Rosemary
I pull Sage into the kitchen and close the door to the loggia behind her.
“What’s the big emergency?”
“We have to do something.”
She looks at me blankly.
“To help Thyme,” I elaborate. “So she can get married.”
“It’s ludicrous that she’s been declared dead, for sure—but what do you have in mind? How can we possibly fix this?”
She’s looking at me expectantly, and I realize the question isn’t rhetorical. I don’t have an answer. I just know we need to do something. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not having the answer. It’s either one of my greatest strengths or one of my biggest weaknesses. Possibly both.
I rack my brain, searching for an answer. She folds her arms over her chest and watches me. It’s hard to think when someone’s staring at you.
My face flames under her scrutiny. I can’t believe I’m blushing. To top it off, the heat rising off my skin makes me wish we were having this conversation on a snowy mountaintop, rather than in the sweltering Mojave desert.
Inspiration smacks me in the sweaty noggin.
“We have to go there.”
“Go where?”
“Snow City. We need to go to Arizona and poke around. Somebody died there. It just wasn’t Thyme.”
She scrunches up her nose but says nothing.
“What?” I prod her.
“It’s not a bad idea, but . . . if this is all because someone transposed a number in a social security number or something, showing up in the town where the woman died isn’t going to change anything. If that’s what happened, Thyme simply needs to file some paperwork with the SSA to get it corrected.”
She eyeballs me as if she’s daring me to argue.
I don’t. Instead I counter, “Once an accountant, always an accountant.”
“What does that even mean?”
I exhale slowly. “It means maybe you’re right. Maybe all Thyme needs to do is complete Form Whatever in triplicate, get it notarized, submit it, and wait three months. But even if that’s true, it’s not helpful right now. We can’t let her sit around, suck down margaritas, and mope. She thought she was going to get married tomorrow. If that’s not going to happen, we should keep her busy to keep her mind off it.”
I watch Sage’s posture soften as she considers what I’m saying.
Finally, she nods. “I guess you’re right. If nothing else, a road trip will be a distraction. But, man, I kind of like this house. It’s a shame to leave a great place with a pool right on the outskirts of Las Vegas to go traipsing off to Icetown, Arizona or wherever.”
“Snow City,” I correct her automatically.
She blinks, then her eyes go wide. She tears out of the kitchen and races up the staircase to the second floor.
Roman turns his head and gives me a ‘what’s she up to?’ look through the glass wall, and I shrug. I don’t have the faintest idea.
I hear her banging around in the bedroom she and Roman claimed as theirs. A hot minute later, she’s back. She jogs down the stairs carrying tall stacks of rubber-banded mail in both hands.
“Come on,” she pants at me as she zips through the kitchen on her way back outside.
My curiosity piqued, I follow her.
She dumps the piles of mail on the glass-topped table and starts riffling through the envelopes with both hands.
“What are you looking for?” Dave asks, strolling over from the pool with his margarita in hand to watch her frantic search.
“Thyme’s doorman had a bunch of her mail delivered to my place yesterday. Apparently, her box has filled up while she’s been on the road with Victor.”
Victor nods. “I’m surprised she got so much. Usually, neither of us gets any regular mail. Everything comes electronically.”
Sage twists around to look at him. “This is maybe a tenth of what Doolittle forwarded to me. You wouldn’t believe all the magazines and catalogs Thyme gets.”
Thyme, who’s been staring off into space, jolts to attention. “What? No, I don’t get junk mail. I had my name taken off all those lists years ago. Do you know how wasteful those mailers are? Not just the paper used, but also the energy consumed in printing them and delivering them. He must’ve given you someone else’s mail.”
“No, it was definitely yours. All sorts of stuff that you wouldn’t ordinarily be interested in, but the mailers had your name on them. I specifically checked.”
I ping-pong my head back and forth between the two of them like I’m watching a tennis match.
Thyme frowns. “Like what sort of stuff?”
Sage gnaws on her lip as she tries to remember. “Um, fancy French cookware, a bunch of essential oils and natural cleaning products—”
“Well, that second one doesn’t sound totally out of character. The first one, yeah—assuming Thyme is still using her oven as sweater storage.”
“She is,” Victor assures me.
I shake my head.
Sage continues as if we haven’t interrupted, “—boutique baby clothes, custom-made purses, makeup.”
Thyme’s expression is blank. “I don’t know why I would’ve gotten that stuff. Did you pitch it?”
“Yeah, the advertisements and all the credit card offers went straight into the recycling bin. But I did keep anything that looked like real mail, and there’s a lot of that, too—clearly.”
She falls silent.
Thyme returns her attention to her drink.
We all watch Sage continue to paw through the small mound of mail like a manic squirrel desperately seeking a nut.
“Yeah!” she shouts in triumph, waving around a business-size envelope.
“What is it?” I crane my head to get a better view of the utterly normal-looking piece of mail.
“It’s a letter from a dentist’s office addressed to Thyme.”
To say this announcement is anticlimactic doesn’t do justice to our collective groans and crestfallen expressions.
“Dr. Rubin’s office? It’s probably a reminder that I’m due for a cleaning.”
“No!” Sage practically shouts, gesticulating wildly. “It’s from Dr. Alexis Pridemore in Snow City, Arizona.”
Thyme lunges for the envelope and rips it open. I hold my breath while she scans the letter inside.
“Well?” Victor demands.
She raises her head. “Dr. Pridemore wanted to let me know my new dentures are ready to be fitted.”