They talked desultorily over dinner. As soon as it was over, Dad began yawning and suggested he was going to sit in his chair. Susan handed him another glass of ice water and sent him on his way to his chair by the fireplace.
She stayed in the kitchen to clean up. A short time later, as she took the final load of clean laundry to the stairs, she glanced into the living room and saw Dad asleep, a tall boy clutched in one hand. “Darn it, where did he—” She clamped her mouth closed. He was very good at hiding his stashes.
She set the laundry basket on the bottom stair, and came to collect the mound of cans he’d stacked on the far side of his chair, out of sight.
She sighed and picked up the only full can, grimacing when she found it to be warm. “Of course it is,” she muttered. “He knows that if he leaves them in the fridge, I’ll pour them all out.”
She stared down at her sleeping father. He’d had eight beers after dinner, and probably as many or more beforehand. She collected a throw blanket from the couch and laid it across him, then bent and kissed his forehead.
Tomorrow he’d wake up with a sick stomach, a raging headache, and enough guilt for a church full of Baptists. Meanwhile, at the same time, she would rise and go to work, where she would become the crack editor she’d always wanted to be—if she could convince her boss to let her.
Sighing, Susan put away the laundry in neat stacks in the perfectly laid-out drawers. If only all of life were so organized and simple.
Chapter 3
Two shrill female voices from the reception area drifted into Mark’s cubicle. He winced and lifted his office supply catalog a bit higher. Since he’d left his cubicle door open, they could see straight into his office.
He lowered the catalog and eyed Tundy Spillers cautiously. Of all the women he knew, Tundy was the scariest. She’d once been his sister’s maid in Raleigh. Roxie had hired the red-haired, plump, freckled woman to nurse Mother through her heart troubles. Now that Roxie had decided to stay in Glory, so had Tundy, who’d landed a job as assistant to the activities director at the Pine Hills Assisted Living Center.
Few women had Tundy’s combination of unorthodox determination mixed with a shocking lack of style. Mark had to grin when he caught sight of her Pepto-pink velour jogging suit and orange flip-flops, augmented by a flaming red tote bag slung over one shoulder. Every part of the outfit clashed with her bright red hair, which she’d twisted into an implausible topknot, tight red corkscrew curls cascading down to frame her perfectly round face.
Tundy leaned one chunky arm on the counter and said to Pat, “I want to know where in the hell my ad’s gone.”
“What ad?”
“I put a personal ad in the paper, paid for
it and everything, and it’s not there.” Tundy’s voice was as loud as a foghorn over smooth water. “I’ve got rights, you know! I paid good money for that ad!”
“Who told you the ad would be in this edition?”
“Mr. Treymayne tol’ me that, and I got witnesses.”
Mark could feel both pairs of eyes boring through his catalog. Yeah, she had witnesses. One of them, an old lady by the name of Clara, was close to being deaf, while the other was a vague old gentleman called C.J., who only knew where he was about ten minutes of every day. Both of them were stationed by the elevator, watching Tundy the way one might watch a saint perform a miracle.
Mark wondered if the staff at the assisted-living center knew Tundy took her “gang,” as she called the residents she drove around town, on her personal errands. Mark doubted it; the woman didn’t have an Off button and wouldn’t know a boundary if one bit her in the ass.
“Here.” Pat slapped a piece of paper and a pen onto the counter. “If you want to make a complaint, you got to put it in writing.” With that, she turned back to what she’d been working on before Tundy arrived: a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich from the diner.
“I don’t want to fill out no more papers! Mr. Treymayne promised me it would run today.”
Pat snorted in disdain. “Mr. Treymayne told you that, did he?” Her voice hinted that his word wasn’t worth the air it took to speak it.
“Yes, he did. And I done took three days to write it up, too, because I wanted it all perfect.”
“Huh. Well … I guess we can look in the book and see when you turned it in.” Papers rustled as Pat flipped through the personal ads notebook, trying to look important. Pat was good at looking important in a belligerent, I’ll-cut-you manner. Mark suspected it had gotten her many false confessions over the years.
