Chapter 20

 

Bill Lewis had said he’d be over at four to replace my broken ceiling fan with the one no longer back-ordered. I’d driven to Lowe’s in the morning to pick it up. As I suspected, Bill pulled into the driveway a full ten minutes ahead of schedule. I watched him climb out of his Ford pickup and come around to the side door.

“Am I too early?” he said by way of a greeting.

“Not a bit.” One glance into those Paul Newman baby blues and I was glad I had remembered to put on lipstick. I held the door wide to allow him and the big metal toolbox he carried to pass through.

“What kind of fan did you end up with?” he asked as he followed me into the kitchen.

“A white one,” I answered promptly, pleased with my purchase.

“White, eh?”

There it was again. That smile . . . and that tool belt. How lucky could a girl get? He nodded his approval. “Can’t go wrong with white.”

“I know.” I choked back a giggle. I couldn’t help it. He had that kind of effect on me. “White goes with everything.”

“Never know what I might need to get the job done,” Bill explained, setting a toolbox the size of a steamer trunk on my kitchen floor. “Guess I’d better get started. I’ll have you up and running in no time.”

I was already up and running, but I couldn’t very well tell him that. He’d turn tail and run. Suddenly I was faced with the same dilemma as before. Should I make myself scarce? Or stick around . . . just in case?

And once again I decided to stick around—just in case.

I looked about the kitchen for a project, something to keep me busy while he worked on the fan. I wanted to stay close without being obvious. My eyes rested on the houseplants on the sill. They were starting to look in need of attention. Translation: They were in dire need of water and a little TLC.

I set out to impress Bill with my “green” thumb. I rummaged under the sink and pulled out supplies. Watering can, plant fertilizer, mister, and moisture meter. While on my way through the garden center while at Lowe’s, I’d picked up one of those moisture-meter gadgets. I had been meaning to get one for years but never got around to it. The cost would be negligible compared to that of replacing ferns and ficus on a regular basis.

“I’ll need that stepladder of yours out in the garage,” he said, then went off to get it.

While he was gone, I carefully measured liquid fertilizer into a watering can, then added the prescribed amount of water. At least I’d look like I was an expert in the houseplant department. Bill didn’t have to know I’m a regular Dr. Kevorkian when it comes to growing things.

Wish I would have thought to have a pie in the oven. Apple pie. Nothing like the aroma of fresh-baked apple pie to go straight to a man’s heart. Belatedly, I remembered apple pie was the culprit that brought Bill and me together in the first place. If the juices from my pie hadn’t baked over, causing the kitchen to fill with smoke, it might’ve taken weeks, or even months, to discover the ceiling fan was broken.

Bill returned with the stepladder and positioned it under the defunct fan. Next he opened the box containing the new fan and proceeded to read the directions. I watched, amazed. A man who actually read directions! My earlier impression was confirmed. Bill was, indeed, quite a guy.

“Simple yet practical.” He gave me a thumbs-up. “Looks as though this will do nicely. Some folks go for all that fancy stuff, but I tend to think in the long run simple is better. Fewer things to go wrong.”

Hmm . . . ? Maybe I had made the wrong choice after all. Things going haywire would have been the perfect excuse to have him make another house call. I stifled my disappointment and asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Water or iced tea?”

I could use a little something myself—a cold shower perhaps? The man had me babbling like a teenager.

“No, thanks, Kate. Maybe when I’m finished.”

Just then I heard a knock. I answered the door and found Pam on my doorstep, a book in her hand and a phony smile on her face. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything important. Mind if I come in?”

In the blink of an eye, she was seated at my kitchen table. “Hi, Bill,” she said, giving him that same insincere kind of smile. “Don’t mind me.”

“No problem.” Bill went about the task of attaching blades to my new fan.

“What brings you here at this hour?”

“I came to return this.” Pam tapped the cover of the book she had brought with her. “I found it while I was cleaning this afternoon and thought I’d better bring it back.”

I frowned when I read the title. “That’s not mine.”

“Really?” Now it was Pam’s turn to frown. “Are you sure? I could have sworn this was yours.”

