“Hush my mouth,” Lyddie whispered as she continued to chew. A few seconds of silent munching ensued.
“But Petrovich is still good, right, Sam?”
“Detective Volga? Oh, he’s more than good.”
“Detective Volga. Is that your nickname for him now?”
“They’re all interchangeable.”
“It has a nice ring, as does Samantha Petrovich.”
“All of the above—except for the marriage part. It’s wildly premature and you’re the only one I need in my army.”
“Again with the army!” Lyddie blasted. “But, you know, it’s strange how you didn’t want to talk to me anymore because of my eavesdropping, but when the crime is on the other foot, it’s okay. Is that about it?”
“First of all, my overhearing was unplanned, and second, it occurred in the commission of performing a good deed. You, on the other hand, planned, connived, and conspired. Add to that that you were complicit in encouraging others to join in on spying upon MOI … your best friend. As if I wouldn’t have told you what went on,” she mumbled under her breath.
Lyddie was all over it.
“Samantha Powell, you would not have told me! You know you hold back … you know you do.”
“I do no such thing.”
It was mostly true, and if things were mostly true, they rounded up to the truth.
“I’m a Double Virgo and —”
“Sam,” Lyddie snapped, cutting her off. “I told you a million times that I don’t believe in that astrology crap.”
“I don’t either.”
“I know you don’t! That’s why your repeating that you’re a Double Virgo is so self-serving.”
“Self-serving? You’re making me sound like a worker who’s about to be replaced by bots. Thank God humans still serve coffee.”
“Forget about coffee!” Lyddie shouted, wiping her fingers free of food debris. “Could we get back to why you’re here and what you want me to do? Once I find out what your diseased brain has spawned, I’ll tell you if I’m a volunteer in that army of yours—and, no, I won’t be consigned. Lydia Wexler refuses to live her life in servitude. Especially not if I have to wear camouflage fatigues. The colors … they’re not flattering to my complexion.”
“It’s true. That shade of green makes you look about to go into intensive care—”
“Sam!”
“Okay … okay, I’m here because: (1) we had a fight; (2) I hate your guts; and (3) you’re primed to flaunt yourself all over Mountain Valley as someone who has an axe to grind with me.”
“Yes, yes, and yes, but—context! Purpose! W-h-a-t d-o y-o-u w-a-n-t m-e t-o d-o!”
Sam’s brown eyes completed a 360 roll.
“I want you to pose as a vindictive ex-friend—since it’s something you are, it should be easy.”
“Context!” Lyddie screamed.
“No need for the screeching, my ex-friend. I heard you, as did fifteen neighboring states, and the context would be for the purpose of exploring the possibility that Doris’ murderer was after me. In this pursuit, you’d be required to talk to a list of friends and acquaintances who might be out to get me. Once you ferret out those names and the motivations of wanting me kaput, you can help in compiling this list of enemies and natural-born killers.”
“And you can’t talk to them yourself because why again?”
The query was punctuated by a French fry glistening with ketchup held up and pointed in Sam’s face. Sam bit off the end, not only to teach her ex-friend a valuable lesson, but because it was there. Watching the blonde diva fume while stifling a hissy fit was priceless.
“Because they’re not going to admit hating me to me!” Sam answered as she chewed. “But they would to a common enemy … which would be you.”
The lightbulb with the attached string went on behind Lyddie’s bright blue eyes.
“I get it,” she said as she munched the remaining half of the fry.
Finally, someone was home.
“Fantastic. Remember you have to be sneaky … but you’re good at that. And duplicitous. Check. And they can’t know we’re working together.”
Sam paused, giving her stomach a pat before glancing at her watch.
“What? Why the frown?” Lyddie queried.
“Puddin’ Bears … he needs to be fed.”
The arched brows shot up.
“Seriously, I don’t know how you can give such a sweet nicknames to a psychopathic machine. I love cats, but what you have more approximates a badger.”
Samantha’s sculpted face pinched into a disapproving grimace.
“You’re so exaggerating again. Puddin’ Bears is working things out … decompressing. He was abused, but I’ve told you that.”
“But he’s been working things out for ten years!” the enlistee retorted.
“Three-and-a-half years,” Sam corrected. “I’ve only had Taz three-and-a-half years. He’s four and those first six months were formative.”
“Well, he’s a mangler that belongs in the WWF.”
“He only hissed at you. And for that you’re holding a grudge? You know what happens to people who hold grudges. You saw the movie.”
Lyddie flashed a quizzical expression as Sam rummaged through the large leather sack she called a purse. Withdrawing a piece of paper and a pen, she began to write.
Lyddie clocked the progress, reading what she wrote.
“L-Y-D-D-I-E W-E-X-L-E-R? You actually just wrote my name at the top of your list of people who want you dead?”
“It fits. Just a moment ago, you expressed hostile thoughts about a weenie—”
“Humongous cat!” her friend corrected.
“Comparatively and to harbor such unbridled resentment over a minor incident that arose from a small soul trying to protect himself from a harsh world gives insight to the violence housed in your troubled mind.”