“Well?” Tundy demanded.
“I don’t see it. When did you bring it by?”
“Yesterday morning.”
The book slammed down and Pat huffed, “Why, no wonder it wasn’t in the paper! It takes two days from the day you pay to run an ad. Didn’t you sign a form when you made your payment? It’s written right there.”
“I didn’t have time to read it. I had my gang with me and they were arguing over who got to ride shotgun on the way back to the assisted-living center, and were about to come to blows.”
“Was not!” Clara said from where she sat in her wheelchair.
“Did too!” C.J. chimed in, looking pleased he’d been able to contribute.
Clara turned to him, her eyes hideously magnified by her bottle-thick glasses. “C.J., you’re disagreein’ with me.”
He blinked. “Was I?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He thought about this a minute. “Was I right?”
She sighed and patted his hand. “Never mind.”
Pat closed the book. “Miss Spillers, your ad will be in tomorrow’s paper.”
“But that’s too late! It’s singles karaoke night at the Bigger Jigger, and I need me a date.”
“Then you’re going to have to wait until next week. They have singles karaoke every Thursday, so you won’t be out much.”
“I can’t wait until next week. I want me a date this week. The ad I wrote was perfect, too.” She dug a crumpled note from her huge beach bag. “Here it is. It says, ‘Looking for love. Young, sexy, slender Virgo seeks—’ Are you laughin’?”
“No, no!” Pat’s voice warbled. After a moment, she managed to say in a strangled voice, “Go on.”
Mark sank farther in his chair, his catalog shaking with his silent laughter.
“Where was I? Oh, yes … ‘Young, sexy, slender Virgo seeks hot young man in his twenties, preferably tall, dark, and handsome like Toby Keith, and ready for a good time, if you know what I mean. I am yours for the taking! Call today!’ and then I put my new cell phone number on there. Mr. Treymayne promised me it would be in this paper.”
Knowing she was glaring in his direction, Mark turned a page in the catalog so she wouldn’t think he was listening. She was right. He had promised her that, but only if she brought the ad in by Monday. He’d repeated himself twice, but she obviously hadn’t listened.
“Mr. Treymayne! Come out here and tell this beanpole to put my damn ad in the paper and to do it now!” Tundy called in irritation.
He turned another page. Pat could handle Tundy.
Tundy harrumphed. “I know you can hear me back there in yo’ office, Mr. Treymayne! I can see you!”
“He’s not listening,” Pat said in a withering tone. “He never listens.”
Mark was sure Pat was glaring at him. She was a bit intimidating, with her bright blue eyes blazing against her lined, tanned face. Worse, just this past week she’d had her iron gray hair cut in a short, severe style that made him think of Nazi Germany and tools of torture.
Frankly, no woman gave him hives like the militantly angry Pat Meese. At first, he’d thought she was just angry about Roxie promoting Susan to editor over Pat’s head, but no. Pat was mad at him. In the ten months he’d worked with her, he’d seen her grouse at, to, or about every male who crossed her path. She seemed to think the entire testosterone world owed her an apology.
He’d stopped trying to get along w
ith her after that; he’d be damned if he’d apologize for having a cock. He liked his cock and he rather thought it liked him, too, so that was that.
Besides, he had far more important things to do than worry about Pat. He glanced at a large spreadsheet tacked to the wall beside his door. According to his Master Plan, he would reach his goal to raise the paper’s profitability in exactly ninety-three more days, if everything went according to plan.
That was a big “if.” A really, really big—
The elevator door opened and Susan strode into the reception area, her deep auburn hair tousled in a way that made Mark think of hot morning sex, the kind that made you smile all day
long.
She stopped by their two elderly visitors. “Hello, Miz Clara, Mr. C.J. And how is Glory’s very own Murder Mystery Club?”
Mark grinned. Though it was hard to believe, Clara and C.J., who both looked frail enough that a good puff of wind might blow them over, were two-thirds of a murder mystery club that had solved a very long-standing mystery. While they’d been totally wrong in their choice of a suspect, they’d stirred up the town enough that the real culprit had felt forced into action, thus revealing himself.
