“It’s like flirtatious,” I told him. “You know what a flirt is.”
“Like what you do with Captain Jason.”
I blinked. “But getting back to Chance Dooley.” I nodded to my father. “Please tell me this DeMuir woman isn’t his new date for the dance now that Evadeen Deyo bailed on him.”
The little guy gasped and twisted around to see my father. “Chance isn’t going to the Gala with Daffy, is he?”
“Nothing that drastic,” Bobby reassured us. “But Daffy—I mean, Daphne—was trying to convince Chance Dooley to go stag when Evadeen first caught sight of them on the beach.”
“Stag?” Truman asked. “Is that like a reindeer?”
“It means date-less,” I said.
Dad nodded. “Daphne promised Chance that plenty of women at the Gala would be thrilled to sashayla with such a handsome man. Then she pirouetted in the purple polka dot sands, pretending to dance, and then she fell down.”
“On purpose,” I said. “Gag! So of course Chance, the perfect gentleman, helped her to her feet.”
“That he did, girl, and poor Evadeen saw all of this. She turned on her heel, and rushed away.”
“She runs away a lot,” Truman observed. “She should have stayed and talked to Chance Dooley.” The child sounded pretty sure of himself, and what a shocker, my father told us that’s exactly what Evadeen did.
“I told you she acted out of character,” he said, and for some reason his eyes were glued on me. “She decided a heart to heart was just what she and Chance needed.”
I concentrated on shifting my pillows around, and my father continued, “Evadeen made an abrupt U-turn and directed her feet straight across the purple polka dot sands.”
Truman clapped. “To Chance Dooley and Daffy DeMuir?”
“Daphne,” Dad corrected.
I looked up. “Really?” I asked. “She actually confronted Chance and the Daffy lady? Whatever happened to Evadeen Deyo the skittish?”
“Girl! You’re not listening. I just told you she’s acting out of character. Evadeen Deyo is skittish no more!” Dad raised a fist. “She marched right up and demanded to speak to Chance Dooley. ‘Alone!’” Bobby bellowed, apparently imitating Evadeen Deyo.
Truman and I cringed at each other. “Did it work?” I asked. “Did Evadeen the skittish-no-more actually scare Daffy away?”
“I bet she did!” the little guy said, and the old guy chuckled.
“It beats all get out,” Dad told us, “but this may well be the first time in the whole history of the Hollow Galaxy that a Faylian has been intimidated by an alien. Much less a Whooter.”
Truman clapped. “I like Evadeen the skittish-no-more!”
***
Truman clapped. “I like chocolate chip pancakes!” he shouted.
“Me, too!” I shouted back, and my father reminded us we do not shout at the table.
I nodded to the kid. “These are our first day of winter vacation treat,” I whispered. “Have been ever since I was your age.”
“Thank you, Grandpa Bobby,” my sweet child whispered.
Dad smiled and asked what we “kids” had planned for the morning.
“We’ll go outside and play,” I said, but being the mature one, Truman reminded me we had a job to do.
“Looking for Mr. X’s loved ones,” he told me. “I’m gonna help, remember?”
“Going to,” I corrected, and ignoring the sounds emanating from my father, promised the child we would do some sleuthing. “This afternoon after I get home from lunch,” I said. “But this morning we should play.”
“Let’s skate!” Truman suggested.
“Skating it is.”
“Can Prissy come, too? She’s a good skater. She has grown-up skates.”
I tilted my head. “Single blade?”
“That’s right.”
I told the kid to call his friend, and went outside to get our ice-skating rink ready to roll.
***
About a week earlier, Joe had spent hours pouring just the right amounts of water at just the right temperatures onto the surface of the frozen lake in front of our houses. He created a good-sized smooth surface for skating, but at least a foot of snow had fallen since then, which needed to be cleared away.
I had barely gotten started carefully shoveling off the snow, when he came outside, a shovel in one gloved hand and a broom in the other. “Need some help?” he called over.
