“Because of a terrible divorce?” she asks, her face clouding with avid sympathy.
“Um, no.” Not sure why she jumped to that conclusion when the obvious answer is that no one follows small-town pageants besides the contestants and maybe their mothers. “I’ve never been married.”
“Well, there’s still time.” She steps back and sets her hands on her hips. “Are you sure, though? You kind of have that whole sad divorcée vibe.”
Now I regret pretending I’ve even heard of the Miss Buttermilk pageant at all. “What makes you say that?” I ask. Maybe I’m putting out the wrong energy as Sally.
“You just look like the kind of woman who’s gone on a whole shopping spree as part of a newly divorced makeover and still never had the courage to wear clothes that don’t make you look invisible.”
“Well,” I say, fingering the buttons on my gray button-up shirt. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Right.” Dani eyes my clothes. “Of course not.”
Just to be clear, my feelings are not hurt by any of this. Of course I look kind of invisible—I’m trying to blend in. To be nondescript. To be…well, invisible.
“Did I hear someone say sad divorcée?” a deep male voice says. The guy with the overly styled Ken-doll hair is leaning against the far side of Petunia’s pen, wearing what I’m certain he considers to be a winning smile but is actually more of a creepy leer.
“We were just discussing my new friend’s life,” Dani says, turning to get a better look at the newcomer. “I’m Dani Lewis, Miss Buttermilk 2015.”
“Oh, come on,” the man says. He has a cleft in his chin so big you could cram a McDonald’s Big Mac in there, and I have a feeling the more I get to know this guy, the more I’ll want to actually shove some kind of food item in his face. “You expect me to believe you were old enough to be Miss Buttermilk in 2015?”
Dani titters. She brings a hand up to toy with a glittering diamond pendant that dangles between her breasts, the tops of which are visible thanks to the plunging V of her silky pink blouse. Not what I’d wear to work with pigs, but then again, my taste in fashion is obviously suspect. “Well, aren’t you just a silver-tongued devil.”
He winks. “I’m some kind of devil, all right.” Pushing off the back of the pen, he walks to the nearest aisle and moseys on over to Dani. “I’m Reginald Montrose III, but you can call me Reg. And if you’re thinking, ‘Isn’t that the guy who founded multiple successful apps?’ you’re right.”
I swear I can see Dani fall in love with him. Little pink hearts dance in her brown eyes, although it’s possible that’s just a reflection of the heart-shaped gems glued to her fingernails. “What are you doing at the North Mountain Pig Show?” she asks, so breathlessly that even Petunia the pig rolls his eyes.
“I needed a new challenge. You get to the point where everything you touches turns to gold and you think, ‘What else can I do?’ you know? So a couple of my business partners and I invested in some high-quality pigs, and I said, ‘Boys, I’m going to give this pig show thing a whirl. See how that goes.’”
I’m not sure Dani listened to the whole thing. Miss Buttermilk 2015 melted the second Reginald Montrose III said the word “gold.” She is basically a sparkly pink puddle on the floor of the show barn at this point.
“That’s so brave of you,” she manages to say.
“I know.” He glances my way as though he’s only now realized there’s another person standing here. “Oh, hi. And you are…?”
“Sally Conway.” I prepare to launch into my well-practiced introduction, but he’s already turning away before my last name is fully out of my mouth.
“So, Dani. I’m new to pig showing. Perhaps you and I could go somewhere and you could give me a more…personal lesson in showmanship?”
“Oh, my.” Dani flutters—her hands, her eyelashes. “I think I can spare a few minutes to help a newbie.”
Reg places his hand on the small of her back as they make their way out of the show barn.
“Well, that’s a terrible way to learn how to show a pig,” someone grumbles from behind me. Turning, I find Wayne standing a few feet away, hands balled on his hips, a look of pure confusion. “They didn’t even take their pigs with them.”
“I don’t understand it either, Wayne,” I say.
But as I urge Petunia out of his pen to start my lesson with Wayne, I can’t help but think that there was something very off about Reginald Montrose III. If I’m right, he was lying.
About pretty much everything.
CHAPTER 9
I’m working on getting my thoughts down on paper that evening when the hotel room door opens and Grayson steps in. Thankfully, he’s fully dressed, with no sign of those gray sweatpants.
“Honey, I’m home,” he says, closing the door behind him.
“Very funny.” I look back at my notebook. I have two days before the show starts and this place is flooded with attendees. I need to identify The Witch and make sure she’s out of commission by then or I risk the death of hundreds of people.
