3

The hardware store screamed of nostalgia and reeked of sawdust and gasoline. Vintage metal signs advertised soda and car services. The shelves were made of thick wooden planks, worn from years of use. It was cute. Quaint.

Best of all, it had no security cameras.

“Help you?” asked the man behind the cashier’s desk. White hair stuck out from his stained baseball cap, but wiry muscles stretched beneath his gray thermal shirt.

Working man’s muscles. Something Warren would never have. He’d slip a disc lifting a bag of potatoes.

Okay, that was a little bit bitchy, she thought, looking at her own arms. She guessed the same could be said of her. Pilates toned but not strong, by any means. It wasn’t like she was lugging hay bales in the afternoon sun.

Honesty, like good and evil, like everything else, was arbitrary.

“Drop cloths?” Victoria asked. “And some leaf bags, if you still have them.”

“Ayuh, we got ’em.” He stuck out a gnarled thumb and hitched it to the right. “Two rows back for both. If you hit the nails, you’ve gone too far. Hard to miss, though.”

She thanked him and moved quickly past the rows of tools and appliances. The plastic drop cloths were piled in wire baskets at the end of the aisle. She grabbed two rolls. Paused. Took two more. Three. Four. And a few rolls of painter’s tape.

Items secured, she skirted the corner and found lawn bags stacked on an end cap. Perfect. She added two big boxes to her pile of Dexter-level spatter proofing and headed for the register.

The man stood at the counter wiping black grease from his hands with an equally blackened washcloth. “All set?” he asked, dropping the cloth into a bin at his feet.

She placed the last of the items on the small counter. “Yes, thank you.”

“Find e’rything okay?”

“Yes, thank you,” she repeated.

He tallied up the prices on scrap paper and entered them into the register. “We don’t accept credit cards here, ma’am. Just so you know. Never did care much for those big companies. The fees’ll suck you dry.”

“That’s fine.” It was why she’d gone to Miller’s in the first place. Hopefully that was the last of the small talk.

“Doing a little home improvement?” he asked with a chuckle as the bell above the door jingled.

She nodded. Something like that.

“Victoria?” a voice squawked behind her. “Oh my god, what a small world. I was just thinking about you.”

Shit.

Betty Knottier, Neon Queen of the Speed Walkers. She was still wearing her blindingly bright athletic wear, but she’d exchanged her runners for a pair of day-glow Crocs.

“Betty,” she said, “so good to see you!” They exchanged a quick hug and a cheek kiss. That woman was all about the cheek kisses. Victoria struggled not to swipe the ghost of spit from her face.

Betty’s cloyingly sweet perfume hung heavy in the air between them. “What are you doing here?” she asked, all big-toothed and wide-eyed, shouldering her oversized purse with the grace of a donkey.

“Just picking up a few things.”

The cashier clucked his tongue, inserting himself into the conversation. “Looks like it’s gonna snow tonight,” he said. “Early this year.”

“Ugh, how do you find the time?” Betty mooned, ignoring him with a pointed eyebrow arch. “I need some of your motivation. If you could bottle it up for me that’d be great, because if I worked half as much as you did, I’d be a slob kabob by happy hour. And you’re painting again? Didn’t you just have the trim done? I remember seeing the utility vans outside your house for a few days.”

Victoria didn’t miss the disapproving frown. God forbid the unsightly work vans parked on the street. She’d probably been watching to make sure they left before the HOA cutoff, with a bag of low-calorie popcorn and a seltzer.

“We did, yeah, but they missed some sections,” she said with a smile that she hoped looked more natural than it felt.

“Then they should come fix it.” Betty scrunched up her nose in faux outrage. “Who did you use? I’m sure if you let them know you’re dissatisfied with the work they’d come back.”

“Call me a perfectionist,” she said. “I don’t want to rely on someone else to do the job right. Details are important.”

“Yes. Yes, they are.”

Victoria didn’t appreciate the Mona Lisa smirk that accompanied Betty’s agreement. “Well,” she said, motioning toward the register.

“Hey, did you hear about the Mahoneys?” she asked, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Not the Sherman Ave. Mahoneys, the Edgewood Court Mahoneys. The ones with the yapping dog? They petitioned the board to install an above ground pool. Can you believe it? I mean, it’s clearly against the rules, but they’re arguing they should get an exemption for health reasons. Health reasons? He eats a sausage McMuffin every morning, and he wants to talk about health? I told Fiona, I said—”

Oh, for Christ’s sake, Victoria thought. “I’m sure everything will be fine, Betty.” Betty’s energy furled inward in a mixture of confusion and rejection. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I should get going if I want to get this done before the snow.”

She really did not want to gossip in front of the cashier, who was eyeing them both with more than a fair share of judgment. Nothing drew attention faster than conflict.

She’d have to keep that in mind.

“Of course, don’t let me keep you. We’ll get a drink soon, all right?”

“Sure. I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.”

“You do that.” Betty grasped Victoria’s forearm and squeezed twice. “Send my best to Warren.” With a flip of her dried-sweaty ponytail, she sauntered away.

Well, shit, she thought. So much for keeping a low profile.