But she was pushed for time. As always. She’d left Emma at the house with Jo and Mike so she could make the emergency run to the market, before their appointment at Castle’s. Her brain was racing, her heart full, and while she stood in line, Chandler buzzed around her.
Most small towns had an excellent grapevine, but here, the gossip chain was forged by the top three links. Abigail Tupper, Virginia Baker, and last but certainly not least, Rachel Vickers.
Abigail had sharp green eyes and the rumor was, she was so old, she’d actually had a ticket on Noah’s cruise. Virginia, at seventy-five, had once been a little girl (hard to believe) whom Abigail had babysat for. Now, she had gray hair, mud-brown eyes, and a strange fixation on the Mafia. Rachel, in her late sixties, was the baby of the group, which some of the more mean-spirited in town insisted was the reason she hung out with the other two. So she could be the youngest, somewhere.
But Sam had always known the truth. Inside, Rachel was every bit as withered up and mean as the other two. The Terrible Three banded together in everything and considered themselves the social arbiters of Chandler. The fact that Chandler really didn’t have a “society” didn’t come into it. At the moment, the women were busily working on getting Rachel’s husband reelected mayor.
It would be Sam’s great pleasure to vote for Jackson Wyatt this time around. Jackson, since marrying Carla Candellano and moving to Chandler, had really worked himself into the fabric of town life. Even though he was a lawyer, he managed to remain a really good guy, and frankly, Sam would have voted for Carla’s dog, Abbey, before she’d vote for Mayor Vickers.
Her brain rocketed with these thoughts and hundreds of others as she stood in line at Pezzini’s Market. The small grocery store hadn’t changed a bit over the years. Narrow aisles were stuffed full of everything anyone might ever need, and every item was just slightly overpriced. The best sandwiches in town came out of Pezzini’s deli area and the butcher department was long on Italian necessities.
Conversations rippled through the knots of shoppers, rising and falling like the ocean’s tide. Sam only caught snatches of everything, which served to make her both uncomfortable and curious. She knew darn well that she and Emma were at the top of the hit parade lately, but so far no one had had the balls to confront her with questions.
Apparently, today would be the day.
“He’s staying in the big suite at the Coast Inn.”
Sam’s ears perked right up and she slid a sideways glance at the speaker. Should have known. Virginia. How did the woman get her information? She never went anywhere except the grocery store and the beauty shop where she had her fat gray sausage curls cleaned and pressed twice a month.
“I think he’s a hit man.”
Sam smothered a sigh and rolled her eyes. Virginia’s fetish with the Mafia was well known. She never missed a gangster movie on TV and had been known to make citizen’s arrests of “suspicious-looking” tourists. The sheriff, Tony Candellano, quite rightly ran the other way when he saw Virginia coming.
“With that little girl along?” Rachel said. “Oh, I don’t think so. Besides, that suite is expensive. Not many Mafia men make good money anymore.”
Hmm. Sam’s lips quirked. Apparently organized crime wasn’t what it used to be.
“Isn’t he from San Francisco? The Mob isn’t in San Francisco, is it?” Rachel continued, shaking her head until the fire-engine-red bun on top of her head threatened to topple. While she spoke, she dipped one hand into the Ziploc bag filled with Vote for Vickers buttons she clutched to her overstuffed bosom. She handed the pins out like candy at Halloween wherever she went—whether you wanted one or not.
“I saw the girl yesterday,” Abigail said solemnly, her voice managing to thunder with absolutely no trouble. Must have come from all those years of threatening small children. She was a retired elementary-school teacher and her former pupils, all of them retirement age or better, still went pale and terrified when bumping into her. That kind of power, Sam could admire.
Though she didn’t share that ingrained fear. Abigail had retired long before the Marconi girls went to school—and besides, nobody scared a Marconi.
Deliberately, Sam turned her gaze to Abigail’s.
The old woman lifted one gnarled hand to smooth a thin thatch of snow-white hair and said, “The child looked . . . familiar, somehow.”
