“Mabel,” she said, enthusiastically.“Tell me the shop is almost ready.I have a few weeks of gossip stored up and nowhere to deliver it.And I’m dying for a good cup of hibiscus tea.”
“Carl tells me I’m good to open the doors on Saturday.”
“Thank the Lord.”She fell into step beside me, her sandals clicking on the sidewalk.“I saw the most elegant woman walking down Harbor Street this morning.White hair, silk blouse, posture that would make a finishing school weep.She went straight to your house.”
My lips twitched.“A family friend.”
“Mabel McCoy, don’t you give me that family friend nonsense.That’s the oldest trick in the book.There was something familiar about her, but I can’t put my finger on it just yet.But don’t you worry, I’ll think of it, and then you’ll rue the day you gave me that excuse about a family friend.”
I chuckled.“It’s too hot to rue anything.I have faith your memory won’t fail you.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” she said.“You and the sheriff looked mighty cozy last night.”
She winked and gave me a wave as she peeled off at the next corner to head toward her house, and I continued on through the park where the live oaks made tunnels of green shade overhead and the houses sat deeper behind their wrought-iron fences.
By the time we got home, I had peaches, hydrangeas, and the pleasant ache in my feet that meant I’d been somewhere worth going.
I put the flowers in a vase and put them on the little table that sat next to my reading chair in my bedroom.I wanted Dash’s flowers to stay front and center downstairs.Sunflowers were too happy to be shut away in a bedroom, and I knew they’d be a topic of conversation.I hummed a few bars of “Summertime” while I pulled together refreshments for the evening.
Every first Thursday of the month, the Silver Sleuths gathered for book club.It had started at The Perfect Steep a few years back.A handful of retirees who loved true crime, strong opinions, and arguing about forensics.Over time it had become something deeper than any of us had expected, and lately we’d started solving actual murders, which had done wonders for our reputation and nothing for my blood pressure.
With the shop still closed, I’d moved tonight to the sunroom off the back of my house.The folding glass doors would retract into the walls so we could dine al fresco and overlook the gardens, and a ceiling fan on high would be doing the Lord’s work to keep us cool.
I set the wicker side table as a proper spread.Finger sandwiches on a tiered tray.Cucumber and cream cheese, pimento cheese, chicken salad on pumpernickel.A bowl of the peaches I’d bought at the market.A pitcher of sweet tea.A platter of lemon bars for dessert.Plates, napkins, glasses, the good china.Everything within arm’s reach so nobody had to get up.
Chowder had changed into a tweed vest with brass buttons and claimed the daybed in the corner, where he curled into a ball and prepared to supervise the evening from a horizontal position.
I’d changed too.A pale blue cotton sundress with a bright lemon pattern and a sweetheart neckline, my hair pinned back, and yellow ballet flats because I’d been on my feet all afternoon.I refreshed my lipstick and considered myself as good as I was going to get.
The doorbell rang at quarter to six.
Walt was early.He was always early.But tonight, there was something a little different about him.He still wore his khaki pants pressed to within an inch of their life and the black orthopedic shoes for his fallen arches.But his shirt wasn’t the usual regulation polo.It was a navy button-up with pink flamingos dancing across, and he had the cuffs rolled up so it showed a hot pink contrast to the navy.
“Nice shirt,” I said.“Are you wearing new cologne?”
“It’s hot as the dickens outside,” he said, which wasn’t an answer, and then he headed back to the kitchen without one.
Word on the street, and by street I mean Bea, was that Walt had a secret lady friend.Bea heard through the grapevine that he and this woman had been seen at a fancy restaurant.Walt wasn’t one to kiss and tell, but we’d noticed a few changes here and there.The question was whether or not he was keeping her secret because she was from Grimm Island and everyone knew her, or because she was an outsider and no one knew her.It was a pickle for sure.
The doorbell rang again and I opened it to Deidre.She stood on the porch, slightly out of breath, her tote bag over one shoulder.She wore a big straw hat over her wiry gray curls and linen overalls.
“I lost track of time,” she said.“I barely had time to wash up.I spent the afternoon in the garden.My tomatoes are doing beautifully.I’ll bring you some when I harvest.You could make a tomato pie.”
“I could be talked into that,” I said.“We’re out back tonight.I’ll open the garden gate for the others so I’m not running back and forth.”
“Good idea,” she said, getting a plate and helping herself to the little sandwiches on the sideboard.“Can you believe this book?I found three factual errors in chapter nine alone.Three.And the author has a PhD.Some researcher.Took me five minutes with a Google search to show her theory was pure bunk.”
“Maybe she was absent the day they taught fact-checking,” Walt said.
“There is no excuse for sloppy sourcing.I’ve written her a letter.Which reminds me, Greta Carmichael has some lovely new stationery in her shop.I found some with little books on it.”
“Greta Carmichael is an insatiable gossip,” Walt said sternly.“Can’t say I care to patronize her shop, even though I support local businesses.”
“Yoo-hoo,” Dottie called out as she and Hank came through the garden gate and up the path.
They walked close together, Hank’s hand resting at the small of Dottie’s back.He looked pretty good for someone who’d gotten his skull cracked a few weeks back.
“Lemon bars,” Hank said, settling into a chair.“And finger sandwiches.Mabel, you’ve outdone yourself.”