“I’m fine,” I said without looking up.
“I know that, Cassie. But would you like some help?”
“No thanks,” I answered without looking up, and he got the message. I heard him walk back inside, and when Truman walked out, I finally looked up.
“Isn’t Uncle Joe gonna skate with us?” he asked as he lugged his skates and mine down to the lake.
“Going to. And no.”
“Why are you still mad at him?”
I mumbled something incoherent and guided the child into the chair we had set at the lakeside. And by the time I had his skates laced up, Prissy Ott was standing beside me with her skates.
She pointed to the stupid “For Sale” sign she had just walked by. “Why is Dr. Wylie selling his house?” she asked.
“Because Momma Cass is mad at him.” Truman hobbled to standing, and Prissy took the seat so I could lace her up.
“Why are you mad at Dr. Wylie?” she asked me. Prissy, FYI, sounded more like a couples counsellor than a kindergartener. But I reminded myself she was a kindergartener.
“No concern of yours,” I said brightly. I helped her to her feet and sat down with my own skates. “Let’s talk about something else,” I suggested, and Truman did so. Sort of.
“Momma Cass is going out to lunch with Paige today,” he told his friend, and Prissy waited for me to look up.
“To talk about why you are mad at Dr. Wylie?”
“That’s right,” Truman answered for me.
I rolled my eyes and pointed the children—children—to the ice, and they finally took an interest. Truman and I skated around and around the perimeter of our skating rink—me on my grown-up single-blade skates, and him on his little-kid double-blade skates. But Prissy? Holy moly! She performed some figure-eights to warm up, and when that got old, she tried, and landed, a few jumps. And then a backflip.
A backflip!?
“Don’t do that again!” I scolded, and she stopped on a dime.
“You didn’t like it?”
“I loved it. But you’ll hurt yourself.”
She shrugged and told me she’d been practicing with her dance teacher. And as if to prove her point, she skated away and performed a very entertaining little dance routine.
Truman tugged on my sleeve. “Prissy’s doing the Fayla sashayla!”
“The sashayla on ice,” I said as she performed another hop, jump, spin, and land.
Truman and I applauded, clasped mittens, and continued skating around and around.
Chapter 28
Paige and I met at the driveways and went around and around about who should drive. “I invited you,” she reminded me, but I reminded her she had flown to Vermont.
“You’d have to borrow your father’s car.”
“Dad doesn’t mind.”
But I would. I waved the woman toward my Honda, and she finally gave up the argument. In fact, she gave up talking altogether, and conversation ceased completely during the ten minute trip down to Hilleville.
I parked at the Village Skillet, and we made our way inside in silence. Then we kept ourselves occupied getting settled, placing our drink orders, and hearing about the lunch specials.
No great shocker, our waitress Natalie Pope, a fellow Elizabethan, had read about the skull in Maxine’s column. “Any news?” she asked me. I shook my head, and she winked at Paige. “Nothing Ms. Super Sleuth is willing to share.”
“Our drinks, please,” I said, and she finally left us to get my tea and Paige’s Diet Coke.
Paige, FYI, was studyi
ng me.
“You do know about Truman finding a skull?” I asked her.
“Of course.” She put her menu down and took a deep breath. “But I didn’t invite you to lunch to talk about Mr. X.”
Of course.
“I want to talk to you about my father.”
Lucky me. Of course.
“Why are you mad at him?”
I searched around for Natalie. “Where are those drinks?”
“Why,” Paige persisted.
I gave up on Natalie and told Paige she sounded like Truman.
“He’s a smart kid,” she said. “Why are you mad at my father?”
“I’m not mad,” I lied.
“Then why didn’t you visit him last night?”
“Hello. Maybe because you were there. You and Joe must have had a lot of catching up to do, right?”
She shook her head. “Wrong, and you know it. You must know Dad and I keep in touch.”
“Well. Maybe. But with our shoddy cell phone and internet service—”
“He has a land line, Cassie.”
