in a small town like Braxton. But the younger one seemed nicer, even if he was new at his job. Much more approachable.
What was his name? Matt something . . . Tyson? No, Bryson. That’s it. Matt Bryson.
If she ever needed to discuss the case, it would certainly be with the rookie.

From the overstuffed chair by the loft’s front window looking out over the square, Julie glanced down as a blue Jeep Cherokee pulled into a parking place right in front of Denton’s Diner. Someone stepped out of the vehicle, then pulled off his tie and carefully placed it on the dashboard before slamming the door. When she spotted a briefcase in his other hand, she realized it was Matt Bryson.

Coincidence?
I think not.

Besides, Julie didn’t believe in coincidences. She preferred to think of them as divine appointments.
Which is why she chucked her script and scampered to her room. She swapped her T-shirt for a collared white blouse, decided to wear the faded jeans she had on, then gathered her hair into a ponytail, grabbed her keys, sunglasses, and purse, and raced down the stairs. Once outside, she strolled down the sidewalk hiding behind her favorite sunglasses—knock-offs, identical to the ones Julia Roberts wore in
Notting Hill.
Casually, she crossed the street and made her way to the restaurant.

Like everyone else in town, Julie loved Denton’s. The view of its blue-and-white striped awning from her loft window always seemed like an open invitation, as welcoming as her own mother’s kitchen. The Dentons knew everyone’s name, from parents and kids to grandkids, aunts, and uncles. Their mouthwatering, home-style cooking beckoned customers from one end of the state to the other with “food to die for,” as the locals were fond of saying.

Julie winced, the silly phrase reminding her once again of Mr. Lanham—God rest his soul
—
and the reason for her sudden decision to pop in at the diner. As curious as she was hungry, she peeked through the fat gold letters spelling
Denton’s Diner
on the front window, hiding between the
D
and the
E.

Ah, there he is. Back booth.

She watched as Sarah Denton approached him and set a large glass of water on his table along with a menu. Sarah chuckled at something he said then headed back to the kitchen. Julie couldn’t help noticing his dimpled smile. She waited until Sarah cleared the zone, then wandered in, willfully projecting the very essence of nonchalance. After saying hello to a couple of Gevin’s friends seated near the front, she stopped by another booth to chat with the Gowdens and Greers, two eighty-something couples who ate dinner at Denton’s every afternoon at 4:30 sharp. Since they were seated in the booth directly beside Bryson’s, Julie hoped he could overhear her conversation with them.

Evelyn Greer took Julie’s hand in hers. “We’re sure sorry to hear about your boss, Julie.”

“It’s a devastating loss,” she said. “To be honest, I still can’t believe it.”

Frank Gowden uttered something like a growl and said, “Well, all I can say is good riddance. Lanham weren’t no god, and I for one am glad he’s gone.”

“Frank! Keep your voice down,” his wife Lillian barked in a whisper.

“Why should I? What did Peter Lanham ever do for me? He threw his money around this town, putting all our mom and pop stores out of business, acting like he owned the town. The man was a blight on Braxton. A blight, I tell you.”

Julie couldn’t believe the old man’s audacity. “Mr. Gowden, surely you don’t believe that?”

“A lot of people in this town have food on their table and a roof over their heads because of Peter Lanham,” Paul Greer added. “For pity’s sake, Joe, have a little respect, will you? The man’s not even cold in his grave yet.”

Out of her periphery, Julie caught Bryson leaning around the booth, craning his neck.

He startled at seeing her. “Oh . . . hello.”

She excused herself from the Gowdens and Greers and moved toward his booth. “You’re Special Agent Bryson, right? You were in our office this morning at Lanham’s?”

He looked at her as if she’d just sprouted a third eye. “Uh . . . oh—yes. Of course. Yes, I was. That was me, I mean. Yes. I’m Matt. Matt Bryson.” He forced a laugh as he stood. After a moment’s hesitation, he extended his hand. “Would you care to join me, Miss—?”

She shook his hand. “Julie Parker, but please call me Julie. But I don’t want to intrude. Were you waiting on your boss?”

“My boss?”

“Tall bald guy with the Bruce Willis complex?”

He laughed, motioning for her to have a seat across from him. “You mean Berkowitz?”

She slid gracefully into the booth. “Berkowitz. That’s right. Sam Berkowitz. Or should I say, Mr. ‘I’m-not-the-Son-of-Sam’ Berkowitz.”

He laughed again, tossing his notepad into the briefcase and placing it on the seat beside him. “Don’t let him scare you. It’s all for effect. Trust me on that.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure of that.” She grabbed the menu from him and looked it over even though she knew it by heart. Without looking up, she continued. “My guess is he’s 99.9% full of himself. The shaved head, the wrinkled retro suit? Who dresses like that on a sunny day in the middle of June? For that matter, who dresses like that in the twenty-first century?” She closed the menu and handed it back to him. “A classic Bruce Willis-wannabe trying to rock a little Dick Tracy in the mix.”

Julie caught him staring at her. At her lips, to be exact. Normally, this is when she would exit stage left. She hated the feeling of men ogling her. But coming from Agent Bryson it seemed completely innocent. Their eyes met, and the strangest thing happened. He blushed.

“What?” she asked.

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’re blushing. Did I say something wrong?”

