It’sa few days later when I return from the gym, and unfortunately, fate would have Keats arriving home at the same time. We seem to park our cars on our respective driveways at the same time.
We both exit our cars with glares on our faces to greet one another. Luckily, we hear the sound of old lady Mrs. Tiller saying hi to us.
She doesn’t walk the best, but she’s sweet, which is why Keats and I both descend our driveways to meet her on the sidewalk.
“Hi, Mrs. Tiller.” I smile. She wants me to call her Sally, but it feels more respectful this way.
Her eyes sparkle at Keats who lost his suit jacket and opted instead for a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Look at you. A dashing young man.”
“Only for you.” He winks at her.
“There is some honesty,” I snipe.
Both of them snap their gazes to me.
“You know, you two should come over for tea together. We can play a game of bridge, and you can bring that delicious pie of yours, Esme.” She seems excited for the prospect.
Keats places his hand on her shoulder. “That is a lovely idea except I’m not allowed any pie.” His cocky look is directed at me, then he rolls his head back to our neighbor. “I’m watching my sugar to stay in shape and all.” Oh cute, what a nice cover. What an ass.
“Okay, well, the invite is always there. I need to go home to start my pot roast; the grandkids are coming over.”
“Lovely. Do you want me to walk with you?” I offer.
She waves me off. “Don’t be silly, dear. I’m still going strong at my young age.”
Both Keats and I genuinely smile at her.
“Well, don’t be afraid to call out if you need a hero,” he jokes with her.
She chuckles and I think nearly fawns over him. But the moment she is far enough away, I shove his shoulder. “Hero? Really? Someone overestimates themselves.” And why, oh, why do you need to have a hard, muscled arm?
“Funny. Now if you will excuse me, I need to check my mailbox with hopes that nothing of yours got in there.”
I stand tall in a challenge. “What a coincidence, I need to check mine also for the very same reason.”
We both almost march to the curb at the end of the driveway, push the flag down, and open the little huts. I grab the envelopes while Keats does the same, and our eyes hold.
In unison we study our mail. A bill, junk mail, and an envelope in handwritten cursive are in my hand. I do a double take when I see Keats examining the very sameenvelope between his fingers. We seem to be mirroring one another.
Hesitantly, we both open the wax seals, and then I have to smile.
Dear Ms. Jazz,
Your presence is requested at Everhope Manor on Saturday in two weeks to help solve a mystery.
Arrive in character and ready for a delicious dinner that will bring us back in time to the roaring 20s.
I hear Keats laugh as I notice further information about my character, then I step in his direction, closing the space between our boxes to peer at his mail. “You got an invite also?”
“Yep. Who did you get?”
“Lola Jazz, socialite and mistress to Kit Parker.” The idea of this is fun, and my smile won’t fall. “Who did you get? Detective? A billionaire who survived the Titanic? Is this whole thing Gatsby 20s or Age of Prohibition, like the mob 20s? But really, who did you get?” I list questions.
His grin that erupts is too sinister. Why does he now appear to be Satan with charm?
Keats holds up his invitation that he twists between his two fingers like a playing card. “Well, mistress, looks like you and I are going to be solving a mystery.”
The inked name on his invitation is bold enough.
