Her plight would be a fraction more heartbreaking if Hazel weren’t a particularly sturdy five feet ten inches tall and an ex-correctional officer. She was also examining him intently in a way that was completely at odds with her dizzy-old-lady demeanor.
Without a word, Jackson took the jar and twisted the top; the lid gave with a satisfying pop. Closing it gently, he set it down on the table.
“So kind.” Hazel patted his arm. “Stubborn jars, dead birds brought in by the cat, and someone who knows about HDMI cables and tax returns—all good reasons to reconsider putting up a Tinder profile, I sometimes think.”
Jackson seemed to swallow the wrong way and choked on his own breath.
“You don’t file a tax return,” Leah pointed out.
“Gerry says there are ‘blue’ jobs and ‘pink’ jobs,” chipped in Marjorie. “And, although you’re definitelynotsupposed to say that sort of thing anymore, I’ve always agreed with him. I’ve got enough to do without arguing for the right to rod a drain.”
Leah raised her eyes to the heavens.
“Anyway, we’re delighted to finally meet you,” continued Hazel. “Let’s all have a drink and get to know each other.”
Marjorie produced a Tupperware container like a magic trick from the pocket of her raincoat. “I brought homemade shortbread.”
Allowing herself a flare of satisfaction at the panic in Jackson’s eyes, Leah headed for the kitchen. At least four times, she heard him tell the ladies he had to get back to work. His cell phone backed him up, pinging relentlessly. But, at every attempt, Hazel and Marjorie talked over him, diverting his train of thought like professional tricksters and trapping him in the living room with compliments, questions, and sugary goodness.
He was so confusing. She couldn’t get a read on him. Still pissed at his snarky rudeness, she’d come downstairs to find a steaming mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll waiting for her in the kitchen this morning. She appreciated the gesture, but it didn’t make up for him being an ass.
Leah placed a teapot and teacups on the table and handed a mug of coffee to Jackson. He grabbed it like a drowning man clutching a life raft.
“So, will you be selling Amity Court?” Marjorie, Mistress of Subtlety, asked him before he’d taken his first gulp.
“As soon as I can.”Blunt.
“We thought as much.” Hazel gave him a sweet smile, searching his face as if it held the answers to the universe. “Difficult to run a business empire from a distance.”
Marjorie offered him another slice of shortbread.
“You work with your father?” Hazel asked, eyes razor-sharp.
“Yes.”
“Building new construction homes?”
“Among other things.”
“What kind of commitment have you made toward becoming more eco-conscious?”
Jackson didn’t even blink. “We compost environmental protestors.”
Hazel nodded and seemed happy with his answer, which was disturbing. She relaxed slightly into the dining chair, ever watchful and alert even as she radiated calm. The conversation moved on but, if Jackson thought the two ladies would give up, he was kidding himself. Leah sat back, enjoying the show.
“And will your girlfriend be joining you while you’re here?”Bam. Marjorie again. Stony-faced, Jackson fixed her with a long, level look, which Leah imagined had made many a colleague quake at their desk. It had no effect whatsoever on Marjorie, who dealt with all sorts in the general store. “Well?” she prompted him with a twinkle and a poke of his shoulder.
“If you mean Niamh, who was at the funeral, I should think she’ll put in an appearance.” Jackson glowered into his coffee.
“Tell us your thoughts on Clayborne Knight,” Hazel prodded him. “Are you a fan?”
“A fan of who?”
“Clayborne Knight. Esther’s crime-solving college professor.”
“He’s the perfect man,” Marjorie declared. “Clever, trustworthy, kind, devoted.”
“And fictional,” murmured Leah. The smallest curve angled one side of Jackson’s lips, as if against his will. She stuck it into the scrapbook of her mind in the likely event she never saw it again.