Nasty old bitch. No doubt hoping to shame Samantha somehow. Of course, anyone who saw Emma would see the resemblance to the Marconi girls. It was stamped on her little face.
Sam smiled, despite the nearly overwhelming urge to throttle Abigail’s scrawny, creepy chicken neck. She herself didn’t mind being gossiped about. Heck, living in a small town, it was bound to be your turn from time to time. And over the years, maybe she’d given the gossips a thing or two to chew on—not nearly as many as Mike, but she’d had her share. Still, she wasn’t going to stand by and let her daughter be discussed while waiting in line to buy pork chops.
“She should,” Sam said loudly enough to make sure every cat in the building heard her. After all, she wasn’t ashamed. Why would she be? “She’s my daughter. Her name’s Emma.”
“Your daughter?” Virginia’s long nose actually twitched.
“Really . . .” Rachel practically vibrated with excitement. “That would make the mystery man at the Coast Inn your—”
“My ex-husband,” Sam provided, and only winced inwardly. After all, whose business was it that her ex wasn’t quite as ex as he should have been? The important thing here was Emma. If she was up-front about her little girl, then there’d be nothing to gossip about. The housewives littering Pezzini’s Market would spread the word fast enough and then it would be done. They’d move on, looking for juicier tidbits.
“Oh my,” Rachel breathed. “Have a button.”
Sam took it—already planning on throwing it out the minute she left the store.
Amazingly enough, Abigail, the head link of the Chandler chain, looked almost proud of Sam. Which was just too weird for words.
“She’s a lovely girl.”
“Yes,” Sam said, waiting for Abigail to drop the other shoe. Say something cutting. Something really mean. Something in character.
It didn’t happen.
“You must be very proud.”
Puzzled and clearly thinking she wasn’t hearing right, Virginia looked at her leader and opened and closed her mouth, in a futile attempt to unblock ears that weren’t blocked. Rachel looked lost. As if she’d suddenly found herself standing next to a stranger and couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten there.
Sam knew just how she felt. She stared at Abigail for a long minute and tried to figure out what was wrong with this picture. The older woman’s shrewd green eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Then, letting her gaze slide from Sam’s, Abigail said only, “Give my best to Henry.”
Henry. Otherwise known as Hank Marconi or, as Sam liked to call him, Papa. She stared at the back of Abigail’s head hard enough to bore holes through her papery skin and rock-hard skull. Why was the Holy Terror herself being nice? There had to be a string attached somewhere, Sam just wasn’t seeing it. Somehow, or some way, Abigail was up to something.
Say hello to Henry? Sam smiled inwardly. Her father would cross himself when he got that message. He still had a healthy dread of his former teacher—the only person in the known universe to ever have called him Henry. Well, except for Grace.
Sam’s brain continued to run in circles. Too much going on. Finding her daughter, discovering she was still married. Abigail being nice?
Surely a sign of the coming Apocalypse.
“Helllloooo, Samantha.”
And speaking of Apocalypse . . .
She shivered and came up out of her thoughts to face Frank Pezzini. Or as Carla Candellano always called him, Fabulous Frank. The son and heir to the Pezzini family fortune and grocery store, he was also under the sad delusion that he was quite the ladies’ man.
At five nine, with a balding head, a fat middle, and sweaty forehead, Frank would probably never find a woman who shared that opinion, but that wasn’t to say he’d stop trying.
“Hi, Frank.” Sam forced a smile. “I need two pounds of sweet sausage and two pounds of stewing beef.” Order fast, make nice, then run for your life. Words to live by when shopping in Chandler.
“Making sauce, eh?” He nodded sagely as if he’d deciphered her cleverly coded shopping list.
Hell, he was Italian, as were half the people in Chandler. Of course you’re making sauce when buying sausage and beef. Papa was planning a celebration tonight and he wanted to make his special sauce and calzones for the granddaughter he was finally allowed to know and love.
Which was why Sam was standing here being leered at. Seriously, next time, Mike could do the grocery thing. Sam was pretty sure Frank was a little afraid of Mike.
