She pulls out one that makes her stop entirely. She reads it, reads it again, then holds it up to the light. We can see her mouth drop open.
The card has something written on the back because she flips it over, reads it, then presses it to her chest.
Then she pulls something else from the box, a small paper receipt, the kind dry cleaners use. She stares at it, confused. Then her confusion turns to recognition, then to absolute shock. She pulls out her phone, does some rapid searching, comparing the tag to something on her screen.
She’s staring at the tag now, then looking at the recipe card, then back at the tag. She’s piecing something together, and whatever it is has blown her mind.
She pulls out her phone and texts someone. A moment later, my phone buzzes.
Callie: The feud is bullshit. Mayo and math errors.
Then another text:
Callie: Going to get answers. Stop following me.
Fat chance of that.
Calli: I know you’re across the street. Your truck isn’t subtle.
Before I can respond, another text:
Calli: My mom had secrets. Big ones. This is about to get worse before it gets better.
“What does that mean?” Boone asks, reading over my shoulder.
“No idea, but she’s moving.”
Callie’s truck starts moving and so do we. She drives straight to Mrs. Delaney’s house, parks, and marches to the door with the dry cleaning tag in her hand.
Mrs. Delaney answers, and even from the street, we can see her expression shift from surprise to resignation when she sees what Callie’s holding.
We get out of the truck to join them because why not? Our cover was blown back at the church.
Mrs. Delaney looks past Callie. “Hello, boys,” she calls with a nod, surprisingly unsurprised.
Callie turns and frowns at us, then shrugs like she knows we’re not leaving.
“Mrs. Delaney, this was in my mom’s recipe box,” Callie says, holding up the tag. “From your husband’s dry cleaning shop. With YOUR phone number written on the back. In my mom’s handwriting.”
Mrs. Delaney’s shoulders drop. “Okay.”
“You knew my mom.”
“Of course I did. Everyone in town knew your mom. Cedar Ridge is a small place.”
“But you were friends. Not just acquaintances. Friends. This tag is from two years before she died. You were friends while you were spreading gossip about our family. While you were turning our feud into entertainment.”
Mrs. Delaney invites us all in, but Callie stays on the porch, so we do too.
“Your mother was my best friend,” Mrs. Delaney finally admits. “For ten years. We met at the dry cleaners, bonded over our ridiculous husbands and their ridiculous feud.”
“Best friend? BEST FRIEND? You posted fifty-seven photos of our chili disaster! You started a Facebook group called ‘Thompson-McCoy Watch’!”
“Your mother thought it was hilarious. She said if the men wanted to act like children, they deserved to be documented like children. She used to help me write the posts before she passed.”
Callie staggers back. “She WHAT?”
“Saturday mornings, we’d meet for coffee and review the week’s ridiculousness right around the time everyone started getting on Facebook. She had the best one-liners. ‘Hank Thompson, defending his chili recipe honor since 1994’ was hers. So was ‘McCoys: Making Mountains out of Mayo.’”