Suddenly, a large glass of ice tea was placed on the table in front of him. “Oh, Julie, sweetheart, I didn’t see you come in.” Sarah Denton leaned down to give her a hug.

“Hi, Sarah. I hope it’s okay that I joined Matt here.”

Sarah straightened, grasping Julie’s hands in hers. “I’m so sorry about Mr. Lanham, honey. It must have been so hard for y’all today, what with hearing about him—well, you know. Are you okay?”

“I think so. It was a shock to all of us, that’s for sure.”

“That it was, sweetheart. That it was. It’s all anybody’s talked about in here today. We’ve been busy ever since word spread. I think mostly they’re all just curious and wanting to talk about it. You know how these things are.”

She’d always adored the way Sarah talked. She could listen to the warm southern lilt of this Georgia transplant all day long. Sarah wiped a tear and patted Julie’s hand one more time. Reaching for her order pad, she turned her attention to Matt. “Well, then. Back to business. Special today is meatloaf. Comes with your choice of three sides. You’ll find ’em listed there on the right-hand side of your menu. We’re out of butter beans and squash casserole, just so you know. Today’s dessert is peach cobbler. Do y’all need a minute, or are you ready to order?”

Julie ordered a small dinner salad and a glass of water with lemon. Matt ordered the meatloaf with mashed potatoes, green beans and cinnamon apples to be followed by peach cobbler á la mode.

Once Sarah left, Julie plodded ahead while folding her hands on the table. “Now, where were we?”

He barked a nervous cough then answered. “Berkowitz. If he was out of line, I apologize.”

“No need for
you
to apologize.” She shook her head and smiled. “I’ll be honest with you. I learned a long time ago how to handle men like Sam Berkowitz. Guys like him think girls like me are blonde, dumb, and easy. I’m none of the above. Well, except blonde, of course.”

“Good to know, though I didn’t think for a minute you were dumb or easy. Just so you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“You do?”

“Sure I do. You’re a gentleman. A gentleman respects a woman for who she is, not how she looks or
imagines
how she looks.”

He raised his eyebrows, appearing pleased by the compliment. “So tell me, Julie Parker, what are your thoughts about the death of Braxton’s leading citizen?”

Sarah returned with their food then topped off Matt’s tea before disappearing again. Matt started to take a bite when Julie bowed her head.

“Father, thank You for this food and for all Your blessings. Amen.”

“Amen,” he echoed.

Julie unfolded her napkin and set it on her lap. “Are you a Christian, Matt?”

“Who me? Yeah. I suppose.”

She waited for more, amused when he blushed again, and decided to drop the subject for now. Forking a small cherry tomato, she continued. “You asked about Mr. Lanham’s death.”

Matt took a bite of meatloaf. “Oh my. Oh myyyy . . .”
He kept chewing, his face an expression of sheer bliss. “This is
so
good.” He closed his eyes to prolong the moment. Once he finally wiped his mouth, he looked her straight in the eye. “Now
there’s
your religious experience. That’s the best meatloaf I’ve ever tasted. Here, you want some?” He cut a piece with his fork.

“No, thanks. I grew up on Gordy’s meatloaf. That’s Sarah’s husband. Best cook in the state of Tennessee.”

“Obviously. This is better than my mom’s.” He nodded toward her plate as he dragged a piece of meatloaf through his mashed potatoes. “So why the salad?”

“I’m an actor. I have to watch what I eat.”

“An actor? That’s right—they told me you’re the Lanham’s Girl. You do the company commercials, right?”

She nodded with a smile.

“But Lanham’s is your day job?” He buttered a fat biscuit, while she finished a mouthful.

“In a manner of speaking, though I prefer to think of it as my laboratory. I’m a student of human behavior. I study my coworkers—their attitudes, mannerisms, quirks, habits—that sort of thing. I work hard to stay mentally sharp, honing what I consider my extremely perceptive people-skills to a fine art. The way I see it, this job pays the bills for now, but some day this people-watching will pay big dividends providing a treasure chest of character attributes for me to draw from when I’m on stage or in front of the camera.”

Marty would be proud
, she thought. The recitation originated with her drama coach, but Julie gave it her own spin. She could tell Matt was impressed. His mouth was crammed full of potatoes, so he didn’t respond, just quirked a nod of partial understanding.

“In other words, I
know
these people,” she continued. “Which is why I’m here.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Why you’re here? You’ve lost me.”

“I followed you here.”

She watched his face crimson again. He took a long drink of tea, staring over the glass at her. “You followed me?”

“Do you realize that you answer every question with a question?”

He sat back. “I do?”

“I rest my case.”

“You do?” he teased with a smile. “Okay, maybe I do. But you haven’t answered my question.”

Julie nodded toward the street. “Actually, I happened to see you out my loft window when you parked out front. I live across the street over my brother’s photography studio. When I saw you come in here, I decided to stroll over. I peeked in the window to make sure you were alone before I came in.” She took a sip of water, assuming an air of casual indifference despite her confession.

He colored slightly, but the confidence behind his smile was unmistakable. “I
love
my job.”

She laughed. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely. First week on the job, first assignment, and I’m already being stalked by a beautiful woman. What’s not to love?”

They laughed again, and she couldn’t help notice how his smile lit up his face
.
Something about his kind eyes caught her off guard. She glanced away, fighting the distraction.

“Okay, I’m sure it’s my dashing good looks that drew you in—”