“That’s right. Papa’s cooking.” Still being nice. But really, next time, if Mike wouldn’t do the shopping, Sam’d take the time to make the drive to Santa Cruz or Monterey. A forty-mile drive was well worth it when compared to having Frank’s dubious charms foisted on you.
“I’ve got some nice . . .” Frank paused for a wink. “Ripe tomatoes, too.”
Oh, dear God.
“What difference does it make if my nails are Poppy Red or Crimson Harlot?” Jo demanded, waving one hand until her manicurist ducked for cover. “Who’s gonna see ’em but me?”
“That’s just so sad,” Mike retorted. “Jo’s losing her touch with men.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, when was the last time you—”
“Hello?” Sam called out, just before her younger sister could start prying into Jo’s sex life. Not that she wasn’t interested, but Emma was sitting right there with them, and damned if the girl was going to get a sex education along with her first manicure. “Small people present, remember?”
“She’s a woman,” Mike argued, winking at her niece. “Just a short one.”
Emma grinned and took a sip of her strawberry milkshake. “This is fun,” she said.
“Ah,” Mike told her, “so young. And therefore it is up to us to mold you. This isn’t just fun, my wonderful niece, this is female power. The sights, the sounds, the smells.” She waved one hand to encompass the entire manicure/pedicure section of Castle’s Day Spa. Taking a deep breath, she paused, then blew it out on a contented sigh. “In here, as it should be everywhere else, women rule. Women are in charge and women share the secrets of the universe.”
“Oh brother.” Jo groaned and leaned over to take a sip of iced tea through the straw jutting up from a frosted glass.
Emma giggled. “You’re funny, Aunt Mike.”
Funny, Sam thought, and a firm believer that a tough-talking, ass-kicking Marconi could also have buffed nails and soft heels. Mike might have been the best plumber in California, but when the workday was done, she was a full-time girl. She swore by being pampered and used every opportunity to drag her sisters along with her. Getting a niece thrown into the mix was just a bonus.
Castle’s had come a long way since its former life as a three-chair hair salon off the kitchen of a big Victorian. But when Tasha Flynn married Nick Candellano, Nick had hired the Marconis to turn the whole house into a palace of indulgence.
Sam looked around, admiring their handiwork, while her toes were being painted an impossible shade of purple—Emma’s choice. The walls were a rich butter yellow and the white crown molding around the ceilings made the rooms look taller and more elegant somehow. The downstairs half of the house was reserved for hair and manicures/pedicures. Upstairs were a series of private rooms, each painted in cool, soothing colors, designed with relaxation in mind, where talented masseuses could make any amount of stress dribble away on a groan of delight.
Soft classical music drifted through speakers tucked discreetly behind copper planters filled with tumbling ferns. Muted conversations from contented women played counterpoint to the music. And the tables at the Leaf and Bean concession near the manicure station were crowded with snackers.
In short, Castle’s was a little slice of heaven. Even with her sisters bitching at each other just for the hell of it.
“You shouldn’t encourage her, kiddo,” Jo said to Emma with a nod at Mike. “She’ll have you in here once a month whether you need it or not.”
Mike visibly shuddered. “Please. Every two weeks is not too much to ask.”
“I have better things to do.”
“Right.” Mike nodded, admired her French manicure for a minute, then said, “Like your mystery appointments twice a week. Care to confess yet what that’s all about?”
Jo sniffed. “In case you didn’t know, the word ‘mystery’ means you don’t get to know what it is.”
“ ‘Mystery’ also implies that someone will try to solve it.”
Jo shot her a look that would have scalded a lesser mortal. But Marconis were made of sterner stuff. Grumbling, Jo said, “Do the words ‘butt out’ mean anything to you?”
Smiling serenely, Mike said, “Hello? Have we met? The name’s Marconi. And to answer your oh-so-foolish question . . . not a damn thing.”
Sam snorted.
“Didn’t think so.”
“Come on, Jo, give,” Mike said. “What’s got you busy two nights a week if it isn’t a guy?”
“Broaden your mind,” Jo quipped.