“You know I never read science fiction.”

It wasn’t like Pam to drop in for no particular reason. And it certainly wasn’t like her to drop by to return a book she’d never borrowed. Come to think of it, Pam seldom borrowed books.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered to be polite, yet hoping she’d refuse.

“Sure. Iced tea would be great.”

I got two glasses from the cupboard, took the pitcher of iced tea from the fridge, and poured us each a glass. “I’m surprised you’re not home fixing dinner.”

“Dinner’s cooking in the Crock-Pot. I started it this morning.” Pam leaned back and crossed her legs. “This way I’ve got all afternoon to do as I please.”

“Great.” But was it? As much as I always enjoy Pam’s company, I had hoped to use this time to get to know Bill better while he worked. But a glance at Pam’s relaxed pose told me she planned “to sit a spell,” as they say in the South.

For the next half hour, we chatted about this and that before moving on to more important issues. Such as the character changes in our favorite TV series. Pam liked the new actor who replaced a longtime lead, but I wasn’t so sure. “Give him time,” Pam counseled. “He’ll grow on you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see work on the ceiling fan was progressing nicely. It was clear this wasn’t the first one Bill had installed. Reluctantly I swung my attention back to my guest. “More tea?” I asked, noticing Pam’s glass was empty.

Before she could respond, the front doorbell chimed. “Excuse me,” I said to Pam as I got up to answer the door. I was surprised to see Connie Sue standing on the porch.

“Connie Sue! What brings you here?”

She gave me an apologetic smile. “I need to borrow your springform pan.” I stood aside. “Sure, come on in.”

Connie Sue headed straight for the kitchen, where she stood, head cocked to one side, hands on hips, and studied the ceiling fan Bill had just finished assembling. “White?”

“You have something against white?” I said, feeling somewhat put off by her tone. “White goes with everything. You can’t go wrong with white.”

“Don’t get me wrong, sugar. It’s nice, but . . . awfully plain. I thought you might go for something a little more . . . high-tech. Stainless steel, maybe with a remote.”

“Simple and practical are more my style. Fewer things to go wrong,” I said, parroting Bill’s words.

Connie Sue and Pam exchanged glances. Pam rose. “Well, guess I’d better go home and stir the Crock-Pot.”

Connie Sue plunked herself down in the chair Pam had vacated and looked like she intended to stay awhile. Without asking, I poured her a glass of iced tea.

“Don’t think we’ve met.” She smiled at the man on the stepladder. “You must be Bill. After hearing so much about you, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Connie Sue Brody.”

“Bill Lewis.” Bill returned the smile. “How do you do.”

No fancy speech from Bill, just a plain old Midwestern perfunctory response. Seems like simple and practical could describe more than ceiling fans.

Connie Sue turned her attention back to me. “I thought I’d surprise Thacker and make his favorite dessert—praline cheesecake.”

I glanced pointedly at the kitchen clock. At this rate I’d never get in a word or two with Bill before he finished installing the fan. “Isn’t it rather late to start making a cheesecake?”

“Of course it is, silly. I’ll make it first thing tomorrow morning, right after tennis.”

Of course, I thought, as I started rummaging through a cabinet for my springform pan. Don’t use the darn thing much anymore. Maybe I should just give it to Connie Sue in case she’s tempted to show up next time I entertain a blue-eyed devil.

“I could swear you had one of these,” I said when I finally extracted the pan from the bottom of a stack of baking tins of various shapes and sizes.

“I do, sugar, and I looked high and low for it. For some strange reason, I can’t seem to find it.”

I set the pan on the counter. “Shouldn’t you be home tending Thacker’s dinner?”

“You’re a sweetie to worry about Thacker, but never you mind, I turned the oven down low before coming over. I thought it’d be nice to sit a spell.”

I listened to Connie Sue ramble on with half an ear. Trying not to be too obvious, I kept shooting glances in Bill’s direction. He had the old fan down and was getting ready to put the new one up.

The doorbell rang again. “S’cuse me,” I muttered as I rose to answer the door.

