Chapter Ten

The next day at Wedding Wonderland, I carried a load of cleaning supplies to the front entry. My cell buzzed. I fumbled for my phone in my coat pocket. A fast glance at caller ID told me who phoned—ma mère. Like I wanted to talk with her right now. However, ignoring her would be futile.

With all the wedding stuff, she’ll never leave me alone. Never.

With a sigh, I dropped the roll of paper towels and window spray at my feet. I connected, shoving my phone under my chin. “Just a minute.”

I grasped the bottle of window cleaner and tore off a few towels. I spritzed the door’s glass inset. “What, Mom?”

“You don’t have to be so rude,” she said.

I polished the entry door window to a streak-free shine, just like the product claimed. “Mom. I’m working. You’ve got to stop calling me about Tracey and Stuart’s wedding.”

“You’re so contrary. We have important things to do.”

Mom’s “contrary” remark ruffled my feathers, but I wouldn’t engage her. “For example?”

“I have a question.”

“Only one question?” She undoubtedly had drafted a long, long, looong list to consult.

No reply.

Lordy. “Fire away.” While she chatted on and on and on, I admired my work and shifted to pretty-up the glass in the second door. As I wiped, I saw a truck slotting into a spot next to the handicap sign positioned in front of the store. I stared harder and grimaced. Not an ordinary vehicle, in fact, a Toyota 4-Runner in granite driven by the man I didn't have a rendezvous with last night, thanks to his almighty cellphone. My non-sex bedtime whatever—Allan.

I straightened my spine. The dirty rotten rat. This morning, Allan sent an early stupid text with one solitary word—“Sorry.” The man needed better communication skills. “Sorry” sounded so lame, like lame with a capital “L.” He better have stashed an apology up his sleeve. A big fat one. And flowers. And an expensive handbag would be welcomed, too.

Because his device wasn’t available for my use, I squashed the compulsion to run over mine with my car. Doing so would require buying a new one with money I couldn’t waste. Am I trending toward violent tendencies because of him?

He exited his vehicle, looking past his truck to the street. He wore a navy suit, red tie, and black Oxfords.

Adding his car plus good looker plus business clothes, I didn’t have a hard time determining Detective Allan Wellborn hadn’t come for a social call. No sir-ree, “business” was written all over him.

I opened the right door and sprayed a cleaning product on the outside glass. Mom’s “Hattie” in my ear shifted my focus back to our conversation. Dumping her could be difficult. In my whole life, she left conversations when she wanted to. Considering the subject—Tracey—and the upcoming tying of the knot, she would be hard to shake.

“Hey,” I mouthed, pointing my finger as he stepped to the sidewalk in front of the store. I paused long enough to take a little sidelong look at Allan, pointing to my phone. “Mom.”

He nodded and walked away.

I slanted an under-the-eyelash look. Getting no nookie required major punishment, and tormenting Allan would be very satisfying, like playing a wicked game of Twister. I said, “No, Mother. I won’t try on wedding gowns for you.” I slid another sideways peek.

Instantly, his eyes morphed into lizard-like slits. The smallest tightening to his jaw indicated what I said had unnerved him. Ha. I loved watching him squirm.

After a long pause, he relaxed and pretended not to listen while fingering the reproduction limestone façade surrounding the next-door store’s windows.

Serves him right after all the things he’s done to me, the biggest one being the lack of a stupendous orgasm.

I gave my sport another “go.” “Yes, Mother, I agree. A good style for my figure. I like the lace over the see-through underwear look. All my valuable body parts would show through. Very sexy.”

Mom screamed loud enough for the entire universe to cover their ears. “Hattie, what are you saying? Are you and—”

Allan couldn’t ignore our conversation. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped, nearly slamming into the concrete under his feet. Undoubtedly, he heard more than he wanted and advanced closer to the men’s shop, probably easing his way to the parking lot.

“Mom, candlelight satin will be a better match for my skin tone. White is just too-too…white. Not everyone can pull it off. I’m sure Allan will be happy with whatever I pick.”

A grim, flat-lipped look slowly replaced the stunned one on his face.

I choked back all so I wouldn’t laugh. I turned sideways to add, “Okay, I’ll find something soon, and remember, pink is my favorite color.”

I dropped my phone in my white Wedding Wonderland jacket pocket. I so didn’t have anything to say. We pretty much covered all over tango lessons and dinner. Well, except for the playdate part.

He bent closer to the haberdashery window. A beat or two later, he looked at me.

I glared at him with my hands on my waist and my foot tapping.

Straightening, he broadened his shoulders, and with determination, he returned to Wedding Wonderland, halting in front of my toes.

Somehow, I managed not to do an about-face and ride out of town. I focused on Allan’s shoes. Shiny, highly polished, expensive black oxfords. Eventually, I roved my gaze over his legs in his “authoritative” spread stance to the black belt with the silver buckle circling his waist, to the knot of his blood-red tie, and finally, landed on his face, trying to determine why he came to call.

Yup. His stare read “Detective” and “Detective” meant business.

“Hattie.”

“Allan.”

“Nice coat, Miss Hattie.” He ran his finger across my name embroidered in pink on the left shoulder of the jacket. “You look…professional.”