“Why?” Mike asked. “It’s happy the way it is.”
“You know—” Jo twisted in her chair to face her younger sister, despite the pedicurist grabbing her ankle to hold her in place.
Sam spoke up before blood could flow as freely as the scarlet polish on Jo’s toes. “So, Jo. Did you get the final measurements out at Grace’s?”
“Yeah.” She flicked a warning look at Mike, who seemed blissfully unaware of impending danger. Sighing, Jo looked at Sam. “And Cash Hunter was there.”
“What?” Mike sat up straight. “And you’re not off to join a convent? Do good works? Prostrate yourself for humanity’s sake?”
“I restrained myself.”
“Another first.”
“Does your jaw ever get tired?” Jo wondered aloud.
Emma giggled. “I wish I had a sister.”
Jo smiled at her niece. “Sisters. A good idea, in theory.”
Sam jumped back into her traditional role of peacemaker. “What’s Cash doing there?”
“Besides irritating me?” Jo asked. “Grace hired him, or so he says. He’s building a pantry in the first kitchen and a cedar closet in Grace’s bedroom.”
“So he’ll be working there this summer, too?”
Jo shook her head at Mike. “Quick, aren’t you?”
“This could be trouble,” Sam said.
“If we keep Sandy and Barb away from him,” Jo pointed out, waving her hands to dry the polish, “we should make it without losing anyone else.”
“Is he a bad man?” Emma asked, eyes wide and interested.
“Not from what I hear,” Mike muttered.
“No,” Sam said, ignoring her younger sister and focusing on her daughter. “Cash isn’t bad. He’s just really friendly.”
“Didn’t seem friendly to me,” Jo said, and Sam couldn’t tell if she was complaining or not. “Just irritating.”
“That’s because you’re just contrary,” Mike accused Jo. “Every other woman in town would like to be . . .” She shot a look at Emma. “Friends with Cash. So naturally, you want him shot.”
“Not shot,” Jo argued. “Castrated, maybe . . .”
“Seems a little harsh,” Mike argued.
“What’s cas-tated?” Emma asked.
“Oh boy.” Sam slumped in her chair and let her sisters dig their own way out of this one.
A few days later, Sam was busier than anyone had a right to be.
The summer people, Chandler’s very own set of wandering Gypsies, were camped out on Grace’s property and their very presen
ce was distracting. Two RVs, with a total of four opinionated women, were damned hard to ignore. The women had been friends for years and once all of their husbands had either died or been divorced, they’d banded together to travel the country and “see the sights.”
Brightly colored awnings were stretched out over grassy areas outside their RVs. Tables, chairs, hooked rugs, and kerosene lamps were set out to resemble outdoor living rooms. Campfires burned all day and most of the night. One or all of them had a pot hanging over the flames at all times and there was an ever-present scent of something delicious wafting in the air.
The real chore, Sam thought, was trying to keep her work crews from taking breaks under those awnings every fifteen minutes.
The women worked with the goats, shearing the wool and then combing and carding it. Not a pleasant job, since none of the animals particularly wanted to stand still and have their long, tangled, dirty, and oh, God, smelly hair combed. But then the yarn would be spun and sold to the specialty knit shop in town.
Sam watched them and a part of her envied their freedom. Their responsibilities ended whenever they left one town behind and didn’t start again until they decided to park for a while. It seemed an easy, simple life, and since her own was tangled into knots, the thought of climbing into an RV and hitting the road was looking better and better by the minute.
“On the other hand,” she murmured, her gaze sliding from the laughing women to the small herd of Grace’s goats wandering in and out of the work area. “There’s definitely a downside.”
The goats were a whole new set of problems. They were everywhere. Dogs and cats people were used to. Chickens were irritating but avoidable. The sheep, as a rule, turned up their noses at hanging with people, but the goats . . . they were a sociable bunch. With the run of the property, they quite naturally had decided that the house and work area were the best spots to be. Bad tempered and spoiled rotten, the goats helped themselves to whatever had been left lying around and even Sam was astounded at what the blasted things would eat.
And Then Came You Page 11