Well look at you, sugar. Why you’re just as pretty as a peach, a little ole Georgia peach.
Startled, Faye took a step back as the woman in the outlandish white hat barged through the front door then leaned forward to offer, presumably for a kiss, her perfumed cheek. Not wishing to give offense, Faye dutifully pecked, and in turn the woman pecked back, kissing the air.
My sister told me you were a real looker, the woman gushed, but I wasn’t prepared for this. You’re a genuwine knockout, honey.
Your sister?
Maggie!
Oh my God, so you’re Lureen?
Right here in the flesh, Lureen crowed, wiggling past her. Right here in the living flesh.
As they sipped iced tea out on the patio, Faye assured Lureen that everything was fine. She loved the house, she said, it was so peaceful and quiet there. She loved taking Sunny for walks down to the harbor, Crooked River was such an enchanting town. And she was keeping busy too, she added, pointing out the new tomato garden.
My goodness, you did all that by yourself?
I did.
Well I’m impressed. Personally I can’t tell one end of a hammer from the other but hey, that’s just me!
Without a hint of embarrassment Lureen tilted her head for a closer look at Faye’s bare legs. I’ll tell you one thing, honey, I better not let Charlie get a gander at those gams of yours. He might not be able to handle it. She winked, conspiratorially. His heart, you know.
Faye had to stifle a laugh. Gams? Did the woman really say gams?
After she finished her iced tea, Lureen scribbled her address and phone number on a note pad, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Faye. Then she stood up to leave.
So listen, sugar, if there’s anything you need you just let me know, okay? Anything at all.
Actually, Faye said, I would like to ask you something.
Ask away.
Do you know Dave Kershaw?
Lureen hesitated, crinkling her eyes. Dave Kershaw? The detective?
Yeah, the detective.
Well now. Lureen’s sudden grin looked decidedly lascivious. I see, she purred, sitting back down.
See what? Faye wondered.
An hour later, in Lureen’s Chevy convertible, they crossed the causeway to Christopher Key. As the morning fog lifted and the sun peeked over the Gibson, the town’s tallest building, and showered the harbor with streams of pale light, Faye leaned back against the leather upholstery, watching a pair of oyster boats follow the channel south, bound for the beds off Carrabelle. Having already grown accustomed to Lureen’s seemingly boundless energy, that bizarre psychological fusion of high-pitched sexual fervor and unshakable ecclesiastical belief, she felt more relaxed in her manic company now, and she was looking forward to spending some time with her at the beach.
After a long, invigorating swim and a dozen games of fetch with Sunny, they slathered their arms and legs with sunscreen and talked about Dave Kershaw. Lureen sketched in the general background, describing how Kershaw’s father, a former police officer in New Orleans, took an early retirement following some kind of traumatic incident in the French Quarter, resettling with his wife and their two kids in a condo overlooking Panama City Beach. And then how, less than a year later, baffled by her husband’s withdrawal, the emotional shell he had crawled into when they left New Orleans, Kershaw’s mother filed for divorce, and with the two kids in tow relocated to Crooked River.
Maggie and Kershaw became friends at Crooked River High, Lureen said, where they were in the same class. After graduation they stayed in touch, and when Dieter asked Maggie to marry him, she introduced the newly-promoted detective to her fiancé. Apparently recognizing in each other a kindred spirit, Dieter and Kershaw started hanging out together, fishing Lake Baylor or canoeing down the Blackwater River or watching baseball games on the television above the bar at The Tides. And when Dave’s marriage began to founder (which, of course, is a whole other story, Lureen confided) Dieter helped guide his friend through those treacherous waters. After the divorce, he also filled some of the long hours of Dave’s loneliness by inviting him to the house for a home-cooked meal or up to Tallahassee for a Florida State football game even though Maggie claimed that the real reason her husband courted the man’s friendship was because he wanted to expand his cameo in Fever Tree into a major role in the next book, in the sequel. A Cajun cop? Are you kidding? He’s probably already writing about him, Maggie exclaimed. But my sister, Lureen shrugged, always says stuff like that.
On the drive home from the beach they cruised past a blue Monte Carlo traveling in the opposite direction and for one wild, disorienting moment Faye could have sworn she recognized the driver. The high cheekbones, wraparound shades, pronounced chin cleft. But that wasn’t possible. There was no way, she assured herself, that it could have been him. For one thing, the driver’s hair was black. Chance was a blonde.
She lifted her face to the wind and let it blow away her worries. Another ghost, she decided, that’s all it was. They seemed to be everywhere these days.
At the house, Faye thanked Lureen for the lovely outing and stood in the driveway waving as the convertible pulled away. Then she shuffled out to the patio and collapsed in a chair, exhausted. Lureen was sweet and charming and as genuwine as a southern belle could possibly be, but spending an afternoon with her was like spending a few hours in a hurricane; the woman’s inner barometer, the shifting winds of her enthusiasm, rose and fell at a bewildering rate. Still, the day had not been wasted. For one, Lureen’s insights into Dave Kershaw’s private life—his rocky relationship with his troubled father and the disastrous, short-lived marriage—had given her an intriguing glimpse of the man behind the police badge.
She went upstairs and took a shower to wash the salt out of her hair. Hanging the wet towel on the hook on the back of the door, she thought about cooking dinner but changed her mind. She’d pick up a pizza instead. Or better yet, one of those muffaletta sandwiches Lureen kept raving about. Apparently the Cajun place was only a few blocks away.
At the beach, Lureen had looked her in the eye. That’s the kind of thing you can let him know, she suggested.
Faye had no idea what the woman was talking about. Let him know?
When you go out to Lake Baylor. That’s the kind of thing you can slip into the conversation, right? How much you love Cajun cooking?
But I haven’t made up my mind yet, Faye protested.
Whether you like Cajun cooking? Are you crazy? Everyone likes Cajun cooking!
No, no, whether I’m going out there. To the lake. I haven’t made up my mind yet.
Shocked, Lureen twisted her beach chair in the sand until she faced her companion head on.
Look, I don’t mean to be bossy, hon, but let me tell you somethin’, okay? In this town you ain’t gonna find another Dave Kershaw. You’re gonna find lowlifes and losers and guys steppin’ out on their wives, sure. But you ain’t gonna find another Dave Kershaw. I mean the dude’s dreamy, right?
Right.
He’s also single.
Uh huh.
And he’s got a good job too! For cryin’ out loud, girl, what else could you possibly want?
Faye thought about that for a moment.
A pontoon boat?
Lureen was so delighted with Faye’s wry aside she reached out and squeezed both her hands. Well he’s got one of those too, she bellowed. With those big ole cushions on it. You put those cushions down on the deck of that boat, honey, and you got yourself a bed!