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Wednesday, September 15
Her first night at the Apple Valley Resort had helped to justify Beverly’s decision to come to Ironwood Junction. The bed was as comfortable as a cloud, and the Jacuzzi tub worked miracles on the tension knots in her shoulders.
She studied the resort’s spa menu. Avocado polish, caviar facial, color-and-light wrap with aura imaging—that was a new one—but she put it back on the table with regret. No time. Too much to do.
The trip yesterday to Harlan’s was the second reason justifying her decision to come to the Junction. He was the first helpful person she’d run into in years, and she’d felt more at home in his shop than in this pleasure palace. Plus, he’d helped her see she was on the right track with her map. The odd thing was, everywhere she turned in town, she bumped into someone who knew Adam Dutton. Fate or bad omen?
She didn’t have the luxury of trusting Dutton. She’d been careful to cover her tracks, and his questions hadn’t led to her arrest thus far, but she knew she’d be watched. Best behavior and all that. She could have waited a month or two to come, but she had a strong feeling the window of opportunity to find her treasure would soon slam shut with a bang.
Grabbing a lemon poppy seed muffin from the tea room, with the passing thought her figure was to become muffin-shaped if she kept this up, Beverly made her way to her rental car. She put the map and the document she’d shown Harlan in its plastic bag under a fake floor mat she’d rigged up beneath the passenger seat. Just in case anyone broke into the car.
She used the car’s GPS to find her way to an address she’d seen in the newspaper and parked in front of a one-story building with alternating bricks of red and yellow. A taxidermied eel grinned at her from the store-front window. She traced a tinkling sound to a wind chime above the door with dangling black bats. Two mannequins guarded the entrance, one dressed as a Viking, the other as a Goth. She already liked this place.
Ducking through the orange-painted glass door, she spied what she was looking for and headed toward the racks. The clerk, looking like a fish out of water in her blue gingham smock, approached Beverly. “Can I help you find something specific?”
Beverly smiled. “Looking for Halloween costume fodder.”
The clerk pointed to a corner, “Victorian is over there, and . . . “ She indicated another area, “S&M is other there. In-between, we’ve got, well, everything in-between. And there’s a special wig and makeup section in the back. If you don’t see what you need, we have it buried somewhere. Feel free to ask.”
Beverly thanked her and headed toward the wigs first. Her hand hovered over one with long, wavy red hair, then fingered another with realistic-looking brown curls. Grabbing that, she checked out a rack of skirts, choosing a long navy blue number she held up to her waist. It dragged the floor and would hide heels. Perfect.
Next, she chose a pair of black shoes left over from the ’60s with five-inch stilettos. The store also had a small special effects case of face prosthetics she snapped up. Fortunately, she had plenty of makeup, false eyelashes, and contact lenses in her kit, but she cast a wistful eye on some violet lenses. Too memorable. She paid cash and bundled her purchases into the trunk of her rental.
She sat in the car, recalling a similar store she and her grandmother visited when Beverly was nine. Another child there with his mother and father asked where Beverly’s parents were, and she’d snapped at him, “None of your beeswax.”
Her grandmother was embarrassed, but not at her outburst. She’d been proud of that, Beverly could tell. No, Grammie was embarrassed by the hard truth in that little boy’s words. But Beverly wasn’t.
She couldn’t remember her parents, and Grammie was the only happy memory left from her childhood. The same Grammie who was crumbling to dust in a graveyard, gone far too soon. Beverly pounded the steering wheel over and over and over. The universe seemed to be mocking everything good she’d ever known.
Peeling out of the parking lot, she wandered aimlessly down a back road before pulling over to get the waterworks under control so she could see to drive. It wouldn’t do to drive absentmindedly into some tree or pond. She shuddered at the thought of driving into a body of water. One of her worst nightmares—that or ending up in an orange jumpsuit making license plates with surly inmates.
She retrieved a picture out of the wallet in her purse and traced the outlines of the smiling woman’s face and her more-pepper-than-salt hair fashioned into a bun. Gently replacing the photo, Beverly pointed the SUV toward downtown Ironwood Junction.
The cloudy day muted the fall colors, but it matched her mood, so she didn’t mind. She made another stop at a small general store, the type you didn’t see much anymore except in New England. The muffin hadn’t sated her hunger, so she purchased an ice-cold bottle of Moxie and some roasted pumpkin seeds. She said to herself, “Not quite those killer pumpkin muffins you mentioned, Harlan, but it’ll have to do.”
She was immediately drawn to Harlan. She didn’t know if it was the Santa effect or the fact he reminded her of Grammie, but whatever the reason, she knew she’d be back to his store soon. She ran the risk of running into Detective Dutton, but it wasn’t a crime to sightsee or buy antiques the old-fashioned way, was it?
Detective Dutton. Adam Dutton. A nice masculine, no-nonsense name. He was fun to flirt with, she had to admit. Usually, it was more of a chore, a distraction. He wasn’t like anybody she’d met before, not necessarily a bad thing.
But men were so easy to play. All it took was a sexy, come-hither smile meant “only” for them, and that universal key to the male psyche unlocked barriers to the frontal cortex, giving you instant access to the limbic system. Once in, you had free rein to take whatever you wanted. Sex, money, favors, trust. Everything except love.
A familiar head of hair caught her attention, and she pulled down the car’s sun visor and sat up tall to avoid being seen. Speak of the devil. Her curiosity getting the better of her, she risked a peek around the visor at Dutton, who was standing in front of a wine shop. Was he buying some Chablis? Waiting for someone? Looking for her?
A woman with short auburn hair, carrying Prada and wearing an Yves St. Laurent dress Beverly had seen at Saks, hurried out of the wine shop and grabbed Dutton’s arm. He whirled around toward the woman, and she smiled up at him.
Beverly knew that smile. Not casual, not motherly, not we’re-just-friends. That woman knew Adam, as only one who’s intimate with someone can.
Beverly made a U-turn toward the resort. She needed a nap or some tea. Make that Cognac tea. Or skip the tea and stick with the Cognac. Adam Dutton obviously had his hands—and god knows what else—full, and she needed to consult her notes.
What she didn’t need was another full-blown headache. Headaches, heartaches, funny how they all ended up the same way. You got over them, eventually. If they didn’t kill you first.