“Well. Maybe. But—”
But saved by the waitress. Natalie finally arrived with our drinks and stood ready to take our orders. I hadn’t even looked at the menu, but ordered soup.
“Which soup?” she asked.
“Any soup,” I told her and shoved the menu into her hands. “Surprise me.”
Paige, in case you’re dying to know, ordered a panini, and in case you haven’t guessed, she stayed on topic after Natalie left us. “He misses you,” she said. “He told me the routine.”
“Routine?” I asked.
“The evening routine,” she said impatiently. “Dad has dinner at your house and then goes home to check on the FN451z. Meanwhile, you put Truman to bed, and argue with your father about whatever the argument du jour is.”
I smirked.
“Then afterwards you come to our house. Dad loves your visits.”
“Oh, really?” I sat back and folded my arms. “Then why is he selling his house?”
“Because of you.”
I smirked again. “That makes no sense, Paige.”
“It makes perfect sense, unfortunately.” She sighed. “You and your supposed need for ‘space,’ whatever that means.”
“It means privacy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She sighed again. “Dad told me you even mentioned it to him yesterday morning. Right before he put up that stupid sign.” She shook her head. “He thinks if he’s not right there, you’ll be a lot less skittish.”
“Skittish!?” I jumped about ten feet, Natalie appeared with our food, and I jumped again. I leaned back and waited for her to leave before continuing. “What about you?” I asked Paige in a completely and totally non-skittish tone. “It sounds like you don’t want him to move eith—” I stopped.
Paige raised an eyebrow.
I finished my sentence. “Either,” I said firmly.
“No.” She, too, spoke firmly. “I don’t want him to move. But it’s not my call.”
“So don’t you resent it that your father and I are, umm—”
“Umm?” She shook her head. “No, I don’t resent it. Why would I?”
“Hello! Because it’s all so sudden.”
“Wow, you really are skittish.” She reminded me of the basic arithmetic—that I had known Joe ever since my father bought the house next door. “That was three years ago,” she said. “And the two of you started flirting right away, even before you moved in with your father.”
I stared at my vegetable soup. “Maybe,” I mumbled.
“And you didn’t start dating, or umming, or whatever you want to call it, until last summer.”
“Maybe,” I mumbled.
“That is not sudden, Cassie.”
I looked up. “What about Helen?” I asked, and Paige seemed truly perplexed.
“My mother?” she asked. “My mother died a long time ago. It’s time for my father to move on. And you.” She pointed. “Are skittish.”
“And your father,” I said, “has his faults also.”
She laughed out loud. “No kidding!” She waved a hand. “But please. Tell me my father’s faults.”
“He’s jealous,” I answered without a moment’s hesitation, and that time Paige seemed uncomfortable. I waited until she would look at me. “It makes no sense,” I told her. “Joe’s smart, he’s handsome, has a good sense of humor, he’s sexy—.”
“Stop!” She raised a hand. “TMI.”
“TMI or not, a sexy mad scientist is kind of intriguing.” I frowned. “Don’t you dare tell him I said that.”
She told me her lips were sealed.
“Good,” I said and asked her again. “What’s up with Joe and the jealousy thing?”
“Got a better question, Cassie. What’s up with you and that state trooper?”
***
I tried concentrating on my soup, but good old Paige was concentrating on me. “Dad says you flirt with the state trooper,” she said. “Do you?”
I put my spoon down. “So what if I do?” And yes, I was a little defensive. “It’s completely and totally innocent. Completely and total—”
“You do know my family history, right?”
I told her I knew that her parents, Joe and Helen, had enjoyed a very happy marriage.
“I’m not talking about my parents, Cassie. I’m talking about my grandparents.” She shook her head at me. “You do know about my grandfather?”
I cringed. “He died at the Fox Cove Inn.”
“Inn,” she sputtered. “What a nice euphemism, huh? What a family honor, huh?”