“The general idea.” I jerked the front placket into place, making his arm fall to his side. “What’s cookin’?”

He bobbed his head. “I need to speak with you.”

“About business or about no pleasure?” Rising to my toes, I pretended to peer behind his back, then rocked to my heels. “You didn't bring a box of chocolates or a bouquet; therefore, business.” I lifted my brow. “Am I right?”

“What you are is a smart ass.”

His finger returned, skating a long, very slow trail over my jaw. I suppressed the urge to moan like a woman in heat.

“It's important, sweetheart.”

“Oookaaay, saintly one—”

“Knock it off.”

Touchy, touchy. “Sorry. Out here or inside?”

He looked through the window into the store. “Anyone else here?”

“Not right now. Miss A., the owner, drove to the hardware store, but she’ll be back shortly. We need light bulbs and a few other things. Pretty funny how she’s always misplacing the hammer.”

He said, “Let’s go in.”

“Fine. But don't call me sweetheart.”

He barely curled the corner of his mouth. “Yes, sweetheart.”

Rolling my eyes, I pulled open the door and paused to collect the cleaning supplies. Allan hadn’t been in the store before now, which gave me another opportunity to torment him. He-he-he. “Dying to see Wedding Wonderland?”

He skirted me in the calm and cool manner of James Bond and stepped further inside.

“Top of my bucket list.”

After locking the door, I circumvented him to walk to the transaction desk, where I placed the cleaning bucket on the floor next to the table leg. When I pivoted, I found him staring slack-jawed at the whole wedding enchilada. Chandelier, mirrors, flowers, crystals—all floored him. His swallow betrayed his normally unflappable countenance, the one cops perfected for pulling over speeders and writing a nasty citation.

Not surprising. Bridal shops and their glory were intentionally decorated to catch the customer’s eye. In the few days of my employment at Wedding Wonderland, I’d seen a boatload of out-of-their-depth fiancés. Just entering the shop humbled the most confident of men. Allan Wellborn looked to be no exception. He acted exactly like every other regular Joe who didn’t know what he had gotten himself into.

He refocused on me and said evenly, “This p-place is…different. Not exactly Dollar Bonanza.”

“Wow. What a gourmet shopper you are.”

“They have good prices on cat food—”

“And plastic cutlery.”

“If you say so.”

Our inane conversation drove me batty. “And how is my furry friend Lucky?”

“He could use some company.” Again, he looked over the store.

I teased, “First time in any bridal salon?”

“No comment.”

That meant yes.

He flashed his badge with picture ID. “Official police business.”

I squeezed my forehead into a “V” as I bent closer to study Allan’s identification picture. His photo looked more like a mug shot—as if I had any experience with mug shots except what the news showed on television. The side-to-side views of the criminals weren’t so bad, but the frontal one with a towel covering the bad dudes’ shoulders, and a big bad hair day? Ick.

My passport photo looked better than his license one. Could anything be so awful? I pursed my lips and tweaked my mouth sideways. “Not your best effort. Sorta geeky like an accountant.”

He shoved the ID in his navy suit coat’s breast pocket.

Numbers coursed through Allan Wellborn’s blood and in his family. His dad worked as an accountant, and I was pretty sure his sister said something about his grandfather had punched numbers as well. After a few years of calculators and creating Excel spreadsheets, Allan abandoned his career for the excitement in police work.

I stabbed my finger in the area where he stashed the ID. “Where’s the pocket protector and pens? Oh-oh-oh, we can’t forget the yellow highlighter.”

I got the “go to hell” face policemen excelled at bestowing, part of their training along with the deadpan “not saying anything” look.

He pointed to the reception chairs. “May I?”

“Sure. Want a bottle of water?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m good for now.”

I removed a bottle from the mini-fridge and sat opposite him, smoothing my black knit skirt along my thighs. Over and over, I rubbed while wondering what legitimate business brought him to the store. I frowned. “Do you want to talk about the rehearsal dinner? That’s not official business. I arranged everything on my part. Did you—”

“The rehearsal is not official business. But I’m making headway on my end.” His big body took over the chair with a creak. He shifted delicately, and when the sound squeaked again, he bent and checked the legs. “Sure this won’t collapse on me? It seems…fragile.”

“Positive. What do you want?” I slanted my head. “Oh, I know. Let’s get back to the discussion about you abandoning your date in a parking lot like a superhero bent on a mission to save the world from some evil crime lord descended from another realm. At least, the guy kissed the girl passionately before racing off.”

I slid back in my chair and took a long drink. Do I sound a little bitter? Probably.

One brow arched. “Funny.”

I lifted my water bottle. “You aren’t.”

“I know you’re mad, and I apologize. The job comes—”

“First. Don’t I know. Yet, I still come back for more. I must be a masochist.”

Allan looked at me from the corner of his eye while removing a notebook and pen from his coat pocket. He thumbed through and stopped after about twenty pages. “Yesterday, in the parking lot of Super Saver Grocery, a store cart retriever found Jonson Leggett the Third dead in his car.”

I set aside the bottle and stood. I clapped more than vigorously. I clapped and clapped until my palms stung. “Well done. Well done. Who did it? I want to thank him-slash-her?”

