It comes to me instantly, thanks to Janey embarking on a long and painfully irrelevant spill-the-tea session about Kasey and Miles Ketchum this morning before the Junior League luncheon. Apparently, they have suddenly quit the club and relocated to Scottsdale, Arizona. Clearly, Kasey Ketchum won’t be coming for that gleaming bracelet sitting in the safe in my office at the club, and I’m sure as hell not returning it to Griggs.
I tell Luisa about the abandoned bracelet, and watch as thecorners of her lips turn down. “We can pawn it,” I say. “And don’t you worry. We’ll get a good price. As it happens, I’ve got tons of experience.”
“With pawnshops?” she asks, visibly surprised.
“How do you think I financed the first year of Aidan’s life?” I lean forward in my chair, eager to prove my chops. “I sold off the designer deb gown I never got a chance to wear, along with the family pearls.” I’m ticking items off with my fingers. “I got a great price for the huge diamond cross pendant my darling mother gave me when I turned sixteen. The trick is to never let them take gemstones to the back room. They’ll try to—”
“But that was your stuff,” she cuts me off, exasperated. “You’re proposing that we steal a sapphire bracelet,” she says through a grimace. “Or, more precisely, commit larceny.”
“Okay, Miss Goody Two-Shoes,” I shoot back. “If you saw a twenty-dollar bill on the street, would you lean down and pick it up?”
“I wouldn’t get jail time for picking up twenty bucks out of the gutter,” she scoffs.
“Here’s the thing,” I launch in, desperate to make her see that, while this plan may not exactly be legal, it’s also not necessarily immoral. “Griggs bought this bracelet for a woman he slept with a few times and then discarded like an old pair of sneakers, and now she’s long gone, starting fresh.” Luisa tries to break in and say something, but I hold up my hand to stop her. “I know what you’re thinking, but believe me, she does not need the money. So, the way I see it, this is just good old-fashioned karma, which can be—as we all know—a real bitch.”
“I’m not so sure that argument will hold up in court,” she says, gazing for a long while into her almost empty glass. “But it’s not like we have another option. And, frankly, part of me loves the idea of using Griggs’s dirty deeds against him.”
“Then it’s settled,” I say, trying to sound resolute. I grab my beer and take a long gulp. Suddenly, I’m a rebellious teenager again. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna fulfill my mother’s prophecy and let her win. I’m a good mother and I’m keeping my job. “But hey,” I offer. “If you have a better plan for getting justice for theCastillos, getting your career back on track, and taking down Griggs, I’m all ears.”
“I’m fucking gonna regret this,” she groans. “Where do we find an angel investor?”
I smile slowly. “He’s our angel. I can feel it in my gut.” Luisa raises a brow as if to say,Lumberjack Guy?I nod vigorously as she narrows her gaze in his direction, possibly considering our options, or lack thereof. “I’ll bet you anything.”
This makes her laugh. “I don’t do open-ended bets.”
I glance over Luisa’s shoulder, where a bright orange poster announces Karaoke Night every Thursday. “Loser comes back to the Road Queen to sing karaoke,” I say. “Winner chooses the song.”
A full-bellied laugh bursts out of her. “Screw it,” she says. “You’re on.”
CHAPTER 11Luisa
Two days later, Holly and I are inside my SUV, following the blue GPS line on my navigation screen down a Westlake back road, in pursuit of our only viable lead: a harebrained, half-baked scheme for a makeover and a phony angel investor.
We learned the pool shark’s name is Eli—as in Elijah, a biblical name that means “man of God.” And as I turn off the highway by a roadside marquee advertisingLive Bait & TackleandHOT Boiled Peanuts, I’m praying this man has God’s luck on his side, because I can’t believe we’re trusting a country grifter to get us into a country club. I really need to rethink my life choices.
After Ginny proffered the pool shark’s name, I ran a thorough search on Elijah Denvil Sweet Jr., age twenty-seven, of Westlake, Georgia. I was glad that my degree in investigative reporting was still useful, given the student loan repayments that would keep coming every month into perpetuity.
Granted—if I’m being honest with myself—my extraordinary sleuthing skills might also be the reason I’ve never gotten past a third date. Because at some point, an investigative journalist ends up researchingeveryone. This is how I found out that Lying Liam was still married—not divorced, as he insisted even after I confronted him. Delinquent Daniel had an outstanding arrest warrant for public urination. And Mama’s Boy Marcus, age thirty-five and gainfully employed, still lived in his parents’ basement for no good reason other than that his mother did his laundry.
Elijah Denvil Sweet Jr., though? Nothing. Beyond his home address and current place of employment, there was not much else available. Which could only mean one of two things: He’dgone through the trouble of expunging his online history, or he had intentionally avoided having a traceable history in the first place. Either scenario begged the question why. A red flag in and of itself. A flag I’m choosing to temporarily ignore, because short of a heavenly intervention, there’s no other feasible plan.
I shift my SUV into park in front of Happy Hooker, Inc., then turn to Holly, one eyebrow raised.
“What?” she says. “It’s charming.”
Strands of multicolored Christmas lights hang across the porch, and a U.S. flag waves over a sign that readsYou might be a Redneck Fisherman if…Number one on the list:You made a homemade hot tub with a trolling motor.
“What the hell is a trolling motor?” I ask.
“It’s for fishing boats,” Holly says, clearly feeling proud to know this. “I used to fish Crystal Lake with my neighbors. Good old-fashioned rod-and-reel. Bream mostly, but sometimes we’d catch a nice-size bass or a crappie—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I break in. “Let’s go in before I realize what a huge mistake this all is.”
We get out of the car and make our way toward the shack. Most of the porch is taken up by an ice machine and a giant wooden sign listing the types of bait for sale—a truly disgusting array including live crickets, leeches, and nightcrawlers. Holly flings open the screen door, and we step inside. It must be our lucky day, because our angel is sitting behind a very crowded counter, grasping several live worms in his left hand.
Our eyes meet and we stare at each other for a beat, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Didn’t I see you in Ginny’s bar a couple of times?” he asks in that deep, husky, brooding voice that reminds me of a woeful country song. His eyes cut behind me, past the window to the parking lot, then he snaps his fingers beside his face. “Hoity-toity SUV girl,” he exclaims in recognition. In one slow gaze, he surveys thecountry-girl fishingoutfit I painstakingly put together for our little outing. My stomach inexplicably flutters as his eyes travel down my body. Once again, he seems to recognize my efforts to blend in. I’m reminded that chameleons, even when deeply camouflaged, can recognize each other.
“Nice getup. Very authentic,” he sneers. “You lost or somethin’?”