From her wheelchair, Clara held up a coffee tin decorated with pictures of various CSI actors, Gil Grissom the most prominent. “We’re taking donations.”
“Yes, we are,” C.J. warbled after her, nodding. “For our own CSI lab.”
Clara peered up at Susan through huge, pale pink, eighties’-style glasses. “We’re going to order a complete CSI kit off the internets.”
“The internets?” Susan’s lips quivered, but she managed to say smoothly, “You can order a CSI kit from there?”
“You sure can! Why, we’ll have evidence envelopes and crime-scene tape and tweezers and fingerprint dust and—Lord, you wouldn’t believe it if you saw it.”
“Sounds impressive. I may have to do a story on that when you’re through.”
C.J. nodded. “We’re going to have some real fluorescent lights, too. Just like they do on CSI: Miami.”
“Wonderful,” Susan said. “And where is this magnificent CSI lab going to be?”
“In Rose’s bathroom at the assisted-living center,” C.J. answered.
“Ah. Is this going to be a surprise for Rose?”
“Hell, no.” Clara waved a hand, her vast assortment of Home Shopping Network gemstone rings glittering on her liver-spotted hand. “Rose knows what’s what. She’s getting her hair done or she’d be with us right now, taking donations. All we really need is a big case.” Clara looked hopeful. “You don’t happen to have an extra one, do you? A murder, maybe, or extortion?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Oh.” Clara looked disappointed.
C.J. shook the can at Susan. “Wanna donate?”
“Sure.” She slipped her purse from her shoulder and pulled out a few crumpled dollars and tucked them into the tin.
Clara brightened immediately. “Woohoo! Show me the money!”
Susan grinned and sauntered across the lobby to greet Tundy and Pat. Mark’s mouth went dry just watching that long-legged walk. There was something about the way Susan moved that just killed him. It wasn’t the self-conscious strut that Arlene affected, a deliberate roll of her hips that drew every male eye within eyeball range. Susan moved in a more natural, subtle way, but one that was just as sexy for all that.
What was it about her? He’d been trying to figure it out ever since she’d kissed him, and he’d decided it was simply that she was just herself—unapologetically feminine.
He watched her now as she greeted Tundy and Pat, flashing them a warm, unaffected smile.
Since that kiss, she’d been damned casual about the whole thing, acting as if nothing had happened.
Was that the norm for her? How many men did she kiss in a week? Was the number so high that she didn’t bother even counting?
He rubbed his neck, as tense as if he were involved in a high-level audit. He didn’t understand her at all. Most women were fairly transparent, but not her. It was as if he’d been given a 120-piece desk to assemble, the instructions all in Chinese, and someone had left out the final “assembled” picture.
He didn’t need this kind of aggravation. Since his divorce, he’d thrown himself into his business and had dominated in every aspect. His company was bigger, leaner, and more productive than ever. His personal life … not so much. There’d been women and he’d enjoyed himself, but none had kept his interest.
He watched as Susan leaned against the counter and listened to Tundy’s complaint. Mark noticed how Susan’s thick, dark red hair curled about her graceful neck, how her eyes literally seemed to sparkle when she smiled, how she had the most intriguing dimple in one cheek that only showed up when she gave that deep, throaty laugh, how great her ass looked encased in soft blue jeans—
His groin tightened.
“Miz Susan,” Tundy said. “You’re the editor now. You can help me.”
Pat sniffed and Susan diplomatically said, “Pat’s been teaching me everything she knows.”
“Well, I got a problem with my personal ad.” Tundy leaned toward Susan. “I got to get me a hot date for karaoke tonight and somehow my request got lost.”
“It’s not lost,” Pat said flatly. “She missed the deadline by a day so it’s not in the book.”
“Ah, I see.”
“And now I want my money back,” Tundy said, sending Pat a hard look.
“We don’t give refunds,” Pat said.
“Why not?” demanded Tundy.