His whistle reverberated low and long. “Pretty disrespectful. I should be stunned.”

“I’m not, nor have I ever been a fan.” Dropping back in the chair, I flipped my hand dismissively. “Someone did the world a ginormous favor. Ask anyone in Sommerville. They’ll agree with me.”

“Wow. Don't hold back.”

My sister’s pickle with Jonson had made the front page of the Sommerville Express, captioned with a “Jilted Wife” headline. The accompanying photo of Tracey with scary witchy hair and raccoon eyes didn’t help. The town added two plus two and grasped the sordid story.

“Yup. Cold-blooded.” Allan rolled his pen through his fingers. “Don’t you feel bad for his family?”

I pendulum-ed my finger. “Aren’t Jonson’s parents the ones who instilled crappy values?”

His head bobbed. “You have a point.”

He sure spent a lot of time on Jonson and his death. Why? “So, why are you here?”

“We’ve notified Ms. Barbie Fenster, his fiancée, who informed us Mr. Leggett and Ms. Fenster have been planning their wedding through the shop”—he consulted his notebook—“Miss Anastasia’s Wedding Wonderland.”

I nodded my affirmation. “Until recently—”

“Recently?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember what I told you last night over dinner? Until he fired us.”

“Right.” He fumbled through some more pages. “I’m here because Ms. Fenster said something about an altercation. To interview you and a Miss Anastasia Fernholly, the owner.”

“Okay.” Miss A.'s errand to Super Saver resurrected. “As I said, my boss should return soon.”

“When?”

I consulted my watch. “Any minute. She had to stop several places before work.”

“In the meantime, let’s chat.” He crossed his leg, resting his notepad on his thigh.

Yep, the same muscular one which failed to wrap around my hip. Parts of me went squirmy and boiling. I coughed. “Why?”

“You know—your sister, Tracey. And the argument with Jonson. You heard it, and I need to know in great detail what transpired.”

I teethed my lower lip. Is Allan investigating Tracey as a possible murderer? I swallowed hard and deep, feeling a greasy sickness swilling in my belly. What if he wants to arrest Tracey? But what for? She didn’t do anything. I ran my finger over and over the length of my nose while I considered how to proceed.

Slowly, I drew myself upright and stared at The Great Detective, not trusting him. Fury raced through my head. I didn’t know what to think or believe, and I certainly didn’t want to get Tracey in trouble. No way in hell would he get any information from me. The turd. I’ll keep my mouth shut tight.

“Leave.” I exploded to my feet faster than fast and pointed to the door. I stalked toward the entry as quick as I could and yanked open the door. “Leave. Leave. Right now.”

On my heels, Allan followed, but he didn’t go anywhere. Instead, his hand rested on top of mine.

I sensed the heave of his chest against my shoulders. His warm breath bathed my hairline right below my ear, a very vulnerable spot sending sizzles over my neck. An ache for more, the same as when I anticipated a round of almost wild, almost sex, rooted in my heart.

With a deep breath, I composed myself and said, “No, Allan. Go.”

“Nope. Come on.”

He took my hand and pulled me back to the reception area.

I was not a happy camper. Resisting, I stood firm. Immovable. But with one glance, my stubbornness threatened to wilt, and I dumped myself in the chair.

He said, “Sorry. I can’t say so enough.”

I pinned on him a firm glare, the despicable evil-eye kind which could make an ordinary person flinch, but not him. Maybe because he’d seen mine on multiple occasions. “Possibly, time to find a new phrase.”

“Ouch.”

I stared and stared, waiting for the words to gush from his mouth, while the wrath entrenched in my soul threatened to erupt again. “How could you, Allan? Seriously. How could you come here and accuse my sister of something foul? You should have blamed me instead of Tracey. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. For gosh sakes, she doesn't kill bugs. She sets them free.”

Allan gave a double-take. Raising his palms, he made a minute shrug. “You know the drill. It’s my job. I have to ask.”

“Your job,” I spat. “Not such a good family friend, are you?” Cynicism seeped into every single word.

“I guess not, at least, not this time.” He crooked the right side of his mouth. “I’ll probably hear from my mom. She doesn’t like me bothering you.”

“I’ll hear from mine.” With the option he could be struck from the potential son-in-law list.

“I’ll steer clear of yours.”

Me, too, because Mom’s lecture on Mr. Saintliness’s pluses ran too long.

Allan slanted his head. “At what point does their shtick end?”

How funny. A small curve tweaked the corners of my mouth. But my sensibility reigned, and I recovered. “Never”—I crossed my arms and squeezed—“ever. Mothers, especially the kind like ours, will always inject themselves in their children’s lives. Part of their DNA makes them.”

He snorted and lifted one eyebrow. “Did you inherit the gene?”

I matched his brow lift with one of my own. I raised my bottle of water close to my lips and said before taking a drink, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, sweetheart.”

Allan’s answer surprised me, making my hands quake. I knocked back some water. He had an odd way of saying he cared to unearth the tiniest thing about me. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”

Neither of us said anything for a bit. I gave in first with a sigh. “What do you want to know?”