The one-hundred-fifteen-pound brunette was treated to a slow burn.
“Are we done?”
“For now,” Sam answered before taking another slug of chocolate. A sustained slurping caused Lyddie to flinch.
“Damn, you’re irritating me!”
“Shoe …. other foot … how does it feel?” Samantha responded as she brushed a chunk of shoulder-length hair over her broad shoulders.
“To begin with, I’ve known you how long? You know my astute powers of observation. I can spot whether shoes match a dress twelve blocks away from the scene of the fashion crime. And you actually think I would not be able to recognize you?”
Sam chewed her generous bottom lip as she mulled it over.
“It was dark,” she responded.
“Even in the dark, I would not be mixing up a woman that resembles a scarecrow with one who had curves. Doris was two inches shorter than you and at least twenty pounds heavier. Granted, she was thin, but not in the abnormally unhealthy, unnaturally skeletal way that you are destined to live.”
A triumphant superiority crowned the insult veiled in what should have been a judgment-free zone.
Sam tugged at her black tee. Even after scarfing down the zillion calories, there was no bulge around her waistline. She was one of those genetic freaks that were naturally, effortlessly slim—an attribute that ran in her family. But it was strange how a physical characteristic drew such polarizing opinions.
People either loved or hated her for something she’d inherited.
“Like I said, it was dark,” she shot back, not giving an inch.
“Not even if I was blindfolded,” came the response.
The pen was flipped, the eraser touching down for a landing, but the movement was stopped short before any part of Lyddie’s name was removed.
“As I remember, Doris was wearing wedges that would have made her two inches taller and my exact height. Her hair is dark, and the same length. Plus, you were in a blind rage over my dumping you as a friend. You know how you get when you’re in one of your obsessive moods.”
“No, how do I
get?”
“Psycho! You get psycho, Lyddie! Like the time in high school when you discovered your wallet missing and thought I stole it so I could use your credit cards. You would not be swayed from accusing me, even though you knew that I do not steal. Ever. It’s not my thing.”
“That is so unfair to throw in my face!”
“No more unfair than you bashing Doris in the head because you mistook her for me. You were probably as surprised at getting the wrong person as you were when you found that stupid wallet in your bedroom—buried under the mountain of clothes you bought on the binge-buying mall trip you went on the previous weekend. You are such a troll at times.”
Lyddie’s smoky-shadowed eyes blinked rapidly.
“I needed those clothes for school. They were a necessity. You’re penalizing me for being able to afford them, which is so patently wrong.”
“No more wrong than you trying to murder me and calling me a scarecrow.”
The powdered lids closed in shame.
“You have a fabulous, enviable, to-die-for figure. Everybody knows that and I would kill to—”
“You see!” Sam blasted, sticking her finger in her ex-friend’s face. “Do you realize you used two terms for wanting me dead in the same remark? Oh, you’re so staying on this list!”
Folding her arms, she drained more of her shake. Looking up at the ceiling and then out the corner window, she retreated into the cloistered world of thought grinding. Peaceful and content, she roamed her past as the soft chewing of her friend polished off fries.
“I’ve got someone,” Lyddie remarked. “Zeke Rogaine.”
“Rogan! Rogan not Rogaine! R-o-g-a-i-n-e® is a product. R-o-g-a-n is the—”
“Man who lusted after you. But you reduced him to a shell of his former self by your constant rejections of his advances, but then it’s a performance repeated a thousand times. Nobody is good enough for you, Sam! If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up alone and with that badger of yours … oh, but wait! You already did. Prophecy made; prophecy fulfilled.”
The girl with the malicious gleam in her eye was way too pleased with herself for the unnecessary roughness.
“I didn’t like him, okay? It’s not that I’m too good, it’s that I wasn’t attracted. It’s how it works. Men ask you out and you decide if you want to date them. ‘No’ is an option in that equation. It’s not anything I invented.”
“But he was hot. Rejecting hot men is the part you did invent.”
“Hot in your opinion; not in mine.”
“You were his Mt. Everest … his Kilimanjaro. You crushed his dream.”
“So he wanted to scale me? Mount me? Is that what you’re saying? If that’s what he was after, you’re proving me correct in turning him down—and he’s going down again,” Sam responded as she printed his name.
Lyddie’s torso jerked up.
“I got it!”
“Got what?”
“The solution. You were so right in your assumption that you need me. You so do.”
“Yes, there’s no one sneakier or more underhanded than you,” Sam concurred.
“I’m not talking about that.”
“Then what are you?”
“The list of those wanting you dead, Sam! You’re going about it all wrong, you silly goose.”
“Pray tell, Ms. Wisenheimer.”
“I know how we can compile this list with complete accuracy … and without your badger going hungry,” Lyddie said with a smile before chomping down on another fry.
CHAPTER 9
“She’s a witch! A complete and utter shrew!”
Lyddie was laying it on thick.
Dressed for the performance, a simple sundress with matching hoodie gave the optimum effect of being cas when nothing could be further from the truth. The deceptively unpretentious outfit was all calculated cunning.