Clara pushed her wheelchair over to the counter beside Tundy. “Costco’ll give you a refund if you have your receipt. They changed out a ten-pound jar of pickles for me just last week.”
“Even the psychic channel gives out refunds,” Tundy added.
Pat snorted in disbelief. “You can’t believe that silliness.”
“It’s not silliness. I paid for one of them psychic readings just last week, and the nice voodoo lady said I was gonna be a doctor. She also said I was goin’ to get some money and I got paid the next day, so some of it’s already come true.”
Susan nodded, her eyes sparkling. “I can see where that might seem like validation.”
“No, it’s not,” Pat said flatly.
“Oh, but it is,” Tundy said. “How did that lady know I was goin’ to get paid, huh? She didn’t. So it was a real prediction and it came true.”
“I believe ’em,” Clara added. “I wanted to join the psychic network, but they wouldn’t take a Medicare voucher.”
Pat looked ready to explode, her thin lips folded into a fierce frown. “Psychics are frauds. They either predict broad things—like that you’ll get paid—or they keep a dossier from previous calls. I know because my mother got caught up with one, and they took her for a lot of money before she realized what was what.”
“A dossier?” Clara’s gaze brightened. “I saw a Rockford Files once’t where they went to the newspaper and there was a file on ever’ person in town. You got one of those here?”
“That’s called a morgue.”
“Like for dead people?”
“Yes. It’s where the dead issues go. Sometimes they’ll clip copies—or nowadays just scan ’em—and you can look for information on all sorts of people and places.”
“Well, I’ll be!” Clara shook her head in wonder. “That’d be useful to have.”
“Not as useful as a refund,” Tundy said in a stubborn voice.
“Tundy, I am not giving you a refund, and that’s that!”
Tundy turned to Susan. “I got to get me a date! My psychic said I was gonna meet me someone this coming week when Mars aligns with—or was it Mercury? I don’t remember, but I have until Thursday. That’s tonight!”
“Thursday’s paper is already out, so there’s not much I can do for you.” Tundy opened her mouth and Susan held up a hand. “But I have a suggestion.”
“What’s that?”
> “Attend the First Baptist Singles Bowling this afternoon, so you’ll have a date for karaoke tonight. There are a lot of desperate men in the Baptist church.”
“Desperate?”
“Very desperate.”
Tundy pursed her lips. “You think some of them might like to sing karaoke?”
“I don’t know why not. There’s bound to be some choir members there.”
Tundy brightened.
“And if they aren’t good, then tomorrow, when your ad does come out, you’ll be able to audition other dates over the weekend to see which one has the best set of pipes.”
“Sort of like American Idol,” Tundy said, awed.
“That’s a good plan,” Clara said, nodding. “I like American Idol.”
“I need to pee,” C.J. announced.
Tundy patted his hand. “We’ll stop by on our way out.” She beamed at the others. “Thanks, Miz Susan! That’s just the thing. What time does this singles bowling begin?”
“Three. I wrote an article on it last month, and they had four men for every woman present.”
“Now those are some odds!” Tundy rubbed her hands together. “Come on, gang! We’ll go to my house and you can help me find the right clothes.” She pushed Clara’s wheelchair to the elevator, C.J. lagging behind.
Susan poured herself some coffee from the machine behind the reception desk, then went to her cubicle.
As she walked past his office, Susan caught Mark’s gaze over the top of his catalog.
His neck heated and he offered a sheepish grin. “Thanks for taking care of that.”
“You’re welcome.” She leaned against the door frame. “Hiding?”
“Yes.” He dropped the catalog on his desk. “Could you move a few inches to the left? Pat’s still giving me the evil eye.”
She obligingly shifted her hip to one side, but her expression wasn’t as bright as when she’d been talking to Pat and Tundy.
He tried a big smile. “How was your morning?”
“Great. I set up an interview with the new preacher.”
“For which church?”
She sipped her coffee. “First Baptist. I also stopped by City Hall to get a copy of the new surveyor’s report and overheard the mayor telling that bimbo—”