“Rita!” Who next? A vacuum cleaner salesman?

Rita held up a brown paper bag. “Surprise!”

“It certainly is,” I said, making no move to stand aside. Rude, I know, but I felt as if my foyer had suddenly become Grand Central Station.

“Mind if I come in for a minute?”

“No, of course not.” With a sigh of surrender, I stepped aside. Where were my manners? Usually I’m pleased as punch when one of my friends happens to drop by. But not today. Today I needed to be available—in case Bill needed my help.

I led the way into the kitchen. Connie Sue stood the minute she spied Rita. “Well, sugar,” she said to me, “gotta run. I need to check on that nice pork loin I’m fixing. Thacker complains if it gets too dry.”

Connie Sue departed as abruptly as she had arrived. It wasn’t until I heard her pull out of the drive that I noticed the springform pan still sitting on the table. I shook my head and reached for the pitcher of tea.

“Care for some?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“You never asked what’s in the bag,” Rita scolded.

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Rhizomes.”

“What am I supposed to do with rhizomes?” I asked. “Eat them?”

“No, no, you plant them.” She reached into the bag and pulled out a brown thing. “Next spring, you’ll have beautiful iris growing in your flower beds.”

I took a sip of my tea, noting as I did so that all the ice had melted. “Thanks, Rita, but you know I don’t exactly have a green thumb.” By this time, I didn’t care whether Bill knew that. My thumb wasn’t green. It was brown. Brown, brown, brown!

“Nothing to it, Kate. September or October are the best months to plant here in the South.”

Rita was on a roll. Along with bridge, gardening was her passion. It didn’t seem to bother her that it wasn’t mine. She talked nonstop for the next half hour. Bill seemed to tune out the sound of Rita droning on and on and just went about his task.

Rhizome became a new word in my vocabulary. I learned gypsum is an excellent soil conditioner and improves clay soil such as we have here in South Carolina. Rita also introduced the term vernalization. I promised myself I’d try to use it next time I played Scrabble with the grandkids. Rita also warned me against the dangers of overwatering, and cautioned against the common mistake of planting irises too deeply.

By the time she finished, or perhaps ran out of breath—I’m not sure which—the new ceiling far had been installed, and the old one hauled out to the trash. I watched in dismay as Bill gathered up his tools. We had barely exchanged a handful of words.

He snapped his giant tool chest shut. “All done,” he said. “This ought to last a good long time, but call me if you have any problems.”

I felt a moment’s panic as he started to leave. I might only see him again across a crowded golf course. I needed to say something before he walked out of my life, maybe for good. Needed to say something preferably witty or clever. “How much do I owe you?” I asked.

I groaned inwardly. Witty and clever, I wasn’t.

“Don’t worry about it. Glad to be of help.” He nodded to Rita, then left.

Rita waited until the sound of Bill’s pickup truck faded, then calmly finished her tea and rose to her feet. “Guess you know all you need to about irises.”

“Rita, would you kindly explain what the heck is going on,” I demanded. “First Pam tries to return a book that doesn’t belong to me. Next Connie Sue asks to borrow a springform pan, but leaves without taking it with her. And last but not least, you show up on my doorstep to give me a tutorial on growing iris.”

Rita pursed her lips. “Kate, you’re forgetting what the sheriff said earlier about power tools.”

“What has that got to do with it?”

“Everything. Sheriff Wiggins said the killer has access to power tools. Bill Lewis has more power tools than all the rest of the men in Serenity Cove Estates put together. And don’t totally disregard Earl Brubaker’s accusations that Bill and Rosalie might have been an item.”

Appalled, I stared at her. “Surely you aren’t suggesting . . .”

Rita shrugged. “A woman can’t be too careful.”

Long after Rita left, I sat at the kitchen table idly watching the blades of my new fan whirl around and around. I didn’t know whether to be angry with my friends or to hug them. In the end, hugs won out. Instead of me rallying the troops, they had rallied around me in an all-out, albeit misguided, attempt to protect me from Bill, the nicest and best-looking tool guy in Serenity Cove.