“Paige,” I said gently. “What happened to Nate Wylie isn’t your fault. He was killed decades before you were even born.”
“Okay, but you’ve got to realize how that event shaped my family.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Especially my father. Think, please.”
I insisted that I had thought about it. “What happened to Nate is why Joe hates guns so much.”
“And?” she prompted. “Keep going. What else does my father hate?”
I blinked. “Unfaithfulness,” I said quietly. But then I spoke right up. “But really, Paige. Whatever’s going on between Jason and me is completely and totally—”
“—innocent,” she finished for me. “Yes, I think you mentioned that.” She glanced up at Natalie, and we both stopped talking while our dishes were cleared.
When we were alone again, she leaned in. “Another thing my father hates is talking about the Fox Cove. It’s why I invited you to lunch on the spur of the moment.”
I thought back to Bingo the night before. “I was asking Joe about the Fox Cove.”
“Correct,” she said. “When I overheard you, I wanted to protect him. That place has always been a sore subject in my family—” She stopped talking again as Natalie approached and dropped the bill on the table.
I grabbed it.
“But I asked you,” Paige said.
“But I’m older.” I spoke firmly, even if twenty-something Paige Wylie was the one doling out all the sage advice.
***
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said as we made our way out to my Honda. “Something less personal.”
Paige grinned from across the expanse of my car. “How about the Yayla Gala?”
I rolled my eyes, and we climbed in. “Truman told you about that?” I asked, and she reminded me she had spent much of the previous day with my son.
“The sashayla at the Fayla Yayla Gala?” she asked me. “Really?”
“Really,” I answered, and as I turned onto Main Street, I told her my father’s stories had gotten sillier and sillier since Truman moved in. “The little guy inspires the old guy into rhyming territory never before thought possible in the Hollow Galaxy,” I said.
“I hear Chance has a girlfriend. A skittish girlfriend.”
“Honey, Evadeen Deyo makes me look downright sturdy.” I stopped at the only traffic light in
town and shot my passenger a sideways glance. “There is actually new character—someone Truman wouldn’t have mentioned yesterday.”
“Let me guess. The name rhymes with Fayla.”
“No, but this character does have an interesting name.” The light turned green, but I waited to step on the gas. “Daphne DeMuir,” I said. “DeMuir,” I repeated.
Paige stared at the windshield. “The light’s green.”
I hit the gas, turned the corner, and pulled off the road. “Does that name sound familiar?”
“Why are we stopping?” she asked the windshield.
“Because I’m asking you about Olivia DeMuir,” I said. “Unlike Daphne, Olivia was a real person. Ironic, since I’m pretty sure that name DeMuir was fake.”
Paige continued staring straight ahead.
“I myself just learned of her existence,” I said. “While I’ve been looking into the Fox Cove and Mr. X thing.”
No response.
“Have you heard of her, Paige?”
“What do you think?”
I took a deep breath. “I think Oliva DeMuir was the prostitute your grandfather was with the night he got killed.”
Paige finally looked up. “I thought we were moving on from personal topics.”
Chapter 29
“It was just a guess,” I said. I reached across the console, and Paige removed her glove to take my hand. “Am I’m actually right about this?”
She told me she wasn’t sure. “But the grown ups used to whisper that name around me,” she said. “How did you figure it out?”
I let go of her hand to get into my purse, and pulled out my notes from the night before. “I’ve done the basic arithmetic.” I handed her the notes. “And based on your father’s age when your grandfather died, and on the timeframe when Olivia DeMuir was—employed at the Fox Cove.” I shrugged. “Let’s just say, the chronology works.”
Paige studied my notes, but told me she had never thought to do the math. “My grandfather was such a taboo topic,” she said. “It was almost scary for me to think about him when I was a kid.”
“How about now?” I asked. “Are you still scared?”
“Not at all.” She sat up straight and tapped my notes. “Now I’m curious.”
“Well then.” I tilted my head toward the building a block ahead on our right. “Let’s do some research.”
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