The stunning blonde kept her head lowered, stopping to dab at her eyes in between breaths. It wouldn’t do for forty-five-year-old Eunice Sager to see that there were no tears in those crystal blue-colored orbs.
Lyddie sniffled before engaging in a few more rounds of heavy panting that approximated someone being overwhelmed by emotional distress. But the best part?
The home contractor’s wife was eating it up.
With the faux labored breaths over, she squeezed in a look around at the spacious contemporary. Two years ago, Eunice’s husband Chester had completely gutted the place, sparing no expense in making the Mrs. happy. He was a successful hunter-gatherer, who loved to shower love, money, and time on the wife he adored. In return, Eunice kept the homestead pristinely clean. Since she was organized, she had it down to a science, and the time saved left her plenty of time for gossip.
“You were always too good for that girl … that’s what I always said,” Eunice consoled, her words measured. It was early and she was warming up.
“Thank you,” Lyddie sniffled. “I knew you would understand … especially the part about Sam being a complete bitch.”
The housewife’s hands flew up in the air; the ice was breaking.
“I could have told you that a long time ago, honey!” the homemaker explained. “But I didn’t for obvious reasons. I mean, Samantha’s parents are nice enough, but for all their scrimping, they never did have two nickels to rub together. But there’s their offspring, the high-and-mighty Samantha, trying to open a business on her own. Stupidest idea I ever heard. As if someone of her class could open anything other than a door. Coffee, dear? How about a muffin?”
Why not?
If things worked out, she’d be here a while and Eunice could put on a spread. Cooking and baking were part of her skillset, as was pulling every scintilla of information out of people. There was something about Eunice that had even total strangers spilling their deepest darkest secrets before they knew what hit ‘em.
That was why the plan Lyddie came up with was perfect.
“You are so right, Eunice. That girl has always been completely unrealistic,” Lyddie agreed.
Although the heart beating in her chest wanted to defend the enterprise and her former bff, it was her obligation to agree with the treason spoken. Lyddie was doing this for her former pal and refused to yield to the guilt building inside.
“And cold,” the housewife par excellence added. “Samantha Powell is heartless. Look at what she did to Zeke Rogan.”
Zeke Rogan?
Eunice was good. Hardly anyone knew about what happened between those two. The only way Lyddie knew was because she’d been the uncomfortable third wheel who’d overheard the come-ons and rejections. Rogan had had it bad and tried so hard to win Sam’s affection, but to no avail.
“What happened with Zeke Rogan?” Lyddie asked.
Her doe eyes reflected innocence as she split open the muffin and smoothed on butter, taking a bite of the just-out-of-the-oven treat. It was delish … so delish that she determined to have another before finishing the one in her hand.
“You don’t know?”
“No,” she replied, hunching her shoulders.
Better to play dumb. Nothing Eunice liked more than to introduce someone to awful news about a friend who deceived them. And once the woman with the blonde highlights got going, she’d never stop. That was why Lyddie had shown up at the gossip’s door unannounced this morning. Why waste time sitting around trying to compile a list of Samantha’s enemies, when Eunice could do it easier and more efficiently? The woman lived for that kind of news and kept the buried treasure handy for occasions like these. After all, there was nothing better than kicking someone when they were down.
“Well, I don’t want this to go anywhere, but this is what he told me.”
A wave of the checkered flag.
She was off!
All Lyddie had to do is sit back and enjoy the ride—and write down the list of names, of course.
Which she was doing.
But Corona Pete Blanchard?
How did Sam even know the town’s n
otorious dealer of drugs?
That had been Lyddie’s first thought when the name leaked from between Eunice’s thin lips. Never in a million years would she have picked up on Blanchard having an axe to grind, but that was why the rumor mill queen was invaluable. So instead of questioning it, she wrote it down on the notepad she’d brought along. While she remembered every single detail of an outfit she wore twenty years ago, she had a tough time with names.
She dutifully entered the name in a pinched scrawl she’d mastered in her formative years. She was constantly running out of space in her workbooks when in school, and so she’d practiced the fine art of condensing script in a horizontal direction. While it made reading it back a challenge, it fit. And for a fashionista—
Fit was everything.
With the last letter in place, she flushed the toilet and ran the water in the sink. Her having to use the bathroom was her chance to get all the pertinent info down without raising suspicion, but the fact that she’d gone four times in the past hour crushed that theory. Even though she chugged coffee to give credence to the numerous bathroom breaks, Eunice was onto something being up. Lyddie only hoped the multitude of stories were coming to an end.
The problem was that she’d never expected so many names, but there they were. The urge to count made her hesitate leaving the safe space that was outside the range of a certain pair of prying eyes. The idea was abandoned.
There was too much riding on this.
No way would she be done in by being picayune. That was Samantha’s domain, and so with a pat to her perfectly coiffed hair, she made another dramatic entrance into the room where Eunice waited.
“Sorry. Coffee goes right through me,” she offered before flouncing down and resuming the guzzling.
“Mmmmmm …” was the reply. Those beady eyes got beadier as Lyddie shrank under the scrutiny. She was sneaky but not used to outright lying. There was a huge difference, as she was finding out.
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